



Produced by Charles Bowen from Page scans provided by
Google Books, (Public Library, Long Island City, N.Y.











Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scans provided by Google Books,
https://books.google.com/books?id=OAQiAAAAMAAJ
(Public Library, Long Island City, N.Y.)

2. "This work was published many years ago anonymously, and received
the name of 'Delaware; or, The ruined family.'"--Introd.,
p. [v], to London, 1848, ed.

3. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].






THIRTY YEARS SINCE;

OR,

THE RUINED FAMILY.

A Tale.

BY
G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.,

AUTHOR OF
"A WHIM, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES," "GOWRIE," "SIR THEODORE BROUGHTON,"
"BEAUCHAMP," "LAST OF THE FAIRIES," "MARGARET GRAHAM," ETC., ETC.


NEW-YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
329 & 331 PEARL STREET,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1860.



THIRTY YEARS SINCE:
OR,
THE RUINED FAMILY.


CHAPTER I.

Most cities are hateful; and, without any disposition to "babble about
green fields," it must be owned that each is more or less detestable.
Nevertheless, among them all, there is none to be compared, as a
whole, to London--none which comprehends within itself, from various
causes, so much of the sublime in every sort. Whether we consider its
giant immensity of expanse--the wonderful intricacy of its internal
structure--the miraculous harmony of its discrepant parts--the grand
amalgamation of its different orders, classes, states, pursuits,
professions--the mighty aggregate of hopes, wishes, endeavors, joys,
successes, fears, pangs, disappointments, crimes, and punishments,
that it contains--its relative influence on the world at large--or the
vehement pulse with which that "mighty heart" sends the flood of
circulation through this beautiful land--we shall find that that most
wonderful microcosm well deserves the epithet _sublime_.

To view it rightly--if we wish to view it with the eye of a
philosopher--we should choose, perhaps, the hour which is chosen by
the most magnificent and extraordinary of modern poets, and gaze upon
it when the sun is just beginning to pour his first red beams through
the dim and loaded air, when that vast desert of brick and mortar,
that interminable wilderness of spires and chimneys, looks more wide
and endless, and solemn, than when the eye is distracted by myriads of
mites that creep about it in the risen day.

It may be asked, perhaps, who is there that ever saw it at that hour,
except the red-armed housemaid washing the morning step, and letting
in the industrious thief, to steal the greatcoats from the hall; or
the dull muffin-man, who goes tinkling his early bell through the
misty streets of the wintry morning? Granted, that neither of
these--nor the sellers of early purl--nor the venders of saloop and
cocoa--nor Covent Garden market-women--nor the late returners from the
_finish_--nor he who starts up from the doorway, where he has passed
the wretched night, to recommence the day's career of crime, and
danger, and sorrow--can look upon the vast hive in which they dwell
with over-refined feelings; and, perhaps, to them may come home
unhappy Shelley's forcible line--


     "Hell is a city very much like London!"


The valetudinarian, too, who wakes with nervous punctuality to
swallow down the morning draught, prescribed by courtly Henry's
bitter-covering skill, may curse the cats that, perched upon the
tiles, salute their lady-loves with most discordant cries, and keep
him from repose; and with all the virulence of Despréaux, may exclaim
upon the many hateful sounds of a town morning. But, besides all
these, there are sometimes persons who, rising five hours before their
usual time, come forth in all the freshness of the early day,
stimulated by the vast effort that roused them from their beds, proud
of a successful endeavor to get up, and excited by the novelty of the
circumstance and the scene, and who rush on, admiring all the beauties
as they go to take their places in the gay stage-coach.

Fully double the extent of ancient Athens, in its days of greatest
splendor--at least, if the calculation of Aristides be correct--London
lies in circuit more than one day's journey, and many a day's journey
may be taken in the interior, without ever threading the same streets.
It would not matter much, therefore, in what corner of the town was
placed the coach-office whence, at an early hour of every lawful day,
set forth a smart-looking vehicle, drawn by four fiery bays, for a
distant town in ----shire; but nevertheless, as it may be a
satisfaction to the reader's mind, it is but fair to state, that the
aforesaid four-inside light coach took its departure daily from that
wild scene of bustle and confusion, which, within the last century or
two, has usurped the site of what a modern writer of ancient romance
terms "the sweet little village of Charing," and which is now
popularly called the Golden Cross, Charing Cross.

As the things that were, are now no more, and even three short years
have made sad havoc amidst the brick antiquities of dear Pall Mall, it
may not be amiss more particularly to commemorate the appearance--at
the time our tale commences--of that agglomeration of street-corners,
Charing Cross, from which--on account, I suppose, of its beautiful
vagueness--all rogues and insolvent debtors were wont to date their
letters. But this commemoration had best be given in describing the
effect of the whole upon a young and unsophisticated mind.

From a place that they call a hotel, in Piccadilly--think of a man
taking up his abode at a hotel in Piccadilly!--but he knew no
better--from a hotel, in Piccadilly, at about half-past five o'clock,
on the morning of the last day of August, one thousand eight hundred
and something, set out a hackney coach, containing within its sphere
of rotten wood, and rusty leather, a small portmanteau on the front
seat, and the portmanteau's master on the other. He was a well-made
youth, of about five-and-twenty years of age, with firm, graceful, and
yet powerful limbs, and a fresh, clear complexion--not villainous red
and white, but one general tone of florid health. His eye was blue and
bright, and the clustering curls of fair hair--as pure Saxon as Sharon
Turner's last new book--might have looked somewhat girlish, had it not
been for the manly features and the free, dauntless look that they
overshadowed. At the same time, be it remarked that there was
something of melancholy, if not of gloom, in his aspect; but that did
not prevent him--after the chambermaid had been satisfied, and the
waiter had been paid, and boots had had his fees, and the porter had
claimed more than his due, and, in short, all the exactions of an inn
had been played off upon him in succession--that did not prevent him,
when fairly rolling away toward the top of the Haymarket, from gazing
out upon the scene around him with a sufficient degree of open-eyed
curiosity to make the waterman stick his tongue into his cheek and
mentally denominate him "_a raw_."

It may be necessary to inform the unlearned reader, that the sun
rises, in the end of August, a few minutes after five in the morning,
and at the time I speak of the great luminary was pouring a flood of
radiance through the loaded air of the vast city, filling the long
empty perspective of the streets with the golden mistiness of the
morning light. Closed within the dull boards which defend the precious
wares of many a careful tradesman from the cosmopolite fingers of the
liberal Many, the shops exhibited nothing but the names and
occupations of their various owners; but the wide streets, with all
their irregular buildings, in the broad light and shade, were not
without beauty of their own peculiar kind, distinct from all the
mighty associations connected with their existence.

The coach rolled at the statute pace along Piccadilly, unobstructed by
any thing, and, indeed, unencountered by any thing but two slow market
carts, wending heavily toward Covent Garden, and another fac-simile of
itself, just overcoming--in order to take up some other early
passenger--the _vis inertiæ_ which had held it on the straw-littered
stand for the last hour. In the Haymarket, however, the progression
was more difficult; for there already had congregated many a loaded
cart, the drivers of which, as usual, had, with skillful zeal,
contrived to place them as a regular fortification, obstructing every
step of the way. Gin and purl, too, were reeking up to the sky from
the various temples of the rosy god that line the west side of the
street; and, amidst the bargainings of some early dealers, and the
pæans of the gin-drinkers, no one attended to the objurgations of the
embarrassed coachmen. Nevertheless, all these difficulties were at
length removed by one means or another; and Cockspur-street opened
wide before the traveler, exposing at the end, black with the smoke of
fires innumerable, the famous statue and the girthless horse. On one
side, wide and open, lay Whitehall, with all those offices, whence
many a time has issued the destiny of the world; on the other hand,
dark and dingy, wound away the Strand, with the house of the Percys
maintaining still the last aspect of a feudal dwelling to be found in
London. The King's Mews, on which a violating hand had hardly yet been
laid, occupied all the space to the left; and the flaming ensign of
the Golden Cross, stuck up in front of a tall, narrow-fronted house,
told that the place of many coaches was before the traveler's eyes.

He found, on alighting, that he had arrived at least ten minutes
before the time; and after having been cheated, as usual, by the
hackney-coachman, and gazed about the dull, desolate yard, shut in by
the high houses round, in the far shadows of which stood two or three
red, blue, and yellow vehicles, all unpacked and unhorsed, he once
more sauntered out through the low-browed arch which gave admission to
the court, and amused himself with the wider scene exhibited by the
street.

At that hour, one-half of Murillo's pictures find living
representatives in the streets of London; and when the young traveler
had moralized for a minute or two on some groups of beggar-boys
playing round the statue--had marked the sage and solemn pace with
which an elderly waterman brought forth his breakfast to a coachman on
the stand--and had listened to the Solon-like sayings of each upon the
weather and the state of the nation--he was looking back to see
whether the coming of the coach was hopeless, when the rushing noise
of rapid wheels caught his ear, and he turned his eyes in the
direction of the sound.

If people would but remark, they would find that they have
presentiments of little events a thousand times more often than they
have presentiments of great ones; and the feeling of the gallant
Nelson was not more strong, that the sun of Trafalgar was the last
that was destined to shine upon his glory, than was at that moment the
conviction of the young traveler that those rolling wheels were about
to bring him a companion for the stage-coach. Nor, let me tell you,
gentle reader, is it a matter of small importance, who is to be
brought in such close contact with one for the next ten hours. What is
life but a chain of those brief portions of eternity which man calls
hours, so inseparably linked together that the first and the last, and
every link throughout the series, have a mutual dependence and
connection with each other! Oh, let no one despise an hour! It is
fully enough to change dynasties, and overthrow empires--to make or
mar a fortune--to win high renown, or stain a noble name--to end our
being, or to fix our destiny here and hereafter, in time and through
eternity. So awful a thing is one hour--ay, one moment of active
being!

The companion of the three hundred and sixty-fifth part of one out of
seventy years, is a person to whom we may well attach some importance;
and the young traveler looked with no small eagerness to see who was
about to fill that station in relation to himself. The first thing
that his eyes fell upon, as he turned round, was a dark-brown
cabriolet, whirled along with the speed of lightning, by a tall bay
horse, full of blood and action, and covered with harness, which,
though somewhat elaborate and evidently costly, was guarded by
scrupulous good taste from being gaudy. Behind the vehicle appeared a
smart, active boy in groom's apparel, but with no distinctive livery
to designate him as the tiger of Colonel this, or the Earl of that,
though a cockade in his hat told that his master pretended either to
military or naval rank. Where the young traveler stood, the appearance
of the driver was not to be discerned; but, from the style of the
whole turn-out, he began to doubt that his anticipations in regard to
their approaching companionship were fallacious, when, dashing up to
the pavement, the horse was suddenly drawn up, the groom sprang to the
head, and the person within at length made his appearance.

He was a young man of about seven-and-twenty, tall, and rather
gracefully than strongly made; but still with a breadth of chest, and
a sort of firm setting on his feet, which spoke a greater degree of
personal strength than appeared at a casual glance. His clothes were
all of that peculiar cut which combines the most decided adherence to
the prevailing fashion, with a very slight touch of its extravagance.
Every thing, however, in the whole of his apparel, was in good
keeping, as the painters call it; and though the colors that appeared
therein were such as no one but a man of rank and station in society
would have dared to wear, the general hue of the whole was dark.

"He's a dandy!" thought the young traveler, with a somewhat
contemptuous curl of the lip, as the other descended from the
cabriolet; but the moment after, hearing him bid the boy tell Swainson
not to forget to give Brutus a ball on Wednesday night--and to walk
Miss Liddy for an hour twice every day in the park, he concluded that
he was a gentleman horse-jockey--a thing, in his unsophisticated
ideas, equally detestable with a dandy. Scarcely had he come to this
conclusion--and his conclusions, be it remarked, were formed very
quickly--when the stranger strode rapidly past him. The cabriolet
drove away, and its owner, with a quantity of glossy black hair
escaping from under his hat, and mingling with whiskers more glossy
still--entered the inn-yard, and proceeded to the coach-office.

The other traveler followed, in hopes of seeing some signs of
approaching departure; and, as he did so, he heard the reply of the
book-keeper to something which the owner of the cabriolet had asked.
"No room outside, sir;--very sorry, indeed--got our full number,"--he
had got three more, by the way--"plenty of room inside. That 'ere
gentleman's going inside, 'cause he can't get room out."

"Well, inside be it then," replied the other.

The book-keeper began to write. "What name, sir?"

"Burrel!" replied the stranger.

"Any luggage?"

"None," answered Burrel.

"One pound, ten shillings, and sixpence, sir, if you please!" said the
book-keeper; and, as Burrel paid the money, the coachman's cry of
"Now, gentlemen, if you please!" sounded through the yard.

In another minute the horses were dashing through that antique and
abominable arch, which, in days of yore, gave egress and regress to
the Golden Cross, while Burrel and the other traveler, seated side by
side, held their breath as the rough vehicle clattered over the London
stones. It has often been remarked, that it is wonderful how much
shaking together two Englishmen require before they speak to each
other; and, in setting out from a town like London, there is scarcely
an individual who has not too much to think of--either in parting from
well-loved friends--in quitting scenes of pleasure or of pain--in
self-congratulations on escaping from smoke and noise--in anticipation
of quiet and repose, of joyful meetings, and smiles of welcome--not to
court a few minutes' calm reflection, as they leave behind them that
great misty den of feelings and events. Our two travelers then leaned
back in their respective corners, without the interchange of a
word--the one, Burrel, apparently buried in deep thought; and the
other too proud, if not too shy, to begin any conversation himself,
even had he not had memories enough in his bosom to furnish him, also,
with food for meditation. Such, however, he had; and--seeing that his
companion appeared wrapped up in that sort of gentlemanly reserve
which so often covers over a man's eyes, ears, and understanding, as
he goes through life, and leaves him, like the Grand Lama, with
nothing to speculate upon but his own perfections--the younger
traveler gave way also to his thoughts, and, ere they had reached
Brentford, had forgotten that there was any being in the coach but
himself.

His reflections did not seem very pleasant; for at Hounslow, what
appeared to be the first act thereof, ended in a sigh so long and
deep, that it attracted the notice of his fellow-traveler, who turned
his head, and, for the first time, examined him somewhat attentively,
as he sat looking out of the windows, with the objects as they passed,
skimming hardly noted before his eyes. The second act of the young
man's thoughts did not seem quite so abstracted as the first; for when
the coach stopped for a few minutes at Staines, he put his head forth
from the window, and demanded the name of the place, addressing
Mynheer Boots, who gazed in his face, and answered nothing.

"This is Staines," replied his hitherto silent companion, in a mild
and gentlemanly tone, in which there was not the slightest touch of
_coxcombry_ or affectation; "perhaps you have never traveled this road
before?"

"I have, indeed," replied the other; "but the first time was many
years ago; and when last I passed, I had various things to think of,
which prevented my noting particularly the places through which I
traveled."

"Oh, any thing on earth to think of," replied Burrel, "of course
renders traveling out of the question. It is no longer traveling, it
is locomotion. It becomes the act of a stage-coach, a steam-engine, or
any other machine, as soon as a person has one thought occupied by
either business or memory, or any one of the troublesome things of the
world. Before one sets out on a journey, one should shake out one's
mind, as the ancient pilgrims did their wallets, and leave no trace of
friends, or relations, or feelings, or prejudices, or remembrances of
any kind, in short, to hang about it; but make all void and clear for
the new stock of ideas that are to be placed in it."

"Yours is a strange doctrine," replied his companion, "though I
believe it might be as well to practice it."

"Why, if a man carries about in his mind," continued Burrel, "his
uncles and aunts, and sisters and brothers, and all the luggage of
associations that they bring along with them, he might as well jog on
in the old family coach at the rate of forty mortal miles per day,
from the town house in Berkeley-square to the country house in
Staffordshire. But let a man resolve to forget every thing on earth
but the scenes through which he is passing, and he will find as much
to interest, and amuse, and excite him--ay, and as much to the purpose
of real information, too--between London and Dorchester, as between
Paris and the Dardanelles."

His companion smiled, perhaps as much from surprise at the very
unexpected tone of his fellow-traveler's tirade, as from any
acquiescence in the tirade itself. "Nay, nay," he said, "surely you
won't deny that--putting all other advantages out of the question
between the two journeys you mention--there is still much more
picturesque beauty to be found between Paris and the Dardanelles than
between London and Dorchester?"

"I do not know that," replied Burrel. "There may be newer scenery, and
perhaps more sublime scenery; but whether the more sublime be
calculated to produce a finer or sweeter effect upon a man's heart and
mind than softer and gentler pictures, I much doubt, There is
something in an English landscape to be found nowhere else--an air of
rich, sweet, happy repose--of safe tranquillity and successful
industry, that is in itself almost sublime. Let your eye now run over
that view as the coach climbs the hill. Where did you ever behold a
scene on which sight can so pleasantly repose? The rich scattered wood
in front, full of old England's grand primeval oaks. Then look how,
bending over a thousand <DW72>s, in the true lines of beauty, the
hedgerows wind along, dividing wealthy field from field--now giving
skips and glances of fair towns and uplands, and now massing together,
till the eye believes them to be deep groves; then that catch of the
river, glistening under the hill, while the sunshine streams through
the valley, and that broad shadow of some cloud we do not see, passes
slowly on--at every change that it effects in the light and shade of
the landscape, bringing out some new beauty, as if it itself delighted
in the loveliness it produces. Then again cast your eyes up yonder to
the village church hanging half way down the hill, with its neat
parsonage embowered in tall elms; and looking, as it is, the abode of
peace and virtue. As good a man dwells there as the whole world can
produce, and a true representative of the great majority of the
much-belied English clergy. But say, did you ever see a fairer scene?"

"Seldom, indeed," replied his companion, whose attention, called to
the principal points of a purely English picture, found more beauties
in it than custom suffered him to see before. "But still," he added,
"I am fond of mountain scenery."

"And so am I," replied Burrel. "I am fond of every kind of scenery,
from the bold blue mountain, with its purple heath, as bare, as naked,
and as wild as the banks of Loch Awe itself can show, to the rich and
undulating plains of Champagne, where soft line beyond line of faint
and fainter shadows, vanishing away in Claude-like sunshine, are all
that mark the wide extent over which the eye can roam. There is such a
thing as the economy of admiration; and by husbanding that faculty
properly, you will not find a scene in all the world on which you can
not afford to bestow some small portion thereof."

The other traveler replied, not a little pleased to find that all the
fine sketches which he had been making of his companion's character,
during the earlier part of their journey, were as empty as a protocol;
and, with the very natural jump which man's heart takes when it finds
itself agreeably disappointed in the estimation it had formed of
another, perhaps the stranger now felt as much inclined to over-admire
his companion, as he had before been disposed to undervalue him. A
growing remembrance of his features, too, for some time made him fancy
that he had met with an old friend, whose face, like a worn piece of
money, though half obliterated by time, was still sufficiently plain
to tease memory--one of those provoking recollections, as tenacious as
remorse, and intactible as a soufflet. After some further
conversation, and one or two thoughtful pauses--in which memory was so
busy in digging among the ruins of the past, to see if she could find
the name of Burrel, that she would not even let the young traveler's
loquacious powers go on, for fear of disturbing her search--he
suddenly exclaimed, with that degree of frank simplicity which at once
spoke him but little a child of the great world, "Oh! now I remember
where it was I saw you before!"

"Where?" demanded Burrel, with a slight smile, which he instantly
repressed, lest he should give pain.

But the young stranger was not of a nature to think there could be any
thing wrong or absurd in acknowledging whatever he felt, if what he
felt were pure and natural. "It was at the door of Lord Ashborough, in
Grosvenor-square," he replied, at once. "You were coming out as I was
going in to call for his lordship. It was but yesterday; and yet I
have been searching through many long years to find out where it was I
had seen you before."

"Memory is like the philosophers," replied Burrel, "and often sends
out far to seek what she might stumble over at her own door. I now
remember your face also, and think I heard you give your name as
Captain Delaware."

"The same," answered his companion, with somewhat of a sigh. "Do you
know Lord Ashborough well?"

"I have known him long," replied Burrel; "but to know a man well is a
very different thing: for I am afraid that all men have learned
nowadays what Sallust regrets in the decline of the Romans--_magis
vultum quam ingenium, bonum habere_. Not that I mean to say it is so
with Lord Ashborough; far from it. He bears a high character in the
world, and is esteemed upright, honorable, and talented, though
somewhat stern and haughty."

A grave and rather melancholy expression came over the countenance of
the other; and he replied, changing the subject abruptly, "You were
speaking of the Dardanelles. Were you ever there?"

"Never," answered Barrel, "though once within little more than a
hundred leagues. I should have been well pleased to have gone on, but
circumstances called me back to England."

"I have been there," replied the other; "and there is nothing more
delightful than the sail from Corfu to Constantinople--except, indeed,
some parts of the coast of Sicily."

"You are a naval man, then, I presume!" said Burrel. The other
answered in the affirmative, and his companion proceeded:--"For
nothing on earth could be more disagreeable to me, and I suppose to
most landsmen, than a sail from any one given point of the globe's
surface to another. When you speak of Sicily, however, you speak of a
land that I, too, know well; and in regard to which I can enter into
your enthusiasm. There are few lands more fertile in beauties of
nature and association than Sicily, and epicurean Calabria, and the
old Etruscan groves! You have of course visited Italy, if you so well
know Sicily."

"I have done little more than cruise along the coast," replied Captain
Delaware; "but in Sicily I was landed, and remained some months for
the recovery of my health."

"Oh, the sweet coasts of the Mediterranean Sea!" said Burrel, "where
at every league there is some beauty and some memory--some pleasant
dream of the present or the past--from the Imperial City and its
wolf-suckled founder, to the gray majesty of Pæstum and the Calabrese
peasant with his long gun and his Mother Goose hat, caroling his gay
ditty as cheerfully as a pickpocket. In every other corner of the
world I feel earth stuffed with stern realities; but in Italy I can
fully enter into the feeling of Metastasio, and exclaim, '_Sogno della
mia vita e il corso intero?_"

"You are an enthusiast, I see," replied the other, with a smile.

"When I am in company with one," answered Burrel, laughing. His
companion  slightly, but good-humoredly, and the conversation
went on in the same easy manner in which it had commenced, through the
rest of their journey. It is unnecessary to give any farther details
thereof; for such light nothings, though very pleasant to while away
the hours in a stage-coach, are most excessively tiresome in the small
pages of an octavo. Let it suffice that Captain Delaware, surprised
and pleased with his companion, found the journey far shorter than he
had expected. Indeed, so captivated was he, that in the whole of
Burrel's deportment there was but one thing which he thought might
have been altered to advantage, which was a certain air of taking
every thing as a matter of course--a tone of indifference which men of
the world acquire they know not well how, and which, in the present
instance, blended in an extraordinary manner with the high feeling of
the beautiful and the excellent, which his conversation breathed
throughout.

That tone, however, is not without its advantages also; and the young
sailor found that it might be serviceable, when, at Hartford Bridge, a
person of a very different description was intruded upon them. He was
a short, broad-made man, with long, baboonish arms, and a face on
which nature had so plainly written the class to which it was to
belong, that, had fortune, in some of her freaks, covered it either
with the coronet of a peer, or a peasant's straw hat, his mother, or
fortune, or nature, would have had much to answer for. Some of the
features were good, however--the eyes were very tolerable, for
instance; and the nose was not bad. But then the cheek-bones! good
heavens, such cheek-bones! From Crim Tartary to Banff there is nothing
to be seen like them. The mouth, too, was worse--one of those fearful
mouths, whose broad, fat, wide-parted, irregular lips seem to
vaticinate the fate of the owner with such distinctness, that no
person of common foresight can see them without at once picturing the
person who possesses them--not as about to be hanged, but as actually
hanging. The skin that was over all was of that reddish, coarse,
mottled kind, which puts one in mind of a gross strawberry; and
although, as before said, the eyes in themselves were _goodish_, blue,
meaningless eyes enough, yet the place where there should have grown
eyelashes, being alone furnished with a red, knotty line in their
room, gave them a ferret-like sharpness, without which they would have
signified nothing at all.

This worthy, "_passant à joints pieds_," as Madame de Sevigné calls
it, over all ceremonies, was inclined to make himself so much at his
ease, that Captain Delaware, disgusted and offended, yet without any
absolute pretext for anger, felt strongly inclined to quarrel with,
and eject from the window, a person who interrupted a pleasant
conversation to substitute vulgar impertinence in its place. Burrel,
on the contrary, with cool indifference, amused himself for a moment
or two with the other's vulgarity, and then trode him into silence by
contempt. He then calmly resumed the conversation with his first
companion, from which there was something in his tone and manner that
irresistibly excluded the other, who, to revenge himself, looked out
of the window, and like my Uncle Toby, whistled _lillebullero_.

Thus passed the remaining hours of their journey--Burrel every moment
increasing upon the esteem of his traveling companion, till at length
they approached, about six o'clock, a little village, which, though it
may bear a different name in the county map, we shall take the liberty
of calling Emberton. The sun had so far declined from the meridian,
that the shadows were getting long and blue; but still the sheeny
splendor of the summer's day was not at all decreased, though the
approach of evening had cleared away the hazy brightness which hangs
ever about a very hot and sunny noon. The coach wound along the road,
every now and then passing various objects which gave notice that it
was approaching some place where the busy and improving emmets that
lord it over this ant-hill world had congregated together, and adorned
their place of sojourn. Now came a neat gate and a detached cottage,
too miniature in all its proportions, from the little Turkey-carpet
garden to the rustic porch, to be the country mansion of any man of
large property; and yet too neat, and one might, perhaps, say too
elegant, to be the dwelling of the poor. It was evidently the house of
the doctor or the lawyer, or the retired maiden lady of some village
near at hand, and it, again, was succeeded by a long, clean,
whitewashed wall, belonging to garden, or shrubbery, or semi-park,
between which and the coach road ran a fair gravel footpath, defended
by green posts and iron chains. The manifold paths and roads branching
to the right and left, clean and well kept, told the same tale of
man's habitation; and in a moment after, winding over a slight rise,
the coach reached the brow of the hill, from which the whole village
or little town of Emberton was visible.

It lay in a country slightly undulating, but backed by some high hills
at the distance of about fifteen miles, and between them and the
elevation which the coach had reached, the expanse might rather be
called a plain than a valley. The village was close beneath the <DW72>,
and had little to distinguish it from any other English country town,
having all that peculiar air of cleanliness, of regularity, and of the
spirit of industry and cultivation, which is only to be seen in
England. Its greatest ornament was the river, which, clear, smooth,
and tranquil, ran through the town very nearly at the middle, and was
itself spanned over by a neat stone bridge of about fifty yards in
length. That bridge, however, was to be remarked for something more
than its light and elegant construction: its balustrade formed the
continuation of a low stone wall which separated the village from a
wide park on the right hand side, full of majestic trees, scattered,
in groups of four or five, over a fine undulating piece of ground.
Through the midst, the river flowed gently on, reflecting the evening
sky and two or three swans that floated on its bosom, the clear light
of which was only broken here and there by a fall of a few feet, which
scarcely increased the flow of the current. As one looked up the park
from the bridge--at the distance of about a third of a mile on either
hand--might be seen a grove of tall, graceful trees, sufficiently
extensive to take the appearance of a forest, in some of the glades of
which the eye caught occasionally the remains of old summer-houses, in
the Charles the Second taste; and in the central point was seen the
mansion itself, built of mingled gray stone and red brick, with small
innumerable windows. It bore the aspect of what it really had been--a
monastery erected early in the reign of Henry VIII. by a wealthy
community of friars. From them it was afterward wrested by that pink
of reforming monarchs, tyrants, and plunderers, and bestowed upon some
minion of the day. The buttery of their time had become the lodge now,
and was a detached, building in the same fashion as the house,
projecting into the high road, and flanked by two large iron gates,
which, to say sooth, were somewhat rusty for the want of paint. In
what state of repair the dwelling-house itself was kept, could hardly
be discerned at that distance; but no kinds of deer were seen sporting
in the park, and sheep had evidently taken their place, as affording,
probably, a more profitable manner of employing the land.

"That seems a splendid park!" said Burrel, as his eye first lighted on
it. "Do you know what it is called?"

"Emberton Park," replied the young sailor, briefly.

"And belongs to--?" said Burrel.

"Sir Sidney Delaware--my father," answered the young man, with so deep
a sigh that Burrel asked no further questions.

After dragging the wheel, the coach ran rapidly down the descent, and
then rolling on, stopped at a neat, clean house, with a small garden
in the front. At the little white gate were four fine setters, with a
servant out of livery, who instantly touched his hat to Burrel, and,
approaching the door, said, "This is the house, sir."

"Very well," answered Burrel; "and now farewell, Captain Delaware," he
said, turning to his companion, and giving hint his hand with as much
frank good humor as if he had addressed an old acquaintance; "I doubt
not we shall meet again."

Delaware grasped his hand without reply, and the other alighted. All
his dogs sprang up to greet him with evident joy, much to the
detriment of his clothes, but little to that of his good humor, and
after gazing up and down the road for a moment, as one does in a
strange place, he walked through the little gate, and entered the
house, at the door of which stood a tidy old lady, evidently
courtesying to a new lodger.

The coach drove on, and then again stopped at the lodge of the park,
where Captain Delaware alighted also. His portmanteau was given to the
woman at the lodge; and he himself, with a quick step, walked up the
path which led to the mansion.




CHAPTER II.


Whether there be something inherent in the nature of things which
renders any object that man very much desires, thenceforth very
difficult to be obtained, or whether it be that, by a certain
perversity in man's nature, he only desires those things that _are_
difficult to be obtained, I can not tell; but one point is very clear
in every body's experience, that whenever we fix our heart upon one
particular object, and strive for it very ardently, however easy it
might seem before, we find a thousand difficulties and obstacles start
up upon our path, and overrule our wishes. Nevertheless, as there is
nothing upon earth half so tiresome--ay, and half so useless, too--as
a disquisition upon causes and effects, we will proceed with the
events which gave rise to the above sage observation, which, by
rights, should have followed this chapter as a corollary upon it,
instead of a sort of epigraph at its head.

The person who has figured before the reader during a long day's
journey in a stage-coach under the name of Burrel, entered the small,
neat house we have before described; and, after having considered
attentively with his eyes all the proportions and dimensions of the
little parlor which was to be his sitting-room, he seated himself
before the antique, and somewhat obscure mahogany table that it
contained, and addressed his servant--who had followed into the room,
together with the decent, respectable landlady--pronouncing those two
important, but somewhat laconic words, "Get dinner!"

The man bowed, and left the room without reply; and Barrel proceeded,
speaking to the landlady, who was beginning to fear, from certain
symptoms that she saw, that both master and man were equally
taciturn--"Well, my good lady," he said, "my man has doubtless
arranged every thing with you, and I hope you are satisfied with the
bargain he has made?"

"Oh, dear, yes, sir!" replied Widow Wilson, as the good dame was
denominated. "There was but one word to that bargain, I can assure
you."

"I suppose so," said Barrel, dryly, "if Harding concluded it. But tell
me--that is a beautiful park opposite the window; who does it belong
to?"

"Bless you, sir, that is Emberton Park!" replied the landlady, looking
unutterable things at Barrel's ignorance. "You must have heard tell of
Sir Sidney Delaware, Bart., of Emberton Park, surely?

"I think I have heard the name," replied Barrel. "What family has he!"

"Why, Lord bless me, sir! you came down with his own son," answered
the old lady, more and more surprised at her lodger's ignorance of
village facts, and beginning greatly to undervalue his understanding.
"Why, I saw the captain's head as plainly as possible when you got out
of the coach."

"Indeed!" said Burrell, with gravity not to be shaken; "and is he an
only child?"

"Oh, no, sir, no!" answered Mrs. Wilson. "Sir Sidney has a young lady,
too. Himself, his son, and his daughter--that is all of them, poor
people!"

"Poor people!" exclaimed Barrel; "I should think they were rich
people, with such a fine estate as that!"

"Ah, sir, things that show best are not always as they look!" replied
the good woman. "They are as poor as church mice, sir, and that's poor
enough. I wish to God they were richer--much good would they do! But I
have heard Lawyer Johnstone say, that, with all the fine estate, Sir
Sidney, when all is paid, has not four hundred a year of his own; and
gentility without ability is like a pudding without plums! Then there
is the captain's half-pay you know; and if they could let the house
and park, it might bring something more. They tried one year, and went
and lived at a cottage down at Sidmouth--but it did not let, and the
place was going to ruin--and so they came back; for, though there are
not many of them, yet two or three in a house are better than none at
all."

"That is very true," said Barrel; "very true, indeed; and now, my good
lady, see if my man has taken up the hot water to the dressing-room."

The good woman took the hint, and retired; and here it may be as well
to mention one or two circumstances which preceded the arrival of
Henry Burrel, Esq., at the neat little village of Emberton. These
circumstances were simply as follows:--Two days before that on which
we have thought fit to begin our tale, arrived by the coach--together
with four portmanteaus, four dogs, and a gun-case--the servant whom we
have seen waiting the traveler at the door of Mrs. Wilson's house.
After a few inquiries at the inn, all conceived in very laconic style,
he proceeded at once to Mrs. Wilson's, and, in words inexpressibly
brief, concluded a bargain for her apartments, as they were called,
for one month from that period, in the name of his master, Henry
Burrel, Esq. As soon as the important fact was generally known that a
gentleman possessing four portmanteaus, four setters, a gun-case, and
a man out of livery, was about to take up his residence for one month
in the village of Emberton, the wise may imagine the commotion that
was created. The object of his visit was evidently to shoot, otherwise
what could he do with four setters and a gun-case; but there were
various other matters to be ascertained by the young and old ladies of
the village; first, and foremost, whether the shooter might not be
shot by Cupid's shaft--next, whether he were rich--next, whether he
were young or old--next, whether he were a bachelor or a widower--and
next, whether he had ever been in India. All these points, with the
various branches into which they spread, were matters of consideration
to the three classes of ladies who inhabit a small country town;
namely, those who will not or can not marry at all, or any more--those
who will marry when it suits them--and those who, at any time, will
marry any thing or any body. However, not to enter into disagreeable
particulars, the surgeon and apothecary, well knowing the importance
of the case, the immense increase of influence he might acquire by
learning the whole facts, and all the concomitant advantages which
might thence accrue, was the first to watch the servant out of the
house, after the rumor had spread, and--accosting him in an easy and
familial way--to propound to him what the law people call leading
questions. But the servant was as taciturn and as guarded as a
thrice-convicted old Bailey witness is, or the embassador's private
secretary's valet-de-chambre _should_ be and nothing could the doctor
make of him. The lawyer tried him next, and then the innkeeper, but
all equally failed; and the consequence was, that at the hour the
coach was expected to arrive on the two subsequent days, all Emberton
was in a flutter. There were the Misses this and the Misses that, as
fine as--but there is no word for it--all taking their afternoon walk
along the line of road--and there was Mrs. the-other-thing, the fair
young widow, in such becoming weeds--buying some gray silk at the
mercer's opposite, which she found it necessary to examine by the
broader light of the street-door--just as the wheels came rattling
down the hill. The coach at length was seen to stop; and Burrel, who
had noticed no one on the face of the earth, but his own servant at
the door of Mrs. Wilson's, walked into the house as we have before
described, while the fact spread like lightning through the place that
the gentleman at Mrs. Wilson's was young, handsome, dark, tall, and
exquisite, and undoubtedly unmarried--for, by a peculiar test, or sort
of instinct, which heaven has bestowed upon womankind, among their
many other excellences, the fair sex have an extraordinary gift of
discovering whether any male thing be married or single, at the
distance of a hundred yards.

There was but one subject of conversation throughout Emberton during
the course of that evening. The old topic--the unhappy poverty of the
people at the Park, and the absurd pride which prevented them from
giving tea-parties, because they could not give dinners, with all the
little malice and tittle-tattle thereunto attached--was forgotten for
the time, and nothing was spoken of but Mrs. Wilson's lodger and his
silent man-servant. Indeed, the latter, with his extraordinary and
unaccountable taciturnity, divided with his master the anxious
curiosity of the two tea-parties given that evening; and one lady even
went so far as not to doubt that he was a foreigner, and could not
speak English, in proof of which she adduced his heavy black brows and
egregious whiskers--an argument which, combined with the man's
reserve, left one half of her hearers nearly convinced.

In the mean while, however, Henry Burrel sat down to his dinner, which
he concluded with an excellent appetite, and in perfect silence,
totally unconscious of the restless moments he was giving to the
tongues of Emberton. This state of meditation continued unbroken till
the cloth disappeared, and the silent servant, placing the inviolate
bottle of comet claret before him--a supply of which, by the way, had
been sent down to the coach-office ten days before, arguing, the
lawyers would infer, a predetermination to lodge at Emberton--was
about to retire, when he was arrested by his master's voice.

"Have you yet," demanded Burrel, musing, "made the inquiries I
directed you, Harding!"

"Yes, sir," replied the man, and was again silent.

"Where does he live, then--this Mr. Tims?" asked his master. "How far
is it from the village?"

"About a mile and a half, sir," answered Harding, "down a back lane at
the end of the park--a very retired place, but easily found."

"And what else did you discover!" continued his master, "I mean in
regard to the Delawares?"

"They visit no one, sir--in the village at least," replied the man,
"and receive no one."

"Do any of the family shoot?"

"None, sir; and they have often given leave to gentlemen staying at
the inn, for the mere asking."

"Very well," answered his master. "Now bring me my writing-desk, and
some books from the library--the greatest trash you can find."

The man disappeared, and returned with the desk, from which, while he
was again absent bringing the trash, in quest of which his master had
dispatched him, Burrel took out some notes and accounts, and
apparently went over the latter with the accurate attention of a man
of business. He then wrote a brief note, which he folded and sealed,
and, giving it to Harding on his return, bade him deliver it the next
morning early, and wait an answer. All this being completed, he took
up the first volume that had been brought him, cast himself back in
his chair, and skimmed the pages till bedtime.

The breakfast table was laid out by the neat hands of Mrs. Wilson,
exactly at eight o'clock the next morning--the white table-cloth, the
jug of rich yellow cream, the two smooth rolls, somewhat browner than
the same article of food in London, but doubtless much more the
children of the corn--all bespoke a comfortable country breakfast; and
when, in about half an hour after, Burrel descended in shooting guise,
he looked round with that air of satisfaction which a man feels, after
a long London season, on waking and finding himself really in the
country. The hot water, not in the accursed lukewarm urn, but in a
kettle hissing hot from the fire, was brought in by Mrs. Wilson; but
in about ten minutes Harding himself appeared, and, with his usual
silence, presented his master with an answer to his note of the
evening before. It ran as follows, and explains both itself and the
one to which it replied:


"Emberton Park, Wednesday Morning.

"Sir Sidney Delaware is happy to have the power of affording Mr.
Burrel any gratification; and begs to say, that he is at perfect
liberty to shoot over any part of his property with the exception of
the grounds in the immediate vicinity of the house, the game on which
he wishes to preserve."


"Hum!" said Burrel, shaking his head as he read the note. "Whom did
you see, Harding?"

"A maid-servant, air," replied the man, "and the old gentleman
himself."

"Did he say nothing about calling on me!" demanded Burrel; "or being
happy to see me!"

"Nothing, sir," replied the man; and, with an injunction to get his
gun ready, and see that the old lady did not give the dogs any thing
to eat before they went out, his master dismissed him.

"We must find some means," said Burrel to himself, when the servant
was gone; "but I'm afraid it will be more difficult than I
thought--but the young man will call, of course."

Now, though it would be very easy to look into the mind of Henry
Burrel, Esq., as he there stands pondering, with his hand leaning on
the table, yet it may be better to pursue him a little farther ere we
take such a liberty, and see him set forth upon his shooting
expedition, in the course of which he approached as near to the
mansion of Emberton Park as he decently could. His expedition was
solitary, however; and if he expected or hoped to meet any of the
family, he was disappointed. No one did he see but an occasional
shepherd, and a hedger and a ditcher; and at three o'clock he returned
home, with nothing to repay his walk but ten brace of birds.

The following morning it was no better; but Burrel seemed resolved
upon another line of conduct, and, at the risk of seeming to intrude.
he called at the house itself as he passed, and, on finding that its
owner was from home, left a card with his compliments and thanks for
the permission which had been granted him. "They will perhaps think me
a presuming coxcomb," he thought; "but I care not." The next day, in
crossing the fields with his dogs and his gun as usual, he suddenly,
met his stage-coach companion, Captain Delaware, with a young lady
leaning upon his arm, whom, from a certain family likeness, he at once
concluded to be the sister of his acquaintance. Her dress was as plain
as possible; but the model was good, and no one could have doubted
that she was a lady, though it is probable that the walking-dress of
the mercer's daughter at Emberton was, beyond comparison, more
fashionable--in price. Her figure was extremely good, though, Heaven
be praised, not at all sylphlike; and all that Burrel remarked was,
that she was a very pretty girl, and had a very pretty foot. Her
brother stopped for a moment; and with a countenance in which various
emotions, strangely mingled, of pleasure and pain, called up an
eloquent glow, he hoped that Burrel had met with good sport,
introduced him to his sister, Miss Delaware, and then, in a manner
somewhat abrupt and embarrassed, bade him good-by, and turned away.

Burrel walked on with his gun under his arm; and for a minute, as he
did so, he bit his nether lip, and his brow slightly contracted. The
moment after, however, he laughed, lightly murmuring, "Well, I must
have recourse to the old miser, after all, though I hate his
instrumentality;" and, turning on his heel, he sauntered back toward
his own abode.

He was suffered to enter in peace; but his Manton was scarcely laid on
the table, and his dogs given into the charge of his servant, when, to
his horror and astonishment, Mr. Tomkins, the surgeon of the village,
was announced, and a smart, dapper little man, of pale and gentlemanly
aspect, made his appearance. Burrel was cool and civil; for it was a
part of his code to be civil to every one till they were insolent;
and, after the usual symphony concerning the weather, Mr. Tomkins
proceeded to the chief motive of his visit.

"He had always," he said, "proposed to call upon Mr. Burrel as soon as
his manifold occupations would permit; but he had that day been
charged with a commission, which gave so much additional pleasure to
his proposed visit, that he, of course, determined to pay it
immediately. The fact was," he added, "that he had that morning been
visiting Mrs. Darlington, the lady to whom that beautiful house and
those sweet grounds upon the hill belonged, and who, having heard of
Mr. Burrel's arrival in Emberton, though she could not, of course,
call upon him herself, had begged the identical Mr. Tomkins, then
before him, to say how much pleasure she would have to see him, if he
would do her the honor of dining with her on the following day."

She was a widow lady of a certain age, Mr. Tomkins implied, who had
all her life moved in the best society, and was the most charming and
good-tempered person in the world--"Draws beautifully; has a great
taste for music; sees a good deal of company at her house, where the
cookery is excellent; does a great deal of good, and takes a vast deal
of interest in every thing that is doing in the village."

"What a disagreeable person!" thought Burrel. "Nevertheless, I may as
well amuse myself with her and hers, as walk about these fields from
breakfast till dinner-time, or read these idiotical romances from
dinner till bedtime." He replied, however, according to the letter of
the law of civility, "Mrs. Darlington does me a great deal of honor,
my dear sir," he said; "and I will do myself the pleasure of accepting
her invitation, which I will notify to her forthwith by my servant.
Pray, how far may be her house?"

"Oh, not above five miles, certainly," replied the worthy chirurgeon.

"Five miles!" said Burrel; "that is a tremendous way to roll in any
thing but a cabriolet after eating. I shall certainly die of an
indigestion if I trust myself to a hack post chaise in a state of
repletion."

The man of medicines grinned at what in his ears sounded something
very like a professional joke, but assured Burrel, at the same time,
that his apprehensions were vain, for that Mrs. Darlington's
invitations always implied a bed at her house.

"That alters the case," replied Burrel; "for I expect some horses down
to-night, and will ride over, and dress before dinner."

The doctor, who felt that a vast accession of dignity would accrue, if
he could expose himself to the wondering eyes of Emberton, in close
companionship with the young and fashionable stranger, proposed to
drive him over in his pony chaise; but this honor Burrel declined,
replying quietly, that he would prefer riding; and, after one or two
faint efforts toward discovery of all the hidden things appertaining
to the young traveler, the surgeon, finding that the conversation
began to fall continually to the ground, took the hint, and retired;
and Burrel proceeded to change his shooting-dress for one better
suited to the town.

Leaving him, however, to make this alteration, and to send off his
answer to Mrs. Darlington's invitation, we shall now beg leave to
follow home Captain Delaware and his sister; and, as every thing in a
tale like the present should be as clear as possible, without the
slightest mystery or absurd concealment, shall explain a few things
that may have hitherto appeared strange in the conduct of that family.

The spot at which Burrel had that morning met his traveling companion
was not more than a quarter of a mile from the mansion, and the
brother and sister walked on directly toward one of the smaller doors
in the park wall, and, passing through, turned their steps homeward.
They proceeded, however, in silence; for there was something evidently
in their rencounter with Burrel unpleasant to them both, nor was that
unpleasant sensation, perhaps, relieved by the aspect of their
paternal dwelling, or the grounds that surrounded it. Without entering
into the painful details of a family's decay, it is sufficient to say,
that the whole place bore the character--not of neglect--but of means
incompetent to ward off the constant, unremitting, insidious assaults
of time. They passed a temple in the park, which had been built in
imitation of some famous specimen of Grecian architecture, and now
came nearer still to the original by its decay. A large mass of the
frieze had fallen and over the green and disjointed steps the brambles
were shooting their long thorny arms. The path itself, too, which
wound on toward the house, was half overgrown with grass; and where an
effort to hoe it up had been begun, it had speedily been abandoned,
from the necessity of employing the man in some more useful service.
The mansion, too, more than half closed, had about it all--not the
aspect of ruin, for it had by no means reached that pitch--but a look
of desertion and of poverty which contrasted painfully with the
splendor of the original design.

To the eye of Miss Delaware and her brother all this was customary;
but yet it struck them both, after their meeting with Burrel, perhaps
more forcibly than it had ever done before; and there was something
like a sigh escaped the lip of each, as, opening the large door, they
passed on into what had once been a splendid vestibule. The day was a
sultry one, and the door of a rooms entering immediately upon the
hall, was open when Captain Delaware and his sister entered. The step
of Miss Delaware, as she walked on, caught the ear of some one within,
and a voice, in the tone of which there was the slightest possible
touch of impatience, was heard exclaiming, "Blanche, is that you, my
love?"

The young lady, followed by her brother, immediately turned her steps
into the fine old library from which the sound proceeded, and found
reading, at a small table near one of the long, many-paned windows, a
person who--however contrary to rule--deserves a more particular
sketch of his mental and corporeal qualities, and of his previous
history, than we may find it convenient to give of any other person
connected with this book.

Sir Sidney Delaware had set out in life a younger son. His father, Mr.
William Delaware, had been a man of great talents, and very little
common sense, who, by the help of his abilities, and considerable
family influence, had been raised to offices in the state, conferring
large revenues, which he squandered profusely. Mr. William Delaware,
however, kept up the appearance of a man of fortune; and as his uncle,
the then possessor of Emberton Park, was unmarried and advanced in
life, his prospects were admitted on all hands, even by Jews and
money-lenders, to be good. Be it remarked, nevertheless, that though
he was the direct male heir to his uncle's property, there were two
other persons who more than equally shared in his uncle's favor--his
own first cousins, and equally the nephews (though by the female
line), of the Sir Harcourt Delaware who then held the lands of
Emberton. These were Lord Ashborough and his brother, the Honorable
Henry Beauchamp. However, he did not let any thing disturb him, but
continued to live splendidly and well--gave his eldest son a
commission in a crack regiment of cavalry, and sent his second son,
Sidney, to Christ Church.

At Christ Church there were two or three peculiarities observed in
Sidney Delaware. With his scholastic education we shall have nothing
to do, being no scholars ourselves. The first of these peculiarities
was an uncommon degree of accuracy in paying his bills, and living
within his income; and his elder brother was wont to say, that Sidney
was so sick of seeing nobody paid at home, that he was resolved to pay
every one to the uttermost farthing. The next trait remarked by his
fellow-collegians was his extraordinary good-nature; for was any one
in difficulty or distress, Sidney Delaware would help them to the very
utmost of his power, though in many instances he was known to hate and
contemn the very men he assisted; and the third quality was a talent
for satire, and a faculty of vituperation, which might have been
envied by Gifford among the dead, and two or three we could name among
the living.

The secret of his character, perhaps, was the combination of an
extraordinary sensibility of the absurd, with a high and severe moral
feeling. He studied for the church, however; and as he did so, many of
the injunctions of that divine book, to which his mind was naturally
turned continually, appeared so contrary to the asperity of his
sarcastic disposition, that he determined to make a powerful effort to
restrain the bitterness of speech and writing to which he had before
given way. Time and years, too, had their effect, and the biting
satire that used to hang upon his lip remained bidden in silence, or
only broke forth casually, when he was off his guard. He tried to
banish from his heart that feeling of contempt and scorn which he
experienced whenever any thing mean, or false, or base, met his eyes;
and perhaps the very good-natured facility with which he could be
induced to assist any one, might spring from an apprehension lest the
scorn he felt for all that was pitiful in others, might affect his own
actions, and render him uncharitable himself. His elder brother died
before he himself was ordained; and, on the persuasion of his father,
he abandoned his purpose of entering the church; traveled for several
years, and then studied for the bar. His next step was to marry, and
he was a widower with two children at the time his father succeeded to
Sir Harcourt Delaware. The baronet, however, in dying, had given to
his two nephews, Lord Ashborough and Mr. Beauchamp, who had been very
constant in their attentions, a far larger share of his fortune than
he left to him who was to inherit the baronetcy; and thus, the latter,
having counted largely on his future fortune, found himself more
embarrassed than relieved by the death of his uncle. The estate that
was left to him was also entailed by the will of the last possessor;
and his only resource to free himself from the most pressing
difficulties, was to engage his son to join him in raising money upon
annuity. Sidney Delaware consented with a heavy heart, and the money
was borrowed, much against his will, from his father's cousin, Lord
Ashborough, between whom and the young heir of Emberton a quarrel had
previously taken place, of a nature not likely to admit of
reconciliation. For the pitiful sum of twenty-five thousand pounds,
the estate of Emberton was charged with an annuity of two thousand per
annum; and scarcely had that sum been swallowed up by his father's
debts, when Sidney Delaware succeeded to a splendid name and a ruined
property.

Griefs and disappointments had impaired his health, had broken his
spirit and crushed his energies; and, dwelling almost in solitude, he
had given himself up to the education of his children, forgetting that
a time would come when the acquaintances which he was losing every
day, would become necessary to his children in the world. In
bitterness of heart, too, he often thought that his friends were
neglecting him, when in fact he was neglecting them; and exclaiming,
"Donec eris felix, multos numerabis amicos!" he shut his doors against
the world, believing that his poverty would meet with nothing but
contempt.

As time wore on, however, he found that he erred in not exerting his
abilities, in order to remove the incumbrances which his father had
incurred. His son grew up and entered the navy, and half the interest
of a small sum, which had been his wife's fortune, afforded sufficient
to maintain the boy in that service. But it was when his daughter also
grew toward womanhood that Sir Sidney Delaware felt most severely that
he had committed an error. His son, he thought, had an honorable
profession, and, by his own high merits and activity, was making rapid
progress. At the death of Lord Ashborough, too, the annuity which
swallowed up almost the whole rents of his estate would lapse, and his
heir would have enough. But Lord Ashborough was scarcely an older man
than himself; and when he gazed upon his daughter, and saw her growing
up with all her mother's beauty and grace, with every quality fitted
to charm and to attach, and at the same time remembered that she was
to live cut off from society, during all those brighter days of youth
and hope which lie between sixteen and five-and-twenty, he would have
given his right hand to have recalled the years which, by active
exertion, he might have employed to remove the difficulties that held
him down. Now however, he felt, or persuaded himself, that it was
impossible to seek society. He could not mingle with persons in his
own rank of life upon an equality, and he would not mingle with any
other class, or, with them in any other manner. Few of these old
friends existed for him, on whose generous feelings he could
fearlessly rely, and feel certain, from a knowledge of their nature,
that no thought even would ever cross their minds, which could have
wounded him if spoken. Thus, he had no old channel of communication
with the world still open, and pride, rendered irritable by
disappointment, as well as the circumstances in which he was placed,
prevented him from seeking any new connection with society. Could he
in any way have given his son and daughter the means of mingling with
the world, while he himself shunned it altogether, he would have
snatched eagerly at the opportunity; but that of course was out of the
question, and day went by after day, and found them all in the same
situation.

Such was still the case, at the time of my present tale; and when Miss
Delaware and her brother entered the library in which their father
was, as usual, driving away thought by reading, they found him seated
near the open window with Pope's Essays in his hand. His hair, which
had once been dark brown, was now nearly white--in fact, much whiter
than his years would warrant. Yet, though the body was in some degree
broken _curis et laboribus_, still temperance and fine air had done
much to counteract even grief. His countenance was florid, his eye was
clear, and he appeared a hale healthy man, though looking six or seven
years older than he really was.

Long conversations being, like love and marriage, excessively tiresome
to every one but those concerned, a summary of what followed will be
better than a chapter; and it is quite sufficient to say, that the
rencounter of the brother and sister with Mr. Burrel soon became the
principal topic of conversation. Captain Delaware, whose loves were
very first-sighty, dashed at once into such an encomium of his stage
coach companion, that an arch smile, at this pouring forth of his
well-known enthusiasm, played for a moment on the lip of Blanche
Delaware. Her father, however, looked grave, and said he was sorry
that they had met him at all. "This young man," he went on, "seems to
be a person of fortune and station, whom, in happier times, we might
have been delighted to see; but you are well aware, William, that
under our present circumstances, it is perfectly impossible to invite
a man of horses and dogs, and guns and servants, to this house. Did he
seem so charming to you, Blanche!"

Miss Delaware replied, that her brother's acquaintance had not
appeared either quite so handsome or quite so fascinating in his
shooting-jacket as her brother had described him in his traveling
costume,--"But at all events," she added, "his appearance savored
nothing of arrogance or presumption."

"Alas! my dear Blanche," said her father, "you do not know what a man
of the world is. Every point in the situation of a poor gentleman is
painful, but none so much so, as the having to endure the compassion
of fools and puppies."

Captain Delaware turned to the window, and after looking out for a
moment or two left the room. Blanche remained, but dropped the
subject, and it was no more resumed.




CHAPTER III.


After having undergone the visit of the surgeon, Burrel, as we have
stated, changed his dress; and, having given some directions to his
servant, strolled out alone upon an expedition, in which it may be
necessary to follow him. Crossing the bridge--upon which he paused for
a moment to gaze up the long vista of the park--he proceeded to the
extremity of the wall which formed the inclosure, and then, turning
through a shady lane, formed by that boundary on one side, and a steep
bank and hedge on the other, he strolled on with an air of absent
thoughtfulness, that made more than one milkmaid, whom he met
returning with her brimful pails from the neighboring fields, conclude
with the true sentimentality of a Molly, "that the gentleman must be
in love!"

Sad, however, to say, Burrel was not the least in love in the world;
and though of a somewhat enthusiastic and Quixotical character, he
would probably have been obliged, like the hero of La Mancha himself,
to think some time before he could possibly have discovered any one in
the sphere of his acquaintance whom he would have considered worthy of
the honor and the trouble of falling in love with. Still more
melancholy to relate, so far from any fair image filling his mind with
dreams ambrosial, and making him stumble over the stones in his way,
he was at that moment thinking of money--base, unwholesome money. His
meditations were of Cocker; and many a sum, both of addition,
multiplication, and subtraction, together with various computations of
interest, and now and then a remote flash of vulgar fractions, passed
across his mind, in all of which he displayed a talent for accounts
somewhat more clear and accurate than that of Joseph Hume, thank
God!--though not quite so neat and rapid as that of ever-lamented
Windham.

Thus he walked along under the wall of the park till the park wall
ended, and then taking a narrow and overhanging road, which descended
into a sweet, wild valley--through which a brook meandered on, till it
lost itself in the sands upon the sea-shore, about five miles to the
east--he proceeded on his way without doubt or question, as if he had
known the whole country from his boyhood. The opposite bank of the
valley was thickly covered with trees and shrubs; and about half a
mile from the spot where the road entered it, the summit of what
seemed a tall old fashioned farm house, of cold gray stone, rose above
this sort of verdant screen. Within a few hundred yards of this
building, the road climbed the bank, and passed before the door, which
was painted of a bluish gray, like that of a French country house, and
offered an aspect of untidiness and discomfort not often seen in an
English dwelling. No roses decorated the porch, no clematis festooned
the windows; stone walls surrounded that which was, or had been
intended for a garden; and the gruntings and squeaks which echoed from
within that boundary, spoke the character of the domestic animals
chiefly cultivated at Ryebury.

Undeterred, however by the inhospitable appearance of the building, or
by the wailings of the beast that never chews the cud, Burrel
approached the door, and, laying his hand upon a bell, made sure that
if any one was within half a mile, he must be heard; and then, turning
round to gaze upon the prospect, continued to hum "Dove sono," with
which he had been beguiling the way for the last ten minutes. While
thus employed, one of the high windows almost immediately above his
head was thrown open, and the upper part of a woman-servant, who would
have been pretty enough had she not been disguised in indescribable,
filth was protruded to reconnoiter the stranger's person. The moment
after, another head was added, almost as dirty, but neither pretty nor
young, being the dingy white superstructure of an old man's person,
who looked not at all unlike Noah, unwashed since the flood.

A long and careful examination did these two respectable persons
bestow upon him who so disturbed the quiet of their dwelling, while
Burrel, though perfectly conscious, from the groaning of the upheaved
window-frame, that he was undergoing a general inspection, continued
indefatigably to hum "Dove sono," till, opining that the inquisition
had continued sufficiently long, he again applied himself to the bell,
which once more responded to his will with "most miraculous organ."

"Run down, Sarah! run down!" cried the elder phantom, "and open the
door. Ask him who he is, and what he wants, and then come and tell me.
But stay, I will go down with you to the parlor!"

The bell was once more in Burrel's hand, when the door yawned, and
displayed to his view a great part of the person and adjuncts
dependent upon the female head which had been criticising him from
above. It is scarcely necessary to say more than that she was a slut
of the first quality, with dirt, _ad libitum_, spread over the whole
person--various triangular tears in the printed cotton that covered
her--much white lining protruding through the chasms in her shoes--and
a cap as yellow as a pair of court ruffles. Without waiting for the
categories that were to be addressed to him, Burrel at once walked
into the house; and, telling the dirty maid to inform her master that
Mr. Burrel desired to speak with him, approached the door of the
parlor, where the person he sought--not confiding in his servant's
powers of recapitulation--was listening with all his ears to the
catechism he proposed that the stranger should undergo. As soon,
however, as he caught the name of Burrel, he emerged and met that
gentleman in the passage with many a bow. His dress was clean enough,
and in style and appearance was upon a par with that of a country
attorney's of about twenty or thirty years ago--black, jet-black, from
head to heel, except the worsted stockings, which were dark gray. The
whole was well and economically worn, but his face evinced small
expense of soap, and his beard that he wore out no razors--upon his
chin at least. In person he was a short thin man, of about sixty-five
or six, with a reddish tip to a long nose, set on upon a pale
many-furrowed face. He stooped a little toward the shoulders, and
there was that sort of bending droop about the knees which betokens a
decrease of vigor. His clear gray eye, however, had something in it
both eager and active, and the heavy penthouse of long black and white
hair that overhung it, gave a sort of fierce intensity to its glance.

"Your name, sir, is Tims, I presume?" said Burrel, eyeing him with a
good deal of that cool nonchalance which is no doubt very
disagreeable. The other bowed to the ground, and his visitor
continued--"My name is Burrel, and Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson, my
solicitors, have doubtless written to you concerning--"

"Hush! hush!" exclaimed the other, in a subdued voice, at the same
time raising his eyebrows, and opening his eyes with a stare of
wondering deprecation. "We will speak about it presently, sir, if you
please. I received theirs in due course, and expected to have heard of
your coming sooner, sir; but shall be very happy, indeed, if we can do
business together. Do me the honor, sir, to walk in. Sarah, bring this
gentleman a glass of--of--wine," he added, after a moment's hesitation
and a glance at the stranger's dress; "but perhaps you would prefer
ale, Mr. Burrel, alter your walk?"

"I take nothing, sir," answered Burrel, evidently to the great
satisfaction of the other; "and having but a few minutes to stay,
merely wish to speak with you concerning--"

But his host again cut across him, appearing to think that all matters
in which the very name of money was to be mentioned, had better be
talked of in private; and hurrying Burrel forward into the parlor, he
begged him to be seated, adding almost in the same breath--"Sad times,
indeed, sir, as you say--rate of interest falling terribly--hardly
four per cent. to be got on good security--sad times, indeed, sir, as
you say!"

"I do not say the times are bad at all, sir," replied Burrel, gravely,
"nor that four per cent. can not be got for money on good security.
You must mistake me, I believe, for some more plaintive person. But to
the point, Mr. Tims. I think my solicitors wrote to you that I had
twenty-five thousand pounds lying uninvested, which I was willing to
lend at five or four and a-half per cent. This sum they had heard you
were seeking for some gentleman in this neighborhood who could give
good security--Sir Sidney Delaware, I think, was his name."

"Oh, but, sir, I am afraid," answered Mr. Tims, shaking his head, "I
am afraid that business is off. It won't do, sir, I am afraid--it
won't do--can't manage matters there, I am afraid!"

"And pray why not, sir!" demanded Burrel. "I shall not feel very well
pleased if I have been brought down here by your report to examine the
matter myself, and am disappointed."

"Oh! no fear of that, sir," replied the other: "no fear of finding
plenty of others. Besides, I should think, with submission, that you
might make Sir Sidney pay--as you say--your expenses, loss of time,
&c., &c. He gave me full powers--and as you say--"

"I do not say any thing of the kind, sir," replied Burrel, sternly.
"Be so good as not to put words into my mouth which I have never
spoken. Rather let me hear why, and how, the proposed arrangement can
not have effect, and then we will consider other matters after we have
fully canvassed the first."

"Quite right, sir! quite right!" replied Mr. Tims, not in the least
discomposed by Burrel's rebuke. "Quite right, indeed! Always right to
have every thing clear by itself! Why, you must know the simple fact
is this. The property of Emberton, as you say, is burdened with an
annuity to the amount of two thousand pounds per annum on the life of
the present Lord Ashborough, the sum given for which was only
twenty-five thousand pounds--and that nearly twenty years ago, when
Lord Ashborough was about forty, and his life was worth at least
twenty years' purchase. Well, having to speak with Sir Sidney some
time ago on some road business, the transaction came up, and I asked
him why he did not pay off the annuity, by raising money on mortgage,
which he could do at five per cent. His son, the captain, too, was
present; and, as the entail ends with the captain, the matter would be
easily done--though it had never struck them--always provided,
nevertheless, that the annuity was redeemable. The arrangement would
save them a thousand a year, you see, sir, and so they agreed to
give--"

"To give you how much, sir, for the job?" demanded Burrel.

"Only a fair commission for raising the money," replied the other;
"and as Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson, your worthy and excellent
solicitors, had been making inquires about this very estate, as it
would happen--I can not think how or why--I wrote to them about it,
and the matter was soon arranged; but then Captain Delaware was
obliged to go to London to speak with my Lord Ashborough--an excellent
gentleman--and on his return it was found that the annuity deed, by
some strange accident, contained no clause of redemption. Indeed, none
could have been stipulated, for I know the person who drew it, and who
is as accurate as Duval."

"And pray, sir, who did draw it?"

"My own nephew, sir--my own nephew--Peter Tims, Esq." replied his
companion; "Peter Tims, who succeeded me in my chambers at Clement's
Inn; and who was fortunate enough to secure the patronage and
friendship of Lord Ashborough."

"Ha!" replied Burrel, dryly; "so then you think the annuity can not be
redeemed?"

"Afraid not, sir! Afraid not!" replied the retired lawyer, or, as he
was commonly called by the villagers, the miser. "Afraid not; but as I
was saying, there are plenty of other properties susceptible of
mortgage in this neighborhood, and some," he added, closing one eye,
and fixing the other on Burrel's face with the look of a tame raven
that has just hidden a silver spoon, "and some where there is a strong
ultimate prospect of a foreclosure and sale at excessive reduction.
There is the estate of Sir Timothy Ridout--who wants now to borrow
twenty thousand pounds--well worth a hundred. By a little management,
one might get hold of it, and--"

"I have no such views, sir," replied Burrel, gravely; "and as the
other business can not apparently be arranged, I shall invest the
money in other property. But, tell me, did Lord Ashborough refuse to
redeem?"

"Yes, sir! Yes, flat, downright!" replied the miser; "and very right,
too. He could not get near the interest even now. But you had better
think of the business of Sir Timothy Ridout. Such a thing is not to be
got hold of every day."

"I shall never give it another thought," replied Burrel, coldly; and,
rubbing his boot with his cane, unconscious of what he was about, he
remained for several minutes thinking deeply, while the miser sat upon
the edge of his chair, marveling that any human being could let slip
the tempting bait of Sir Timothy Ridout's estate, and beginning to
entertain strong doubts as to whether Burrel was really a wealthy man,
from the indifference he showed to the prospect of increasing his
wealth. "I am sorry," he thought, "that I told that servant of his
that he might shoot over the Ryebury fields: I will write to Peter by
the next post, and make him fish out of Messrs. Steelyard and
Wilkinson whether he really has money. I might have made a cool five
hundred by that Ridout business."

While he thus thought, and Burrel's meditations continued, though of a
very different nature, a sudden ring of the bell roused them both from
their reveries; and, after a short _reconnoissance_ through the
window, the miser exclaimed, "It is Sir Sidney Delaware, I declare!"

"Then you will be so good, Mr. Tims," said Burrel, in a tone
sufficiently peremptory, "not to refer or allude to me, in any shape
or way, as the person who wished to lend the money."

"Oh, certainly not! certainly not!" replied the miser, with a shrewd
glance; "it is a bad speculation that--but the Ridout business, if you
will but think over it--will you see this Sir Sidney!"

"I have no objection," answered Burrel; and the miser, bidding his
dirty maid show the gentleman in, Sir Sidney Delaware was ushered into
the parlor the moment after.

As soon as he saw that there was a stranger present, the baronet
paused, and for an instant seemed as if he would have drawn back,
saying, "You are engaged, Mr. Tims; I was not aware you had any one
with you."

"Not at all; not at all, my dear sir!" said Mr. Tims. "Sir Sidney, Mr.
Burrel--Mr. Burrel, Sir Sidney Delaware!"

"I am happy to have an opportunity, sir," said Burrel, "of returning
to you my personal thanks for the permission to shoot over your
grounds, which you were kind enough to grant me."

"Where there is no obligation conferred, sir," replied the baronet,
somewhat distantly, "there can be no occasion for thanks. I do not
shoot--my son has not this year taken out a license; and it is quite
as well that the game should be shot by you, who ask permission, as by
those who do not ask at all." He paused for an instant, while the
color deepened in Burrel's cheek; but the baronet's heart instantly
reproached him for an uncourteous reply, and he added, "I hope you
have found sport."

"Plenty of game," answered Burrel; "but the birds are very wild."

"That is a very natural consequence," said Sir Sidney Delaware, "of
the immense number of persons whose notions of property are daily
growing more limited."

"I trust, indeed, that something may soon be done," replied Burrel,
"to correct the extensive system of poaching."

"Probably we shall soon have one of those beautiful pieces of
legislation on the subject," replied Sir Sidney, "which will prevent
people from committing the crime, by rendering it none in the eye of
the law. But, Mr. Tims, as I have a little business of a private
nature on which I must speak with you, I will probably call upon you
to-morrow, if you are likely to be disengaged."

"No delay must take place on my account," said Burrel, rising. "My
business with this gentleman is over; and therefore I will leave you."

Thus saying, he turned, and, wishing the baronet good morning, quitted
the house, ushered to the door by Mr. Tims; who, though still doubtful
as to the young stranger's wealth, followed him with a many a lowly
bow, fearful of losing, by any indiscretion, the sums that might
accrue from the good management of the Ridout business. Burrel, in the
mean time, took his way once more through the valley, musing, as he
went, upon his late interview with Sir Sidney Delaware, with somewhat
more deep and curious speculation than entered into the thoughts he
bestowed upon the old miser, of whose general character he was before
aware.

In the manner and tone of Sir Sidney Delaware, however, there was
something that he felt to be repulsive and unpleasant, which to
a man of Burrel's character, was extremely painful. His first
determination--if that can be called a determination, which, formed
upon impulse, does not last ten minutes--was to set out for London,
and forget that such a place as Emberton, or such a person as Sir
Sidney Delaware, was upon the face of the earth. Burrel, however to
use Sterne's expression, was a great motive-monger, but with this
peculiarity, that he was fully as fond of examining his own motives as
those of other people; and, in the present instance, the small still
voice whispered something about offended pride, which made him inquire
into his own heart a little more strictly.

He found, then, upon reflection, that however much he might fancy
himself perfectly indifferent, he was in fact angry, and the primary
cause of this anger was, as usual, mortified vanity. He, accustomed to
be courted and sought, to choose at will his acquaintances, and to
keep at arm's length all those he did not particularly like, by a cool
tone of indifference, which had something in it of scorn, had come out
of his stronghold, and, as he could not but acknowledge, had gone as
far as he well could, to seek the acquaintance of Sir Sidney Delaware.
That gentleman was evidently not disposed to give it him; and though
Burrel felt in some degree the motives which might and did actuate
him, yet, a knowledge of the degree of scorn which mingled with his
own coolness toward others, would not let him believe that some
portion of contempt did not also exist in the indifference with which
Sir Sidney Delaware treated his advances.

It is in general the natural refuge of mortified vanity, to persuade
itself that it retorts contempt upon those who show it, and to pass
off upon itself the anger it feels for the more dignified passion of
scorn. A slight touch of this sort of feeling had been experienced by
Burrel: for there are few bosoms of whose passions we may not say,
_castigata remordent_; but his nature was too generous to entertain
such feelings long, and, before he had reached the door of good Mrs.
Wilson, in Emberton, his first angry resolution was changed, and a
more firm determination adopted, to remain in the village the time he
had at first proposed, and without seeking any more an acquaintance
which was evidently withheld intentionally, to see whether chance
might not furnish him will some opportunity of gratifying a more
generous purpose.

"For the sake of that gallant lad," he thought, "I will not give it up
so easily."




CHAPTER IV.


On his return home, Burrel found that the horses which he expected
from London had arrived in high condition, having performed the
journey by slow and careful stages. The appearance of this new
accession to his dignity was not, of course, without its effect upon
the good people of Emberton, and, "Have you seen Mr. Burrel's
beautiful horses?" was a general question among the male part of the
inhabitants; while all the ladies of the place, of course, were not in
the least anxious to see the tall, dark, handsome, mysterious stranger
ride forth upon some one of those three steeds whose fame already
filled the town.

Those who had such expectations, however, were long disappointed, for,
during the whole of the following morning, Mr. Burrel never set foot
beyond his door; and it was near four o'clock when his servant, on
horseback, proceeded toward Mrs. Darlington's, with a small traveling
portmanteau, thus giving notice that the master himself was soon to
follow. About half-past four, or a quarter to five, a groom appeared
at the door with a splendid dark bay horse, and a moment after, Burrel
himself came forth, looked at the girths, the stirrups, and the curb,
and then putting his foot in the stirrup, swung himself easily into
the saddle. The horse stood as still as marble till it felt its
master's heel, and then, as if cut out of one piece, away went
both--without the slightest regard to high-road--straight across the
country toward Mrs. Darlington's house, which was seen crowning the
distant hill.

"Happy Mrs. Darlington!"--thought the ladies of Emberton, as they
gazed out, and saw the horseman clear the fence at a bound, and then
canter lightly over the sloping fields that led away toward her
dwelling. "Happy Mrs. Darlington!" and Mrs. Darlington was a happy
woman; but as there are at least a thousand ways, in this intellectual
world, of being happy, we shall take leave to give a slight sketch of
_Mrs. Darlington's way_.

Mrs. Darlington was a widow, and her happiness was farther increased
by being a widow with a large fortune. Nor was her fortune alone
derived from her ci-devant husband, for she had passed through all the
three stages of female felicity--that of co-heiress, heiress, and rich
widow, with a very slight taste of the necessary purgatory preceding
the last happy climax. Who was her father, matters not to this book;
he was dead, and his ancestors had him in the dust--for, as the
Spectator says, "He had ancestors just as well as you and I, if he
could but have told their names." This, however, it was supposed, from
some defect in the family memory, he could not do; but in regard to
his daughter, who was neither very handsome, nor very ugly, the defect
was soon remedied. She had every sort of instruction that the known
world could produce; her father luckily died early; she had no
relations to make her vulgar; she married Mr. Darlington, a man of
rank and station--easily acquired the slang and ease of fashionable
life; and adopted boldly, and without remorse of conscience, the whole
of her husband's relations. Her husband found that his wife brought
him fortune, good luck, and no family. His affairs, to use the
seaman's term, righted, and after four years' marriage, he died,
leaving her, out of pure gratitude, widowhood, fortune, and his
relations.

Mrs. Darlington, having penetrated into the arcana, and got all she
wanted--an introduction and a station in society--determined to taste
no more of matrimony herself; though with laudable zeal she was ever
willing to promote it among her friends and neighbors. She was
naturally somewhat of a sentimental turn, but mingled and kept down by
so sufficient a portion of small sensualities--I mean the eating, and
drinking, and soft lying, and, in short, the comfortable sensualities,
nothing worse--that the sentimentality never became vulgar or
troublesome. Nay, indeed, I might say, it never became apparent, and
showed itself rather as a convenient sort of tender consideration for
the wishes and feelings of young people of suitable ages and
descriptions, and likely to fall in love with each other, than as any
thing personal. In most other things, she was one of those very
ordinary persons, perfectly ladylike and at their ease, with a small
degree of taste in the fine arts--drew tolerably, liked music, and
would sometimes play on the piano--was fond of fine scenery--spoke
French well, with the exception of a slight confusion in the
genders--had an idea or two of Italian, and had sketched the
Colosseum. Added to all these high qualities, she was extremely
good-natured, very fond of her friends, and of herself; quiet, in no
degree obtrusive, with a sufficient share of vanity never to fancy
herself neglected, and yet not enough to run against the vanity of any
one. A little tiresome she was, it is true, from a potent mixture of
insipidity; but who is there so splenetic as not to forgive the only
evil quality over which one can fall sound asleep and wake without a
headache?

Mrs. Darlington's common course of life was to travel during six
months of the year, accompanied by as many young marriageable friends
as she thought might do credit to her taste and kindness; and as she
had a very extensive circle of acquaintances, at whose dwellings she
was always welcome, these journeys were generally pleasant, and
sometimes fortunate. Of the other six months, two were spent in
London, where Mrs. Darlington, dressed by Carson, in a manner at once
the most splendid and the most becoming her age, figured at dinner and
evening parties, and was exceedingly useful, both as a chaperon and a
fill-up; while the other four months were passed at her estate near
Emberton, with a house seldom entirely vacant, and dinner-parties
renowned for the delicacy of the _manger_.

Such was the lady to whose house Henry Burrel, Esq., had received an
invitation, solely upon the strength of the gossip of the village, and
a vague report, that Captain Delaware had met him at the Earl of
Ashborough's. The fact indeed was, that Mrs. Darlington's house was
completely vacant at the time, or she might have felt some scruples as
to asking a stranger, without some farther information regarding his
station in society than could be derived from the panegyric of the
doctor, whose knowledge of him went no farther than the cut of his
coat. She did, indeed, feel a little apprehensive after she had
dispatched the invitation, but the appearance of Burrel's servant, who
brought her his reply, the form of the note that contained it, and the
very handwriting, all convinced her that Henry Burrel must be a
gentleman, though it was in vain that she racked her imagination to
find out which of all the Burrels it could be.

When, about half-past four, Mr. Burrel's servant arrived, and
proceeded to prepare the room assigned to his master, with a sort of
ceremonious accuracy which argued the constant habit and custom of
ease and care, the footman, feeling for the anxiety of his
mistress--for footmen and ladies' maids know every thing--communicated
to Mrs. Hawkins, his mistress's maid, the result of his own
observations; and Mrs. Darlington sat down, with a composed mind, to
finish a sketch of the west shrubbery walk, till Mr. Burrel should
arrive; while of the rest of the guests she had invited, some had not
appeared, and some had retired to dress.

At length her eye caught, from the window, the apparition of some
person on horseback approaching the house, and in a few minutes Mr.
Burrel was announced. Graceful, easy, _posé_, Burrel's whole
appearance carried its own recommendation with it. He was one of those
men who, in speaking little, say much, and in a very few minutes he
was in high favor with Mrs. Darlington.

It now became necessary for him to dress, as he well knew that a lady
whose fondness for the good things of this life was so admitted as
Mrs. Darlington's world not brook the spoiling of her dinner; and
accordingly he rang, and was shown to his room. His toilet, indeed,
was not very long; and a few minutes after six, the hour named, found
him entering the drawing-room.

There were four persons already assembled, of whom Mrs. Darlington
herself was one. The face of the young lady who sat by her on the sofa
was, he thought, familiar to him; but it cost him more than one
glance, ere he recognized in the beautiful girl he now beheld, and who
was certainly as lovely a thing as ever the female part of creation
produced--it is saying a great deal, but it is true, nevertheless--it
required more than one glance, I say, before he recognized in her the
lady he had seen hanging upon the arm of Captain Delaware on the
preceding day.

Burrel, however, never looked surprised; and his claim upon Miss
Delaware's acquaintance was immediately admitted with a degree of
frank and smiling kindness, which arose partly, perhaps, from the high
character her brother had drawn of his stage-coach companion, but more
still, in all probability, from feeling that her father's reserve
might have given pain and offense. While he was still speaking with
Mrs. Darlington and Miss Delaware, and was just at one of these
before-dinner pauses in which the conversation flags, some one laid
his hand upon Burrel's arm, and turning round, he confronted a thin,
but hale elderly man, dressed in black, on whose fine gentlemanly
countenance was playing a smile, which had as much archness in its
composition as habitual gravity of expression would allow.

"My dear Henry," said the clergyman--for no one could look in his face
for a moment and doubt that he was a clergyman--"my dear Henry, what
have you been doing with yourself this many a day?"

The first look had shown Burrel an old and dear friend, and he shook
his hand heartily as Dr. Wilton. "I am still, I believe, acting as one
of what Tillotson calls '_fools at large_,'" replied the young
stranger, "and wandering about the world doing nothing."

"Nay, nay, Henry!" replied the other, "your report of yourself was
always less favorable than you deserved. You are not one to wander
about the world doing nothing--but speak to me a moment," and he drew
his younger companion gently toward the hollow of the bay window,
where they conversed for a few moments in a low tone, while one or two
of the neighboring gentlemen and ladies were announced, and entered
the room.

The dinner-bell rang immediately after; and the doors being thrown
open, Burrel advanced and took in Mrs. Darlington, though he would,
perhaps, have preferred a nearer place to Miss Delaware. But Dr.
Wilton took the end of the widow's table, and laughingly secured the
younger ladies to himself; so that Burrel was obliged to content
himself with talking elaborate nonsense to Mrs. Darlington, which to
do him all manner of justice, he executed with great gravity and
success.

"I do not like this Mr. Burrel," thought a sensible, middle-aged
county woman, who sat next to him on the other hand. "He's a coxcomb!"
thought a rough, shrewd, wealthy proprietor opposite. The shy young
fox-hunter, who sat a little farther down, and whose ideas were
strangely confined to horses, and dogs, and fences, and five-barred
gates, was inclined to cry, with Mungo, "D--n his impudence!" and, in
short, at the end of the table at which he himself sat, Burrel most
perversely contrived to give very general dissatisfaction to every one
but Mrs. Darlington. With her he ran over the slang of cookery, and
criticism, and ton, with the most wonderful emptiness.

There is certainly some strange perversity in the human heart, which
renders it so pleasant sometimes to make one's self disagreeable--ay,
and, for the express purpose of doing so, to assume a character
totally different from one's own. So, however, it is; and perhaps
Burrel was especially giving himself forth as a <DW2> at the one end of
the table, because he very well knew that Dr. Wilton would not fail to
portray him differently at the other.

Such, indeed, was the fact. Blanche Delaware was a sort of pet of the
worthy clergyman; and he used to declare that he was always the
proudest man in the county when in company with her, for that he was
the only man she ever was known to flirt with. The affectionate term,
"My dear," which he always applied to Miss Delaware, was felt by her
as he intended it; and she looked up to him as, in some degree, a
second parent. His conversation with her almost immediately turned to
Burrel, whose appearance there had evidently surprised him.

"You seem an old friend of his?" said Miss Delaware, as soon as the
soup was gone, and a general buzz suffered her to ask the question
without particular notice. "Pray, is he so very admirable and charming
as he has convinced my brother he is, in a short journey of a hundred
miles?"

"He is something better than charming, my dear," replied Dr. Wilton.
"He is one of the noblest-hearted, finest-minded men in England."

At that very moment there was one of those unhappy breaks which make
low voices loud; and Burrel was heard descanting upon the merits of
Madeira after soup. "For Heaven's sake, never think of taking Sherry,
my dear madam!" he exclaimed. "After soup or macaroni, Madeira is the
only thing bearable."

Blanche Delaware looked up in Dr. Wilton's face with a smile full of
playful meaning. "Do not judge him by that," replied the clergyman,
speaking to the smile's purport--"do not judge him by that; I have
known him from his boyhood. He was my pupil as a youth, and has been
my friend as a man--and--"

"And that is evidence beyond rejection that he is all that is good and
amiable?" said Miss Delaware, seriously.

"Ay, and though he can talk her own kind of nonsense to a worthy lady
like that," replied Dr. Wilton, determined to revenge himself on Miss
Delaware for her smile, "he can talk nonsense equally agreeable to
younger and fairer ladies, my dear Blanche. So take care of your
little heart, my pretty dame."

Miss Delaware laughed gayly, in the full, ignorant confidence of a
heart that had known no wound; and the conversation dropped as far as
it regarded Burrel. He himself prolonged the idle gossip with which he
was amusing himself for some time; but finding, or fancying, that the
elder lady who sat next to him possessed a mind that could appreciate
better things, he gradually led the conversation to matters of more
general interest than _pieds de cochons à la St. Menehould_, or the
portraiture of gravel walks.

It is the most difficult man[oe]uvre in the tactics of conversation,
and shows greater skill, when executed neatly, than any other
evolution whatever, to change at once from the flimsy and the foolish
to the substantial and the good, without deviating into the heavy--to
slide down the diapason from the high notes of common-place chatter, to
the fine tenor of calm and sensible discourse, touching each semitone
and enharmonic difference as one goes, till the change is scarcely
felt, though the music may be richer. Burrel could do it when he
liked; but now he overdid it. From French dishes he speedily got to
France and the French people, and thence to the difference between the
French and English character, with an easy facility that made the
alteration of the subject seem nothing strange; but then he went a
little beyond.

"The French," he said, in answer to a question from his neighbor,
"have nothing of that sort of thing that we would call 'national
modesty.' They would look upon it as _mauvaise honte_, and each
Frenchman thinks himself fully justified in praising his own country
to the skies. It is they who believe it, that are foolish. They, the
French, call themselves the most civilized, well-informed people in
the world; and yet go into the provinces, and you will find a
peasantry more generally ignorant than perhaps any other country can
show. I myself resided for many months in a part of one of the most
cultivated departments of France, where the farmer on either hand of
the house in which I dwelt during the hunting season--each renting
many hundreds of acres of land--could neither read nor write. Where
could such a thing be found in England?"

"Ay, sir," cried the wealthy country gentleman, opposite; "but
their laws, sir, their laws--their wise and equitable courts of
justice--their civil and political liberty, sir--a model for all
nations; and which I hope some day to see fully adopted in this
country."

"May God forbid!" cried Burrel. "As to their political liberty, we
can not speak of it; for a thing that has never existed for ten years
together, without deviating into anarchy on the one hand, or sinking
into tyranny on the other, is something very like a nonentity. As to
civil liberty they have no such thing; and may Heaven avert the day
when an Englishman's house will be open to domiciliary visits at the
caprice of any man or body of men, or when he can not ride twenty
miles without being subjected to interruption, and a demand for his
passport!"

He now found that his conversation was getting too heavy, and would
fain have dropped it; but the other urged him somewhat warmly with,
"Their laws, sir--their laws! their courts of justice!" and Burrel
resolved that he should not rest even upon that.

"As to their courts," he replied, "I have been in many, and never did
I see the forms of justice so completely mocked. The judge renders
himself a party, and that party the accuser. The unhappy man who is to
be tried, placed on an elevated station in the face of all the court,
is himself cross-examined, and tortured by interrogations without end;
every tittle of the evidence against him is urged upon him by the
judge: he is obliged to answer and to plead to the accusation of each
witness on the adverse part, and woe be to him if he trip in the
smallest particular! If ever there was a plan invented for condemning
the innocent and the timid, and letting the guilty and the daring
escape, it is that of a French trial. The only security is in the
individual integrity and discrimination of the judges--in general most
exemplary men."

"That may be all very true, sir," replied the other, who, like many of
our countrymen, had been talked into believing the French system very
fine, without ever taking the trouble of examining accurately what the
French system is--"that may be all very true; but yet their laws,
sir--their laws!"

"I think," replied Burrel, more calmly than he had before spoken; for
the common-place absurdity of the other's commendation of what he did
not understand, had thrown even his cool mind off its guard--"I think,
if you will take the trouble of reading the book which contains their
codes, you will find that it is confined both in scope and detail; and
to show how iniquitous as well as absurd their laws are, we have only
to look at their law of succession, which prevents a man from
disposing of his property at his death, according to his own judgment
and inclination, whether he have acquired it by his personal labor or
by inheritance."

"A foolish law it is, indeed," said Dr. Wilton, who had been listening
attentively; "and would be a disgrace to the common sense of any
nation under the sun."

"Already," continued Burrel, "although the time since its enactment
has been so short--it is beginning to paralyze industry and commerce
in France--to degrade the higher orders, and to starve the lower."

"They must repeal it!" said Dr. Wilton; "they must repeal it, if they
be sane!"

"But there are some points, my dear sir, on which whole nations become
insane," replied Burrel, laughing, "and none more than the French. One
thing, however, is evident. They must either repeal it, or it will
effect the most baleful change that country ever underwent. Already
one sees every where fields no bigger than a handkerchief, which in
the next generation will have to be divided again between three or
four sons. Every thing else is split in the same way; and the argument
which the French hold, that commerce and industry will remedy the
effects of this continual partition, is a vain absurdity; for the
natural tendency of the partition itself is, by want of capital, to
ruin the commerce and paralyze the industry which they think will
remove its evils. Under its influence, the French must gradually
decline till they become a nation of beggars--universal beggary must
beget universal ignorance--and thus from a nation of beggars they must
become a nation of barbarians, with a country too small to support
their increased numbers, a fierce necessity of conquest, and the
concomitant hatred of better institutions than their own. Then woe to
Europe and the world! but beyond doubt--at least it is to be
hoped--they will change a law, the glaring absurdity of which strikes
every person of common understanding even in France."

"Why not let each individual control his property as he pleases?"
demanded Dr. Wilton. "Though I can not but feel that entails are often
beneficial, let them be done away if they will, but at least leave
each man to dispose of his property as he judges best in its immediate
transmission from himself to another."

"Nay, Mr. Burrel!" cried Mrs. Darlington, seeing him about to
reply--"nay, nay! have pity, I beseech you, upon us poor women."

"I must indeed apologize," answered Burrel, laughing; "but in truth,
we live in such a scientific age, that railroads and steam-engines,
geology and legislation, now form the staple chit-chat of society; and
mathematics is the food of babes and sucklings."

"The matter has become perfectly absurd," said Dr. Wilton: "and
whether from ignorance or design, I know not, but those who cater for
the lower orders in these things, instead of giving them those
instructions which may be useful to them in their station, which would
make them better, wiser, and more contented, choose for them alone
that species of knowledge which may make them discontented with their
state, without aiding to raise them honestly to a better."

"I will not be tempted any more to grave discussions, my dear sir,"
said Burrel, laughing, and looking toward Mrs. Darlington; "yet I can
not help adding, that the new-fashioned education of children is just
as ill adapted to children as the instruction forced upon mechanics is
unfitted for them. Lord deliver us from the little pragmatical race of
half-learned pedants that are springing up! I understand that they
have been obliged to dissolve one infant school in London, because it
was divided into two such furious parties of Neptunists and
Vulcanists; and the son of a cousin of my own talked to me upon reform
the other day so like Sir Francis Burdett, that I asked when the
little legislator was to be breeched."

The conversation soon became more general, though the party consisted
of ten--that most inconvenient of all numbers; and Burrel soon
regained that middle strain, half playful, half serious, which was
calculated to be more generally pleasing. This continued till the
ladies rose; and the few minutes that ensued ere the gentlemen
followed them, were passed by Burrel and Dr. Wilton in calling up
remembrances of old times, when they had lived together as pupil and
preceptor.

"Well, my dear doctor," said Burrel, "I always thought that your head
was fitted for a miter; and I doubt not that we shall see it so
adorned ere long."

"Not for a world!" cried Dr. Wilton; "and you, my dear boy, do nothing
toward it, I insist. I would not change my present state, with all the
blessed sufficiency that attends it--its opportunities of doing some
good to my fellow-creatures in quiet and unassailed obscurity--for the
painful, anxious, ill-requited life of a bishop, whom every rude,
unprincipled, and vulgar churl dares to attack, solely because he
knows that the churchman can neither rail again, nor chastise him as
other men would do. I would not change it, I say, on any account
whatever. I am happy as I am here in the country, and I want nothing
more."

"Now I could understand that, Dr. Wilton," said the young fox-hunter,
"if you ever mounted a red coat and followed the hounds. But you never
hunt nor shoot; and, unless your magisterial capacity affords you some
amusement, I can not conceive how you can like the country, which,
without hunting or shooting, is dull enough."

"Never dull to me!" replied Dr. Wilton; "never dull, and always
tranquil; and in it I shall be well contented to pass my life away,
saying with Seneca,


         'Sic cum transiêrint mei
          Nullo cum strepitu dies
          Plebeius moriar senex!'"


A Latin quotation was of course enough to put an end to the session,
and the whole party rose.

It would seem that the purpose of assembling to dine together--the
mere act and fact of which assimilates one to the hog, as somebody has
said before me--is solely with a view to familiarize people with each
other by the open submission to a general infirmity--teaching the most
conceited that he must gulp and guzzle like the rest, and showing the
most diffident that the brightest and the best he can meet with, is
but a beast of prey like himself. Men therefore assemble at dinner,
and then generalize best. After dinner--when the tea and the coffee,
and the various tables laid out with their various calls upon
attention, prompt people to break into smaller parties--then is the
time to choose your own little knot, and individualize.

It matters very little how or why--though the arrangement was made by
the simplest process imaginable--but after dinner, Henry Burrel found
himself seated, in the far part of the room, with a sofa-table, and
innumerable books of drawings and prints upon it before him, and by
the side of Blanche Delaware. It is wonderful what stepping-stones
prints, and drawings, and annuals are to pleasant conversation, even
though the first be not quite so well handled as the pictures of Prout
or Stanley, and the latter contain nothing half so beautiful as
Liddell's "Lines upon the Moors."

Burrel had managed his approaches well, though he did it
unconsciously. He first stooped over the book of drawings that Miss
Delaware was examining, to look at one of those fair Italian scenes
where the long sunshine seems to stream forth from a spot beyond the
picture, and pour onward, till one can absolutely see its wavy
softness skip from point to point in its advance. He then spoke a few
words, in a quiet, every-day tone, upon Italian scenery. Miss Delaware
said that she had never had an opportunity of visiting Italy, but had
often heard her brother speak of it, with all his own wild rapture.
Burrel instantly took up the topic of her brother, well knowing that
it was one, round which that tender-footed thing, a woman's heart,
could play at ease; and while he spoke of Captain Delaware, he glided
quietly into the vacant place by her side, and proceeded with a
conversation which was destined to wander far and wide before it
ended.

There was a kindly gentleness in Burrel's tone as he began, a sort of
dreamy enthusiasm, slightly touched by a more gay and laughing spirit,
as he went on, together with a general leaven of the gentlemanly
feeling that springs from a noble heart, softening and tempering the
whole--which, united, addressed to Miss Delaware the most flattering
compliment that woman can receive, by showing that he knew her to be
worthy of very different conversation from that which he held with any
one else. Such conversation is the adulation of respect, esteem, and
admiration, expressed but not spoken.

Burrel's words were uttered with no particular emphasis--his eyes,
fine and expressive as they were, gave no peculiar meaning to his
sentences--the vainest beauty that ever grew old and ugly, could never
have persuaded herself that he was making love to her; and yet Blanche
Delaware could not but feel that there was a charm in the manners of
Henry Burrel, which might turn the head of many a one with a heart
less cold and indifferent than her own. A cold and indifferent heart
in a girl of nineteen! Ye gods! Such, however, she fancied it to be;
and, consequently, she talked with Henry Burrel of poetry, and
painting, and beautiful scenes, and sweet music, and noble deeds, and
generous feelings, and all those whirling spots of brightness that
dance unconnected through the sunshine of enthusiastic minds, with all
the ardor of innocence and youth, and unblighted feelings, and never
dreamed of its becoming any thing more. Mrs. Darlington, for her part,
had soon perceived that Burrel and Miss Delaware were deep in what
seemed interesting conversation. She did not pretend to divine what
might happen--she prognosticated nothing; she took no notice, and let
things take their course--but she carefully abstained from giving any
interruption; and, by a few slight but skillful turns, prevented their
little _tête-à-tête_ from being broken in upon so soon as it otherwise
would have been.

It was Dr. Wilton, who, in the simplicity of his heart, dissolved it
for the night; for, after having been talking earnestly for a few
minutes with the little surgeon of Emberton, about some of his poor
parishioners who were sick, his eye met that of Blanche Delaware, as
she still sat beside Burrel on the sofa, and it lighted up for a
moment with a glance of gay meaning, that called the blood into her
fair cheek. Burrel marked it all; and the next two answers which Miss
Delaware made to what he was saying, were sufficiently _à travers_ to
show him that the conversation, on her part, at least, rolled no
longer at its ease. To prolong it, under such circumstances, would be
a crime, as he well knew; and therefore he soon furnished her with an
excuse to join Mrs. Darlington.

The evening then proceeded as such evenings usually do, partly in
music and partly in idle gossip. Some stupid people played at whist;
and at ten o'clock the carriages of those who returned home were
announced. Dr. Wilton, who lived at twelve miles distance, and Blanche
Delaware, who lived at five, remained with Mrs. Darlington and Henry
Burrel; and the worthy clergyman, who felt himself in some degree
bound to prove his former pupil as charming as he had depicted him,
took care to lead the conversation to those subjects on which he well
knew Burrel would shine.

He did shine, too, but without striving to do it; and the evening wore
on, for another hour, as pleasantly as moments could fly. There is
something in the last hour of the day, if it have been itself a happy
one, which seems to concentrate all the pleasant things of the past.
It is like a fine evening sky, calm and sweet, and full of rays, that
are all the rosier because they are the last.

I do not know whether it would be fair or proper to follow Blanche
Delaware to her bed-room, and investigate what were her thoughts while
she was undressing and falling asleep; but as no such considerations
forbid with regard to Burrel, we may for a moment intrude upon his
privacy, first premising, that the door of his room opened very nearly
at the top of the great staircase, the landing-place of which formed a
sort of balustraded gallery, with a corridor running to the right and
left. His first thought, as he sat down for his silent servant to pull
off his shoes and stockings, it must be allowed, was of Blanche
Delaware, and he internally pronounced her a very charming girl. "It
is not her beauty," he thought, "though she is very beautiful; but it
is that freshness of mind, that fine unsophisticated heart, whose
rapid emotions, sparkling up unchecked to that sweet face, and
animating every movement of that fair form, give a thousand graces and
lovelinesses that art could never reach. One might very well fall in
love with such a girl as that. I must take care what I am about."

With this resolution to take care, Burrel would have dismissed the
subject; but still he thought of Blanche Delaware a good deal more
than was necessary; and, after having detained his servant full half
an hour longer than usual; went to bed, thinking of her still.




CHAPTER V.


Although there was a good deal of noise in the house for some time,
Burrel fell sound asleep in the midst of it. Whether he dreamed or
not, I can not tell; but after he had been in the arms of slumber for
a long while, as it appeared to him, he awoke, and heard still some
sounds of moving to and fro, although less loud than before.
Moralizing upon that strange thing, sleep, and its power of taking
from us all consciousness of time's passing, he turned himself round
to court the drowsy god again; but though the slight noises that had
roused him ceased in a moment altogether, the charm was dissolved, and
he could not close an eye. His only resource was to think of Miss
Delaware; and although he was obliged to own that the blessing of
Heaven--in keeping her out of London and London life--had brought
forth all those natural graces and charms which he so much admired,
yet he could not but think it hard that such a flower should be born
to blush unseen; neither could he help fancying that it would be no
very unpleasant thing to transplant her to a more happy soil. Feeling
all this, and feeling that he was feeling it, Burrel saw better than
ever that it was necessary to take care what he was about; and, as the
first step, he applied himself vigorously to go to sleep again. The
night was oppressively warm, however, and it would not do. He began
also to fancy that there was a marvelous smell of wood smoke; and he
thought that, if Mrs. Darlington's housekeeper had begun already to
provide for the _manger_ of the next day, Mrs. Darlington's cook must
have a hard place of it. So, stretching out his hand, he reached his
watch, struck it, and found that it was just half-past two.

He now began to think the smell of smoke odd as well as disagreeable;
and, raising himself on his arm, he found that it was more potent than
he had at first perceived. There was also a sort of faint rushing
sound, as of a draught of wind through long passages, and Burrel
thought he heard a crackling noise also, which, after listening for a
moment or two, determined him to rise and make a voyage of discovery.
To guard against all contingencies, he partly dressed himself, put on
his dressing-gown, and then opened the door. A loud roaring sound, and
a still greater volume of smoke, immediately met him; but he found
that there was yet another door between him and the corridor; and, as
he was seeking for the lock, it was thrown open, by his own servant,
so violently as almost to knock him down.

It wanted not the man's cry of "Sir, sir, the house is on fire!" to
show Burrel what had happened. A red fearful glare of bright flame,
shining through dense volumes of smoke, was seen below, from the edge
of the sort of gallery on which he stood, while along the cornices and
moldings a number of detached spots of fire appeared running on before
the great body of the conflagration, like light troops thrown forward
to skirmish. The roaring and crackling, too, which, as well as the
suffocating smoke, had been, in a great measure, excluded from his
bed-room by the double door, was now sufficiently distinct; and at one
glance he perceived that the whole foot of the great oak staircase,
near the top of which his apartment opened, was in flames. At the same
time, as he looked along the corridor to the left, he saw another door
open, which seemed to lead to the top of a different flight of steps;
for he could distinctly see two or three figures, in every state of
dishabille, running down as fast as possible, while his servant pulled
him that way, begging him to come to the stone stairs.

All this was gathered in a moment, and Burrel demanded, "Have you seen
any of the family?--Mrs. Darlington--"

"I saw her this moment, sir, running down with Dr. Wilton," replied
the man.

"And Miss Delaware?" demanded his master.

"I don't know, sir--I don't know!" replied the man, hastening away
himself. "The house will be down, sir, if you don't make haste."

A good sturdy housemaid, however, hurrying away from some of the
up-stair rooms, caught Miss Delaware's name, and cried out--without
stopping in her flight, however--"Oh, dear! oh, dear! poor young
lady--she will be burned to a certainty!"

"Which is her room?" demanded Burrel. But it was not till he had
repeated his question in a still louder tone that the woman paused to
point with her hand, exclaiming, "Up there, at the end of the
wing?--she will be burned!--oh, dear, she will be burned!"--and off
ran the housemaid.

Burrel ran along the corridor like light. It was evident that--as is
always the case in houses on fire--all the inhabitants had lost their
wits for the time, and no one had even thought of Miss Delaware.
Without ceremony, Burrel threw open the last door that he came to, in
the direction which the servant had pointed out, but the glare of the
flames was quite sufficient to show him that it had not been slept in
that night. He tried the next, and instantly perceived all the little
articles of a lady's toilet spread upon the table, while, by the drawn
curtains of the bed, he doubted not that the sleep of its fair tenant
had been undisturbed by the sounds which had awoke himself.

The violence with which he threw open the door woke Blanche Delaware
from the first sweet sleep of innocence and youth; and her voice
demanding in alarm, "Who is there?" immediately struck his ear.

He knew that not a moment was to be lost; and though he approached her
bedside with a feeling of real pain, from the shock he was about to
give her, there was but one course to be pursued: and, springing
forward, he drew back the curtains. "Forgive me!" he cried, "but the
house is on fire--not a moment is to be lost! Your life is at stake,
and you must pardon me if I use but scanty ceremony!"

"Leave me! Leave me, then, Mr. Burrel, and let me rise!" she
exclaimed, gazing in his face with all the wild surprise natural to
one wakened from their sleep by such tidings.

"Miss Delaware, moments are life!" replied Burrel, hastily. "Even
while I speak our only chance may be cut off."

The gathering smoke and the rushing sound of the flames bore to his
own ear, as well as to that of the fair girl who lay pale and
trembling before him, the certainty that he spoke no more than truth;
and, without farther pause, he stooped over her, wrapped the
bedclothes round her as tenderly and delicately as a mother would wrap
her young infant from the wintry wind, and, catching her up in his
arms, he bore her out into the corridor. All before them was a scene
of mingled smoke and flame. The wainscoting of the corridor, the
balustrades, the cornices, were all charred, blackened, and catching
fire in a thousand places. The blaze was rushing up from below, toward
the skylight, which had unfortunately been left open, and gave an
additional draught. Wherever an open door presented itself, the flames
were seen rushing in, licking the door-posts and the wainscoting; the
heat was scorching; the smoke was suffocating; and every step that
Burrel took forward, he felt uncertain whether the beams over which he
trod would not give way beneath his feet. Still, however, he strode
on, till he reached the spot where the flames were rushing up the
great staircase more furiously than any where else, from the
additional mass of fuel that there supplied the fire. His foot was on
the edge of the landing, to cross over toward the stone stairs, and he
had just time--warned by a sudden crash--to draw back, when the whole
staircase and part of the corridor above it gave way, and fell into
the vestibule below. It was a fearful sight; but he was not a man to
leave any chance of safety to be snatched from him by terror. The rest
of the corridor beyond the gap appeared more sound than that he had
already past. He remembered having seen a side-door in his own room,
which he had just left behind; and re-treading his steps, he entered
the chamber, drove in the door he had remarked--which was but weakly
fastened--with a single kick, and running through a room, the tenant
of which had made his escape, he passed on into a dressing-room, and
thence regained the corridor, beyond the point where it had been
connected with the great staircase.

The fall of so much lime-rubbish had in a degree deadened the fire;
and, striding on, Burrel reached the door which opened on the stone
staircase. The rush of cool air and the joy of escape revived him,
almost suffocated as he was with the heat and smoke; and, bending down
his head over his fair burden, he said--the most natural thing in the
world--"Dear girl, you are safe!"--Ay, though he had only seen her
twice in all his life!

Though they were now in comparative security, the fire had made
sufficient progress even there to render haste imperative, and Burrel
lost not a moment till he reached a small door which led out upon the
lawn by some ascending steps. At about the distance of fifty or
sixty yards were assembled the whole of the late inmates of the
dwelling--mistress, visitors, and servants, with twenty or thirty
country men and women--all engaged in the laudable occupation of
seeing the house burn.

Dr. Wilton was the only one in a state of activity; and he, in his
shirt and breeches, which, with the exception of his shovel hat, were
the only articles of apparel he had saved, was endeavoring to
instigate some of the servants and peasantry to get up a ladder to the
window of Miss Delaware's room, which--what between fear, wonder, and
stupidity--they were performing with extraordinary slowness. At the
same time, one of the Molly Dusters was corroborating to the rest of
the company the assertion of Burrel's servant, who informed them that
his master had gone to fetch Miss Delaware; and the very likely
consummation that they would both be burned together was prophesied
manfully, just as he was making his way across the green toward them,
to prove that he did not intend to participate in such a holocaust.

On seeing Burrel, and guessing what it was that he carried in his
arms, Mrs. Darlington, who was really a good-tempered woman, gave way
a great deal more to her feelings than her usual _bienseance_
permitted, and literally screamed for joy. Since her escape she had
found time to get cool in body if not in mind  and, indeed, the latter
part of the mixed whole was by this time sufficiently tranquillized to
admit the vision of a pretty little quiet romance to cross her mind
concerning Burrel and Blanche Delaware, and to suggest the propriety
of letting her house burn away in peace, while she took shelter, and
guarded against taking cold, in the cottages just below the lodge.
Thither, too, she requested Burrel, who would give up his fair burden
to no one, to follow her; and she herself led the way, with a thousand
encomiums on his heroic gallantry, mingled with thanks to Heaven that
all her title-deeds were at the banker's, and manifold aspirations
concerning the fire-resisting powers of the plate-chests.

Burrel thought of nothing but her he carried in his arms. It was not
love he felt, but it was intense interest; and I will defy any man to
carry a beautiful girl that he has already admired and liked, though
dangers such as those, pressed close to his own bosom, and with her
heart beating against his, without feeling very differently toward her
from what he ever did before. He had, however, a quality which few
young men possess much of--considerable delicacy of mind; and, as soon
as he had placed Miss Delaware in safety in the cottage, he left her
with Mrs. Darlington, without any of the troublesome inquiries about
her health and comfort which some foolish people might have made.

He then hastened back as fast as possible toward the house, with a
determination of doing all that he rationally could to save whatever
portion of it remained, but without the slightest intention in the
world of bringing his life into jeopardy, or enacting wonders worthy
of a demi-god, either to preserve the property of a rich old widow
lady, about whom he did not care a sixpence, or to astonish worthy Dr.
Wilton and half-a-dozen lackeys and cowherds who were looking on. When
he arrived at the spot, however, he found that the occupation which he
had proposed to himself had been already seized by a stout agile young
fellow, in a sailor's jacket and trowsers, who had arrived on the
ground during his absence, and had inspired one or two of the
peasantry with some activity.

The efforts of this young man were energetic, bold, and cleverly
executed; but, from being ill-directed, did little comparative good,
while his own life was every moment hazarded. Indeed, personal
security seemed the last thing that he considered; and perhaps this
somewhat superabundant display of daring might do some good, if only
by stirring up the more slothful to a tolerable degree of activity.
Burrel paused and looked on for an instant, but not from either
over-prudence or laziness. What is best to be done may be always
better considered before doing any thing than after, provided too much
time is not bestowed upon it; and, in the single moment that Burrel
gave to consideration, he perceived that the young sailor was not only
doing no good, but running himself and others into certain
destruction, by continuing to labor at the center of the house--the
interior of which was completely consumed, and the roof of which
threatened to fall--while, by cutting off the communication between
the _corps de logis_ and the wings, a considerable part of the
building might be saved. The moment his mind was made up, he entered
the principal door, and catching the young sailor by the arm, as he
stood in what had been the vestibule, he called upon him to desist.

The lad, for he was scarcely a man, turned round upon him for a moment
with a countenance, which haste, heat, and impetuosity of disposition,
rendered somewhat furious at the interruption; but a few calm,
reasonable words from Burrel, at once showed him the rationality of
what he proposed, and after a single oath, escaping, as it were, by
the safety valve of his tongue, he agreed to follow. Burrel then
hastened to get out of the stifling heat and smoke; but finding that
the other still lingered, he turned again at the door. The sailor had
paused to recover a bucket, and was at the very instant taking his
first step after Burrel, when a small quantity of heated rubbish came
pattering from above, and then, with a considerable crash, a thick
beam detached itself from the roof, caught upon the ruins of the
staircase, and swung blazing for a single instant above the vestibule.
The young man sprang forward toward the door; but he was too late to
escape entirely. The beam came thundering down--it struck him, and he
fell.

Something more was now at stake than the bed and table linen of an old
woman. A life is always worth the peril of a life, and Burrel at once
plunged in again, and dragged him out, though certainly at the risk of
much more than he would have hazarded to save Mrs. Darlington's abode,
or any inanimate thing it ever contained. He was scarcely clear of the
doorway when the roof fell in, and the rush and the roar, and the
subsequent silence, and the suddenly smothered flame, showed him what
he had escaped, and made him pause for an instant with a thankful
exclamation to that Being, before whose eyes a sparrow falls not to
the ground unheeded.

Henry Burrel then drew the man he had rescued forward, beyond the
influence of the heat. I say drew, because he evinced a strange
inaptitude to voluntary locomotion, from which Burrel did not augur
very favorably; and being within an inch of six feet high, with a very
tolerable proportion of sinew and muscle, he was not quite so portable
in one's arms as Blanche Delaware.

"Now, my good friends," said Burrel, laying the lad down upon the
smooth turf of the lawn, and addressing those who crowded round, "if
you want really to render any assistance, get what axes, picks, crows,
and other things of the kind you can, and break down entirely yon
little gallery which lies between the house and the right wing. You
run no risk; for the fire has not yet caught the gallery, and you will
save the wing. Never mind this young man, I will attend to him.
Here, Harding," he added, speaking to his servant, "you are a
cowardly--. Take care of yourself, the next time I meet you in a house
on fire, that I do not throw you into the flames, to prevent your
running away when I want your assistance."

The man replied nothing, as usual, and his master proceeded, "Have you
a penknife in your pocket?"

"No, sir," answered the servant; but Dr. Wilton supplied the
deficiency.

"Here is one!" he cried, groping in his breeches pocket; "what are you
going to do, my dear Harry? The poor lad seems dead."

"Only stunned, I hope," replied Burrel, "but, at all events, the best
thing one can do for him is to cut the artery in the temple, and let
him bleed freely. If he be dead, it can do him no harm; if there be
any life left, it will recall it."

Thus speaking, with little ceremony, he drew the penknife sharply
across the artery, much to the wonder of the bystanders, some of whom
thought him a fine, bold gentleman; some concluded that he was but
little troubled with that civil understrapping virtue of discretion.
The effect, however, soon become visible. The blood at first hardly
flowed, but, in a moment after, it burst forth with rapid jerks. A
deep sigh followed from the hurt man, and in an instant after he
looked faintly round.

"I thought I was gone!" he cried, raising himself, and looking toward
the fire. "My head's bad enough still; but I rather think I owe you my
life, sir. Well, there is an old woman down in the village will pray
God bless you!"

Burrel now endeavored to stanch the blood; but, like many other
persons, he had not previously calculated all the consequences of what
he was going to do; and he might have found the undertaking somewhat
difficult, had it not fortunately happened that the flames of Mrs.
Darlington's villa had alarmed the whole of the little town and
neighborhood of Emberton, and thus people were flocking up both on
foot and on horseback. Among the first that arrived was, of course,
her late guest, the village surgeon--one at least of the learned
professions being more peculiarly and unhappily obnoxious to
Rochefaucault's sneering assertion, that there is always something
pleasant to ourselves in the misfortunes of our friends. The surgeon,
then, was among the first, of course, sparing not his horse's breath,
in order to condole and sympathize, and look grave, and set a limb or
tend a bruise, or dress a burn, or, in short, perform any of those
small acts which are the sources of emolument, present or future, to a
country apothecary. His arrival happened at a fortunate moment for
Burrel's patient; and, after having ascertained that no one of more
consequence was hurt, he complimented the young stranger highly on his
prompt and skillful treatment of poor Wat Harrison, as he called him,
suffered the bleeding to continue for another moment, merely to show
how much he approved of what had been done, and then proceeded to stop
it.

The adventures of the night were now soon concluded. By Burrel's
directions, and the exertions of the peasantry, stimulated at last to
some degree of activity, one wing of the house, as well as the
stabling and offices, was saved; and from the part thus preserved,
apparel was procured sufficient to clothe the half-naked bodies of
those who were its late denizens. This apparel, indeed, was of
somewhat an anomalous description, and the metamorphoses produced were
rather strange; for though Miss Delaware came out most beautifully as
a pretty dairymaid, and Mrs. Darlington did not look ill as a
housekeeper, yet Dr. Wilton had a somewhat fantastic air when a
footman's greatcoat was added to his black breeches, silk stockings,
and shovel hat. Burrel himself adhered to his own dressing-gown,
though many a hole was burnt in the gay flowers that covered it, and
many a stain and scorch obscured the original colors. A general smile,
which even the serious calamity that had reduced them to that state
could not repress, played upon the lips of the whole party, as they
met in such strange attire at the door of the cottages, just as the
pale light of the morning was pouring faint and bluish through the
air. On the countenance of Blanche Delaware, however, that smile
mingled with a flickering blush as she answered Burrel's inquiries
concerning her health; and Burrel, though he could not but think it as
beautiful a thing as ever the eyes of the morning rested on, hastened,
by quiet and easy words of deep but unceremonious respect, to remove
the glow, with the embarrassment that caused it.

By this time all sorts of chaises and vehicles had arrived from
Emberton, and Mrs. Darlington's own carriage and horses had been
brought up from the stables. Burrel handed the two ladies in to
proceed to the village, the inn of which place, Mrs. Darlington
declared, should be her abode for the next day or two. He declined,
however, a seat beside them; and bidding his servant take care of his
horses, and bring them down afterward, he himself--the fire having
nearly expended itself--got into a hack chaise for Emberton, and,
accompanied by the young sailor who had been hurt, drove slowly down
into the valley.

Dr. Wilton, whose living lay at a considerable distance in a different
direction, had before taken leave of him, with many a pressing
invitation to the rectory, and had preceded him in departing. One by
one, the people of the town returned, and the peasantry dropped away;
and, with one man left to keep watch, the ruins of Mrs. Darlington's
house remained smoldering in silent solitude, like the history of a
battle, which, full of fire, confusion, and destruction while it
lasts, leaves, after the lapse of a few years, nothing but vacancy,
ruin, and the faint smoke of fame.




CHAPTER VI.


It is quite wonderful what a fund of conversation one has with one's
self, when one is left alone for a few minutes, after an hour or two
of that excitement, during which the mind at one moment has enough to
do in calculating what the body is to do the next. This conversation
is sometimes pleasant, of course, and sometimes severe, according to
the circumstances of the case and character of the person, or rather
of the persons concerned. I hold the plural to be the right number in
speaking of such conversation; for therein, more or less, the two
spirits which Araspus, and every other man felt or feels in his own
bosom, hold commune with each other; and--being two twin brothers,
who, though good and evil in their several natures, have still a bond
of kindred sympathy between them--although they wrangle and oppose
each other in the busy strife of the world, yet, when they thus calmly
meet in solitude and silence, to talk together over the past, there is
a strain of melancholy affection mingles with their intercourse, which
renders it always pleasing, though sometimes sad. The good spirit--for
it is his moment of power--rebukes his evil brother gently for every
abuse of his sway; and the evil one bows contrite, or playfully evades
the charge.

All this, however, has very little to do with Henry Burrel (some
persons may think), who, in companionship with a hurt lad, half
peasant, half sailor, was slowly winding onward, in a creaking
post-chaise, toward the small town of Emberton. Nevertheless,
notwithstanding that fact--and whether any one understands some of the
foregoing sentences or not, which probably they will not do without
reading them over twice--nevertheless, Henry Burrel's thoughts were
suffered to flow, hardly interrupted (for the young sailor was still
in a dozy, half lethargic state), and the two spirits, though the good
one could scarcely be said to have lost its ascendency during the
hours lately passed, had full leisure for conversation in his bosom.

"I must take care what I am about," thought Burrel, as soon as he had
fallen back in the chaise, after a few kindly words to his poor
companion, which remained half unanswered; "I must take care what I am
about;" and it may hardly be necessary to inform the reader that he
was thinking of Blanche Delaware. "And yet," he continued, the next
moment, half smiling, "why should I take care?--whom have I to care
for but myself?"

That was one point gained, at least! It was settled, thenceforth and
forever, that there was no reason on earth why he should not fall in
love with Blanche Delaware, if he liked it. By the way, men very
seldom get so far as that without being somewhat in love already. Few
people think of attacking a fort without being in the army. The next
step to be taken by a reasonable man--and Burrel was one of those
people whose natural inclination to act by impulse was so strong, that
he was very anxious, on all occasions, to give impulse a good reason,
lest she should act without one, and then laugh at him for his
pains--the next step to be taken, was to find some good and legitimate
cause, altogether independent of passion, why such a cool and
considerate person as Henry Burrel looked upon Henry Burrel to be--and
which he really was by habit, though not by nature--should fall in
love with Blanche Delaware; and as it is not very easy mathematically
to find a sufficient cause for falling in love at all, Burrel was
obliged to proceed cautiously in the matter, from axiom to postulate,
and so on.

He accordingly set himself to think over all he had seen of Blanche
Delaware; and he did not find it in the least difficult to imagine, to
assume, to demonstrate, that she had plenty of high qualities
(independent of her beauty) to make her a desirable wife for any man.
He next considered the question of marriage in the abstract, and was
naturally led to conclude, with St. Paul, as cited by the Book of
Common Prayer, that it is a state honorable among all men. All these
steps being taken, he next looked into his own condition, and found
that marriage might do him a great deal of good, and could do him very
little harm. Then putting the points already gained in relative
position with his own situation, he deduced the following:--Marriage
is good and honorable in all men; marriage in his own case was
peculiarly advisable; and Blanche Delaware was peculiarly eligible for
any man as a wife.

So far all was fair and prosperous, and he was like a ship with full
sails and favorable wind, dancing over a sunny sea toward the port of
matrimony; and a very comfortable port, too, let me tell you. However,
there was still one little obstacle to be got over, which the reader,
unless he be an undergraduate, will never divine. The fact is, that no
man who has been long at either of the two learned universities can
bear the idea of falling in love. He looks upon it as a sort of
disgrace; and Burrel, who was of Christ Church, would not admit for a
moment that he was the least little bit in love in the world. At the
same time, with that sort of odd perversity which, on some subject or
another, is to be found in the breast of every one, he had no idea of
any one marrying without being in love, unless, indeed, some point of
honor or propriety required it. This latter opinion came, of course,
from reading novels, and romances, plays, poetry, and rich trash; and
in his course through the world hitherto, these contending principles,
always in opposition to each other, had kept him safe, sound, and
unmarried, up to the respectable period of seven-and-twenty years. His
Master of Arts degree had acted as a shield to his heart from the many
arrows which had been directed against it; and a romantic disposition
had guarded him against that sort of abstract matrimony which is
undertaken without love.

"He was an odd man, this Mr. Henry Burrel!"

"He was so, sir! Just such another bundle of contrarieties as you or
I, or any one else. We are all odd men, if you look at us closely."

The simple fact of Burrel's situation at that moment was merely
this--He was not over head and ears in love with Blanche Delaware. He
had not had time, sir! A man does not fall in love by steam! No; but
he had at least advanced two or three steps in that quagmire, and he
was not very likely to get out of it in a hurry. If any one who reads
this book--and pray heaven they may be many!--have ever ridden a
thorough-bred horse over a shaking moor, he will have seen that the
animal, at the first two or three steps over the boggy ground,
trembles at every limb, and if you let him, he will sink to a
certainty. Your only way is to stick your spurs into his sides, keep a
light hand and his head up, and gallop as hard as you can till you get
upon firm ground. Now Burrel felt very much inclined to gallop. He got
a little frightened at his situation, especially when he found himself
stringing together so many reasons for marrying Blanche Delaware, and
it was even betting, whether he staid to fall in love, or got into the
ten o'clock stage, and dined in London.

The way that Love got over it was as follows: Burrel began to think
about the events of the foregoing night, and the remembrance of saving
the life of Blanche Delaware; and carrying her out through the flames
in his arms, was, of course, too pleasant a little spot for memory not
to pause upon it agreeably. The flickering blush, also, which had
risen in her cheek when she had seen him afterward, rose up sweetly;
and his next thought was to consider whether it would be more delicate
again to apologize for entering her chamber in the middle of the
night, or to leave it in silence, and never mention it at all. That
was soon settled; but he then thought, "The story will, of course, be
told about the country--ay, and with additions and improvements, which
may, very likely, injure that sweet girl, and will, at all events,
hurt her feelings if she should hear them. I would not have it so for
a world--and yet what can one do to prevent it!"

At that moment, connecting itself with the blush, by one of those fine
invisible links of thought which defy all grasp, for who can


    "Trace to its cloud the lightning of the mind?"


At that moment the few words he had spoken, at the top of the stone
staircase, when he first found they were in safety--the outpouring of
joy which had sparkled over the lip of the cup--the "Dear girl you are
safe!"--were gathered up by memory, and held up to his sight; and
Burrel, who was a gentleman, and considered the point of honor more
sacred and more delicate toward a woman than even toward a man,
believed that he said too much not to say more, if he found that to
say it would not offend.

"Doubtless she will forget it!" he said to himself; "doubtless she
will never think of it more; but yet I have spoken what was either an
insult or a declaration, and for my own honor's sake I can not quit
the country till I have pursued it further."

Well done, Maître Cupidon! Strangely well managed for a little blind
gentleman, strongly suspected of being lame in one leg! But 'tis time
to give over gossiping, for I have a long story to tell, and very
little space to tell it in; and if we stop investigating every thing
that passes in the mind of all the principal personages in this tale,
we shall never get half through all the perils, and dangers, and
hairbreadth escapes, which have not yet begun.

Well, the chaise rolled on; but as, for the sake of his hurt
companion, Burrel had ordered it to roll slowly, his own thoughts
rolled a considerable deal faster, and he had got happily over the
above cogitations, and a great many more to boot, before the vehicle
entered the little town of Emberton. All the good folks in the place
were agog with the joy and excitement of a fire, and the misfortunes
of their fellow-creatures; and, although it had been discovered, by
the arrival of Mrs. Darlington's carriage, that unfortunately no one
had been killed, yet every body looked out anxiously for the next
comers from the scene of action, in order to have the pleasure of a
detailed account of the property destroyed. Good Lord! what a pleasure
and a satisfaction it was to the ladies of Emberton to commiserate
Mrs. Darlington! There is certainly no affection of human nature half
so gratifying as commiseration! It raises us so infinitely above the
object we commiserate; and, oh! if that object have been for long
years a thing or person to be envied!--Ye gods! quit your nectar, for
it is not worth a sup, and learn to commiserate one another!

"Poor Mrs. Darlington! Only think how unfortunate to have her fine
place entirely destroyed!" cried Commiseration. "She that was so smart
and gay, and held her head so high!" observed Envy. "No great harm; it
will lower her pride!" said Hatred. "They say all her title-deeds are
burned, and she is likely to lose the whole estate!" whispered Malice.
"It was ill enough got, I dare say!" added All Uncharitableness; "for
no one could tell how her father made his money!" And thus the matter
being settled to the satisfaction of every one who had lungs to cry
out "Poor Mrs. Darlington!" the good people of Emberton waited
anxiously for the next arrival, to see whether it would afford them
any thing equally new and pleasant to say upon the subject.

The next arrival, as we before hinted, was that of Henry Burrel, Esq.,
carrying in the post-chaise along with him "Poor Wat Harrison," as the
surgeon had called him; and this conjunction of two such very opposite
planets in one post-chaise, was wonderfully prolific of agreeable
speculations to the folks of Emberton. Some declared that Poor Wat
Harrison, or Sailor Wat, as he was called, had been detected in
plundering the house, and had been brought down in irons. Some vowed
that he had insulted Mr. Burrel, and had been knocked down by that
gentleman with a blow which had fractured his skull. One little boy,
who saw him pass with a bloody handkerchief round his head, ran across
to his father on the other side of the way, crying out, "Oh, papa,
they have brought home the widow's son, at the end of the lane, with
his throat cut! You used always to say he would be hanged!"

Besides this gentle vaticination of his ultimate destiny, various were
the reports that his appearance in Burrel's post-chaise produced.
Nevertheless, the chaise rolled on, and passing through the town,
turned up the lane leading by the park wall toward the mansion-house,
and, after proceeding about a couple of hundred yards, stopped at the
door of a neat cottage, humble and small, but clean and decked with
flowers.

"Stay, and let me help you out!" said Burrel to his companion, as the
postillion opened the door.

"No, no!" cried the lad, rousing himself from the sort of dozing state
in which he had hitherto continued. "It will frighten her. Let me get
out myself. She has had frights enough already."

He was next the door, and he staggered down the steps with an effort;
but, before his foot touched the ground, a female figure appeared at
the entrance of the cottage. It was that of a woman about forty years
of age, with traces of considerable beauty, less withered apparently
by time than by sorrow; for the braided hair upon her forehead was but
thinly mingled with gray, the teeth were fine and white, the eye clear
and undimmed. But there was many a line about the mouth which seemed
to hold every smile in chains, and there was an expression of deep,
habitual anxiety in the eyes, fine as they were, that can only be
fixed in them by care. They seemed always asking, "What new sorrow
now?" She was dressed in the garb of a widow--not deep weeds--but
those habiliments which might still be worn as marks of the eternal
mourning of the heart, after time and the world's changes had banished
the memory of her loss from every bosom but her own. They were neat
and clean, but plain and even coarse; and her appearance--and it did
not belie her state--was altogether that of a person in the humbler
class of life; but with a mind, and perhaps an education, in some
degree superior to those of her own station.

As the young man got out of the chaise, she took two or three quick
steps forward to meet him, exclaiming, with an anxious gaze at his
face, "Oh, my boy! what has happened now!"

"Nothing, mother, nothing!" answered the young man; "a knock on the
head!--that's all! Nothing at all!--it will be well to-morrow;" and he
strove to pass into the house, as if to hide himself from the anxious
eyes which were scanning his pale face, dabbled as it was with blood.

Burrel sprang out of the chaise, and putting his right hand under the
lad's elbow, so as to support him steadily, he gently displaced his
mother's hand by taking it in his own, and leading her on with them
into the cottage, saying, as he did so, "Your son, my good lady, has
had a severe blow on the head, from the falling of a beam, as he was
aiding gallantly to extinguish the fire at Mrs. Darlington's. We have
been obliged to bleed him; but, as you see, he is much better now; and
I doubt not, with care and good medical advice, will soon be quite
well."

By this time he had got the young man into the cottage, and seated him
on a wooden chair near the door; but the words of comfort that he
spoke seemed to fall meaningless on the ears of the widow, who stood
and gazed upon her son's face, with an expression of anxious care
which we must have all seen at some time or another, but which is
hardly describable. It was not only the sorrow and the anxiety of the
moment, but it was the crushed heart, prophesying many a future woe
from long experience of grief--it was the waters of bitterness,
welling from the past, and mingling its gall with all things present
or to come.

Her son was her first thought, but she marked Burrel's words, though
she answered them not; for the next moment she said, as if speaking to
herself--for distress had done away with courtesy, for the
moment--"Where am I to get good medical advice?"

"That shall not be wanting, my good lady," replied Burrel, kindly.
"Come, come, the matter is not so bad as you think it. Get your son to
bed, and as soon as Mr. Tomkins, the surgeon, returns he shall have my
orders to give him every attention. He will soon be better; so set
your mind at ease."

"Oh, sir!" answered the widow, looking, for the first time, at the
person who spoke to her, "I have not known what a mind at ease is, for
many a long year. But you are very good, sir, and I ought to have
thanked you before."

"That you ought, mother," said the young man; "for he got me out of
the fire, and saved my life. God bless you, sir! I can be thankful
enough for a good turn, in spite of all that the people of this place
may say against me. They first drove me to do a bad thing and then
gave me a worse name for it than I ever deserved."

"I believe it is too often so," answered Burrel, laying his hand with
a gentle motion upon his arm; "and many a man, like you, my poor
fellow, may be driven from small faults to great ones. But it is never
too late to correct one's mistakes, and as I will bear witness to your
gallant exertions to save Mrs. Darlington's property, you will now
have a good foundation to raise a better name for yourself, than you
seem to say you have hitherto obtained. Let this make a new beginning
for you, and I will take care you shall not want encouragement."

The young sailor suddenly grasped his hand, and wrung it tight in his
own. "God bless you, sir!" he said, "God bless you!" and Burrel fully
understood that the words of hope he had spoken found their way
straight to a heart that might have gone astray, but was not entirely
corrupted. After a few more kind words to the widow and her son, he
got into the chaise again, and returned to his lodging. His first care
was to provide medical aid for the young sailor, and he sent
immediately for Mr. Tomkins, the surgeon, who had by this time
returned. After giving full orders and authority to see the young man,
God willing, completely restored to health, with all the necessary
attendance and medicaments to be charged to his account, Burrel
learned from the apothecary the history of the young sailor, which is
as simple a one as ever was told.

His father and mother had married young, principally upon the strength
of that chamelion fricasee--hopes and expectations; and his father had
settled in a small shop in Emberton, became a bankrupt, and died.
There is nothing wonderful in that; for oxalic--nay, prussic acid
itself, has no advantage over broken hopes except in being a quicker
poison. If one takes up the Gazette, and looks at the names of the
great bankers and merchant that have figured in its sad lists during
the last twenty years, we shall find that two out of three have not
survived their failure three years. Well, he died: and his widow did
hope that the liberal creditors would allow her the means of carrying
on her husband's trade again, or at least supporting herself and her
child. But no. The world is a very good world, and a liberal and
generous world, _et cetera, et cetera, et cetera:_ but let no one, as
they value peace, count upon its kindness or generosity for a moment.
The liberal creditors left her not a shred on the face of the earth
that they could take, and turned her and her beggar boy into the
street. To the kindness of Sir Sidney Delaware she owed the small
cottage in which she dwelt; but Sir Sidney, God help him had hardly
enough for himself; and though many a little act of comforting
kindness was shown by the poor family of the park to the poor family
in the cottage, yet that was not enough for support, and want was
often at the door. As the boy grew up, his heart burned at his
mother's need; and in an evil hour he became connected with a gang of
poachers--plundered the preserves of Sir Timothy Ridout--was
detected--resisted. The gamekeeper was struck and injured in the
affray, and poor Wat Harrison, as he was called, was nearly finding
his way to Botany Bay; when, by some kind management, he was allowed
to go to sea, and remained in Captain Delaware's ship till she was
paid off, a few months before the time of which I now write.

It has before been shown, however, that Wat Harrison had established
for himself a bad character in the little town which saw his birth. To
such a degree even had he done this, that the peculiar class of
wiseacres, who have a prepossession in favor of hanging, uniformly
agreed that poor Wat Harrison would be hanged. Such a reputation once
established, is not easily shaken off; and although, at his return, he
bore a high character from Captain Delaware, who reported him--what he
really was--a brave, active, gallant lad, somewhat rash and
headstrong, and with a disposition that, in good guidance, might be
led to every thing good and noble--still the wiseacres shook the
knowing head, and declared that all that might be very true, but that
bad company would soon make him as bad as ever.

Burrel listened to the story with some attention; but by this time he
had resumed his impenetrability, which had been a little shaken within
the last four-and-twenty hours; and the good doctor could by no means
discover what Henry Burrel intended to do in favor of poor Wat
Harrison, or whether he intended to do any thing.

It is not improbable that, as the surgeon was really a kind hearted
man, he would have given what medical aid was required by the widow's
son, even had no pecuniary remuneration brightened with its golden
rays the horizon of a long attendance; but the unlimited order he
received to do every thing that was necessary for the youth's complete
recovery, inspired a new alacrity into all his movements; for there is
no charity which is half so active as that which is paid for. Away,
then, hied worthy Mr. Tomkins, undivided surgeon to the whole little
township of Emberton and its dependencies, to attend poor Wat
garrison, with as much eager zeal as if the lad had been a Calender, a
king's son, instead of a poor widow's; and his prompt appearance, as
well as several mysterious "nods and becks, and wreathed smiles,"
which he joined to some mysterious words about her son having secured
a powerful protector, served greatly to soothe the heart of poor widow
Harrison. In good truth, much did it need soothing; for her only child
had soon fallen into the same fearful drowsy state again, from which
his first arrival at her humble dwelling had roused him, and either
left her questions unanswered, or answered _à tort et à travers_. This
had terrified and alarmed her to a dreadful degree; and the assurance
of the surgeon, that her son would do well, joined to the hints he
gave, that her future prospects were brightening, brought the first
rays of the blessed daystar of joy to shine in upon her heart, which
had found their way through the casement of her cottage for many a
year.

The lad was by this time in bed, and a second bleeding relieved him;
but it was now discovered that the beam had struck his side as well as
his head, and there appeared some reason to fear inflammation, from
the feverish state of his pulse. Cooling drinks and refrigerants of
all kinds were recommended; and as Mr. Burrel's orders had been
dictated in a spirit of liberality, to which the mind of the village
surgeon was averse to set bounds, yet afraid to give full course, he
deemed it best to wait upon that gentleman, and state what he thought
necessary.

"In regard to medicines, and every thing of that kind, my dear sir,"
replied Burrel, who was found with half a dozen half-written letters
before him, "in regard to medicines, and every thing of that kind, I
must let him trust to you. As to diet, the _juvantia_ and _l[oe]dentia_
must be explained to my man, who shall have full orders to provide all
that is necessary for him."

The letters on the table were a sufficient hint to a man, a part of
whose profession it is to understand hints quickly; and after the
words of course, he took leave once more and departed.

A short time after, Burrel's silent servant, Harding, appeared at the
cottage, bringing with him all that could make a sick man comfortable.
He himself was active and attentive; and, considering his wonted
reserve, Master Harding might be looked upon as loquacious. He showed
none of those airs which the servants of fine gentlemen sometimes
affect when called upon to attend the poor or sick, in any of those
cases in which their masters find it convenient to do the less
pleasant parts of charity by deputy; but, sitting down by the bed of
the sick man, he asked kindly after his health--talked over the accident
which had occasioned the injury from which he suffered--turned up his
nose at his own master, when widow Harrison called down blessings on
Burrel's head--declared that the time was fast coming when such men
would find their right level--and hoped in his days to see the national
debt wiped away with a wet sponge, and a reasonable limit fixed to the
fortunes of private men, so that no such unequal distribution of things
that were naturally in common should take place.

Widow Harrison was silent from astonishment, and her son was ill, and
not logical; so that the oration of Burrel's silent servant passed
unquestioned, and he returned to his master's lodging, where, to do
him all manner of justice, although he was perfectly respectful, his
lips did not overflow with any of those warm professions of attachment
and devotion which used to characterize the determined rascals in days
of old. It is to be remarked, here, that the character of the
scoundrel, the pickpocket, and the thief, has changed within the last
five or six years most amazingly; and that the leaven of liberal
sentiments, of one kind or another, which has been so industriously
kneaded up with the dough-like and ductile minds of Englishmen, has
been naturally communicated in a greater proportion to the thieves,
pickpockets, cheats, and valets-de-chambre, than to any other class in
the state.

Far from finding fawning and cringing in the knavish valet--far from
meeting courtesy and gentleness in the highwayman--far from being
treated with urbanity and persiflage by the swindler--the first, when
about to steal his master's silver spoons, discusses the origin of the
idea of property; the second, when he lays you prostrate with a club,
or blows your brains out with a pistol, swaggers about the rights of
the people; while the swindler is sure to cheat you under the guise of
a lecture on political economy; and the man who meditates cutting your
throat in your bed, views you with cool indifference--reads Cato
before he goes to rest--and, ere he sets to work, lies down to take an
hour or two of sleep, and dream of Brutus. Oh, ye gods, it is a goodly
world! and those who see most of the march of intellect, begin to
suspect that its progression is somewhat like that of the crab.




CHAPTER VII.


About three o' the clock of the day at which we are still pausing, the
sky began to show a strong disposition to weep. A heavy shower came
on, and if there were a spark left till then unextinguished among the
blackened remains of Mrs. Darlington's house, there certainly now came
down from above the wherewithal to drown it out effectually. The whole
heavens became black and gloomy, and for about an hour there was
nothing to be seen but a scanty allowance of prospect, half obscured
by the gray drizzle. Shortly after, however, a yellow break made its
appearance on the southwestern edge of the horizon, and the rays of a
September sun, mingling with the falling shower, poured through the
streaks of rain, and seemed to fringe the cloud with an edging of spun
glass. Moving slowly onward, the heavy mass of vapors left room for
the evening sun to burst forth, and, while the rainbow waved its scarf
of joy in the air, the whole world sparkled up, refreshed and
brightened by the past rain.

It was just about the same moment that Henry Burrel, rising up from a
desk at which he had been writing, closed it, rang the bell, and,
giving two letters to his servant for the post, ordered him to bring
his hat and stick.

It happened, of course, that at the very same time the whole of the
most gossiping heads in Emberton were at the windows of their several
dwellings, endeavoring to ascertain if it were going to turn out a
fine evening, and, of course, their speculations were soon confined to
Burrel, who was seen to walk slowly along the street, to stop for ten
minutes at the principal inn, either--as it was conjectured by the
spectators--for the purpose of giving some orders, or of inquiring
after the health of Mrs. Darlington, and then to proceed leisurely
across the bridge, turn the corner of the park, and approach the
widow's cottage.

The cottage itself being, as I have before said, two or three hundred
yards removed from the town, in the turnings of a narrow road, was out
of sight. But there was a house, which stood at the corner of the
bridge, on the opposite side to the park, commanding a view of a
considerable part of the grounds; and from the windows of the first
floor, a female figure having been seen walking quickly down among the
trees on the left, while Burrel was pausing at the inn--Miss Mildew,
the fair tenant of that story--a lady of about fifty-nine, who had
exercised millinery, and had her heart broken several times by the
perfidy of man--put on her bonnet, and ran across the street to tell a
congenial spirit, from whom she concealed nothing, that Miss Delaware
was just going down to give the strange gentleman a meeting at the
widow's cottage. Both held up their hands, and sighed mournfully over
the depravity of the world, and the sad decline of female modesty in
this latter day.

In the mean while Burrel pursued his way, and entering the open door
of the cottage, knocked at that of the room in which he had before
seen the widow. Another door opposite, however, was immediately opened
by widow Harrison, and Burrel, entering the room with that pleasant
and unpretending easiness of demeanor which is always received as a
kindly compliment by the lower classes, found himself, to his
surprise, in the presence of Miss Delaware.

Although her mind was too little acquainted with evil in any shape to
lead Blanche Delaware to fancy for a single instant that any one would
put a wrong construction on her actions, yet there was something, she
knew not well what, in all that had passed between Burrel and herself
since their first meeting, that called up into her cheek a slight
blush, unconnected with any unpleasant feelings, as soon as she beheld
him. Those blushes are great tell-tales, and will often let out the
secret of a woman's heart before she herself knows that there is any
secret in it; but we shall have more to say of them hereafter.

The blush instantly passed away, however; and, as Burrel advanced to
speak to her, it was all gone.

"I am delighted to see you, Miss Delaware," he said; "for I really had
hardly time to convince myself this morning that you had neither
suffered from cold nor from alarm in all the terrible adventures of
last night."

"Not in the least," answered Miss Delaware, "and I have to thank you,
Mr. Burrel, for life. For, certainly, had it not been for your prompt
and generous assistance, I must have perished by a miserable death. As
it was," she added with a smile, which was followed by a blush again,
"as it was, your assistance was so prompt, and I was so sound asleep,
that I had not time to be frightened till I was safe. However, I must
trust the expression of my gratitude to those who are more capable of
doing justice to it. My brother, I believe, is now gone to call upon
you."

Widow Harrison had stood by, listening respectfully, but there was
many a shade of care removed from her face since the morning; and as
soon as Miss Delaware had ended, and there was a pause--for Burrel,
feeling that he would a thousand times sooner be thanked by her own
lips than by those of her brother, halted at this reply--the poor
woman joined in to express her gratitude too. A degree of
embarrassment, however, as to the manner, made her do it somewhat
obliquely, and she exclaimed, addressing Blanche Delaware--"Oh, ma'am
this gentleman is good and kind to every one! This is the gentleman I
was telling you brought home my poor boy, and sent Dr. Tomkins, and
his own servant, too; and has been so kind!"

Blanche Delaware looked up in Burrel's face with one of those
sparkling smiles--as brilliant and more precious than a diamond--the
beaming approbation of a good heart at the sight of a good action.

Now, the good-natured world may say, if it list, that this chapter is
all about blushes and smiles; but let me tell it, that, rightly valued
and rightly read, there are not such beautiful or interesting things
on the earth. A dimple is fair enough on a fair face, but it means
little or nothing; but the smiles and the blushes of a fine and bright
mind are lovely in all their shades and expressions: they are the
first touching tones of nature in her innocence--the sweet musical
language of the heart.

And Blanche Delaware's smile was the sweetest that it is possible to
conceive, and none the less so because it beamed upon as fair a
countenance as the eye of man ever rested upon. Altogether, it was
like the sunshine upon a beautiful country--lovely in itself, and
lovely by that over which it played. "I thought it was the same,
Margaret," she replied to the widow; "I thought it was the same,
because--because--there was no other stranger at the fire--that I
heard of, at least."

Burrel might well ask his heart what it was about!--though it was a
day too late; for by this time it was determined to have its own way.
However, he knew more of the world than Blanche Delaware, and the
knowledge of good and evil has always the same effect that it had at
man's first fall. "And they knew that they were naked," says the Book
of Genesis; and in that simple record, the main motive and hidden
cause of all that class of weaknesses and follies is to be found which
teach man to conceal his actions, his thoughts, and his feelings--to
shrink from public censure, or fear the opinion of the world. The
knowledge of the good and evil that is in the world teaches even the
noblest mind to know the proneness of all nature to wickedness, and
makes it hasten to clothe itself in a seeming not its own. Burrel knew
the world and its evil, and felt that, however pleasant it might be to
stay where he was, and enjoy the conversation of Blanche Delaware for
an hour, for her sake it would be better for him to refrain; and
therefore, after visiting the young sailor, who was in bed in the next
room, and bidding his mother ask frankly for every thing that was
necessary for his comfort or recovery, he took leave of Miss Delaware,
telling her that he would bend his steps homeward, in the hope of
meeting her brother.

Ere he had crossed the bridge, his hand was clasped in that of Captain
Delaware, who was, in fact, infinitely glad of an opportunity of
drawing closer the acquaintance which he formed with his stage-coach
companion. He thanked him animatedly and warmly for his gallant
conduct in saving his sister, and apologized for the fact of his
father not calling on him that night, on account of slight
indisposition, adding, however, that it was his purpose to do so on
the following morning.

To the latter annunciation Burrel merely bowed; but to the first he
replied with a smile, that he believed he owed Miss Delaware an
apology more than she owed him thanks, for having so impudently walked
into her room in the middle of the night; although, he believed, they
would have been both burned if he had paused much longer to consider
of proprieties or improprieties.

Captain Delaware laughed. "Blanche," said he, "though even I, her
brother, can not help owning that she is a very witching little person
in her way, when she likes it, has no great desire to pass through
such a fiery ordeal as that from which you relieved her; but if you
will come with me to widow Harrison's cottage she will thank you
herself."

"I have already had the pleasure of seeing her and have been thanked
far more than necessary," replied Burrel; "for I certainly did no more
than I would have done to serve any lady in similar circumstances;
though I can not deny that the merit of the action was greatly
decreased by the object of it being Miss Delaware."

Captain Delaware paused for a moment, and then catching his
companion's meaning, replied, smiling at his momentary dullness, "Oh,
I understand you!--oh, I understand you! but indeed, my dear sir, you
must give me notice the next time you intend to leave the
complimentary part of your speech implied rather than understood; for,
at first, I understood your meaning to be, that you would rather have
served any other person than my sister."

"Quite the contrary," replied Burrel. "The pleasure I felt in serving
your sister, took away all merit from the act--but compliments at all
times are very foolish things, so I will have done with them; and only
say most truly, that I was delighted to serve your sister."

"I understand you now," said Captain Delaware; and then added,
laughing, "but you are accustomed to fine speeches, and I am not, so
forgive my first stupidity. I will take your compliment at its proper
value; and will--as the merchants tell us when we put into a strange
port--discount it to my sister at the current exchange."

"Do not give her less than the amount;" answered Burrel; and he spoke
so seriously, that even Captain Delaware, though he was not very
quick-sighted in such matters, thought it better to let the subject
drop. However, there was something in Burrel's tone, that for the
first time made him think seriously of his sister's situation, and
made him feel a pang, which he had never before felt, at the low ebb
to which his house's fortunes had been reduced. Had there been in
Burrel's conversation one tittle of presumption--had the pride of
riches or of station shown itself by a word, by a very tone--pride,
irritated by poverty, might have risen up in his bosom, and taught him
to hold the stranger at arm's length, even though he had sacrificed
what he believed would prove one of the most agreeable acquaintances
he had ever made. But, on the contrary, though every thing in Burrel's
appearance, manners, and establishment, showed habitual affluence,
such a total disregard of the idle world's prosperity in others,
evinced itself in his whole conversation--he seemed so thoughtful of
wealth of mind and manners, and so disregardful of the poorer wealth,
that Captain Delaware, feeling himself by nature, education, and
habit, that noble thing--a gentleman--would not have hesitated to have
introduced Burrel to a cottage, and said, "This is my home;" convinced
that his companion would hardly see what was around him, provided some
weak vanity on his own part did not call his attention irresistibly to
the painful spectacle of pride endeavoring to hide poverty.

While such conversation had been passing between them, and such
thoughts had been busy in Captain Delaware's bosom, Burrel, without
any definite purpose, made a wheel upon the bridge; and, in a moment
after, they were walking through the town together, toward the lane
which led to the widow's cottage. Captain Delaware remained silent, as
he continued meditating for two or three minutes, till, remembering
that the name of his sister--for whom he had a fund of deep love and
respect, which influenced all his actions, even without his knowing
it--had been the last upon their lips, and feeling that some inference
of deeper moment might be drawn from his silence than he could desire,
he changed the subject, abruptly enough, indeed, to make his sudden
fit of thoughtfulness more liable to remark than if it had continued
twice as long.

"Your servant," he said, "is certainly a descendant, not of [OE]dipus,
but of his friend the Sphinx--which, by the way, our sailors, when we
were at Alexandria, used always to call the Minx. I did not think I
showed any very impertinent curiosity, but he could neither tell me
where you had gone--which way you had turned when you left the
door--when you were to be back--or, in short, any other fact
concerning your movements this evening: for, feeling deeply indebted
to you on poor Blanche's account, I wished to unload my bosom of its
thanks."

"Oh, he is a discreet and sober personage. Master Harding," answered
Burrel. "One of those men who have a great idea of not committing
themselves; and I like him infinitely better than a plausible,
fair-spoken knave that I had lately, who would not, or could not,
loose my horse's girths, if the groom were out of the way, and who
left me because I did not allow my servants Madeira."

"I hope you threw him out of the window?" cried Captain Delaware,
giving way to a burst of honest indignation.

"Oh, dear, no!" answered Burrel; "I saw him depart through the usual
aperture, with a degree of coolness and fortitude he did not expect;
and after trying another, whom I did kick out, I was soon supplied
with the present rascal, who is useful, silent, and circumspect. He
cheats me in about the same proportion as the others, or rather less;
is so far more honest, that he never pretends to honesty; and I have
never yet discovered that he lets any other person cheat me besides
himself."

"No very high character, either!" answered Captain Delaware.

"I beg your pardon!" cried Burrel. "Sufficient for a prime minister,
and more than sufficient for a member of parliament. But here we are
at the cottage; I wonder if I dare intrude again upon Miss Delaware's
presence?"

Captain Delaware made no difficulty, and a few minutes afterward the
whole party were observed--with Blanche hanging upon her brother's
arm, and Burrel walking by her side, his handsome head bent down to
speak and hear with the more marked attention--walking slowly along
the lane under the park wall, till they reached the small door nearest
to the mansion. There Burrel raised his hat, and took his leave; and
while Miss Delaware and her brother entered the park, he drew up his
head, threw wide his shoulders, and, resuming his usual gait, returned
to the town.

The person who had observed all this, and who declared positively that
she had not walked that way on purpose, reported it all fully to the
honest folks of Emberton, who instantly prognosticated a marriage. How
desperately they were mistaken, remains to be shown.

Burrel returned to his house, dined without the slightest symptoms of
love being discernible in the removed dishes, and ended the day by
sleeping as devotedly as if he had been a sworn votary of Somnus,
first telling his servant to see that all the fires were put out, as
he had not the slightest inclination to be woke from his rest again. A
fire on two consecutive nights, however, is not a piece of good
fortune that happens to every man; and Burrel, after having slept
one-third of the round dial undisturbed, woke the next morning, and
sat down to breakfast, asking himself, What was to occur next?

Every man must find that there come moments in the dull lapse of life,
when--as we feel that nothing can stand still--we are certain that
something must happen, however small and trifling in itself, to change
the monotonous course in which things are proceeding, and lead us to a
new train of events. Did you ever trace the current of a small stream,
reader, from its earliest gush out of the green, swampy turf, or the
little rugged bank, to its confluence with some other water! Do!--it
is amusing and instructive. At its first burst into existence, you
will find it generally rushing on in gay and bounding brightness,
fretting at all that opposes its course, and dashing over every
obstacle that would <DW44> its progress. Gradually, as one obstruction
after another meets and impedes its onward flow, slower and more slow
becomes its current, till a mere molehill will divert its course, and
send it wandering far in the most opposite direction to that which it
originally assumed. But, after all, I am stealing an image; for some
poet--I forget who--has said something very like it. Nevertheless, I
make no apology for the robbery--the illustration suits my purpose,
and I take it. Let every man steal as much as he likes; but put it in
inverted commas, and it is all according to act of parliament.

It matters not that the thought be old: the figure is fully as
appropriate as if it were new; and any one who has watched the
progress of a stream, must have said in his own heart--"This is life!"

Well, Burrel, as he sat down to breakfast, had just come to one of
those slow spaces in the current of existence, where he felt that some
bank, or stone, or molehill, must turn the stream; and, as I have
before said, his first thought was, What was to happen next?

Oh, that curious question, which has puzzled the wisest from the
beginning of the world, and will puzzle them still, till the last day
solves it forever!--What is to happen next?

It had scarcely passed through Burrel's brain, when the door opened,
and Sir Sidney Delaware was announced. He entered the room slowly, as
was his custom; but, as he did enter, Burrel at once perceived that a
certain air of coldness--which, like the Mithridate of the ancients,
defied all analysis, from the multitude of ingredients that composed
it--was altogether gone, and in its room there was a frank, bland
smile, as he greeted him, which unloaded the baronet's brow of the
wrinkles of full ten years.

"I have come to visit you, Mr. Burrel," said Sir Sidney Delaware, "at
an unusual hour, solely because I wished to see you; and, if you will
give me leave, I will take my coffee with you." Burrel rang the bell,
and the necessary additions to his breakfast-table were soon
completed, while he expressed politely, but neither coldly nor
cordially, his pleasure at the visit of Sir Sidney Delaware.

"My first task, Mr. Burrel," said the baronet, mildly and kindly, "is
to express my gratitude for the salvation of my dear child; and allow
me to say, that no one who does not love her as I do, can feel what
that gratitude is."

When a poor man and a proud man condescends to pour forth his feelings
to his equal in mind and station, and his superior in more worldly
wealth, it is a compliment which deserves instant return, and
Burrel--though he had been unwilling to risk for a moment a fresh
advance, to be again repulsed--felt, from the whole tone and manner of
his companion, that the barrier was broken down between them. To have
held back would have been an insult, and he instantly replied, not in
the set form which means no more than a copy-line to a schoolboy, but
in those words and accents that conveyed fully to Sir Sidney Delaware,
that he had felt a real and personal pleasure in serving his daughter
in the manner that he had done. He spoke frankly, though guardedly, of
the charms and graces of Miss Delaware's conversation and demeanor--he
spoke more boldly and feelingly of the impression that the blending of
sailor-like candor with gentlemanly feeling, in Captain Delaware, had
produced upon his mind--and although Burrel alluded to these things in
the tone of a man of the world, who had found out a treasure in pure
nature that he had never before discovered, he did so without the
slightest assumption of superiority; and both his words and his manner
expressed alone unfeigned pleasure in the acquaintance he had made,
and the service he had rendered.

"Enough! enough!" cried Sir Sidney Delaware, interrupting him as he
was going on in his encomiums. "I came here to thank you for what you
have done for one of my children--not to hear praises of both, that
might make my old eyes overflow. But, as you speak of my son, I must
not only confess that I owe you thanks, but an apology which I have
promised him to make you, for not calling on you before. In that
voluminous catalogue of lies, which, like hackney-coaches on a stand,
are ready at the beck of every one, I might find a hundred excuses
ready-made to my hand, which you would be bound to receive as current;
but my principles do not admit of my making use of them, and when I
apologize at all, it must be by telling the truth. Unfortunate
circumstances, Mr. Burrel," he added, in a grave and somewhat sad
tone, "have placed a painful disparity between the fortune and the
station of my family. For myself, I do not covet wealth, neither do my
children; but we have never sought, or even admitted the society of
any one who was likely to differ from us in our estimation of our own
situation."

"Although such an apology is far more than I either deserve or could
expect," replied Burrel, "yet I own I am glad to find that you did not
at all hate me for my own sake. As to my feelings and principles--if,
as I hope, this acquaintance stops not here--you will soon find, my
dear sir, that I am far too aristocratic in my own nature to dream
that wealth can make any addition to rank--far too liberal in my own
sentiments to dream that either wealth or rank can make any addition
to gentlemanly manners and a gentlemanly mind. Do not mistake me, Sir
Sidney Delaware," he added, seeing a slight shade come over the
baronet's countenance--"I have every reverence for the institutions of
society, and for those grades which society can never be deprived of,
without sinking gradually into barbarism of manners, if not barbarism
of mind. All I mean to say is, when I pay reverence to rank, it is a
tribute I render to society: when I pay reverence to the individual,
it is a tribute I offer to virtue, and that tribute will be offered to
either, under all circumstances, and at all times; but I have no idea
of bowing low to the purse in a man's pocket, or fawning upon the
bottle of Lafitte that graces his sideboard."

Sir Sidney Delaware smiled. "I am afraid, then," he replied, "you are
unlike the majority of our young men at present. The worst kind of
aristocracy--because it must always be too new a garment to sit
easily--the aristocracy of wealth, is springing up each day as the
idol for worship; and I am afraid every one who may be said to have a
golden calf in their house, will find plenty of our Israelites willing
to commit idolatry, though to the worship of wealth in others may be
applied the memorable words with which Sallust stigmatizes avarice
itself, 'Ea quasi veninis malis imbuta, corpus animumque virilem
effæminat, semper infinita insatiabilis est; neque copiâ, neque inopiâ
minuitur.' My own race have been too little followers of the blind
god--I mean Plutus, not Cupid--and the effects you will see, if you do
me the favor of dining in my poor house to-morrow."

"If I see yourself and family there, Sir Sidney Delaware, I shall
certainly see nothing amiss, and probably nothing else; though," he
added, feeling that the subject was one which had better be led into
some other, as soon as possible, "though the house appears to be a
very perfect and beautiful specimen of the peculiar kind of
architecture to which it belongs."

"It is, indeed," replied the baronet, instantly mounting the hobby
that Burrel set before him; "it is, indeed, perhaps, the most perfect
specimen of the architecture of the early part of Henry VIII. now in
existence. It shows the first step from the pure Gothic to the pure
Vandal, if I may so call it, which succeeded."

"Without pretending to be a connoisseur," replied Burrel, "I am
certainly a great lover of architectural antiquities of all sorts; and
I must endeavor to seduce you into pointing out all the peculiar
characteristics of the place."

"I shall be delighted!" exclaimed Sir Sidney Delaware, "Let me beg
you to come to-morrow early--come to breakfast, and give us your whole
day, if you can spare so much of your time, which is doubtless
valuable."

"Perfectly worthless," replied Burrel, "So, remember, if you find that
I take you at your word, and bestow my whole day of tediousness upon
you, it is your own fault; for you have invited me; and I shall look
jealously for every yawn."

"No fear, no fear, my dear sir!" said the baronet. "I do not know how,
Mr. Burrel, or why, but something in your aspect and manner makes me
feel as if you were an old friend."

"May you always feel so," replied Burrel, with a smile of pleasure,
which vouched that the words were more than mere form.

"Even your face," continued Sir Sidney, "comes upon me like a dream of
the past; and I feel, in speaking with you, as if I had just got my
studentship at Christ Church, and were in those bright days again,
when the boy, standing on the verge of manhood, grasps at the crown of
thorns before him, as if it were a diadem of stars. However, I feel
toward you like an old friend, and shall treat you as such, which
means--as one of the flippant books of the present day asserts--that I
shall give you a very bad dinner."

"Do, do!" cried Burrel, shaking the hand his guest held out to him as
he was about to depart--"do, do! and I will find a way to avenge
myself without difficulty."

"How do you mean!" demanded the baronet, pausing.

"By coming for another very soon," answered his companion. "So, I dare
you to keep your word."

"I certainly shall," rejoined Sir Sidney Delaware, "if such be the
penalty; and they parted, with feelings entirely changed on both sides
since their meeting at the house of Mr. Tims."




CHAPTER VIII.


Whether the succeeding hours of the day on which Sir Sidney Delaware
first visited Henry Burrel, did or did not pass with any degree of
impatience, felt on the part of the latter, it is difficult to say.
Burrel had an habitual dislike to the display of what he felt, and
except on special occasions, where the stirred-up feelings broke
through all customary restraint, there might be many far deeper things
passing in his bosom than the eye of a casual observer could discover
from his face.

The hours of that day seemed to fly in perfect tranquillity. He
visited the widow's cottage twice, and marked with pleasure that a
change for the better had taken place in her son; he called upon Mrs.
Darlington at the inn, gossiped over a thousand subjects of
tittle-tattle, and sketched out a plan for re-building her house--a
consideration which seemed to give the good lady so much pleasant
occupation, that Burrel could scarcely find it in his heart to regret
that her house had been burned at all. He then strolled home to write
letters, remarking, with little further comment as he did so, that his
silent servant, Harding, was walking on the other side of the way, in
quiet conversation with the vulgar person who had been for a short
time one of his own companions in the London coach.

Nothing, in short, through the whole day, or the ensuing evening,
could betray that the hours were at all weary to Henry Burrel; and the
only circumstance which led his servant--who had eyes sufficiently
inquisitive and acute--to believe that his master looked upon the
approaching visit with more than ordinary interest, was, that the next
morning, instead of sleeping soundly, as usual, till he was called, he
rang his bell somewhat impatiently full five minutes before his
ordinary hour of rising.

Giving the necessary orders for his dressing apparatus to be brought
up to the mansion before dinner, Burrel sallied forth as soon as he
was dressed, and took his way toward the park gate. He paused upon the
bridge, however, and for a moment gazed up the long open space of park
lawn, broken by old elms and oaks, with the stream flowing calmly on
in the midst, and the swans dipping quietly into its waters, and the
whole, in the soft morning sunshine, bearing an air of peace, with
which even the gray building at the end of the vista harmonized full
well.

With what other thoughts there might be in Burrel's bosom--and there
were a good many different threads that ran across the web in various
directions--we will have nothing to do here, but will follow the one
continuous line which we began to trace before, and only consider the
psychological phenomena that were passing in his heart as far as they
related to Blanche Delaware. That Burrel had thought of her a great
deal since last he saw her, there can be no doubt; and he had thought
of his own situation, too, and what he was about, with a degree of
human perseverity that was quite extraordinary in a hero of romance.
As the beginnings of love must always be imaginative, and as Burrel
had got into a bad habit of laughing at most things under the sun, by
feeling that few were worth considering seriously--from the effects of
which had habit, be it remarked, he himself, his own mind and
peculiarities, were not at all exempt--as a consequence of all this,
he had chosen, in the present case, to image the predicament in which
he stood to his own fancy, under a thousand different forms, most of
them, indeed, ludicrous or trivial. He had been now the moth,
fluttering round the light--now the trout, rising to the hook--but
more frequently still, he had painted himself to himself as the fly
upon the edge of a plate of honey, tasting and retasting the tenacious
sweets till his feet become glued to the place, and he is forced to
remain and die amidst the plundered stores of the bee. There are
several great uses in thus learning to laugh at ourselves. In the
first place, we know all that the world--the good-natured world--may,
can, might, could, would, should, or ought to say of us. In the
next, we can flatter ourselves that we have looked at the most
disagreeable--that is to say, the sneering side of things: and lastly,
the story of galloping across the swamp comes over again, and we get
over a great deal of ground easily, which it would not do to stay and
examine seriously.

Whether it was from any or all of these motives that Burrel acted, or
whether it was a mere affair of habit, does not much matter; for
when he set out on that morning to breakfast at Emberton Park, and
looked up the calm expanse toward the dwelling Blanche Delaware
inhabited--when he entered the old gates, and strolled leisurely up
among the shady trees--when he thought of how fair and how gentle she
was--and when he felt conscious that he was only walking up those
paths for the first time out of many that fate or love destined
him to tread them--he perceived that the matter was somewhat more
serious--that it was too weighty to be raised upon the wings of a
light laugh, or rolled about by an idle sneer.

There was something startling in the sensation; and he felt that where
the happiness of the whole of that space out of eternity, which we are
destined to pass amidst the warm relationships of earth, is concerned,
the matter is grave when rightly considered, if not solemn. But then,
as he went on thinking, even though the morning, pouring through the
dim old trees, had something serious in its very gray tranquillity,
yet the object that connected itself with every idea, the sweet form,
the bright, sunshiny smile of Blanche Delaware, came flitting across
his dreams, and cast a light from itself over the whole future
prospect. Then would Burrel look around him, and weave many a fairy
project of conferring happiness; and he would twine, in fancy, many a
jewel and a wreath to bind the fair brows of the fair girl he thought
of, and would lead her through scenes of splendor, and of beauty, and
of joy, to mansions of domestic happiness and bowers of tranquil
repose.

Thus went it on, till at length he woke up at the door of the
dwelling-house, and found himself as great an enthusiast at heart as
ever lived and loved. Ascending the steps from the terrace, he rang
the large bell, which was answered in a moment by the appearance of an
honest-faced country servant, who was the only male domestic in a
house which, had it been all inhabited, would have required a dozen at
least. A little to the man's surprise, Burrel, who was still thinking
of something else, and whose heart beat more than he thought proper,
walked directly forward to the door of the library, and was raising
his hand to open it, too, when, recollecting himself, he paused, and
suffered the servant to announce him. His hand was cordially shaken by
Captain Delaware, almost as he entered; and there was a glow of
pleasure on the face of the young sailor, not only because he was
really glad to see a man whom he personally liked, but that what he
looked upon as a reproach to the hospitality of their house was wiped
away.

Sir Sidney Delaware was at the further end of the room, which was well
furnished--for books are always furniture--and they were many and
choice. He, too, immediately rose, and advanced to welcome his guest
most cordially; for the service that Burrel had rendered his child had
completely opened his heart; and, when it was once opened, there was
room enough within, though the door had been somewhat narrowed, in
order to shut out the cold air of the world.

Burrel's eyes ran round the library, but Blanche Delaware was not
there; and though he would have probably laughed, had any one called
him a modest man, yet he found that he could not inquire after her
with so easy an air as he might have done two or three days before,
and therefore he did not inquire after her at all, expecting every
instant to see her appear. He felt uncomfortable, however, when her
father at length proposed that they should go to the breakfast-room;
and he asked himself whether she could be absent from home.

Burrel's mind was put at ease the moment after; for, on passing
forward to the little breakfast-room--to which he seemed to find his
way instinctively, without his host having to say, "Turn here," or
"Turn there"--the first object that presented itself was Blanche
Delaware, on hospitable thoughts intent, making the tea, and--as
probably Eve was the most beautiful creature ever created--looking as
like Eve as possible.

But let us pause one moment, and expatiate upon an English
breakfast-room. There is nothing like it in all the world besides. It
is an emanation from the morning heart of Englishmen. It is a type of
the character of the people. Good Heaven! when one comes down on a
fine autumn morning, and finds the snowy table-cloth, the steaming
urn, the clean polished furniture, the simple meal, and all the
implements for dispensing it, shining in the morning sunshine, as if
the goddess of tidiness had burnished them; together with a rich
English landscape looking in at the windows, and, round the table,
half a dozen smiling faces, and fair forms, all arrayed in that
undeviating neatness which is also purely English, how the heart is
opened to all that is good, and kindly, and social--how it is
strengthened, and fortified, and guarded against the cares and labours
and ills of the ensuing day!

Blanche looked up as Burrel entered, and there were one or two slight
circumstances which might have made him believe that his presence was
not unpleasant to her, had he been in a mood to remark any thing but
the simple fact of her being there. There was the same fitful blush,
the same sparkle of the eyes, that would not be repressed, the same
sweet smile, as he gave her the morning's greeting, which he had seen
separately before; but, what was more to the purpose, she withdrew the
tea-pot before she remembered to stop the urn, spilled the water on
the table-cloth, and got into some confusion both at her embarrassment
and at its cause. Captain Delaware smiled; and Blanche, though she
knew that her brother was not very, very learned in woman's heart,
attributed more meaning to his smile than it deserved, and would have
been more embarrassed still, had there not been a degree of warmth,
and a subdued tenderness in Burrel's manner, that was very consoling.
Now, had Blanche Delaware laid a systematic design against Burrel's
heart, and had she endeavoured to make herself appear the very wife
suited to him, from every thing she had seen of his character, she
would have taken great care not to let the urn deluge the table-cloth,
and would have believed her whole plan ruined for ever, if she had
done so; for Burrel had certainly, at Mrs. Darlington's, affected a
sort of fastidiousness--altogether in jest, but done seriously enough
to deceive--which would have rendered such a little accident fatal.
But Blanche Delaware had not the slightest idea of such a design in
the world. Burrel, it is true, was the handsomest man in person, and
the most elegant man in manners, that she had ever met with. His
character she had heard from Dr. Wilton--one she was accustomed to
reverence. His conversation had pleased, amused, and fascinated her.
At the risk of his own life he had carried her close to his heart,
through the midst of a tremendous fire. He had saved her life, and, in
the enthusiasm of doing so, had called her "Dear girl!" and had
perhaps pressed her a little closer to his bosom, when he found that
they were safe. Of the last particular, however, she was not quite
sure; but so much does the heart of man expand to those we protect and
save, that, even if he did, it was quite natural. All this had given
her different feelings towards Burrel, from those that she experienced
towards any other man; and though she kept a tight rein upon
imagination, and would not even suffer the sweet folly of
castle-building to enter her heart in this instance, yet she felt
sufficiently agitated and pleased by his presence, to become alarmed
at her own sensations, and to feel unwittingly consoled by the marked
difference between his manner to herself, and to others. She was
therefore vexed at the little accident, it is true, but she was vexed
solely because she thought it might betray more agitation than she
believed that she felt; not because she feared, by a trifle, to lose a
heart for which she had set no traps, and of whose possession she was
determined not to dream at all.

So much for nothings! But as nothings are the small casters on which
the great machine of the world goes lumbering along, one may pause to
mark them for a moment, without a fault. But now to more serious
matters. Burrel soon recovered that degree of ease which he had never
lost in the eyes of any other person, although he felt the loss
himself, and the breakfast passed over in that sort of light and
variable conversation which allows all to shine in turn who are
capable of shining.

It was about the time of some serious disturbances in France; and
those events naturally suggested themselves, at least to the three
gentlemen, as the most interesting topic of the day. "What think you,
then, Mr. Burrel," demanded Sir Sidney Delaware, "of La---- coming
forth in his old age to renew the scenes which, in his youth, he first
excited, and then lamented?"

"The great misfortune is," replied Burrel, "that his name should be
able to do so much, when he himself is unable to do any thing."

"You mean that he is in his dotage," said Captain Delaware. "Is it not
so?"

"I mean merely," replied Burrel, "that he is in that state of mental
decrepitude where the plaudits of a mob of any kind, either of porters
or peers, would make him commit any folly for the brief moment of
popularity. With poor old La---- it is only now the fag-end of the
great weakness of his life, vanity--that sort of gluttonous vanity
that can gorge upon the offal of base and ignorant applause."

"Ay, there lies the fault," replied Sir Sidney Delaware. "The man who
seeks the applause of the good, the wise, and the generous, is next in
honorable ambition to him who seeks the approbation of his God; but he
whose depraved appetite finds food in the gratulating shout of an
assemblage of the ignorant, the base, and the vicious--like--like--I
could mention many, but I will not--he, however, who does so, is a
moral swine, and only swills the filth of the public kennel in another
sense."

"Papa, papa!" cried Blanche Delaware. "In pity, let me finish
breakfast before you indulge in such figures of rhetoric. William, in
mercy change the subject! Can not you tell us some of the pretty
stories about Sicily and its beloved _Mongibeddo_, with which you
charmed my ears when first you came from the Mediterranean?"

"Not I, indeed, Blanche!" replied her brother; "for, on the faith of
those stories, you had nearly persuaded my father to go abroad, which
would not suit my views of promotion at all."

"And did Miss Delaware really wish to visit foreign lands?" demanded
Burrel. "We should not easily have forgiven you."

"It was but to see all those things one dreams so much about!" replied
Blanche Delaware, "and to return to my own land after they were seen;
for I can assure you, I have neither hope nor wish ever to find any
country half so fair in my eyes as our own England."

"That is both just and patriotic," answered Burrel; "more than
one-half of what we like in any and every land, is association, and
if, without one classic memory of the great past, you were to visit
Italy itself, half the marvels of that land of beauties would be lost.
The Colosseum would stand a cold brown ruin, cumbering the ground;
Rome, a dull heap of ill-assorted buildings; the Capitol a molehill;
and the Tiber a ditch. But under the magic wand of association, every
thing becomes beautiful. It is not alone the memories of one age or of
one great epoch that rise up to people Italy with majestic things; but
all the acts of glory and of majesty that thronged two thousand years,
before the eye of fancy, walk in grand procession through the land,
and hang a wreath of laurels on each cold ruin as they pass. Yet it is
all association; and where can we find such associations as those
connected with our native land?"

The question was tolerably general, but the tone and manner were to
Blanche Delaware; and she replied, "It would be difficult, I am
afraid, to raise up for any country such as those you have conjured up
for Italy; but still I should never be afraid of forgetting England.
It is where I was born," she added, thinking over all her reasons for
loving it, and looking down at the pattern on the table-cloth, as she
counted them one by one; "I have spent in it so many happy hours and
happy days. Every thing in it is connected with some pleasant thought
or some dear memory; and the associations, though not so grand, would
be more sweet--though not so vast, would be more individual--would not
perhaps waken any very romantic feelings, but would come more home to
my own heart."

Burrel answered nothing; but when she raised her eyes, which had been
cast down while she spoke, they found his fixed upon her; and she felt
from that moment that she was beloved.

Blanche Delaware turned very pale, though the consciousness was any
thing but painful. It was so oppressive, however, that the agitation
made her feel faint; but her brother's voice recalled her to herself.

"Well spoken, my dear little patriot sister!" he said; "but if you had
been a sailor, like your brother, you would have added, that England
is not wanting in associations of glory and freedom, and noble actions
and noble endeavors; and in this view the associations connected with
our native land are more extended than those of any other country; for
in whatever corner of the world an Englishman may be, when he catches
but a glimpse of the salt sea, the idea of the glory of his native
land rushes upon his mind, and he sees, waving before the eye of fancy
the flag that 'for a thousand years, has stood the battle and the
breeze.'"

Burrel smiled; but there was no touch of a sneer in it. "The song from
which you quote," he said, "must have been written surely under such
enthusiasm as that with which you now speak. I know scarcely so
spirit-stirring a composition in the English language. Indeed, all
Campbell's smaller poems are full of the same _vivida vis animi_."

"And yet," said Sir Sidney Delaware, "you, as well as I, must have
heard fools and jolter-heads say, that Campbell is no poet, because
now and then, in his longer pieces, when he gets tired of the mere
mechanism, he suffers a verse or two to become tame--out of pure
idleness, I have no doubt."

"Those who say he is no poet, do not know what poetry is," replied
Burrel, somewhat eagerly. "Scattered through every one of his poems
there are beauties of the first order; and almost all of his smaller
pieces stand perfectly alone in poetry. He has contrived sometimes to
compress into four or five of the very shortest lines that can be
produced, more than nine poets out of ten could cram into a long
Spenserian stanza, with a thundering Alexandrine at the end."

"Do you know Mr. Campbell personally?" asked Miss Delaware.

"I do," answered Burrel, laughing; "but do not suppose my praise of
him is exaggerated from personal friendship. On the contrary, I am
bound, by all the laws and usages of the world in general, to hate him
cordially."

"Indeed! and why so?" demanded Blanche, half afraid that she had
touched upon some delicate subject.

"Simply because we differ on politics," answered Burrel. "Can there be
a more mortal offense given or received?"

"As we are speaking of poets, however," continued Miss Delaware, "I
will ask you one more question, Mr. Burrel: Do you know Wordsworth?"

"I am not so fortunate," answered Burrel; "for, though we should as
certainly differ as we met, upon nine points out of ten, yet I should
much like to know him."

"Then you know and esteem his works, of course?" said Miss Delaware.

"I know them well," replied Burrel; "but I do not like them so much as
you do."

"Nay, nay!" said Blanche Delaware. "I have said nothing in their
favor. What makes you believe I admire them more than yourself?"

"Simply because every body of taste must esteem them highly," replied
Burrel; "and women who do esteem them will always esteem more than men
can do. A woman's heart and mind, Miss Delaware, by the comparative
freshness which it retains more or less through life, can appreciate
the gentle, the sweet, and the simple, better than a man's; and thus,
while the mightier and more majestic beauties of Wordsworth's muse
affect your sex equally with ours, the softer and finer shades of
feeling--the touches of artless nature and simplicity, which appear
almost too weak for us, have all their full effect on you."

"But if you own that, and feel that," said Blanche Delaware, "why can
not you admire the same beauties!"

"For this reason," replied Burrel--"man's mental taste, like his
corporeal power of tasting, gets corrupted, or rather paralyzed, in
his progress through the world, by the various stimulants he applies
to it. He drinks his bottle of strong and heady wine, which gradually
loses its effect, and he takes more, till at length nothing will
satisfy him but Cayenne pepper."

"But if he appreciates gentler pleasures," said Captain Delaware, "he
must be able in some degree to enjoy them."

"Of course," replied Burrel, "there are moments when the cool and
pleasant juice of a peach, or the simple refreshment of a glass of
lemonade will be delightful; and in such moments it is, that he feels
he has stimulated away a sense, and a delightful one. Thus with
poetry, and literature in general; the mind, by reading a great many
things it would be better without, loses its relish for every thing
that does not excite and heat the imagination, which is neither more
nor less than the mental palate; and though there are moments when the
heart, softened and at ease, finds joys in all the sweet simplicity
which would have charmed it forever in an unsophisticated state, yet
still it returns to Cayenne pepper, and only remembers the other
feelings, as of pleasures lost forever. With regard to Wordsworth's
poetry, perhaps no one ever did him more injustice than I did once.
With a very superficial knowledge of his works, I fancied that I
despised them all; and it was only from being bored about them by his
admirers, that I determined to read them every line, that I might hate
them with the more accuracy."

Blanche Delaware smiled, and her father spoke, perhaps, the feelings
of both. "We have found you out, Mr. Burrel," he said, "and understand
your turn for satirizing yourself."

"I am not doing so now, I can assure you," replied Burrel. "What I
state is exactly the fact. I sat down to read Wordsworth's works with
a determination to dislike them, and I succeeded in one or two poems,
which have been cried up to the skies; but, as I went on, I found so
often a majestic spirit of poetical philosophy, clothing itself in the
full sublime of simplicity, that I felt reproved and abashed, and I
read again with a better design. In doing so, though I still felt that
there was much amidst all the splendor that I could neither like nor
admire, yet I perceived how and why others might and would find great
beauties and infinite sweetness in that which palled upon my taste;
and I perceived also, that the fault lay in me far more than in the
poetry. The beauties I felt more than ever; and some of the smaller
pieces, I am convinced, will live for ages, with the works of
Shakspeare and Milton."

"They will, indeed," said Sir Sidney Delaware, "as long as there is a
taste in man. Nevertheless, the poet--who is, perhaps, as great a
philosopher, too, as ever lived--has sacrificed, like many
philosophers, an immense gift of genius to a false hypothesis in
regard to his art, and has, consequently, systematically poured forth
more trash than perhaps any man living. His poems, collected, always
put me in mind of an account I have somewhere read of the diamond
mines of Golconda, where inestimable jewels are found mingled with
masses of soft mud. But you have long done breakfast, Mr. Burrel.
Come, Blanche, I am going to take Mr. Burrel to the terrace, and
descant most dully on all the antiquities of the house. Let us have
your company, my love; for we shall meet with so many old things, it
may be as well to have something young to relieve them!"

It required but a short space of time to array Blanche Delaware for
the walk round the terrace that her father proposed. In less than a
minute she came down in the same identical cottage bonnet--the ugliest
of all things--in which Burrel had first beheld her when with her
brother; but, strange to say, although on that occasion he had only
thought her a pretty country girl, so changed were now all his
feelings--so many beauties had he marked which then lay hid, that, as
she descended with a smiling and happy face to join them at the door
of the hall, he thought her the loveliest creature that he had ever
beheld in any climate, or at any time.

The whole party sallied forth; and as people who like each other, and
whose ideas are not common-place, can make an agreeable conversation
out of any thing, the walk round the old house, and the investigation
of every little turn and corner of the building, passed over most
pleasantly to all, although Blanche and her brother knew not only
every stone in the edifice, but every word almost that could be said
upon them. They were accustomed, however, to look upon their father
with so much affection and reverence; and the misfortunes under which
he labored had mingled so much tenderness with their love, that "an
oft-told tale" from his lips lost its tediousness, being listened to
by the ears of deep regard. Burrel, too, was all attention; and, while
Sir Sidney Delaware descanted learnedly on the buttery, and the wet
and dry larder, and the prior's parlor, and the scriptorium, and
pointed out the obtuse Gothic arches described from four centers,
which characterize the architecture of Henry VIII., he filled up all
the pauses with some new and original observation on the same theme;
and though certainly not so learned on the subject as Sir Sidney
himself, yet he showed that, at all events, he possessed sufficient
information to feel an interest therein, and to furnish easily the
matter for more erudite rejoinder.

By the time the examination of the house itself was over, however, Sir
Sidney Delaware felt fatigued. "I must leave Blanche and William, Mr.
Burrel," he said, "to show you some of the traces of those antique
times which we have just been talking of, that are scattered through
the park, particularly on the side farthest from the town. I myself
think them more interesting than the house itself, and wish I could go
with you; but I am somewhat tired, and must deny myself the pleasure."

Burrel assured him that he would take nothing as a worse compliment
than his putting himself to any trouble about him; and, perhaps not
unwillingly, set out, accompanied only by Blanche and her brother. It
would have been as dangerous a walk as ever was taken had he not been
in love already. There was sunshine over all the world, and the air
was soft and calm. Their way led through the deep high groves and
wilder park scenery that lay at the back of the mansion, now winding
in among hills and dells covered with rich, short grass, now wandering
on by the bank of the stream, on whose bosom the gay-coated
kingfishers and the dark water-hens were skimming and diving in
unmolested security. In the open parts, the old hawthorns perched
themselves on the knolls, wreathing their fantastic limbs in groups of
two or three; and every now and then a decaying oak of gigantic girth,
but whose head had bowed to time, shot out its long lateral branches
across the water, over which it had bent for a thousand years.

The whole party were of the class of people who have eyes--as that
delightful little book the Evenings at Home has it--and at present,
though there were busy thoughts in the bosoms, at least of two of
those present, yet perhaps they strove the more to turn their
conversation to external things, from the consciousness of the
feelings passing within. Those feelings, however, had their effect, as
they ever must have, even when the topics spoken of are the most
indifferent. They gave life, and spirit, and brightness to every
thing.

Blanche Delaware, hanging on the arm of her brother, and yielding to
the influence of the smiles that were upon the face of nature, gave
full way to her thoughts of external things as they arose; and,
together with spirits bright and playful, but never what may be called
_high_--with an imagination warm and brilliant, never wild--there
shone out a heart, that Burrel saw was well fitted to understand and
to appreciate that fund of deeper feelings, that spring of enthusiasm,
tempered a little by judgment, and ennobled by a high moral sense,
which he concealed, perhaps weakly--from a world that he despised.

He felt at every step that the moments near her were almost too
delightful; and, before he had got to the end of that walk, he had
reached the point where love begins to grow terrified at its own
intensity, lest the object should be lost on which the mighty stake of
happiness is cast forever.

Having proceeded thus far--which, by the way, is no small length; for
the great difficulty, as Burrel found it, was to place himself fairly
on a footing of friendship with Sir Sidney Delaware's family--we must
unwillingly abandon the expatiative; and, having more than enough to
do, leave the party on their walk, and turn to characters as
necessary, but less interesting.




CHAPTER IX.


In the house of Lord Ashborough--which is situated in
Grosvenor-square, fronting the south--there is a large room,
which in form would be a parallelogram, did not one of the shorter
sides--which, being turned to the north, looks out upon the little
rood of garden attached to the dwelling--bow out into the form of a
bay window. The room is lofty, and, as near as possible, twenty-eight
feet in length by twenty-four in breadth. Book-cases, well stored with
tomes in lettered calf, cover the walls, and a carpet, in which the
foot sinks, is spread over the floor. Three large tables occupy
different parts of the room. Two covered with books and prints lie
open to the world in general, but the third, on which stand inkstands
and implements for writing, shows underneath, in the carved lines of
the highly-polished British oak, many a locked drawer. Each chair, so
fashioned that uneasy must be the back that would not there find rest,
rolls smoothly on noiseless casters, and the thick walls, the double
doors, and book-cases, all combine to prevent any sound from within
being caught by the most prying ear without, or any noise from without
being heard by those within, except when some devil of a cart runs
away in Duke-street, and goes clattering up that accursed back street
behind.

Such were the internal arrangements and appearance of the library at
Lord Ashborough's, on a morning in September of the same year, one
thousand eight hundred and something, of which we have been hitherto
speaking. The morning was fine and clear; and the sun, who takes the
liberty of looking into every place without asking permission of any
one, was shining strongly into the little rood of garden behind the
house. The languishing plants and shrubs that had been stuffed into
that small space, dusty and dry with the progress of a hot summer, and
speckled all over with small grains of soot--the morning benediction
showered down upon them from the neighboring chimneys--no doubt
wished that the sun would let them alone; and, as through an open
passage-door they caught a sight of the conservatory filled with rich
exotics, all watered and aired with scrupulous care, one of the poor
brown lilacs might be heard grumbling to a stunted gray laburnum about
the shameful partiality of the English for foreigners and strangers.

About eleven o'clock Lord Ashborough himself entered the room; and
before any one else comes in to disturb us, we may as well sit down
and take a full-length picture of him. He was a man of about
fifty-nine or sixty, tall and well-proportioned, though somewhat thin.
His face was fine, but pale, and there was a great deal of intellect
expressed on his broad brow and forehead, which looked higher than it
really was, from being perfectly bald as far down as the sutures of
the temples. From that point, some thin dark hair, grizzled with gray,
spread down, and met his whiskers, which were of the same hue, and cut
square off, about the middle of his cheeks. His eyes were dark blue
and fine, but somewhat stern, if not fierce, and in the space between
his eyebrows there was a deep wrinkle, in which a finger might have
been laid without filling up the cavity; the eyebrows themselves,
though not very long, were overhanging; the nose was well formed and
straight, though a little too long perhaps; but his mouth was
beautifully shaped, and would have appeared the best feature in his
face, had he not frequently twisted it in a very unbecoming manner, by
gnawing his nether lip. His chin was round, and rather prominent; and
his hand small, delicate, and almost feminine.

It is all nonsense that a man's dress signifies nothing. It is--if he
takes any pains about it; and if he takes none, it comes to the same
thing--it is the habitual expression of his mind or his mood; and in
the little shades of difference which may exist with the moat perfect
adherence to fashion, you will find a language much easier read than
any of those on the Rosetta stone. Lord Ashborough was dressed more
like a young than an old man, though without any extravagance. His
coat was of dark green, covering a double-breasted waistcoat of some
harmonizing color, while his long, thin, rather tight-fitting
trowsers, displayed a well-formed leg, and were met by a neat, and
highly-polished boot. Around his neck he wore a black handkerchief,
exposing the smallest possible particle of white collar between his
cheek and the silk; and on one of his fingers was a single seal ring.
Taking him altogether he was a very good-looking man, rather like the
late Mr. Canning, but with a much less noble expression of
countenance.

Walking forward to the table, which we have noted as being well
supplied with locks, Lord Ashborough opened one of the drawers, and,
having rang the bell, sat down and took out some papers. The door
opened; a servant appeared;--"Send to Mr. Tims!" said Lord Ashborough,
and the man glided out. After a short pause, another person appeared,
but of very different form and appearance from the servant; and
therefore we must look at him more closely. He was a short, stout,
bustling-looking little man, of about thirty-eight or forty, perhaps
more, habited in black, rather white at the seams and edges. His
countenance was originally full and broad; but the habit of thrusting
his nose through small and intricate affairs had sharpened that
feature considerably; and the small black eyes that backed it,
together with several red blotches, one of which had settled itself
for life upon the tip of the eminence, did not diminish the prying and
intrusive expression of his countenance. There was impudence, too, and
cunning written in very legible characters upon his face; but we must
leave the rest to show itself as we go on.

As Mr. Peter Tims, of Clement's Inn, attorney-at-law--for such was the
respectable individual of whom we now treat--entered the library of
Lord Ashborough, he turned round and carefully closed the double-door,
and then, with noiseless step, proceeded through the room till he
brought himself in face of his patron. He then made a low bow--it
would have been _Cow Tow_ if it had been desired--and then advanced
another step, and made another bow.

"Sit down, sit down, Mr. Tims!" said Lord Ashborough, without raising
his eyes, which were running over a paper he had taken from the
drawer. "Sit down, sit down, I say!"

Mr. Tims did sit down, and then, drawing forth some papers from a blue
bag, which he held in his hand, he began quietly to put them in order,
while Lord Ashborough read on.

After a minute or two, however, his lordship ceased, saying, "Now, Mr.
Tims, have you brought the annuity deed?"

"Here it is, any lord," replied the lawyer "and I have examined it
again most carefully. There is not a chink for a fly to break through.
There is not a word about redemption from beginning to end. The money
must be paid for the term of your lordship's natural life."

Lord Ashborough paused, and gnawed his lip for a moment or two. "Do
you know, Mr. Tims," he said at length, "I have some idea of
permitting the redemption? I am afraid we have made a mistake in
refusing it."

Mr. Tims was never astonished at any thing that a great man--_i.e_. a
rich man--did or said, unless he perceived that it was intended to
astonish him, and then he was very much astonished indeed, as in duty
bound. It was wonderful, too, with what facility he could agree in
every thing a rich man said, and exclaim, "Very like an ousel!" as
dexterously as Polonius, or a sick-nurse, though he had been declaring
the same question "very like a whale!" the moment before. Nor was he
ever at a loss for reasons in support of the new opinion implanted by
his patrons. In short, he seemed to have in his head, all ticketed and
ready for use, a store of arguments, moral, legal, and philosophical,
in favor of every thing that could be done, said, or thought, by the
wealthy or the powerful. In the present instance, he saw that Lord
Ashborough put the matter as one not quite decided in his own mind;
but he saw also, that his mind had such a leaning to the new view of
the matter, as would make him very much obliged to any one who would
push it over to that side altogether.

"I think your lordship is quite right," replied Mr. Tims. "You had
every right to refuse to redeem if you thought fit; but, at the same
time, you can always permit the redemption if you like; and it might
indeed look more generous--though, as I said before, you had every
right to refuse. Yet perhaps, after all, my lord--"

"Tush! Do not after all me, sir," cried Lord Ashborough, with some
degree of impatience, which led Mr. Tims to suspect that there was
some latent motive for this change of opinion, which his lordship felt
a difficulty in explaining: and which he, Mr. Tims, resolved at a
proper time to extract by the most delicate process he could devise.
"The means, sir," added Lord Ashborough; "the means are the things to
be attended to, not the pitiful balancing of one perhaps against
another."

"Oh! my lord, the means are very easy," replied Tims, rubbing his
hands. "You have nothing to do but to send word down that your
lordship is ready to accept, and any one will advance the means to
Sir ----"

"Pshaw!" again interrupted Lord Ashborough. "You do not understand me,
and go blundering on;" and, rising from his chair, the peer walked two
or three times up and down the room, gnawing his lip, and bending his
eyes upon the ground. "There!" he cried at length, speaking with
abrupt rudeness. "There! The matter requires consideration--take up
your papers, sir, and begone! I will send for you when I want you."

Mr. Tims ventured not a word, for he saw that his patron had made
himself angry with the attempt to arrange something in his own mind
which would not be arranged; and taking up his papers, one by one, as
slowly as he decently could, he deposited them in their blue bag, and
then stole quietly toward the door. Lord Ashborough was still walking
up and down, and he suffered him to pass the inner door without taking
any notice; but, as he was pushing open the red baize door beyond, the
nobleman's voice was heard exclaiming, "Stay, stay! Mr. Tims, come
here!" The lawyer glided quietly back into the room, where Lord
Ashborough was still standing in the middle of the floor, gazing on
the beautiful and instructive spots on the Turkey carpet.. His
reverie, however, was over in a moment, and he again pointed to the
chair which the lawyer had before occupied, bidding him sit down,
while he himself took possession of the seat on the other side of the
table; and, leaning his elbow on the oak, and his cheek upon his hand,
he went on in the attitude and manner of one who is beginning a long
conversation. The commencement, however, was precisely similar to the
former one, which had proved so short. "Do you know, Mr. Tims," he
said, "I have some idea of permitting the redemption? I am afraid we
have made a mistake in refusing it;" but then he added, a moment
after--"for the particular purpose I propose."

Mr. Tims was as silent as a mouse, for he saw that he was near
dangerous ground; and, at that moment, six-and-eightpence would hardly
have induced him to say a word--at least if it went farther than,
"Exactly so, my lord!"

The matter was still a difficult one for Lord Ashborough to get over;
for it is wonderful how easily men can persuade themselves that the
evil they wish to commit is right; and yet how troublesome they find
even the attempt to persuade another that it is so, although they know
him to be as unscrupulous a personage as ever lived or died unhung.
Now Lord Ashborough himself had no very high idea of the rigid
morality of his friend Mr. Tims's principles, and well knew that his
interest would induce him to do any thing on earth; and yet, strange
to say, that though Lord Ashborough only desired to indulge a
gentlemanlike passion, which, under very slight modifications, or
rather disguises, is considered honorable and is patronized by all
sorts of people, yet he did not at all like to display, even to the
eyes of Mr. Tims, the real motive that was now influencing him. As it
was necessary, however, to do so to some one, and he knew that he
could not do so to any one whose virtue was less ferocious than that
of Mr. Tims, he drew his clenched fist, on which his cheek was
resting, half over his mouth, and went on.

"The fact is, you must know, Mr. Tims," he said, "this Sir Sidney
Delaware is my first cousin--but you knew that before. Well, we were
never very great friends, though he and my brother were; and at
college it used to be his pleasure to thwart many of my views and
purposes. There is not, perhaps, a prouder man living than he is, and
that intolerable pride, added to his insolent sarcasms, kept us
greatly asunder in our youth, and therefore you see he has really no
claim upon my friendship or affection in this business."

"None in the world! None in the world!" cried Tims. "Indeed, all I
wonder at is, that your lordship does not use the power you have to
annoy him!"

Mr. Tims harped aright, and it is inexpressible what a relief Lord
Ashborough felt--one of the proudest men in Europe, by the way--at
finding that the little, contemptible despised lawyer, whom he looked
upon, on ordinary occasions, as the the dust under his feet, had, in
the present instance, got the right end of a clew which he was ashamed
or afraid to unwind himself. Besides, the way he put it gave Lord
Ashborough an opportunity of _chucking_ fine and generous, as the
Westminster fellows have it; and he immediately replied--"No, sir, no!
I never had any wish to annoy him. My only wish has been to lower that
pride, which is ruinous to himself, and insulting to others; and I
should not have even pursued that wish so far, had it not been that a
circumstance happened which called us into immediate collision."

On finding that simple personal hatred and revenge--feelings that
might have been stated in three words--were the real and sole motives
which Lord Ashborough found it so difficult to enunciate, Mr. Tims
chuckled--but mark me, I beg--it was not an open and barefaced
cachination--it was, on the contrary, one of those sweet internal
chuckles that gently shake the diaphragm and the parietes of the
abdomen, and cause even a gentle percussion of the ensiform cartilage,
without one muscle of the face vibrating in sympathy, or the slightest
spasm taking place in the trachea or epiglottis. There is the anatomy
of a suppressed chuckle for you! The discovery, however, was of more
service than in the simple production of such agreeable phenomena. Mr.
Tims, perceiving the motive of his patron, perceived also the precise
road on which he was to lead, and instantly replied, "Whatever
circumstance called your lordship into competition with Sir Sidney
Delaware, must of course have been very advantageous to yourself, if
you chose to put forth your full powers. But that, let me be permitted
to say, is what I should suspect, from all that I have the honor of
knowing of your lordship's character, you would not do. For I am
convinced you have already shown more lenity than was very consistent
with your own interest, and perhaps more than was even beneficial to
the object; but I humbly crave your lordship's pardon for presuming
to--"

Lord Ashborough waved his hand. "Not at all, Mr. Tims! Not at all!" he
said. "Your intentions, I know, are good. But hear me. We came in
collision concerning the lady whom he afterward married, and made a
well bred beggar of. He had known her, and, it seems, obtained
promises from her before I became acquainted: and though a transitory
fancy for her took place in my own bosom"--and Lord Ashborough turned
deadly pale--"yet of course, when I heard of my cousin's arrangements
with her, I withdrew my claims, without, as you say, exerting power
that I may flatter myself--"

He left the sentence unfinished, but he bowed his head proudly, which
finished it sufficiently; and Mr. Tims immediately chimed in, "Oh,
there can be no doubt--if your lordship had chosen--who the deuce is
Sir Sidney Delaware, compared--" &c., &c., &c., &c.

"Well, I forgot the matter entirely," continued Lord Ashborough, in a
frank and easy tone, for it is wonderful how the lawyer's little
insignificances helped him on. "Well, I forgot the matter entirely."

"But you never married any one else," thought the lawyer, "and you
remember it now." All this was thought in the lowest possible tone, so
that Satan himself could hardly hear it--but Lord Ashborough went on.
"I never, indeed, remembered the business more, till, on lending the
money to his father, I found from a letter which the late man let me
see, that the present man had not forgiven me some little progress I
had made in the lady's affection. He said--I recollect the words very
well--he said, that he could have borne his father borrowing the money
at any rate of interest from any person but myself, who had endeavored
to supplant him--and all the rest that you can imagine. Well, from
that moment I determined to bow that man's pride, for his own sake, as
well as other people's. I thought I had done so pretty well too; but,
on my refusing to suffer the redemption--which no one can doubt that I
had a right to do--he wrote me that letter; and his lordship threw
across the table, to his solicitor, the letter which he had taken out
of the drawer, just as the other entered. It was in the form of a
note, and couched in the following terms:--


"Sir Sidney Delaware acknowledges the receipt of Lord Ashborough's
letter, formally declining to accept the offer he made to redeem the
annuity chargeable upon the estate of Emberton. The motives, excuses,
or apologies--whichever Lord Ashborough chooses to designate the
sentences that conclude his letter--were totally unnecessary, as Sir
Sidney Delaware was too well acquainted with Lord Ashborough, in days
of old, not to appreciate fully the principles on which he acts at
present.

   "Emberton Park, 1st September, 18--."


"Infamous! brutal! heinous!" cried Mr. Tims. "What does your lordship
intend to do? I hope you will, without scruple, punish this man as he
deserves. I trust that, for his own sake, you will make him feel that
such ungrateful and malignant letters as that, are not to be written
with impunity--ungrateful I may well call them! for what cause could
your lordship have to write to him at all except to soften the
disappointment you conceived he would feel?"

"You say very true, Mr. Tims," replied Lord Ashborough, with a benign
smile. "You say very true, indeed; and I do think myself, in justice
to society, bound to correct such insolence, though, perhaps, I may
not be inclined to carry the chastisement quite so far as yourself."

"Nothing could be too severe for such a man!" cried Mr. Tims, resolved
to give his lordship space enough to man[oe]uvre in. "Nothing could be
too severe!"

"Nay, nay, that is saying too much," said Lord Ashborough. "We will
neither hang him, Mr. Tims, nor burn him in the hand, if you please,"
and he smiled again at his own moderation.

"A small touch of imprisonment, however, would do him a world of
good," said Mr. Tims, feeling his ground--Lord Ashborough smiled
benignly a third time. "But the mischief is," continued the lawyer,
"he pays the annuity so regularly that it would be difficult to catch
him."

"That is the reason why I say we have done wrong in refusing to allow
the redemption," rejoined the peer. "Do you not think, Mr. Tims, some
accident might occur to stop the money which he was about to borrow
for the purpose of redeeming and if we could but get him to give bills
payable at a certain day, we might have him arrested, in default?"

The lawyer shook his head. "I am afraid, my lord, if you had permitted
the redemption, the money would have been ready to the minute," he
said. "My uncle, I hear, was to have raised it for him; and, as he was
to have had a good commission, it would have been prepared to the tick
of the clock."

"And was your uncle to have lent the money himself, sir?" demanded
Lord Ashborough, with a mysterious smile of scorn. "Did your uncle
propose to give the money out of his own strongbox?"

"No, my lord, no!" replied Tims, eagerly; "no, no! He would not do
that without much higher interest than he was likely to have got. Had
he been the person, of course your lordship might have commanded him;
but it was to be raised from some gentleman connected with Messrs.
Steelyard and Wilkinson--a very respectable law house, indeed!"

"Some gentleman connected with Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson!"
repeated Lord Ashborough, curling his haughty lip; "and who do you
suppose that gentleman is, but my own nephew, Harry Beauchamp?"

The lawyer started off his chair with unaffected astonishment, the
expression of which was, however, instantly mastered, and down he sat
again, pondering, as fast as he could, the probable results that were
to be obtained from this very unexpected discovery. Some results he
certainly saw Lord Ashborough was prepared to deduce; and he knew that
his only plan was to wait the development thereof, assisting as much
as in him lay, the parturition of his patron's designs. But Lord
Ashborough having spoken thus far, found very little difficulty in
proceeding.

"The simple fact is this, Mr. Tims," he said; "Harry Beauchamp, full
of all the wild enthusiasm--which would have ruined his father, if we
had not got him that governorship in which he died--to my certain
knowledge has gone down to Emberton, with the full determination of
assisting these people, of whom his father was so fond. I have reason
to think even, that the coming up of that young man, the son, was at
Henry's instigation, although they affected not to know each other,
and I am told carried their dissimulation so far as to pass each other
in the hall as strangers. At all events, they went down together in a
stage-coach, and are now, beyond all doubt, laying out their plans for
frustrating all my purposes."

"Shameful, indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Tims.

"On Harry's part," replied Lord Ashborough, affecting a tone of candor
and moderation; "on Harry's part it is but a piece of boyish
enthusiasm--a touch of his father's folly. I love the boy, who,
as you know, will succeed me--when it pleases Heaven," he added,
piously,--"to remove me from this life. I love the boy, and I do not
choose to see him spend his splendid fortune, which will make a noble
addition to the family estates, upon a set of mean and designing
beggars; and I wish at once to punish them for their low and cunning
schemes, and to save my nephew from their snares. Can we not, Mr.
Tims, do you think, hit upon some plan by which this may be effected?"

"Why, my lord," replied Mr. Tims, hesitating slightly, for he was
totally unprepared either for the intelligence he had received, or the
demand that followed it; "why, my lord, your lordship's views are as
kind and generous as usual; and doubtless--doubtless we may soon
devise some means by which your lordship's nephew may be extricated
from this little entanglement--but it will, of course, require
thought--though perhaps your lordship's clear and perspicuous mind may
have already devised some project. Indeed, I can not doubt it," he
added, seeing a slight but well satisfied smile cross the features of
the noble earl. "Your lordship has so much of what Burke used to call
creative talent, that I doubt not you have already discovered the
fitting means, and only require an agent in your most devoted
servant."

"Something more, Mr. Tims, something more than a mere servant,"
replied Lord Ashborough. "I require your legal advice. We must proceed
cautiously, and not suffer either zealous indignation, or regard for
my nephew, to lead us into any thing that is not quite lawful. A
slight scheme of the matter may, indeed, have suggested itself to my
mind, but I want you to consider it well, and legalize it for me, as
well as some of the details. Could we not, I say--could we not--it is
but a supposition, you know, sir--could we not give notice to this Sir
Sidney Delaware, that we are willing to permit the redemption; and
even to give him time to pay the money, canceling, in the mean time,
the annuity deed--"

"Not before you have got the amount!" exclaimed the lawyer, in
unutterable astonishment.

"Yes, sir, before I have got the amount," replied Lord Ashborough,
phlegmatically, "but not before I have got bills or notes of hand,
payable within a certain time, and with an expressed stipulation, that
unless those are duly paid, the annuity itself holds in full force."

"Ay; but if they be paid, my lord," cried Mr. Tims, "the annuity is at
an end; and then where is your lordship?"

"But can not we find means to stop their being paid, Mr. Tims?" said
Lord Ashborough, fixing his eyes steadily upon the lawyer. "In all the
intricate chambers of your brain, I say, is there no effectual way you
can discover to stop the supplies upon which this Delaware may have
been led to reckon, and render him unable to pay the sum on the day
his bills fall due? Remember, sir, your uncle is the agent, as I am
led to believe, between this person and my nephew. Harry Beauchamp,
forsooth, has too fine notions of delicacy to offer the money in his
own person; but he is the man from whom the money is to come, and it
has been for some weeks lodged in the hands of Steelyard and
Wilkinson, his solicitors, awaiting the result--that is to say, the
whole of it except ten thousand pounds in my hands, which I have
promised to sell out for him to-morrow, and pay into their office. Are
there no means, sir, for stopping the money?"

"Plenty, plenty, my lord!" replied the lawyer. "The only difficulty
will be the choice of them. But, first, can not your lordship refuse
to pay the ten thousand?"

"That will not do," answered the peer. "I know Harry well; and his
first act would be to sell out the necessary sum to supply the
deficiency. You must devise something else."

"Let us make the bills payable at Emberton, my lord," said the
attorney; "at the house of my uncle. Mr. Beauchamp must then either
come to town for the money, or send some one to receive it; and in
either case it may be staid."

"How so?" demanded Lord Ashborough. "If he come, the matter is
hopeless. He has sold out of the army, too; so there is no chance of
his being called away there."

"Ay, but there is a little process at law going on against him, my
lord," replied the attorney, "of which he knows nothing as yet. Some
time ago, he threw the valet he had then down stairs, head foremost,
for seducing the daughter of his landlady. The fellow has since
prosecuted him for assault, and served the process upon me, whom he
employed in the affair. I am not supposed to know where he is, so that
the matter may be easily suffered to go by default; and, one way or
another, we can contrive to get him arrested for a day or two, no
doubt--especially as it is all for his own good and salvation, I may
call it."

"Certainly, certainly!" answered Lord Ashborough. "I should feel no
scruple in doing so; for no one could doubt that I am actuated alone
by the desire of keeping him from injuring himself. But suppose he
sends, Mr. Tims?"

"Why, that were a great deal better still," said the lawyer. "The only
person he could send would be his servant, Harding, who owes me the
place; and who, between you and I, my lord, might find it difficult to
keep me from transporting him to Botany Bay, if I chose it. He would
doubtless be easily prevailed upon to stop the money for a time, or
altogether, if it could be shown him that he could get clear off, and
the matter would be settled forever."

There was a tone of familiarity growing upon the lawyer, as a natural
consequence of the edifying communion which he was holding with his
patron, that rather displeased and alarmed Lord Ashborough, and he
answered quickly, "You forget yourself, sir! Do you suppose that I
would instigate my nephew's servant to rob his master?"

Mr. Peter Tims had perhaps forgot himself for the moment; but he was
one of those men that never forget themselves long; and, as crouching
was as natural to him as to a spaniel, he was instantly again as full
of humility and submission as he had been, previously to the exposé
which had morally sunk Lord Ashborough to a level with Mr. Tims. "No,
my lord, no!" he exclaimed eagerly; "far be it from me to dream for
one moment that your lordship would form such an idea. All I meant
was, that this servant might easily be induced to delay the delivery
of the money, on one pretext or another, till it be too late; and if
he abscond--which perchance he might do, for his notions concerning
property, either real or personal, are not very clearly defined--your
lordship could easily intend to make it good to Mr. Beauchamp."

"I do not know what you propose that I should easily _intend_, Mr.
Tims," replied Lord Ashborough; "but I know that it would not sound
particularly well if this man were to abscond with the money, and
there were found upon his person any authorization from me to delay
discharging his trust to his master."

"Oh, my lord, that difficulty would be easily removed," answered Mr.
Tims. "The law is very careful not to impute evil motives where good
ones can be made apparent. It will be easy to write a letter to this
man--what one may call a fishing letter--to see whether he will do
what we wish, but stating precisely that your lordship's sole purpose
and view is to save your nephew from squandering his fortune in a weak
and unprofitable manner. We can keep a copy, properly authenticated;
then, should he abscond, and be caught with the letter on him, your
lordship will be cleared; while if, on being taken, he attempt to
justify himself at your lordship's expense, the authenticated copy
will clear you still."

"That is not a bad plan," said Lord Ashborough, musing. "But what if
he draw for the money through your uncle, Mr. Tims? Do you think the
old man could be induced to detain the money, or to deny its arrival
for a day or two?"

"Why, I fear not, my lord," answered the other, shaking his head; "I
fear not--he was five-and-thirty years a lawyer, my lord, and he is
devilish cautious. But I will tell you what I can do. I can direct him
to address all his letters, on London business, under cover to your
lordship, which will save postage--a great thing in his opinion--and,
as he holds a small share of my business still, I can open all the
answers. So that we will manage it some way."

Lord Ashborough paused and mused for several minutes, for though his
mind was comparatively at ease in having found his lawyer so eager and
zealous in his co-operation, yet a certain consciousness of the many
little lets and hindrances that occur in the execution of the best
laid schemes, made him still thoughtful and apprehensive. Did you ever
knit a stocking? No! nor I either--nor Lord Ashborough, I dare say,
either. Yet we all know, that in the thousand and one stitches of
which it is composed, if a single one be missed, down goes the whole
concatenation of loops, and the matter is just where it began, only
with a raveled thread about your fingers and thumbs, which is neither
pleasant nor tidy. This consideration had some weight with the earl;
so, after thinking deeply for several minutes, he rejoined--"The
matter seems clear enough, Mr. Tims, but I will put it to yourself
whether you can carry it through successfully or not--Hear me to an
end, sir--I will on no account agree to the redemption of the annuity,
if you are not certain of being able to bring about that which we
propose. So, do not undertake it unless you can do so. If you do
undertake it, the odds stand thus--You have five hundred pounds in
addition to your fees if you be successful; but if you fail, you lose
my agency forever."

"My lord," replied Tims, who was not a man to suppose that cunning
could ever fail, "I will undertake the business and the risk. But, of
course, your lordship must give me all your excellent advice and your
powerful assistance. In the first place, you must allow me to bid my
uncle send all his letters, and direct all the answers to be sent
under cover to your lordship, and, in the next place, you must allow
me to write immediately to Harding in your name."

"Not without letting me see the letter!" exclaimed Lord Ashborough.
"But that, of course; and, if you succeed, the five hundred pounds are
yours."

"Your lordship is ever generous and kind," replied Peter Tims; "and I
will undertake to carry the matter through; but only"--and Mr.
Tims was honest for once in his life, from the fear of after
consequences--"but only I am afraid your lordship will not find the
result put this Sir Sidney Delaware so completely is your power as you
think."

"How so?" demanded Lord Ashborough, turning upon him almost fiercely.
"How so, sir? How so?"

"Why, my lord," replied Mr. Tims, in a low and humble tone, "even
suppose he is arrested, depend upon it, he will very easily find some
one to lend him the money on the Emberton estates, to take up the
bills he has given."

The earl's eye flashed, and the dark and bitter spirit in his heart
broke forth for the first time unrestrained. "Let me but have him in
prison!" he exclaimed; "let me but have him once in prison, and I will
so complicate my claims upon his pitiful inheritance, and so wring his
proud heart with degradations, that the beggar who robbed me of my
bride shall die as he has lived, in poverty and disappointment!" and
in the vehemence with which the long-suppressed passion burst forth,
he struck his hand upon the table, till the ink-glasses danced in
their stand.

Mr. Tims could understand envy, hatred, and malice, and all
uncharitableness; but he was cowed by such vehemence as that into
which the bare thought of seeing his detested rival in prison had
betrayed his noble patron. Feeling, too, that he himself was not at
all the sort of spirit to rule the whirlwind and direct the storm, he
said a few quiet words about preparing every thing, and waiting on his
lordship the next morning, and slunk away without more ado.




CHAPTER X.


This chapter shall be, I think, what that delightful wight, Washington
Irving, would call a Salmagundi, or, as it should be, perhaps, a
_Salmi à la Gondi_; but, having mentioned that name, Irving, I
dedicate this book to you. It is long since we first met--long since
we last parted--and it may be long, long, ere we meet again.
Nevertheless, Heaven speed you, wherever you are, and send you forward
on your voyage, with a calm sea and a swelling sail! In all the many
that I have known, and among the few that I have loved and esteemed,
there is not now a living man that can compete with you in that
delightful conversation where the heart pours forth its tide, and
where fancy and feeling mingle together, and flow on in one ever
sparkling stream. The dim Atlantic--whose very name sounds like that
of eternity--may roll between us till death close the eyes of one or
the other; but till the things of this world pass away, you shall not
be forgotten.

Although we have now brought up the events in London nearly to the
same point as the events in the country, we must still leave Henry
Burrel strolling on through Emberton Park beside Blanche Delaware,
while we turn for a moment to his silent servant, who having, on the
same morning, walked with his usual slow and quiet step to the
post-office, brought home, and deposited upon his master's table, two
or three letters, after first gleaning every possible information that
their outside or their inside could furnish. He then proceeded to
inspect the contents of another epistle, which bore his own name and
superscription. The words therein written had a considerable effect
upon him, causing more twitches and contortions of the muscles of his
countenance than was usually visible upon that still and patient piece
of furniture. The first expression was certainly full of pleasure; but
that soon relapsed into deep thought, and then a grave shake of the
head, and close setting of the lower jaw, might be supposed to argue a
negative determination. "No, no, Mr. Tims," he muttered, "that won't
do! If one could make sure of getting clear off--well and good. But
first, there is the chance of my not being sent for the money--then
you would take good care to have me closely watched; and then, again,
I do not know whether the chance here at Emberton may not be worth ten
of the other--and I may come in for my share of the other too. No, no,
Mr. Tims, it won't do!--so I will come the conscientious upon you."
And down he sat to indite an epistle to Mr. Peter Tims, the agent of
Lord Ashborough. It was written in one of those fair, easy, but
vacillating, running-hands, which bespeak a peculiar and inherent gift
or talent for committing forgery; and was to the following effect:--


    "Emberton, September, 18--

"Sir--Your honored letter was duly received this morning; and I hasten
to reply, as in duty bound. I am very sure that such honorable
gentlemen as my lord the earl and yourself would not undertake any
thing but upon good and reasonable grounds; but, hoping that you will
pardon my boldness in saying so much, yet I can not imagine that I
have any other than a straight forward duty to perform--namely, when
my master sends me for any sum of money, or other valuable thing, to
hasten to give it up into his hands as soon as I have received it;
which I would certainly do, in case he should send me up to London,
although I do not think it probable he will. It is very true,
certainly, that I do think our notions of property are very confined
and wrong; and that no man should have at his disposal a
superabundance, while another man is wanting the necessaries or even
the conveniences of life; and that, if things were equally
distributed, a better system must spontaneously arise. This much I
have learned by reading; and I heartily wish that the principles of
regeneration, which are at present in active existence among the
operative classes, may go on to complete a change of the old corrupt
system. Nevertheless, until such time as the intellect of the country
in general shall have worked such results, I can be doing no wrong in
following the laws and usages established; and shall, consequently,
abstain from acting upon the abstract principles of general utility,
until such time as the general welfare may require a physical
demonstration of popular opinion.

"In regard to certain passages of my past life, to which you are
pleased to refer; although I believe that I could perfectly justify
myself upon my own fixed principles for every thing that I have done
through life, yet I am sorry that any thing should have occurred to
make you for a moment doubt the integrity of a person you strongly
recommended to Mr. Beauchamp; and I am determined to do nothing that
shall confirm any evil opinion you may have unfortunately been led to
form, or to maim my master regret having listened to the
recommendation which you formerly thought fit to give your very humble
and most obedient servant,
                        "STEPHEN HARDING."


Having penned this delectable epistle, and read it over more than
once, with much genuine satisfaction at the skill with which he had
endeavored to raise his own character, while rejecting the offers of
Mr. Tims, Harding sealed it up, and hastened to put it in the post. He
then sauntered slowly through the town; and having visited the widow's
cottage, and conversed for a few minutes with her son, he proceeded to
walk on in the same direction which we have seen Burrel pursue upon a
former occasion, shortly after his first arrival at Emberton. The
purpose of the silent servant, however, was not to visit the old miser
of Ryebury in person; and, ere he had gone a quarter of a mile upon
the road, he was joined by the same bold vulgar personage who had,
during part of the journey, occupied a place in the stage-coach which
brought his master to Emberton.

They met evidently as old and familiar friends and with that sort of
easy nonchalance which bespoke that their meeting was not unexpected.
The servant pursued his way, scarcely pausing to say the necessary
passwords of civility, and the other turning onward upon the same
path, walked by his side, with his arms bent behind his back,
conversing, not exactly in an under voice, but rather in that
between-the-teeth sort of tone, which renders what is said more
difficult to be understood by any one not quite near, than even a
whisper.

The terms in which they spoke, also, were something enigmatical, and
none, probably, but the initiated, could have discovered their views
or purposes by such terms as the following.

"I have just been thinking last night, Master Harding," said his new
companion, "that we had better get the other job done as soon as
possible. We are wasting time, I thinks, and it seems to me as how you
are growing something squeamish."

"You are a fool, Tony" replied Harding, "you are a fool for thinking,
any thing of the kind. I'll tell you what, you may count yourself
extremely well off that you have fallen in with a man of principle and
education like myself, or you would have put your neck in a noose long
ago. You take no extended views of things; and, instead of acting upon
principle, which would always make you cautious in regard to times and
seasons, and means and methods, you go bolt on, and would run your
head into the stone pitcher, if I were not by to pull you back by the
heels."

"Well, I think you're a rum covey, now!" replied the other; and was
proceeding in the same strain, when he was stopped by his companion
exclaiming--"Hush, hush! Curse your slang, it will betray you as soon
as the mark of the hot iron would. Look here, now. I am no more
squeamish than you are. I always act upon principle; and as to the job
before us, considering the sum of general utility that is to be
gained, I see no objection to doing the matter completely--I mean,
making a finish of it. You understand? But where is the hurry? Let us
go cautiously to work, learn our ground, and get every thing prepared.
I say, where's the hurry?"

"As to the matter of that," answered the other, "there mayn't be no
great hurry, to be sure. But we're both wasting our time somewhat;
and, besides, they are looking out sharp after that other job--you see
they have digged for the plate like mad--so that there is no use
staying longer nor necessary, you know."

"Don't be afraid!" answered Harding, coolly, "they can make nothing of
that. Besides, look here, Smithson; if we wait four or five days
longer, there will be five-and-twenty thousand pounds down from
London."

"Whew!" whistled Mr. Anthony Smithson, laying one finger on the side
of his nose "That is a go! But are you sure?"

"I never say any thing without being sure," answered Harding, with
laconic pomposity. "So make yourself easy on that score. I say there
will be five-and-twenty thousand pounds down in three or four days;
and, if I know the old man right, the larger half will be in gold.
Have you tried Sally the maid?"

"It wont do!" answered the other, with somewhat of a rueful face. "She
has lived long enough with that old fellow to be as cautious as a
beak."

"Well, I suppose I must do that too!" answered the valet; "though it
is a little tiresome, Master Smithson, that all the hard work is to
fall upon me."

"Why, how the devil can I help it, Harding?" replied the other. "If
the girl will have nothing to say to me, what can I do, you know! No,
no, when it comes to the real hard work, you never find me behind!"

"Well, well," answered his worthy coadjutor, "I must come round her
myself somehow, though she be but a dirty, trapesing slut, that a man
of gentlemanly feelings will find some difficulty in making love
to--but, nevertheless, when one acts upon principle, one learns to
overcome one's repugnance to such things, from a consideration of the
mass of general utility to be obtained by a trifling sacrifice."

His companion grinned, but he was too well accustomed to Mr. Harding's
method a reasoning to express any farther surprise. After a few words
more on both sides, however, as they judged it expedient to be seen
together as little as possible, these two respectable persons
separated, and, while Anthony Smithson returned to the town, Harding
pursued his way onward; and having, on the strength of the
communication he had received, determined to proceed to Ryebury, he
took the same path that Burrel had followed before him. The beauties
of nature occupied less of his thoughts than those of his master; and
while, with solemn steps and slow, he wandered on his way, his ideas
were much fuller of shillings and sixpences, and trips across the
Atlantic, than of the verdant mead and purling stream.

As I believe I have before said, Master Harding was by no means an
ugly person; and the charms of his good looks, together with a
marvelous sweet voice, and a good deal more eloquence of its own
peculiar kind than any one could have suspected him to possess from
his usual taciturnity, he was what the French render, with somewhat
profligate decency, by calling the person so gifted _un homme à bonnes
fortunes_. His expedition against the heart of Sally, the miser's
maid, was more successful than that of his companion had been, and he
returned home flattering himself on having made more progress than he
had anticipated. In fact, he had been fortunate in finding Mr. Tims
out, and Sally at home; but as the intrigues of a slattern and a valet
form no part of the staple of this book, we shall leave the matter as
it is, without any farther elucidation.

In the mean while, Burrel--for so we shall still call him--had
sauntered on, whiling away the golden minutes of a fair day, on the
early side of thirty, in sweet conversation beside a beautiful girl. I
have described what their conversation was like before, and I leave
every one who can remember what were the sensations he experienced,
when deep and fervent love just began to break upon his heart, to
imagine how sweet were the winged minutes as they flew. Even the
unspoken consciousness was not a burden, but a joy; and though Blanche
Delaware might be said to tremble at the feelings that were growing
upon her, yet there was a sort of vague internal conviction that those
feelings were reciprocal--that they could not thus have crept over her
heart unless some, nay, many of the signs of similar sentiments, on
his side, had been sufficiently displayed to make her feel secure that
she did not love unsought. Still there would every now and then
come a shrinking apprehension across her mind, that she might be
deceived--that it might be all merely a courteous and engaging manner,
the same toward every one, which she in her ignorance had vainly
fancied particular to herself. But those thoughts were but for a
moment; and as Burrel walked onward by her side, there was in his
tone, in his manner, and still more in the current through which all
his thoughts appeared now to flow, a balmy influence that seemed to
soothe away every fear. She knew not well whence she derived that
balm; for had she tried--which, by the way, she did not--she could not
have found one particular word he spoke, which was more appropriate to
the vocabulary of love than to Johnson's Dictionary. It was,
perhaps--but she knew nothing about it. It was perhaps, that pouring
forth of the soul upon every topic, which can never take place but in
conversation with one we love and esteem; for the hours of love are
like a sunshiny day in the midst of summer, and all the flowers open,
and the birds sing, and the bright things come forth through the
heart's universe. It was this, perhaps, more than aught else in
Burrel's manner, that made Blanche Delaware believe that she herself
was loved.

It is sometimes a very difficult thing to get two people to
acknowledge in any language under the sun, the feelings that are
passing in their hearts. It is more especially difficult in a book;
for no author likes to tell how he and his managed the matter
themselves--at least, if he be not an ass or a coxcomb--and any thing
that is manufactured is almost always "flat, stale, and unprofitable."
A true story canters one easily over all such difficulties; and it so
fortunately happened, that Henry Burrel and Blanche Delaware
acknowledged it all without the slightest idea in the world that they
were doing any thing of the kind.

There had been something spoken accidentally, that went too deep, and
both felt, perhaps, though almost unconsciously, that nothing more
could be said on that topic without saying more still; and as there
was a third person by, of course the matter dropped, and equally, of
course, a long pause ensued, which grew unpleasant.

"I thought," said Burrel, at length, "that we were to meet with some
antiquities--even more interesting than the house itself--at least
your father said so;" and conscious that he had made an awkward
speech, and very little to the purpose, Burrel looked up and smiled,
though many other men would have looked down and .

"You are not far from them," replied Captain Delaware--for Blanche's
eyes were fixed upon the ground, and her thoughts were--not at Nova
Zembla. "But surely you are not tired?"

"Nay, nay, any thing but tired?" answered Burrel; "but your father
declared he would catechise me upon these ruins severely, and I was
only afraid that I should forget them altogether."

"A piece of inattention which Blanche or I would excuse much more
readily than my father," replied the good-humored sailor. "But we are
close upon them. You see those two wooded banks that fall across each
other, with the stream flowing out in foam from between them? They
form the mouth of a little glen, about a hundred yards up which stands
the Prior's Fountain, and farther still, the Hermit's Chapel. In
architecture, I believe, they are unique, and there is many a curious
tradition about both."

"Hush, hush, William!" cried his sister, seeing him about to proceed,
"never tell the traditions but upon the spot. Oh, an old legend, in
these days of steam and manufactory, can never be properly told,
except under the gray stone and the ivy, where the memories of a
thousand years are carved by the chisel of time on every tottering
pinnacle and moldering cornice, which vouch, by their unusual forms,
for the strange stories of their founders!"

"Oh, let us go on, by all means," said Burrel, smiling; "an old legend
is worthy of every accessory with which we can furnish it. But there
it is," he added, as they turned the angle of the bank, and, entering
the little glen, had before them a small Gothic building, covered with
the richest ornaments of the most luxurious age of Norman
architecture. "That, I suppose, is the chapel?"

"No, that is the Prior's Fountain," answered Captain Delaware; "and
certainly the monks must have attached some peculiar importance to it,
from covering it over with so splendid a structure."

Another minute brought them near it, and Burrel found that, under a
beautiful canopy of stone-work, supported by eight cluster pillars,
was placed a small stone fountain, full of the most limpid water,
which, welling from a basin somewhat like the baptismal font of a
Gothic church, poured through a little channel in the pavement, and
thence made a small, sparkling stream, which joined the larger one ere
it had run fifty yards. Attached to the basin by an iron chain, was a
cup of the same metal, of very ancient date, though, perhaps, more
modern than the fountain. This cup, as soon as they approached,
Captain Delaware dipped into the water, and, laughing gayly, held it
to Burrel.

"You must drink of the Prior's Fountain, Mr. Burrel," he said; "but
listen, listen before you do so. The monks, you know, having vowed
celibacy, found that the less they had to do with love the better; and
it being luckily discovered that the waters of this well were a
complete and everlasting cure for that malady, one of the priors
covered it over, as you see, and enjoined that, on commencing his
novitiate at Emberton, every pseudo-monk should be brought hither, and
made to drink one cup of the water. It is added, that the remedy was
never known to fail; and now, with this warning, Burrel, drink if you
will."

Burrel, by this time, had the cup in his hand, and for a single
instant his eyes sought those of Blanche Delaware. She was looking
down into the fountain, with one hand resting on the edge. There was a
slight smile upon her lip, but there was a scarcely perceptible
degree of agitation in her aspect at the same time, which Burrel
understood--or, at least, hoped--might have some reference to himself,
although she might believe as little as he did in the efficacy of the
waters of the fountain.

"No, no!" he replied at once, giving back the cup to Captain Delaware,
and laughing lightly, as people do when they have very serious
feelings at their hearts--"no, no! I dare not drink of such
waters--they are too cold, in every sense of the word, to drink after
such a walk as this. The very cup has frozen my hand!" he added, to
take out any point that he might have given to his speech.

"He is actually afraid, Blanche!" cried her brother laughing. "Come,
show him what a brave girl you are, and drain the cup to the bottom!"

"No, indeed!" answered Blanche Delaware. "Mr. Burrel is very right.
The water is a great deal too cold!" And, as she spoke, she blushed
till the tell-tale blood spread rosy over her fair forehead, and
tingled in her small rounded ear.

"Cowards both, as I live!" cried Captain Delaware, drinking off the
contents, and letting the cup drop--"cowards both, as I live!" and,
springing across the little streamlet, he took two or three steps
onward, toward the chapel.

"Let me assist you across!" said Burrel, offering his hand. As his
fingers touched those of Blanche Delaware, to aid her in crossing the
rivulet, they clasped upon her hand with a gentle pressure of
thanks--so slight that she could not be offended, so defined that she
could not mistake. The natural impulse of surprise was to look up; and
before she could recollect herself, she had done so, and her eyes met
Burrel's. What she saw was all kind, and gentle, and tender; but she
instantly cast down her eyes, with another blush that was painful from
its intensity, and with a single tear of agitation--and perhaps
delight.




CHAPTER. XI.


Sir Sidney Delaware was a peculiar character; and, if I had time, I
would go on and make a miniature of him. But I have not time; and
therefore, though there might undoubtedly be a great deal of pleasure
in investigating all the little complex motives which made him do this
thing or that thing, which seemed quite contrary to his general
principles--a great deal of pleasure in finding out the small, fine
lines that connected together actions that appeared as opposite as
light and darkness--yet, having a long journey before me, and very
little time to spare, I must refrain from taking portraits by the
roadside, leaving every pleasant gentleman of my acquaintance to say,
"That is not natural--this is out of character!" if he like.

One thing, however, I must notice, which was, that Sir Sidney Delaware
was, in some degree, an indolent man--there was a great deal of the
_vis inertiæ_ in his constitution. His mind was naturally active
enough, but the body clogged it, and even rendered it lazy too; and
the opposition between a keen and powerful moral constitution, and an
idle physical temperament, was the cause of many a contradiction in
his conduct.

Such had been the case in regard to his daughter's visits to Mrs.
Darlington. That good lady, when she first settled in the
neighborhood, had determined upon visiting the people at the Park; and
though Sir Sidney for some time continued stiff, and cold, and
stern--ay, and even rude--Mrs. Darlington persevered, and Mrs.
Darlington carried her point.

The same now became the case with Burrel. He had been once received as
an intimate in the house of the Delawares, and the door was open to
him whenever he chose. There was something to be said, it is true,
upon the score of a great service rendered, which, of course, formed a
tie between him and every member of the Delaware family, which existed
in no other case. But still there was a great deal of habit in the
matter; and Burrel, having now his purpose to carry too, took care
that the good custom should not drop.

He became almost a daily visitor. Many a long ramble he took with
Captain Delaware; many a sweet, intoxicating walk beside Blanche.
Many, too, were the long and pleasant discussions he held with Sir
Sidney, upon every subject under the sun--the customs and manners of
our ancestors--the glorious works of past ages--the stores of
classical knowledge, or the beauties and perfections, follies and
absurdities, of our own and other lands.

As some French writer has said, "C'est dans les petites choses que
l'on temoigne son amitié. L'amour propre a trop a part à ce qu'on fait
dans lea grandes occasions;" and it is this truth that makes small
attentions always pleasant to those who receive them--great services
often painful. Burrel felt that it was so; and took infinite care to
conceal that he had the slightest thought of relieving Sir Sidney
Delaware from his difficulties; but, at the same time, by the display
of elegant manners and a polished mind, and by the constant
outbreakings of a generous and a noble heart, he rendered himself both
so agreeable and so much esteemed, that Sir Sidney learned to think,
"If I required any great service, I would ask it of Henry Burrel
sooner than of any other man I know."

Very soon the worthy baronet began to look for his appearance shortly
after breakfast; and, as he had always something--perhaps of little
consequence--but still something on which he wished to speak with him,
he twice caught himself saying, when Burrel was a few minutes after
the usual hour, "I wish Mr. Burrel would come;" and then remembered,
with a sort of cynical smile, springing from very mixed feelings, that
he had no right to expect that he would come at all.

Burrel always did come, however; and finding that he was ever made
most welcome by the baronet, greeted with a hearty shake of the hand
by Captain Delaware, and found a bright, though timid smile on the
sweet lips of Blanche, he did not find it very difficult to assign
motives for his each day's visit, or to discover an excuse for the
call of the next morning. Sir Sidney Delaware soon began to give him
stronger marks of his esteem; and on more than one occasion, when
accidentally alone with Burrel, referred frankly to the state of his
own affairs, and the causes which had combined to produce their
embarrassment.

Burrel, on his part, of course found the subject difficult to converse
upon, and the more so, perhaps, from the previous knowledge, which he
did not choose to display. However, when on one occasion the baronet
directly mentioned the annuity granted to the Earl of Ashborough, he
replied, "But the interest is enormous, and the earl would, of course,
suffer you to redeem it."

"I am sorry to say, my young friend," replied Sir Sidney, "that at the
time you met William in the coach coming from London, the poor fellow
was returning full of disappointment from an unsuccessful attempt to
persuade Lord Ashborough to permit the repayment of the original sum.
But his lordship refused in the most peremptory manner; and, on the
deed being produced, no clause of redemption was found in it,
although, in the original letter of instructions for the preparation
of that instrument, the introduction of such a clause is expressly
enjoined."

"If I might advise, Sir Sidney--" replied Burrel; but then breaking off
again, he added, "But perhaps I am taking too great a liberty with
you, in even offering advice upon your private affairs."

"Not in the least, my dear sir!" replied the baronet. "Speak, speak,
my dear sir! I have forgotten all my legal learning, and shall be very
glad of any advice upon the subject."

"I know nothing of law, either," answered Burrel, smiling; "but I know
a little of Lord Ashborough, and I know the character he bears in the
world. Of his faults and failings, I do not pretend to speak; but his
lordship has, of course, his share. He has, however, always maintained
a grave and dignified name, and high character in society; and it is
very generally believed that his lordship values the reputation of a
just, stern, upright peer, more than--"

"The reality!" added Sir Sidney Delaware, with one of those sneers
which had made him many an enemy in his youth. Strange that a turn up
of the nostrils should make men cut each other's throats!

"I was not going to be quite so severe," said Burrel, somewhat
gravely; "but I was going to add, that he values that reputation more
than any part of his estate; and I should think that if your son were
to go to London once more, and were to show him the letter of
instructions for the preparation of the annuity deed, pointing out to
him that the clause has been omitted, either by the mistake or the
fraud of a lawyer, and hinting at the publicity of a court of
justice--I think, I say--indeed, I feel sure, that his lordship's care
for his reputation, coming in support of what I believe to be his
natural sense of equity, would make him at once accept the
redemption."

"Perhaps you are right in regard to his care for his reputation, Mr.
Burrel," replied Sir Sidney Delaware. "But I, who know him better,
perhaps, than you do, can not reckon much upon his sense of equity. I
know him well--thoroughly! In early years, before these children were
born, Lord Ashborough and myself were unfortunately involved in a
dispute, which did not arise in any great demonstration of a sense of
equity on his part; and since that time, I have reason to believe that
disappointment, added to a bitter quarrel, has caused him to watch
an opportunity of treading on the head of one, against whom time
even--the great mollifier of all things--has not been able to abate
his rancor."

"I would fain believe that you do not quite do him justice," replied
Burrel. "May not a little personal dislike on your own part, my dear
sir, influence your mind against him?"

"No, indeed, Mr. Burrel! No, indeed!" answered Sir Sidney Delaware. "I
know him _intus et in cute novi_. He was, and is, and ever will be,
the same man. The cause of our quarrel now lies in the cold, forgetful
dust, where all such dissensions cease. Besides, I was naturally the
least offended of the two, being the injured person. I also was
successful; he disappointed--notwithstanding all his arts; and
therefore the matter with me was soon forgotten, while with him it has
been, I am afraid, long remembered. Nevertheless," he added, "do not
for a moment fancy that I am saying all this because I do not intend
to follow your advice. Far from it--William shall go up. Indeed, I
should think myself very wrong, were I to leave any means untried to
remove those embarrassments which shut my children out from the
society to which by birth they are entitled."

Captain Delaware soon joined the conference; and, although he shook
his head at all idea of changing the determination of Lord Ashborough,
yet he undertook to try, with a readiness that the cold and haughty
demeanor which he described that nobleman to have maintained toward
him, rendered a little extraordinary. The resolution, however, once
taken, William Delaware was not a man, either by temperament or habit,
to lose a moment in putting it into execution, and his plan, was
instantly secured in the next morning's coach for London. Burrel
agreed to dine at the mansion, and the day passed over with that
additional drop of excitement, which renewed hope and expectation,
however faint, are still sure to let fall into the cup of life.

Either it was really so, or Burrel fancied it, that Blanche Delaware
was more lovely and more fascinating than ever; and, indeed, the
feelings that had been growing upon her for several days, had added an
indescribable and sparkling charm to all the attractions of youth, and
grace, and beauty. The soul always did much in her case to increase
the loveliness that nature had bestowed upon her face and form, and
Burrel could not help imagining--even long before--that the graceful
movement of each elegant limb, and finely modeled feature, was but the
corporeal expression of a bright and generous mind within. But now the
heart, too, was called into play, and all the warm and sunny feelings
of a young and ardent bosom sparkled irrepressibly up to the surface,
calling forth new charms, both in their accidental flash, and in the
effort to suppress them.

All Burrel's enthusiasm, too--brought as he was by every circumstance
into nearer connection with that fair being, than any other events
could possibly have produced--having been admitted to that intimate
friendship which no other man shared--having become the friend and
adviser of her father and brother, and having saved her own life--all
his own natural enthusiasm of character, therefore, unchained by any
opposing motive, broke through all the habitual restraints of the
state of life to which he had so long been accustomed; and during that
afternoon, Henry Burrel, with very little concealment of his feelings,
sat beside Blanche Delaware, full of that bright, unaccountable
thing--love.

The matter was so evident, and indeed had been so evident for the last
two or three days, that the eyes of Captain Delaware himself--not very
clear upon such subjects--had been fully opened; and now, as Burrel
bent over his sister's drawing-frame with a look of tenderness and
affection that would bear but one interpretation, he turned his eyes
upon his father to see whether it was really possible that he did not
perceive the feelings that were kindling up before him.

No one, perhaps, had ever in his day felt more deep and sincere
love than Sir Sidney Delaware, yet--it is wonderful! quite
wonderful!--Burrel might almost, as the old romances term it, have
died of love at his daughter's feet without his perceiving that any
thing was the matter. Burrel was bending over Blanche Delaware with a
look, and a tone, and a manner, that all declared, "Never, in the many
mingled scenes which I have trod, did I meet with any thing so
beautiful, so gentle, so graceful as yourself!" Captain Delaware, as I
have said, turned his eyes upon his father; but Sir Sidney, with his
fine head a little thrown back, a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles
upon his nose, and his face to the book-cases, was walking quietly
along, looking earnestly for Pliny.

Oh, had you not forgotten all your lessons in the natural history of
the heart, you might have marked much, Sir Sidney Delaware, that would
have given you more to study than could be found in Pliny, ay, or
Plato either!

"I must look to it myself," thought Captain Delaware. "Poor Blanche!
It would not do to have the dear girl's affections trifled with. Yet I
do not think he is one to play such a part either.--Oh, no!--yet I
must speak to him!"

With this doughty resolution, and a thousand thoughts and difficulties
in regard to what he was to say when he did begin, Captain Delaware
sat down to dinner, somewhat absent and pensive; and after Blanche had
left them, and Sir Sidney had retired to his dressing-room, to indulge
in a somewhat usual nap after dinner, the gallant officer invited his
friend to ramble through the park till tea-time, fully prepared to do
a great deal that a man of the world would never have thought of doing
at all. Burrel saw that something was weighing upon his companion's
mind; but as his own determinations in regard to Blanche were
completely formed, and he feared no questions upon the subject, he did
not anticipate any. He left Captain Delaware, however, to bring forth
his own thoughts at leisure, and walked on by his side as silent as
himself, though not, quite as much embarrassed.

At length Captain Delaware began--"I have wished," he said, "Mr.
Burrel--"

Burrel started, for the epithet _Mister_ had long been dropped toward
him by his companion, and he evidently perceived that something very
formal was working its way through his friend's mind.

"I have wished, Burrel," repeated Captain Delaware, correcting himself
on seeing the surprise expressed by the other's countenance--"I have
wished to speak to you about my sister;" and, as he mentioned that
dear name, a sense of deep affection for her made him proceed more
boldly, though his face glowed warmly as he spoke. "You have been much
with her of late, and perhaps, may be so for some time longer. Now--do
not misunderstand me, Burrel--do not think I doubt you, or seek to
question you: but I wish first to put you in mind that she sees very
few persons besides yourself, and next to tell you--as most men of
station and fortune expect to receive some portion with their
wives--to tell you that the greater part even of the small sum which
Blanche and I inherited from our mother is engaged to support, as far
as possible, and that is little enough, our father's station in
society."

"And did you, my dear Delaware, suppose for a moment," said Burrel, in
reply--"did you imagine, from what you have hitherto seen of my
conduct and sentiments, that so long as I had enough myself to offer
any woman I might love, I would consider her fortune for an instant?"

"No, no! I did not suppose you would," replied Captain Delaware,
hesitating in some degree how to proceed. "But the truth is, Burrel, I
have heard that women's hearts are delicate things, and as easily
wounded as the wing of a butterfly. However, let us say no more of it.
I begin to think that I have got out of my depth, and meddled with
matters I had better have left to themselves."

For some reason, or reasons--from some simple or complex motive, which
I do not know, and shall not stop to discover--men, however fully
their minds may be made up in such matters as that on which I write,
never like to be questioned upon the subject till they choose to
explain themselves; and, although Burrel was fully determined to offer
his hand to Blanche Delaware, as soon as he had convinced himself that
not a shadow of hesitation on her part would hurt his pride; and
though he completely understood Captain Delaware's feelings upon the
subject, and was amused at his straightforwardness, yet some internal
little devil of perversity made him feel almost offended at the
sentences we have just recorded. He resisted, however, and the devil
fled from him.

"My dear Delaware," he said, after a moment's pause, which he employed
in clearing his bosom of the enemy, "although no man likes to make a
declaration, except at his own choice and convenience, yet, situated
as you are, I can enter into all your feelings for your sister. Set
your mind at rest then," he added, laying his hand frankly and kindly
on his companion's arm--"set your mind at rest then, as far as I am
concerned. It is my intention, as soon as I can entertain any hope of
success, to offer my hand to your sister. If she refuse me, it is not
my fault you know; but this much you will, I am sure, take upon my
word, that I would not presume for one moment to solicit the hand of a
daughter of Sir Sidney Delaware, unless in rank I could aspire to that
honor, and in fortune could maintain her in that circle which she is
calculated to adorn. Let us say no more upon the subject, if you can
trust me."

Captain Delaware grasped his hand warmly. "You have made me very
happy," he said.

"Well, then, keep my secret," added Burrel, with a smile, "and let
your sister decide the rest."

William Delaware could well have told, at least he thought so, what
his sister's decision would be; but delicacy prevented him from
speaking his belief; and with a lightened heart he changed the
subject, and returned with Burrel to the mansion.




CHAPTER XII.


William Delaware set out from Emberton, and arrived in London. His
next step was to send a note to Lord Ashborough, informing him of his
being in town, and requesting an interview the following morning; and
in answer he received a very polite, though somewhat formal, billet,
inviting him to breakfast in Grosvenor-square, and promising as long
an audience after that meal as he might think necessary.

At the appointed hour--for Captain Delaware never considered that
appointed hours mean nothing--he approached Lord Ashborough's house,
and was ushered up-stairs, where he found housemaids and empty
drawing-rooms enow; and, planting himself at a window that looked out
into the square, he gazed forth with somewhat unpleasant anticipations
occupying his mind, and rendering his eye sightless as to all that was
passing before it.

In a few minutes the housemaids withdrew from the farther rooms, and
the whole suite became vacant for some time, till a light step caught
Captain Delaware's ear; and, turning round, he beheld a young lady
whom he had seen there before, when last he had visited London. At
that time he had found her surrounded by a whole bevy of strangers,
whose gay appearance and supercilious manner had somewhat repelled the
young sailor, although Miss Beauchamp herself, Lord Ashborough's
niece, had spoken to him with frank kindness, and claimed relationship
with him at once.

Miss Beauchamp now advanced toward him, while he acknowledged her
approach by a bow, which was stiff though not awkward. The young lady,
however, held out her hand with a gay smile, and, as he took it,
added, in a tone of playful sharpness--"Tell me, sir, are you my
cousin, or are you not?"

"I believe I have some right to claim that honor," replied Captain
Delaware.

"Well, then," continued the young lady, "lay aside, immediately, all
that stiff, chilly reserve, or I will disown you henceforth and
forever." Captain Delaware smiled, and she continued--"I know that
this house has a very icy atmosphere, but that does not extend to my
part of it; and while my noble and stately uncle may be as frigid as
the north pole in his peculiar territories--the library and the
dining-room--I must have a pleasanter climate in my domains, the
drawing-rooms, and breakfast-room."

"Your own presence must always produce such an atmosphere," replied
Captain Delaware. "But you must remember, Miss Beauchamp, that I have
been but a short time within its influence, so that I have scarcely
had leisure to get thawed."

"Oh, I must unfreeze you quite, ere long, my good cousin," replied
Miss Beauchamp, laughing. "But now, listen to me for five minutes, for
I have a great deal more to say to you than you know any thing about.
Calculating that you would come early, when I heard that my uncle had
asked you to breakfast, I determined to rise a full hour sooner than
usual, on purpose to give you your lesson for the day."

Captain Delaware expressed his thanks as warmly as possible,
acknowledging, however, that his gratitude was somewhat mingled with
surprise, to find that his fair cousin was prepared to be interested
in behalf of one who, though akin by blood, was nearly a stranger, as
far as acquaintance went.

"That would be a severe reproach to my forwardness, William Delaware,"
replied the young lady, "if I had not a good motive _in petto_.
Besides, I find that, in days of yore, when we were all children, and
my good father was alive, that you and I and Blanche, and my brother
Henry, have had many a rude game of play among the old trees of
Emberton Park. But let us speak to the point, as we may have little
time to speak at all. An old friend of yours and mine, good Dr.
Wilton, has written to me a long letter, two or three days ago, giving
me an account of all this unfortunate business between your father and
my uncle, and desiring me, if you ever came to town again, to do my
best to forward your views. Now, the truth is, I have no more
influence with Lord Ashborough than that screen."

"With a thousand thanks for your kind interest," replied Captain
Delaware, "I should still be sorry to owe, even to your influence,
what I could not obtain from justice."

"Pride! pride!" cried Miss Beauchamp, "the fault of men and angels!
But, let me tell you, my dear cousin, that no man or men have any
right to be proud in a woman's presence; for ye are a mere race of
bullies at the best, and bow like the veriest slave whenever we choose
to tyrannize over you. But to the point. Listen to my sage advice. I
was saying, that I had no more influence with my Lord Ashborough than
that screen. I am a mere piece of household furniture; and I dare say
that I am to be found written down in the inventory thus: 'Front
drawing-room--Three tables, four-and-twenty chairs, four sofas, three
chaises longues, _a niece_.' I do believe my uncle, when I refused the
Honorable Mr. What's-his-name, the other day, which mortally offended
his lordship, thought of having me transferred to the schedule of
fixtures forthwith. But, nevertheless, as I am a hearing and seeing
piece of furniture, I have learned that the only way to manage the
Earl of Ashborough, is to be firm, steady, somewhat haughty, and a
good deal stern. Remember all this, my dearly beloved cousin, and make
use of the hint. But I hear his lordship's morning step, when the neat
boot is first, for that day, fitted on to the neat foot. So I will to
the breakfast room; and do not forget, when you meet me, to wish me
good-morrow in set form and civil terms, and take care that you do not
look conscious."

Thus saying, the gay girl ran lightly through the long suite of rooms,
leaving Captain Delaware standing nearly where she had found him, with
a good deal of admiration at her beauty, and a good deal of surprise
at the mingling of kindness both with levity and with the slightest
possible spice of coquetry, which she had displayed in their brief
conversation.

Ere she was well out of sight, the step that had been heard above
might be distinguished descending the stairs. There is not a little
character in a step, and the sound of Lord Ashborough's was peculiar.
Perhaps the enfeebling power of time--which, what with one aid or
another, was not very apparent in his person--marked its progress more
decidedly in his step than in any thing else. There was a certain
degree of creaking feebleness in it, especially at an early hour of
trite morning, when he was just out of bed, which, joined with a slow
precision of fall, indicated a declension in the firm and sturdy
manhood. His lordship felt it, and in society he covered the slight
falling off by an affectation of grave and thoughtful dignity of
movement, but his valet-de-chambre knew better.

Captain Delaware, however, did not; and as the earl entered the room
with a roll of papers in his hand, like Talma in Sylla--he acted a
good deal, by the way--his young relative thought him a very grave and
reverend signor; and would rather have lain for an hour alongside an
enemy's frigate, yard-arm to yard-arm, than have grappled with so
stern and thoughtful a personage, on so disagreeable a business as
that which he came to discuss. He had undertaken it resolutely,
however, and he was not a man to flinch before any coward
apprehensions, moral or physical.

The first expression of his lordship's countenance, when his eyes fell
upon his visitor, was not certainly of a nature greatly to encourage
him. For a moment--a single instant--nature got the better, and a
slight shade of that loathing dislike, with which one regards some
poisonous reptile, or the object of some peculiar antipathy, passed
over Lord Ashborough's features. It was gone as quickly; and with a
much more condescending and agreeable smile than he had bestowed upon
him on his former visit, the earl advanced, and welcomed him to
London.

Captain Delaware was of course very well disposed to welcome any show
of kindness; and he said a few words in regard to his regret at having
to trouble Lord Ashborough again.

"Oh! we will speak of all that after breakfast," said the earl. "When
last I saw you, I was hurried and fretted by a thousand things, and
had no opportunity of showing you any attention. Indeed, I have but
little leisure now; the duties of my office--" he held a sinecure post
which required him to sign his name twice a year--"the duties of my
office claiming great part of my time. But you must really, as long as
you remain in London, spend your days here; and my niece, Maria, who
has nothing to do, will show you all over the world, under the fair
excuse of your cousinship. But let us to breakfast. Maria will not be
down for this hour; but I never wait for that lazy girl."

Lord Ashborough was not a little surprised to find his niece in the
breakfast-room, and praised her ironically on her habits of early
rising; but Miss Beauchamp answered at once, "Oh! I had a reason for
getting up soon to-day, otherwise I should certainly not have done so.
To contemplate my dear uncle for an hour with one foot crossed over
the other, letting his coffee get cold, and reading the newspaper, is
too great a treat to be indulged in every morning."

"And pray, my fair niece," demanded Lord Ashborough, smiling at a
picture of himself which was not without the cold sort of importance
he chose to assume; "and pray my fair niece, what was the particular
cause of your infringing your ancient and beloved habits this
morning?"

"First and foremost, of course," replied Miss Beauchamp, with a
graceful bend of the head to her cousin, "to see Captain Delaware,
whose visit you yesterday evening led me to expect; but, in the next
place, my full resolution and determination was to take possession of
your lordship during breakfast, and tease you in every sort of way,
till you agree to leave this horrid place, London, now that you are
positively the last gentleman remaining in it, except the men in red
coats that walk up and down St. James's-street, and look disconsolate
from June till January. But they are forced to stay, poor fellows! You
are not."

"There is no use of going out of town, Maria, to come up again the
next day," replied Lord Ashborough. "Parliament will certainly sit for
a few days this month, and I must be present. But, in regard to your
cousin, I intend to make him over to you for the whole day, as I have
some business to transact; and, therefore, you see you would not have
been deprived of his visit."

"Sad experience making me doubtful," replied Miss Beauchamp, laughing,
"in regard to how far your lordship's civility might extend to your
kindred, I did not know whether I might ever see Captain Delaware
again."

She spoke in jest, but it cut home; and Lord Ashborough, reddening,
took his coffee and the newspaper, and left his cousin and his niece
to entertain themselves, while he soon became immersed in the idle
gossip of the day. After breakfast, he led the way to the library with
renewed complacence, and, begging Captain Delaware to be seated, he
listened to him calmly and good-humoredly, while he spoke of the cause
of his coming. He then read attentively the first instructions for the
annuity deed, and returning the paper, fell--or affected to fall--into
deep thought.

"Why, this certainly does make a great difference," he replied at
length; "and I am sure Captain Delaware, you will exculpate me from
any desire to take advantage either of an accident or a misfortune. My
plan through life has been to do clear and simple justice to all, and
never to fall into the absurd error of mingling all the feelings of
private life with matters of business. Matters of business should be
transacted as matters of business, and without the slightest regard to
whether you be my cousin or a perfect stranger. I can be generous when
it is necessary, as well as other men; but you applied to me not on a
point of generosity, but on a point of right and of justice, and
therefore in that light did I consider and decline your last proposal.
In the same light do I consider your present statement; but the paper
you have produced, according to my present views, so far alters the
question that without returning you any direct answer at present, I
will, in going out, call upon my solicitor, consult with him, and, if
you will see him to-morrow at eleven o'clock, he shall tell you my
final views, and depend upon it, they shall be those of substantial
justice."

Captain Delaware was somewhat disappointed; for, from the first
impression which the production of the paper he had shown Lord
Ashborough had made upon that nobleman, he had concluded that the
matter would be settled at once. He saw, however, that it would be
useless to press the subject farther at the time; and, after promising
to spend his days, though not his nights, at the house of his noble
kinsman, during his stay in London, he left him in possession of the
library.

Lord Ashborough almost immediately after mounted his horse and rode
slowly on down all those filthy streets and long, which conduct to
Clement's Inn; in one of the dark and dusty staircases of which,
stinking of parchment and red tape, he met the identical Mr. Peter
Tims, of whom he was in search, and who led him instantly into the
penetralia. Their conversation was keen and long, but a few sentences
of it will be sufficient here. After relating Captain Delaware's
visit, the earl demanded eagerly, "Now Mr. Tims, can the matter be
done? Have you seen to it?"

"I have, my lord, and it can be done," replied the lawyer. "I have
this morning been at the house of Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson.
Both partners are out of town, but their head clerk was there, and I
have made the following arrangement with him--"

"You have not compromised my name, I hope," interrupted the earl.

"Not in the least, my lord," replied the other. "I explained
to the clerk that you would sell out at this moment to a great
disadvantage--that fourteen days would in all probability alter the
position of affairs--and that therefore your lordship would give a
bill at that date for the ten thousand pounds which you were to pay
them for Mr. Beauchamp."

"But how will that forward the matter?" demanded the earl. "It will
seem as if I were shuffling with my nephew concerning his money
matters, and not promote the other purpose."

"Your pardon my lord--your pardon!" cried the lawyer. "You shall demand
of Sir Sidney Delaware to give you bills for the whole sum at a
fortnight's date, and give him up the annuity deed at once, and we
will arrange it so that you shall be out of town when the draft on you
becomes due, so as to stop the ten thousand pounds at the very nick."

"Ay, but Harry will write up to know whether it be paid, said the
earl.

"I will write to him as soon as you have given the bill, my lord,
telling him that the money is paid," answered the lawyer; "and I will
direct the letter to his house in John-street, to be forwarded. I have
a good excuse for writing, in regard to this business of the valet he
kicked down stairs--so there will be no suspicion."

"You know that he is a good man of business, Mr. Tims," replied the
earl, doubtingly. "Do you think he will take your word without writing
to inquire?"

"Oh, yes, my lord!" answered the lawyer, boldly. "You know your own
plans, and therefore think he may suspect them. That is the way with
all gentlemen, when they first do any little business of this kind.
They always fancy that other people know that we are wanting to keep
them in the dark. Remember, Mr. Beauchamp has no suspicion. He does
not know that you know where he is. He is not aware that you have
heard he is going to squander away his money at all; still less, that
you are good enough to take such pains to prevent him. He will believe
it at once, that the money is paid, and will simply give a draft for
it on Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson when the money is wanted.
Besides, from all I can learn, although he be in general a good man of
business enough, I hear he has got hold of one of those pieces of
business that put every thing else out of a man's head altogether."

"What do you mean, sir?" demanded the earl, in a strong tone of
aristocratical pride; for there was a sort of sneer upon the
countenance of Mr. Tims, which he did not at all admire, coupled with
the mention of his rich nephew--and here, be it remarked, that it made
a great difference in Lord Ashborough's estimation, whether the person
spoken of was a rich or a poor nephew. He had a sort of indescribable
loathing toward poverty, or rather toward poor people, which was only
increased by their being his relations. He hated poverty--he could not
bear it--in his eyes it was a disease--a pestilence--a vice; and
therefore--although had his nephew been poor, Mr. Tims might have
sneered at him to all eternity--as he was rich, Lord Ashborough felt
very indignant at the least want of reverence toward him. The tone in
which he demanded, "What do you mean, sir?" frightened Mr. Tims, who
hastened to reply, that he had heard from his respected and
respectable relative, in the country, that the Mr. Burrel, who had
proposed to lend the money to Sir Sidney Delaware, was now continually
at Emberton Park; and that it was very well understood in the country
that he was to be married immediately to Miss Delaware.

Lord Ashborough gazed in the face of the lawyer with that mingled look
of vacancy and horror which we may picture to ourselves on the
countenance of a person suddenly blinded by lightning. When he had
collected his senses, it was but to give way to a more violent burst
of rage, and with clenched hands and teeth, he stamped about the
office of the attorney, till the clerks in the outer room began to
think that he was breaking the hard head of their master against
the floor. A few words, however, served to give vocal vent to
his fury. "The hypocritical, artful, despicable race of beggarly
fortune-hunters!" he exclaimed; and turning out of Mr. Tims's office,
impelled by the sole impetus of passion, he was standing by his horse
almost ere the attorney knew he was gone. The groom held the stirrup
tight, and Lord Ashborough had his foot on the iron, when cooler
thoughts returned, and, walking back to the chambers, he again entered
the lawyer's room.

"Do all that you proposed, Mr. Tims," he said; "get the bills--<DW44>
the payment--arrest the old reptile--manage it so that he may not get
bail; and the day you lodge him in the King's Bench--if it can be
done--you receive a draft for a thousand pounds. They must be crushed,
Mr. Tims," he continued, grasping him tight by the arm; "they must be
crushed--ground down into the earth--till their very name be
forgotten;--but mark me," he added, speaking through his set
teeth--"mark me--if you let them escape, my whole agency and business
goes to another forever."

"Oh! no fear, my lord, no fear!" replied Mr. Tims, in a sharp, secure
tone, rubbing his little, fat, red, hands, with some degree of glee.
"No fear, if your lordship will consent to leave it to my guidance.
But I will send for a bill stamp, and we will draw up the bill
directly, send it to Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson, and then I will
give due notice to Mr. Beauchamp that the money is paid--which,
indeed, it may be said to be, when your lordship has given your bill
for it--you know."

"I care not, sir!" exclaimed Lord Ashborough, vehemently, "whether it
may be said to be so or not. My nephew must be saved from this cursed
entanglement by any means, or all means. I will do my part--see that
you do yours. Crush these mean-spirited vipers, somehow or another,
and that as soon as may be;--but mind," he added, more quietly, "mind
you are to do nothing beyond the law!"

"I will take care to do nothing that the law can take hold of,"
replied the lawyer. "But you can not think, my lord, how many things
may be done lawfully when they are done cautiously, which might treat
one with a sight of New South Wales, if they were to be undertaken
without due consideration--but I will send for the bill, my lord."

The bill was accordingly sent for, drawn, and signed by Lord
Ashborough; and the attorney after having dispatched it to Mr.
Beauchamp's solicitor, wrote to that gentleman himself a letter upon
the business to which he had referred, while speaking to Lord
Ashborough and in a postscript, mentioned that he had handed over to
his agents a note for ten thousand pounds, on behalf of Lord
Ashborough. That nobleman stood by while all this proceeding was
taking place, and marked, with a well pleased smile, the double
language of the lawyer, and the quiet and careless manner in which he
contrived to offer a false impression in regard to the payment of the
money. When all was concluded, he paced slowly to the vacant park,
calmed his disturbed feelings by a quiet ride round its dusty roads,
and then returned with renewed self-command, to shower upon William
Delaware civilities, in proportion to his increased detestation.




CHAPTER XIII.


Oh, if people would but take as much pains to do good as they take to
do evil--if even the well-disposed were as zealous in beneficence, as
the wicked are energetic in wrong--what a pleasant little clod this
earth of ours would be for us human crickets to go chirping about from
morning till night!

The Right Honorable the Earl of Ashborough could think of but one
thing; and what between the active working of his own brain, and the
unceasing exertion of the pineal gland of Peter Tims, Esq., following
keenly the plans and purposes which we have seen them communicating to
each other, the scheme for ruining the family at Emberton was brought
to that degree of perfection which rendered its success almost
certain. Mr. Tims, indeed, did wonder that the noble earl had
forgotten to propose to him any plan for detaining Sir Sidney Delaware
in prison after his arrest, and for consummating the persecution so
happily begun. He concluded that it had slipped his lordship's memory;
but as he foresaw that, of course, Mr. Beauchamp would immediately
come forward to liberate the baronet, and clear him of his
embarrassments, Mr. Tims revolved a thousand schemes for entangling
him still more deeply, in order to be found prepared as soon as his
noble patron should apply to him for assistance on this new occasion.

In truth, however, Lord Ashborough had calculated all; and from what
he had formerly known of Sir Sidney Delaware, as well as from what he
had lately heard of his impaired constitution, he felt assured that
even three or four days of imprisonment for debt would terminate
either life or reason, and thus leave his vengeance and his hatred
sated to the full.

It must not be always supposed that the motives and the feelings which
are here stated, in what is vulgarly called black and white, appeared
in their original nakedness before the minds of the various actors in
this my little drama. On the contrary, they came before their master's
eyes like poor players on the stage, robed in gorgeous apparel that
little belonged to them. Revenge flaunted away before the eyes of Lord
Ashborough, clothed in princely purple, and calling itself noble
indignation. Mortified vanity, and mean delight in wealth, tricked out
in silks and satins, called themselves honest scorn for deceivers, and
careful consideration for his nephew's interest, "and so they played
their part;" while deadly enmity, which would have acted murder, had
it dared, now mocked the Deity, and impiously assumed the name of
retributive justice.

Nevertheless, there was in the bosom of Lord Ashborough at least so
much consciousness that all this was but a pageant, that he found it
necessary to redouble the careful guard he had put upon his feelings
toward Captain Delaware; and though he came back to dinner meditating
the destruction of his race and family, he showered on the young
sailor's head civilities which might have raised doubts had he dealt
with one of the suspicious. Captain Delaware, however, was not one of
the suspicious. He had not acquired the quality of suspiciousness in
any of the three ways by which it reaches the human heart--neither by
the consciousness of evil designs in his own breast, by experience of
the world's baseness, or by the exhortations of others. He was
susceptible, indeed, and easily perceived when a slight was intended,
or when the least approach to scorn was felt toward him or his; but
deeper and blacker feelings escaped his observation, if covered by
even a slight disguise. In the present instance he was completely
deceived. His drive out with his fair cousin in the morning had proved
so delightful, that he began to doubt the efficacy of the water of the
Prior's Fountain, and to feel that many such drives might make him
either very happy, or very much the contrary. But the kind attention
of Lord Ashborough, his changed demeanor, and the hopes to which it
gave rise, were all sources of unmixed pleasure. The evening passed,
away in delight; and when, on visiting Mr. Tims next morning, he found
that he was prepared to concede every thing that he desired, on the
simple formality of his father giving a bill at a few days' date for
the money, his satisfaction was complete. Nor was it the less so, that
the necessity of awaiting an answer to his letter, communicating these
tidings, and of obtaining his father's signature to the bill, obliged
him, whether he would or not, to enjoy the society of Maria Beauchamp
for at least two days longer.

On the part of that young lady herself, no dislike was felt to her
cousin's society--every one else was out of town--she had no one with
whom she could dance, or flirt, or talk, and still less any one to
whom she could communicate any of the deeper and better feelings which
formed the warp of her character, and across which the threads of a
sparkling sort of levity were intimately woven. With Captain Delaware
she did all but the first, and probably she would have danced, too,
had minuets still been in vogue. She laughed, she talked, she jested
and there was a sort of simple candor about his nature, together with
fine feelings and gentlemanly habits, preserved, fresh and
unadulterated, by a life spent either on the green waters or in the
green fields--which altogether wooed forth those points in her own
character which, as things most estimable, lay hid in the deeper
casket of her heart.

In short, the two days that followed were two very pleasant days
indeed; and it was almost with a sigh that Captain Delaware opened his
father's letter, which arrived at the end of them, and found the bills
duly signed. Mr. Tims had before told him, that he had made the money
payable at Emberton, in order to save him or his father the trouble of
coming or sending again to London. That excuse, therefore, for either
prolonging his stay or returning, was not to be had; and, even if it
had still been ready, the lawyer also informed him gratuitously, that
Lord Ashborough's motive for settling the matter in the manner
proposed was in order to spare himself all correspondence in the
country, to which he was immediately about to retire for the remainder
of the year. The simple fact was, that Mr. Tims--with the same
over-anxiety of which he had accused Lord Ashborough, to remove all
suspicion of a latent motive--had assigned these causes for his noble
patron's conduct, simply to account reasonably for his having demanded
a bill for the money, payable at Emberton, instead of following the
usual legal routine in such cases, accepting the redemption money when
ready, and then canceling the deed. But Captain Delaware, with
constitutional susceptibility, instantly concluded that the whole was
intended as a hint to him, that any farther intimacy was not desired.

He could not feel indignant, because he felt that he had no right to
demand a continuance of the communication which had been accidentally
created between himself and the family of his wealthy cousin; but he
determined at once to show that there was no necessity for such
warnings; and, after having pleaded other engagements, in order to
absent himself from his cousin's house during the rest of his stay in
London, he took his place in the identical stage which had whirled him
down to Emberton the preceding occasion. He did not, however in that
sort of burning at the heart which people feel on such occasions,
neglect to take all those steps which, to the best of his judgment,
were necessary to secure his father, and to conclude the business on
which he had come to London. On the contrary, he demanded and
received, by the hands of Mr. Tims, an acknowledgment, on the part of
Lord Ashborough, that a promissory note had been given by Sir Sidney
Delaware for the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds, which when duly
taken up, would be received as a full and due redemption of the
annuity chargeable upon the Emberton estate.

When all this was concluded, and he had eaten in melancholy-wise of
the dinner which the people of the pseudo-hotel at which he lodged set
before him, in that den of congregated discomforts, a public
coffee-room--when he had done this, and taken an idle walk round the
black thing that spits water by table-spoonfuls nearly opposite to
Devonshire House, for the purpose of digesting his dinner and his
vexation, he could not refrain; but returning home--or rather to the
place of his dwelling for the time--he dressed, and walked to
Grosvenor-square.

Lord Ashborough was in his library; Miss Beauchamp was alone--somewhat
in low spirits, too, and looking none the worse for being so. She was
in one of those moods in which a man may make a great deal of a woman
in a short time--if he knows how--but, unhappily, Captain Delaware did
not know how. He talked sentimentally, and she talked sentimentally;
and they made tea between them, and poured it out, and drank it--but
it all came to nothing--otherwise Maria Beauchamp might, perhaps, have
been William Delaware's wife before the end of the chapter. Never did
a man who was born and bred a sailor miss stays so completely as
Captain Delaware did; and just when, toward the close of the evening,
he was making up his mind to say something sensible and pertinent, in
came Lord Ashborough, and the whole went to the--budget.

Within half an hour after, William Delaware was on his way to his
hotel, and in the yellow of the next morning, he was once more rolling
away to join the coach for Emberton. His journey was as dull as it
well could be. Two quaker ladies occupied one seat, and a deaf man
shared the other. Therefore--we shall give one paragraph to Mr. Tims,
while Captain Delaware rolls on.

The worthy and beneficent lawyer, full of zeal in the service of his
patron, set boldly to work to accomplish the object in view, and added
so many thoughtful means and contrivances to support those which we
have already seen him propose, that, at the end of eight days, there
was hardly a human possibility of his prey escaping him. As, in some
instances, he thought fit to prepare engines which went a little
beyond the clear limit of the law, he took good care to add a
safety-valve for himself, by cautiously mingling Lord Ashborough's
name with all those particular matters which were most delicate and
dangerous, and thus insuring the whole power and influence of that
nobleman's rank and fortune to shield him, even if the blame itself
did not fall solely on the earl. He wrote, too, to his uncle, Mr.
Tims, at Ryebury, directing him on no account to advance money to the
gentleman calling himself Mr. Burrel, who was, in fact, Lord
Ashborough's nephew; and he added many a hint and caution, calculated
to make the miser of Ryebury throw every impediment in the way of a
liquidation of the debts on Sir Sidney Delaware's estate. At the same
time, a vague threat of Lord Ashborough's displeasure, in case of
recusancy, was held out; and by the end of the week, Mr. Tims, as we
have said, sat down perfectly certain of having drawn those spider
toils round the family of Emberton, which it would be impossible for
them to evade.

In the mean time William Delaware arrived at Emberton Park, and found
every thing precisely as he had left it. Burrel's visits were still
continuing daily. Indeed--during his son's absence, which occasioned a
sort of gap in the things to which Sir Sidney Delaware was
accustomed--the baronet had more than ever sought the presence of Mr.
Burrel to supply the want.

The affection of Burrel for Blanche Delaware seemed exactly the
same--if any thing there was, perhaps, an additional shade of
tenderness in his manner toward her, which for a moment caused Captain
Delaware to believe that his sister had been made acquainted with her
lover's feelings. But it was not so. On the contrary, during her
brother's stay in London, Blanche had lost many of those pleasant
hours which she had before spent in Burrel's society. Her long rambles
with him through the park and the neighboring country, were, of
course, at an end for the time; and, although Mrs. Darlington took a
house in the immediate vicinity, and pressed Miss Delaware to join her
there for a few days--though Blanche, perhaps, might feel that there
she could, with propriety, hold freer intercourse with one who had
obtained so strong a hold of her affection, yet filial duty overcame
even the wish, and she refused to leave her father during her
brother's absence.

Captain Delaware's return, therefore, was a matter of joy and delight
to every one; and immediately after having heard all those _viva voce_
particulars, which a letter could not convey, Sir Sidney Delaware
visited Mr. Tims, who assured him that the money would be ready full
twenty-four hours before the stipulated time, and instantly began to
prepare the mortgage which was to secure the sum to the lender. The
tidings were, of course, communicated to Blanche, whose young heart
beat high, to think of even a part of the dark cloud which had so long
overshadowed her dear father's fate, being blown away forever. If,
too, a thought crossed her mind, in regard to her own situation, and
the improvement of her relative position toward him by whom she was
beloved, who shall say a word of blame? It was but nature; and perhaps
that thought might take away the only thorn that she saw encumbering
the fate before her. All eyes sparkled--all hearts beat high at
Emberton. The news insensibly was spread abroad--the prospects of the
Ruined Family seemed brightening--those to whom they had been kind,
even in their adversity, blessed the day that saw their changing
fortune--and those who had despised their poverty, began to bow down
and a worship, now that the storm no longer hung above them.

Sir Sidney Delaware walked with a firmer step. His son felt that
one-half of the load of life was gone, and Blanche raised her eyes
timidly to meet those of Burrel, as if there had been some secret
voice which told her, that--how, or why, she knew not--all the
happiness that was growing up around them, was of his planting.

Oh, deceitful Fortune! why wilt thou often smile so sweetly, while
opening thy store of evils to pour upon the devoted head!




CHAPTER XIV.


THE sand in the hour-glass of happiness is surely of a finer quality
than that which rolls so slowly through the glass of this world's
ordinary cares and fears. Oh! how rosy-footed trip the minutes that
lead along the dance of joy! How sweetly they come, how swiftly they
fly, how bright their presence, and how speedy their departure! Every
one who has ever had a pen in his hand, has said exactly the same
words before me; and therefore, though a little stale, they must be
true.

The hours flew as lightly at Emberton Park as if they had plucked all
the down from the wings of their good father Time, in order to furnish
their own soft pinions; and many of the days which intervened between
the signature of the bill for twenty-five thousand pounds, given by
Sir Sidney Delaware to Lord Ashborough, and the time when it wad to
become due, slipped away unnoticed. The worthy baronet suffered them
to pass with very great tranquillity, relying perfectly upon the word
of Mr. Tims, that the money would be ready at the appointed period. As
comfort and happiness, too, are far less loquacious qualities than
grief and anxiety, Sir Sidney thought it unnecessary to enter into any
further particulars with Burrel, than by merely thanking him, in
general terms, for the advice he had given; and by informing him that,
in consequence of his son's second journey to London, his affairs were
likely to be finally arranged in the course of a month or two. The
miser also suffering himself, for a certain time, to be governed by
his nephew--who well knew the only two strings which moved him like a
puppet, to be avarice and fear--did not attempt to give the young
stranger at Emberton any information of the events that had taken
place till long after Captain Delaware's return; and, within five days
of the time when the bill became due, Burrel, who had delayed his
promised visit to Dr. Wilton till he was almost ashamed to go at all,
rode over to his rectory to pass a couple of days with the worthy
clergyman, whom he found deep in all the unpleasant duties of his
magisterial capacity. William Delaware, also, more active, though less
clear-sighted than his father, allowed himself likewise to be deceived
by the assurance of Mr. Tims, that the money would be punctually
ready; and thus the days might have passed by unheeded by any one,
till the very moment that the money was required, had there not been
another person concerned, whose views demanded that Burrel's
twenty-five thousand pounds should not only be drawn for, but paid
into the hands of the miser at Ryebury.

This person, who was far more suspicious, and more on the alert than
any of the party, was no other than Mr. Burrell's silent servant,
Harding, who began to grow very uneasy at the delay which was taking
place. This uneasiness was increased after his arrival with his master
at Dr. Wilton's, inasmuch as, at the very moment of their coming, the
worthy clergyman was engaged in investigating some particulars in
regard to the fire that had taken place at Mrs. Darlington's, which
had given rise to considerable suspicions of some foul play. The
first, and perhaps the most important point, appeared to be, that of
the whole plate which that worthy lady's house contained, not one
ounce was to be found either fused or in its wrought state. In the
next place, two or three persons who had first taken the alarm at
Emberton, on the night of the fire, and had set out instantly to give
assistance, deposed positively to having met a man, to all appearance,
heavily laden, coming down the hill--which circumstance, considering
the time of night, was at least extraordinary. No one, however, could
identify this person; but from these facts, as well as from other
minor incidents, which it may be unnecessary to mention, it seemed
very clear that robbery had been committed during the progress of the
fire, if not before.

On their arrival at the rectory, both Burrel and his servant were
called upon by Dr. Wilton to state their recollections. Of the
evidence given by the first, the worthy clergyman took a private note,
but the servant was publicly examined. He gave a clear, calm statement
of all that he remembered, mentioned the situation of the room in
which he slept, declared that he had been woke by some sounds below,
and had shortly after perceived a strong smell of fire, which
increasing, he began to put on his clothes. Finding, however, that the
smoke was growing thicker, and that other people in the house seemed
alarmed, he had not staid to clothe himself completely, but had run
out; and, seeing that the house was on fire, had proceeded to call his
master. Mr. Burrel not moving as fast as he thought prudent, he said
he had left him, and got out of danger as fast as he could.

All this was delivered with amazing coolness and perspicuity; and Dr.
Wilton complimented him publicly on the clear and straightforward
manner in which he delivered his evidence. Nevertheless, there was
something in the whole business, which we--who see into the mechanism
of our people's hearts--conceive not to have been pleasing to the
silent servant, and he felt it absolutely necessary--according to his
own particular notions of benevolence--to remind his master, that the
twenty-five thousand pounds, which had been left idle, losing the
interest all the time, in the hands of Messrs. Steelyard and
Wilkinson, might soon be necessary to complete the charitable purpose
be entertained toward the family at Emberton.

To act remembrancer was not very easy, however, as his habitual
silence cut off a great deal of even that small gossip which usually
takes place between a man and his valet-de-chambre; but Harding was
not a person to be foiled, and what he could not do cunningly he
always did boldly.

It was on the second night, then, of their stay at the rectory, that,
while undressing his master, he began, after two or three preliminary
grunts, "I wish to ask your permission, sir,--if you are going to send
me to London--"

"Send you to London!" exclaimed Burrel; "I am not going to send you to
London. What put such a thing into your head?"

"Oh, I beg pardon, sir; I did not mean to offend!" replied Harding.
"But when you first sent me to Mr. Tims at Ryebury, he asked me a
great many questions about you, and told me that you were going to pay
off the incumbrances upon Sir Sidney Delaware's estate."

"Which, I suppose, you have been good enough to spread throughout the
village?" said Burrel, not a little angry.

"I have never opened my mouth upon the subject, sir, to a living
creature--upon my honor!" replied the man, with a solemnity of
asseveration that was very suspicious.

"And pray, how is all this connected with your going to London,
Harding?" demanded his master.

"Why, only, sir, as I hear the money is to be paid in three days, and
you did not speak of going up yourself, I thought you might be going
to send me for the sum," was the cool and self-complacent reply of the
worthy domestic.

"To be paid in three days!" exclaimed Burrel. "There must be some
mistake in that, surely?"

"Oh, no, sir, I can assure you!" replied the man, earnestly. "The last
time I was up at the Park, when I brought the horses to come over
here, I heard the captain saying so to Miss Delaware--and he said,
that he hoped that Tims would have the money ready, or it would be a
sad affair."

"Indeed!" said Burrel; "this must be looked to. But you misunderstand
your situation, Harding. You are a person very trustworthy, I have no
doubt; but I never send my servants for such sums as that you mention,
especially when they have not been with me three months. So now, you
may go--and when I want to send you to London, or elsewhere, I shall
be sure to inform you."

The servant accordingly retired, with a mortified and somewhat dogged
air; but, although he had not been entirely without hopes that his
master might indeed dispatch him for the money, yet his purpose was
sufficiently answered, to prevent him feeling deeply the
disappointment of expectations that had never been very sanguine.

The tidings Burrel had heard annoyed him considerably; for although a
doubt never crossed his mind in regard to the payment of the money
having been made by Lord Ashborough, it seemed so extraordinary that
Mr. Tims had not made him acquainted with the day of payment, that a
vague suspicion of something being wrong obtruded itself upon his
imagination, and kept him for some time from sleep.

"Which is my nearest way to a house called Ryebury, my dear sir?" was
one of Burrel's first questions to Dr. Wilton, at the breakfast-table,
next morning. "It belongs to an old miserly money-lender, named Tims."

"The way to the money-lender's, like all those that lead to
destruction, is wide enough," replied Dr. Wilton. "But I hope, my dear
Harry, you are not going to borrow money?"

"No, no, my dear sir!" answered Burrel, laughing. "Heaven knows what I
should do with it, if I did. Within the last six years, I am sorry and
ashamed to say, I have accumulated nearly five-and-twenty thousand
pounds."

"Fie, fie, that is almost as bad!" cried Dr. Wilton. "I would never
advise any man to live quite up to his income; for if he set out with
such a determination, he will most certainly live beyond it; but I
would recommend every man who has enough for himself and for those who
may come after him, to spend very nearly his whole income. We are but
stewards, my dear Harry! we are but stewards! and we are bound to
dispense the good things that are intrusted to us."

"And yet I have both heard you cry out against luxury," replied
Burrel, "and declare that indiscriminate gifts of money did more harm
than good."

"True, true!" replied Dr. Wilton. "I have done all that you say. But
there are thousands of eligible ways in this world by which a man may
discharge that duty to society imposed upon him by a large fortune,
without injuring his own mind, or enervating his own body by luxury.
How much may be done to promote the instruction of youth, to furnish
employment for the poor and industrious, to encourage arts and
sciences, to reward the manufacturer even for his toil and skill, and
the merchant for his risk and enterprise, without being the least
luxurious in one's own person. Ximenes walked through halls tapestried
with purple and gold, and yet lay down upon a bed of straw. Fie,
Harry, fie. It is a shame for any rich man to accumulate more wealth
while there is a poor man in all the land."

Burrel smiled at the lecture of his old tutor; not, indeed, because he
undervalued his precepts, but because he evidently saw that the lapse
of ten years had been skipped over in the good doctor's mind, and that
he himself stood there as much the pupil in the eyes of Dr. Wilton, as
ever he had been in his days of boyhood.

"Well, well, my dear sir!" he answered; "as some compensation for my
negligence hitherto, I think I shall find a means of spending this
twenty-five thousand pounds in such a manner as even your severe
philosophy will approve."

"Ah, Harry, I see you are laughing at your old pedagogue," said his
friend. "But never mind; if worthy Dominie Sampson--a character I
revere and love, although the dolts on the stage have degraded him
into a buffoon--if worthy Dominic Sampson boasted of having taught
little Harry Bertram the rudiments of erudition, I will boast of
having taught you, Harry Burrel, the rudiments of virtue.--So, mind
what you do; for every action you perform is my pride or my shame."

"Then I will try to make you a proud man," replied Burrel. "But I must
now leave you, my dear sir, and seek this money-lender, if you will
direct me thither."

"Well, well, whatever be your purpose, take care what you are about
with him," answered the doctor. "He is a wily knave. But I shall see
you again, ere you leave the country--which, if I judge right, will
not be soon"--and he fixed a gay glance upon Burrel's face, which
fully repaid the smile he had remarked. "Remember Harry," he added, "I
am to speak the blessing."

Burrel laughed, and shook Dr. Wilton's hand, and the worthy rector,
conducting him to the door, at which his horse stood prepared, pointed
out the direct road to Ryebury, which lay straight across the country,
at about six or seven miles distance.

Harding, at the same time, received orders to convey the little
baggage he had brought with him back to Emberton, and, that personage
internally congratulating himself with the words, "All is right!" as
he heard Dr. Wilton direct his master on the road to the miser's
dwelling, proceeded calmly to lay out his plans for that which he
considered as his _coup de maître_.

Burrel had no difficulty in finding his way; and at about eleven
o'clock he was standing before Mr. Tims's slate- door, enduring
the reconnoisance which master and maid always inflicted on those who
visited their dwelling. At length Sally appeared, and Mr. Burrel was
ushered into Mr. Tims's parlor, where the miser received him with as
much cordiality as was in his nature, having from one accidental
circumstance acquired a particular regard for his present visitor--a
fact in natural history which, perhaps, requires some explanation.

The simple truth, then, was merely this. On Burrel's first visit, the
miser, knowing him to be a man of large fortune, whom it might be well
to conciliate, had offered him a glass of ale; and then even went the
length of offering a glass of wine. Doing it--like most generous
people--with fear and trembling lest it should be accepted, he was
inexpressibly relieved by Burrel's declining both the expensive kinds
of refreshments that he offered. The matter sunk deep into his mind,
and at once created a fund of esteem and gratitude toward the
self-denying stranger, which was only augmented by the consciousness
that he himself always ate and drank that which was offered to him at
other houses, looking upon it all as a saving.

On the present occasion, as soon as Burrel entered, he again made the
offer of the ale, and would fain have offered the wine also; but there
was something within him which this time rendered it impossible. So
much was he of opinion, that the wine is the best which is drunk at
other people's expense, that he could not believe it possible that
Burrel would refuse it twice. While this struggle was going on in his
bosom, however, Burrel, who saw that he was somewhat agitated, and
never took into consideration the important question regarding the
glass of wine, imagined that Mr. Tims felt ashamed of not having given
him intimation of the state of Sir Sidney Delaware's affairs, and
proceeded to speak of them at once.

"You have done wrong, my good sir!" he said, "in not letting me know
that the money required for redeeming the annuity is to be produced so
soon. You did not consider that a day or two's notice may be necessary
in transactions to such an amount. However, it so luckily happens that
the money is ready."

"But, my dear sir--my dear sir!" cried Mr. Tims; "how could I give you
notice when you were out of the way? I called upon you twice, at no
small expense of shoe-leather."

Such, indeed, was the fact--that is to say, that he had called--and as
the internal economy of Mr. Tims's heart is not unworthy of
investigation, as a curious piece of hydraulic machinery, it may be
well to state what were the contending feelings which made the miser,
at last, act contrary to the directions of his dearly-beloved nephew.
In the first place, then, it would appear that, in regard to the
arrangements for the redemption of the annuity, a liberal commission
had been insured to him on the completion of the transaction, and
consequently he was a party interested. The injunctions, therefore, of
his nephew, to throw every quiet impediment in the way, to keep Mr.
Burrel in ignorance of the facts, and, if any thing should <DW44> the
remittances which that gentleman expected, to refuse all assistance,
were clearly contrary to the general principles on which Mr. Tims
acted, namely, direct views of self-interest. To correct all this,
Lord Ashborough's lawyer had held out the prospect of his patron's
friendship on the one hand, and his wrath on the other, and had added
many vague promises of more golden rewards, to be procured by his
nepotal influence. But Mr. Peter Tims, although he had very little
family affection himself, forgot that his uncle possessed as little;
and though the only tie between Mr. Tims, senior, and the rest of the
world, existed in his nephew's person, yet the miser of Ryebury felt
that he could never be without friends or relations as long as there
were pounds, shillings, and pence in the world. Mr. Tims, junior, as I
have said, forgot all this, and forgot, too, that his uncle would be,
perhaps, less inclined to receive vague promises of compensation as
current coin from him than from any other individual; and, at the same
time, in order to show him how deeply Lord Ashborough was interested,
and how much it would behove him to reward the conduct he pointed out,
the lawyer committed the egregious blunder of letting the miser know
who the pretended Mr. Burrel really was.

The desire of making his own bargain instantly seized upon Mr. Tims of
Ryebury, and he at once wrote to Mr. Tims of Clement's Inn, with a
puzzling question, as to what was to be the specific _consideration_
for acting in the manner prescribed. The reply was not so definite as
he liked, and he immediately called at Mr. Burrel's lodgings, to
inform him of the time appointed for the payment of the redemption
money. His calculations, at the same time, were partly true and partly
incorrect, in regard to the probable advantages to be gained by
courting Burrel. No man ever did, or ever will, make a correct
calculation where self is one of the units. He is sure, by adding a
cipher to it, to multiply it by ten, in every shape and way, and thus
throw the whole computation wrong together. Mr. Burrel, or rather Mr.
Beauchamp, was heir to Lord Ashborough's title and estates, and likely
to outlive him by forty years; and therefore, thought Mr. Tims, is
likely to patronize me a thousandfold more than Lord Ashborough can.
But Mr. Tims forgot that if Henry Beauchamp was likely to outlive Lord
Ashborough, Lord Ashborough was fully as likely to outlive Mr. Tims.

These considerations, however, gave the miser a great leaning toward
Mr. Burrel in the whole business, though he was not without some
speculations in regard to catching all that he could from both
parties, if a way were to present itself. At present, he assured his
visitor that he had called upon him twice for the express purpose of
communicating with him on the subject of Sir Sidney Delaware's
affairs; but that, not having found him at home, he did not think fit
to leave any message, on so momentous a subject, with either the woman
of the house or the groom, who were the only personages he saw.

"Well, well, sir!" replied Burrel. "The question now before us is
simply, how we are now to proceed? Must I go to London to receive this
money, and bring it down?"

"Why, I should think that would be an expensive way, sir," replied the
miser. "Forty shillings going and forty shillings coming, and
eighteenpence to the coachman each way, makes four pound three; and
then you may well calculate three shillings more for food and extras,
going and coming, making four pounds six. Then you would not like to
carry such a sum about you; so that you would be obliged to do it by
draft, therefore the stamp would not be saved; and I am always for
saving the money of my clients--it is the duty of an honest man. No,
no, sir! I think you had better draw a letter of credit in my favor,
on your agents, and I will direct them to lodge the money in the hands
of the London correspondents of our county bank, of which I am one of
the poorest proprietors. I will give you an acknowledgment in form for
the letter of credit, which, being duly satisfied, I will give you a
receipt in full, with a lien upon the mortgage from Sir Sidney
Delaware, as I settled before with Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson."

"But can all this be done in time, Mr. Tims?" demanded Burrel.

"Oh, no fear, no fear," replied the miser. "This is but the
twenty-first. We can get the letter off to-day. The bills given by Sir
Sidney do not come due till the twenty-fourth; and we can easily have
notice of the money being lodged by the twenty-third in the afternoon,
when the post comes in."

Burrel mused a moment. He saw no objection; but yet he thought it
might be safer to go himself. He mused again; but then he thought
of Blanche Delaware, and that he had not seen her for two whole
days--that settled the matter in his mind. There could be no possible
obstacle, he persuaded himself, in London--therefore, neither pleasure
nor necessity called him thither: one of those two great motives
chained him to Emberton, and therefore he determined to stay.

The miser agreed immediately to join him at his lodgings in the little
town, where all that was necessary for completing the business was to
be procured more easily. Burrel rode off; Mr. Tims reached Emberton in
half an hour; the letter was drawn; another written by Mr. Tims to his
London bankers; the whole were put in the post; and Burrel, after
dining alone, sauntered slowly and happily up the park, to take his
tea in the little octagon parlor of Emberton House.

He was received with those sparkling eyes which left no doubt that he
was welcome; the next day also passed in happiness; and Burrel,
somewhat too sure, perhaps, of success, fixed in his own mind, as he
strolled homeward, that the morning which saw Sir Sidney Delaware
freed from a part of his difficulties by his exertions, should also
see the declaration of his love to her who had inspired it.




CHAPTER XV.


On the twenty-third day of September, Sir Sidney Delaware had some
slight symptoms of a fit of gout, which rendered him somewhat
irritable and anxious. Three times did he give particular directions,
that, when Mr. Tims of Ryebury came, he was to be shown into the
library, and, as often, when he heard any unusual sound in the
mansion, usually so still and tranquil, he demanded whether Mr. Tims
had arrived. Still Mr. Tims did not make his appearance, though about
two o'clock Mr. Burrel did; and the worthy baronet, in conversation
with his young friend, forgot his anxiety for a time. At length,
however, it began to resume its ascendency, and its first struggle was
of course with politeness. He was evidently uneasy; he moved to and
fro in his chair; he complained of some pain; and, at length, was in
the very act of desiring his son to take a walk, and see why Mr. Tims
had not kept his promise, when the daily bag arrived from the post,
and--together with a billet or two, apparently from some female
friends, for Miss Delaware, which she carried away to her own room;
and a letter for Captain Delaware--appeared a lawyer-like epistle,
addressed to Sir Sidney, and bearing the London post-mark.

"I will go to Mr. Tims as soon as I have looked over this letter,
sir," said Captain Delaware; but Sir Sidney at the same moment opened
his own, and, after he had read, he exclaimed, "No, no, William, there
is no necessity! You and Blanche were going to walk with Mr. Burrel;
and here Lord Ashborough's lawyer tells me that he can not be down on
the precise day--that is, to-morrow--but will come the day after, or
the day after that, with a thousand apologies for not coming. If I be
well enough, I will go to this person, Tims, myself, to-morrow. If
not, you can go. So call Blanche, and take your ramble while it is
fine. The clouds are beginning to gather."

Captain Delaware went to seek his sister, who, as we have said, had
retired to her own apartment; but he soon returned, saying that she
had a slight headache, and would stay at home. He would show Burrel
the way himself, he added, to what the people called the Sea Hill, so
named because the sea was thence first visible; and though the spirit
of their proposed expedition had all evaporated, Burrel did not choose
to decline. "If she did but know!" he thought--"If she did but know
what is going on here in my heart, I do not think a slight headache
would keep her at home! But I must bring this matter to some
certainty--it is growing painful!" and more than one-half of his walk
passed in silent musing.

On his return, he went into the library with Captain Delaware. Blanche
was there with her father, but she was deadly pale, and Burrel felt
more than anxious--alarmed. As soon almost as he entered, Sir Sidney
Delaware pressed him to stay to dinner, and Burrel, who had often
declined, mastered by strong anxiety, agreed to do so on the present
occasion; though, as the invitation was given and accepted, he saw a
passing blush, and then a relapse to snowy paleness, come over the
countenance of her he loved.

The evening was no longer of joy. Burrel hoped that some opportunity
would present itself of gaining a single moment of private
conversation with Blanche Delaware in the course of his stay; but it
was evident that she avoided every thing of the kind, and, at an early
hour, complaining of increased headache, she retired once more to her
room. Soon after, her lover took his leave, and returned home in a
state of feverish anxiety, difficult to be described; while Captain
Delaware perceived that something had gone wrong, but could not divine
what; and Sir Sidney, without seeing any thing deeper, felt that the
evening which had just passed to its predecessors, was the dullest he
had spent since he had become acquainted with Henry Burrel.

To Burrel the night went by in sleepless restlessness; and, though we
would fain see how it flew with Blanche Delaware, we must take up her
story in the course of the morning after, when, rising as pale as the
night before, she found that the hour, instead of nine--which she had
fancied it must be at least--was only seven. Putting on her bonnet,
she glided down the old stone staircase, and proceeded into the park;
but it was not toward Emberton that she took her way. On the contrary,
turning her steps through the wild woodlands that lay at the back of
the mansion, she trod very nearly the same path which she had pursued
with Henry Burrel during the first days of their acquaintance.

She traced the walk by the bank of the stream. The kingfishers were
flitting over the bosom of the river; the waters were pouring on,
fretting at the same pebbles, dashing over the same little falls,
lying quiet in the same still pools, as when she had last seen them.
But the feelings of her heart were changed, and the light, which
nature had then borrowed from joy, was now all overshadowed by the
clouds of care. As she gazed upon the stream, and the wild banks, and
the hawthorn dingles round her, and felt that a bitter change in her
own bosom had stripped them of all their beauties, as ruthlessly as
the hand of winter itself could have done, the pain was too much, and
she wept.

Still she trod her way onward, pondering slowly and gloomily, till she
came so near the little glen that had terminated that happy walk with
Burrel, that she could not refrain from going on. A few minutes
brought her to the spot where the Prior's Well was first visible, and
a few minutes more found her standing under the rich carved canopy of
gray stone that covered over the fountain.

For several moments she gazed wistfully and mournfully upon the
waters, as, with a calm, unobtrusive ripple, and a low, whispering
murmur, they welled from the basin of the fountain, and trickled
through the grass and pebbles. "Oh, would to Heaven!" she thought,
"that yon calm water did really possess the mysterious power the old
legends attribute to it. But two days since, nothing on earth would
have made me taste it, though I believed not a word; and now I am
almost tempted to drink, though I still believe as little."

As she thought thus, she stretched out her hand to the little iron
cup; and, after a short pause, filled it, and gazed upon the water, as
it lay pure and clear, with that peculiar cold sparkling limpidity
which the old monks so greatly prized in their wells. Her hand shook a
little; but, after a single instant's consideration, with a smile
which was mingled of sadness and of a sort of gentle scorn, at the
drop of credulity that still lay at the bottom of her heart, she was
raising the cup to her lips when a hand was laid gently upon her arm.

She started, but without dropping the cup, and, turning round, she saw
beside her Henry Burrel. Pouring the water carefully back into the
font, as if every drop were precious, she let go the chain, while,
with downcast eyes, and a cheek burning like crimson, she uttered a
scarcely audible good-morrow, in answer to some words that she had
hardly heard.

Burrel's hand still rested on her arm, while his eyes were fixed upon
her face, tenderly, but reproachfully. The action and the look were
those of intimacy, but not of presumption; and, indeed, there had been
of late a kind of mute language established between Blanche and her
lover, in which many a question had been asked, and many a feeling had
been acknowledged, which would have expired in shame, had words been
the only means of expression, and which gave Burrel some right to
inquire into the change he could not but perceive too plainly.

"You were about to drink, Miss Delaware," he said. "But if you taste of
the enchanted fountain, I must drink also; for Heaven knows, then, I
shall have more need of the waters of oblivion than you have!"

He spoke with a smile; but there are smiles in the world more
melancholy than a world of sighs; and his was so full of pain,
anxiety, and disappointment, that Blanche, as she turned away, made
the only answer in her power--by tears. The drops from her eyes fell
thick, and as her left hand rested on the little carved border of the
stone font, over which her head still hung, partially averted to hide
the deep and varying feelings that passed across her face, the tears
dimpled the clear, still waters; and though Burrel, as he stood, could
not see her eyes, he perceived that she was weeping bitterly. His
fingers, which had rested lightly on her arm, to prevent her from
drinking the water, now glided down, and circled round her hand,
clasping upon it with a degree of gentle firmness.

"Miss Delaware," he said, "for Heaven's sake, tell me, have my hopes
been all in vain?--Have I, like a presumptuous fool, dreamed of
happiness far greater than I deserve to possess! And do you now, by
the striking change which your demeanor toward me has undergone,
intend to rebuke my boldness in fancying that you might ever become
mine; and to crush the hopes which your former kindness inspired?"

Blanche Delaware wept, but she answered not a word; and Burrel gazed
on her for a moment in silence, in a state of agitation which might
have well prevented him from judging sanely of what was passing in her
mind, even had it been expressed by more unequivocal signs than the
bitter though silent tears that rolled over her cheeks.

"For God's sake, speak!" he exclaimed at length. "Oh, Blanche, if you
did but know the agony you are inflicting on a heart that loves you
better than any other earthly thing, you would at least save me the
torment of suspense--may I--dare I--hope that you will be mine?"

Blanche Delaware passed her hand across her brow, and brushed back the
rich long ringlets that, as she stooped, had fallen partially over her
eyes. She turned toward her lover also, still grasping the edge of the
fountain with her left hand for support, and, with something between a
gasp and a sob, replied to his question at once--"No, Mr. Burrel, no!
You must not hope!--Oh, forgive me!" she added, seeing the deadly
paleness that spread over his countenance. "Forgive me! Forgive me!
But for your sake--for your own sake--for both our sakes, it is better
said at once--I must not--I can not--"

The rest died upon her lips. Enough, however, had been spoken to make
the rejection decisive; and yet it was spoken in such a tone as to
betray deep grief as well as agitation on her own part; and to
awaken--not suspicions--but a thousand vague and whirling fancies in
Burrel's brain.

"And will not Miss Delaware," he said, at length, "at least console me
for broken hopes, and the first love of my heart crushed forever, by
assigning some cause for this change in her opinion of one who is
unconscious of having done any thing to offend or pain her?"

Blanche was again silent, and turned away her head, while the sighs
came thick and deep, and the tears were evidently falling fast. Burrel
paused for a moment, and then added, in a sad but kindly tone--"Or is
it, Miss Delaware, that I have imagined a heart free, that was before
engaged? Perhaps, long ere I knew you, some more fortunate person may
have created an interest which can be inspired but once; perhaps,
even, circumstances may have prevented you from rendering him as happy
as you might otherwise have done. Oh, tell me, is it so? For though
all men are selfish, I should find it easy to gratify my selfishness
in contributing to your happiness. I have interest--I have power; and
if I could render Blanche Delaware happy with one that she loves, it
would be the next blessing to possessing her hand myself. Tell me,
Miss Delaware, I beseech you, is it as I imagine?"

"Oh! no, no, no!" cried Blanche, turning her glowing face toward him.
"No, upon my word, I never saw the man that I could love but--"

The deepening blush and the fresh burst of tears concluded the
sentence as Burrel's heart could have desired; and again laying his
hand upon hers, he besought her to tell him what then was the
obstacle. But Blanche drew back--not offended, but sad and determined.

"It is in vain, Mr. Burrel," she said; "and I am bound to tell you so
at once. My mind is made up--my resolution is taken. You have my
highest esteem, my deepest gratitude, my most sincere regard, but you
can not have--"

She paused at the word love; for no circumstances, to the mind of
Blanche Delaware, could palliate a falsehood, and she felt too
bitterly that he did possess her love also. She changed the phrase in
the midst, and added, "I can never give you my hand."

One only glance at the countenance of her lover made her feel that she
could bear no more, and that it were better for them both to part at
once. She drew back a single step, and then, with a look of painful
earnestness while her hand unconsciously was laid upon his arm, she
said, in a low, sad tone, "Forgive me, Mr. Burrel! Oh, forgive me!"
and the next moment Burrel was standing alone by the side of the
fountain.

He remained there for several minutes, with every painful feeling that
it is possible to imagine struggling together in his bosom. First,
there was the disappointment of hopes that he had encouraged to a
pitch of which he had had no notion, till they were done away forever;
the breaking of a thousand sweet dreams, the vanishing of a crowd of
happy images, the dissolution of all the fairy fabric which the
enchanter Fancy builds up round the cradle of young affection. Then
there were the doubts, the fears, the jealousies, the vague and somber
imaginings, to which the unexplained and extraordinary conduct of her
that he loved gave rise; and then, again, was the rankling sting of
mortified pride, shooting its venom into the wound inflicted by
disappointment.

Burrel paused by the fountain, and suffered every painful thought to
work its will upon his heart in turn; and, oh, what he would have
given to have wept like a woman--but he could not. At length, steeling
himself with that bitter fortitude which is akin to despair, he turned
his steps toward the little town. He avoided, of course, the mansion;
and, though he gazed at it for a moment with a bent brow and quivering
lip, when he caught a sight of it from a distance, yet, as soon as he
withdrew his eyes, the sight only seemed to accelerate his pace.

"Have my horse at the door in a quarter of an hour!" were the first
words he addressed to his servant, as he entered the house; "and be
ready to take up the baggage to London by the coach."

Harding gazed upon his master in horror and astonishment; for the
newly-proposed arrangement did not at all coincide with his views and
purposes. But Burrel, having given his orders in a tone that left no
room for reply, walked on into the little parlor: and it was several
minutes before his worthy valet could so far recover the shock as to
find an excuse for evading the execution of his commands. He soon,
however, summoned sufficient obstacles to his aid; and, having
proceeded to order his master's horse, he returned and entered the
parlor uncalled.

"I have ordered the groom to bring up Martindale, sir," he said,
"because the bay needs shoeing. But I am afraid, sir, I can not get
all the things ready for the coach. There is every thing to pack, sir,
and all the bills to be paid, and not above three-quarters of an hour
to do it in."

Burrel had been gazing forth from the window, seeing nothing upon
earth; but his habitual command over himself was too powerful to
suffer him to get deaf as well as blind, under any disappointment; and
he turned immediately that the servant spoke. "I forgot," he said,
taking out his pocket-book--"you must go up to-morrow morning. There
is money to pay the bills;" and he noted down as carefully as usual
the sum he gave, adding, "I shall sleep to-night at Dr. Wilton's, and
shall be in town on Saturday. Have the traveling chariot taken to
Holditch, to be put in order, as soon as you arrive. Call in all my
bills in London; and get things arranged to set off for the continent
in the course of next week."

The man bowed low, with his usual silent gravity; in a few minutes
more the horse was at the door, and Burrel, riding slowly out of the
town, took the road toward the house of his former tutor.




CHAPTER XVI.


"Hush, Master William! hush!" cried the old housekeeper, who, having
lived from ancient and better days in the family at Emberton, could
never forget that William Delaware had been once a boy, nor ever
remember that he was now a man. "Hush, Master William! Miss Blanche is
not well, poor dear--not well at all; and, indeed, I think--but there
he goes!" and as she spoke, Captain Delaware, who had been calling
loudly to his sister to come down and make breakfast for him, as he
was in haste, hurried into the breakfast-parlor to perform that office
for himself. It was not, indeed, that William Delaware was in the
least indifferent to his sister's health or happiness, but he
possessed that sort of constitution which hardly permits one to
understand what sickness is; and although, had he known that Blanche
was suffering under aught that he could assuage, or even sympathize
with, he would have hastened in offer comfort and consolation, with
every feeling of fraternal affection; he now only muttered to himself,
"Oh, she has got one of those cursed headaches!" and proceeded to
spoon the tea into the tea-pot, as if he had been baling a leaky boat.
"Blanche has got a headache, and is not coming down," he added, as Sir
Sidney Delaware entered; "and I have made tea, because I wish to reach
Ryebury, and speak with the old miser before he goes out. The fellow
must be shuffling."

Sir Sidney expressed his anxiety at the continuance of Blanche's
headache, more strongly than his son had done. His eyes had been less
quick than those of captain Delaware, in seeing the growing love
between Burrel and his daughter, for such feelings had long before
passed away from his own bosom; but his personal experience of
sickness had taught him to sympathize with it far more than his son
could do, and he was about to visit Blanche's chamber immediately, had
not the business of Mr. Tims first attracted him for a moment, and
then detained him till breakfast was over, and his son was about to
depart.

With manifold directions to express surprise at the miser's want of
punctuality, Captain Delaware was dismissed by his father, and took
the way direct to Ryebury, fully determined to enforce Sir Sidney's
rebuke, with many more indignant expressions. "Here," he thought, "my
father might have been pressed severely by this time--insulted--nay,
even arrested--because this scoundrel has not thought fit to produce
the money--doubtless, keeping it to get the additional interest of a
single day. If it were not for creating new obstacles, I would
horsewhip him for his pains!"

William Delaware was naturally quite sufficiently hasty in his
disposition; but people who are so, have not unfrequently a way of
lashing themselves up into anger before there is any necessity for it,
by conjuring up a thousand imaginary injuries or insults in the
future, as soon as they have begun to suspect that Mr. A, B, C, or D,
intends to offend or wrong them. Thus, it must be confessed, did
William Delaware, as he walked along toward the house of the miser.
First, he thought that Mr. Tims might strive still to delay the
payment he had promised, in order to increase his gains by a day or
two more interest; next, he imagined that he might wish to prolong the
matter, in order to augment Sir Sidney Delaware's difficulties, and
exact a higher commission; and then, again, it struck him that the
miser, whose repute for double-dealing was rather high in the
neighborhood, might have in view so to entangle the affairs of the
family, as to get possession of the estate itself. Notwithstanding all
this, it is true that William Delaware was not of a suspicious nature.
All these phantoms were conjured up by anger at the foregone
disappointment. A very slight circumstance--the delay of the
payment--had raised them; and a less--even a few fair speeches--would
have dispelled them. The distinction is necessary to the appreciation
of his character. He was hasty in all his conclusions--rapid in his
expectations of good or evil, as soon as his mind was set upon either
track--but not suspicious; and, consequently, easily turned from one
road into the the other.

It so happened, however--unfortunately enough--that while in the very
height of his indignation at Mr. Tims, with that personage's evil
deeds and qualities--real and imaginary--past present, or future--all
red-hot and hissing in his mind, who should he encounter but the miser
himself, with his sharp, red nose turned toward Emberton, and his
hands behind his back. Mr. Tims saw him instantly; and as there were
various questions which he was anxious to have settled and resolved
before he entered into any discussion with either Sir Sidney or his
son, he thought that he might escape by a side-path, which opportunely
lay just at his left hand; and, consequently, making a rotatory
movement on his right heel, he was turning in among the bushes, when
he was arrested by the voice of the young officer, addressing him in
not the most placable tones in the world. As Mr. Tims was well aware
that among the _stadiodromoi_ he could not compete with so young an
opponent as Captain Delaware, he instantly turned and met that
gentleman, whose previous wrath was not a little heightened by this
evident attempt at evasion.

The most difficult thing for a man who has been secretly coaxing his
own anger, is to begin to give it vent without appearing unreasonable;
and Mr. Tims's countenance was so cold, dry, and calm, that nothing
could be made out of the "Good morning, Captain Delaware!" with which
he opened the conversation.

"I thought, sir, that by making my visit so early, I should have found
you at home," was Captain Delaware's brief rejoinder.

"Business called me abroad," replied Mr. Tims, as laconically.

"Were you going toward Emberton Park?" demanded the young officer.

"No, sir, I was not!" answered Mr. Tims, whose manner toward the son
of "poor Sir Sidney Delaware," was always very different from that
which he assumed to rich Mr. Burrel, and was peculiarly simple on the
present occasion.

"You were not!" cried Captain Delaware; "then, let me tell you, sir,
you should have been there yesterday. I beg to know, sir, why you were
not to the time you yourself appointed for the signature of the
mortgage, and the payment of the money advanced."

"Because it was not convenient, sir, and because the money was not
ready," replied Mr. Tims, with imperturbable calmness.

Captain Delaware's command over himself abandoned him; and, raising
the whip he had in hand, he shook it over the miser's head,
exclaiming, "Not convenient! Not ready! By Heaven! if it were not for
your years, I would make you find it convenient to keep your word when
you have pledged it, and to be ready at the time you promise!"

He was dropping the whip, though his eyes were still flashing, when a
voice close beside him, proceeding from an honest neighboring farmer,
whose approach he had not observed, exclaimed, "Captain! Captain!
Don't ye strike the old man! Don't ye, now! Don't ye! Oh, that's
right, now--reason it with him, like--but don't ye strike him!"

"No, no, Ritson, I am not going to strike him!" replied Captain
Delaware. "Go on, my good fellow, and leave us; I will not strike
him!"

"Well, well, captain," said the farmer, laughing, "I'll go--but your
word's given, mind. So, don't ye strike the old man, though he were
the devil himself. He looks more like a wet hen under a penthouse,
howsomever."

The farmer's description was not far from correct; for Mr. Tims, who
had expected no such fierce explosion as that which his words had
occasioned, and had fancied he could be insolent in security--now
stood aghast, as the rhetoric of Captain Delaware's horsewhip seemed
likely to be applied to his shoulders. His knees acquired an
additional bend, his nether jaw dropped, his arms hung distant from
his sides, his cheeks grew paler, and his red nose stood out in
prominent relief, under the very act of fear. The good farmer's
interposition, however, calmed him sufficiently to enable his tongue
to falter forth some words of apology, declaring that he did not
intend to offend Captain Delaware--far from it; but how could that
gentleman expect him to speak boldly upon such subjects, out in the
public high-road? Who could tell, he demanded, that there might not be
robbers in the immediate neighborhood of the place where they then
stood!

"Well, if that be all," answered Captain Delaware, "I will protect you
against robbers, till you get to your own house; and there you will be
sufficiently at ease to give me a proper explanation of your
unaccountable conduct."

Mr. Tims would fain have evaded this immediate consummation, as his
purpose in walking to Emberton was to see Mr. Burrel, and ascertain
exactly which way would be the most advantageous for him to act; but
Captain Delaware was peremptory; the mediating farmer had walked up
the lane, and Mr. Tims was obliged to turn his steps homeward. When he
had entered the house, and led his unwelcome visitor into his little
parlor, carefully closed the door, and listened to hear that the steps
of even his faithful dirty Sally no longer haunted the passage, he
began his explanation in a low tone.

"As you say, Captain Delaware--as you say, indeed," he went on--"it is
a most unfortunate circumstance; but how can I help it? I depended
upon another for the money--the letter of credit that he gave for the
sum was duly presented; but it appears that a bill for ten thousand
pounds, which he expected to be paid by this time, had been
dishonored, and that his agents had not sufficient assets to meet the
demand. But as you say, sir, it was impossible that I could help it."

Captain Delaware sat for a moment in silent but bitter disappointment.
At length he exclaimed, "And who the devil is this gentleman, from
whom you were to receive this money?"

Mr. Tims hesitated. "Why, as to that, Captain Delaware," he said, "I
was expressly forbidden to tell; but since the matter has come to this
pass, I dare say there can be no harm in it. He is no one else than
the gentleman calling himself Mr. Burrel, or, in other words, your
cousin, Mr. Henry Beauchamp."

William Delaware started off his chair, as any other quick-blooded
person would have done, if such a tide of sudden and unexpected
information were poured upon him. For a moment the blood rushed up
into his cheeks--the first feeling of laying one's self under a deep
obligation to any one being always painful. As long as he had thought
that the miser advanced the money on mortgage, it had seemed a mere
matter of traffic; but when he heard that it was Burrel, it instantly
became an obligation, and the first feeling, as I have said, was not
altogether pleasant. Neither was the fact, that the gay, the wealthy,
the dashing, the sarcastic cousin, of whom he had heard so much,
had--notwithstanding the chilling coldness with which Sir Sidney had,
a year or two before, repelled some advances which Beauchamp had
made--neither was the fact, I say, that he had opened his way into
their family circle, taken a place by their fireside, and witnessed
all the poverty and decay of their house, agreeable at its first
aspect. But a moment's thought--by recalling all the delicacy of Henry
Beauchamp's conduct, the kind and unaffected regard which he had
shown toward them all, the persevering friendship with which he had
followed up his purpose, and the real services he had so zealously
planned--soon took away from the mind of William Delaware all that was
painful in the sudden news he heard, and the glow was almost at once
succeeded by a bright and happy smile.

"I see it all now," he cried; "I see it all now; and since such are
the facts, Mr. Tims, the matter will be very easily arranged."

"Oh, doubtless, doubtless, sir," replied Mr. Tims. "As you say, every
one knows that Mr. Beauchamp has the wherewithal to do any thing that
he likes. His fortune is immense, sir--his fortune is immense. His
father made a mint of money when he was governor of--"

"How much did you say was the deficiency?" demanded Captain Delaware.

"Only ten thousand pounds, sir," replied the miser--"a mere nothing to
Mr. Beauchamp; and as you say, sir, he could raise it in a minute, if
he liked. I was just going to see him upon the business, when I met
you, and you were so violent, Captain Delaware."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Tims--I beg your pardon," said the young
officer. "I was in the wrong; but now I will save you the trouble you
were about to take, and go on at once to my cousin myself. It is high
time that I should acknowledge his generous kindness, and thank him
for it."

"But, I trust, Captain Delaware--I trust," faltered forth the miser,
in an agony of fear lest the job should be taken out of his hands by
the meeting of the principal parties--"I trust that the business may
be suffered to proceed in the regular train--I can not be expected to
lose all my little emoluments."

"Do not be afraid--do not be afraid, sir!" replied Captain Delaware,
who soon saw the current of the miser's thoughts. "Do not alarm
yourself. The whole business shall pass through your hands, and you
shall get as much upon it as you honestly can."

"Ay, sir! Now, that is what I call something like!" replied the
relieved Mr. Tims. "Captain Delaware, will you take a glass of wine
after your walk, or a glass of ale? But, as you say, time presses; and
perhaps you may be anxious to see your excellent and worthy cousin,
who, doubtless, can set all right--and high time it is he should do
so, I can tell you--for my worthy nephew, Mr. Peter Tims, solicitor of
Clement's Inn, who is agent for my good lord and former patron, the
Earl of Ashborough, is to be down early to-morrow--and he is a smart
practitioner, I can tell you--and the bill being out, you know--"

"The whole, of course, requires promptitude," interrupted Captain
Delaware. "Not that I think Lord Ashborough, or Lord Ashborough's
lawyer, would act an ungentlemanly part in the business; but I know it
would go far to break my father's heart, were the bill he has given to
be presented before he could pay it. So now, Mr. Tims, good-morning. I
will call upon you again when I have seen my cousin."

Away sped William Delaware like an arrow from a bow, his breast full
of mingled emotions, and his heart throbbing with contending feelings.
He did not, it is true, reason much with himself, as he went, in
regard to his position relative to Henry Beauchamp. He felt that he
owed him a deep debt of gratitude--he felt that he had every reason to
love and to admire him; and, although he could not but experience
likewise, a sort of generous distaste to the mere act of borrowing
money from any one, yet he determined to meet his cousin frankly and
openly; for his heart had arrived at the same conclusion that his
father's had reached before, and he thought, that if there were any
man on earth on whom he would choose to confer the honor of accepting
an obligation, it was Henry Beauchamp. He was soon in the streets of
Emberton, and soon at the door of Burrel's lodging. His application
for admittance was answered by the landlady, who told him that Mr.
Burrel was gone; but that the valet was still there, and settling some
accounts with a gentleman in his own room.

"Gone!" cried Captain Delaware. "Gone! You mean gone out, Mrs. Wilson,
surely? but send the servant to me."

"Oh. no, sir! sorry I am to say, he is gone for good and all, too
surely," replied Mrs. Wilson. "But if you will walk into the parlor
captain, I will send Mr. Harding to you directly--and I hope, if you
should chance to hear of any good lodger, captain, you will not forget
me."

"No, no!" replied Captain Delaware, somewhat impatiently, as he walked
forward into the little parlor which Burrel had inhabited; "but make
haste, Mrs. Wilson, and send the man to me, directly. What can be the
meaning of all this?" he added, as the good woman shut the door.
"Phoo! There must be some mistake," and he walked toward the window
which looked out into the road. Two minutes after he had taken up that
position, steps sounded along the passage, and, the street door being
opened, Burrel's servant, Harding, ushered out a coarse, vulgar man,
whom, as we have described him before, when he made his appearance in
the stage-coach with Burrel, we shall not notice further on the
present occasion. A few brief words, which Captain Delaware neither
could nor would hear, concluded that worthy's conversation with Mr.
Beauchamp's servant; and the next moment Harding himself made his
appearance, and, after a silent bow, stood waiting the young officer's
commands.

"Mrs. Wilson must surely have been mistaken, just now, in telling me
that your master has left Emberton?" was Captain Delaware's abrupt
address.

"No, sir; she was quite right!" replied Harding, in a respectful tone.

"Good God, this is most unfortunate!" cried Captain Delaware: "And,
pray, what was the cause of his abrupt departure!"

Under ordinary circumstances, Harding would have adhered to his
taciturnity; but Captain Delaware's declaration, that his master's
absence was most unfortunate, excited his curiosity--not in the
abstract, but personally, inasmuch as he did not know how far the
unfortunate circumstance complained of might affect himself--and he
therefore determined, as a nice feat of strategy, to provoke the young
officer's loquacity, by showing that he knew or suspected more of his
family concerns than the other imagined.

"I really can not tell, sir," replied be, in a low and deferential
tone, "what was the absolute cause; and perhaps I might offend you, if
I were to say what I fancy it was--although nobody can regret it more
than I do in my humble sphere."

"Not at all! Not at all! I shall not be offended at all!" replied
Captain Delaware, quickly. "On the contrary, I shall be glad to hear
any cause assigned for what seems to me quite inexplicable on many
accounts."

"Why, then, sir, the fact is," replied Harding, "that I could not help
seeing that my master--I beg your pardon, sir, I am afraid I shall
offend you--Well, sir, that my master seemed to feel very differently
toward my young lady at the Park than I ever saw him feel before for
any one; and I naturally thought, sir, that he was not going to be a
single man much longer. But then, last night, he did not come home at
all at ease; and this morning, after having been out for a long time
in the park, or at the mansion, he returned as if he had got his death
blow--ordering me to get every thing ready to set off for London; and,
mounting his own horse, not half an hour ago, galloped away before.
So, of course, I thought he had been refused--and that is a thing he
never was in his life before, I can answer for it."

Captain Delaware threw himself down in a chair, in a state of
confusion, perplexity, and distress indescribable. He instantly
combined Burrel's conduct with Blanche's illness of the previous night
and that morning; and, cursing what he called internally all the silly
caprices and ill-placed delicacies of womankind, he was first about to
set out to accuse his poor sister of having cast away the affections
of a man whom she evidently loved, and to insist upon her recalling
him. Then, however, he remembered the immediate business that had
brought him there, and despair took possession of him. The ten
thousand pounds were not forthcoming, Burrel was gone, Lord
Ashborough's agent was to be down the next morning, and William
Delaware knew that the effect upon his father's mind was likely to be
terrible, if the necessary sum could not be procured in time.

"Good God!" he exclaimed, at length, "this is most unfortunate,
indeed. What is to be done? Do you think your master could not be
overtaken? I have business to settle with him of the utmost
importance, which must be concluded to-day."

"My master left me a great many things, sir, to settle for him,"
replied the servant; "and perhaps that which you speak of was among
them. He told me to call upon Mr. Tims, and--"

"That is exactly the question," cried Captain Delaware, interrupting
him. "Have you got the money!"

"What!" cried Harding, almost as eagerly. "Has the money not been
paid?"

"No, indeed!" answered Captain Delaware. "His agents declared that
they had not assets--that a part of the sum--no less than ten thousand
pounds--had not been paid into their hands!"

"It's a juggle!" cried the servant--"I see it all! It is a juggle of
that rogue in grain, Peter Tims--No, sir, my master never dreamed that
the money would not be paid; and he only ordered me to tell Mr. Tims
at Ryebury, that he was to send up all papers for him to the lawyers
in London, as my master talks of going abroad. But I can set all
right, yet, sir, I think. Mr. Burrel has only gone to Dr. Wilton's at
present, and I know he will not be angry with me for going after him
to tell him all that has happened; and I will make bold to tell him,
too, a great many things he does not know. So make your mind easy,
sir. I beg your pardon for the liberty--but, depend upon it, the money
shall be at Ryebury before to-morrow morning."

Captain Delaware paused a moment to think; for there was something
unpleasant to his feelings in seeming to press for Henry Beauchamp's
assistance, especially as he knew not what might have passed between
him and Blanche. But there was no choice but to do so, or to plunge
his family into ruin; and his meditation on the subject was brought to
an end by Harding--who was a man of fine feelings himself when it
suited him--declaring that he held it his bounden duty to inform his
master immediately, whether Captain Delaware liked it or not.

Captain Delaware, however, reflecting that Beauchamp was his cousin,
and that no other resource was open to him, did not oppose the man's
determination; and it being settled that Harding should mount one of
his master's horses, and follow him to Dr. Wilton's rectory
immediately, the young officer with a mind much relieved, returned
toward his paternal dwelling, meditating a severe cross-examination
for Blanche, and internally declaring, "That Harding is a very honest
fellow!"




CHAPTER XVII.


The very honest fellow was soon upon, horseback, muttering to himself,
"Ten thousand pounds short!--that would never do!--but I must mind
what. I am about, else he will go back and pay the money to this young
chap, and then the whole business will be spoilt. Let me see;" and
he set himself seriously to consider the best means of getting Burrel
either to intrust him with the money--in which case he thought he
might be able to cheat his accomplice, and appropriate the whole of
that part of the spoil--or to pay it at once to Mr. Tims; and in that
event, Harding still calculated on coming in for a share. It was yet
early in the day; but, nevertheless, Master Harding rode as if for
life; for being one of those personages who calculated _almost_ every
chance--the _almost_ is very necessary, for he did not calculate
all--he foresaw that it would be necessary for Burrel, who could not
be supposed to have so large a sum about him, to procure the money
from some other source, knowing that Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson
his master's agents, were part proprietors of a county bank at about
twenty miles distance from Emberton, he concluded that Burrel's first
application would be there where his means of payment would be best
known.

The reason why things seldom answer, which are so beautifully
calculated beforehand, is probably because the smallest event in the
world is brought about by such a compound piece of machinery, that the
most minute wheel going wrong--a pin, a pivot, a spring, a link of the
chain, a cog, a catch, a lever, a balance wheel, getting the least out
of the place--the whole machine falls into a different train of
action, and strikes six when we thought it was about to strike seven.
This trite fact was beautifully exemplified in the case of Harding,
who had calculated to a word what he was to say to his master, and how
soon either he himself or his said master was to set out for the bank
at ----; how long it would take to go, so as to arrive during banking
hours; how long it would take to settle the business with the
partners, and at what precise moment of time either he himself or
Burrel could be back in Emberton. It so happened, however, that, on
reaching the rectory, to his horror and astonishment, he found that
Mr. Burrel, on arriving at that place before him, had got into Doctor
Wilton's carriage, which had been standing at the door, and had gone
out with the worthy clergyman.

How soon they would be back no one could tell, and where they were
gone to was as little known; so that worthy Master Harding had to
remain at the rectory, suffering pangs of impatience, that were not
the less severe because he covered them over as usual with a face of
calm, indifferent gravity. Nevertheless, in order to lose no time, he
immediately proceeded to the stable, and there put his master's horse
in a complete state of preparation to start again at a moment's
notice, while, at the same time, he supplied the beast that brought
him thither liberally with oats, feeling, like Mr. Tims, a sort of
Diogenesian satisfaction at feeding either his horse or himself at
another person's expense. Still he was called upon to practice the
copy-line virtue of patience for no inconsiderable length of time;
for, notwithstanding all his aspirations, Mr. Burrel, or rather Mr.
Beauchamp, did not appear for at least two hours; and the vision of
the banking-house, and its speedy arrangements--the transfer of the
money, and the ultimate ten thousand pounds--floated faint and more
faint before his mental view. "He is a devil of a goer, however, that
Mr. Beauchamp, when he has a mind!" thought the man, consoling himself
with the usual straw-catching delusions of hope, as probability waxed
weakly. "He's a devil of a goer when he has a mind! No man gets over
his miles sooner; and as for Martindale, give him but easy ground, and
the beast would do it well in the time without turning a hair."

As he thus cogitated, the roll of wheels sounded past the stable; and,
on looking out, Harding saw the plain chariot of the divine glide
forward with merciful slowness to the door. The step descended with
the same quiet and tranquil movement, and Henry Beauchamp, with deep
and unusual gravity on his countenance, got out, and entered the
house, followed by Dr. Wilton.

Harding lost no time; but immediately made his arrival known to his
master, and, in a private audience, informed him of Mr. Tims's
betrayal of his secret, and of all he had gathered from Captain
Delaware, at the same time throwing in dexterously a few of those
apparently casual words which he judged most likely to prevent Mr.
Beauchamp from holding any direct communication with the family at
Emberton. He still took care, however, to insinuate the necessity of
immediately supplying the deficiency in the sum promised, and clenched
the impression by directing his master's suspicions toward Lord
Ashborough, and Peter Tims, Esq., of Clement's Inn, solicitor, &c. All
that he dared not urge, on his own part, lest he should ruin his
particular plans by the appearance of impudent intrusion, he allowed
Beauchamp by implication--which is generally a sort of semi-lie--to
attribute to Captain Delaware, trusting that any want of vraisemblance
would be covered by the agitation of his master's mind. In all this he
was wonderfully successful; and the more so because every thing that
he said was fundamentally true, and therefore Henry Beauchamp had no
difficulty in believing it to be so. That gentleman, however,
expressed no surprise. In fact, he had been lately troubled with great
deal more surprise than he liked; and he was returning fast to his old
habit of taking every thing as a matter of indifference, or, at least,
of seeming to do so. Beauchamp thought calmly for a few minutes, and
then asked, "How far is it to ----?" naming the town where the county
bank was situated.

"About twenty miles from Emberton, sir," replied the man; "sixteen or
seventeen from this place."

"What is o'clock?" demanded his master, who, in the agitation of the
preceding night, had forgotten to wind up his watch.

The man drew a fine French repeater from his pocket, and examined its
face; but it lied like himself. Hope backed him against time for ten
thousand; and though the watch was too slow by a quarter of an hour,
he took off ten minutes more from the hour it noted.

"Saddle Martindale!" said Mr. Beauchamp, when he had pondered the
man's reply. "Bring him up directly! Then go back to Emberton, and
to-morrow to London, where, do as I bade you before. If you have not
sent over my dressing-cases here, you need not send them--if you
have--have them brought back, and take them up with the other things."

The man bowed and withdrew; and Burrel, after another moment's
thought, descended to Dr. Wilton's library, and informed his worthy
tutor that he had received a sudden call to a different place, which
compelled him to set out immediately. The cause of his departure he
did not disclose, as he felt a great repugnance to make even so
intimate a friend of all the parties as Dr. Wilton, acquainted with
the circumstances of his cousin's difficulties, although he had not
scrupled, during their drive, to inform the good clergyman, that there
was no longer any probability--if there had indeed ever existed
any--of an alliance between his own family and that of Sir Sidney
Delaware. The cause of his different conduct, in regard to these two
affairs, might perhaps be, that generosity is always taciturn where it
is real--love is always loquacious where it is sure of not being
laughed at.

Whether, in a longer conversation, the good doctor might or might not
have seduced Beauchamp into telling him more, can hardly be
ascertained; for scarcely had he announced his intended departure,
when he was informed that his horse was at the door. Dr. Wilton had no
time to express his surprise; but grasping his young friend's hand, he
repeated twice, "Now mind, my dear Harry, mind! I tell you, I am sure
there is some mistake, or some very base man[oe]uvre, and you have
promised not to quit London till you hear from me."

Beauchamp shook his head mournfully. "It is no use, my dear sir," he
replied; "but, nevertheless, of course I will keep my word."

At the door his servant, while holding the stirrup, demanded, in a
peculiarly humble tone, "Pray, sir, may I expect to see you at
Emberton to-night, for there are several things--"

"I shall be at Ryebury, but certainly not at Emberton," answered
Beauchamp. "If there be any thing unsettled when you come to London,
it must be done afterward."

The man bowed low, perfectly satisfied; and Beauchamp and his horse
went off at a gallop. "That will do it!" said Harding, as he saw his
master depart; and, mounting his own beast, he returned calmly to
Emberton, calculating to a nicety at what hour his master would have
paid the money into the hands of Mr. Tims.

In the mean time, Beauchamp rode on, with a light hand and an easy
seat. He was one of those men who bring in their horses quite fresh,
when every other horse in the field is dead beat; and feeling
confident that he could arrange the whole business and return to
Ryebury before night, he did not put Martindale to the top of his
speed. What was his surprise, however, on passing a village church,
after an hour and a half's riding, to find the hand of the dial--that
fatal indicator, which, in every land, has pointed out from age to age
the dying moment of hopes, and wishes, and enjoyments--demonstrating,
beyond a doubt, that the hour was past, and his journey of no avail.

He rode on to the town of ----, however, but the bank was shut. He
inquired for the partners, but there was only one in the town, and he
was nowhere to be found.

Beauchamp bit his lip, and asked himself, "What is to be done now?"
Some men would have thought, that, having exerted themselves so far,
they had done enough, and would have let matters take their course;
but he was not one of that class. The idea crossed his mind, indeed;
and, to use one of his own expressions, he let it strike against his
heart, to see whether it would ring with the sharp, cold, brazen sound
of worldly feelings; but his heart was of a different metal, a great
deal too soft to respond to such hard selfishness. "For his sake, for
her sake, for all their sakes," he thought, "I must save them from
disappointment and disgrace. This Ryebury miser may very likely have
the money with him, and if not, he is, as he informed me, a proprietor
in the neighboring bank, and therefore can easily arrange the matter.
I will tell him who I really am, and give him a power of attorney to
sell out and pay himself."

With this resolution, he gave his horse half an hour's rest, and then
turned his rein once more toward Ryebury, where, we have already seen
that the way was prepared for his purpose, by the previous knowledge
of his rank and fortune which the miser had obtained from Lord
Ashborough's lawyer. As we have endeavored to show in the preceding
pages, Henry Beauchamp had his full share of weaknesses, among which
was a very tolerable portion of irritable pride. A certain
modification of this feeling had made him determine, from the first,
not to set his foot in the streets of Emberton again. That place, it
is true, had likewise, in his mind, a painful association of ideas as
connected with a bitter disappointment; and although he was always
ready to meet such regrets boldly, if they came alone, yet as they
were mingled, in this case, with mortified pride, his resolution gave
way. He was a rejected suitor--a disappointed lover. He who had
fancied that his heart was proof, had been captivated by a simple
country girl, had danced attendance upon her for several weeks, and
had ultimately been rejected. From the words that his servant had
purposely let fall, he felt sure that the whole town of Emberton were
by this time aware of his disappointment; and if ever you have been
skinned alive, reader, you may have some idea of the irritable fear
which he felt of running against the rough and rasping pity, even of
the insignificant animals of a country town.

Two miles, therefore, before he reached Emberton, he turned off from
the high-road, and having by this time refreshed all his boyish
recollections of the country round, he directed his course to a
hamlet, which lay at a distance of about a mile and a half from
Ryebury, and which was possessed of a little public-house, in the
stable of which he could put up his horse, while he himself proceeded
on foot to the dwelling of the miser. The sun was just down as he
reached the hamlet; and after having examined, with habitual care, the
accommodation for his horse, he walked out, and took his way toward
Ryebury, in the midst of as splendid an evening as ever poured through
the autumnal sky. A flood of rich purple was gushing from the west,
with two or three soft clouds of rose color and gold, hanging about
the verge of the sky, while all the rest was blue, "with one star
looking through it, like an eye." On his right lay the rich cultivated
lands between Emberton and Ryebury: so full of tall trees, hedgerows,
masses of planting and park, that the yellow stubble fields, or the
fresh ploughed fallow, could hardly be perceived amidst the warm,
though withering greens of the foliage. On his left lay a high, wooded
bank, above which peered up the edge of a more distant field; and
beyond it again the hills, and wide downs, that stretched away toward
the sea-side, in the dim purple shadow that covered all that part of
the prospect, taking an aspect of wide and dreary solitude, very
different from the gay, sunshiny look the whole assumed in the
daytime. Yet the scene though full of repose, was any thing but
melancholy. The partridges were calling in the fields round about, the
blackbirds were flying on, from bush to bush, before the passenger,
with that peculiar note, something between a twitter and a song, with
which they conclude their melody for the year, and some gay, laughing
voices in the hamlet which he had just left behind, came mellowed by
the distance, and seemed to speak of hearts at rest, and the day's
labor done. As Beauchamp walked slowly on, with feelings in his bosom
which harmonized indeed with the scene, but which carried all that was
solemn in the aspect of the dying day into a sense of profound
dejection, the light waned; and though the purple became of a still
richer hue, the blue assumed also a deeper shade; the stars looked out
as if to supply the place of the glory teat was passing away, and the
long shadows of the high grounds around, spread something more than
twilight through the valley.

I wish it were possible to tell all the mingled feelings that were
then to be found in the wayfarer's heart, as he walked on; and to
point out how weaknesses, and virtues, and fine and generous
sentiments, and human perversities, all linked arm-in-arm together,
walked along with him on the way; how he felt that life was to him a
blank--that the heart had grown old--that the bubble had burst--that
the toy had lost its splendor; how he felt a pride in the very idea of
serving her and hers, whose conduct had dashed the cup of happiness
from his lip forever--and how he thought that his affection might have
been worthy of a higher estimation; and how he cursed his own folly
for ever suffering his heart to become the debased thing that a woman
could trample upon. But his feelings were infinite, and not to be
defined; for in the rainbow of the human heart, the colors and the
shades are so blended together, and softened away into each other,
that it is impossible to say where one ends and the other begins.

Deep thoughts are most beguiling companions. Why wilt thou write such
truisms, oh, my pen? But deep thoughts are most beguiling companions,
and Beauchamp found himself within a hundred and fifty yards of the
miser's house, ere he thought that he had threaded half the way. It
was just where the path he had been following joined the little wooded
lane that led from Emberton, and rose up the high bank on which the
house was situated. The increasing elevation brought a little more
light; and as Henry Beauchamp advanced, he saw a man and woman--who
had been apparently walking together--part as he came near. The male
figure turned hastily toward the little town; the woman glided away in
the direction of the miser's house, and was lost in the obscurity. All
was again still; but a moment after there was a low, plaintive
whistle, which called his attention for an instant. He heard it again,
but at a greater distance, and thought, "It is the curlews upon the
downs;" and, without giving it any further heed, he walked on, and
rang the bell of Mr. Tims's house, in such a manner as to insure that
his visit would not be long unknown to the inmates.

A bustle within immediately succeeded; and from the very highest
window in the house, the head of Mr. Tims himself was thrust
cautiously forth, like that of a tortoise from its shell, or a
hedgehog beginning to unroll. The next moment he retreated, and his
voice was heard calling from the top of the stairs to the bottom,
"Don't open the door, Sarah! Don't open the door! It can be nobody on
any good errand at this time of night! Don't open the door on any
account!" and again he came to the window to examine once more the
aspect of his nocturnal visitor.

As soon as Beauchamp perceived the black ball, which he conceived to
be the crowning member of Mr. Tims's person, once more protruded from
the flat front of the house, he raised his voice sufficiently to
convey the sounds to the elevated point from which the miser was
reconnoitering, and desired him to come down, and give him admission;
adding, "It is I--Mr. Burrel!"

"Mr. Burrel!--No, no!" cried the incredulous miser. "That is not Mr.
Burrel's voice--no, no, I'm not to be done! Go along, sir!"

"Mr. Tims," said Beauchamp, quietly, "come down to me directly. I tell
you again, I am Mr. Burrel; and having heard that a part of the sum
that Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson--"

"Hush, hush!" cried the miser, now convinced. "Hush, hush!--I will
come down, sir; I will come down directly. I did not know you at
first; but I will come down in a minute. Sarah, get a light there." No
reply. "Sarah, get a light!" again shouted Mr. Tims; and a moment
after, Sarah's voice was heard, demanding what was the matter.

Mr. Tims now speedily descended; but before he would admit his
visitor, he again made him speak through the door, and took a view of
his person by means of a little grated aperture, placed in the upper
part thereof. The examination was satisfactory, and speedily bars
fell, and bolts were withdrawn, and Henry Beauchamp was admitted
within the walls of a place, whose precautionary fastenings were
exactly like those of a prison, with the only difference of being
intended to keep people out, rather than to keep them in. He was
instantly ushered into the invariable parlor, where, by the light of a
solitary tallow candle, white and perspiring under its efforts to give
light in a warm autumn evening, he explained to Mr. Tims the purpose
of his visit.

Mr. Tims, as we have already seen, well knew who Burrel, as he called
himself, really was, even before he told him; and he had also employed
means to ascertain the amount of his property; but in the present
instance, the prospect of deriving some usurious benefit from his
companion's evident anxiety to furnish the money to Sir Sidney
Delaware, forthwith made him take good care to be utterly ignorant of
every thing concerning him, except that he had drawn upon his agents
for a sum which they had not sufficient assets to pay.

He hummed and he hesitated for a considerable time--declared that he
did not doubt that he was Mr. Beauchamp; but, nevertheless, he must
remind him that he had drawn in the name of Burrel; he might be
perfectly solvent; but such things were never safe without good and
sufficient security. He was quite ready to hand over to him the sum he
had received from Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson; but as to advancing
the ten thousand pounds more, really he did not see his way in the
business clearly.

Mr. Beauchamp, who was not to be deceived by all this, reasoned with
him for some time; but at length he assumed another tone, and rising,
took up his hat and stick.

"Since this is the case, Mr. Tims," he said, "the matter must be
arranged otherwise. I had proposed to ride on toward London to-night
in the cool; but as you doubt my respectability, I shall return to
Emberton, and by daylight tomorrow set out for the town of ----, where
you know very well that my agents, to whom I before referred you, are
part proprietors of the bank. There the matter will be done at once,
and I shall be back again before Lord Ashborough's lawyer can arrive.
You will, therefore, be so good as to give me the money which you have
already received; we will exchange all vouchers on the subject, and we
will do without you in the further transaction of this business."

This plan, of course, was not that which Mr. Tims proposed to himself,
and the very mention thereof at once brought him to his senses. He
declared that he had no doubt of Mr. Beauchamp's identity, and
respectability, and solvency; and he should be very glad, indeed, to
accommodate him; but, of course, Mr. Beauchamp would not object to
give him a trifling commission in addition to the ordinary interest,
in order to cover the risk.

"There is no risk at all, sir!" replied Beauchamp, somewhat sharply;
"and you are as much convinced at this moment that I am the person I
represent myself to be, as I am myself. However, name the commission
you require; and if, when weighed against a ride of forty miles, I
find it the least troublesome of the two, you shall have it."

After undergoing a slight convulsion in his anxiety to gain all he
could, and yet not to break off the negotiation, Mr. Tims named the
sum; and, although, at another time, Henry Beauchamp would have ridden
ten times the distance sooner than yield to his exaction, yet the
bitter disappointment he had received that morning, and the sort of
mental lassitude that it had left, made him agree to the miser's
demand, though he did it with a sneer. This, however, by no means
concluded the business; for Mr. Tims, calculating on the bonus
promised him by Sir Sidney Delaware, proposed to pay the money over
himself the next day; while Beauchamp--who, from the shuffling he
observed, and a strong suspicion of some foul play on the part of his
uncle's lawyer, did not choose to trust him--required that it should
be immediately given into his own hands. On this point Mr. Tims fought
inch by inch most gallantly. First, he declared that he had not so
much money in the house; next, the necessary stamps could not be
procured; and, lastly, when he saw that he had fairly worn his
opponent out, he acknowledged that he expected a commission from Sir
Sidney Delaware for raising the money; and, showing Beauchamp a letter
from the baronet to that effect, he prevailed upon him to add that sum
also to his note of hand for the ten thousand pounds, trusting to his
own ingenuity to be able to wring it a second time from Sir Sidney
himself. As soon as this was done, there was no longer any difficulty
about the money; and while Beauchamp, furnished with pen and ink,
remained writing in the parlor, with every now and then passing over
his countenance a sneer at himself for having yielded so tamely to the
miser's exactions, Mr. Tims visited some far distant part of his
dwelling, and, after a considerable interval, returned with the whole
of the sum required, which, thanks to the blessed invention of paper,
now lay in a very small compass.

The rest of the business was soon settled, except the matter of a
stamp; and as the miser--although he now frankly admitted that he knew
the quondam Mr. Burrel to be Henry Beauchamp, nephew and heir to Lord
Ashborough--seemed not a little anxious upon this matter, alleging
sagely that Mr. Beauchamp might die, might be thrown from his horse
and killed, _et c[oe]tera, et c[oe]cetera_, his young visitor both
drew up such an acknowledgment as might be afterward stamped, if
necessary, and desired him to send down to Emberton for what was
farther required, promising that he himself would return in an hour
and sign the document, which was still more cautiously to insure the
miser against loss.

He then rose and departed--Mr. Tims viewing, with that mixture of
pity, wonder, and admiration wherewith cowards regard heroes, the
young gentleman issued forth into the dark night air, loaded with so
large a sum, and armed with nothing but a small ash twig, not thicker
than his little finger. Burrel, however, like a great many other
heroes, never suspected for a moment that he was in any danger, and
walked on quite calmly, though he could not help noticing the same
peculiar whistle which he had heard before. Nothing, however, occurred
to interrupt him. A bright moon was now rising up; and, at the
distance of a little more than a mile from the miser's house, just
where the lane opened out upon a wide upland field, he perceived the
figure of a man coming rapidly over the rise. He himself was hid by
the bushes and trees; but, by the walk and air, he immediately
recognized Captain Delaware in the person who now approached. There
would be no use of staying here, at the fag-end of a chapter, to
analyze or scrutinize the train of feelings or of reasonings that made
Beauchamp at once determine to avoid an interview. Suffice it that his
resolution was instantaneous; and pushing through the hedge, near
which he stood, at the cost both of gloves and hands, he walked
forward on the other side of the hedgerow, while William Delaware
passed him within a couple of yards' distance.




CHAPTER XVIII.


We must now return for a moment to the morning of that day, whose sun
we have just seen go down, and to Blanche Delaware, who sat in her
solitary chamber, with the world feeling all a wide lonely desert
around her. Not a month before, there had not been a happier girl upon
the earth. She had been contented; she had possessed her own little
round of amusements and occupations. She had music, and books, and
flowers and nature, and two beings that she dearly loved, constantly
beside her, and she had never dreamed of more. The buoyancy of health,
and a happy disposition, had raised her mind above the low estate to
which her family had been reduced; and a refined taste, with that
noblest quality of the human mind, which may be called the power of
admiration, had taught her, like the bee, to extract sweetness and
enjoyment from every flower that Heaven scattered on her way. But
since that time she had been taught another lesson--she had been
taught to love! That passion had given a splendor to the world that it
had never before possessed. It had painted the flowers with richer
colors--it had spread a sunshine of its own over the face of
nature--it had given new soul to the music that she loved. The dream
had been broken--the adventitious splendor had passed away; but it
left not the flowers, or the music, or the face of nature, as they
were before. It took from them their own beauties, as well as that
which it had lent them. All had withered, and died; and the world was
a desert.

She had wept long, and bitterly; but she had dried her eyes, and
bathed away the traces of her tears, when her father entered her room,
and inquired tenderly after her health. "You do not look well, indeed,
my dear Blanche," he said; "I wish you would send to Emberton for Mr.
Tomkins."

Blanche assured him, however, that it was nothing but a headache--that
she would be better soon--that she was better already--and that she
was just thinking of coming down stairs. There was, indeed, a sort of
trembling consciousness at her heart, which made her fear, at every
word, that her father was going to touch upon the subject most painful
to her heart; but she soon perceived that no suspicions had been
awakened in his bosom; and she trusted that her brother would share in
her father's blindness, especially as he had been absent so long in
London. In this hope, and as far as possible to remove all cause for
doubt, at least till she was able to bear an explanation, Blanche
nerved her mind to restrain her feelings, and soon followed her father
to the library. It was some time, as we have seen, before William
Delaware returned, and Sir Sidney had walked out a little way toward
Ryebury to meet him; but as he had been since at Emberton, he came, of
course, by a different path, and arrived alone. His mind was in no
slight degree irritated and impatient, from all that had passed; and
poor Blanche had unfortunately so far fallen under his displeasure,
from the facts which the servant had communicated to him, that he was
prepared, as he mentally termed it, to give her a severe scolding;
but when he entered the library, he found her looking so sad and
woe-begone, that his heart melted; and, sitting down beside her on the
sofa, where she had been reading, he took her hand kindly in his, and
asked her after her health, with a look of fraternal affection.
Blanche fancied that he too was deceived, and answered that her
complaint was only a head ache, which would soon pass away.

"Are you sure, my sweet sister," asked Captain Delaware, "that it is
not a heartache, which may be long ere it leave you, if you do not
take the advice of some one who has a right to counsel you!"

The blood rushed burning into Miss Delaware's cheek, and she trembled
violently; but her brother folded his arm round her waist, and still
speaking gently and kindly, he went on: "Hear me, dearest Blanche--We
have been brought up as brother and sister seldom are--shut out the
greater part of our lives from the rest of the world--loving each
other dearly from the cradle--I, seeing little of mankind, except
within the sphere of my own vessel; and you, seeing nothing of mankind
at all. I believe that I have been the only confidant you have had
from childhood, and I do not intend, dearest, that you should withdraw
that confidence from me, till I put this little hand into that of the
only man who ought to be your confidant from that moment." The tears
rolled rapidly over Blanche Delaware's cheeks. "Although it may seem
strange," continued her brother, "that you should be expected to make
a confidant of any man at all in love matters, yet, for want of a
better, Blanche, you must tell me all about it; and, perhaps, I shall
not make the worse depository of a secret, for being a sailor. We are
all tender-hearted, Blanche," he added, with a smile; "at least when
we are on shore. So now tell me--has Mr. Burrel offered you his hand?"

Blanche was silent, though her brother waited during more than one
minute for a reply; but the blood again mounted into her cheek, and
the tears dropped thicker than before. "Well, well," he continued,
"if you can not answer by words, dear sister, I must try and make out
your signals, though I have not, perhaps, the most correct code
myself--Burrel has offered you his hand!" Blanche gently bent her
head. It could scarcely be called an assent; but it was enough for her
brother, and he went on. "Well, then, what was the difficulty! He
loved you, and you loved him."

Blanche would have started up, but her brother's arm held her firmly;
and, as her only resource, she hid her glowing face upon his shoulder,
and sobbed aloud. "Nay, nay, deal girl!" he cried, "Where is the shame
or the harm of loving a man who has long loved you! Do you think I
have not seen your love, my dear sister! And do you think that I would
suffer your heart to be won, unless I knew that the man who sought it,
really loved you and was worthy of you! But tell me, Blanche, where is
the difficulty--what is the obstacle! Some trifle it must be--I will
not call it a caprice, for my sister is above that--but some idle
delicacy--some over-retiring modesty, I am afraid."

"No, no, William, I can assure you!" replied Blanche Delaware, raising
her head; "I could be above all that too--but it can not be."

"But, my dear Blanche," said Captain Delaware, more seriously than he
had hitherto spoken--for he had endeavored to mingle a playfulness
with his tenderness--"but, my dear Blanche, you must assign some
reason--at least to me. Burrel will think that we have all trifled
with him. I stood virtually pledged to him for your hand, on condition
that he won your love. That he must have felt he has done, or that you
have been sporting with him--and such an imputation must not lie on
you, nor must he think that I have deceived him."

"Do you know who he really is?" demanded Blanche, suddenly.

"Yes, Blanche, as well as you do," replied her brother. "He is your
cousin and mine, Henry Beauchamp, whom we have both played with on
that carpet in our childhood."

"It is useless, William--it is all useless!" replied Blanche with a
deep and painful sigh. "But there is my father's step in the hall--let
me go, William, if you love me--and oh, do not, for Heaven's sake,
increase his anxiety just now, by letting him know any thing of all
this! Let me go, my dear brother, I beseech you!" and struggling free,
she made her escape by the door opposite to that by which Sir Sidney
Delaware was just about to enter the library.

Captain Delaware had a painful task before him, in the necessity of
communicating to his father the result of the inquiries he had set out
in the morning to make, although he could not find in his heart to
tell him explicitly upon what doubtful chances his hope of receiving
the money, ere the next morning, was founded. He confined his
information, therefore, as much to general terms as possible; and
informed Sir Sidney that Mr. Tims had not yet indeed received the
money, which was to be furnished by a third party, but that he doubted
not it would be paid that night, or early the next morning, before
Lord Ashborough's lawyer could arrive.

These tidings stopped any further inquiries from Sir Sidney Delaware,
though they did not satisfy or quiet his mind; and he concluded that
his son had told him all he knew, although that all but served to
render him anxious and impatient. He remained restless and disturbed
through the whole of the day; raised a thousand aerial hypotheses in
regard to Mr. Tims's delay--drew a general picture of all misers,
lawyers, and usurers, which might have ornamented the scrap-book of
Eblis--and more than once threatened to visit the worthy proprietor of
Ryebury himself, from which feat he was with difficulty dissuaded by
his son, who, in fact, was but little less anxious than himself.

Perhaps, indeed, Captain Delaware's anxiety was the more keen and
corroding, because he forced himself to conceal it, and to appear
perfectly confident and careless. Blanche, on her part, avoided all
communication with her brother, except that, when they met at dinner
and at tea, her eyes besought him to spare her. The moments waned;
neither Mr. Tims nor Burrel, nor any messenger from either, appeared
during the evening; and, as night began to fall, Captain Delaware's
impatience gradually got the better of his self-command; and finding
himself in the situation of a shell, the fuse of which was rapidly
burning down to the powder, and which must consequently explode in a
short time, he thought it better to carry himself away, and let his
heat and disappointment wreak itself upon any other objects than his
friends and relations.

As the most natural vent for such feelings, he took his way toward
Ryebury; but when he returned, after about an hour's absence, he
appeared to the eyes of his sister--who strove to read his looks with
no small apprehension--more heated and irritable than before.

"Well, William, what does Mr. Tims say now?" demanded Sir Sidney
Delaware, whose own anxiety had at once told him whither his son had
turned his footsteps, although Captain Delaware had given no
intimation of his purpose.

"I have not seen him, sir," was the reply. "The old dotard would not
let me in. Afraid of _robbers_, I suppose. I rang till I was tired,
and then came away. But it is no matter; the money will be forthcoming
to-morrow, I have no doubt. The coach does not arrive till the
afternoon; and Lord Ashborough's solicitor did not come by it
to-night, for I inquired at the inn."

Things which, buoyed up on the life-preserver of a light heart, float
like feathers over all the waves of adversity that inundate this briny
world, sink the soul down to the bottom of despair the moment that the
life preserver, dashed against some sharp rock, or beaten by some more
violent surge, suffers the waters to flow in, and the fine elastic air
to escape. Not many weeks before, Blanche Delaware would have
wondered, in the happy contentedness of her own heart, at the anxiety
and disappointment of her brother and her father, and would have
looked upon the events which they seemed to regret so bitterly, but as
a very small and easily borne misfortune. But in the present
depression of her spirits, it overwhelmed her even more than it did
them. Her own grief was so deep, that she could not well bear any
more; and, soon after her brother's return, she retired to her chamber
to weep.

The night went by, and Blanche and her father descended to the
breakfast-table somewhat earlier than usual; for care makes light
sleepers.

"Is William out?" demanded Sir Sidney Delaware, as he met his
daughter. "I wished to have gone to Ryebury with him."

"I do not think he is down yet," she replied. "I have not seen him,
and yet it is odd he should be the last up to-day."

"Send up and see, my love," said her father; which was accordingly
done, and the result was, that Captain Delaware was found just
dressing. Blanche thought it very strange that on such an occasion her
brother should yield to a laziness he did not usually indulge; but
Captain Delaware seemed in no hurry to come down, and the breakfast
proceeded without him. Before it was concluded, however, and before he
had made his appearance, the sound of wheels coming up the avenue was
heard, and a hack post-chaise drove to the door. The whole proceedings
of its occupants were visible from the breakfast-parlor; and, as Sir
Sidney sat, he could perceive that the first person who got out was a
stout, unpleasant-looking man, in whom, although greatly changed since
last he saw him, he recognized Lord Ashborough's lawyer. The next that
followed was evidently a clerk, and he carried in his hand one of
those ominous-looking bags of green serge. Mr. Peter Tims, immediately
after the descent of the clerk, turned back to the chaise door, and
spoke a few words to some one who remained within, and then followed
the servant up the steps of the terrace.

Blanche looked at her father. He was very pale. "I wish you would call
William, my love," he said, with a faint effort to smile; "we may want
his presence in dealing with these gentlemen."

Blanche hastened to obey, and, almost as she left the room, Mr. Peter
Tims was announced. He entered with a low bow, but a face full of cool
effrontery, which gave the lie to his profound salutation. He
immediately informed Sir Sidney that he now had the pleasure of
waiting upon him to settle the little business between him and his
noble client, Lord Ashborough; and he ended by presenting the bill for
twenty-five thousand pounds, which had now been due nearly two days.

Sir Sidney Delaware begged him to be seated, and then, in an
embarrassed but gentlemanly manner, explained to him that the money
which he had expected to receive, had not yet been paid; but that he
trusted that it would be so in the course of the day.

The face of Mr. Peter Tims grew dark; not that he did not anticipate
the very words he heard, but that he thought fit to suit his looks to
his actions. "Ha! then," he cried, "my lord was right, sir!--my lord
was right, when he said he was sure that the annuity would never be
redeemed, and that the only object was to reduce the interest. But I
can tell you, Sir Sidney, that such conduct will not do with us!" and
he made a sign to his clerk, who instantly left the room. "We had
heard something of this yesterday, and that made me come as far
as ---- last night."

Sir Sidney Delaware's cheek grew red, and his lip quivered, but it was
with anger. "What is the meaning of this insolence, sir?" he demanded,
in a tone that changed Mr. Tims's manner at once from the voluble to
the dogged. "You seem to me to forget yourself somewhat strangely."

"Oh, no, sir, no!" replied the lawyer. "All I have to say is--This, I
think, is your bill--now more than due. Are you ready to take it up?
If not, I must proceed as the law directs."

"And pray, sir, what does the law direct you to do?" demanded Sir
Sidney Delaware, "when the payment of a sum of money is delayed for a
few hours, by some accidental circumstance?"

"It is all very well talking, Sir Sidney," said the man of law; and
was proceeding in the usual strain, when Captain Delaware entered the
room, and passing behind his father, whispered something in the
baronet's ear that made him start. Almost at the same moment, the
lawyer's clerk returned, followed by one of those ill-looking fellows,
who, as poor Colly Cibber declared, were "fitted by nature for doing
ugly work," and consequently, engaged by the sheriffs for that
purpose.

"Which is the gemman, Mr. Tims?" cried the bailiff; for such was the
personage now introduced. "Is't the ould un, or the young un? for we
must not be after mistaking."

"Stop a moment!" cried Captain Delaware. "Pray, who are these persons,
sir?" he continued, addressing Mr. Tims.

"Merely my clerk, sir, my clerk," replied Mr. Tims, who did not
particularly approve the flashing of Captain Delaware's eye. "Merely
my clerk, and an officer of the sheriff's court, instructed to execute
a writ upon the person of Sir Sidney Delaware, at the suit of my noble
lord, the Earl of Ashborough. You know, Captain Delaware," he added,
edging himself round the table to be out of reach of the young
officer's arm--"you know you yourself assured me that the money would
be ready before the time, and now two days have elapsed; so that it is
clear, sir--it is clear, I say, that all this is nothing but
trifling."

"Pray, Mr. Tims," said Captain Delaware, in a milder tone than the
other expected, "answer me one question, as you are a shrewd and
clever lawyer, and I want my mind set at rest."

"Certainly, sir, certainly!" replied Mr. Tims; "very happy to answer
any legal question, provided always, nevertheless, that it does not
affect the interests of my client."

"My question is merely this, sir," answered the young officer, whose
mind--both from what Burrel's servant had let fall, and from his own
observations--had come to the conclusion, that the Messieurs Tims,
uncle and nephew, had combined to prevent the payment of the money.
"My question is merely this--Suppose two or three men were to enter
into an agreement for the purpose of delaying the payment of a sum of
money, in order to arrest a person on a bill they had obtained from
him, would they not be subject to indictment for conspiracy?"

The countenance of Mr. Tims fell; but the moment after, it kindled
again with anger, and he replied, "I will answer that question in
another time and place; and, in the mean time, officer, do your duty!"

"Stand back, sir!" said Captain Delaware, sternly, as the man
advanced. "Mr. Tims, you shall answer that question in another time
and place, and that fully. In the mean time, as you say, be so good as
to present your bill. I shall only observe upon your conduct, that the
fact of your having obtained this very writ, before you had ever
presented the bill for payment, gives a strong presumption that you
had taken means to prevent the money being ready, and concluded that
those means had been successful."

Mr. Tims turned very pale; but he was not one of those unfortunate men
whose impudence abandons them at the moment of need, and he almost
instantly replied, "No, sir, so! It affords no presumption. The fact
is, we never thought the money would be paid. We always knew that the
whole business was an artifice--that you had no honest means of coming
by the money--and, after having allowed one whole day, and a part of
another to elapse, that there might be no excuse, we came prepared to
make the artifice fall upon the heads of those that planned it.
Officer, why do you not execute the writ?"

"Because the gemman demands you should present the bill!" replied the
man.

"The bill matters nothing--the debt has been sworn to," answered Mr.
Tims; "but that there may be no farther quibble--there--there, sir, is
a bill signed by Sir Sidney Delaware for the sum of twenty-five
thousand pounds, which came due the day before yesterday. Are you
ready to pay it? Can you take it up? Are you prepared to discharge
it?"

"We are, sir!" replied Captain Delaware; "and, when we have done so, I
shall take the liberty of caning you for the words you have had the
impudence to use, and the imputations you have been shameless enough
to utter, till you shall have as good an action for battery against
me, as I shall have an indictment for conspiracy against you."

"No, no, William!" said Sir Sidney Delaware. "There is not an
instrument of castigation in the house, from the dog-whip to the stick
with which the boy cudgels the jackass, that would not be disgraced by
touching the back of that man or his instigator."

"First, sir, let us see the money," cried Mr. Tims; "and then let any
man touch me if he dare. The money, sir! Where is the money, I say?"

"Here, sir!" replied Captain Delaware, drawing out a pocket-book.
"Here is the money that you require; and, therefore, before proceeding
to any thing else, we will terminate this business."

It would be difficult, in that confused gabble of a thousand depraved
dialects, which the reviews call "good manly English," to express the
horror and despair of Mr. Peter Tims, at finding that--notwithstanding
all the arts and artifices he had used, and which were a thousandfold
more in number than we have had space to put down--the money had been
obtained; and, therefore, that the patronage and business of Lord
Ashborough might be looked upon as lost to him forever.

Nothing, however, could be done; and he was obliged to sit down and
transact the receipt of the money, and all the other formal business
incident to the occasion, with a bitter heart and a gloomy
countenance. The notes, indeed, which Captain Delaware handed to him,
in discharge of his father's bill, he examined with scrupulous
attention; and had he been able to detect even a suspicious look about
any of them, would probably have made it a plea to delay the
acceptance of the payment; but all was fair and clear; and in half an
hour the bill was paid, and Sir Sidney Delaware's estate was delivered
from the burden which had kept his family in poverty for so many
years. Mr. Tims, indeed, took care to conduct himself with a degree of
irritating insolence, intended, beyond doubt, to tempt the young
officer to strike him as he had threatened, which would probably have
been the case, had not Sir Sidney Delaware pointed out to his son, in
a calm bitter tone, the real object of the lawyer, observing aloud,
that pettifogging attorneys often made considerable sums by carrying
actions of assault into a peculiar court, where the costs to the
offender were very severe.

This turned the scale; and, when the whole was concluded, the lawyer
was suffered to depart, loaded with nothing but disappointment and
contempt.




CHAPTER XIX.


There are few things in life so troublesome or so tedious as the
turnings back which one is often obliged to make, as one journeys
along over the surface of the world; the more especially because these
turnings back happen, in an infinite proportion, oftener to the hasty
and the impatient than to other men; and that, too, on account of
their very haste and impatience, which makes them cast a shoe here, or
drop their whip there, or ride off and forget their spurs at the other
place. But yet it is not an unpleasant sight, to see some sedate old
hound, when a whole pack of reckless young dogs have overrun the scent
in their eagerness, get them all gently back again, under the sage
direction of the huntsman and his whips, and with upturned nose, and
tongue like a church bell, announce the recovery.

Know then, dear readers, that in our eagerness to get at the scene
just depicted, we have somewhat overrun the scent, and must return,
however unwillingly, to the time and circumstances, under which Henry
Beauchamp left Mr. Tims of Ryebury, on the preceding night. It was, as
may be remembered, fine, clear, autumn weather. The night, indeed,
would have been dark, but for the moon, which poured a grand flood of
light through the valleys, and over the plains; and Mr. Tims, who
loved the light--not so much because his own ways were peculiarly
good, as because it is known to be a great scarer of those whose ways
are more evil still--remarked with satisfaction, as he ushered his
guest to the door, that it was as clear as day.

"Sally, Sally!" he exclaimed, as soon as Mr. Beauchamp was gone, "are
all the doors and windows shut?"

"Lord bless me, yes!" answered the dirty maid, shouting in return from
the kitchen, like Achilles from the trenches. "As fast shut as hands
can make them."

"What is that noise, then?" demanded the miser, suspiciously.

"Only me putting in the lower bolt of the back-door," answered the
maid.

"Oh, Sally, Sally! you never will do things at the time you are bid!"
cried the reproachful usurer. "I told you always to shut up at dusk.
But come here, and put on your bonnet. I want you to run down to the
town for a stamp."

Sally grumbled something about going out so late, and meeting impudent
men in the lanes; but after a lapse of time, which the miser thought
somewhat extraordinary in length, she appeared equipped for the walk,
and received her master's written directions as to the stamp, or
rather stamps, he wanted, and where they were to be found in Emberton.
The miser then saw her to the door, locked, bolted, and barred it
after her departure, and returning to the parlor, lifted the dim and
long-wicked candle, bearing on its pale and sickly sides the evidence
of many a dirty thumb and finger; and then with slow, and somewhat
feeble steps, climbed, one by one, the stairs, and retired to a high
apartment at the back of the house, for which he seemed to entertain a
deep and reverential affection.

Well, indeed, might he love it; for it was the temple of his divinity,
the place in which his riches and his heart reposed, and which
contained his every feeling. There, shrined in a safe of iron, let
into the wall, were the Lares and Penates of his house, bearing either
the goodly forms of golden disks--with the face of the fourth George
pre-eminent on one side, and of his namesake saint all saddleless and
naked, on the other--or otherwise, the forms of paper parallelograms,
inscribed with cabalistic characters, implying promises to pay. Here
Mr. Tims sat down, after having closed the door, and placed the candle
on a table; and, throwing one leg, clothed in its black worsted
stockings, over the other, he sat in a sort of rapt and reverential
trance, worshiping Mammon devoutly, in the appropriate forms of vulgar
and decimal fractions, interest, simple and compound.

Scarcely had he gone up-stairs, however, when a change of scene came
over the lower part of his house. A door, which communicated with the
steps that led down to the kitchen, moved slowly upon its hinges, and
the moonlight streaming through the grated fan window, above the outer
door, fell upon the form of a man, emerging, with a careful and
noiseless step, from the lower story into the passage. The beams,
which were strong enough to have displayed the features of any one
where this very suspicious visitor stood, now fell upon nothing like
the human face divine, the countenance of the stranger being
completely covered and concealed by a broad black crape, tied tightly
behind his head. As soon as he had gained the passage, and stood firm
in the moonlight, another form appeared, issuing from the mouth of the
same narrow and somewhat steep staircase, with a face equally well
concealed. A momentary conversation was then carried on in a whisper
between the two, and the first apparition, looking sharply at the
chinks of the several doors around, seemingly to discover whether
there was any light within, replied to some question from the other,
"No, no! He is gone upstairs, to hide it in the room where she told us
he kept it. Go down and tell Wat to come up, and keep guard here; and
make haste!"

The injunction was soon complied with; and a third person being added
to the party, was placed, with a pistol in his hand, between the outer
door and the top of the stairs. Before he suffered his two companions
to depart, however, on the errand on which they were bent, he seemed
to ask two or three questions somewhat anxiously, to which the former
speaker replied, "Hurt him! Oh, no! do not be afraid! Only tie him,
man! I told you before that we would not. There is never any use of
doing more than utility requires. He will cry when he is tied, of
course; but do not you budge."

"Very well!" answered the other, in the same low tone, and his two
comrades began to ascend the stairs. Before they had taken three
steps, however, the first returned again to warn their sentinel not to
use his pistol but in the last necessity; observing, that a pistol was
a bad weapon, for it made too much noise. He then resumed his way, and
in a moment after was hid from his companion. The whole topography of
the house seemed well known to the leader of these nocturnal
visitants; for, gliding on as noiselessly as possible, he proceeded
direct toward the room where the miser sat.

Mr. Tims, little misdoubting that such gentry were already in
possession of his house, had remained quietly musing over his gains,
somewhat uneasy, indeed, at the absence of Sally, but not much more
apprehensive than the continual thoughts of his wealth caused him
always to be.

He had indeed once become so incautious, in the eagerness of his
contemplations, as to draw forth his large key, and open the strong
iron door which covered the receptacle of his golden happiness. But
immediately reflecting that Sally was not in the house to give the
alarm, if any cause of apprehension arose below, he relocked the
chest, and was returning to the table, when a sudden creak of the
stairs, as if one of the steps had yielded a little beneath a heavy
but cautious foot, roused all his fears. His cheeks and his lips grew
pale; his knees trembled; and, with a shaking hand, he raised the
candle from the table, and advanced toward the door.

It was opened but too soon; and, ere the unhappy miser reached it, the
light fell upon a figure which left him no doubt of the purport of the
visit. It was not for his life the old man feared half so much as for
his treasure, in the defense of which he would have fought an universe
of thieves. A blunderbuss hung over the mantelpiece, and the pulley of
an alarum-bell by the window, and the miser's mind vibrated for a
single moment between the two. Dropping the candle almost at once,
however, he sprang toward the bell, while one of the men shouted to
the other near whom he passed, "Stop him! Stop him from the bell! By
G--, he will have the whole country upon us!"

Both sprang forward. The candle, which had blazed a moment on the
floor, was trampled out, and complete darkness succeeded. Then
followed a fearful noise of eager running here and there--the
overthrowing of chairs and tables--the dodging round every thing that
could be interposed between people animated with the active spirit of
flight and pursuit--but not a word was spoken. At length there was a
stumble over something--then a heavy fall, and then a sound of
struggling, as of two people rolling together where they lay. Another
rushed forward, and seemed to grope about in the darkness. "D-- it,
you have cut me, Stephen!" cried a low, deep voice.

"Murder! Murder! Murder!" screamed another. "Oh! Oh! Oh!" and all was
silent.

Two men had fallen, and another had bent down over them; but only one
of those who had rolled on the floor rose up, beside the other who had
been kneeling. Both remained quite still, with nothing but the
monosyllable, "Hush!" uttered by either.

After a pause of several minutes, the one observed, in a low voice,
"You have done him, Stephen!"

"He would have it," replied the other. "Run down and get a light, and
do not let the youngster know how it has turned out."

"But I am all bloody!" said the other. "He will see it in a minute.
Besides, you have cut my hand to the bone."

"Well, you stay, and I will go down," replied the first.

"Not I!" was the answer, "I'll not stay here in the dark with him."

"Then go down, and do not waste more time," said the first, somewhat
sharply. "Tell the boy, if he ask, that the old man cut your hand
while you were tying him; but, at all events, make haste."

The other obeyed, and, after a long and silent interval, returned with
the light. It flashed upon a ghastly spectacle. There, on the floor,
at a short distance from the bell-rope, which he had been endeavoring
to reach, lay the figure of the unhappy miser, in the midst of a pool
of gore, which was still flowing slowly from two deep gashes in his
throat. His mouth was open, and seemed in the very act of gasping. His
eyes were unclosed, and turned up, with a cold, dull, meaningless
stare; and his gray hair, long, lank, and untrimmed, lay upon his ashy
cheeks, dabbled with his own blood. By his side, exactly on the very
spot where he had stood when the other left him, appeared the
murderer. His features could not be seen, for they were still
concealed by the crape over his face; but the attitude of his head and
whole person evinced that his eyes were fixed, through the black
covering, upon the spot where his victim lay, now first made visible
to his sight by the entrance of the light. In his hand was a long
clasp-knife, hanging laxly, with the point toward the ground, and a
drop or two of blood had dripped from it upon the floor. The
disarrayed chamber, the overturned furniture, and a small stream of
blood that was winding its way amidst the inequalities of an
old-fashioned floor, toward the doorway, where the beams had sunk a
little, made up the rest of the scene--and a fearful scene it was.

"Is he quite dead!" demanded the man who entered, after a momentary
pause.

"As dead as Adam!" replied the other; "and, as the business is done,
there is no use of thinking more about it!" But the very words he used
might seem to imply that he had already been thinking more of what had
passed than was very pleasing. "Such obstinate fools will have their
own way--I never intended to kill him, I am sure; but he would have
it; and he is quiet enough now!"

The other approached, and though, perhaps, the less resolute ruffian
of the two, he now gazed upon the corpse, and spoke of it with that
degree of vulgar jocularity which is often affected to conceal more
tremor and agitation then the actors in any horrid scenes may think
becoming. Perhaps it was the same feelings that attempted to mask
themselves in the overdone gayety which Cromwell displayed on the
trial and death of Charles Stuart.

"The old covey is quiet enough now, as you say!" remarked the inferior
ruffian, drawing near with the light. "His tongue will never put you
or I into the stone pitcher, Stephen."

"His blood may," replied the other, "if we do not make haste. She said
the key of the chest was always upon him. There it is in his hand, as
I live! We must make you let go your hold, sir; but you grasp it as
tight in death as you did in life."

With some difficulty the fingers of the dead man were unclosed, and
the large key of the iron safe wrenched from his grasp. The freshly
stimulated thirst of plunder did away, for the moment, all feelings of
remorse and awe; and the two ruffians hastened to unlock the iron door
in the wall, the one wielding the key, while the other held the light,
and gazed eagerly over his shoulder. The first drawer they opened
caused them both to draw a long, deep breath of self-gratulation, so
splendid was the sight of the golden rows of new sovereigns and old
guineas it displayed. A bag was instantly produced, and the whole
contents emptied in uncounted. The hand of the principal plunderer was
upon the second drawer, when a loud ring at the house-bell startled
them in their proceedings.

"He will not open the door, surely?" cried the one.

"No, no; I told him not," answered the other. "But let us go down, to
make sure."

Setting the light on the floor, they both glided down the stairs, and
arrived just in time to prevent their comrade, whom they had left upon
guard below, from making an answer, as he was imprudently about to do.
The bell was again rung violently, and after a third application of
the same kind, some heavy blows of a stick were added. Again and again
the bell was rung; and as the visitor seemed determined not to go away
without effecting an entrance, the man who seemed to have led
throughout the terrible work of that night, put his hand slowly into
his pocket, and, drawing forth a pistol, laid his hand upon the lock
of the door.

"He will ring there till Sally comes up," observed the other, in a
whisper, "and then we shall be all blown."

Just as the click of cocking the pistol announced that the
determination of the first ruffian was taken, a receding step was
heard, and, calmly replacing the weapon, he said, "He is gone! now let
us back to our work quick, Tony!"

"All is very silent up-stairs," said the young man who had been
keeping watch, in a low and anxious tone.

"Oh, the old man is tied and gagged sufficiently. Do not be afraid,
Wat," replied the other. "Only you keep quite quiet--if any one comes,
make no answer; but if they try to force a way in by the back door,
which is on the latch, give them a shot. You have good moonlight to
take aim;" and mounting the stairs with the same quiet steps, he once
more entered the chamber of the miser.

The young man who remained below listened attentively; and though the
footfalls of his two comrades were as light as they well could be, yet
he heard them distinctly enter the room where they had left the
candle. As their steps receded, however, and no other sound followed,
he suffered the hand which held the pistol to drop heavily by his
side.

"They have killed the old man!" he muttered. "He would never lie still
like a lubber, and see them pillage his chests, without making some
noise, if he were not dead! I thought that cold-blooded rascal would
do it, if it suited his cursed utility. I wish to God I had never--"

But the vain wish was interrupted by the sound of a door, gently
opened below; and, in a moment after, the form of Sally, the miser's
maid, appeared gliding up with a sort of noiseless step, which showed
her not unconscious of all that was proceeding within her master's,
dwelling. A low and hasty conversation now took place between her and
the man upon watch, who told her his suspicions of the extent to which
his companions had pushed their crime, notwithstanding a promise which
they had made, it seems, to abstain from hurting their victim.
Somewhat to his surprise and disgust, however, he found, that though
the woman was trembling in every limb, from personal agitation and
fear of discovery, yet she felt little of the horror which he himself
experienced, when he reflected on the murder of the poor defenseless
old man. She replied in a low, but flippant tone, that dead men tell
no tales; and added, that she dared to say Mr. Harding would not have
done it, if the old fool had not resisted.

At that moment the light from above began to glimmer upon the stairs,
and the two murderers soon after appeared, the one carrying a candle,
and the other a heavy bag, with which they at once proceeded into the
little parlor, where the old man had so lately sat with Mr.
Beauchamp. The other two followed, and the one who had remained below
immediately taxed the principal personage in the tragedy, whom we may
now call Harding, with the act he had just committed.

"Hush, hush!" cried Harding, in a stern tone, but one, the sternness
of which was that of remorse. "Hush, hush, boy! I would not have done
it, if I could have helped it. But there," he added, putting the heavy
bag upon the table; "there is enough to make your mother easy for the
rest of her days."

"And shall I be ever easy again for the rest of mine?" demanded the
youth.

"I hope so," answered his companion, drily. "But come, we must not
lose time. This is too heavy for one of us to carry; and yet we have
not found a quarter of what we expected. Sally, my love, fetch us some
cloths, or handkerchiefs, or something. We may as well divide the
money now, and each man carry his own."

So saying, he poured the mingled heap of gold and silver on the table;
and as soon as some cloths were procured to wrap it in, he proceeded
to divide it with his hand into four parts, saying, "Share and share
alike!"

Some opposition was made to this by the man who had accompanied him in
the more active part of the night's work, and who declared that he did
not think that the person who only kept watch, or the woman either,
deserved to be put on the same footing with themselves, who had
encountered the whole danger. He was at once, however, sternly
overruled by Harding whose character seemed to have undergone a
strange change amidst the fiery, though brief period of intense
passions through which he had just passed. The softer metal had been
tempered into hard steel; but when for a moment he removed the crape
from his face, to give himself more air, it was pale, anxious, and
haggard; and had a look of sickened disgust withal, that was not in
harmony with his tone.

Carefully though rapidly, he rendered the several lots as nearly equal
as the mere measurement of the eye would permit, bade his comrades
each take that which he liked, and contented himself with the one they
left. The necessity of haste, or rather the apprehensiveness of guilt,
made them all eager to abridge every proceeding; and the money being
tied up, and a large sum in notes divided, they prepared to depart.

"Had we better go out by the back door or the front?" demanded
Harding, turning to the woman.

"Oh, la! by the front, to be sure!" she replied. "The hind who lives
in the cottage on the lea opposite, might see us if we went out by the
back. Nobody can see us come out in the lane, unless some one be
wandering about."

"We must take our chance of that!" replied Harding and putting out the
light, he led the way to the door.




CHAPTER XX.


"And now, my dear William," said Sir Sidney Delaware, as soon as Mr.
Tims had departed, and the rolling wheels of his post-chaise were no
longer heard grating down the western avenue--"and now, my dear
William, lay your angry spirit. Depend upon it, that man carries with
him a sufficient punishment in the disappointment he has suffered. He
is one of that class of rogues for whom the old Athenians, finding no
appropriate corporeal infliction, decreed the punishment of the Stela;
or, in other words, ordered their names and infamy to be engraved upon
a pillar, and thus held them up to shame forever."

"As our law has no such just award," replied Captain Delaware, "I
should certainly have had great pleasure in writing his shame on his
back with a horsewhip instead; but of course as you did not like it, I
forbore."

"NO, no, my dear boy!" said his father; "you would have degraded
yourself, gratified him, and had to pay a large sum for a small.
satisfaction. But now all that is past; explain to us the rest of the
business. How happened the money to arrive so apropos, and without the
accompaniment of the miser of Ryebury! Was Mr. Tims, senior, unwilling
to meet Mr. Tims, junior on a business, in regard to which it was
evident that the lawyer both wished and anticipated a different
result?"

"Strange enough to say, my dear sir," replied Captain Delaware, "you
are asking me questions which I can not at all answer. There is
Blanche smiling," he added, "because I told her the same, before I
came down, and she chose to be incredulous; though she knows that
there never was sailor or landsman yet so little given to romancing as
I am."

"But you can tell me when it was you received the money?" said Sir
Sidney, in some degree of surprise.

"Oh, certainly, sir!" answered his son. "It was this morning, not long
before Blanche came up to my room."

"Why, they told me you had not been out this morning," said his
father.

"Neither have I, my dear sir," replied Captain Delaware.

"In short, papa, he makes a mystery of the whole affair," said Blanche
"and will not say how or where he got it."

"You are wrong, my dear sister," rejoined her brother. "I am perfectly
willing to say how and where I got it; and in fact I told you before."

"Oh, but, William!" exclaimed his sister, "I saw very well that you
were only jesting. You did not, I am sure, intend me to give credence
to that story!"

"Well for you that you are not a man, my pretty Blanche," answered
Captain Delaware, shaking his hand at her, good-humoredly. "I will
repeat the same, word for word, to my father; and if he do not believe
me, I will swear to it, if he likes."

"Not I--not I, William!" said Sir Sidney. "Anything that you assert in
so solemn a manner, I will believe without any swearing, however
improbable it may be."

"Well, then, my dear sir," replied Captain Delaware, "the fact is
this: when I rose this morning, in looking about for something on my
dressing-table, I found a paper parcel with my name written upon it;
and, on opening it, saw the notes which I just now gave to that
blackguard. There was no one thing in or about the parcel that could
lead me to divine from whom or whence it came; but as it contained the
precise sum required, and was addressed to myself, I could not doubt
the purpose for which it was intended. I have a vague recollection,
indeed, of seeing it lying there last night; but I was out of humor,
and somewhat sick at heart, and took but little notice, of any thing.
However, it must have been there when I went to bed, for no one could
have come into my room without my hearing them."

"Hum!" said Sir Sidney Delaware, with a smile. "Hum!" and,
notwithstanding his promise of full faith in his son's account, it was
evident he did not give credit to a word of it. "Well, well, William,"
he said, "we will not press you hard; though your grave face almost
deserves that one should believe you."

"On my word, sir! On my honor!" reiterated Captain Delaware. "Every
word that I tell you is true. This is very hard indeed that I am not
to be believed, even when I pledge my honor."

"Nay, nay!" said Sir Sidney. "If you bring your honor into the scrape,
my dear boy, I suppose we must believe you. But you will not, I dare
say, deny that you have some shrewd guess at how the money came there,
or who sent it!"

"In regard to the person who sent it," answered Captain Delaware, a
good deal mortified at doubts which he felt he did not deserve, "I
have certainly a very strong suspicion, though I do not feel justified
in naming the friend to whom my mind turns; but, as to how it came
there, I am fully as ignorant as yourself or Blanche."

"Well, all I can say is, that the whole business is very
extraordinary," replied Sir Sidney Delaware, more gravely than he had
hitherto spoken. "Indeed, I know not which would seem the most
strange, that such a large sum should be left in your room without
your privity or knowledge; or that my son should so strongly assert,
even in jest, what is not strictly true."

"Sir, you are doing me injustice!" said Captain Delaware, with a
burning cheek and a quivering lip; "and, as it is so, I will soon
investigate, and, if possible, discover how it was that this took
place;" and, striding across the room, he rang the hell with a degree
of violence, which showed the pain it cost him to brook respectfully,
even from his father, the doubt that Sir Sidney's last words
insinuated. Blanche gently glided across the room; and, laying her
hand upon his arm, raised her beautiful eyes to his with a look half
imploring, half reproachful. Captain Delaware did not reply, but
turned away; and, walking to the window, looked out into the park till
the servant appeared.

"Who left a paper parcel on my dressing-table last night?" he
demanded abruptly, and somewhat sharply too, as the man entered.

The first reply was a stare of astonishment at the unwonted tone of
one usually so mild and kindly in his whole deportment. "I am sure I
do not know, sir!" answered the man, as soon as he had recovered. "I
did not!"

"William, you are heated," said Sir Sidney Delaware, interrupting his
son, as he was about to put another question to the servant. "I
perceive now, perhaps too plainly, that the matter is not a jest; and
therefore, of course, believe what you have said. The business,
however, must be investigated; as we can not lie under so great an
obligation to any one, without due acknowledgment and repayment. Did
you see any stranger about the house or near it during the course of
yesterday evening!" he continued, turning to the servant.

"No one, sir," replied the man. "That is to say, no one near the
house. In the lanes, at the back of the park, I met Harding, Mr.
Burrel's valet, loitering about with another young man toward dusk;
and now, I recollect, the housemaid declaring that she saw some one
just passing by the terrace at about eight or nine o'clock."

"Send the housemaid here!" said Sir Sidney; "and desire Mrs.
Williams"--the name of the old housekeeper--"and desire Mrs. Williams
to come with her."

The commands of Sir Sidney were immediately obeyed, and the
examination of the housemaid began in form. The footman, however, had
already told nearly as much as she could tell herself. When going
along one of the corridors, during the previous evening, to shut the
windows which looked out upon the western part of the park, she had
seen a gentleman, she said, walking along just below the terrace,
toward the wood. She could not tell who he was, for she only saw him
for a moment; and, as he was partly concealed by the raised terrace on
which the house stood, she only caught a sight of his head and
shoulders.

Here ended all information. The old housekeeper had seen no one, and
the housemaid declared that she neither could tell how tall the
gentleman was, nor could vouchsafe any other particulars in regard to
his personal appearance, except that he was a gentleman, she was sure;
for he walked like a gentleman. Sir Sidney would fain have forced her
into a definition of the walk of a gentleman; but the housemaid was
not to be caught, and took refuge in stupidity, as usual in such
cases.

By the time this was over, William Delaware's heat had evaporated, and
it was with a smile he asked his father, "Well, sir, who do you think
our _dear unknown friend is?_"

"Why, of course, William, I can not say who it positively is," replied
Sir Sidney; "but it would not surprise me, were I to find that it was
your admirable friend Burrel."

"Nor I either!" answered William Delaware. "What do you think,
Blanche!"

But Blanche was looking out of the window, with a very red tip to the
fair finely-turned ear that rested on the smooth glossy waves of her
rich brown hair. Perhaps she did not hear the question, but certainly
she did not answer it; and her brother, though he would fain have said
a word or two of kind malice, could he have known how far he might
venture without inflicting real pain, would not run the risk.

"I wish, William," said his father, "that you would go down to
Emberton, and see Mr. Burrel. The circumstances of the proposed
arrangement with Lord Ashborough were mentioned more than once in his
presence, and if he have heard by any chance of there being a delay on
the part of Mr. Tims, he may certainly have taken means to remedy that
inconvenience. In fact, I know of no other person at all likely to
perform such an act of liberality in this somewhat romantic manner."

Blanche glided out of the room, and her father went on. "Mrs.
Darlington, though a very good woman, and not without feeling, does
not perform such acts as this. Otherwise, as she came to Emberton, I
hear, yesterday, to meet Dr. Wilton and another magistrate about this
burning of her house, we might have supposed that she was the lender
of the money. Good Dr. Wilton himself could not, I know, command so
large a sum. I wish, therefore, you would go and visit Mr. Burrel, and
tell him that, while we accept the loan as an obligation, and
appreciate his conduct as it should be appreciated, we are desirous of
giving him a mortgage upon the property which he has released from so
great a burden."

"I will go down almost immediately, sir," replied Captain Delaware;
"but, in all the confusion of this morning, I have lost my breakfast,
for it seems that the surprise and wonderment of finding the packet
detained me till you and Blanche had finished."

The bell was rung, breakfast was again made, and Captain Delaware
proceeded somewhat quickly in the task of dispatching it, reflecting,
in the intervals of a broken conversation with his father, upon all
that he would have to say to Burrel--how he might best and most
delicately thank him for the kindness and promptitude of the service
he had rendered--how he might arrive-at the facts of his situation in
regard to Blanche; and whether he would be justified in communicating
at once to Sir Sidney his cousin's real name, without consulting
Beauchamp himself. In the mean while, the baronet walked backward and
forward--now looked out of the window--now talked with his son,
feeling that degree of pleasant perturbation, that sort of long swell,
which remains after some moment of peculiar agitation is happily over,
and the mind is settling down slowly into a calm.

Before his son had finished his breakfast, however, Sir Sidney
remarked that there seemed a great many people in the park. "I
suppose," he said, "the worthy lawyer has informed the good folks of
the town that we are rather more than a thousand a year richer than we
were in the morning; and therefore we may now expect the respectful
congratulations of all those who treated us with the greatest degree
of contempt while we were poor."

"I will go and kick them out, sir, directly," said Captain Delaware,
"if you will allow me to finish this piece of toast."

"I hope you may finish a great many, William," replied his father,
"before you begin kicking at all. But there really seems something
extraordinary here. There is a whole posse, and here is a chariot
driving up the avenue--Dr. Wilton's, I think."

Captain Delaware rose for a moment, looked out of the window, declared
the carriage to be certainly Dr. Wilton's, and the personages on foot
to be a set of blackguards, who had no business there; and then sat
down to his breakfast again, with the intention, as soon as he had
concluded, of going forth and sending the gentry, who had now
approached close to the house, back to the town without any very
flattering expression of regard. He was just depositing his coffee-cup
in the saucer, when Dr. Wilton entered the room unannounced,
accompanied by another magistrate, and followed by Mr. Peter Tims,
with two or three other persons, whose appearance in that place
greatly surprised both Sir Sidney and his son.

The baronet advanced, however, and shook his reverend friend by the
hand; and Captain Delaware exclaimed, laughing, "Why, my dear Doctor
Wilton, I never thought to see you with such a crew, headed by such a
rascally boatswain as that behind you. Why, you have got all the
constables of Emberton at your back! What is the matter?"

"I am sorry to say, my dear William, that I am come upon a very
serious business," replied Doctor Wilton; "Although, indeed, the part
that regards you, both our good friend here, Mr. Egerton, and myself,
look upon as quite ridiculous. Yet the matter is of so very horrible a
nature, that it does not admit of a jest; and this person--this
gentleman, urges a charge against you, so seriously and plausibly,
that we are forced to examine into the matter, though we doubt not
that you can clear yourself at once."

"The scoundrel does not pretend to say that I struck him!" cried
Captain Delaware, his cheek burning with anger; "I threatened, indeed,
and I wish I had put my threat--"

"The charge is a much more serious one than that," said Dr. Wilton,
interrupting him; and then, turning to his brother magistrate, he
said, in a low tone--"Remark his demeanor! I told you it was
ridiculous."

"Yon had better, however, have the warrant executed," replied the
other, in the same low tone. "We can hold the examination here; and if
it turn out as you expect, discharge it as soon as the business is
over."

"What is the matter, gentlemen?" asked Sir Sidney Delaware. "All this
seems very strange! Will you be kind enough to explain?"

"Captain Delaware," said Mr. Egerton, "we are here upon an unpleasant
duty. You are charged by this person, who is, I am told, Mr. Tims, a
lawyer of Clement's Inn, with a very serious crime; and although, from
your character and station, Dr. Wilton and myself do not for a moment
believe the accusation to originate in any thing but error, and are
willing to do all to spare your feelings; yet, in pursuit of the ends
of justice, we are bound to act toward you as we would toward any
other person in the same situation. A charge against you, then, having
been made before us, upon oath, we were bound to grant a warrant
against you, which must now be executed. The examination, however, can
as well take place here as elsewhere; and as this gentleman has
declared that he is ready to go into it immediately, we will instantly
proceed, not at all doubting that you can clear yourself at once."

Captain Delaware had listened at first with surprise and indignation;
but gradually, as the importance of the whole business became strongly
impressed upon his mind, he assumed a more serious aspect, and bowing
low in reply to Mr. Egerton's address, he said, gravely, but
frankly,--"Although I can not divine what charge that person is about
to bring--or rather has brought--against me, yet I thank you, sir, for
the courtesy with which you are inclined to treat me, and of course
surrender myself at once. Do not look so shocked, my dear father," he
added, turning toward Sir Sidney; "be assured that your son never did
an act that he was ashamed to acknowledge in the face of the whole
world., But I think you had better leave us, for this business seems
likely to be too painful for you."

"Never, never, my dear boy!" replied Sir Sidney. "Never! I am a
magistrate also, and should know something of these affairs; and
though, of course, I can not act in your case, I will not leave you
while I have life."

A tear rose in Doctor Wilton's eye; but Mr. Egerton beckoned forward
the officer charged with the warrant against Captain Delaware, to whom
the young gentleman surrendered immediately, merely requiring to be
informed of the nature of the crime with which he was charged. "I
object, I object!" cried Mr. Peter Tims. "I will not have the prisoner
put upon his guard!"

"You seem strangely ignorant of the fundamental principles of English
law, sir, for a person who follows it as a profession," replied Mr.
Egerton. "Captain Delaware, you are charged with the murder of a
person of the name of Tims, residing at Ryebury, in this
neighborhood."

"Good God!" exclaimed Captain Delaware, with unfeigned horror; "then,
that is the reason the poor fellow did not bring the money last
night."

"Put down that observation, clerk!" said Doctor Wilton to a young man
who had followed into the room with the constables, and two or three
other persons.

"Let us carry on the matter a little more formally, my dear sir," said
Mr. Egerton.--"Sir Sidney, with your permission, we will take our
seats here. Clerk, place yourself there. Constable, put a chair for
Captain Delaware at the bottom of the table--stand back yourself, and
keep those other persons back.--Captain Delaware, it is customary to
warn persons in your present situation against saying any thing that
may commit themselves. To you I have only to remark, that your
examination will of course be taken down, and may hereafter be brought
against you."

"You will understand, however," added Doctor Wilton, "that the present
investigation is merely instituted by us to ascertain whether this
person can bring forward sufficient evidence in support of the
accusation, to oblige us to remand you for further examination."

"I shall bring forward sufficient evidence to compel you to commit
him," cried Mr. Tims, "however prejudiced you may be in his favor."

"Do not be insolent, sir," said Mr. Egerton, "or I may find it
necessary to punish you in the first instance. Your charge is already
made, and we shall proceed with the examination as we judge most
expedient ourselves. Remember, Captain Delaware, you are warned
against committing yourself."

"I have nothing to conceal, sir, and therefore have no reason to fear
saying any thing that is true!" replied the young officer. "Pray,
proceed."

"Well, then, let me ask," said Mr. Egerton, "when and where you
happened to see Mr. Tims--generally known by the name of the miser of
Ryebury--for the last time?"

"It was yesterday morning," replied Captain Delaware. "I met him first
in the lanes leading to his own house; accompanied him home, and left
him there."

"Pray, did any high words pass between you and him on that occasion?"
demanded the magistrate; "and if so, what was the subject of dispute?
You are not compelled to answer, unless you like."

"I am sorry to say," replied Captain Delaware, "that there were high
words passed between myself and the poor old man. The cause of them
was simply that he had agreed to furnish a certain sum of money to pay
off an annuity which was pressing heavily upon this estate; and that
he failed to perform his promise at the time agreed upon."

"And to obtain which, whether he would or not, you murdered him!"
cried Mr. Peter Tims.

Captain Delaware started up, with the fire flashing from his eyes, but
instantly resumed his seat, saying, "Am I to be thus insulted,
gentlemen?"

"Mr. Peter Tims," Said Mr. Egerton, sternly, "if you again interrupt
the proceedings, I will have you removed from the room; and if you are
insolent," he added, seeing the other about to reply, "I shall equally
know how to deal with you."

The lawyer was silent, and Doctor Wilton demanded, "Will you state;
Captain Delaware, whether, on your last meeting with the unhappy man,
Mr. Tims, you threatened to strike him, or used any violent menaces
toward him?"

William Delaware reddened, but he replied at once, "Sorry I am to say,
my dear sir, that I did threaten to horsewhip him; but it was upon
severe provocation, from the cool insolence with which he informed me
that he was not able to keep the promise he had made--the performance
of which was of infinite consequence to my family."

"And are you certain, Captain Delaware," demanded Mr. Egerton, "that
that was the last time you ever saw this unhappy man?"

"Perfectly certain!" replied the young officer; and then added, after
a momentary pause, "I went to his house last night, in order to
ascertain whether the money had arrived, but could not obtain
admittance. I rang several times without effect."

Dr. Wilton and Mr. Egerton looked at each other, and the latter then
demanded--"Then, pray, Captain Delaware, where did you obtain the
money which you paid to Mr. Tims, here present, this morning?"

"I suppose, sir," replied Captain Delaware, with some degree of
haughtiness, "that, as the question is evidently intended to entangle
me, I might, according to the principle you have yourself laid down,
refuse to answer; but it is indeed unnecessary to do so; and if the
simple truth do not clear me, I can hope for nothing else." He then
circumstantially recapitulated the same story which he had that
morning related to his father, concerning the receipt of the money.

Mr. Tims laughed scornfully, and Mr. Egerton looked to Dr. Wilton,
who, in return, whispered something to him, which seemed to make an
immediate impression. "Captain Delaware," he said, "it is fit that I
should inform you, that a strong case is made out against you. In the
first place, there has been evidence on oath given before us, at the
house of this unfortunate man, Mr. Tims, that you were heard to
threaten him violently yesterday morning--clerk, hand me the minute of
Farmer Ritson's evidence--yes, those are the words. In the next place,
you were seen going toward his house last night, after sunset, and two
or three other persons unknown were observed proceeding in the same
direction. About that period, the deceased was evidently still alive,
as his servant, it appears, was sent to Emberton for bill-stamps, the
written description of which is before us, in his own hand. The man
has been found murdered, in the very room where he kept his money, as
if he had been killed in the act of taking out certain sums from his
iron chest. The body of the woman has not been discovered, but a long
track of blood down the stairs has pointed the direction in which it
was carried, and doubtless it will be found ere long."

Captain Delaware had listened attentively, but not without impatience;
for perfect innocence made him feel the charge utterly absurd, and at
length he broke forth--"And do you, sir!" he exclaimed, "call it a
strong case, that I was heard to threaten an old knavish miser with a
horsewhipping, and was seen somewhere in the neighborhood of his house
on the night that he was killed, without any other evidence whatever?"

"Not without any other evidence whatever, Captain Delaware," replied
Mr. Egerton, some what sharply; "but on a train of circumstantial
evidence, sir, very painful for as to contemplate. You mistake the
matter, Captain Delaware," he added, in a more kindly tone. "Your
previous high character induces us to put the most liberal
construction upon every thing, and to extend to your case the most
calm--nay, the most friendly--consideration that justice will admit,
before we even remand you to await the result of the coroner's
inquest. Besides the circumstances I have stated, you must remember
that you, yourself acknowledge that, up to a late hour last night, you
were not possessed of the sum required. By half-past nine this
morning, that sum is in your possession. One of the notes before me
bears the mark of a forefinger stained with blood; and in the bed-room
of the deceased a paper has been found, dated yesterday morning, in
which the dates and numbers of some of the notes paid by you this
morning, are marked as having been received by post that day. Your
account of the manner in which the money came into your hands is
somewhat extraordinary--nay, so much so, as to be highly improbable;
and I fear, that unless you can in some way explain these
circumstances, we shall be bound to commit you at once."

Sir Sidney Delaware hid his face in his handkerchief, and wept. Mr.
Tims rubbed his hands with a degree of glee, not at all diminished by
the loss of his uncle, and Captain Delaware gazed upon the two
magistrates, stupefied at finding himself suddenly placed in
circumstances so suspicious. There was innocence, however, in the
whole expression of his countenance; in the surprise, in the horror,
in the bewilderment it betrayed and Mr. Egerton, who was a shrewd and
observing, without being an unfeeling man, saw that such conduct could
not be affected, and believed that it could only proceed from a heart
devoid of guilt.

"Bethink yourself, my dear sir!" he said, after a short pause, during
which he awaited in vain Captain Delaware's answer. "However
improbable, I will not believe any thing that you have said to be
untrue."

"If you did, sir, I could pardon you," replied the young officer, with
a glowing cheek; "for long ere you appeared, I could scarcely prevail
upon my own family to believe the tale. How much more, then, might it
be doubted by a person who is nearly a stranger to me?"

"Well, but, my dear sir!" said Mr. Egerton, more convinced of the
prisoner's innocence, by this outbreak of feeling, than he had been
before, "can you not account for the fact of the money being so placed
in your bed-room?"

Captain Delaware related what had passed in the morning, and the
servants being called, recapitulated their tale; the footman declaring
that he had seen no one but Mr. Burrel's man, Harding, in the lanes at
the back of the park, and the housemaid swearing that she had seen a
stranger on the terrace just after nightfall. Dr. Wilton, at the first
sound of Burrel's name, sent off a messenger to his lodging at
Emberton, with orders to bring up the landlady, with Harding, and the
groom, if the two latter were still there; and, in the mean while, Mr.
Egerton continued the examination, evidently more with a view of
giving the prisoner every chance of explaining the suspicious
circumstances, than with a wish to find him guilty.

"Now, Captain Delaware," he said, "I am about to put a question to
you, which the circumstances I believe, fully justify. Do you, or do
you not, know any one who was likely to perform so extraordinary, and,
I must say, foolish an act as that of placing so large a sum in your
chamber, without giving you any notice of his so doing?--I say, have
you any suspicion as to who was the person who did so?"

"I certainly have, sir!" replied William Delaware. "And he was not a
man to do a foolish act. Circumstances unknown to you, sir, might
induce him to do, in the present instance, what he would not have done
upon any other motives."

"And pray, sir, who may he be?" demanded the magistrate.

Captain Delaware paused; but replied, after an instant's thought--"my
present situation, of course, compels me to be more explicit upon such
a subject than I otherwise should be. The person I suspect of having
placed the money in my room, is a gentleman who has lately been
residing at Emberton, under the name of Burrel, but who may now be
named as my cousin, Henry Beauchamp."

Sir Sidney Delaware started up off his chair, but immediately resumed
his seat again: and another look of intelligence passed between Mr.
Egerton and Dr. Wilton.

"I appeal to Dr. Wilton," added Captain Delaware, "if such a thing be
not probable."

"Most probable in his case," replied Dr. Wilton. "Indeed, more than
probable!"

"Pray, sir, are you now acting as a magistrate or as a witness?"
demanded Mr. Tims. "If as the latter, I would ask you, whether Mr.
Beauchamp did not pass the day at your house yesterday, which I hear
in the village that he did, beyond all doubt?"

"Then you have heard, sir, what was not the case!" replied Dr. Wilton.

"Pray, at what hour did he leave your house sir?" demanded Mr. Tims,
taking care to preserve so respectful a tone as to afford no excuse
for refusing an answer to his question.

"I should not hold myself bound to reply to you sir," said the
clergyman; "but a sense of justice must of course supersede every other
consideration, whether indignation at impudence, or contempt for low
cunning; and therefore I reply, that he left my house, I should
suppose, about three o'clock."

"I will presume to ask one question more, if I am permitted," said the
unruffled Mr. Peter Tims, bowing to Mr. Egerton, who was evidently
listening with interest. "At Mr. Beauchamp's departure, Dr. Wilton did
he tell you whither he was about to turn his steps?"

Dr. Wilton fidgeted on his seat; but truth was paramount, and he
answered, "He certainly implied that he was going to London."

"Did he take the road which leads in that direction?" asked Mr. Tims.

"He did!" replied the clergyman, and the interrogatory dropped by a
low bow on the part of the lawyer to both the magistrates.

The examination now paused for several minutes, till good Mrs. Wilson
who had been Beauchamp's landlady at Emberton was brought into the
room. Although the questions which were asked her were few, and of the
simplest kind, the poor woman gave her evidence in as wild and
confused a manner as if she had been charged with the murder herself.
The result, however, was, that she swore Mr. Burrel had left her house
early in the forenoon of the preceeding day, as she understood, for
London; that his groom, with the greater part of his luggage, had gone
by the coach that very morning, and that his gentleman, Mr. Harding,
had followed his master the night before. She could not say exactly at
what hour; but swore that it was between eight and ten.

This evidence was all that could be adduced at the time; and Mr. Tims,
upon the strength of the case he had made out, resumed a degree of his
former insolence, and demanded loudly, that Captain Delaware should be
committed.

A long conversation, which was carried on in so low a tone as to be
inaudible to any one but the two magistrates and the clerk, then
ensued between Dr. Wilton and Mr. Egerton; the latter of whom at
length said, to the surprise even of Captain Delaware himself, "I do
not think, Mr. Tims, that, all things considered, we should be
justified in committing the prisoner till after the coroner's jury
have sat upon the body. We have determined, sir, to remand him."

Mr. Tims stormed and raved, slapped the table with all the unction of
forensic eloquence, and demanded where the magistrates intended to
confine the prisoner in the mean time. There was no place of security
nearer than the county town, except the cage at Emberton; and he
doubted not--he added, with a sneer--that the friendship which the
worthy magistrates entertained for the prisoner would prevent him from
occupying that lodging.

"Our sense of decency and humanity will do so, at least," replied Mr.
Egerton, coolly. "In a word, sir, we do not think that there is
sufficient direct evidence before us to commit the accused till the
coroner's inquest has sat. The coroner has been already sent for, and
the inquest can be held immediately. The jury may themselves like to
examine the prisoner; and, therefore, it will be useless to send him
to the county town. In order to spare his feelings as much as
possible, which of course we wish to do, we have determined, if two of
our most active constables can find a room in this house which they
judge undoubtedly secure, to leave him here, under their custody. If
not, he must be removed to Emberton, and placed in the justice-room,
though the security of it is doubtful."

In vain the lawyer argued. The justices were determined; and the
officers, after spending some time in examining the house, returned,
declaring that no room in a prison could be more secure than the
prisoner's own bed-room, which was so high above the terrace, that no
escape could be effected from the window; and which had but one door
opening into an ante-room, where they could keep watch. Mr. Tims
himself was permitted to examine the room; and could not but
acknowledge that he was satisfied. The constables received every
injunction to be cautious, and Captain Delaware, having been asked
whether he had any thing farther to say, replied that he had not.

"Then you may remove the prisoner!" said Mr. Egerton. Sir Sidney
Delaware staggered up, and caught him in his arms. Captain Delaware
pressed his father for a moment to his heart; and saying, in a low but
firm voice, "Do not be afraid--I am as innocent as a child of the
charge they bring against me!" tore himself away, and quitted the
room.




CHAPTER XXI.


While the examination had been proceeding in the little
breakfast-parlor, the ear of Captain Delaware had been more than once
struck by a number of voices speaking in the library, from which it
opened: and as he was conducted through that apartment, the first
sight that presented itself was his sister, Blanche, bathed in tears.
She had been prevented from entering the room in which the magistrates
sat; but the moment she beheld her brother, she sprang forward, and
threw herself into his arms, clinging to his bosom in an agony of
distress and tenderness. Captain Delaware kissed her cheek and bade
her be comforted, assuring her that the charge against him was not
only false, but perfectly absurd; and that a few hours would set him
at liberty again.

"Oh, no! No, no!" cried Blanche. "I see it all, William! It is all
part of a plot to ruin us, and they will never be satisfied till we
are crushed and disgraced. That Lord Ashborough and his lawyer will
work their designs by some means, be assured!"

At that moment Dr. Wilton advanced from the inner room, and withdrew
Blanche from the arms of her brother, bidding her take heart; and
whispering that he had already sent off a messenger for Mr. Beauchamp,
whose presence, he doubted not, would clear up the whole story.
Blanche shook her head mournfully, and covered her eyes with her
hands, while her brother was led away to his own room. The door was
locked on the outside, and the constables, placing themselves in the
ante-room, cut off all communication between the young officer and his
family, who remained desolate and anxious, amid the scenes which had
lately been so full of calm happiness and enjoyment.

In the mean while, Captain Delaware stated himself at the table, in
his own room, and endeavored to bend the whole powers of his mind to
the investigation of his own situation in all its bearings. While
either in the actual presence of the magistrates, or under the eyes of
his own family, he had felt it necessary to repel every thought of
real danger, and not to yield one step to apprehension; but now he saw
that it was indispensable to look at his situation in the worst point
of view, and to admit the utmost extent of the peril in which he
stood.

He was innocent! that was one great source of confidence and
expectation, for he believed, and felt sure, that an innocent man had
very seldom suffered. But still such things had occasionally taken
place, beyond all doubt; and it behoved him to consider whether his
own might not be one of those cases in which such an event was likely.
As he looked at the evidence against himself, he could not but
acknowledge that, as it stood at the present moment, there was a
strong presumption of his guilt. He had been seen to threaten the
murdered man, in the morning; he had been seen in the neighborhood of
his house, on the night the murder was committed; he had been in known
and acknowledged want of the money up to that hour; and then he had
suddenly obtained possession of it in a manner of which he could give
no probable account. Several of the notes had been certainly in
possession of the murdered man a few hours before the crime was
committed on his person; and one of them, he had himself remarked,
while paying it to the lawyer, appeared stained with blood. "Were I
upon a jury," he thought, "what verdict would I return! Guilty,
undoubtedly--unless some clear explanation of such suspicious
circumstances could be given and substantiated. Now, let me consider
what I have to give, and how it can be proved.

"I have nothing but the bare supposition that the money was placed in
my room by Henry Beauchamp, or by his servant; and although that
surmise may be equal to a certainty in my own mind, it is likely to
have little weight with others. Dr. Wilton, too, admits that he set
out for London about three o'clock, when the money assuredly was not
here! Can I be mistaken in supposing it to have been him! Can
Blanche's suspicion be correct, that this is part of a plan to ruin my
father and his family forever!"

As these ideas crossed William Delaware's mind, he shuddered with
mingled feelings of horror at the thought of such guilt, and
apprehension for the consequences to himself; but at the same time, as
he suffered his mind to rest upon the suspicion, it acquired a degree
of probability that he was not inclined to assign to it at first. He
recalled the conduct which Lord Ashborough had pursued toward his
father through life--the vindictive malice he had displayed during the
two or three years that elapsed after their first quarrel, as young
men--the cold grinding exactions, not unmingled with scorn, with which
he had kept him through life at fortune's lowest ebb--the rude
harshness with which he had repelled his first proposal for redeeming
the annuity. Then the sudden change in his manners--the facility with
which he agreed to that which he had so peremptorily declined--the
business of the bills--the delay in the payment--and the fact of the
lawyer having come down prepared with a writ against his father,
before he could have known, except by collusion with the miser,
whether the money would be paid or not--all these facts passed before
his remembrance, and with that rapidity of conclusion which was one of
his greatest weaknesses, he instantly became convinced that Lord
Ashborough and his adviser would halt at no step which might crush his
father, and his father's house; that the present charge originated in
such motives; and that it would be supported against him by every
artful device that hatred could frame, or wealth and skill could carry
through. He did not, it is true, suppose that the unhappy man at
Ryebury had been murdered with a view to the charge against him; but
he did believe that the murder had been seized upon as an incident to
render the crime more heinous; and, however it occurred that the two
facts leaped so well together, he concluded that the money had been
placed in his room for the express purpose of betraying himself and
his family, by bringing against him some accusation, the very
suspicion of which would ruin him in his profession, degrade him from
his station in society, and sink his father beneath a load of shame
and despair.

He thought over it, again and again; and whenever the improbabilities,
which were not thinly mingled with the composition of his suspicions,
came across his mind, and made him begin to doubt if he were right, he
set against them, on the other hand, all the reasons that existed for
believing that the money could not have been left by Beauchamp, and
called to mind also the words of his sister.

"How could such a suspicion enter her mind," he asked himself, "unless
she had discovered something to make her believe that Lord Ashborough
and his lawyer were bent upon her family's ruin?" and, as he thus
thought, he would have given worlds for a few minutes' conversation
with Blanche, longing for it, of course, the more eagerly on account
of its impossibility.

Whichever way he turned, there were improbabilities to be encountered;
and for long he vacillated between the opinion that Beauchamp had left
the money in his chamber, and the suspicion that it had been placed
there by some of the agents of Lord Ashborough, in order that a charge
of robbery, embezzlement, or something equally criminal and degrading,
might be raised upon the fact. Now the one predominated, now the
other, and his mind continued tossed between the two, like a ship
rolling in the long swell that follows a severe storm. At length he
determined to write down all the causes of suspicion he had against
the lawyer Peter Tims, in order to lay them clearly and substantially
before the magistrates or the coroner, that his own established
reputation and high character might be supported by strong proofs of
animosity and vindictive feeling on the part of the accuser.

Materials for writing were luckily to be found in his chamber, and he
proceeded to place on paper the history of the whole transaction with
Lord Ashborough up to the payment of the bill that morning; but the
effect upon his own mind was fully as great as that which he intended
to produce upon others; and, before he had concluded the paper, he was
morally convinced, that by the instigation of Lord Ashborough's
agent, and by his instigation alone, the money had been left in his
room. He laid down the pen to combine in thought this certainty with
the presumptions of guilt already brought forward against him; and, as
he perceived how much might be made of the evidence already
collected--how little opportunity the law allowed him for gathering
the means of rebutting the accusation--and what a facility unbounded
wealth, great influence, and freedom from all restraint, gave to his
enemy, he clasped his hands and gave himself up to despair.

"Beauchamp will of course be sent for," he thought; "and, when he
comes, it only remains for him to declare that he had nothing to do
with the transaction--and my condemnation takes place, of course. Good
God! a commander in his Majesty's navy to die like a common felon! My
name and my family to be branded with infamy forever! My father to
expire of shame within the year; and my poor Blanche, if she survive,
to be pointed at for life as the sister of the murderer, William
Delaware! Ay!" he thought, more bitterly still, "and Beauchamp will
thank his good stars which kept him from such an alliance; and Maria
Beauchamp may perhaps blush when she remembers that the murderer was
her cousin. But time," he cried, starting up, "time will do me
justice, and clear my name; and then she may weep to think how I was
wronged, and how she believed it!"

After walking up and down the room for some time, in a state of mind
which it would be difficult to describe, he took down a book and
endeavored to read, but in vain. He then strove to amuse his mind by
looking out of the window, which commanded an extensive view over the
wilder part of the park at the back of the house, and thence to the
rich country beyond Ryebury, and the high downs which crowned the
cliffs above the sea. All the scene was bright and clear, and there
was a beautiful air of freshness and liberty in the whole--the very
clouds, as they skimmed over the sky, and raced their dark shadows
along the lea, spoke of light freedom, and no one would have enjoyed
it more than William Delaware at any other moment; but every thing
that is sweet requires the heart to be in tune. The pitch of all his
feelings was many a tone too low--the fairer was the scene the greater
was the discord it produced with the thoughts of the prisoner, and the
whole was "like sweet bells jangled out of tune, and harsh."

"Time," he still thought, "time will clear my fame, and do me justice;
and in the mean while, doubtless, I shall die condemned. Still, it is
hard enough to feel that one is innocent, and yet to bear the shame
and the punishment of the guilty. I wish to Heaven I could speak with
Blanche!" Approaching the door, he knocked somewhat sharply,
exclaiming, "Mr. Thomson, I much wish that I could speak with my
sister for a few minutes! Can you not grant me such a liberty!"

"Quite impossible, captain!" replied the chief constable. "I wish to
Heaven I dared! I am sure you know that I would do any thing I could
to help you. But this, you see, is no ordinary job; and though I know
well enough you are innocent, yet that fellow, Tims, threatened us so,
we dare not for our lives."

"Well, I can not help it then!" answered the prisoner, with a sigh.
"Do you know whether the coroner is arrived yet!"

"Not yet, sir!" answered the constable, still speaking through the
door. "The jury is summoned for five o'clock, I hear."

Captain Delaware looked at his watch. It was just three; and for the
long hours that succeeded, he continued in the same frame of mind,
torturing himself with all those dreamy miseries that an imaginative
and impatient heart calls up constantly to aggravate all the ills of
misfortune or disappointment. There is no such terrible tamer of the
spirit as solitary confinement; and, ere nightfall, the whole hopes
and expectations of William Delaware were completely sunk, and the
state of his mind was pure despair.

His dinner, which had been brought in by one of the constables at
five, remained untouched; and he listened to every sound, expecting
each moment to be called before the coroner; but no summons came. At
length, just as night was approaching, he heard a considerable sound
of voices in the ante-room; and, starting up, he prepared to go along
with the messenger, who, he doubted not, had been dispatched for him;
but the sound subsided, and, in a minute after, the constable again
entered the room.

"You had better take something, really, captain," said the man,
kindly, eyeing the untasted dinner. "There is no use, you know, sir,
of letting your heart get down that way."

"I have been expecting to be sent for, every minute," replied the
prisoner; "and I can not eat in such a state of anxiety."

"You will not be sent for to-night, captain," replied the constable.

"Has the coroner sat, then?" demanded Captain Delaware.

"Ay, sir!" was the answer.

"And what is the verdict!" cried the accused, fixing his eyes eagerly
upon the officer's face.

"Willful murder, sir!" answered the constable, shaking his head.

"Against me?" exclaimed the prisoner.

"Even so!" replied the officer, sadly. "Even so!"

Captain Delaware fell back into his chair, and clasped his hands over
his eyes, while the man went on trying to comfort him.

"That is nothing, you know, sir--nothing at all!" he said. "You have
had no time, you know, to prove your innocence--you have had no trial
yet. Lord bless you, sir, nobody in the town believes you guilty! They
all know you too well--and, when it comes to the trial, all will go
right, depend upon it. Even the coroner, they tell me, said the case
was so doubtful it one, that he would not have you removed to-night.
But you had better take something, really."

Captain Delaware signified that it was impossible; and the man,
telling him that he would bring him a light in a short time, left him
to himself. His thoughts and feelings may perhaps be conceived, but
can not be written. Had there lingered a ray of hope in his mind
before this announcement reached him, it would now have vanished; but,
amidst the agonized feelings which possessed him, if there was one
sensation more painful than the rest, it was produced by the
thought, that on the morrow he was to be hurried away to the common
jail--there, beyond doubt, as he now thought, to await an unjust
sentence, and an ignominious death. His ideas were still in the same
state of confused bewilderment, when the constable returned with a
light, and, setting it down on the table, he said--

"Captain! there's your good old housekeeper, Mrs. Williams, takes on
terribly because you will not eat; and she's so pressing to speak with
you through the door, to see if she can not get you to take something,
that I have promised her she shall, while the other officer is down at
his supper. So, do take something, if it be but to please the old
lady!"

"Well, well, I will speak to her when she comes!" answered Captain
Delaware, in the same desponding tone; and Mr. Thomson withdrew.

In about five minutes after, he heard the step of the other constable
depart, and ere long there was a gentle tap at his door.

"Come in!" was the first reply; but instantly remembering his
situation, he approached the door, and demanded, "Who is there!"

"It is I, Master William!" answered the voice of the old housekeeper.
"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! to think of their accusing you of killing a
man--you that were always as gentle as a lamb!"

"Do not speak so loud, Mrs. Williams," said the voice of the friendly
constable. "I do not want the other man to hear you. He is a stranger
in the place, and of course can not feel for the old family as I can."

"Well, well, Mr. Thomson," answered the old lady, "I will speak low.
You see that he does not come up-stairs. Oh, dear, Master William!"
she proceeded; "good Mr. Thomson here, says you eat nothing at all.
Pray, do eat something."

"I can not, indeed, Mrs. Williams," replied the prisoner; "but I shall
be better to-morrow, and then I will. It is the first shock, you know,
that is the worst. It will wear off in a day or two."

As he spoke, there was a slight noise, as of the key turning round in
the lock, which was instantly caught by the quick ears of the
constable. "You must not try to go in now, Mrs. Williams," he said;
"it is against my strict orders."

"I am not trying to go in," she replied, somewhat crossly. "You would
soon pull me out again, if I did. It was only my cap caught against
the key, as I was just stooping down to ask if he would have the soup.
Master William," she continued, again addressing the prisoner, "are
you there?--for I must not speak loud, he says. I have such a nice
basin of soup for you, if I could but get you to _take it_."

William Delaware remarked again a slight noise at the keyhole, and
thought that the good old lady laid a peculiar emphasis on the words
"_take it!_" He replied, however, "Indeed, Mary, I can not take any
thing to-night."

"Pray, do!" she said: "Pray, do! It is the best thing for you, by far.
Will you really not take it, Master William?"

As she spoke, he perceived the end of a small piece of paper protruded
gradually through the keyhole; and it became evident, that the good
old housekeeper, standing between the officer and the door, had
contrived, without being detected, to insinuate through the aperture
some written information from Captain Delaware's family. The prisoner
instantly took a step forward, and, laying hold of the little roll,
drew it completely through, saying aloud, "Well, well! I will take it,
then."

"Ah, that is right!" cried the voice of the good old lady, joyfully.
"There is a good boy!--do always what you are bid! I will send the
soup up as soon as ever it is warm!"

"Do so, and thank you!" replied the prisoner. "Tell Blanche and my
father," he added, "that, as I am innocent, I doubt not my innocence
will soon appear; and bid them be of good heart."

The old lady bade God bless him, and went away; and as soon as he had
heard the constable seat himself again in the ante-room, he opened the
paper he had received, and read the contents.

It began in the handwriting of the old housekeeper, and had probably
been written, in the first instance, without consultation with any one
else; but below there appeared a few lines from his father, which had
evidently been added afterward.

It began:--"Master William, do get away as fast as you can. Don't
stop, for God's sake, to let those wicked people have their will.
Remember the trap-door under your bed, where you used to play at
hide-and-seek when you were little. Master ordered it to be fastened
up long ago; but I had only one nail put in, for what was the use, you
know. You can easy get the nail out, I am sure; and there shall be a
horse waiting for you at the back park-gate at twelve o'clock
to-night, and money and all to take you to foreign parts, till the
conspiracy Miss Blanche says is against you, can be proved upon them.
So, do now, for the love of Heaven!"

Beneath this epistle, his father had written, in a hasty and tremulous
hand:--"I sincerely think the above is the best plan you can follow.
There is evidently a conspiracy against us; and, as you have been
selected for the victim, it is better for you to make your escape
while you can, than remain, and risk all that malice, wealth, art, and
villainy can do against you. Take the road to ----, where there are
always foreign vessels lying. Write to us when you are safe, under
cover to Mr.----, the trustee of your poor mother's little property.
Fare-you-well, my dear boy, and God bless you.

    "S. D."

A new struggle now arose in the breast of the prisoner. The idea of
flight had never suggested itself to his mind before; and, though he
had in truth lost all hope that his own innocence would prove his
safety in the present instance, still the thought of giving additional
weight to the charge against himself, by absconding, was painful. Yet
his father advised it; and it was more than probable that Sir Sidney
had better means of knowing the peculiar dangers of his situation than
he had himself. Aware of his own innocence, he felt no doubt that,
sooner or later, he should be able to establish it beyond all
question, if time were but allowed him. All he had to fear was, that
by the rapidity with which such transactions are sometimes carried
through, he might be condemned, and even executed, before some of
those circumstances which time is sure eventually to disclose, could
be discovered to prove him guiltless, and to fix their villainy upon
his accusers.

It is wonderful how well the human mind reasons upon its own side of
the question, when on the one hand is the prospect of an ignominious
death, with but the remote hope of our innocence working a miracle in
our favor, and, on the other, are presented the ready means of escape.
Every one knows too well, that the law is not one of those lions that
invariably lie down at the feet of virtue; and that, had poor Una,
with such suspicions against her, met in the desert a law lion instead
of a real one, the beast would infallibly have torn her in pieces. All
this Captain Delaware knew. He had lost hope that his innocence would
serve him; he was strongly urged by those who had the best opportunity
of judging of his real situation; the means of escape were at hand,
and he determined to make use of them.

Although he had been treated hitherto with great lenity, he knew not
how soon an order for searching him might come, and therefore he took
means immediately to destroy the paper he had received. This was
scarcely accomplished when the constable again appeared with the soup,
and, as the door opened and shut, he saw lying on the floor of the
ante-room a set of fetters. They were evidently not intended to be put
upon his limbs that night, as the officer made no allusion to them;
but, had his intention of escaping even wavered, the sight of those
badges of ignominy would have determined him from that moment.

"I shall leave you the candle, captain," said the man, "though I
believe it is out of rule; and I have a notion that, all things
considered, one of us ought to sleep in the room with you; but, as
that would not be agreeable to you, I'm sure, we must get the old
housekeeper to make us a shake-down in the outer-room."

"I shall not forget your civility, Thomson," said Captain Delaware;
"and, as you are quite sure that it is not in my nature to commit such
a crime as that with which these fellows charge me, so you may be sure
I shall some time have the means of thanking you better, when I have
proved my innocence."

"I trust you may, captain--I am sure you may," replied the man,
heartily; and, wishing him good-night, he left him.

His resolution being now taken, the means of putting it into execution
became the next question. He looked round the room, and examined
carefully every closet and drawer, in the hopes of finding some
implement wherewith to extract the nail that fastened the trap-door to
which the letter referred, and which he well remembered having passed
through as a boy, a thousand times ere he went to sea. But his room
had been thoroughly searched before he had been confined in it, and
neither knife, nor gunscrew, nor tool of any kind, was to be found.
"Perhaps I can get it out with my hands," he thought; and, kneeling by
his bed, he soon discovered the three boards in the dark oak flooring,
that were contrived to play upon a hinge, and thus formed a trap-door.
It was close by the bedside, and, opening back against the edge of the
bedstead, would have given him exit at once, if he could have found
any thing with which to extract the nail, or rather nails; for,
notwithstanding Mrs. Williams's assertion, there was apparently one in
each of the boards. He gazed upon them for a moment in silence,
thinking over every article of furniture that the room contained, in
the hope of turning some one to the use he desired--but it was in
vain; and at length, taking a dollar from his purse, he slipped it
partly between the boards, merely to see whether they were or were not
strongly fastened down.

To his great surprise, they moved up easily by the effort he made, as
far as the crown-piece could be brought to act as a lever. He
immediately applied his hand to keep them in that position, and then,
slipping the silver a little farther down, raised them still higher.
Another effort enabled him to interpose his fingers between the
trap-door and the flooring; and it became evident at once, on a
closer examination, that the single nail which had in reality fastened
it down, had been lately pushed out--in all probability from below.
The hole, which it had left in the beam, was still fresh; and Captain
Delaware now perceived that what he had taken for two other nails,
were, in fact, merely nail-heads, driven in to make the several boards
resemble each other. Gently replacing the trap-door, he returned to the
table, and sat down to indite a clear statement of the reasons which
induced him to effect his escape without awaiting the event of his
trial. Into this he wove the notes he had before written concerning
the previous conduct of his accuser, and he boldly declared that he
looked upon Lord Ashborough as the instigator, and the lawyer as the
agent, in a premeditated scheme to destroy his family. To bear upon
this point, he brought all the circumstances within his knowledge, and
all the arguments he could make use of; and, after vowing his
conviction that nothing but time would establish his innocence, he
folded the paper, and addressed it to Dr. Wilton and Mr. Egerton.
Before this was concluded, it was near eleven o'clock, and the only
light that was allowed him was beginning to burn low. In order,
therefore, to take advantage of it while it lasted, he approached the
trap, and was about to raise it, when it suddenly occurred to him
that, in the letter he had just written, it might seem that he had
shifted his ground of defense, since he had avowed in the morning that
he believed Henry Beauchamp to have placed the money in his chamber;
and, turning back to the table, he sat down to explain that
circumstance, and to desire that Beauchamp might be called upon to
state whether he had done so or not. Luckily, as it happened, he did
so; for the moment after, with scarcely any noise, the door of his
room opened, and the head of the other constable, who was a stranger
in the town, appeared, looking in as if from some excited suspicion.

"Oh, good night, captain," he said; "I did not know whether you were
asleep."

"Not yet," replied Captain Delaware, calmly; "but, as you are not
asleep either, I wish you would get me another light, and some
sealing-wax, as I want this letter to go early tomorrow to the
magistrates."

"It's no use, captain, I am afraid," replied the constable.
"Howsomdever, it shall go--but the boy as takes it must be paid, you
know."

"There is half a sovereign to pay him with," replied the prisoner;
"keep the rest for your own trouble, and get me another light and some
sealing-wax.

"Why, every one is a-bed but me, and I was just a-going," replied the
man. "But I will see." So saying, he departed, but returned in a few
minutes with another light, and a stick of sealing wax; and finding
the prisoner still writing, he left him, telling him that he was just
going to bed, but if he would push the letter under the door, it
should be sent the first thing next morning.

Captain Delaware gladly saw him depart, and ere he had concluded, and
sealed his letter, heard unequivocal signs of one at least of his
jailors having fallen into a sound sleep. He listened anxiously, again
and again, but all was silent in the house, except the dull, hard
breathing of the constables, in the ante-room. It was now half-past
eleven, and the hour at which the horse was to be at the back
park-gate was so near, that it became necessary to execute his design
with promptitude; yet there was something painful in it all together,
which made him linger a moment or two in his father's house, calling
up its host of memories, and evoking from the dim night of time the
sweet and mournful spirit of the past.

He felt, however, that it was all in vain--that such thoughts but
served to weaken him; and taking up the light, he approached his
bedside, and once more raised the trap-door. The little ladder stood
ready just as it used to stand in the days of his childhood, and
descending slowly, step by step, holding the light in one hand, and
supporting the trap-door in the other, he reached the last step but
two or three, and then suffered the door to close over his head, The
narrow cavity in which he now was, filled the center of one of those
internal buttresses, if I may use the term, into the masonry of which
one of the back staircases of the old mansion was joisted. It was
about six feet square in the inside, and at the first floor beneath
his own, afforded a sort of landing-place, on which the ladder rested.
Thence, again, a more solid stair of stone wound down to a sort of
vault under the terrace, in which was placed the great draw-well that
supplied the house with the water principally used by the family.

When the trap-door was closed, William Delaware, who was descending
backward, turned to look how many steps intervened between his feet
and the ground, when, to his surprise, he found that the last step but
one of the ladder, old and rotted by the damp, was broken through the
middle, and offered, in the fresh yellow surface of the fracture,
incontestable proofs that the way had been trod very lately by some
other foot than his own. Over the floor of the landing-place, too,
which that thriftless housewife, Neglect, had left covered with a
thick coat of dust, might be traced three distinct steps from the
mouth of the staircase; and the young fugitive at once saw that the
way which had served to introduce the money into his chamber was now
before him. That being the case, he felt that if his suspicions in
regard to Mr. Tims were true, the outlet might and would probably be
watched; and consequently, he determined to examine the whole ground
cautiously before he attempted to go out into the park.

Down the stairs, which were likewise covered with dust, he could trace
the same alternate step coming up and going down again, but no other
footmarks were to be seen, and it was evident that but one person had
passed that way for years. The doors, however, which at different
parts of the descent had been placed to guard that means of entrance,
were now wide open; and, descending to the vault or cellar in which
the well was placed, William Delaware put out the light behind a pile
of old bottles, that nearly covered the foot of the stairs, and then
cautiously approached the door, underneath which a narrow line of pale
moonlight was visible.

The door was sometimes padlocked, and it seemed so closely fastened,
that the young sailor's heart began to fail him as he approached; but
carelessness or the good old housekeeper had left no obstacles there;
and, as he drew it slowly toward him, it yielded to his hand without a
sound, exposing to his sight, once more, all the fine wild park
scenery at the back of the mansion, lighted up by as glorious a moon
as ever looked out through the blue sky upon the fair face of the
earth. For full five minutes he paused and turned his eyes in every
direction, but nothing was to be seen which could cause him the
slightest apprehension; and throwing the door wider open, he
considered which would be the nearest and best covered way toward the
gate at which the horse was to be stationed. At the western angle of
the park, a sweep of old trees came within a hundred yards of the
house, and thence a path wandered in among some large hawthorns and
two or three splendid larches, leading down toward the glen in which
the Prior's Well was situated. The gate which he wished to reach,
indeed, lay somewhat to the east; but in order to proceed straight
thither, he would have been obliged to cross a wide open piece of
grassy ground, on which the moon was shedding a light nearly as clear
as that of day, and which was commanded by every window in that side
of the building.

Gliding along, then, under the terrace, and bending--so that his head
might not appear above it, he reached the opposite angle of the
building, one of the old octagon towers of which threw out a long
shadow, that fell upon the nearest trees, and mingled with the
obscurity beneath them. Following this dark track, William Delaware
walked quickly on, gained the shelter of the wood, and then, threading
the well-known paths with a light step, reached the dim glen which he
had trod so lately with Burrel and his sister, and only paused, with
the burning thirst of intense agitation, beside the old fountain,
where, in the braggadocio spirit of a heart at ease, he had dared them
to drink the icy waters of indifference.

"I may drink now myself, indeed!" he thought, as he filled the iron
cup; but still he paused in raising it to his lips--gave his heart one
moment to dream--conjured up as idle a hope as ever crossed the mind
of man, and then tossed the cup back again into the well. And I should
like to know, if all the human race were brought, one by one, to the
side of a fountain of such virtues as that--without a mortal eye to
look on, and arm their vanity against their affections--if there would
be one being found in the world so hapless, so hopeless, so without
one sweet drop of feeling or of fancy, so destitute of life's ties and
the heart's yearnings, as to raise the chilly waters irrevocably to
their lips!




CHAPTER XXII.


It is impossible to describe the joy and satisfaction with which the
excellent people at Emberton had heard that Mr. Tims, the old miser at
Ryebury, had been murdered. I do not, of course, mean to say that
every one in the whole town had those enlarged and general views which
made them take in at once all the infinite advantages, both moral and
physical, which that event was likely to afford them. Some, indeed,
only calculated on the overflowing and inexhaustible source of bustle,
excitement, surmise, and gossip, which was thus opened to them. Some
fixed their thoughts upon the renown that Emberton would acquire
throughout the world, as the place where the dreadful murder was
committed, and others calculated upon wealth and emolument, from the
number of visitors that it would bring to see the place. But only a
few, of more vast and comprehensive minds, saw all these particulars
in one general view, and rubbed their hands in great anticipations, as
sharing in the sweet excitement of the moment, they talked over the
murder with their neighbors, and added many bright touches from their
own fancy to ornament the bloody deed.

The first news of the event that reached Emberton had been conveyed by
farmer Ritson's hind, who supplied the old miser with his quotidian
pennyworth of milk, and who had discovered the deed on applying in
vain for admission. He alarmed his master, whose house was half a mile
distant, and the good farmer instantly sent the intelligence to
Emberton. The messenger's arrival took place just five minutes after
Mr. Tims, junior, had driven through the town on his way to the
mansion at the park; and as both Dr. Wilton and Mr. Egerton, the
nearest magistrates, had passed the preceding evening and night at
Emberton, inquiring into some suspicious circumstances connected with
the burning of Mrs. Darlington's house, they were instantly called
from their breakfast, and proceeded to examine into this fresh crime,
which was destined to illustrate the annals of the neighborhood.

They found the house at Ryebury already surrounded by a number of
people; and from among them various persons stepped forward to offer
some little item of testimony; but an unexpected visitor soon appeared
in the person of the lawyer, who, on leaving the park, in not the most
placable humor, ordered the post-boy to drive to his uncle's house,
and arrived just as the magistrates were about to leave the premises.
No sooner did he hear of the event than he determined, if possible, to
involve the family of Sir Sidney Delaware in the consequences, and
entered into an examination of the circumstances, which soon not only
furnished him with the means of doing so, but also really convinced
him that Captain Delaware was guilty of the crime that he proposed to
impute to him. He at once laid his charge, and related the
circumstances of his late transaction with Sir Sidney Delaware's
family in his own particular way. He would fain, indeed, have involved
the father, too, in the accusation he brought against the son; but his
own clerk, and the sheriff's-officer, distinctly stated before the
magistrates, that it had been evident throughout, that Sir Sidney had
not been aware, on their first arrival, that his son was in possession
of the money necessary to pay the debt; and, for fear of spoiling a
very hopeful case against Captain Delaware, the lawyer was obliged to
abandon all charge against the baronet.

If the news of the murder alone had so soothed and gratified each of
those mixed feelings--the love of the marvelous, the passion for
talking, and the general dislike to our fellow-creatures, which
all--combined with, or rather, as it were, embedded in a soft stratum
of vanity--enter into the spirit of gossiping; how much more were the
good folks of Emberton delighted and stimulated when they heard the
charge against Captain Delaware, and learned that the result of the
coroner's inquest was a verdict of willful murder against him. The
reason why we are so much better pleased when a person in our own or a
superior station commits a crime, or enacts a folly--why we tell it
immediately to every one we meet, and aggravate it by our own
comments--is, probably, that a person in that rank having had as great
advantages in circumstances and education as ourselves, our vanity has
the full opportunity of complimenting us on not having done the same,
without the necessity of admitting one deduction on the score of
greater temptations, or inferior knowledge, which we are compelled to
do when the criminal is low, ignorant, or poor. The fact is, in all
these cases, we make ourselves a bow on our own good behavior, and the
lowness of the bow depends upon the relative situation of the sinner
or the fool over whom we crow.

Thus, when the matter came to be discussed at Emberton, every one
cried out, "Well, one would have thought that a young man of such
hopes, and such an education as this Captain Delaware, would be the
last to commit so dreadful a crime! A poor, ignorant wretch, driven to
vice from necessity, one might have suspected; but not the son of a
baronet, and a master and commander in the king's navy!"

Among such speculations fled away the evening; and, as we have
said--although the people did not illuminate the town--the verdict of
the coroner's jury certainly did make them as happy as the gossiping,
envious, scandalous community of a little country town could be made.
Early the next moment, however, just as the chaise which was to convey
the prisoner to the county town was about to set out for his father's
house, and as all the people of Emberton were preparing to turn out,
and stare at him as he passed, a buzzing rumor began to spread abroad
that Captain Delaware had escaped in the night.

"Escaped!" cried the old maiden in the house at the corner of the
bridge, letting fall the china cup from her hand as the maid announced
the fatal intelligence--"Escaped! then we shall all be murdered in our
beds! Escaped!--why did they let the ruffian escape?"

In a different manner did the mercer bear the tidings; for, without
replying one word to the shop-boy who told him, he proceeded to carry
the news direct to the stationer's; and, as he detailed it, he added,
"So there can be no doubt of his guilt now!"

"There never was any! There never was any!" replied the linen-draper
in the same charitable spirit. "But you have heard that wild Wat
Harrison, the widow's son, has not been seen or heard of for the last
two or three days, and that there are manifold suspicions--"

"To be sure! To be sure! Those Delawares were always fond of him,"
replied the mercer. "He sailed with this very captain, you know; and
it seems he has been under his orders once too often. I always said he
would come to be hanged!"

While such charitable conversation was passing at Emberton, the
magistrates were not inactive; warrants, horses, and constables were
dispatched in all directions, and both Dr. Wilton and Mr. Egerton,
well knowing the blame that would attach to themselves, returned to
the mansion to investigate by what means the prisoner had escaped. The
constables in whose charge the prisoner had been left, and the room
which he had occupied, were first examined. The two men declared upon
oath, that no one had been admitted to the accused but themselves,
since he had been remanded; that they had both slept in the ante-room;
that the door had been locked all night; that the window was far too
high to afford the means of evasion; and that they had both seen and
spoken to Captain Delaware as late as eleven the preceding night. The
inferior constable at the same time handed the fugitive's letter to
Dr. Wilton, who opened and read it, while Mr. Egerton made the first
superficial examination of the room; and, as his fellow-magistrate was
about to institute a more rigorous investigation, the clergyman
exclaimed--

"Stay, stay, Mr. Egerton, this letter concerns us both, and in it
William Delaware alludes, in some measure, to the method of his
intended escape. See here! He says the officers are entirely guiltless
of it, as it is by a passage they are not acquainted with."

"Then there must be some private entrance," said Mr. Egerton.

"I dare say there is," answered Dr. Wilton; "but this letter, in many
points, throws some new light upon the subject. Read it! Read it!
and, at all events, let us, as far as we can, do the poor boy justice.
Read it, my dear sir!"

Mr. Egerton took it to the window, and read it attentively over. He
then gave the letter back to Dr. Wilton, saying, "He makes out a good
case against his accuser; but I am afraid, my dear doctor, that it
will not screen himself. However, on every account--for charity's
sake, and for the sake of mere justice--I will, of course, exert
myself to the utmost--that is to say, quietly--quietly, you know, for
the matter is nearly out of our hands--but I will exert myself to the
utmost to discover every fact connected with the charge. In the mean
time, we must do our duty, and endeavor to recover our prisoner: Let
us examine the walls."

"First examine the floor," said Dr. Wilton. "Sliding panels have not
been to be found since the epoch of Udolpho, but trap-doors are to be
met with in all these old houses."

The hint was instantly complied with; and the trap-door was discovered
at once, together with its communication with the park. Nothing
farther, however, could be made of this fact. The way the fugitive had
taken remained still undiscovered; and the only effect which their
investigation produced upon the minds of the two magistrates was, that
each perceived at once that the means which Captain Delaware had taken
to make his escape, might very well have served another person for the
purpose of placing the money in his chamber unseen; and thus his tale
acquired a degree of probability which it had not before possessed.

When the examination was concluded, as far as it could be carried at
the time, and every necessary measure for overtaking the fugitive had
been put in train for execution, Mr. Egerton went back to Emberton to
confer with the coroner, who was hourly expected to return to that
little town, in order to see the prisoner dispatched to the county
jail. Dr. Wilton, in the mean while, laying aside his magisterial
capacity, proceeded, as a friend and a clergyman, to visit Sir Sidney
Delaware and his daughter. He found them, as he had expected,
depressed in the extreme, and saw that they were naturally in a high
state of nervous anxiety in regard to Captain Delaware's safety. At
first there was a degree of painful embarrassment in the whole
deportment of Sir Sidney Delaware, which made him treat even Dr.
Wilton with no small haughtiness and reserve. But the good clergyman
came to console and to soothe; and he persevered with all those kindly
and feeling attentions, which are sure ultimately to win their way to
an amiable heart, however much the road thither may be obstructed by
the pride of undeserved shame, or the reckless repulsiveness of bitter
disappointment.

When he found Sir Sidney unwilling to listen, impatient of
consolation, or heedless of conversation, he turned to Blanche, and
won her into the innocent man[oe]uvre of wiling her father from his
bitterer thoughts. Gradually the feelings of the baronet relaxed; he
was brought more and more to speak of his own sorrows, and of his
son's unhappy fate; and though a tear or two forced themselves through
his eyelids, his griefs and even his apprehensions--as a sometimes the
case--were partly lost as they were poured forth into a friendly ear.

We must do justice to all, however. Dr. Wilton was not the only friend
who came to soothe and console the unhappy family at Emberton Park;
and the person who next appeared was certainly one whom they did not
expect to see. It was Mrs. Darlington, who had lately taken a house at
the distance of about ten miles. After spending a part of the
preceding day at Emberton, she had returned to her dwelling, in no
small horror at the charge which she heard had been brought against
her young friend, William Delaware.

Now Mrs. Darlington, as we have shown before, was not without her
foibles and absurdities, but withal she had a far greater share of
real goodness of heart, and of the milk of human kindness, than
generally falls to the lot of that amphibious class called very good
sort of people. It must also be remarked, that though she was in no
degree very brilliant, and only made herself ridiculous by the
smattering of pretty accomplishments which she possessed, yet there
was a certain rectitude of understanding about her, which, in early
years, taking the form of tact, enabled her to assume at once the tone
of a society above the rank in which she was born; and which, in after
life, had often guided her to just conclusions, when people without
half her little weaknesses, and who pretended to ten times her
abilities, were all in the wrong.

In the present instance, no sooner did she hear of the accusation
against Captain Delaware, than, from her previous knowledge of his
character, she pronounced it at once to be perfect nonsense; and when
Dr. Wilton informed her that he and Mr. Egerton had remanded the young
officer on suspicion, she merely asked, "How they could be so
foolish?" The coroner's inquest produced no other effect. She still
pronounced it all nonsense together; and quietly declared to her maid
that she was sure it would ultimately be found that the people who had
murdered the poor old man were the very same who had set fire to her
house and carried off her plate.

The worthy lady, however, passed the whole of that evening and the
next morning in a state of considerable perturbation. She was a great
stickler for proprieties--hated every thing in the world that made a
noise--liked a small lion, it is true but had a great aversion to a
bear, even if, like a late learned Grecian, it affected to be a lion
solely on the strength of being a wild beast--and, finally, she did
not at all approve of personages who were in any way doubtful. All
this operated strongly upon the prudential organs of her cerebral
development, and would have induced her to stay at home quietly, and
watch the course of events in regard to the Delaware family, had not
the goodness of heart we have spoken of, and the rectitude of judgment
which established Captain Delaware's innocence in her mind beyond all
manner of doubt, both pressed her strongly forward to show countenance
and kindness to the ruined family in their distress.

There was a considerable struggle for it, however, in her own mind;
but, nevertheless, at ten o'clock, she again declared that it was all
nonsense together, and ordered the chariot as soon as possible.

By this time her resolution was taken; and stepping lightly in, she
ordered the coachman to drive to Emberton Park.

It is not impossible that on her arrival she might have been denied
admittance--for just inasmuch as one never knows all the coldness of
the general world till one tries it, one does not know the kindness of
the exceptions either--but, without any questions, she walked out of
the carriage, and, tripping across the hall with a step a good deal
too juvenile, she entered the library unannounced.

Sir Sidney bowed with stately formality; but Blanche, who understood
the whole business better, exclaimed, while the bright tears rose in
her eyes, "Oh, Mrs. Darlington, this is very kind of you, indeed!"

"Not at all, my dear Blanche! not at all!" replied Mrs. Darlington, in
her usual quick, but little-meaning manner. "Where is your brother I
am resolved to see him, and tell him how foolish I think all the
magistrates of the county have grown together. Beg your pardon, Dr.
Wilton; but it is true, indeed!"

"You can not see him, madam, I am afraid," replied Dr. Wilton,
gravely; "for he has made his escape from confinement."

"Oh, dear! I am very glad to hear it," she replied. "You surely would
not have had him stay in a nasty, filthy prison for two or three
weeks, because a great rogue chose to accuse him of a crime nobody
believes he committed? I am very glad to hear it, indeed!"

The good lady then paused for a moment; and perceiving that, although
her avowal of disbelief in regard to Captain Delaware's guilt had been
not a little pleasing to his father, Sir Sidney still remained sad and
depressed, she turned to him, kindly saying, "Come, come, Sir Sidney,
I will not have you look so gloomy. You are as careworn as if your son
were really guilty; and as we all know very well that he is not, you
should make yourself quite sure that he will easily be able to cause
his innocence to appear. But I have laid out a little scheme for you
and Blanche. I have nobody staying with me in my new house, and the
place is quite quiet. You will do nothing here but grow dull and
melancholy, and I will have you get into the chariot with me, and come
away and spend a week or two till all this is settled."

Although Sir Sidney Delaware felt that the invitation was most kind,
and in his own dwelling experienced that sickening disgust which one
feels toward all once-loved things, when some fatal change has
poisoned them with bitter associations, yet he declined Mrs.
Darlington's offer on his own part, though he much pressed his
daughter to accept it. Blanche, however, refused to leave her father;
and the matter would have ended thus, had not Mrs. Darlington
discovered that one great motive in Sit Sidney's desire to remain at
his own dwelling, at least for that night, was to hear the first news
brought by the messengers dispatched to intercept his son.

As soon as she found how much weight this had upon him, she proposed
to go forward with Dr. Wilton to Emberton, and there hear all that had
been done in her own business: after which, she said, she would return
at six o'clock for Sir Sidney and his daughter, who must have received
tidings from the three county towns to which officers had been
dispatched.

Some slight difficulties having been discussed and overcome, this plan
was agreed to. Mrs. Darlington and Dr. Wilton departed; and the fact
that Mrs. Darlington had visited the ruined family at Emberton having
been ascertained by the appearance of her carriage rolling down the
avenue from the house, threw the town into a state of agitation which
might have afforded matter of envy to the arch-agitator himself.

In the mean while, the various messengers charged with the warrants
against Captain William Delaware, proceeded toward their destinations.
It may be only necessary to follow one of them, however; as all the
rest, being sent in various wrong directions, might have gone onward
in a direct line till they met at the antipodes, without setting eyes
upon William Delaware. The one, then, who was directed to ride with
all speed to the seaport town of ----, and having got his warrant
backed by the proper authorities, to search for and take the person of
the accused, arrived in that place at about two o'clock of the
afternoon; and, finding that no less than five foreign vessels had
sailed that day at high water, which took place at eight of the clock,
he proceeded as he had been directed, to inquire at the offices of all
the foreign vice-consuls what passports had been granted during the
morning.

The consuls and their clerks were as civil as possible, and the names
and descriptions were read over to him; but the poor man might as well
have been in Babel, such a confused multitude of unchristianlike
Christian names were pronounced in his ears. His next attempt was at
the descriptions; but he found that, during that one morning, people
of all colors and complexions, of all ages and sizes, of all features
and professions, had sailed for foreign parts, or obtained their
passports, which was quite as good; and therefore, bewildered and in
despair, he gave up the search; and, having committed his charge to
the constables of the place, once more mounted and returned to
Emberton.

These tidings were balm to the hearts of Sir Sidney and Blanche
Delaware, but were not quite so pleasing to the people of Emberton,
who next to a murder enjoyed a hanging--which, indeed, is generally
much the same thing. Another messenger, however, arrived about the
same time, who brought news which somewhat diverted their attention.
This was the mast who had been sent the day before to London, by Dr.
Wilton, in search of Mr. Beauchamp, and who was a shrewd, intelligent
fellow, not likely to miss the track of any one he sought for. But the
tidings he brought back imported, that Mr. Beauchamp had never reached
his house in town; and that, along the whole line of road, no person
resembling him had either fed a horse, taken a post-chaise, mounted a
stage, or entered an inn for the last four days.

Every one opened their eyes; and the people of Emberton all went to
bed with the consolatory reflection that Mr. Beauchamp, or rather Mr.
Burrel, as they termed him, must undoubtedly have been murdered also.
Dr. Wilton was himself uneasy. Sir Sidney Delaware said that the
absence of Henry Beauchamp was most unfortunate on many accounts; but
Blanche turned deadly pale when she heard the tidings, and the vague
apprehensions by which they were accompanied; and it would require no
great skill in the book of the human heart to read the silent
commentary that went on in her own bosom, on the unexplained absence
of one she dearly loved.




CHAPTER XXIII.


Exactly three days after the arrival of Mr. Peter Tims at Emberton,
and the discovery of his uncle's murder, the Right Honorable the Earl
of Ashborough was sitting at his breakfast-table, in his house of
Parmouth Hall, in the county of ----. It was a rainy morning, and over
the whole face of the country there was a dim sort of ground-glass
haze, winch cut off all the far prospect from view, leaving even those
objects that were near, nothing but an indistinct aspect of
drippingness, not at all consolatory to those who had laid out their
expeditions for the day. Though a very regular man in his habits, Lord
Ashborough had a notion that fires were made to warm people, and that
people might very well be cold in the beginning of October, so that,
in addition to the glossy damask, and the splendid china, and the
burnished silver, and all those other things, which, as we have before
observed, make an English breakfast something far superior to any
other meal eaten in any other place in the world, there was the bright
and blazing fire in the polished grate, setting itself up in eternal
opposition to the rain without.

At one end of the table sat the earl, with his whole person in high
preservation, just as it came from the hands of his valet. At the
other end sat Maria Beauchamp, his niece, in all the full blow of
youth and beauty, fashion and good taste. By the side of Miss
Beauchamp sat two gentlemen, the Honorable Colonel ----, and
Mr. ----, whose names are not worth the trouble of writing, as I never
intend to mention them again. Suffice it that they were guests of Lord
Ashborough's; the first being a gentleman who, the noble lord thought,
would do very well for his niece, and the second a gentleman who
thought the noble lord's niece would do very well for him. Maria
differed from both; and, in short, thought very little of the two
personages at all; though the one poured a continual stream of
idleness into her ear, which amused her, and the other made love by
being profoundly silent, which amused her as much.

"Either we have breakfasted early, or the post is late," said Lord
Ashborough; and one of the other gentlemen was replying something
quite as significant, when a servant brought in the post-bag, and
delivered it formally into his lordship's hands. Lord Ashborough
immediately distributed the letters and newspapers; and as breakfast
was by this time nearly over, and the after humdrum commencing, each
gentleman put his letters in his pocket, and opened his newspaper.

"Hum!--Hum!" said the colonel, running his eye over the
columns--"Hum! Horrid murder! We will keep that for a _bonne bouche_,
I think. What are funds!"

"Hum!--Hum!" said Mr. ----, "Hum--Horrid murder!--Hum!--'Pon my honor,
colonel, the Draper has won the match against the Grand Signor!"

"Ha!" said Lord Ashborough, "Ha! the French, I see, have persuaded the
English that they have not the slightest intention of keeping
possession of Algiers--and the English believe them. Let us see what
will be the case this time three years--Ha!--Horrid murder! Good
God!--his throat cut from ear to ear!--Let us see--Coroner's
inquest--Willful murder against--Why, Maria, here is a cousin of ours
been committing murder!--He will be hung to a certainty, my love; and
you will be obliged all the winter to wear deep mourning for his
offenses."

"And pray, sir, who is the gentleman?" demanded Miss Beauchamp. "You
know I have so many cousins, and uncles, and such distant relations,
that I can not be expected to remember them all, even when one of them
commits a murder."

"Oh! it is very possible so careless a young lady may have forgot
him!" replied Lord Ashborough, somewhat piqued at the tone of her
answer; "but you have seen him within this month--it is Captain
William Delaware--the son of the man at Emberton, who has been cutting
the throat of an old miser at--at--at--a place called Ryebury--I think
it is."

Miss Beauchamp turned very pale, but, without reply, raised the
coffee-cup toward her lips. Ere it reached them, however, it dropped
from her hand, and dashed some of the china to pieces by its fall,
while the young lady herself sank back, fainting, in her chair, much
to the horror and consternation of every one present.

Lord Ashborough started up, and advanced to his niece's assistance;
Mr. ---- kneeled by her side, and supported her head; while
Colonel ----, who was a tall stiff man, rose up, like the geni coming
out of the copper vessel--that is to say, by degrees--and rang the
bell.

Miss Beauchamp was conveyed speedily to her own room; and the
excellent colonel exclaimed, "Why, Ashborough, this murder which your
cousin has committed, seems to affect Miss Beauchamp more than
yourself!"

"I had forgot," replied Lord Ashborough, "that she and her brother
were almost brought up with those Delawares in their childhood. As to
myself, the matter does not affect me at all, colonel--I always
thought that some catastrophe of the kind would take place. The
father--who was both at school and at college with me--was always one
of those violent, ruthless, unprincipled men, on whose conduct you
could never calculate; and as he was generally in scrapes and
difficulties, you know, temptation might assail him at any moment. The
son seemed, from the little I have ever seen of him, a boy of the same
disposition. Heaven knows," he added, with an air of modest candor, "I
acted in as liberal a manner as possible toward them! It was only the
other day that I accepted a mere trifle, in lieu of an annuity of two
thousand a year, which I held, payable on their estates."

"Scamps!" said the colonel, walking toward the window. "One never
makes any thing of scamps. When one has any poor relations, and I
suppose every one has some--the best way is to cut them at once--one
never makes any thing of scamps!"

"Mr. Tims, my lord, waiting in the library," said a servant, entering,
just as the colonel concluded his sensible, comprehensive, and
charitable observation.

"Not the ghost of the murdered man, I hope!" cried Mr. ----, who had
been reading the report of the coroner's inquest.

"No; but the body of his nephew, I suppose," replied Lord Ashborough.
"You had better try the billiard-room, gentlemen, as the day is so
bad;" and he proceeded to the library, where he was awaited by Mr.
Peter Tims, dressed in what the newspapers call a suit of decent
mourning, with a countenance made to match, according to the tailor's
term.

Lord Ashborough nodded, and Mr. Tims bowed low as they met; and the
peer, letting himself sink into an easy chair, began the conversation
by saying, "I suppose, Mr. Tims, I must condole with you on your
uncle's death?"

"I have much need of condolence on many accounts, my lord," replied
the lawyer; "but I have one happiness, which is, that while your
lordship is pleased to condole with your humble servant, he has an
opportunity of congratulating you."

"Why indeed, things seem to have turned out luckily," replied Lord
Ashborough; "but I am not yet half informed of what has occurred--all
I know is from a brief account in the newspapers."

"If your lordship is at liberty," said the lawyer, "I will explain the
whole;" and he forthwith set to work, and recounted all the principal
events which had happened since he last left Lord Ashborough;
contriving, however, to take almost as much credit to himself for all
that had happened, as if he had cut his uncle's throat himself, on
purpose to ruin the family of Sir Sidney Delaware.

Lord Ashborough listened, and smiled with triumph, as Mr. Tims,
pandering to his malignity, dwelt upon the agony of Sir Sidney
Delaware, and the pain and shame of his gallant son--upon the
inevitable ruin that must overtake their whole race--and upon the
probable consequences to the unfortunate baronet's health. The smile,
however, soon faded away; and, strange to say, that though hatred to
Sir Sidney Delaware had been the predominant passion of Lord
Ashborough's existence, though the knowledge that he was leading a
life of comparative poverty had been one of his greatest pleasures;
and the hope of ruining him utterly an object that the earl had never
lost sight of--yet now that it was all accomplished--that it was
done--that he was trodden under his feet, and presented to his eyes
heartbroken and desolate, ruined and disgraced, the joy passed away in
that evanescent smile of triumph--the delight lasted but a moment, and
left a vacancy in his desires.

Why it was so, we can not be called upon to prove. It is a fact in the
heart's natural history, and that is all that we have to do with it.
It might be, indeed, that Othello's occupation was gone; and that Lord
Ashborough, in accomplishing his purpose, had dried up a source of
thought and gratification. It might be, that he was like Bruce at the
fountains of the Nile--that all which had lured him on, through a
dangerous and intricate way, was obtained; and that he had nothing to
lead him farther, or to guide him back. It might be that, as usual,
conscience took advantage of the sudden lassitude of satiety to smite
the heart for the very gratifications that were palling upon the
appetite.

"Well, Mr. Tims! Well!" he said at length. "All this is very
fortunate. But, pray, may I ask how is it that you lay claim to so
much subject of condolence? If I have understood you right, your
uncle's death could be no matter of very inconsolable grief to
you--though, doubtless, you might have preferred another manner."

"No, my lord, no!" replied Mr. Tims. "It is not that at all. He was an
old man--a very old man--one would have thought that death had forgot
him--and, to tell the truth, it was, perhaps, as well for him to die a
quick as a lingering death; and I hear, when the carotid artery is
cut, as it was in his case, a man can not suffer above a second or
two. But, as I was saying, my lord, it was not either of his death or
of the manner that I was thinking, but the murderer must have carried
away full twelve thousand pounds in money, besides the sum destined to
pay your lordship's note--"

"Which, by the way, I hope you have paid into the hands of my banker?"
interrupted Lord Ashborough, whose first thought was, of course, of
himself.

"Why, not yet, my lord--not yet," replied the attorney; "the law has
yet to decide to whom it belongs, my lord."

"How, sir!" cried Lord Ashborough, reddening; "to whom can it belong
but to me? Was it not paid to you on my account?"

"Beg pardon, my lord! Beg pardon!" replied Mr. Tims. "But whichever
way it goes, your lordship can not be a loser. If it be proved, as it
can be proved, that the money was stolen from my uncle, the payment to
you, of course, is null, and the money belongs to me, as sole heir of
the late Mr. Tims of Ryebury. But then, my lord--hear me, my lord, I
beg--the whole transaction with Sir Sidney Delaware is null also, and
you will be able to recover at common law!"

Lord Ashborough's face again lighted up, and it is very possible that
the thought of pursuing his game still farther, and hunting it to the
death, might add not a little to his placability. "We must have
counsel's opinion as to the best means to be employed," he said. "This
young ruffian, you tell me, has escaped, and of course the prosecution
must drop, unless he can be apprehended."

"Oh, no, my lord, no!" answered Mr. Tims. "That does not follow at
all. There are, indeed, various modes of proceeding, on which it would
be advisable to consult some common-law barrister; but, in the mean
time, the money is quite secure--so much so, indeed, that if your
lordship likes it to be paid into your banker's--"

"Why, Mr. Tims," said Lord Ashborough, thoughtfully, "I think it might
be as well, you know."

"Well, my lord, I am quite ready to do so," answered the lawyer, "on
your making over to me your claims against Sir Sidney Delaware, and
his estate of Emberton."

Lord Ashborough started. "No, no!" he cried. "No!--at all events, we
will speak of that hereafter. Can not a bill of outlawry be pursued
against this young man--and ought he not to be dismissed from his
majesty's service? I have a great mind to return to town and see about
the whole business, Mr. Tims. I dare say I can get rid of these two
men who are staying here, by the day after to-morrow; and, in the mean
time, you had better go back to Emberton, and urge the pursuit as
actively as possible. It is not probable that he can have got out of
the country so soon. Why do you not send for officers from
Bow-street?"

"They are already on the scent, my lord," replied the man of law; "and
I doubt not that they will catch him ere he gets far. Murder is a
crime which all civilized nations will agree in punishing; and as to
the money, my lord--"

"Oh, I doubt not it is safe--I doubt not it is safe!" replied Lord
Ashborough. "When I come to town, we must take counsel as to the best
method of recovering it, as speedily as possible, from Sir Sidney
Delaware."

"Oh, it is quite safe, depend on it," answered Mr. Tims. "I was only
going to say, that I am likely to be the only loser in this business;
as the twelve thousand pounds are, I am afraid, lost forever."

"I hope not, Mr. Tims, I hope not!" replied the earl: "and if they be,
we must endeavor to make it up to you some other way. I do not, of
course, mean to say that I can take upon me to pay the money, as you
see I am likely to be a loser by the whole transaction myself."

"I think not, my lord, indeed," replied the lawyer. "Beg your
lordship's pardon; but I think you are likely to be a great gainer."

"How so, sir?" demanded the peer, with open eyes. "I gain nothing, and
lose at least the law expenses."

"Why, my lord," replied the lawyer, "I think, in default of issue-male
on the part of Sir Sidney Delaware, you stand next in the entail; now,
if we can convict this young man who has committed the murder, you, of
course, succeed."

"Ay, but suppose we can not catch him," cried the earl, his face
brightening at the thoughts of the reversion.

"Perhaps we can do without, my lord," answered Mr. Tims. "I am much
mistaken if, upon due cause, the law, deprived of the power of dealing
real death, will not pronounce a criminal legally dead; and I think
that, were I certain I should not be a loser, I could bring forward a
sufficient case to insure that result."

"Mr. Tims," said Lord Ashborough, solemnly, laying his hand with a
dignified gesture upon a book that lay before him--"Mr. Tims, I
can assure you, that no one who wishes me well shall ever lose a
farthing by me. I think you must know the fine--I might say the
fastidious--sense of honor which I entertain, and I promise you upon
my word, that if you succeed in carrying through the very just and
reasonable design you propose, and establish me as heir of entail to
the Emberton property, I will make you full compensation for whatever
loss you may have sustained in the course of this business."

"Say no more, my lord! Say no more!" replied Mr. Tims; "we will find
means either to catch and hang him at once, or to cut him off from
performing any legal act; and in the mean time--as life is always
uncertain--I will, with your lordship's permission, draw up a little
document for your lordship to sign, purporting that you will, on your
succession to the Emberton estate, indemnify me for the losses I have
sustained by the robbery of my uncle's house."

Already Lord Ashborough began to repent of his liberal promise, and to
consider whether he could not have done quite as well without the
agency of Mr. Tims; but, as it appeared that the chief proofs of
Captain Delaware's guilt were in the lawyer's hands, he thought it
better to adhere strictly to his engagement, and therefore signified
his assent.

"Of course, my lord," continued the lawyer, "you will find it
necessary to proceed against Sir Sidney Delaware immediately, either
at common law for the recovery of the sum agreed to be paid by bill,
and which can not be considered as paid, the money wherewith it was
satisfied having been stolen; or else to proceed by petition to the
Court of Chancery, in order to recover possession of the original
annuity deed, the authenticated copy of which is in my possession,
praying also that the rents of the Emberton estate may be paid into
court, till such time as judgment be pronounced."

The lawyer spoke these hard purposes in a tone of significance, which
would have been an insult to any one with whose inmost thoughts he was
not so well acquainted as he was with those of Lord Ashborough; but
the earl heard him with a meaning smile, and replied, "Why, really,
Mr. Tims, you seem inclined to be rather hard-hearted toward this Sir
Sidney Delaware."

"Your lordship would not have me very tender toward a man whose son
has murdered my only relation," replied the lawyer; "and, besides, law
has nothing to do with tenderness; and, as your lordship's agent, I am
bound to suggest what I think the best legal means of protecting your
interests."

"Certainly, certainly!" answered the earl. "Far be it from me to blame
you, my good sir. Follow which plan you judge best--both, if you
please."

"Both be it, then, my lord!" replied Mr. Tims, rubbing his hands at
the interminable prospect which the case held out, of pleas and papers
without end--an universe of parchment and a heaven of red tape. "Both
be it, then my lord! There is not the slightest reason that we should
not proceed in both courts at once to make all sure; and if, before
two months are over, Sir Sidney Delaware be not as completely beggared
as ever man was, the English law will be very much changed--that is
all that I can say--unless, indeed," he added, thoughtfully, "your
lordship's worthy nephew come to his aid--marry Miss Delaware, and
advance money to defend her father."

"No fear! No fear!" replied Lord Ashborough. "He will not marry her,
depend upon it."

"Why, my lord, I am afraid," said Mr. Tims; "that is to say, I have
heard it very strongly reported in Emberton, that he did propose to
Miss Delaware, and that she refused him, not knowing who he was. She
and her father are now staying with the lady at whose house she first
met Mr. Beauchamp; they are very likely to meet again--he to declare
his real name, and she to accept him; for you may imagine, after all
that has happened, she will be glad enough to get married at all; and
you know how romantic he is in some things, though he strives to hide
it."

"You are mistaken, Mr. Tims," said Lord Ashborough. "What has happened
will make her persist in her refusal more steadily than ever."

Though hating Sir Sidney Delaware and his whole family with the
bitterest enmity; Lord Ashborough knew them well, and understood the
principles upon which they acted--for the basest heart will sometimes,
in a great degree, appreciate a more noble one. This appreciation,
however, is never candidly admitted, even to the heart itself; and
while, from a secret conviction of the truth, it often calculates
justly the results--comprehends in a moment what will be the effect of
particular circumstances--and makes use of that knowledge for its own
selfish purposes--it is sure to attribute all good actions to base and
mean motives, even in its own secret thoughts, and to give them false
and evil names in conversation with others.

"No, no, Mr. Tims!" he said; "what has happened will make her refuse
him more steadily than ever, if she have a drop of her father's blood
in her veins. I know those Delawares well, and their cursed pride,
which they fancy to be fine feeling and generous sentiment. If it were
to save her father and her whole family from destruction, depend upon
it, she would not marry any man while she thought that her brother's
infamy was to be a part of her dowry--I might say her only dowry; for
I suppose the pittance she had from her mother has been swallowed up
long ago. No, no; all is very safe there. Maria, who has heard a good
deal about her from her brother's old tutor, let me unwittingly into
the secret, that she is her father over again in those respects; but
sting her irritable pride, and you can make her do any thing."

"Well, my lord, well," said Mr. Tims, "if your lordship be sure, I, of
course, have nothing to say. Only, I can not understand any woman
refusing a gentleman of Mr. Beauchamp's present wealth and future
expectations. I can not understand it, indeed!"

"I dare say not!" replied Lord Ashborough drily. "But, in the mean
while, Mr. Tims, I think you had better return to Emberton tonight. It
is not much above thirty miles. Proceed as earnestly as possible
against the son, and after putting matters in train there, come up and
meet me in London on Monday next."

"At the same time, my lord," said the lawyer, "I will serve all the
tenants with notice not to pay their rents to Sir Sidney Delaware;"
and this being agreed to with a smile, Lord Ashborough rejoined his
guests, and Mr. Tims proceeded to hold a serious consultation with the
housekeeper, over a cold pasty and a glass of sherry, ere he once more
set out for Emberton.




CHAPTER XXIV,


Now, the very same character might be given of Mr. Peter Tims of
Clement's Inn, attorney-at-law, as that which Voltaire,
in his _Discours à l'Academie_, gives of the President de
Montesquieu--"C'etoit un génie mâle et rapide qui approfondit tout en
paraissant tout effleurer;" and in several of his late conversations
with Lord Ashborough, he had penetrated into the depths of that
nobleman's thoughts and feelings, while he seemed to give implicit
credit to his lightest words, He saw, therefore, that there were two
strong principles which worked the whole machine; the chief springs,
as it were, of all his lordship's conduct, at least on the present
occasion. The one of these principles was, it is true, a little
stronger than the other; and the two were, revenge and avarice; the
latter succumbing somewhat to the former, but both at present working
very well together.

There are certain classes of passions and vices which people often
find an excuse for indulging, by persuading themselves that they are
invariably connected with some great or noble feeling or other. Now,
of this character is revenge, which men are apt to fancy must be the
offspring of a generous and vehement heart, and a fine, determined,
sensitive mind. But this is all a mistake. Revenge, in the abstract,
is merely a prolongation throughout a greater space in time, of that
base selfishness which leads us to feel a momentary impulse to strike
any thing that hurts or pains us either mentally or corporeally; and
the more brutal, and animal and beast-like be the character of the
person, the greater will be his disposition to revenge. But we must
speak one moment upon its modifications. Revenge always proceeds
either from a sense of real injury, or a feeling of wounded vanity. It
seldom, however, arises from any real injury; and where it does, it
would (if possible to justify it at all), be more justifiable; but, in
this modification, a corrective is often found in the great mover of
man's heart; and vanity itself whispers, it will seem nobler and more
generous to forgive. The more ordinary species of revenge, however,
and the more filthy, is that which proceeds from wounded vanity--when
our pride or our conceit has been greatly hurt--not alone in the eyes
of the world, but in our own eyes--when the little internal idol that
we have set up to worship in our own hearts, has been pulled down from
the throne of our idolatry, and we have been painfully shown that it
is nothing but a thing of gilt wood. Then, indeed, revenge, supported
by the great mover of man's heart, instead of being corrected by it,
is insatiable and everlasting. But in all cases, instead of being
connected with any great quality, it is the fruit of a narrow mind,
and a vain, selfish heart.

The latter of the two modifications was that which affected Lord
Ashborough, and it had remained with him through life; but Mr. Tims
very evidently saw, that as soon as his lordship imagined his revenge
to have nothing left to feed upon, it of course became extinct; and
that his own employment, at least, in any very extensive business, as
far as Lord Ashborough was concerned, would be at an end. The avarice,
too, would come into play; and the worthy lawyer perceived that it was
necessary to keep alive his appetite for vengeance, and at the same
time to take care that his admirable patron's avarice should be broken
in to run in harness with his own.

These were his motives for suggesting the course of proceeding which
he had insinuated might be pursued, although he felt very doubtful as
to the legal possibility of carrying on the matter exactly as
prosperously as he had taught his patron to believe. At all events, he
felt that this was his best chance, not only of keeping possession of
the money he had already got, but of obtaining the twelve thousand
pounds more, which, together with the rest of his uncle's property, he
felt would raise him to a station in society in which he might--not
pause--but make more still.

After satisfying the cravings of hunger, therefore, and thinking that
the time might soon come when the earl himself would find it necessary
to treat him with more attention, Mr. Tims got into his chaise,
humming the chorus of the Little Ploughboy--


   "So great a man--so great a man--so great a man I'll be!"


And once more rolled away toward Emberton, resolved instantly to see
Sir Sidney Delaware, and embroil the whole affair as much as possible.

His clerk had been left behind at the little town to take care of the
business during his absence; and although it was late ere the lawyer
returned, he instantly set him to work to prepare notices to all the
tenants of Sir Sidney Delaware not to pay their rents. This he knew
was a bold stroke; but looking upon the unhappy baronet as an enemy in
time of war, he knew that one great object was to cut off his
supplies. Early the next morning Mr. Tims sallied forth to make a
general round of the tenants, and proceeded to a farmhouse, from the
crowded stackyard and busy aspect of which he argued a large and
prosperous farm. The farmer himself appeared superintending the
thatching in the yard; and Mr. Tims, notice in hand, stepped up to
him, and informed him of his business.

As the honest man read, his mouth expanded wide across his rosy face,
with a grin of satisfaction, which Mr. Tims remarked as something
extraordinary, at least. "Sorry, sir, I can't oblige you!" said the
farmer, eyeing him with a look of merry contempt; "I paid my rent to
Sir Sidney yesterday morning. I thought just now--as he is in trouble
I hear with some bit of a blackguard lawyer of the name of Tims--he
might want the money, you know. So I took it up to the good lady's
house where he is stopping, seeing it was due on the twenty-fifth o'
last month."

"Oh, you have paid it, have you?" said Mr. Tims. "Then, I can tell
you, most likely you will have it to pay over again."

"Pay it over again!" cried the farmer, who easily divined who the
person was that spoke to him. "Pay it over again! Come, come, none of
your gammon, master, or I'll break your head for you, and that is all
the payment you'll get from me. Who should I pay my rent to but my own
landlord I add a good landlord he has always been, and a kind--never
racked us up to the last farthing, like some o' them, though he wanted
the money enough himself. I'll tell you what, you had better not say a
word against him or his--and if you be one of Lawyer Tims's clerks,
bid him not show his face among us here, or he'll get such a licking
as will serve him for a long while."

While this conversation was proceeding between Mr. Peter Tims and the
farmer, a considerable number of the farm-servants had gathered round
their master, and very unequivocal signs and symptom were given as to
their sense of the matter. Various words, too, were heard, which
sounded harsh upon the tympanum of Peter Tims's ear, such as--"I
shouldn't wonder if it were Lawyer Tims himself--A looks like a
lawyer--let's duck um in the horsepond--or cart him into the muck."

Now Peter Tims was, in a certain degree, a coward; and although he
could have made up his mind to be knocked down by the farmer for the
sake of a good assault case, yet the idea of being "ducked in the
horsepond, or carted into the muck," by a body of persons who could
not afford to pay a sous for their morning's amusement, made him beat
a retreat as fast as possible.

Although Mr. Peter Tims proceeded _seriatim_ to each of the tenants on
the Emberton estate, it may be unnecessary to detail the particulars
of the various receptions he met with. Suffice it, that he found that
in one respect they all agreed, which was, that their rent, by a
general arrangement between them, had been paid up the day before,
which, though the money was really due, was about ten days before the
usual time. Although he occasionally met with a somewhat rough
reception, and declared that he had never seen a more rude and uncivil
set of people in his life, yet he escaped without any actual violence;
and in the end, hoping to gain at least some ground, he determined to
make his last visit to Sir Sidney Delaware himself.

Accustomed to do disagreeable things of all kinds, Mr. Tims had as
little respect for human feelings as most men; but still there was
something in his peculiar situation with regard to Sir Sidney Delaware
that in some degree awed even his worldly heart. He was going to force
himself into the presence of a man, whose destruction he was pursuing
eagerly, on the most base and sordid motives. That, however, was
nothing new; but we must recollect that Mr. Tims really supposed the
son of him he was about to visit had murdered in cold blood his last
relation; and, with that belief there mingled both the internal
conviction that his own arts had driven the unfortunate young man to
commit the horrid deed which had been perpetrated at Ryebury, and the
remembrance that he himself, Peter Tims, was even then straining every
nerve to bring to an ignominious death him whom his machinations had
hurried into the most fearful of human crimes, and whose father he was
still urging onward to ruin and despair. All these feelings and
remembrances made the business very different from any he had before
undertaken, and the lawyer's heart even fluttered as the chaise drove
through the gates of the dwelling now occupied by Mrs. Darlington. "It
is odd enough," he thought, "that my delaying the payment of the money
should have caused my uncle's murder. Now, if I were superstitious, I
should take fright and not follow this business up, for fear it should
turn out ill likewise--but that is all nonsense;" and when the chaise
stopped, and a servant appeared, he boldly demanded to speak with Sir
Sidney Delaware.

"Sir Sidney Delaware is not here, sir," replied the man, abruptly.

"Not here!" cried Mr. Tims. "Not here! And pray, where is he, then?"

"Can't tell, sir!" replied the man.

"But he was here?" rejoined the lawyer. "Oh, yes, sir, he was here,"
was the reply.

"When did he go?"

"Yesterday."

"Where to?"

"I don't know."

"Is your mistress at home!" demanded Mr. Tims, at length, finding that
there was nothing to be made of the footman. The answer was in the
affirmative; and Mr. Peter Tims was shown into an empty room, where
the servant took the precaution of demanding his name, and then went
to inform his mistress. After remaining for some time in expectation,
Mr. Tims was rejoined by the servant; but, instead of ushering the
lawyer to Mrs. Darlington's presence, he said, with a grave and solemn
aspect, "Sir, my mistress bids me inform you that she is busy at
present, and can not receive you."

"Oh, if she is busy, I can wait!" answered Mr. Tims, relapsing
determinedly into his chair.

"You may wait all day for that matter," replied the man, losing
patience; "for I can tell you she does not intend to see you at all.
So now you have the plain English of it!"

"Very extraordinary conduct, I must say!" observed Mr. Tims, as with
slow and indignant steps he walked toward his chaise.

"And pray, are you really ignorant of Sir Sidney Delaware's present
abode?" he added, after having insinuated his hand into his pocket,
and drawn forth a broad silver piece, which he thought fully
sufficient to tempt the discretion of any Johnny, even if he were as
immaculate as Eve before the fall.

But the servant either would not tell, or could not, because he did
not know: the latter of which was the most probable, as he answered
sharply, as if angry at losing the money through his ignorance, "You
have had your answer once, sir," he said, "and I shall give you no
other;" and with this ungracious reply, Mr. Tims was obliged to
content himself.

The chaise rolled him back hungry and dissatisfied to Emberton, where
the tidings he had so often before received, that the pursuit of
Captain Delaware had not advanced a single step, did not tend to
relieve him. He found, too, that Sir Sidney and Miss Delaware had
certainly not returned to their own dwelling, and his inquiry in
regard to whither they had gone when they left Mrs. Darlington's, only
served to make the people of the town open wide their nostrils,
showing plainly that the baronet's departure must have been secret
indeed, as it had escaped the all-inquiring eyes and ears of that
gossiping community.

If any thing could have soothed the mind of Mr. Tims, it would have
been, perhaps, the profound respect of the landlord of the King's
Arms--he, Mr. Tims, being in no degree insensible to the charms of
importance and high station, and enjoying the homage of mine host as a
sort of foretaste of the increased consequence he was to possess in
society, from his accession to his unfortunate uncle's ill-gotten
wealth.

His dinner comforted him also greatly; and when, after that meal was
discussed, the landlord presented himself in person to ask whether he
might not recommend his admirable port, Mr. Tims, after an internal
struggle, acquiesced, and the wine was accordingly produced.

"Pray, landlord," said the lawyer, after a few words of innkeeper
gossip had passed, while with a clean napkin he rubbed the outside of
the decanter; "pray who was that gentleman standing at the door as I
got out, who stared at me so hard? The gentleman in the black coat and
gray trowsers."

"Oh, sir!" replied mine host of the King's Arms, "don't you know? That
is Mr. Cousins, the officer from London, come to inquire into this sad
business!"

"Why, Ruthven was sent for, and came, too; for I saw and spoke to him
long!" ejaculated Mr. Tims, in some surprise.

"True, sir! True!" replied the landlord. "But Ruthven was sent after
the captain, you know; and Dr. Wilton thought it would be better to
have some one else down to keep about the place; so Cousins was sent
for, and has been here all day--that is to say, about the place; for
he was both up at Emberton and at Ryebury, I heard the waiter saying."

"At Emberton!" cried Mr. Tims. "Then, I dare say, he can tell me
something of the people there. Will you have the goodness to present
my compliments to him, and say, I should be happy if he will take a
glass of wine with me?"

"Certainly, sir! Certainly!" replied the landlord; and away he went in
embassage to Cousins, who soon after was ushered into the private
apartment occupied by Peter Tims, Esq.

He was--or rather is--neither a very tall, nor a very stout man; but
yet, in the various points of his frame, there is a good deal of solid
strength to be remarked; and in his face, which is pale, and somewhat
saturnine, Mr. Tims thought he could trace a great deal of resolution,
mingled with that shrewd knowledge of human nature in its most debased
form, which is at once necessary to, and inseparable from, the
character of an officer of police. The lawyer, seeing that the officer
was a very gentlemanly person in his appearance, soon made sufficient
advances; and, being seated together over their wine, Mr. Tims
inquired whether his companion had heard any thing of the family at
Emberton.

"No, no," he said, in a tone which appeared habitually guarded against
all inquiries, except from those authorized to squeeze the contents
out of the sponge of his mind. "No, no," he said--"I have heard
nothing of them at all."

"Come, come, now, Mr. Cousins!" said the lawyer, who well entered into
the spirit of the wariness displayed by his companion; "you know I am
interested in this business!"

"Yes--so I hear, sir," replied Cousins, without a word more.

"Well, well, then, be a little more communicative, Mr. Cousins,"
rejoined the lawyer. "Did you see any of the family at the Park?"

"No," answered the officer; "they were all away!"

"But did not the old woman--the housekeeper--or cook--or
something--tell you where they had gone to!" demanded the lawyer.

"There was no old housekeeper there," answered the officer. "They were
all away together, and the house shut up."

Mr. Tims was beaten out of his impassibility, and absolutely stared.
"But surely you know where they are gone to--or, at least, you guess?"
he said, after a pause.

"Why, I may guess, to be sure," replied Cousins; "but that is nothing
to nobody, you know. If one were to tell every thing they guess, sir,
not one-half of their guesses would come true!"

Mr. Tims paused for a minute or two, seeing that, for some reason,
Cousins was resolute in not saying a word upon the affairs of Sir
Sidney Delaware; and, therefore, like a good tactician, finding the
enemy's position impregnable in front, he determined to shift his
ground, and make an attack from another quarter. "You have been, I
hear, at my poor, unhappy uncle's place at Ryebury, too?" said Mr.
Tims, at length. "Did you make any new discoveries? Fill your glass,
Mr. Cousins."

"None that I know of, sir," replied Cousins, answering the question,
and obeying the command at the same time. "The house was just as it
was left, I fancy."

"But did you find nothing that might lead to the detection of the
murderer?" said Mr. Tims.

"Why, sir, I understood that you had detected the murderer yourself,"
answered the officer; "and that his name was Captain William
Delaware."

"Yes, yes! that is all true enough," rejoined the lawyer; "but I mean,
did you find no new proof against him."

"Why, as to that, sir, I did not find any in particular," replied
Cousins. "Indeed, the only thing of which I found any positive proof
at all, was that somebody had been murdered."

"The man is a fool!" thought Mr. Peter Tims--"a natural!" But yet
there was a small, twinkling, subdued sort of fun lurking about the
corners of Cousins's dark eyes, that caused the lawyer strongly to
suspect that the officer was making a jest of him, and he consequently
found himself waxing vastly indignant. His anger, however, led him
into no extravagance; and, after having put a variety of other
questions to his companion, who did not choose to give a
straightforward answer to any of them, his wrath assumed the form of
sullen silence, which he expected would soon be received as a hint to
retire.

In this he was mistaken. Cousins remained with outstretched feet and
emulative silence, filling his glass unbidden, with a fond reliance on
the generosity of the lawyer's disposition, for all which he was
heartily given to the devil full a dozen times within the next
half-hour. At the end of that period, the landlord again appeared at
the door, and gave Mr. Cousins a nod. The officer immediately started
upon his feet, and wishing Mr. Tims good-night, with many thanks for
his kind condescension, he followed mine host out of the room.




CHAPTER XXV.


Leaving Mr. Tims to meditate for half an hour, and then to call his
clerk, in order to proceed with business of various kinds, we must
follow Cousins, the officer, along the passage, down the six steps at
the end, up the six steps opposite, and thence into another room,
larger and more handsomely furnished, in a different part of the
house. As he entered, the whole demeanor of the officer was as
completely changed as it is possible to imagine; and instead of the
easy and nonchalant, perhaps somewhat listless air, which had
overspread him in the presence of the attorney, he entered the chamber
to which he had been summoned, with a look of brisk activity, mingled
with respect, which strangely altered his whole appearance. The
character of the persons before whom he now presented himself might
easily account for the change; for the officer was too well acquainted
with all ranks and stations of men, and too much accustomed to suit
his conduct to his company, not to make the most marked difference in
his demeanor toward a low attorney, and toward two men of so much
respectability as Dr. Wilton and Mr. Egerton. Neither of those two
gentlemen, it is true, could be considered as so wealthy as Mr. Tims
had lately become; but, thank God! wealth--notwithstanding all its
efforts to confound itself with respectability, has not yet been able
to do so entirely, even in the eyes of the vulgar.

The two magistrates were sitting together after dinner; but glasses
and decanters had been removed, a clerk called in, and each had his
bundle of notes before him. Cousins bowed respectfully, and advanced
to the end of the table, but no farther; while Dr. Wilton--who, as the
reader may have remarked, had been quite bewildered and overcome
during the examination of William Delaware--having now resumed all
that quick and active intelligence which was the ordinary
characteristic of his mind, proceeded to question the officer as to
the result of his investigation during the morning.

"Well, Cousins," he said, "you went to Ryebury, of course? Did you
examine accurately the footmarks that I mentioned to you?"

"Not those in the garden, sir," replied the officer, with a
countenance now full of quick intelligence; "because you see, sir, it
was very evident that such a number of people had been there since the
murder, that there was no use; for we could not have distinguished one
from the other; but I went up into the room where it had been done,
and there the matter was clear enough."

"Ha!" said Mr. Egerton. "And what did you make out there? I saw
nothing but a pool of blood flowing from the dead body."

"I beg your worship's pardon," answered the officer; "but you are
mistaken there. As far as I could make out, it must have been done by
two men--I don't mean to say, mind that there were not three; but if
there were, the other never stepped in the blood; but two there were
certainly, for I got the tread of one very near whole--that is to say
the round of his boot heel and more than three inches of the toe from
the tip, backward--so that one of them had a remarkably long foot.
There is the measure and shape of it, as far as I could get it--more
than twelve inches, you see, sir."

"And the other!" said Dr. Wilton--"the other man's foot--what was the
length of it?"

"Ah, sir, that I could not get at!" replied the officer. "There was
nothing but about five inches of the fore-part of the sole; but that I
got twice; and it is as different a foot, you see, from the other as
one would wish to find--twice as broad, and square toed. And then I
got the mark of a hand, too, which must have been at the poor old
devil's throat when they were cutting it, for it was all blood. It had
rested on the cornice of the dado; and the fellow, whoever he was,
wanted part of the third finger of his left hand."

"Ha, that is a good fact!" said Dr. Wilton, eagerly; "but how did you
make that out Cousins?"

"Why, sir, because it marked all the way up, but left off suddenly
before it got to the end," answered the officer.

"But might not that finger have been bent?" said Mr. Egerton.

"Not unless it bent in the middle of the second joint," replied
Cousins; "but the matter was quite clear, sir; and one has nothing to
do but look at it to satisfy oneself that a part of the finger was
wanting; and what is oddest of all, that it has not been taken off at
the joint. All I saw besides was, that the fellow who cut the old
man's throat must have gone away with his pantaloons very bloody; for
he did it kneeling, and there is just a clear spot where his knee and
part of his leg kept the blood from going over the floor."

"Indeed, that may serve some purpose, too!" said Dr. Wilton; "but did
you find no more steps or marks of any other person?"

"Oh, plenty of steps, sir!" replied the officer. "There were all the
dirty feet of the coroner's inquest. But I think--though I'm not quite
so sure of that--that there must have been somebody left below to keep
watch, while the others went up to do the job. You see, sir, there is
in one place of the passage floor a fresh deal, and I can trace upon
that deal the marks of a shoe with large nails in it, going backward
and forward the matter of twenty times. Now, I hear that the deal was
put in not a week ago, and all the folks here agree, that the old man
never let a person with nails in his shoes twenty times into his house
in all his life; so it looks like as if that were the only time and
way in which it could get so often marked."

The two magistrates looked at each other, and Mr. Egerton answered,
"Your suspicion is a shrewd one, Cousins; but now, tell us sincerely,
from all that you have seen and heard, do you think that Captain
Delaware has been one of those concerned?"

"Why, really, sir, I can not say!" answered the officer; "but to tell
the truth--though there is no knowing, after all--nevertheless--not to
speak for a certainty, you know--but still, I should think not."

"You are now speaking to us in confidence, you know, Cousins," said
Doctor Wilton; "and indeed, we are altogether acting extra-officially
in regard to the murder, though we think it may connect itself with
the other affair. Tell us, therefore, why you judge it was not Captain
Delaware."

"Why, sir, that is difficult to say," replied the officer. "But first
and foremost, do you see, it strikes me that the job was done by as
knowing a hand as ever was on the lay--one that has had a regular
apprenticeship like. Well, as far as I can hear, that does not match
the captain. Then, next, whoever did it, has got in upon the sly by
means of the girl, whether she be an accessory or not. At all events,
she has gone off with her 'complices. She's never murdered--never a
bit of her, take my word for that! Then you see, sir, when I had done
with Ryebury, I went away to Emberton Park House; and though there was
a mighty fuss to get in, all the family being gone, yet I managed it
at last, and got a whole heap of the captain's old boots and shoes,
and measured them with the footmarks, and on oath I could prove that
none of them--neither those up, nor those down stairs--the marks I
mean--ever came off his foot."

"Why, it would seem to me, that what you have said would go very far
to exculpate him altogether," said Dr. Wilton.

"Ay, sir! but that is a mighty rum story about the notes," answered
the officer. "It would make a queer case for the 'sizes, any how.
Nevertheless, I don't think him guilty; and if he would explain
about the money, all would be clear enough--but that story of his
won't go; and if he sticks to it and is caught, he'll be hanged if
Judge ---- tries him. He'll get off if it come before Sir ----. He did
well enough to slip his head out of the collar, any way."

"But do you think that Ruthven will catch him then demanded Dr.
Wilton, with no small anxiety.

"Why, not so easy as if he were an old thief," replied the officer;
"for you see, sir, we know all their haunts, and where they'll take to
in a minute, while this young chap may go Lord knows where!"

Both the magistrates paused thoughtfully for a minute or two, and at
length Dr. Wilton went on: "You see, Cousins, the fact is this, that
the coroner having issued his warrant against Captain Delaware, our
straightforward duty as magistrates is to use all means to put the
warrant in execution; and we are neither called upon, nor have we
perhaps a strict legal right, after a verdict has been pronounced, to
seek for evidence in favor of the person against whom that verdict has
been given. At the same time, we are blamed for not committing the
prisoner at once; and the coroner is blamed for not sending him off to
the county jail the moment the verdict was given, though it was then
night. It is also a part of our clearest duty to do all in our power
to bring the guilty to punishment, an to prepare the case, in a
certain degree, for the officers of the crown; consequently, without
any great stretch of interpretation, we may consider ourselves
justified in using every means to satisfy ourselves who are innocent,
and who are guilty. You think that Captain Delaware is not the
culprit; and you think that three persons have, at all events, been
concerned in the murder. Some suspicion of this kind must also have
been in the minds of the coroner's jury, when they returned a verdict
against Captain William Delaware, and some person or persons unknown.
It is our next business, therefore, to search for those persons
unknown, by every means in our power."

"Why, as to the captain, sir," answered Cousins, "the business would
be soon settled, if we could find out how he came by the money."

"It is the most extraordinary thing in the world," said Dr.
Wilton, "that Mr. Beauchamp can not be found any where--I am really
beginning to be apprehensive concerning him. He left me in a very
low and depressed state; and if his servant, Harding, were not with
him--which, as he is not to be heard of either, it would seem he
is--I should be afraid that his mind had given way."

"Harding! Harding!" said Cousins, thoughtfully; "I wonder if that
could be the Harding who was a sort of valet and secretary to ---- the
banker, and who pocketed a good deal of his cash when he failed. He
had well nigh been hanged, or at least taken a swim across the
pond--but the lawyer let him off for some disclosures be made, and got
him a new place too, they say! I have lost sight of that chap for a
long time. But, however, sir, you were speaking about the persons
unknown. Now I think, do you see, that I have got the end of a clew
that may lead to one of them; and if we get one we can not fail to get
all."

"Who, then, do you think it is," demanded Mr. Egerton. "Let no means
be spared to find out even one of the ruffians."

"Why, sir, you see, I don't mind telling you, because it will go no
farther; but I think it had better be alone," and he looked
significantly at the clerk, who was instantly ordered to withdraw.

"Beg pardon, gentlemen," said Cousins, more freely, when the other had
left the room; "but I have known some of these country clerks that
were the arrantest gossips in the whole neighborhood. However, the
matter is, I hit upon what I think is the head of the right nail, when
I was after the other business, do you see. You told me to inquire
about the burning of the lady's house, and the silver plate that had
disappeared; so, among other things, I went to the coach office, and
examined the books, and just about that time I found that there had
been two parcels sent up to Amos Jacobs, Esq., to be left till called
for. Now, thinks I, who can Amos Jacobs be, but the old Jew of the
Scuttlehole, as they call him. He receives stolen goods, gentlemen,
and is as great a blind as ever swung. Well, I asked the book-keeper
if he had noticed those two parcels, and he said yes, because they
were so small, and yet so heavy. So then I asked him who brought them,
and he said a gentleman who had been lodging three doors down the
street for six weeks or so. So away I went, and looking up at the
house I saw, 'Lodgings to Let' stuck up, and in I walked."

"Mr. Beauchamp's lodgings, I dare say," said Dr. Wilton, smiling.

"No, no, sir!" replied Cousins, "I knew those before. They lie a good
bit farther down. But an old woman came to show me the lodgings,
thinking I was going to take them; so I asked her who had been in them
before, and she up and told me all about it. A very nice gentleman,
she said, he was, who was a great chemist, she believed; for he was
always puddling about over a fire, making experiments, as he told
her--but bless you, gentlemen! he was just making white soup of the
lady's plate--that was what he was doing. So then I asked his name,
and she told me it was Mr. Anthony Smithson. So then the whole matter
came upon me at once. Your worships must understand that, as far as I
know of or remember, there is only one man upon the lay in London who
has lost a bit of his finger, and not having seen him for some time, I
had forgot all about him. His name is Tony Thomson--but sometimes
people call him Billy Winter--and at times he took the name of
Johnson--and Perkins too, I have heard him called--but the name he
went by generally, a good while ago, was Tony Smithson."

"But if the lodgings were to be let, he must of course be gone," cried
Dr. Wilton; "and we are as far off from the facts as ever."

"Oh! he is gone, sure enough!" answered the officer. "That was the
first thing I asked the old woman, and she told me that he went the
very day before the terrible murder, and that he would be so sorry to
hear it, for he used often to walk up that way, and asked her many
questions about Mr. Tims, poor old man. Well, when I heard this, and
had got a good deal more out of her, I thought I might as well look
through the place, for these sort of folks generally are in too great
a hurry not to leave something behind them; and I opened all the
drawers and places--and the old woman thought it very strange, till I
told her who I was. He had cleared all away, however, except this gold
thimble, which had fallen half way down between the drawers and the
wall. It has got 'J. D.' upon it, which, I take it, means 'Something
Darlington.' So it must have been prigged at the time of the fire."

Dr. Wilton and Mr. Egerton both looked at the thimble, and felt
convinced that it belonged to Mrs. Darlington. At all events, the
information which Cousins had obtained, was of course most important,
as it rendered it more than probable that one at least of the persons
who had robbed, if not fired the house upon the hill, had been also a
principal in the murder of the miser. Both the magistrates, therefore,
joined in giving high commendations to the officer, and particular
directions were added for prosecuting the investigation. Cousins,
however, had already anticipated several of the orders he now
received.

"I tried all I could, sir," he replied, "to find out some of the
fellow's stray boots or shoes but he had left none behind. I then went
to all the different shoemakers and cobblers to see if any of them
could give me his measure; but he had been too cunning for that. The
stage coachman, however, remembered taking him up here for London, and
setting him down, by his own desire, at a little public-house four
miles off; so that we have got upon the right scent, beyond doubt; and
if you will give me permission, gentlemen, I will go out this evening,
and find out whom he most kept company with in this place, before the
matter gets blown. I have had a good pumping to-night already; but it
would not do."

"And pray, who took the trouble of pumping you, Cousins!" asked Mr.
Egerton. "Though this is the most gossiping town in Europe, I should
have thought there was roguery enough in it also, to keep the
inhabitants from meddling unnecessarily with a police officer."

"Oh, it was none of the people of the place, sir!" replied Cousins.
"They only stared at me. This was the Mr. Tims who gave the captain in
charge, I hear. He seems a sharp hand, and he has a great good will to
prove the captain guilty, though I don't see, just yet, what good it
could do him either."

Dr. Wilton asked several questions concerning the lawyer, and the
examination to which he had subjected the officer; and then--after
shaking his head, and observing that he believed Mr. Peter Tims to be
a great rogue--he dismissed Cousins to pursue his inquiries in the
town.

It must be here remarked that Mr. Egerton, although he knew William
Delaware personally, and did not think him at all a person to commit
the crime with which he was charged, had never felt that assured
confidence in his innocence which Dr. Wilton had always experienced.
It was not, indeed, that Mr. Egerton thought worse of Captain Delaware
individually than the clergyman did, but he thought worse of the whole
human race. Gradually, however, he had been coming over to Dr.
Wilton's opinion; and his conversation that night with the officer had
completely made a convert of him, by showing him that, notwithstanding
the one extraordinary circumstance which remained yet to be explained,
every new fact that was elicited tended more and more to prove that
the murder had been committed by persons of a very different class and
habits from the supposed delinquent. Feeling, therefore, that in some
degree he had done the unfortunate gentleman injustice, he now
determined to redouble his exertions to apprehend the real culprits,
in the hope and expectation of clearing the character of Captain
Delaware. With this view, he resolved to remain at Emberton that
night, contrary to his former plans; and he proposed to Dr. Wilton to
visit the old miser's house at Ryebury the next morning, in order to
verify the footmarks, as measured by Cousins, lest the new proprietor
might think fit, after the funeral, which was to take place at four
that day, to have all traces of the horrid scene effaced, which he
might do for more reasons than one, if the malevolence Captain
Delaware charged him with were really his motive.

"Why, the truth is," replied Dr. Wilton, in answer to this proposal,
"that I intended to go very early to-morrow to Mrs. Darlington's, to
see poor Blanche Delaware, and try to discover whether she can give
any clew by which Henry Beauchamp can be found."

"Is it likely that she should possess any?" said Mr. Egerton,
laughing.

"Why, they are cousins, you know," answered Dr. Wilton, with a smile
which served to contradict the reason that his words seemed to assign
for the knowledge of her cousin's movements which he attributed to
Miss Delaware. "They are cousins, you know, and I have heard it
reported that there was something more--but, at all events, I am
anxious about the lad, and do not choose to leave any chance of
discovering him untried."

"But, by the way, I forgot," said Mr. Egerton, "I heard an hour or two
ago that Sir Sidney and Miss Delaware had left Mrs. Darlington's, and
had gone to some watering-place, I think the people said."

"Oh, no, impossible!" said Dr. Wilton. "Impossible! they would have
let me hear, as a matter of course." Nevertheless, he rose and rang
the bell, although, so convinced was he of the truth of what he
asserted, that, ere the waiter appeared, he had proceeded to arrange
with Mr. Egerton, that while that gentleman went to Ryebury, and
verified the traces which Cousins had observed, he would drive to Mrs.
Darlington's, and make the inquiries he proposed.

"Pray, have you heard any thing of Sir Sidney Delaware having left
Mrs. Darlington's new house?" demanded Dr. Wilton, when the waiter
appeared.

"Oh, dear, yes, sir!" replied the man. "Mr. Tims--Lawyer Tims, sir--who
was there this morning, could find none of them, and has been
inquiring all over the place to make out where they are gone to. But
nobody can tell, sir, and every one says they have run away."

"Nonsense!" said Mr. Egerton; "that will do!" and the waiter retired.

"This is very extraordinary!" said Dr. Wilton. "Every one seems to be
disappearing one after the other. Nevertheless, I will go up and
inquire of Mrs. Darlington, and will come and join you at Ryebury
afterward."

The meeting was accordingly arranged, and shortly after, Cousins
returned, bringing a vast store of fresh information. Mr. Anthony
Smithson, alias Thomson, alias Perkins, alias Johnson, alias Winter,
fully described and particularized, so as to leave no doubt whatever
of his identity with crushfingered Billy Winter, a notorious London
flashman, had been remarked, by all the wondermongers of Emberton, for
his intimacy with Mr. Harding, Mr. Burrel's servant. He had been also
observed to have a peculiar predilection for the lanes and fields
about the house at Ryebury. This information had led the officers to
fresh inquiries concerning the philosophical Harding himself, who had
been accurately described by the investigating and observing people of
Emberton; and, on his return, Cousins expressed his fullest
conviction, that he was the identical Harding who had, as he before
described, got off in a serious criminal case, solely by the
connivance of an attorney. Who that attorney was, need hardly be
explained; and indeed, to do so, would only lead us into the details
of a previous affair, totally unconnected with this history. Suffice
it, that no sooner did Cousins hear that Harding had been with his
master, at the house of Mrs. Darlington, on the day of the fire, than
he at once declared himself to be perfectly certain that his hands,
and no others, had kindled the flame. He added also, that he did not
doubt that Smithson and Harding--whether they had exactly fixed upon
any precise object or not--had come down to Emberton, with the
intention of acting in concert; and he added, that it would not at all
surprise him to find that they were the two who committed the murder
itself, especially as the people had particularly described to him the
valet's long foot.

While he was speaking, Dr. Wilton rapidly turned over his notes of the
examination of Captain Delaware, and the servants at Emberton Park,
and at length lighted upon the declaration of the man-servant, who
stated, that in returning from some errand in that direction, he had
seen the valet Harding at the back of the park, the lanes surrounding
which led directly toward Ryebury.

"If I could think of any reason for his putting the money in the
captain's room," said Cousins, as the clergyman read this passage, "I
should think that Harding had done it himself, on purpose to hang
him."

"May he not have been instigated to do it by others?" said Mr.
Egerton.

"If one could find out any reason for it," replied the officer.

"Why, Captain Delaware suspected something of the kind himself,"
replied the magistrate, and he read a part of the young fugitive's
letter, watching from time to time, as he did so, the effect it
produced upon the countenance of a man who, like Cousins, was
accustomed to trace and encounter crime in every form. The officer
closed one eye, put his tongue slightly into his cheek, and ended by a
half whistle.

"You had better look to it, gentleman." he said; "you had better look
to it--such things have been done before now--so you had better look
to it!"

"We will!" answered Dr. Wilton; "we will! let us see you to-morrow
about nine, Cousins."

The officer took the hint, and withdrew.




CHAPTER XXVI.


Oh, that I had the lucid arrangement of the late Lord Tenderden, or
the happy illustration of Francis Jeffrey, or the _curiosa felicitas_
of George Gordon Byron, or the nervous vein of Gifford, or the elegant
condensation of Lockhart, or any of the peculiar powers of any of the
great men of past or future ages, to help me to make this chapter both
interesting and brief; for there are several facts to state, and small
space to state them in; and--what is worse than all--they are so dry
and pulverized, that they are enough to give any one who meddles with
them, what the Spaniard gracefully terms a "_retortijon de tripas_."
As, however, they are absolutely necessary to the clear understanding
of what is to follow, I will at once place them all in order together,
leaving the reader to swallow them in any vehicle he may think fit.

First, then, on his visit to Mrs. Darlington, Dr. Wilton obtained no
information whatever, except that the tidings he had before heard were
true. Sir Sidney Delaware and his daughter, Mrs. Darlington said, had
indeed left her; but they had requested, as a particular favor, that
she would not even inquire whither they were going; and, as the favor
was a very small one, she had granted it of course. From the house of
that worthy lady, Dr. Wilton proceeded to join Mr. Egerton at Ryebury,
where--according to their own request--they were met by the coroner
for the county. All the traces which had been observed by Cousins were
verified, and a complete plan of the scene of the murder was made
under the direction of the magistrates.

A long conference took place at the same time between the two justices
and the coroner, who expressed less dissatisfaction at the escape of
Captain Delaware than they had expected.

"We must share the blame between us, gentlemen," he said. "You, for
not having remanded him to some secure place, I, for not having sent
him five-and-twenty miles that night to the county jail. Certain it
is, the case was a very doubtful one, and I would fain have had the
jury adjourn till the following morning. But in truth," he added,
"coroners' juries, knowing that their decision is not final, and
disgusted and agitated by the horrible scenes they are obliged to
examine, very often return a hasty and ill-considered verdict, in
spite of all the officers of the crown can do. This was, I am afraid,
the case in the present instance; and I have no doubt that the young
man has made his escape more from apprehension of a long and painful
imprisonment--which is a severe punishment in itself--than from any
consciousness of guilt."

Finding his opinion thus far favorable, the two magistrates
communicated to the crown-officer all that they had discovered in
regard to Harding and Smithson, and also the faint suspicion which
they entertained, that Harding, at the instigation of Mr. Tims,
junior, had placed the money in the chamber of Captain Delaware.

The coroner, however, shook his head. "As to Harding and Smithson," he
said, "the matter is sufficiently made out to justify us in issuing
warrants for their apprehension; and Harding may perhaps--from some
motive we know nothing of--have placed the money as you suspect,
especially as he seems to have been well acquainted with Emberton
Park; but I do not believe that Mr. Tims had any thing to do with it.
To suppose so, would at once lead us to the conclusion that he was an
accomplice in the murder of his uncle; and his whole conduct gave the
lie to that. No--no--had he even known that his uncle was dead before
he came here, his whole actual behavior afterward would have been very
different. He did not affect any great sorrow for his uncle, as he
would have done had he been at all culpable; but, at the same time, he
was evidently vindictive in the highest degree against the murderers.
No--no--you are mistaken there, gentlemen! But let us issue warrants
against the other two, and intrust their execution to Cousins. We
shall easily be able to get at the truth in regard to Captain Delaware
from one of those gentry, if we can but catch them."

While the warrants were in preparation, it was announced to the
magistrates that Mr. Peter Tims himself was below, with the
undertakers; and, also, that the constable of a neighboring parish had
brought up a boy who had found a hat upon the sea-shore, which, it was
supposed, might throw some light upon the matter before the
magistrates.

Mr. Tims was accordingly directed to wait, while the boy was brought
up, and the hat examined. The peculiarity of its form--a form unknown
in Emberton--and of its color--a shade of that light russet-brown in
which Shakspeare clothes the dawn for her morning's walk at once led
Dr. Wilton to believe that it had belonged to his unfortunate friend,
Henry Beauchamp. As Beauchamp, however, was not one of those men who
write their names in their hats, the matter still remained in the most
unpleasant state in the world--a state of doubt; and such a state
being not less disagreeable to Dr. Wilton than to any one else--after
catechising the boy, and discovering that nothing was to be
discovered, except that the hat had been washed on shore at about
five miles' distance from Ryebury, of which washing it bore ample
marks--the worthy clergyman left his companions in magistracy to
expedite the warrants, and returned in person to Emberton, in order to
examine Mrs. Wilson, Beauchamp's late landlady, in regard to the hat,
which he carried thither along with him.

As soon as Mrs. Wilson saw it, she declared that it was the identical
hat that poor dear Mr. Burrel used always to wear in the morning. She
had seen it, she said, full a hundred times, and knew it, because the
leather in the inside was laced with a silk tag, for all the world
like the bodices she could remember when she was young. Eagerly, also,
did she question Dr. Wilton as to where it had been found; for it
seems that Mr. Burrel had been no small favorite with the old lady;
and when she was made acquainted with the facts, she wrung her hands,
declaring that she was sure the poor young gentleman had gone and
drowned himself for love of Miss Delaware. Now, Dr. Wilton had at his
heart entertained a sort of vague suspicion that Beauchamp,
notwithstanding all his strong moral and religious principles,
might--in a moment of despair, and in that fancied disgust at the
world, which he was somewhat too apt to pamper--do some foolish act.
Perhaps I should have said that he _feared_ it might be so; and, as he
would rather have believed any other thing and was very angry at
himself for supposing it possible, he was, of course, still more angry
at good Mrs. Wilson for so strongly confirming his apprehensions. He
scolded her very heartily, therefore, for imagining what he had before
imagined himself; and was just leaving her house, when he bethought
him of making inquiries concerning the haunts and behavior of Mr.
Burrel's valet, Harding. To his questions on this head, Mrs.
Wilson--though a little indignant at the reprimand she had
received--replied in the most clear and distinct manner, that Harding
had never kept company with any one but Mr. Smithson, the chemist
gentleman, who lodged farther up the town; that no one scarcely ever
heard the sound of his voice; and that, for her part, so queer were
his ways, that she should have thought that he was a conjuror, if he
had not been a gentleman's servant--which two occupations she
mistakenly imagined to be incompatible.

Dr. Wilton next inquired what was the size of the valet's foot, at
which Mrs. Wilson looked aghast, demanding, "Lord! how should she know
what was the size of the gentleman's foot? But stay," she cried the
moment after, "Stay, stay, sir! Now I think of it, I can tell to a
cheeseparing; for in the hurry that he went away in, he left a pair of
boots behind him; and the groom, when he set off the morning after,
would not take them, because he said Mr. Harding was always _jawing_
him, and meddling with his business, and some day or another he would
tell him a thing or two."

Dr. Wilton demanded an immediate sight of the boots, with all the
eagerness of a connoisseur, and with much satisfaction beheld a
leathern foot bag, of extraordinary length, brought in by the
landlady, who declared, as she entered, that "he had a very long foot
after all."

The boot was immediately carried off to the inn; but as Mr. Egerton
had the measurements with him at Ryebury, Dr. Wilton was obliged to
wait one mortal hour and a half ere he could proceed to ascertain the
correspondence of the valet's boot with the bloody mark of the
murderer's foot, tormenting himself about Beauchamp in the mean while.
After waiting that time, however, in fretful incertitude, as to going
to the place itself, or staying his fellow-magistrate's return, Mr.
Egerton appeared, the paper on which the footmarks had been traced was
produced, and the boot being set down thereon, filled up one of the
vacant spaces without the difference of a line.

"Now, now, we have him!" cried Dr. Wilton, rubbing his hands eagerly;
"Now we have him. Beyond all question, the counsel for the crown will
permit the least criminal to become king's evidence, and I doubt not,
in the slightest degree, that we shall find poor William Delaware
completely exculpated."

"You call to my mind, my dear friend," said Mr. Egerton, laying his
hand on Di. Wilton's arm, as if to stop his transports--"you call to
my mind a waggish receipt for dressing a strange dish."

"How so? how so?" demanded Dr. Wilton, with a subdued smile at the
reproof of his eagerness, which he knew was coming in some shape or
other. "What is your receipt, my dear sir?"

"It runs thus," answered Mr. Egerton, "_How to dress a
griffin_--First, catch a griffin!--and then, dress him any way you
like!"

"Well, well!" answered Dr. Wilton, "we will try to catch the griffin,
my dear sir, and you shall not find me wanting in ardor to effect the
preliminary step, if you will aid me to bring about the second, and
let me dress my griffin when I have caught him. To say the truth," he
added, relapsing into grave seriousness, "the subject is not a
laughing one; and I am afraid I have suffered my personal feelings to
become somewhat too keenly interested--perhaps to a degree of levity.
God knows, there is little reason for us to be eager in the matter,
except from a desire that, by the punishment of the guilty, the
innocent should be saved; and I am willing to confess, that I
entertain not the slightest doubt of the innocence of William
Delaware. A crime has certainly been committed by some one; and
according to all the laws of God and man, it is one which should be
punished most severely. Heaven forbid, however, that I should treat
such a matter with levity. All I meant to say is, that if we do
succeed in apprehending the real murderers, we must endeavor to make
their conviction the means of clearly exculpating the innocent."

"I hope we shall be as successful as you could wish," replied Mr.
Egerton; "and I think it would give me scarcely less pleasure than it
would give yourself, to hear that Captain Delaware is innocent,
although I will not suffer either a previous good character, or a
gallant deportment, or a handsome countenance to weigh with me, except
as presumptive testimony in his favor, and as a caution to myself to
be on my guard against the natural predilections of man's heart. But
what have you discovered regarding the hat?"

"Confirmation, I am afraid, too strong, of my worst fears," answered
Dr. Wilton; and he related how positively Mrs. Wilson had declared it
to have belonged to Mr. Beauchamp. Measures for investigating this
event also, were immediately taken, and information of the supposed
death, by drowning, of a gentleman lately residing at Emberton, was
given to all the stations on that coast. This new catastrophe, of
course, furnished fresh food to the gossiping propensities of the
people of the town; and the tale, improved by the rich and prolific
imaginations of its inhabitants, was sent forth connected by a
thousand fine and filmy links with the murder of the miser, and the
disappearance of the Delaware family. It instantly appeared in all the
public prints, who, to do them but justice, were far too charitable to
leave it in its original nakedness. Hence it was transferred, with new
scenery, dresses, and decorations, to a broad sheet of very thin
paper, and distributed by a man, with a loud voice, on the
consideration of one halfpenny, to wondering housemaids, and keepers
of chandler's shops, under the taking title of the "Ryebury Tragedy!"
and there is strong reason to believe that it was alone owing to the
temporary difficulties of Mr. ----, of the ---- theater, that Captain
William Delaware was not brought upon the boards, with a knife in his
hand, cutting the throat of the miser, while Henry Beauchamp threw
himself from the rocks into the sea, for love of the murderer's
sister. That this theatrical consummation did not take place is much
to be wondered at; and it is to be hoped that, when the managers are
furnished with all the correct particulars, they will give the public
their version of the matter on every stage from Drury Lane to the very
barn at Emberton itself.

As may be easily supposed, for two country magistrates, Dr. Wilton and
Mr. Egerton had now their hands tolerably full; and consequently, on
separating, they agreed to meet again at Emberton in two days. In the
mean time, the funeral of the murdered man took place, conducted, as
Mr. Peter Tims assured every body, with that attention to economy
which would have been gratifying to the deceased himself, could he
have witnessed it. Nobody could doubt that the nephew had probability
on his side in this respect, though the undertaker grumbled, and the
mercer called him a shabby person. After the interment, Mr. Tims took
possession of the premises and the papers of the deceased; but, for
reasons that may be easily divined, he did not choose to stay in the
dwelling that his uncle had inhabited. Passing the ensuing evening and
night at the inn, he had all the papers removed thither, and continued
in the examination thereof for many an hour, in a room from which even
his own clerk was excluded. Those who saw him afterward, declared that
his countenance was as resplendent as a new sovereign; but he
selfishly kept all his joy to his own bosom; and, after spending
another day in Emberton, he set off post for London, with many a bag
and tin case, to take out letters of administration.




CHAPTER XXVII.


Lord Ashborough left his niece, Maria Beauchamp, and the chief part of
his establishment, in the country; and setting out with but two
servants, arrived in the metropolis late on Saturday night. With that
attention to decorum and propriety which formed a chief point in his
minor policy, he appeared, on the Sunday morning, in the gallery of
St. George's Church, Hanover-square, exactly as the organ sounded, and
with grave and devout face, passed through the next two hours. But let
it not be supposed that the impressive service of the Church of
England, read even in its most impressive manner, occupied his
thoughts, or that even the eloquence of a Hodgson caught his ear and
affected his heart. It was only the flesh-and-blood tenement of Lord
Ashborough that was at church; Lord Ashborough himself, in heart and
in spirit, was in his library in Grosvenor-square, eagerly conversing
with Mr. Peter Tims on the best means of snatching the last spoils of
his enemy, Sir Sidney Delaware. Not that Lord Ashborough did not go to
church with the full and clear purpose of doing his duty; but people's
ideas of doing their duty are so very various, that he thought the
going to church quite enough--without attending.

Now, in spite of risking a _longueur_, we must observe, that there are
some people, who, although they live in great opposition to the
doctrines they hear, nevertheless deserve a certain degree of honor
for going to church, because they persevere in doing so, though the
two hours they spend there are the most tiresome of their whole lives.
Attribute it to resolution, or sense of decency, or what you will,
still some honor is their due; but we are sorry to say that no such
plea could be set up in favor of Lord Ashborough. The two hours that
he spent at church were not tedious; he had the comfortable persuasion
that he was doing his duty, and setting a good example; and, at the
same time, had a fair opportunity of thinking over all his plans and
projects for the ensuing week, without any chance of interruption.
Thus, the time he spent within the holy walls, was a time of calm and
pleasant reflection, and what profit he derived from it, the rest of
his life must show. At all events, there was nothing disagreeable in
it. It was a part of the pomp and parade of existence, and he went
through it all with a degree of equanimity that took away every kind
of merit from the act.

Before he had concluded his breakfast on the Monday morning, a servant
announced that Mr. Peter Tims had been shown into the library; and
thither Lord Ashborough bent his steps, after he had kept the lawyer
waiting long enough to preserve his dignity and show his indifference.

Mr. Peter Tims was seated in the far corner of the library with great
humility, and rose instantly on the peer's entrance, bowing to the
ground. Now, the fact was--and it may need some explanation--that Mr.
Tims found he was growing a great man, in his own estimation, on the
wealth he derived from his uncle. He had just discovered that pride
was beginning to get above avarice in his heart, and he became afraid.
that Lord Ashborough might think he was deviating into too great
familiarity, from feeling a strong inclination in his own bosom to do
so. Such a consummation was, of course, not desirable on many
accounts; and with his usual politic shrewdness, Peter Tims resolved
to assume a far greater degree of humility than he really felt,
and--while by other means he raised himself slowly in the estimation
both of his noble patron and the world in general, suffering his
newly-acquired wealth silently to act with its own weight--and
determined to affect still a tone of ample subserviency till his
objects were fully gained.

In the mean while, Lord Ashborough, who believed that a gulf as wide
as that which yawned in the Forum lay between himself and Peter Tims,
bespoke the lawyer with condescending civility, bade him take a seat
and inquired what news he had brought from Emberton.

Mr. Peter Tims hesitated, and then replied, that the news he brought
was bad, in every respect. "In the first place, my lord, I have not
been able to stop any of the rents, for they had unfortunately been
paid on the day preceding my return to Emberton. In the next place, it
would appear that Sir Sidney Delaware has run away as well as his son;
for he has certainly disappeared, and, notwithstanding every means I
could use, I was not able to discover any trace of him."

He had imagined that Lord Ashborough would have expressed nothing but
disappointment at tidings which threatened to make his views upon the
Emberton estate more vague and difficult of success; but he was
mistaken. The first passion in the peer's breast was revenge. The
picture presented to him was Sidney Delaware flying from his country,
disgraced, ruined, and blighted in mind and body. Memory strode over
three-and-twenty years in an instant, and showed him the same man as
he had then appeared--his successful rival triumphing in his
disappointment. Placing the portrait of the present and the past
together, the peer again tasted the joy of revenge, and mentally ate
his enemy's heart in the market-place. For a moment, avarice gave
place to revenge; but, after all, avarice is the most durable and
permanent of human passions. Like Sinbad's Old Man of the Sea, it gets
upon the back of every thing else that invades its own domain, and
never leaves them till they die of inanition. Ambition sometimes
gorges itself; pride is occasionally brought down; vanity tires, and
love grows cold; but avarice, once possessed of the human heart, may
be driven into the inmost recesses for a moment, but never quits the
citadel, and always, sooner or later, regains the outworks.

"Will this make any difference with regard to our proceedings against
the old man and his son?" demanded the peer, after he had given
revenge its moment, and had suffered avarice to return.

"Not at all, as respects the son!" answered Mr. Tims; "but I am
afraid that, in the father's case, it may occasion some delays. You
see, my lord, not knowing where he is, we can not serve him with
process. In regard to the son, too, you see, my lord, nothing can be
discovered--not the slightest trace. However, I doubt not that we
shall be able to fit him with a law that will secure your lordship the
reversion. But I am afraid, my lord, I have still worse news in store
for you. Grieved I am to be such a croaking raven in your lordship's
ears, and thus to--"

"Do me the favor, then, my good sir," said Lord Ashborough, cutting
across his figures of speech impatiently, "to make your croaking as
brief as possible; and without circumlocution, to tell me what is the
matter."

"I would first ask your lordship," said Mr. Tims, who had a great
opinion of the foolish plan of breaking bad tidings by degrees--"I
would first ask your lordship, if you have lately heard from Mr.
Beauchamp?"

"Oh, is that all?" said Lord Ashborough. "I told you before, and I
tell you again, Mr. Tims, there is no more chance of her marrying
Henry Beauchamp, than there is of my marrying my walking-stick."

"But it is not that, my lord!" cried Mr. Tims. "It is not that at all!
I am afraid Mr. Beauchamp is drowned!"

Lord Ashborough started from his chair, pale and aghast, with a
complication of painful feelings which Mr. Tims had little thought
could be excited by the death of any living thing. But the lawyer made
the common mistake of generalizing too broadly. He had fancied that
his patron was calmly callous to every thing but what immediately
affected himself, and he was mistaken; for it is improbable that there
ever was a man whose heart, if we could have traced all its secret
chambers and intricate windings, did not somewhere contain a store,
however small, of gentle feelings and affections. Lord Ashborough
loved his nephew, though probably Henry Beauchamp was the only human
being he did sincerely love. In him all the better affections of his
heart had centered.

Lord Ashborough had also loved his brother, Beauchamp's father; and,
in early life, when the heart is soft, he had done him many a
kindness, which--as they were, perhaps, the only truly generous
actions of his life--made him love his brother still more, as the
object that had excited them. Neither, in the whole course of their
lives did there occur one unfortunate point of rivalry between them;
and Mr. Beauchamp, or rather Governor Beauchamp, as he was at last
generally called, felt so deeply the various acts of friendship which
his brother had shown to him, and him alone, in all the world, that he
took the best way of expressing hie gratitude, namely, by making Lord
Ashborough on all occasions appear to advantage, giving way to his
pride, putting the most favorable construction on his actions, and
never opposing him in words, however differently he might shape his
own conduct. Thus the love of his brother remained unshaken and
increasing, till the last day of Governor Beauchamp's life; and at his
death it was transferred to his son, rendered indeed more tender, but
not decreased, by regret for the father, and by the softening power of
memory.

It is sad to think that any less noble feelings should have mingled
with these purer affections, even though they might tend to increase
the intensity of his affection for Henry Beauchamp. It would be far
more grateful to the mind to let this redeeming point stand out
resplendent in the character of the peer; but we are telling truth,
and it must not be. The shadow, however, perhaps, is a slight one; but
it was pride of two kinds that gave the full height to Lord
Ashborough's love for Beauchamp. In the first place, to his titles and
estates there was no other heir than Henry Beauchamp. There was not
even any collateral line of male descent, which could have perpetuated
the earldom, if his nephew had been removed. Henry Beauchamp dead, and
the peer saw himself the last Lord Ashborough. In him, therefore, had
centered all the many vague, and, we might almost call them,
_mysterious_, feelings of interest with which we regard the being
destined to carry on our race and name into the long futurity. Family
pride, then, tended to increase the earl's affection for his nephew;
but there was pride also of another kind concerned. Lord Ashborough
admired Henry Beauchamp as well as loved him; and, strange to say,
admired him, not only for the qualities which they possessed in
common, but for the qualities which his nephew possessed, and which he
himself did not. They were both good horsemen, and Lord Ashborough had
been in his youth, like Henry Beauchamp, skilled in all manly
exercises, had been elegant in his manners, and graceful in his
person; but light wit, a fertile imagination, a generous disposition,
were qualities that the earl had never possessed; and yet he was
gratified beyond measure that his nephew did possess them, delighted
in the admiration they called upon him, and was proud of the heir to
his fortune and his name.

All these facts had been overlooked by Mr. Tims, whose mind, though of
the same kind of web as that of his patron, was of a grosser texture;
and not a little was he surprised and frightened when he beheld the
effect which his abrupt tidings produced upon the earl.

Lord Ashborough turned deadly pale, and, staggering up, rang the bell
violently. Mr. Tims would have spoken, but the earl waved his hand for
him to be silent: and when the servant appeared, exclaimed, "The drops
out of my dressing-room! Quick!"

The man disappeared, but returned in a moment with vial and glass; and
pouring out a few drops, Lord Ashborough swallowed them hastily; and
then, leaning his head upon his hand, paused for a minute or two,
while the servant stood silent beside him, and the lawyer gazed upon
him in horror and astonishment. In a short time the peer's color
returned; and, giving a nod to the servant, who was evidently not
unaccustomed to scenes somewhat similar, he said, "You may go!"

"Now, Mr. Tims," he continued, when the door was once more closed,
"what were you telling me? But first, let me say you should be more
cautious in making such communications. Do you not know that I am
subject to spasms of the heart, which are always brought on by any
sudden affection of the mind!"

Mr. Tims apologized, and declared his ignorance, and vowed he would
not have done such a thing for the world, _et cetera_; but Lord
Ashborough soon stopped him, and demanded, with some impatience, what
had given rise to the apprehension he had expressed. The lawyer, then,
with circumlocution, if not with delicacy, proceeded to state the
rumors that he had heard at Emberton, which had been confirmed to him
by Mrs. Wilson, namely, that Mr. Beauchamp's hat had been washed on
shore on the sea-side not far from that place. He had found it his
duty, he said, to make inquiries, especially as the good landlady had
declared that the young gentleman had appeared very melancholy and
"out of sorts" on the day he left her. No other part of Mr.
Beauchamp's apparel had been found except a glove, which was picked up
on the road leading from Emberton to a little fishing village, not far
off.

"There is one sad fact, my lord, however," continued the lawyer,
"which gives me great apprehension. I, myself, in the course of my
inquiries, discovered Mr. Beauchamp's beautiful hunter, Martindale, in
the hands of a poor pot-house keeper, in the village about three
miles, or not so much, from Emberton. This man and his servants were
the last persons who saw your nephew. He came there, it appears, late
one evening on horseback, asked they had a good dry stable, put up his
horse, saw it properly attended to, and then walked out, looking very
grave and disconsolate, the man said. I found that this person knew
the horse's name; and, when I asked him how he had learned it, for he
did not know Mr. Beauchamp at all, he said that the gentleman, just
before he went, had patted the horse's neck, and said, 'My poor
Martindale! I must take care of you, however.'"

Lord Ashborough listened with a quivering lip and haggard eye, as Mr.
Tims proceeded with his tale. "Have you been at his house?" he
demanded, as the other concluded.

"I went there the first thing this morning, my lord," replied Mr.
Tims; "but I am very sorry to say, none of his servants know any thing
whatever in regard to him. They all say they have been expecting him
in town every day for the last week."

Lord Ashborough again rang the bell.--"Order horses to the carriage
immediately!" he said, when the servant appeared; "and go on to
Marlborough-street with my compliments to Sir George F----, and a
request that he would send me an experienced officer, who can go down
with me into the country directly. Mr. Tims, I must inquire into this
business myself. I leave you here behind to take every measure that is
necessary; but, above all things, remember that you have ten thousand
pounds to pay into the hands of poor Beauchamp's agents. Do not fail
to do it in the course of to-day; and explain to them that the
business of the bill was entirely owing to forgetfulness. Let all the
expenses be paid, and clear away that business at once. I am almost
sorry that it was ever done."

"And about Sir Sidney Delaware, my lord?" said Mr. Tims. "What--"

"Proceed against him instantly!" interrupted the peer, setting his
teeth firm, "Proceed against him instantly, by every means, and all
means! The same with his son! Leave not a stone unturned to bring him
to justice, or punish him for contumacy. If it had not been for those
two villains, and their damned intrigues, this would not have happened
to poor Henry!"

Thus do men deceive themselves; and thus those things that, would they
listen to conscience instead of desire, might become warnings and
reproofs, they turn to apologies for committing fresh wrongs, and fuel
to feed the fire of their passions into a blaze. The observation may
be common-place, but it is true; and let the man who does not do so,
call it trite, if he will--no one else has a right.

It was evident that the earl was in no placable mood; and Mr. Tims,
though he had much yet to speak of, and many a plan to propose, in
order to overcome those legal difficulties to the design he had
suggested, which were now springing up rapidly to his mind, yet
thought it expedient to put off the discussion of the whole till his
noble patron was in a more fitting humor, not a little apprehensive
that, if he touched upon the matter at present, the earl's anger might
turn upon himself, for discovering obstacles in a path which he had
formerly represented as smooth and easy. He therefore contented
himself with asking a few more directions; and leaving Lord
Ashborough, proceeded straight to Doctors' Commons to make the
necessary arrangements concerning his uncle's property. That done, he
visited the Stamp-office; his business there being of no small
consequence to himself. It was neither more nor less than to cause a
paper to be stamped, which he had found among other documents
belonging to his uncle, which acknowledged the receipt of the sum of
ten thousand pounds from Mr. Tims, of Ryebury, and was signed by Henry
Beauchamp.

Considerable difficulties were offered at the Stamp-office to the
immediate legalization of this paper; but Mr. Tims was so completely
aware of every legal point, and through Lord Ashborough's business,
was so well known at the office, that it was at length completed, and
he turned his steps toward the house of Messrs. Steelyard and
Wilkinson, who had lately become the law-agents of Henry Beauchamp.
Before he had gone above half a mile on the road thither, he pulled
the check-string of the hackney-coach in which he was seated, and bade
the man drive to Clement's Inn. This was immediately done; and Mr.
Tims entered his chambers, and retired into its utmost recesses, to
pause upon and consider the step that he had just been about to take.

This was no other than to wait upon Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson,
and tender them Mr. Beauchamp's stamped acknowledgment of the receipt
of ten thousand pounds from his uncle, in discharge of the ten
thousand pounds which he had been directed to pay by Lord Ashborough,
appropriating to himself, as his uncle's heir, the money which was
thus left in his hands. The matter was susceptible of various points
of view; for, though the law does not recognize the principle of any
man helping himself in such a manner, yet we are informed by those who
know better than ourselves, that it is very difficult, under many
circumstances, to prevent him from doing so. There was one point,
however, which greatly incommoded Mr. Tims--namely, that the
acknowledgment in Mr. Beauchamp's hand was dated on the very day of
the Ryebury murder, and thereby offered a strong presumption, that the
money had really been placed in Captain Delaware's chamber by his
cousin. Many important consequences might ensue, should Mr. Beauchamp
reappear, and declare such to have been the fact; and although Mr.
Tims sincerely hoped and trusted that he was at the bottom of the sea,
yet, as it might happen that he was not, the lawyer, with laudable
precaution sat down to state to himself the results which would take
place, in each of the two cases, if he were now to present his
acknowledgment.

He found, therefore, that should Mr. Beauchamp never be heard of more,
the case would go on against Captain Delaware, the suit in Chancery
might proceed against Sir Sidney Delaware, the twenty-five thousand
pounds he had got would remain in his hands, and, by presenting the
acknowledgment, he would be enabled to retain possession of ten
thousand pounds more. All this, therefore, was in favor of acting as
he had determined.

On the other hand, if Mr. Beauchamp did reappear--which he did not
think likely--he began to suspect that Captain Delaware would be
cleared, that the twenty-five thousand pounds would be transferred to
Lord Ashborough, that the Emberton estate would be freed from all
incumbrance, and that he would undoubtedly lose the twelve thousand
pounds which had been stolen from his uncle, as well as Lord
Ashborough's favor and business. "The more reason," he thought, "why I
should immediately get this money, which undoubtedly did belong to my
uncle! But, can I then continue the process against Captain Delaware,"
he continued, "with such a strong presumption of his innocence in my
own hands?"--and he looked at the note, which nearly amounted to
positive proof--"But what have I to do with that? It does not
absolutely prove his innocence. The coroner's inquest has returned its
verdict, and the law must take its course; besides, Henry Beauchamp is
at the bottom of the sea, and a jury of fishes sitting on his own body
by this time--Pshaw! I will present the acknowledgment to-morrow."

This doughty resolution Mr. Tims accordingly fulfilled, and at noon
waited in person on Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson. He was shown into
the private room of the latter, a seat was placed for him, and his
business was asked.

"Why, Mr. Wilkinson," he replied, "I have first to explain to you an
uncommonly awkward blunder, which took place by some forgetfulness on
the part of my noble friend and client, the Earl of Ashborough, who,
not adverting to the arrangements made between us, did not leave
assets in my office to pay the bill drawn by you on Mr. Beauchamp's
account. Had I been in town myself," he added feeling wealthy, "of
course I would have supplied the money; but I, like my noble friend
and client, was out of town till yesterday."

"Rather unfortunate, indeed, Mr. Tims!" replied Mr. Wilkinson, dryly,
"especially as Mr. Beauchamp drew for the money. His letter was
couched in such terms as to permit of our handing over the assets that
were in our hands; but we can not tell that he has not been put to
great inconvenience. Lord Ashborough's note was of course
protested--here it is! I hope you have come to retire it."

"I am directed by my Lord Ashborough to do so," answered the lawyer;
"but I rather imagine that Mr. Beauchamp could not be put to much
inconvenience; for I find by this document that he has obtained that
sum, and four hundred and thirty-two pounds more, from my late
unfortunate uncle, to whose property I have taken out letters of
administration, and therefore, retaining the ten thousand pounds now
in hand, I request you would hand me over the four hundred and
thirty-two pounds at your convenience, when I will give you a receipt
in full."

"Sir, this is somewhat unprecedented," replied Mr. Wilkinson, "and I
think you will find that money can not thus be stopped, _in transit_,
without form of law. Such proceedings, if once admitted, would open a
door to the most scandalous abuses. You acknowledge that you are
commissioned to pay us this money, on account of Lord Ashborough.
Having done so, you will have every right to present your claim
against Mr. Beauchamp, which will of course, be immediately examined
and attended to."

Mr. Tims replied, and Mr. Wilkinson rejoined; but as it is more than
probable that the reader may already have heard more than he desires
of such a discussion, it will be unnecessary to say more than that Mr.
Tims adhered to his first resolution, and carried off the sum he had
in hand, leaving Mr. Wilkinson to send down to Lord Ashborough his
protested bill, and Beauchamp's note of hand, if he pleased.

In the mean time, that noble lord proceeded, as fast as a light
chariot and good horses could carry him, down to Emberton. It was
dark, however, ere he arrived; and the first object that met his sight
the following morning, as he looked forth from the windows of the inn,
was the old mansion, at the end of its wide and solitary park, with
the stream flowing calmly on, through the midst of the brown grass and
antique trees, and the swans floating upon its bosom in the early
light. He had not seen it since he was a mere youth, and the finger of
time had written that sad word _decay_ on the whole aspect of the
place. To the earl, through whose whole frame the same chilly hand had
spread the growing stiffness of age, the sight was awfully sad, of the
place where he had spent the most elastic days of life, and it was
long ere he could withdraw his eyes, as he paused and contemplated
every feature of the scene, and woke a thousand memories that had long
slept in the night of the past.

There was a change over all he saw since last he had beheld it--a
gloom, a desolation, a darkness; and he felt, too, that there was a
change as great in himself. But there was something more in his
thoughts; the decay in his own frame was greater, more rapid, more
irremediable. The scene might flourish again under some cultivating
hand; the mansion, repaired with care, and ornamented with taste,
might assume a brighter aspect, but nothing could restore life's
freshness or the body's strength to him. Each day that passed must see
some farther progress in the downfall of his powers; and few, few
brief months and years would behold him in the earth, without leaving
a being behind him to carry on his lineage into time, if Henry
Beauchamp were, indeed, as his fears anticipated. It was the first
time that he had thought in such a sort for long; and most unfortunate
was it that there was no voice, either in his own heart, or from
without, to point the moral at the moment, and to lead the vague ideas
excited, of life, and death, and immortality, to their just
conclusion. He thought of death and of his own decay, indeed; but he
never thought of using better the life that still remained--for he
scarcely knew that he had used the past amiss; and after indulging for
some minutes those meditations that will at times have way, he found
that they only served to make him melancholy, and turned again to the
every-day round of life.

When he was dressed and had breakfasted, he set out for the small
village near which Henry Beauchamp's hat had been found. In his way,
he stopped also at the house where the hunter had been left,
identified the horse, and listened attentively to the replies which
the landlord and his servants made to the shrewd questions of an
officer he brought with him from London.

The man's tale was very simple, and quite the same that he had given
to Mr. Tims. He described Henry Beauchamp very exactly, declared that
he had appeared grave and melancholy when he came there, and that he
had never heard any thing of him since. The servants told the same
story; and Lord Ashborough only acquired an additional degree of
gloom, from ascertaining in person the accuracy of the lawyer's
report.

"Oh, he is gone!" he thought, as he returned to his carriage, giving
way to despair in regard to his nephew. "He is gone! This Sidney
Delaware is destined to be the blight of all my hopes and
expectations. If it had not been for his vile intrigues to get quit of
that annuity, all this never would have happened; but I will make him
rue it, should it cost me half my fortune."

It may be asked, whether the earl did never for a moment allow the
remembrance, that his own intrigues might have something to do with
the business, to cross his mind. Perhaps he did--perhaps, indeed, he
could not prevent such thoughts from intruding. But that made him only
the more bitter against Sir Sidney Delaware. Have you never remarked a
nurse, when a child has fallen down and hurt itself, bid it beat the
naughty ground against which it fell? Have you never seen a boy when
he has cut his finger, throw the knife out of the window, or even a
man curse the instrument that he has used clumsily? It is the first
impulse of pampered human nature, to attribute the pangs we suffer to
any thing but our own errors, and to revenge the pain, which we have
inflicted on ourselves, upon the passive instrument. Lord Ashborough
did no more, although, as he rolled on toward the sea-side, he
meditated every sort of evil against Sir Sidney Delaware.

No great information could be obtained upon the coast, although Lord
Ashborough spent the whole day in fruitless inquiries, and although
one of the officers of the coast-guard gave every assistance, with the
keen and active intelligence of a sailor.

The only thing elicited, which seemed to bear at all upon the fate of
Henry Burrel, was the fact, that one of the sailors, on the look-out
about a week before, had heard, or fancied he heard, a man's voice
calling loudly for help. So convinced had he been himself of the fact,
that, with one of his comrades, he ran down the shore in the direction
of the sounds; but he could discover nothing. It was a fine clear
moonlight night, he said, so that he must have seen any thing if there
had been any thing to see; but the sound only continued a moment, and
on not finding any person, he had concluded that it was all the work
of fancy.

With these scanty tidings, which, of course, only served to increase
his apprehensions, Lord Ashborough was obliged to be satisfied for the
time; and, returning to the inn at Emberton, he gave orders for
printing placards, and inserting advertisements in the newspapers,
each purporting that a large reward would be paid on the discovery of
the body of a gentleman, supposed to be drowned, of whom a very
accurate description was subjoined. The placards were pasted up all
over the country, and Lord Ashborough himself remained two days at
Emberton; but there was something in the aspect of the old mansion and
the park that was painful to him. When he rose, there it was before
his eyes; when he went out, there it stood, grave and gray, apparently
in his very path; when he returned, he found it still sad and gloomy
at his door. At length, satisfied that he had done all in his power to
discover his nephew, he returned to town, leaving the police-officer
behind him, with orders to spare neither trouble nor expense to
ascertain the facts; and although the earl himself did not choose to
appear openly in the business of Captain Delaware, a private hint was
conveyed to the officer through his lordship's valet, that, to aid the
others who were upon the search, might be very advantageous to
himself.




CHAPTER XXVIII.


I do most sincerely believe, that the very best way to get all the
characters of this book out of their manifold difficulties, would be,
to end the work at the close of the preceding chapter, and leave the
world to settle it, as it liked. However, as the great object is to
make known the truth, and as the chances are infinite, that no single
individual of the millions who intend to read this book would by the
utmost exertion of their imagination, discover what the truth is, it
may be necessary to go on, and explain what has become of some at
least of the characters which have slipped off the stage Heaven knows
where--especially as they have each much to do, and to suffer, before
they "sleep the sleep that knows no waking."

The great advantage of autobiography is, that a man never troubles his
head about other people's affairs, but goes on with his own tale till
he has done with it; whereas the unfortunate wretch who undertakes to
tell the history of a number of other people, has no better life of it
than a whipper-in, and is obliged to be continually trotting up and
down, flogging up his straggling characters to a pace with the rest.
The reader, too, may get his brains most tremendously puzzled in the
mean time. But what can he do? If people will not write their own
stories, other people must write them for them, and the work must go
on as best it may. Under these circumstances, we must request the
gentle reader to bring back his mind, or his eyes, to the end of the
seventeenth chapter since which precise point we have neglected
entirely the history of Henry Beauchamp. However, amends shall
immediately be made to that gentleman, and he shall have the remainder
of this chapter to himself.

Let it be remembered, then, that he set out from the dwelling of the
miser at Ryebury, promising that punctilious person to return, and
sign at once the more formal and regular documents, for which the
necessary stamps were still to be procured from Emberton, that he
passed William Delaware on his road, concealing himself from him as he
did so; and the reader, if he be so pleased, may dip his hand into the
wallet of imagination, and take out his own particular little scheme,
for leaving the money with which Beauchamp was burdened, in the
chamber of--Blanche Delaware's brother.

Those three last words may seem periphrastic; but if the reader thinks
they are so, he makes a mistake; for at that moment, it was not in the
least as Captain William Delaware, a master and commander in his
majesty's navy, nor as the son of Sir Sidney Delaware of Emberton,
baronet, nor in any other quality, shape, or capacity of any kind
whatsoever, that Henry Beauchamp regarded him; but solely and wholly
in relation to Blanche Delaware--or, in short, as the brother of her
he loved. When he avoided him, it was because she has rejected
his--Beauchamp's offered hand; when he placed the money on the table
at Emberton, it was, that the clouds which had so long obscured the
sunshine of her days, might be scattered forever; and Henry Beauchamp
could no more think of William Delaware, without the connecting link
that bound him to his sister, than one can think of the planetary
system without the sun.

When it was all done, however, and, having regained the shade of the
park trees, Henry Beauchamp was strolling on, slow and sad, toward
Ryebury, he bethought him of what was next to be done, as a
consequence of the very things that were just accomplished. Let it be
remarked that this was the first time he had thought of what was to
follow; for the hurry and confusion of the whole day, which had just
passed over his head, had left him no time for reflection, even had he
been inclined to indulge in it; and the bitter disappointment he had
suffered had given him no great taste for thought of any kind. All he
had calculated, was the best means of arriving at his immediate
object; and farther than that, he had satisfied himself with the grand
conscience-salve for all mad enterprises--

"He dared to say, all would go right!"

Now, however, when he began to consider the matter, it presented more
difficulties than he had before perceived. He was quite romantic
enough and wealthy enough to have given the money to his cousins, with
pleasure in the gift, and without inconvenience from the consequences;
but, from the delicacy of feeling natural to his own heart, he
perfectly understood that neither Sir Sidney Delaware, nor any of his
family, would be willing to receive such a sum from any one as a
donation--especially from him, circumstanced as he was in regard to
Miss Delaware. Disgusted and wearied with the delays and shuffling of
the miser, and suspecting that his worthy uncle, Lord Ashborough,
might have some share in producing the impediments, he had determined
to put it out of the power of any one to prevent the payment, and
consequently had acted as we have seen; but now, that he had done so,
he found that it would be in no degree easy to give the matter the air
of an ordinary transaction.

People who have met with few difficulties in their undertakings, soon
teach themselves to trust the execution of any thing they themselves
find troublesome, to others, and look upon their carrying it through
easily as a matter of course; and as Beauchamp, though not in general
given to _insouciance_, was just then in a state of mental irritation
and impatience, which rendered long reflection of any kind irksome to
him, he determined to throw the burden of the business upon the
shoulders of the miser. "I will tell him," he thought, "to write a
note to William Delaware, the first thing tomorrow, informing him that
he has sent the money by a friend to-night, and is ready to execute
the legal documents in regard to the whole transaction." Having so far
made his arrangements in his own mind, he walked on slowly, beginning
to feel somewhat weary with his day's exertion; and, as he did
so--every other subject which could force his thoughts from the most
painful object they could choose being lost for the time--memory
naturally led him back to dream of Blanche Delaware, and her strange
and unaccountable conduct toward himself. That he loved her as deeply
and as sincerely as man could love woman, he now felt but too
painfully; but, notwithstanding good Mrs. Wilson's sentimental
anticipations of his antique Roman impatience of existence, Beauchamp
was the last man on earth to drown himself under any circumstances
whatever. Not that he did not feel that the gloss and splendor was, to
him, gone from the earth forever--not that he did not feel that his
love would endure to his last hour, mingling the poison drop of
disappointment through all the cup of life--not that wounded pride,
and broken hopes, and rebuked self-confidence, and all that can
embitter man's feelings, were not poured like gall and wormwood into
his heart--but, somehow, he had acquired a strange notion, that to lay
hands upon one's own life was not only immoral and unchristian, but
was also cowardly and stupid--the act of a madman, a lout, or a
barbarian. He had never been one of those men that particularly value
life; and certainly he felt that, at the present moment, if any one
had been inclined to take it from him, it was a sort of commodity he
could part with without great regret. Yet, at the same time, even in
that case, he would probably have defended it as a matter of course;
and, as to throwing it away by his voluntary act, such a thing never
entered his mind.

His thoughts, however, in regard to Blanche Delaware were, as we have
said, bitter enough. He loved her deeply--with a first, pure,
steadfast and yet passionate affection. His heart--so long
guarded--had poured on upon her all its stored enthusiasm and
repressed tenderness; and in the full and confident belief that his
attachment was returned, hope had seduced him into every one of those
waking visions which are so bright to dream and so agonizing to lose.
He had certainly believed that he was loved in return; and the
dissolution of that belief was the most painful part of all. Yet
Beauchamp was both too proud and too just to suppose that he had been
trifled with; or to imagine that a woman, on whom he could have so
fixed his heart, would have been guilty of such petty coquetry. He
rather chose to blame his own vanity; to admit that Blanche Delaware
had been, perhaps a little thoughtless; but that he had been far too
confident.

Thus thinking, he walked on toward Ryebury, deviating slightly from
the way, in order that he might not meet William Delaware on his
return, and mingling vague, wild schemes for the future, with the
bitter memories and regrets of the past. He would visit Greece, he
thought--perhaps cross over the narrow strait, and wander through
Syria and Judea, or penetrate into Armenia, and pause for a while
among the tribes whose patriarchal habits have been so beautifully
depicted by Morier's entertaining pen, or even travel forward into
India itself, and watch the slow customs of Europe forcing their way
amidst the immemorial habits of the Hindoo. He would do any thing, in
short, for amusement--and forgetfulness.

When he at length approached the door of Mr. Tims's house, the moon
had sunk considerably, though she had still some hours to shine; and
pouring her beams from the side, with the slightest possible angle of
declination toward the back of the house, her light fell full upon the
two steps that led up to the door, without lighting the door itself.
Beauchamp thought he heard a noise in the passage as he approached;
but with his usual indifference, certainly not decreased either by
fatigue or grief, he walked on with the same slow pace in which he had
before been proceeding, and was just in the act of laying his hand
upon the bell, when the door was suddenly and unexpectedly thrown
open. The faint outline of three men standing in the dim darkness of
the passage was all that Beauchamp could perceive; but the moonlight
poured full upon his own figure as he stood alone upon the steps. So
unlooked-for a sight in the house of Mr. Tims caused him to pause in
some surprise; and he had no time to recover from it; for before he
could ask any question or form any conjecture, he received a violent
blow from some heavy instrument on the head, which instantly felled
him to the ground, completely stunned and motionless.

How long he continued in that state, Beauchamp could hardly tell; but
when he again recovered his consciousness, he found himself lying
extended upon some planks, with a stiff and numb sensation over all
his limbs, a violent headache, and extreme pain in his ankle, while a
rippling sound and buoyant undulating motion seemed to show that he
was in a boat upon the water. For the first moment he could not verify
this supposition by sight, as he seemed to have been cast carelessly
into the boat, and his hat was driven so far over his brows as to
prevent him from seeing any thing around.

Before he was well aware of what he was doing, he started up, pushing
back the covering from his eyes; but, as he did so, his unsteady
footing in the boat, together with the violent pain in his ankle, made
him lose his balance, and very nearly fall over into the sea, which
received his hat as he fell, and bore it far away in a moment.

With an involuntary groan from the pain he suffered, Beauchamp
relapsed into his former position; but the single instant he had been
able to stand up had shown him sufficient to make him comprehend in a
great degree his immediate situation. The moon, he had remarked, just
about to dip below the horizon, was pouring a long, long line of
yellow light over the waves that rippling away in the far perspective,
seemed like living things of gold, dancing joyfully in the beams,
while over all the rest of the expanse was to be seen nothing else but
the dark mass of agitated waters heaving up and down with a dull but
solemn sound. He had just caught a glimpse, too, of a faint line of
high coast stretching away to the northwest, and consequently catching
upon its most prominent points the beams of the setting moon, while
all the rest remained in dim gray shadow. Such had been the more
distant objects that Beauchamp had beheld. Those more immediately
around him were the small open boat in which he was borne along, and
four figures that it contained. Of these--one of which was that of a
woman--two appeared to be death-sick, and the other two sat clove
beside each other in silence at the stern of the boat. One was
steering, the other gazing fixedly over the side upon the flashing
waters; but the movement of Beauchamp instantly called the eyes of
both, though neither made any observation even when he fell back again
upon the planks. After he had lain there for a moment or two more,
however, the one who was unoccupied whispered something to the
steersman. The other made no reply, and the whisper was repeated. The
steersman then broke forth with a fearful oath, adding, "If you offer
to touch a hair of his head, I will heave you overboard, and send you
to hell an hour before your time!"

His companion muttered something which Beauchamp did not hear, and the
sailor again replied in the same angry tone, "Come, come, rouse out
none of your slack jaw at me, or blast me if I do not show you who
commands here. You have got your way with me once to-night to my own
damnation, but you shall not do it again!"

Here the matter dropped, and all was silent but the ripple of the
waters. Half an hour more elapsed without a word being spoken; and
though Beauchamp felt very giddy and confused, he endeavored to think
over the circumstances in which he was placed, and form some plan for
his demeanor toward those by whom he was surrounded.

Although he had very few facts to lead him to such a conclusion, yet
something more than a suspicion of the truth crossed his mind. The
peculiar whistling he had heard, both in going to and coming from
Ryebury, joined with the appearance of the three men in the passage of
the miser's house at that time of night--the assault upon himself, and
his situation at the very moment--all made him conclude that a bold
and extensive robbery had been committed, and that he had been carried
away from an apprehension that he might give the alarm, and lead to
the detection of the robbers.

He suspected, also, that it might be a matter of doubt in the bosom of
the man who sat by the steersman, whether it would not be best to
dispose of such an evidence against them, as he himself might prove,
by throwing him into the sea; and the answer of the other showed him
that, at all events, there was one of the party averse to such a mode
of proceeding.

From all this he concluded, that as he himself could offer little or
no resistance to whatever his companions chose to do with him, it
would be much better to keep himself as quiet as possible, and to take
no apparent notice of any thing that was passing around him. Whether
such might have been his determination had he felt well, and in the
full use of all his limbs, may be doubtful; but the aching of his head
was intense and stupefying, and from the sensation which he
experienced in his ankle, he felt sure that one, at least, of the
bones had been dislocated in throwing him into the boat. These sort of
little corporalities are apt to make a man excessively quiescent; and
Beauchamp, though in general not liking particularly to be treated as
a portmanteau, at least without asking the reason why, being now
convinced that, however much he might express his volition, he could
do no more toward executing it than a trunk itself, determined wisely
to keep silence, also, and not even to move, any more than the pain he
suffered impelled him to do, for the mere sake of changing his
position.

His companions remained silent for near an hour, and the only words
which then broke the stillness were spoken by the steersman, who
seemed to be the only seaman of the party. "If she be not under the
lee of Jerry's Knocker, we must run for Old Willy Small's, that's all.
We are sure enough with him, and to-morrow we can get another boat,
and so across."

The other made no reply, and very likely did not understand clearly
what his companion meant. Beauchamp, however, who had in his youth
frequented that part of the country, and, as the reader may have
perceived, had forgotten but little of the localities, instantly
remembered that a long promontory, jutting out from the rest of the
coast, and having a calm sheltered bay to the eastward, bore
throughout the country the name of Jerry's Knocker; and he was led to
conclude, from the rest of the sentence, that the respectable people
into whose hands he had fallen were looking out for some smuggling
vessel to carry them to France.

It very speedily became evident that whatever they were seeking was
not to be found. The sea began soon to run high off the headland, and
shortly after grew far calmer than before, leading Beauchamp to
imagine--though he could see nothing around--that they had doubled the
point; but the word's, "She's weighed by--," at once showed that the
vessel was gone; and the steersman, who had been anxiously looking
out, resumed his seat, and brought his boat a point nearer to the
wind.

In about half an hour afterward the pitching of the boat ceased almost
entirely, and it was clear she was entering smooth water; while a
warning to be quiet, given somewhat sharply by the steersman to one of
the sea-sick personages, who was now inclined to speak, showed that
they were approaching some spot where other ears might be on the
watch. The thought passed through Beauchamp's mind to try the strength
of his lungs; and, had he been sure that there was any one within
hearing, it is more than probable he would have done so, as he felt
not a little cramped and uncomfortable on the planks of the boat.
However, not being sure that any one would or could come to his aid if
he were to halloo till he grew hoarse, and that the attempt might only
procure him a speedy passage into the sea, he adhered to his former
plan, and, in a moment after, with a gentle rush and a slight shock,
the boat touched the land.

"Run up to yonder light," said the steersman, in a low voice, "tell
the old man that I am here, and bid him come down and lend a hand."

"Why don't you go yourself?" asked the other, in the same whispered
tone. "He doesn't know any of us."

"Because I do not choose," answered the other; and the person to whom
he spoke at once obeyed. Ere two minutes had elapsed, a considerable
addition was made to their party, and the steersman himself, now
springing ashore, held a low consultation with those who joined them.
The other man and the woman, whom Beauchamp had observed, were next
taken out of the boat, and in a moment after a stout old man jumped
in, and stirred him by the shoulder. "Come, master!" he said, "you
must get out, and come along with us--though you seem to take things
vastly quiet."

"I suppose it is the best thing I can do," replied Beauchamp. "But if
you want me out, you must carry me out, my good fellow, for they have
lamed me, and I can not stand."

"That's a bad job!" replied the other, speaking in a rough but kindly
tone. "Wat will be sorry for that; for they did not intend to hurt
you, I can tell you."

"Perhaps not," said Beauchamp; "though knocking me down, and stunning
me on the spot, were not very unlikely to hurt me."

"Ay, but if a man will poke his nose into what he has no business
with, master," replied the other, "he must take what he gets."

"Very true!" answered Beauchamp, dryly, though somewhat surprised at
the fellow's coolness. "Very true, indeed! But it was purely
accidental on my part. I had not the slightest intention of intruding
upon the gentlemen in the pursuit of their avocations. But, as I said
before, if you mean me to get out of this boat--and I am heartily
tired of it--you must carry me; for I can only stand upon one leg, and
the ground is somewhat uneven."

"True enough, true enough!" answered the man. "Here, Bill, lend us a
hand to lift the lad out of the boat. They have broke his leg among
them. It will teach you, master, to keep out of the way when there is
any thing to be run upon the coast. Always sheer off when you see
what's going on. But we will get it spliced for you, never fear. Here,
Bill, I say!"

A youth of about seventeen or eighteen now came up and helped his
father, as it proved the old man was, to lift the stranger on shore.
Beauchamp then, with the assistance of the elder personage, made his
way from the little sandy cove into which the boat had been run, to a
lonely house, standing high upon the bank, with two boats drawn up,
nearly to the door, and about a square yard of cabbage-garden at the
back. The old smuggler, for such he evidently was, led his unwilling
guest in, and was about to conduct him into a room, the door of which
opened at a right angle with that which entered from the shore.
Various signs and symbols, however, within the chamber, made the man
pause ere he went in; and at length he exclaimed, as he still stood in
the entrance--"Well, well! But give us a candle, though! How the devil
can one see up the stairs? It's as dark as Davy's locker!"

Beauchamp made as much use of his eyes as possible; but it was in vain
that he did so, for the persons that the room contained were concealed
from his sight by the half-closed door; and all that he could
distinguish was a part of the common interior of the fisherman's
kitchen--a large chest, a deal table, a wide fireplace, and two
shelves covered with clean blue-edged plates and porringers, together
with a vial bottle, half-full of ink, and having a pen stuck in the
top of it, pendent by a bit of string from the corner of one of the
shelves.

A moment after, a clean, little, well-salted fisherman's wife, emerged
from behind the door, with a brazen candlestick, and three inches of
lighted candle in her hand; and Beauchamp, conducted up stairs with no
inconsiderable agony, was ushered into a small bed-room (of which
there appeared to be four, by the way), which amidst all its faults
and deficiencies, was at least clean.

As they went up the stairs, and for a moment after they entered the
room, the eyes of the smuggler continued to run over his guest's
apparel and face with a look of surprise, and even anxiety, which
increased at every glance; and when he had done, there was a change in
his whole demeanor which might have made Beauchamp smile at any other
time, or under any other circumstances. He now, however, threw himself
down in a chair, exhausted with the pain his exertion had caused him,
and was about to demand that a surgeon should be sent for, when the
old man, setting down the candle on the table, told him, with a tone
of respectful civility, that he would return in a moment, and left
him.

"Lock the door," shouted a voice from below, as the smuggler quitted
the room. The door accordingly was locked; and Beauchamp, left alone,
before he proceeded to think over his present situation, according to
his usual deliberate custom, set to work to get his boot off, and see
what was really the state of his ankle.

His leg, however, was so much swelled, that all ordinary efforts were
in vain, although he never committed that piece of exuberant impolicy,
the wearing of a tight boot. As soon as he discovered this to be the
case, he took his penknife from his pocket, and at once relieved his
foot and leg from their leathern prison. He was then about to proceed
in his examination, when steps coming from below interrupted him: but
another door was opened, and in a moment after he heard the voice of
the old smuggler, and that of the man who had steered the boat,
conversing together somewhat eagerly. At first, as usual, there was a
guard upon their tongues, and all that reached his ear was a sort of
hum; but soon the caution wore away; they spoke loud, and Beauchamp,
without the desire or capability of moving from the chair in which he
had first sat down, heard distinctly the greater part of all that
passed.

"Well, well, Wat!" said the voice of the old man, "D--me, if I'm a man
to leave a poor boy in a pinch! We must just get the cutter run down;
but she can not be here, you know, till to-morrow night, any how. It
must be a bad job though, that makes you so wild to get to France, my
boy."

"A bad job enough! a bad job enough!" answered a voice that Beauchamp
now remembered full well. "But mark ye, William Small, when you hear
it all told--mark ye, I say! I had nothing to do with the worst part
of it. Those two fellows below have cheated me, and made a wretch of
me. D--me, if I would not rather have gone up to the main chains, and
gone pitch over, head-foremost, into the Bay of Biscay. But they did
it--not I, mind that!"

"I'd bet a puncheon they've killed the officer," replied the other.

"Don't ask any questions, Willy Small!" replied his companion; "don't
ask any questions it is safer for us all!"

"Why, that's true enough!" replied the smuggler; "that's true enough!
No, no! I'll not ask nor guess either, and then I know nothing about
it, but that you and t'others wanted the cutter to go a pleasuring;
and I'll take the lowest price you see, too, Watty, so they can't
bring me in as art and part for the run goods. But what is to be done
with the young man in the next room? Why, Wat, he seems a gentleman--I
say!"

"Ay! he is a gentleman every inch of him," answered the other; "and
such a one as one seldom sees--I would not have harm happen to him for
the world--why, you must just keep him for a day or two, till we are
gone and safe, and then let him go. But I say, when you lock the door
to-night upon him, keep you the key yourself, mind you. Those fellows
below have an ill-will  to him; and if it had not been for me, they
would have hove him overboard this blessed night--upon my soul they
would!"

"D--n their eyes and limbs!" exclaimed the other; "I should like to
see them touch him, in my house. If I would not tie them together,
like a couple of hogsheads, and sink them out of water-mark. But as to
locking the door, Wat, there is no use of that at all, bless ye. He
can't stir an inch. Why, you've broken his leg, among you!"

The reply of the other, though sufficiently blasphemous--and we must
here apologize to the more scrupulous reader for admitting into the
dialogues just past, so many profane expletives, which we would not
perhaps have done, having no delight in such matter ourselves, had not
the love of truth and accuracy prevailed--the reply of the other,
then, though sufficiently blasphemous, showed that he was bitterly
grieved for the accident which had happened to Beauchamp; and a long
conversation ensued in regard to the necessity of sending for a
surgeon.

That, however, they both agreed would "blow the whole business"--to
use their own expression--and humanity, as usual, gave way to
apprehension. Old Willy Small, as the smuggler was denominated,
declared that he was a goodish hand himself at splicing a broken limb,
and that he and his wife would look to it, till the other party were
safe off to France. This seemed to quiet the conscience of the other
upon that particular; and, after concerting some farther plans for
facilitating all the preparations for their journey, they returned to
their comrades below.

The effect of this conversation upon the mind of Henry Beauchamp was
not certainly to produce any very agreeable sensations. He began to
apprehend that a worse crime than simple robbery had been committed at
the house of the unhappy miser; and though, in one point of view, he
felt little anxiety on his own account--seeing evidently that he would
not want assistance at his need, if any thing were attempted against
him--yet he could not help shuddering at his proximity to a gang of
murderers, and contemplated with no great pleasure the surgical
offices to be performed upon his own leg by a smuggler and an old
woman. An evil, however, is seldom without its good; and though,
certainly, had it been left to his own choice, he might have found a
more agreeable way of diverting his thoughts from all the painful
subjects that previously occupied them, yet true it most assuredly is,
that corporeal uncomfort, pain, and apprehension, did very materially
lessen--no! not his love for Blanche Delaware--but the first bitter
feeling of the disappointment which her conduct had occasioned.

If it were not so strange to say, and if we could by any means
discover the process by which the mind could arrive at such a result,
we should declare that, in the midst of all these dangers, troubles,
and uncomforts of a different kind, Beauchamp had found a new store of
hope. How, or why, who can tell! but either his hope was like the
limbs of the skeleton in the Fantocini, which, after being all
disjointed are suddenly pulled together again by strings that no one
can see; or else it was like a fire of dry wood, which, when it has
appeared for some time quite extinguished, will pour out a small white
flame, when nobody is expecting any such thing, and soon be as bright
again as ever. At all events, he had left Emberton that very morning
without a spark of hope apparently left; and after going through as
much as would have contented him with adventures for the whole of his
life, he could not help thinking that there was something very strange
and unaccountable in Blanche Delaware's whole conduct, and that, if he
could but get the key, all might still go well. Nevertheless, he was
not long left to cogitate upon any thing; for, in a minute or two, the
smuggler and the smuggler's wife walked in, in the character of
surgeon and assistant; and, after some awkward explanations of their
purpose, demanded to look at the gentleman's leg, to see if they could
help him. As he knew that it was predetermined not to send for a
surgeon, Beauchamp, who was not disposed to make people look foolish
unnecessarily, did not, as he once intended, propose that expedient.

"You may look at my leg as much as you like, my good people," he said;
"but I have not the slightest intention of letting you do any thing to
it, unless what you purpose agrees with my own opinion." This being
settled, the woman knelt down, and the man held the candle, and the
stocking being withdrawn, an examination and mumbled consultation of
some length took place.

"It's not broken, sir, do you see!" said the old man, looking up.
"It's only the small bone put out, do you see!"

"I see nothing at all, my good fellow," said Beauchamp, "except that
it is very painful; and, of course, the more you pinch it the worse it
is."

The man then assured him that if he would let him try, he would put it
in in a minute; and, after a laborious explanation, Beauchamp
consented. The old man pulled his foot as if he would have pulled it
off the old woman squeezed his ankle as if she would have broken it
through the middle; but at length, with a sudden snap, the bone
started back into its place, and the patient found instant relief.
Every attempt to stand, however, was still quite out of the question;
and Beauchamp, giving himself entirely up into the hands of such
skillful chirurgeons, suffered his ankle to be bandaged up with cloths
steeped in vinegar and brandy, and himself to be carried to bed, where
the smuggler assured him he ought to lie for at least four days, in
order to perfect his recovery. When all was completed, and, his host
and hostess were retiring, Beauchamp listened for a moment, and heard
the key of the door turned with greater satisfaction than he had
imagined the fact of being locked into his own room would ever afford
him.




CHAPTER XXIX.


Now, Henry Burrel was a great deal too sincere a man, even in his
commune with himself, to endeavor by any means to cheat himself into
the belief that he was a hero. In short, he had quite sufficient real
enthusiasm in his disposition, and quite sufficient contempt for those
who affected it without having any, to make him very jealous of
letting the portion he did, possess appear openly, even before his own
eyes; and, in order to correct such propensities, he had got up, as we
have shown before, a system of apathetic indifference to every thing
that did not affect himself, which, though sometimes run away with by
his zeal or his affections, contrived generally to bridle feelings
that would otherwise have been somewhat headstrong.

Left alone in a little bed, in a little room in a smuggler's cottage,
on the loneliest part of the sea-shore--locked in, without being able
to set a foot to the ground--without a light--and with a confounded
smell of fish pervading the whole atmosphere--his first impulse, as
all these minor miseries tickled his imagination one after the other,
was to laugh heartily. But the impression lasted but a moment; and,
when he thought of the more remote, but more dreadful, circumstances
connected by an inseparable link with his temporary situation--the
murder of a helpless old man, which he doubted not had been
committed--the fearful moral offense which three of his
fellow-creatures had perpetrated--and the miserable fate of a youth in
whom he had taken considerable interest--for he had recognized, as we
have before hinted, the voice of poor Wat Harrison--when he thought of
all these circumstances, his heart smote him for the moment of levity
in which he had indulged; and poured out the full tide of its generous
and kindly feelings to wash away the fault of that one instant.

He now revolved the matter more seriously; and as he did so, of course
his own situation came again soberly under consideration. That
situation was evidently any thing but pleasant; for no man could be
expected to find his pillow very soft when it was shaken by the hands
of a gang of murderers. But Beauchamp was constitutionally a brave
man. His impulses were not those of fear: and, though he had a very
considerable share of imagination, yet when he wanted to frighten
himself about any thing, he had to think of it seriously, and call up
all the dangers one by one. Now, in the present instance, there were
so many unpleasant and perilous points in his position, which he could
neither divert nor avoid, that, after a short reflection, he found it
would be best and wisest not to think of the danger at all; and, when
he had so settled the matter, he found no great difficulty in
forgetting it altogether, although, with a degree of feverish
restlessness, he turned and re-turned in his mind the conversation
which he had heard in the adjoining room.

It was evident that Walter Harrison had not told the whole truth to
the old man who had given them shelter; and whether it was the
smuggler's previous conclusions that had led him to believe the crime,
from the consequences of which the young sailor was flying, had been
committed in an endeavor to defraud the revenue, or whether by a
direct falsehood on the lad's own part, Beauchamp naturally deduced
from every thing which he had discovered, that Willy Small, as they
called him, would be the first to shrink from the perpetrators of the
deeper offense which had really been offered to the laws of God and
man. This was, at least, some consolation; and although Beauchamp
still felt a sensation of awe and horror when he reflected calmly on
the whole transactions of that night, yet his feelings were more like
those of one who reads a horrid tale of crime and sorrow in the
newspapers than those of one around whose very person the
circumstances had been transacted, and who was in some degree a party
to the whole.

Nevertheless, he could not go to sleep over it with the easy
carelessness of one of those daily devourers of manufactured horrors,
who join to patronize the periodical press with the devout idolators
of agitation, and who, like men fed upon deviled gizzards, find that
nothing on earth has enough cayenne. Whether it was busy thoughts, or
a broken head, or an ankle that had been dislocated, that kept him
awake, I can not tell; but he lay in feverish and uneasy restlessness
long after all was quiet in the house, and even the murderers had
retired--I had almost said,--to sleep.

Toward morning however, exhaustion overcame all, and he slept long and
profoundly. How long indeed he did not know, for he had forgot to wind
up his watch; but, at all events, he woke refreshed and calm, his
headache gone, and the pain of his hurt ankle so much relieved, that
he fancied he could do any thing, and at once sprang out of bed. He
instantly found his mistake; for the moment he attempted to set that
foot to the ground, he reeled, and would have fallen but for his hold
of the bedstead; and, on examining more closely, he found his leg
enormously swelled, and bidding fair, as the smuggler had predicted,
to confine him to the house for more than one day. Notwithstanding
this discovery, he determined to make his way to the window before any
one interrupted him, in order to examine the locale, and what was
passing without; and by means of the table and the chairs he contrived
to effect his purpose.

The scene that presented itself was one that may be met with about
once every three miles along the greater part of the southern and
eastern coasts of England--a small sandy bay, opening out into the
wide blue sea, with two or three high cliffs on either hand, and
nothing more. In the present instance, however, an object struck the
eyes of Henry Beauchamp, which was not without its peculiar interest.
It was a small low-rigged cutter, just making her way out to sea, with
a full steady wind, and a press of sail. He looked up to the sky, and,
as far as he could judge from the position of the sun, concluded that
one or two hours must have passed since noon. At the same time, there
was no sound of voices below. A lad was seen mending one of the boats
on the shore; and a man, in whom he easily distinguished the old
smuggler, was standing on the nearest bank, with a glass to his eye,
either watching the progress of the cutter, or examining a vessel that
could just be seen hull down in the offing. All seemed to imply that
those who had brought him thither had effected their escape from
England; and after gazing out for a moment, he returned to his bedside,
and proceeded to dress himself as well as he could. The gentleman who
threaded the Dædalian labyrinth, and slew Mrs. Pasephæ's illegitimate
son at the end of it, had not half such a piece of work of it as Henry
Beauchamp had to get into his clothes. It is wonderful how much more use
one makes of one's foot even in dressing one's self than one knows any
thing about; and what would have come of it in the present instance can
hardly be divined, had it not so happened that, after Beauchamp had
struggled with innumerable difficulties for nearly half an hour, the old
smuggler presented himself, as a somewhat rude valet-de-chambre, and
saved his guest from martyrdom.

The old man, in his quality of surgeon, blamed Beauchamp highly for
getting up at all; and, pointing out the swelled state of his ankle,
declared that he would only let him remain up on condition that he
would keep it raised upon a chair during the rest of the day.

Beauchamp was perhaps a little irritable with the contention he had
just gone through with various parts of his apparel; and,
consequently, seating himself calmly on the nearest chair, he informed
the old man, in a cool, determined tone, that it was his intention
immediately to proceed to Dorchester, which, as far as he could
calculate, was the nearest large town. He was met by the smuggler,
however, in a way that he did not expect, and this, of course, gave a
sudden change to the current of his feelings. Instead of telling him
that he could not go, or that he should not go, or any of those things
which would have rendered him more determined than ever, the old man
replied, in a civil tone, "Well, sir, you can do as you like but I
don't see how you can manage it to-night, for it is now near
four--Dorchester's twenty miles off--and even were I to send for a
shay, it can't come down within two mile of this place, 'cause there
is no road.

"Past four, is it?" cried Beauchamp. "I must have slept sound."

"I dare say you were tired enough, sir," replied the old man; "but it
is past four, indeed--and, as I was saying, Dorchester is twenty
miles, and the next town is ten. You are very welcome to your bed,
sir; and I think you had a great deal better stay till you can walk a
bit."

Beauchamp mused; for his situation was certainly a very unpleasant
one. He knew it to be his duty to give immediate information of what
had occurred to himself, to those persons who might investigate the
matter thoroughly, and discover whether a greater offense had not been
committed. At the same time, he felt the impossibility of walking two
miles, if his life had been at stake; while he did not think it would
be either wise or safe to intrust to a man of so doubtful a character
as this Willy Small, even his suspicions in regard to persons, with
one of whom, at least, the smuggler was on terms of friendship. It was
impossible to say what the fear of being implicated in such a
transaction as Beauchamp believed to have taken place, might cause him
to do, if he found that he had in his power the only person who could
prove his connection with the culprits. At the same time, the man's
tone was perfectly civil, and even kind; and as soon as Beauchamp
found that no opposition was intended to the exercise of his
free-will, he of course dropped the more peremptory manner he had
assumed, and determined to try milder means instead, though he well
knew that no measures would have proved successful had the smuggler
made up his mind to risk after consequences in order to gain the
present object.

"If these places be so far by land," he said, at length, "is it not
possible that I can get a boat to carry me to the next town on the
coast!--I see two lying there upon the beach; and I will pay well for
one; if it can be procured."

"Why, sir, for the matter of that," answered the smuggler, "one of the
boats has not been sea-worthy these three months, and the other
unfortunately got badly damaged this morning in taking those fellows
and the woman to the cutter. They would not wait till high water, and
seemed in a devil of a hurry to get aboard; and how my boy managed it,
or whether the old un had a hand in it, I don't know, but they had all
near been swamped, and the boat can't be reckoned on, d'ye see!"

Beauchamp's lip curled, as he thought he perceived a determination to
oppose his departure by fair means, if not by force; but the smuggler
instantly caught it, and interpreting it aright, replied with a
glowing cheek and a look of candor, that went farther to convince his
hearer than all the oratory or bullying in the world would have done.

"Well, well! I see what it is," he said. "You think that I want to
keep you, while those fellows sheer off clear. But they are gone, and
that's done; and sorry am I that I ever saw their faces, for I've a
notion that there's somewhat worse at the bottom than I thought for.
But never mind that. Your honor's a gentleman, at least such I take
you to be; and d--me if I have a hand in stopping your going wherever
you like. If you like to get under weigh to-night, why, I say nothing;
and I will even send the boy Bill over to ---- for horses and a shay,
though I think you had better stay here, a devil of a deal; and as for
the boat, you may hop down and look at her yourself, and you will see
that it will be this time to-morrow before all's right again. So your
honor may just do as you like--I say nothing, do you see!"

"You have said enough to make me believe you an honest man," replied
Beauchamp; "and if what I suspect of your late inmates be true, you
may find my testimony in your favor no light matter. What they have
done," he added, seeing the old man's curiosity awakened; "I can only
suspect, as you do yourself. All I know, of my own personal knowledge,
is that, as I was accidentally coming upon them unawares, they thought
fit to knock me down, and brought me hither; but I should certainly
think you would find it most safe and most creditable to go
immediately to the next magistrate and give information."

"No, no, no!" cried the smuggler--"No, by--, I won't peach; and,
besides, I know nothing about them."

"I am well aware, my good friend," replied Beauchamp, "that you have
been deceived; for I will tell you fairly that I heard unwillingly all
that passed between you and the young sailor, in the next room, last
night. Take my word for it, however, that there has been no smuggling
in the business."

The man started, but Beauchamp went on "Smuggling had nothing to do
with it; but as I know that your ideas of honor are very different
from mine, I shall not of course press you to inform against men,
whose crime you do not fully know, and whose guilt I myself could not
clearly prove. Nevertheless, I must do my duty, and, well or ill, I
must make my way to Dorchester to-morrow, in executing which purpose I
am sure you will aid me."

"That I will, sir! that I will!" answered the old man. "I will leave
Bill to mend the boat, and I will set out for ---- by daylight, and
you shall have a shay down at the red stile by two o'clock at
farthest. No! no! I will never peach against a poor lad, who trusted
me: but somehow, what your honor has said has made me feel a little
queerish--I should like to know the truth of the business vastly--I
don't like these jobs, that I don't--any thing in the way of business
I don't mind--but I don't--no, I don't like these jobs at all!"

It was very evident, from the changed and anxious countenance which
the old smuggler now presented, that what he said was very true; and
though he could talk with the utmost coolness of killing a king's
officer in a smuggling brawl, yet the vague and doubtful nature of the
transactions into which he had been unwittingly entrapped, filled him
with anxious apprehensions.

"Well, well, my good friend," replied Beauchamp, whose object was not
to alarm him too much on his own account, "at all events you have
nothing to do with it, and I can bear witness to the conversation
which took place between you and the young sailor last night, and
which would at any time establish your ignorance of the whole facts."

"Thank your honor! thank your honor!" cried the old man, with evident
heartfelt satisfaction. "Your honor's a gentleman--that you are; and I
am sure that I would do any thing your honor tells me--that's to say,
I wouldn't like to peach, d'ye see--but any thing else."

"All that can be required of you," replied Beauchamp, "is not to
obstruct the course of justice; and, therefore, I shall trust to you
to set out as early as possible to-morrow to get me some conveyance;
and farther, should you be called upon hereafter to give evidence in
this business, take my advice, and tell the whole truth boldly and
straightforwardly; for depend upon it, to tell a falsehood, or to
prevaricate, is the most dishonorable thing a man can do, whether his
station be high or low."

"That it is, sir, surely--that it is!" replied the smuggler; "and I
will tell the truth when I am asked. But that is different, your honor
knows, from going and telling without any one asking me."

"Certainly it is," said Beauchamp; "and I do not ask you to do more
than tell it when it is asked; but now, my good sir, can I get dinner,
or breakfast as it is to me; for I begin to feel that I have not eaten
any thing for several hours?"

"Now, that's what I call being d--d stupid!" cried Willy Small, much
to Beauchamp's surprise, who at first concluded that the smuggler's
censure was addressed to him. "If my old woman did not send me up on
purpose to tell your honor that she had done you three mackerel, and
that, with a rasher of pickled pork, and some fried--"

"Good Heaven!" cried Beauchamp, "I trust that she does not intend me
to eat three mackerel, pickled pork, and fried any thing! But never
mind--let me see them, by all means. I will eat what I can, and she
must excuse me the rest."

Beauchamp's dinner was accordingly placed before him; and, with his
usual perversity of disposition, it must be acknowledged that, in a
smuggler's cottage, with a lame leg, and disappointed in love, he ate
a better dinner of mackerel in October, salted pork, and fried eggs,
than he had done since he left the Grand St. Bernard. There's a hero!
Ulysses was nothing to him, though, dressed, in a dishclout, the hero
of the Odyssey did sit down with twenty fellows who were making love
to his own wife, and supped heartily upon "the entrails fat, enriched
with blood," by which Homer undoubtedly meant black puddings.

When he had concluded--as Beauchamp could, when he liked it, cast off
his reserve, mingle freely with all classes, and examine nature
wherever he found it--he declared that, as the evening was somewhat
chilly, he would come down and spend the rest of it by the kitchen
fire; and, getting to the bottom of the stairs the best way he could,
by the help of the old man and his son, he soon rendered himself
familiar with the whole family, winning their love, while he made them
more and more inclined to declare that he was really a gentleman.

Nor did the time pass unpleasantly to himself. He had got a notion, in
direct opposition to generally received opinions, that nature was to
be found only in the highest and in the lowest classes--more
especially, indeed, in the highest, because the persons of which it is
constituted have little inducement to conceal their feelings or
thoughts, and certainly no wish to affect the manners of any other
caste. Nature, however, as modified by the education of the lower
classes, was more interesting to him, from being less frequently
before his eyes; and though he certainly liked the nature of his own
rank best, yet he was not sorry occasionally to observe the other a
little nearer. Thus the time wore imperceptibly away; and the more
tranquil passing of the night was only interrupted by the smuggler's
son showing his father a powder-flask which, he said, one of the
gentlemen had dropped upon the beach that morning. Beauchamp took it
carelessly in his hand, and returned it without observation; but a
single glance had shown him that it was one which, from some fault in
its construction, he had given to his servant, Harding, a few days
before. The sight, though it but confirmed former suspicions, threw
him into a fit of musing for several minutes; but he shook it off as
fast as possible, and soon resumed the easy tone in which he had been
previously conversing.

The next morning he awoke earlier than the day before, but he found,
from the smuggler's son, that the old man, true to his word, had
already set out to procure a post-chaise for him from the nearest
town. Many an hour passed by, however, without his return, and it was
again nearly four o'clock ere Beauchamp, whose sole amusement had been
looking out upon the ever varying sea, beheld him walking sturdily
along over the high grounds to the west. He was soon down the little
path, and into the house; but Beauchamp remarked that he paused not
below, as he naturally might have done, to speak with his wife, but,
on the contrary, with a hurried pace, proceeded straight up-stairs,
and entered the stranger's room at once. He was far too much agitated
to think of ceremonies; and, leaning on the table, without taking off
his hat, he stood before Beauchamp, pale, trembling, and out of
breath, for several moments, before he could utter a word.

"Oh, your honor!" he cried at length; "Oh, your honor! I hope to God
you will stand my friend; for this is a horrible business I have got
into, and, without help, I shall sink, that's certain!"

"What is the matter! What has happened!" demanded Beauchamp eagerly;
but then, seeing the fearful state of agitation which shook the old
man's powerful frame, he added, "Calm yourself! Calm yourself, Small!
You have done nothing that I know of that can injure you! Let me hear
what it is alarms you!"

"Thank you, sir, for that!" replied the smuggler, catching at
Beauchamp's consolation. "Thank you for that! If you stand by me, I
dare say I shall do. But what is it that alarms me? you ask. Why, what
should it be! Why, when I went into the town of ----, what should I
see but a number of people standing round the town-hall, just at a
particular spot like; and something misgave me, so I went up, and
there I saw stuck up against the wall a large sheet of paper, and at
the top was printed, _Five Hundred Pounds Reward_; and then, when I
looked below, I saw, in bigger letters still, _Murder!_ At first I
could not see any more, my brain turned round so; but when I could
read on, I saw in the _Blagard_, as the people called it, how those
infernal villains, who were here the night afore last, had murdered a
poor old helpless man at a place they call Ryebury. It did not just
say it was them, indeed, but I am sure it was. Oh, I am quite sure it
was them!"

The last declaration of his conviction was made more faintly, as if he
entertained some slight hope that Beauchamp would contradict him; but,
on the contrary, that gentleman replied, "I am afraid it was, indeed;
for it was at that very place, Ryebury, and at the door of that old
man's house, that they met me, and stunned me by a blow on the head.
But what more did the placard say!"

"Oh, it mentioned a Captain Somebody," replied the smuggler. "I
forget the name. It was a Frenchified name, however. It was that
black-looking ---- with the whiskers, I'll bet a puncheon!"

"Was it Harding," demanded Beauchamp, fixing his eyes upon him
eagerly, to catch his answer from his look, even before he had time to
utter it.

"No, no, no!" answered the smuggler. "It was not Harding. It was some
Frenchified name; and then there came some person or persons unknown.
But now your honor will stand by me, I am sure; for if the justices
find out that I helped them off the coast, they will make me out as
having a hand in it; and I am sure that if I had known what they had
been doing, I would sooner have scuttled the cutter, and sent them all
to the bottom, if I had gone down with them myself."

"I really believe you would," replied Beauchamp; "and I do not think
that, with the evidence which I can give, and which I will give in
your favor, should any thing be brought against you, there is the
slightest cause for your entertaining any apprehension."

"Thank you, sir! Thank you for that!" replied the smuggler. "That will
make me easy, and now I'll go and tell the old woman."

"But stay, stay, my good friend!" cried Beauchamp. "Is the
post-chaise--"

"Lord-a'-mercy, now!" cried the man, before his guest could finish,
the sentence, at the same time pulling off his hat, and throwing it
down upon the ground with a despairing sort of fling. "Lord-a'-mercy,
now, if I did not forget all about it! This murder has turned my
brain, I do think; for I never went into a house or shed in the whole
place, but set off home as hard as I could go, to ask if your honor
would stand by me."

"Humph!" said Beauchamp, "this is pleasant."




CHAPTER XXX.


"Well," thought Beauchamp, "I certainly did calculate upon being at
Dorchester to-night, as firmly as if I had never read the Rambler. Oh,
Seged, Seged, Emperor of Ethiopia! But never mind! to-morrow, at all
events, nothing shall stop me; and by that time this leg of mine will
be nearly well, so that some advantage at least will be gained by the
disappointment."

The following morning the son, instead of the father, was accordingly
dispatched to the post-town of ----, to order down a chaise to the
nearest point of the high-road; and he was, moreover directed to take
advantage of the conveyance, to return so far upon his way, in order
to give Beauchamp notice of its arrival. This precaution was not
unnecessary, for the boy was a lout who might very probably have
suffered the chaise to go on without him; but having taken these
measures, Beauchamp very confidently expected to hear that his vehicle
was in waiting at or about the hour of two.

His lameness had by this time so far worn off, that he could move from
place to place with tolerable ease; and he spent the morning
principally on the sea-shore, partly in thoughts which were all the
busier from the forced inactivity of his body, partly in removing any
remaining traces of apprehension from the mind of the old smuggler,
who continued working leisurely and lazily at his boat, the damage
done to which had evidently been considerable. A little before two
o'clock, Beauchamp settled his accounts with his hostess; and all
charges being left to his own liberality, and his purse being luckily
and miraculously still in his pocket, he presented the worthy dame
with a sum so much above either her expectations, or the value of her
mackerel and pickled pork, as, in the first place, to make her turn
red with surprise and satisfaction, and then to run out to tell her
husband what the stranger had given them. Two o'clock however, passed,
and old Billy Small, began to regret that he had sent young Billy
Small, instead of going himself. Three o'clock passed, and Beauchamp
joined most sincerely in the regret, especially when he heard the old
man exclaim, in the tone of a discovery, "I'd bet a puncheon, now,
that Bill has gone and got drunk at the 'lection. I forgot this was
the first day of the 'lection for the borough, or I would ha' gone
myself, to a certainty. He's drunk, no doubt!"

The father, however, did the son injustice; for toward half-past
three, the good youth appeared lumbering over the hill, and entered
the cottage, wiping his brow, indeed, but with a sober pace. In answer
to Beauchamp's inquiries--which were made with more eager haste than
he generally indulged in--the young man replied that all the horses in
the town, and for many miles round it, were engaged in the 'lection,
so that not one was to be got for love or money.

Now, Beauchamp found himself so strongly inclined to be cross,
that--instead of either sending all elections to that distinguished
personage who has gained more by them and their consequences than any
one else--I mean the devil--or vituperating the post-horses, or any of
the other things concerned, as some persons would have done when put
out of temper by similar mischances--he acted, of course, in a way of
his own, and laughed outright, merely exclaiming, "Well, I must buy a
shirt of you, Small, if you will sell me one; for at present I
certainly do not come within the old beau's definition of a
gentleman!"

As Beauchamp now determined to send no more to a town in which the
election of a fit and proper person to represent his Majesty's lieges
in Parliament was going on, his next questions related to the boat, or
rather to the boats. The smaller of the two, old Small assured him,
though it served well enough to catch mackerel in the little sheltered
bay before the house, would never do to go any distance; but he
promised Beauchamp that the other boat should be ready to carry him to
the next coast town by three o'clock on the following day.

Beauchamp, from what he had seen in the morning, imagined that the old
man's promise might very well be fulfilled; but he little knew what
mending an old boat is. Father and son set to work upon it at once,
and went on as long as they could see; and when the young stranger
rose next morning, he found them already occupied in the same manner.
His ankle being now greatly better, though not well, he walked out to
watch their proceedings; and, sitting beside them, and occasionally
giving some slight assistance, he saw hour after hour of the fourth
day since his arrival wear away, in performing what he had imagined
would have been completed in half the time; till at length, while
several small things still remained to be done, he beheld the purple
mingling with the blue in the sky, and telling that the day star was
going down to the dark pavilion of his rest. "Oh! Seged, Seged,
Emperor of Ethiopia!" cried Beauchamp, as he returned into the
cottage, "I will this night, at all events, resolve upon doing nothing
at all to-morrow, in order to see whether fate will for once
disappoint me the right way!"

The morrow, however, dawned bright and clear--the boat was at length
ready and launched; and Beauchamp--shaved as usual with the smuggler's
one universal razor, and covered with the best specimen of his
check-shirts--gladly stepped into the yawl, and saw her pushed off
from the land by the united efforts of father and son, both of whom
accompanied him on his voyage.

The boat was clinker-built, somewhat broad over the beam, and in all
respects the very reverse of a long, thin, shadowy thing that was
lying high and dry a little farther up the beach, looking both in form
and color just like the shell of a razor-fish.

Old Willy Small, however, shook his head at mention of that craft,
saying, "No, no! The preventive had knocked up all that stuff." So
that Beauchamp, well content to get off at all, was obliged to rest
satisfied with the slow and sure means of progression which the yawl
afforded, though, the wind being light and rather baffling, it
appeared very plainly that they were not destined to reach their port
much before nightfall.

To increase the tediousness of a day's voyage in an open boat, to a
man who had the utmost abhorrence of every sort of water-carriage, the
fine morning waxed more and more dim; and first a drizzle, and then a
deluge, continued to pour from the sky during the whole of the rest of
the day. It was five o'clock before they reached the small town, whose
white houses, ranged along with their large goggling windows directly
opposite the sea, like a score or two of unsophisticated girls, with
white frocks and large black eyes, ranged along the side of a country
ball-room, afforded a most welcome sight to the eyes of the weary
voyager.

The custom-house officers satisfied themselves with wonderful ease
that there was nothing in the boat which they could count as lawful
prey, though the appearance of their well-known acquaintance, Willy
Small, excited many a shrewd suspicion; and they looked after
Beauchamp, as he was borne off to the inn, with the same prying glance
with which the merchants, in the Arabian Nights, might be supposed to
have examined the pieces of beef brought up by the eagles from the
valley of diamonds. At the inn the dripping traveler, who limped
along, leaning on the shoulder of the old smuggler, was examined
with scarcely less attention, as soon as it was ascertained that he
had no baggage; but, somehow, there was--to use a most fearful
periphrasis--an air of right to respect, and of the habit of being
obeyed, which instantly commanded obedience and attention.

Old Billy Small was immediately rewarded and dismissed; and, with many
thanks, he hustled rapidly away, like a hunted hippopotamus, to his
own element again; perhaps purposing, as he passed by the quay, to
have some short conversation, concerning various professional matters,
with some of the sailors of a ship which was lying in the harbor, and
about to sail for Cherbourg the next morning.

When he was alone, Beauchamp thanked God--not with the empty idleness
of tongue with which those words are so often spoken, but truly,
sincerely, and from his heart--for his escape from dangers which he
had not suffered himself to estimate fully till they were over. He
then rang, and desired the landlord to be called, feeling heated and
weary, and having taken it into his head that the long period which
had elapsed since he had enjoyed any thing like gentlemanly neatness
of person was the cause of the dry and thirsty feeling that he
experienced.

The landlord appeared, and answered his inquiries concerning warm
baths, and various other matters which would occupy too much room to
enumerate, eyeing him curiously to the end, when he added--"Beg
pardon, sir--beg pardon! but is not your name Major Beauchamp?"

"It was some time ago," replied Mr. Beauchamp; "but I have quitted the
service, and am now plain Mr. Beauchamp, if you please--but who are
you, my good friend?"

"Beg your pardon, sir, for the liberty," replied the landlord; "but I
am Frank, the waiter at ----'s Hotel, in St. James's-street--that is
to say, I was, sir; but this being my native place, and having got
together a little money, and having married, and--you see, sir, I came
to set up in a small way for myself."

"Well, I am glad to see you, Frank, and hope you may prosper," replied
Beauchamp "Have you many people in your house?"

"No, sir, no!" answered the man, with a somewhat grave shake of the
head. "Not many; the season's over, indeed--only an old gentleman and
his daughter, and an old lady who seems like the housekeeper; but they
are very dismal-like, and do not do so much in the way of our
business."

"They might be rueful enough, if they had been kept as I have been for
the last five days," replied Beauchamp, "at a little cottage on the
sea-shore, with a dislocated ankle, and neither clothes, assistance,
nor the means of procuring any. But see about the things I mentioned,
Frank, and send the things; and if these warm baths are not far, I
will try to walk to them, in the mean time."

"Next door but one, sir! Next door but one!" replied the landlord.
"Lord, sir, you walk very lame! Stay, sir, I will get my hat, and help
you there;" and accordingly, leaning on the arm of the quondam waiter,
Beauchamp made his way to the warm baths, feeling that there was some
truth in the old Greek epigram, which describes them as among the
luxuries without which life were not worth possessing.

Returning to the inn, where his family and fortune, by this time fully
known, made the whole house ready to perform _Cow Tow_, he dined with
that sort of moderation which a man feels inclined to practice, when
he finds himself extremely feverish, and when every sort of wine, from
cool claret to hot sherry, seems like molten lead, within ten minutes
after it is swallowed. Immediately after dinner, all the necessary
changes of raiment, which he had been so long without, and which could
never be so rapidly supplied as at a seaport town, were brought in
one by one, by the officious care of the landlord; and, on discovering
that the first coach for London set off on the following morning at
ten o'clock, he made that fact a good excuse to himself for yielding
to the lassitude he felt, and going to bed at nine.

The night passed in heated tossing to and fro; and short fitful
intervals of sleep too dreamful and agitated to be called repose. From
one of those brief snatches of slumber he was awakened early the next
morning, by someone knocking at the door of the room next to his own,
and exclaiming in a loud tone, "Seven o'clock, sir; is the luggage
ready?"

Beauchamp certainly wished the luggage, and the man who demanded it,
at the bottom of the sea together, and tried to go to sleep again; but
after rolling from side to side for half an hour, he found that it was
in vain. All the infamous noises which announce that some frightful
people, in the neighboring chambers of the same inn, are going to set
out upon voyage or journey, at an awfully early hour, were complicated
around Beauchamp's unfortunate head; and at length, after the
trampling of sailors and porters in the passage had ceased, he heard
some one again knock at a door, on the opposite side of the passage,
and say, "My love, I must go down to see the luggage passed and put on
board; but make haste and be ready, for the ship will sail directly. I
will send up and let you know when to come down."

Beauchamp started out of bed, and hurried on his clothes as fast as
possible, for the voice was that of Sir Sidney Delaware; but his
lameness still retarded him, and every time he took a quick step, his
ankle gave way beneath him, and caused him intolerable pain; so that,
just as he was tying his cravat, the voice of old Mrs. Williams, the
housekeeper, was heard along the passage.

"Miss Blanche! Miss Blanche!" she cried, "make haste, pray make haste!
Your papa says all is ready, and the ship is just going to sail."

Beauchamp pulled on his coat as best he might, and threw open his
door; nor was he a moment too soon, for Blanche Delaware was already
walking along the passage. She was paler far, but as beautiful as
ever, and not the less so that the tears were swimming in her eyes at
the thought, of quitting her own dear fair native land--perhaps
forever.

"Good God, Miss Delaware!" cried Beauchamp, "what is the meaning of
this?"

"Mr. Burrel!" exclaimed Blanche faintly, while the blood mounted quick
into her cheek, and then again left it pale as ashes. "Oh, Mr. Burrel,
where have you been? Your presence might perhaps have saved us all!"

"How, how?" cried Beauchamp. "You sent me from you, yourself. Had it
not been for your own word, I would never, never have left you!"

"Do not--do not say it!" cried Blanche, while the tears streamed over
her cheeks, "Do not say it, or I shall never forgive myself--I never
have, indeed. You only could have saved us--and oh, Henry Beauchamp, I
am sure you would have done so!"

Beauchamp started to hear his real name from his fair cousin's lips;
but Blanche went on as rapidly and eagerly. "But it seems all strange
to you. Have you not heard of my poor brother? Have you not heard what
has happened?"

"I have heard nothing!" replied Beauchamp "I have been detained for
several days, ill and wretched, in a spot where I heard nothing."

"Oh!" cried Blanche, wringing her hands, "they have accused him of
crimes he never committed, and blasted his name, and broken his
heart--and if--if--Henry Beauchamp!--"

"Is not the lady coming?" cried a voice from below. "The ship's
getting under weigh, ma'am. You'll be left behind, if you don't mind."

"Indeed, Miss Blanche, you must come," cried Mrs. Williams, who had
hitherto discreetly remained at the other end of the corridor, when
she saw who it was that detained her young mistress. "You must come,
indeed!"

"I will--I will!" said Blanche, and, dropping her voice, she
added--while for one moment she raised her beautiful eyes to
Beauchamp's face, and the warm blood mounted again into her
cheek--"Henry Beauchamp, my dear cousin, it is most likely the last
time we shall ever meet--but if ever you loved me--if you would have
poor Blanche Delaware bless and pray for you to her last hour--use
your whole strength and mind to clear my poor brother's name and
character--God bless you, God bless you!" and she ran on, down the
stairs.

Beauchamp paused for a moment in utter bewilderment, then, darting
into his room, seized his hat and followed with all the speed he could
employ. That, however, was but little. The harbor was not far, it is
true; but ere he could reach the narrow pier, from which the
passengers had been embarked, the ship bound to Cherbourg had shot out
to sea, and with a strong and favorable wind was making its way toward
the coast of France.

Beauchamp gazed after her in vain; for nothing but the faint,
indistinct forms of the many people that crowded the deck could now be
discovered; and, with feelings as bitter and painful as ever man felt,
he turned away and went back to the inn.




CHAPTER XXXI.


On entering the sitting-room, which had been appropriated to him,
Beauchamp cast himself back in a chair, and, for a moment, reflected
on the extraordinary interview he had just gone through. But a new
discomfort now assailed him, and he felt a degree of confusion of
thought, and even indistinctness of memory, that pained and alarmed
him. Could the blow he had received on the head, he asked himself, the
consequences of which he had entirely neglected--could it have injured
his brain! Nevertheless, his personal feelings occupied him but for an
instant, and were only permitted to cut across his thoughts of Blanche
Delaware, and interrupt the ideas which his conversation with her had
called up, when the dizzy mistiness of his brain prevented him from
pursuing clearly any defined train of thinking.

Should he engage a boat, he asked himself, and follow Sir Sidney to
Cherbourg, in search of farther explanations--perhaps, I might say, in
search of farther hopes; for with all the confused and painful
feelings that his brief interview with Blanche Delaware had excited,
there had also been left behind a sweet, consoling hope, that after
all he was beloved, and that time might yet make her his own.

He paused upon that idea, which, like a gleam of sunshine upon the
dark and struggling waters of the sea, gave one bright spot for the
mind's eye to rest upon, in the midst of the doubts and anxieties that
whirled around him. Should he follow her, he thought, and inquire what
was meant by her allusion to her brother; or should he stay and do
what he conceived to be his duty, in bringing to justice, as far as he
could effect it, the men who had committed the crime at Ryebury. "I
will see what has been already discovered," he said at length, "and
then act as I find necessary."

In consequence of this resolution, he rang the bell, and demanded the
newspapers of the last two or three days; but for some minutes after
they were brought, he could scarcely read the matter they contained,
so fearfully did the letters dance before his sight when he attempted
to fix his eyes upon the page. He succeeded at length in gathering the
contents; and it may be unnecessary to say, that, when he did so, he
found sufficient at once to determine his conduct. The whole account
of what had taken place at Emberton was now before him; and, with
feelings that it is impossible to describe, he perceived that the very
means he had taken to remove the difficulties of Sir Sidney Delaware
and his family had, on the contrary, accumulated upon them a load of
evils and distresses which his utmost apprehensions could never have
anticipated.

Summoning the waiter once more, he ordered breakfast, and a place to
be secured for him in the London coach. All was done according to his
desire, with prompt activity; and, by a quarter after ten, Henry
Beauchamp was on his way to London, in the inside of a hot
stage-coach, crammed full of humanity; while his own feelings
consisted of a compound of intense mental anxiety, and all those
horrible corporeal sensations which precede a violent attack of fever.
His hands and his head burned like living coals; his feet were as cold
as ice; and a faint sort of chilly shiverings thrilled over all his
frame, alternating with a degree of heat that became sometimes
intolerable.

He endured all this with firm determination for six mortal hours; but
at length he found that nature would bear no more, and that he must
stop. At Hartford Bridge, then, where his name and station in society
were well known, from his having often spent a night in that most
pleasant of all country inns--the White Lion--he desired the coachman
to put him down, and entered the house. His appearance was so altered,
that the old waiter did not recognize him for a moment; but the moment
that he did so, he declared, upon his word then, that Major Beauchamp
must be ill, in which assertion Beauchamp found strong reason within
his own bosom to coincide.

The result, therefore, was, that, before the sixth day after he had
been carried from Emberton was completely over, Henry Beauchamp was in
bed, with an apothecary gently compressing his wrist on one side, and
a waiter holding the candle on the other. After innumerable questions,
to all of which the young gentleman answered like a lamb--which showed
how ill he was--the apothecary declared him in a state of fever, and
bled him considerably. By this depletion he certainly felt relieved
for the time, and the next morning was not at all worse than he had
been the day before. Nevertheless, he was troubled with no inclination
to rise; and the landlord asked anxiously of the man of medicine
whether he conceived his patient to be in any danger, as he was aware
that the gentleman had relations of high rank in London, whom he might
wish to write to, if he knew himself in precarious circumstances.

Such a question, though so frequently put, remains still one of
tremendous difficulty to the professors of the healing art, inasmuch
as, on the one hand, they never can like, by acknowledging that there
is great danger, to run the risk of other advice being called in, and
yet they neither choose to lose the credit which may accrue from
curing a bad case, nor to incur the blame that will attach to them if
their patient dies without their having admitted his peril. However,
as vanity and covetousness are, generally speaking, stronger passions
than apprehension, the followers of Esculapius usually seem to prefer
running all risks, rather than have their cases interfered with by
another practitioner. In the present instance, it occurred that the
apothecary was really in the right when he informed the worthy
landlord that, although his guest had certainly a sharp fever upon
him, yet he did not see any present danger.

Thus passed over the day. No one was written to; and, before night,
Beauchamp was not in a state to write to any one himself, having
become completely delirious. The apothecary grew a little frightened;
but as the landlord did not know the precise address of Beauchamp's
friends, and as the patient could not give it himself, there was no
remedy but patience and perseverance.

The delirium continued, with but little interval, for two days; but as
the medical man was really a person of skill, his patient's
constitution excellent, and the fever not very malignant in its
nature, favorable symptoms began to show themselves sooner than could
have been expected, and, at the end of five days more, the young
gentleman was pronounced convalescent. Though for some time he felt
himself very weak, and incapable of much mental exertion, yet, from
the moment the delirium left him, Henry Beauchamp found his thoughts
much clearer and more exact than they had been since the day of his
leaving Emberton; and, as he considered the various events which had
taken place, a number of circumstances which the reader's mind may
easily recall, without minute recapitulation, led him to suspect that
his uncle's lawyer, if not his uncle himself, had increased, if not
created, many of those difficulties which, combined with accidental
occurrences, had overwhelmed Sir Sidney Delaware and his family in
ruin and in sorrow.

He was unwilling, indeed, to admit to his own mind that Lord
Ashborough would descend to any thing mean or dishonorable, ever to
affect the very honorable purpose of revenge, which, when formalized
by the rules of the monomachia, justifies murder; and, therefore, may
surely equally well justify robbery, or fraud, or petty larceny, or
any other peccadillo. But, at the same time, Beauchamp could not shut
out the conviction that the ruin of Sir Sidney Delaware and his
family, by whatever means effected, would be in no degree disagreeable
to the noble earl. In fact, he had seen more deeply into his uncle's
character and into his uncle's heart than Lord Ashborough knew; and
though his discoveries were rendered less harsh by the natural
affection of kindred, yet they had certainly not tended to increase
that affection in any extraordinary degree.

However, all his reflections terminated in an uncertainty as to the
past conduct of his uncle and his uncle's lawyer, which made him
resolve to investigate the whole matter farther before he acted; for
though he was unchangeably resolved that justice to William Delaware
should be done, yet he was anxious, of course, that it should be
rendered with as little obloquy to his own relation as possible.
"Thank God, he has made his escape!" he thought; "and the earl, too,
must have left London soon after I quitted it myself, so that he can
not be at all acquainted with my share in this unfortunate business at
Ryebury. I will, therefore, remain quietly where I am till I can
proceed to London, and then investigate every circumstance before I
fix upon any farther plans. Of course, I shall easily discover the
residence of Sir Sidney Delaware in France; and, when I have cleared
his son's fair fame, may meet them all with better hopes and brighter
prospects."

Such were some of the reflections and resolutions of Henry Beauchamp,
as he was recovering from the fever which had detained him at Hartford
Bridge; and though he certainly indulged in a great many other
reflections, and formed a great many more resolutions, yet they were
all conceived in the same strain, and tended to the same effect. As
day by day, however, he began to acquire strength, and saw that, at
the end of two or three more whirls of the great humming-top, he would
be able to set out for London, a new difficulty pressed upon him of
somewhat a novel nature. He had an inn bill to pay, which could not be
small--he had an apothecary's bill to pay, which must be still larger,
and sick-nurses, &c., came at the end to swell the amount. Ten
sovereigns was all that remained in his purse; and had Beauchamp been
aware that, in the opinion of all his friends and relations, he was
actually dead and buried under water, if not under ground, he might
have been still more puzzled how to proceed than he was in his state
of blessed ignorance regarding all these facts.

His resource, in the present instance, was to indite a letter to his
worthy friend and agent, Mr. Wilkinson, informing him, in a few words,
that he had been ill at Hartford Bridge, and would thank him to send
him down, either by post or coach, a sufficient sum to pay his
temporary expenses.

This epistle reached Mr. Wilkinson just as he was drawing up a general
statement of the money matters of the late Henry Beauchamp, Esq.,
formerly of his Majesty's--regiment of dragoons; and the letter of the
living Mr. Beauchamp, of course, put a sudden stop to the affairs of
the dead one. The handwriting, however, although certainly bearing a
great resemblance to that of his client, was, as Mr. Wilkinson
observed, more like a copy of his hand than his hand itself; and the
illness which had produced this difference, had also produced a
brevity and carelessness of style, in which Henry Beauchamp was not
accustomed to indulge. The consequence of all this was, that Mr.
Wilkinson, calculating that Hartford Bridge was only thirty miles from
London, and that two or three guineas was better lost than two or
three hundreds put himself at once into the coach which was to have
conveyed the money; and in a few hours he was sitting beside the
identical Henry Beauchamp, who had left London about two months
before, and was assisting him most conscientiously to dispatch the
first meat meal he had been allowed to taste since his recovery.

As may well be supposed, this interview was destined to enlighten
Beauchamp greatly as to many events which had taken place; and, after
having laughed at his own death more heartily than a merrier matter
might have occasioned, the invalid entered into explanations with his
lawyer, which in turn gave him a new but sad insight into the
occurrences of the last three weeks.

"I am afraid, sir," said Mr. Wilkinson--"I am afraid, sir, there has
been very foul play! This Mr. Tims--who, between you and me, bears so
bad a character in the profession, that it is a very general wonder
how your noble relative continues to employ him--has, since your
death--God bless me!--I mean, since your supposed decease--has, I say,
presented the very note for ten thousand pounds (which you say you
gave to the murdered man at Ryebury) as payment of the sum owed to
your account by his client, your uncle; and yet, though this, and the
vouchers which he must have found concerning the fifteen thousand
pounds sent before, can not have failed to show him that the money
tendered by Captain Delaware was advanced by you, yet he is, I
understand, pursuing the business against that unfortunate young
gentleman with greater virulence than ever. I heard only yesterday,
that his name had been struck out of the Navy List."

"God forbid!" cried Beauchamp; "God forbid! But does the rascal keep
both the twenty-five thousand pounds paid, and the ten thousand which
my uncle should have transferred to my account?"

"Not only that," answered the lawyer, "but contending that, as the
money had been stolen, it did not constitute a legal discharge of Lord
Ashborough's claim upon Sir Sidney Delaware, he has plunged the whole
business into Chancery--has, at the same time, started a point which
can only be decided by a common law court; and as he has all the most
obsolete and vexatious decisions at his fingers' ends, would
undoubtedly have kept the business embroiled for years, had you not
suddenly started up to prove that the payment was legal, and therefore
the whole difficulty at an end."

"And if I had not started up," said Burrel, "and William Delaware had
been taken, I suppose one of the most gallant officers in his
Majesty's service, and one of the most generous-spirited gentlemen in
England, would have been hanged for a crime he never committed."

"Why, I am sorry to say, that it is very probable he might have been
so dealt with," answered Mr. Wilkinson.

"Then, immortal honor to Robert Peel!" said Beauchamp, "for having
begun a reformation in laws, which, though far superior to those of
any other nation in the world, are yet so imperfect as to risk such a
loud-tongued iniquity; and may he have life and power granted to him
to correct all their evils without diminishing their efficiency. But
you speak, my dear sir, of my starting up. Now, do you know, I have a
great mind not to start up for some time yet, and to give this rogue,
Tims, time enough to show himself in his true colors. As I am dead,
and the mourning bought, and all those whose hearts would break upon
my account are broken-hearted already, I do not see why I should
announce my resuscitation in the newspapers till I have obtained not
only the proofs--which, indeed, I can furnish myself--of William
Delaware's complete innocence, but the proofs also of the guilt of
those who really did commit the murder; and which, with a little of
your good advice, I doubt not easily to acquire. In the mean time, if
I am not mistaken, good Mr. Tims, counting upon my death, will plunge
deeper and deeper into the quagmire of deceit and villainy through
which he is now struggling, and we shall have an opportunity of at
once exposing him, and opening my uncle's eyes to his knavery."

Mr. Wilkinson shook his head with a dry "hum!" at the last sentence
which Beauchamp spoke; but the other part of his young client's
proposal he approved very much, saying, "Certainly, certainly! The
plan is a good one; and we must never show our adversary our cards, as
Mr. Pleydel is made to observe, by the only great romance-writer that
the world has produced since Cervantes, and Le Sage, and Fielding. But
you forget, Mr. Beauchamp, that I do not fully know what information
you possess. Your lawyer must be your confessor, my dear sir, if you
would have his advice of any avail."

Beauchamp in reply recounted all that had happened to him since he
left Emberton on the morning before the murder--the fact of his
servant Harding overtaking him at Dr. Wilton's rectory--his own return
to Ryebury--his first and second visit to the miser--his compulsory
voyage with the murderers--and his stay at the house of the
smuggler--all, in short, that had occurred, with the exception of a
brief interview in the corridor of the inn at ----, which he thought
proper to leave untold.

Mr. Wilkinson rubbed his hands at each pause, and in the end declared
that nothing was more plain than the facts, and nothing would be more
easy than the proof. "The man Harding," he said, "whom you think you
recognized in the boat with this Walter Harrison, has never returned
to your house in London; and therefore we may conclude from the fact
of the powder-flask, and from your recognition, that he it really was
who committed the murder, with the other two, and the maid-servant, as
accessories. Information must be obtained from this man Small, in
regard to the port at which his cutter landed them in France; and once
having gained that, we have nothing to do but to set a Bow Street
officer on the track, and he will follow it like a bloodhound. I
entertain as strange doubts in regard to this Mr. Peter Tims as you
do; and believe, from some memoranda on the back of your note of hand,
that he knows fully, at this moment, that Captain Delaware never had
any thing to do with the murder of his uncle. Such a man well deserves
to be punished; and if you like to lie _incog_. for a week or so, we
will watch his proceedings; but you must not take it ill, my dear sir,
if I say, that we must be careful not to implicate any one whom we
might not like to inculpate."

Beauchamp's cheek flushed a good deal, but he replied calmly, "I
understand you, Mr. Wilkinson; but I am sure there is no fear of that.
However, my own intention is to go at once to France--I shall
certainly endeavor to see my sister first; for if any one on earth
grieves for me indeed, it is poor Maria. But, as I said, I shall
certainly go to France, and may help in tracing these villains
myself."

"But, my dear sir," said Mr. Wilkinson; "you must pause a few days. I
will write to the local magistrates, and gain a clear view of all they
have discovered in the neighborhood. We must have this man Small
examined; and I do not well see how we can do without your presence in
England; suppose, for instance, Captain Delaware should be taken and
brought to trial?"

"Why, of course, I will stay a few days," replied Beauchamp, musing;
"and, before I go, I will make a formal deposition on oath before a
magistrate, which, I suppose, I must do, in order to induce him to
grant me an officer to seek the culprits in France."

"There is an officer in Paris already, I believe," replied Mr.
Wilkinson; "but, at all events, we must get full information ere we
proceed. Believe me, my dear sir, the man that meddles with law,
either criminal or civil, without obtaining a clear knowledge of every
circumstance before he takes a single step, is very likely, indeed, to
burn his fingers."

"It is a dangerous thing to touch, I know full well," replied
Beauchamp, with a smile; "and God forbid that I should have more to do
with it than necessary. I will therefore come to London, where I
suppose that there is not a mortal being left by this time but you
gentlemen of the law, and I may very well pass my time _incog_., at an
hotel."

"Nay, indeed, you are mistaken as to the paucity of better people than
lawyers in London," replied Mr. Wilkinson. "Your noble uncle is
himself in town, and your sister. The latter I have had the honor of
seeing, and found her equally in despair about yourself and Captain
Delaware."

"Indeed!" said Beauchamp, smiling at a small twinkling of fun that
danced for a moment in Mr. Wilkinson's eyes, as he mentioned Miss
Beauchamp's anxiety in regard to William Delaware. "Indeed! and does
Maria show herself so greatly distressed about this accusation against
her cousin?"

"So much so," replied Mr. Wilkinson, "that she would insist upon
employing me in gathering evidence for his defense, which, by the way,
is the cause of my knowing so much about the case. Not only that, but
understanding apparently that there is no such stimulus to a lawyer's
exertions as money, she made me take notes for two hundred pounds to
meet the expenses."

"She is very generous, indeed," answered Beauchamp; "but pray, did she
show any inclination to ascertain my existence!"

"Oh, yes, most eagerly!" replied Mr. Wilkinson. "Come, come, my dear
sir, you must not think that interest in the cousin made her forget
the brother. On the contrary, although she says that she knows you too
well to believe that you would drown yourself--yet--"

"What! did they make it out that I had drowned myself?" cried
Beauchamp. "You did not tell me that before, Mr. Wilkinson!"

"Why, I thought it might hurt your feelings, and only said it now
incautiously," replied the lawyer; "but so indeed it is. They made it
out that you had drowned yourself in the sea near Emberton."

"They made a very great mistake, then," said Beauchamp, biting his
lip. "You need not tell me the causes assigned for the _rash act_, as
the newspapers term such things. I can divine them all, as it suited
each person to put them. The ladies, of course, said it was for love,
and the men said debt or gambling. No, no, I shall never commit
suicide. I laughed so heartily once at a philosopher at Geneva, who
determined to commit suicide in a fit of the spleen, that I am sure I
could not do it, even if I felt inclined. He went down to drown
himself in the lake, and, as it was a rainy day, he carefully took his
umbrella. When he came to the side of the water, however, and began to
put down the umbrella, the absurdity of the whole affair of a man
drowning himself with an umbrella in his hand, suddenly tickled his
fancy to such a degree, that he burst into a fit of laughter, and
turned upon his heel. Meeting him with the tears in his eyes, I soon
joined in his merriment when I heard the story; and the very idea of
suicide is connected with such ludicrous ideas, in my mind, that it
makes me laugh even to think of it.--But you were saying that my uncle
was in town; how does he console himself for my irreparable loss?"

"I have not seen his lordship," answered Mr. Wilkinson; "but every one
agrees that he has felt your supposed death more bitterly than any
event that ever occurred to him through life. Miss Beauchamp will
never give credit to the story of your death; but Lord Ashborough, I
understand, believes it firmly, and of course, I need not tell you,
that he is surrounded already by hundreds of sycophants, eager to
share in the immense wealth which is now, as they believe, without a
direct heir. Under such circumstances, would it not be better to give
his lordship intimation of your existence, as he may perhaps alter his
will, and life is precarious?"

"Not I!" answered Beauchamp, "Not I! The hereditary estates go with
the title, and I shall take no step whatever to secure any thing else.
In fact, I believe that I have contradicted my uncle more frequently
than my sense of respect would have otherwise permitted me to do,
simply because he has two or three hundred thousand pounds to leave,
and I do not choose to be thought a sycophant. I should have been a
very dutiful nephew, indeed, if it had not been for that money; the
more especially, as I know that my good uncle values it so highly
himself, that he can not help thinking I must value it highly too."

"At all events," said Mr. Wilkinson, who, saw that his client was
becoming rather fatigued, and perhaps the more unmanageable from that
circumstance--"At all events, Mr. Beauchamp, before you set out once
more, like the Knight of La Mancha, upon a new sally in search of such
perilous adventures, you must give me fuller powers to act for you,
and fuller instructions, too, as to how I am to act; for good Mr. Tims
has already been hinting at _winding up the affairs of the late Henry
Beauchamp, Esquire_, as he phrases it."

"Indeed!" said Beauchamp, "indeed! Well, I do believe that if there
were an act for hanging rogues, it would ultimately save a vast waste
of hemp upon thieves, and leave honester men in the world after all.
But I must now let you seek repose; and we will talk more of these
matters to-morrow morning, when, if my Galen will suffer me, I will
accompany you to London. For the last ten days I have been like poor
Erminia:--

    'Cibo non prende gia che de suoi mali
     Solo si pasce, e sol di pianto ha sete?'

But I think I have made amends for one evening at least."




CHAPTER XXXII.


Now Mr. Wilkinson, though a very pleasant, gentlemanly man--slightly
inclined to be facetious, but never yielding to that vein farther than
a subdued--one might almost say, internal--smile, at the odd things,
and the absurd things, and the wicked things of this world--was quite
in the wrong in taking it into his head that Maria Beauchamp was in
love with Captain William Delaware. In truth, she was not; though
certainly never were there circumstances more likely to make her
become so. She had only got as far at present as being interested in
the young sailor's fate in the highest degree; perfectly convinced
that he was innocent and injured--thinking him certainly a very
handsome youth--and granting that he was, with all his simplicity, one
of the most agreeable men she had ever seen. The reader may ask if all
this, then, was not love? No, no, no! It was not! There were bricks,
and mortar, and trowels, and hods; but it was not the tower of
Babel--What I mean is, that there were all the materials for love, but
they wanted putting together.

In Lord Ashborough's house, however, with all these prepossessions in
William Delaware's favor, she heard nothing coupled with his name but
pompous censure, or flat and pointless sneers, and she dared not say a
word in his favor. Now this, as it furnished her with a motive for not
only thinking of him from morning till night, but furnished her also
with a legitimate cause for connecting, in the sweet, unanswering
privacy of her own bosom, all those manifold arguments in his favor
which she could have put forth in society, had she not been afraid of
their being controverted, caused imagination, and zeal, and generous
enthusiasm, to labor hard to build up the said bricks and mortar into
the firm and regular structure which Mr. Wilkinson, in his over-hasty
conclusions, imagined to be already built.

However all that may be, it is certain that few people had been more
completely wretched--and she was not a person to be so, without
seeming so too--than Maria Beauchamp, since the business at Ryebury
had taken place, and she yielded to a degree of gloom and despondency
which Lord Ashborough had never before seen her display under any
circumstances. As she never mingled in the conversation regarding
William Delaware, the earl imagined that anxiety and suspense in
regard to the fate of her brother were the causes of her gloom;
and--with the very natural consideration which people generally
display, who, however much grieved they may feel for a time, love to
get over the memory of their dead relations as fast as may be--the
noble earl took every means of removing her state of doubt as fast as
possible, by assuring her, on all occasions, that unquestionably her
brother was dead.

Suddenly a change came over Miss Beauchamp's whole demeanor. Though
she admitted that it was very possible her brother might be dead, yet
she resumed her usual tone of spirits; and instead of being silent in
regard to Captain Delaware, she repelled with contempt the idea of his
guilt whenever it was mentioned, declaring that she felt as much
confidence in his innocence of the murder as she did in her own. All
this surprised Lord Ashborough. The first, indeed, he accounted for
pleasantly enough to himself, declaring that Maria's mind had now
recovered its elasticity, having been relieved from suspense by the
firm conviction which he had taken care to impress upon it that her
brother was dead. He lauded at the same time, be it remarked, his own
wisdom in the course he had pursued, blaming severely those
ill-judging friends who, in such cases, suffer hope to linger on till
it wears itself out. He even ventured on a simile, saying, that it was
like torturing a drowning man by holding out straws to him.

In regard to Miss Beauchamp's extraordinary perversity in defending
the murderer, he declared that he was more puzzled; and one day, after
having remonstrated severely, he related the fact to the worthy Mr.
Tims. That excellent person, however, only decided that it was a
lady's caprice; and with this solution of the enigma his lordship was
forced to rest satisfied.

In the meanwhile, Henry Beauchamp did the most uninteresting thing in
the whole world--namely, he traveled from Calais to Paris; for, with
the exception of Sterne, who carried his own world about with him in
his post-chaise--and a strange mixed world of beauty and deformity it
was--I know no one who has been able to make any thing of the journey
between those two towns, either one way or the other--except, indeed,
the Duke of Guise, in 1558, who made Calais a French town of it.

Henry Beauchamp's journey was somewhat Quixotic, certainly; but the
whole details of his sally serve lamentably to show how the science of
knight-errantry has declined since the occultation of the star of La
Mancha. For a squire he had a Bow-street officer, backed by letters
missive from the Foreign Secretary, and seated upon the rumble of a
dark-green armless chariot, beside a fierce-looking mastiff of a
courier, whom Beauchamp had engaged upon somewhat surer grounds than
those on which Master Harding had been received into his service.
Dapple and Rozinante were converted into four French stallions, of all
sorts and sizes; and instead of mistaking inns for castles, one might
have concluded that the young Englishman mistook them for prisons, so
strenuously did he avoid them by traveling night and day.

As Mr. Wilkinson had stated, an officer had been previously sent to
Paris in pursuit of Captain Delaware; and although it had not been
judged expedient, notwithstanding the information given by Mr.
Beauchamp, to recall him from that search, yet he was directed
vigorously to co-operate with the person now sent to arrest Harding
and his accomplices. Beauchamp, in his inexperience of such matters,
had thought it might be better to follow the culprits by the ports at
which they had landed in France, and which had been clearly
ascertained from Willy Small, the smuggler, and his eldest son, who
had acted as master of the cutter that took them over. The officer
shook the wise head, however, and said, "No, no! Let us go to Paris
first, sir; for that's a place which is sure to draw all rogues to it,
first or last--as a saucer of honey in a shop window catches the
flies. We get at all the passports there, too; and, beside, the mayors
and folks in the country places wouldn't dare to back us in seizing
the men without a government order, and a _John Darm_, as they call
them. When we have searched Paris, let us set off for Cherbourg, and
meet them in the face."

To this reasoning Beauchamp of course yielded; and although some
difficulties occurred on the part of the French government, they were
speedily removed--the passport-office was examined--some of the most
active agents of the French police were employed--and such information
finally obtained as the Bow-street officer thought likely to lead to
the discovery of the whole party, either at Cherbourg or at Caen.
Thither, then, Beauchamp and his attendants of various kinds, now
increased in number to four, turned their steps, making the most
minute inquiries at every point which offered the least chance of
affording information concerning the culprits. Beauchamp, at the same
time, pursued another search, anticipating, with no small eagerness a
meeting with Miss Delaware and her father, who, he concluded must
journey with slow stages, on account of the baronet's health. Strange,
however, to say, that he, and the Bow-street officer, and the French
agent of police, were all equally disappointed. Beauchamp found nobody
that he sought; and his companions, though they laid hands upon the
three personages whose passports and description had excited
suspicion, were surprised and mortified to find that they bore not the
slightest resemblance to those who had carried Mr. Beauchamp off from
Ryebury.

On minute inquiry among the fishermen of the village where the
culprits were said to have landed, the house was at length discovered
in which they had first lodged; and the _aubergiste_ at once declared,
that, understanding the English, language, he had heard them announce
their intention of proceeding to Havre, in order to embark on board
some American trader.

No time was to be lost under such circumstances, as ships were sailing
every day for some transatlantic port or another; and the horses
having been again put to the two carriages which now formed the
cortege, away went Beauchamp and his train for Havre. From Cherbourg
to Havre, running through one-half of the peninsula of Cotentin, is a
long, though not uninteresting journey, to one who has nothing else to
think of. But Beauchamp was in haste to get on. French postillions are
notoriously slow, and Norman postillions notoriously slower. The
steamboat was gone when the party arrived at Honfleur; and, in short,
every thing that nature and art could do to stop them on their way was
done to perfection. At length when they did reach Havre, they found
that one vessel had sailed for America the preceding day, full of
emigrants of all descriptions, and that two others had departed about
four days earlier, each of which, to believe the accounts given of
them, must have been a perfect Noah's Ark.

Beauchamp and the officers lost heart, and even the courier, whose
trade being to run, could not be supposed to object to _battre la
campagne_ in this manner, began to look rueful, under the apprehension
that, if no farther clew could be gained, his occupation would soon be
gone. After every inn had been inspected, every consul consulted,
every shipping-office examined, Beauchamp determined once more to
return to Paris, and thither he accordingly came by way of Rouen,
followed by the posse, who found it not at all disagreeable to eat,
and drink, and sleep at his expense, and be paid for the trouble
thereof over and above.

New researches were immediately commenced; and never did fat-faced
Gibbon bend his rotund cheeks over the pages of infidelity, ancient or
modern, from Arius to Hobbes, with more eagerness to filch or find an
objection or a fault in the blessed faith, whose beginning and end is
glory to God in the highest, and peace and good will toward men, than
did all parties pursue their object of discovering the guilty, in
order, principally, it must be confessed, to exculpate the innocent.
But the search seemed perfectly in vain; and the only conclusion which
to any one could come was, that the murderers had really effected
their escape to America. After nibbling at various surmises and
reports for some time, the officer who had accompanied Beauchamp
declared himself foiled, and took his leave. He who had been sent in
quest of Captain Delaware had abandoned the pursuit for some time; and
Beauchamp was thus left alone to proceed with such inquiries as he
might still have sufficient perseverance to make.

These inquiries, it must be confessed, related principally to Sir
Sidney and Miss Delaware, but here as many difficulties awaited him as
he had met with in the other search; and he was just on the point of
giving up the matter in despair, and returning to London to surprise
his mourning friends, when a circumstance occurred, which, without
throwing the slightest ray of light upon the course which Blanche and
her father had taken, served, at all events, to induce Beauchamp to
remain in Paris for several days longer than he had intended.

The hotel in which he lodged, at the corner of the Rue de la Paix,
unlike most hotels in Paris, had but one staircase; and Beauchamp, who
walked up and down this staircase as seldom as possible, had rarely
the misfortune of meeting many people upon it. The last day but one,
however, of his intended stay, he encountered a lady walking leisurely
up; and, as each moved a little on one side, to suffer the other to
pass, by a sort of semi-rotation of each upon the axis, their faces
came opposite to one another, and Beauchamp recognized Mrs.
Darlington, while she paid him the same compliment.

"Good gracious, Mr. Burrel!" she exclaimed, much more surprised than
was at all proper--"or Mr. Beauchamp, am I to call you; for the people
tell me, that the Mr. Burrel I had the pleasure of knowing, was known
to others under the name of Beauchamp. But under whatever name you
choose, I am most happy to see you; for all your good friends in
England told me you were dead."

"They have done me too much honor, in every respect, my dear madam,"
replied Beauchamp. "Those the gods love, you know, die young. But
though I must plead guilty to having deceived you, by calling myself
names far different from my own, yet believe me, when I assure you,
that I had no hand in my own death. That was entirely arranged by my
friends and relations--though I doubt not, when I go back to England,
the public prosecutor will think fit to arraign me for _felo-de-se_,
with as much justice as the coroner's jury returned a verdict of
murder against poor William Delaware."

"Ah, that was a terrible business!" replied Mrs. Darlington. A
terrible business, indeed, poor young man! and I should like to talk
it over with you, Mr. Beauchamp--but I dare say that was your carriage
waiting, and I will not keep you now; but if you will return at
half-past six, and dine with me and the Abbé de ----, who is as deaf
as a pug-dog, I will tell you a curious circumstance which has
occurred to me since I came here--not about the Delawares, indeed,
poor people, but about something that happened just at the same time.

Now every thing that happened at that time was more or less a matter
of interest to Henry Beauchamp; and therefore he willingly agreed to
dine and hear, according to invitation. A few minutes after the
appointed time, he was in the saloon of Madame Darlington's
apartments, where he found that lady, with a worthy ex-émigré
Abbé--the very sort of man who could dine with a widow lady of any age
without scandal.

Beauchamp fully understood the _beinseance_ of never being curious
about any thing, and therefore he listened to all Mrs. Darlington's
reasons for being in Paris--how London was of course out of the
question in October--how the house she had hired near Emberton had
turned out as damp as a fen, and smelled of a wet dog from the garret
to the kitchen--how Paris always afforded variety, &c.--without
showing the slightest inclination to inquire into the occurrence she
had mentioned in the morning. Dinner was announced, and was as
_recherche_ in France as if it had been at Emberton; but not a word
took place concerning the _occurrence_, Mrs. Darlington spending all
the leisure moments in marveling that Mr. Beauchamp and herself could
have remained in the same house for four days without discovering
their proximity. After dinner, Beauchamp's _beinseance_ began to get
tired, and probably would have broken down entirely, had he not
fortunately happened to take up a very beautiful eye-glass set with
emeralds, in the French fashion, which lay upon the table in the
saloon.

"Oh, dear, that puts me in mind, Mr. Beauchamp!" cried Mrs.
Darlington. "It is strange enough; I have twice bought that eye-glass
in this very town. Once two days, and once eighteen months ago. That
is the very thing I wished to tell you about. You remember when you
did me the favor of dining with me at Emberton; my house was burned
down--."

"Var shocken, indeed!" cried the Abbé, who piqued himself on speaking
English. "Terrible shocken great!"

"Well," continued Mrs. Darlington, "that very evening, I left that
eye-glass upon the table in the drawing-room; and you remember, I dare
say, that I lost all my plate and jewels--indeed, the loss of various
things was incalculable--but, however, that glass was among the rest;
and as it was a sort of pet, I went into a shop the other day to see
if I could find any thing like it. Well, the jeweler finding out I was
English--though how he did so, I am sure I do not know, for I believe
I speak French tolerably--"

"Oh, var excellent much!" said the Abbé, who was listening with his
most acute ear bent subserviently to Mrs. Darlington's story. "As one
Frenchwoman."

Mrs. Darlington smiled, nodded, and went on. "Well, the man found out
that I was an Englishwoman--by the carriage, I suppose; and would talk
nothing but English all the time, though he spoke it badly enough. On
my describing what I wanted, he said that he had got the very thing;
fresh arrived from England three days before. I told him that what I
wanted was French; he declared that I must be mistaken, and produced
my own eye-glass, with I. D., Isabella Darlington" ("What pretty
name!" cried the Abbé) "on the medallion. I bought it, as you see, and
the jeweler assured me that he had purchased it three days before from
an English gentleman with black hair and large whiskers."

"Although the description is very exact," answered Beauchamp, smiling,
"I can assure you, my dear madam, that I was not the thief--but as it
has long struck me that there has been something very mysterious
indeed in the whole business of the fire at your house, I should like
much to know the name of the jeweler; and if you will favor me with
it, will delay my departure for a day or two, in order to make farther
inquiries."

Mrs. Darlington thanked Beauchamp warmly for the interest he took in
the matter; and the address being given and put down, the young
Englishman declared he would go that night and take the first steps
toward investigating the business fully. Accordingly taking his leave,
he sauntered out into the Place Vendome, and thence into one of the
principal streets in the neighborhood of the Tuileries, where,
entering the shop of the jeweler, he bought some trifling article, as
a fair excuse for indulging in that sort of gossip which he thought
most likely to elicit some facts.

The Frenchman was exactly the sort of person with whom one would
desire to gossip. He was even more urbane than the editor of the
Gentleman's Magazine, fond of a little conversation on any
subject--love, war, or politics--with those who came to buy his
nick-nacks, and had his small fund of wit, of sentiment, and of
anecdotism--not more of either than would have lain conveniently in a
vinaigrette, yet quite sufficient to give piquancy to his vivacious
nothings. Beauchamp soon led him to the subject of Mrs. Darlington's
eye-glass; but he quitted it in a moment, declaring that it was a
droll occurrence, but nothing to what had happened since.

He always had Galignani's Messenger on his counter, he said, to amuse
the English gentlemen who dealt with him; and the other night, as he
was sitting alone, a _beau jeune homme_ who had been there once
before, came in to offer him some other articles for sale. "While I
was examining what the stranger brought," continued the jeweler, "the
young Englishman took up the newspaper, and then suddenly laid it
down, but after a moment or two, he took it up again; and then I saw
that he had just lighted upon the horrible murder, that has been
lately committed in your country by a captain in the navy. Well, sir,
when I looked in his face, he had turned as pale as a table-cloth, and
was so agitated that I should have thought that he was the assassin
himself, had he not been too young to be a captain in your navy. He
read it out every word, however, though I could clearly see that he
was very much disturbed, and I am sure that he was some relation
either of the man who was killed, or of the murderer."

"How old was he?" demanded Beauchamp, remembering the extreme
youthfulness of Captain Delaware's appearance.

"Oh, he could not be twenty?" answered the jeweler. "He was very fair,
too, with fine light hair, tall, and well made too. Do you think it
could be the assassin, monsieur?"

"Certainly not!" replied Beauchamp; who, though morally convinced that
it was Captain Delaware whom the jeweler had seen, was still more
convinced that he had nothing to do with the murder. "The man who
committed this crime is quite a different person; I know the gentleman
who has been here, as you describe, and I wish much to see him. Have
you any idea of his address?"

"None whatever, sir!" replied the jeweler; "but I dare say he will be
here again soon; for I bought the bijoux he had to sell, and he said
that he had more, and would return."

"Well, it is of no great consequence," replied Beauchamp, assuming as
much indifference as possible; "but in case he does come, be so good
as to tell him that Mr. Henry Burrel is at the Hotel de ----, Rue de
la Paix; and would be very glad to see him. Tell him also that I shall
be at home and _alone_ on every evening during the week, from the hour
of seven till the hour of ten."

The jeweler promised to deliver the message punctually; and, to guard
against all mistakes, Beauchamp put down in writing his assumed name,
and the number of his apartments in the hotel. He then--to do full
justice to Mrs. Darlington's business--tried to bring the jeweler back
to the story of the eye-glass; but it was all in vain. The man was
like one of those birds whose correct ornithological name I do not
know, but which boys call water-wagtails, and which go hopping from
stone to stone, pausing lightly balanced on each for a moment, and
then springing on to another, without ever returning to the same. It
was in vain Beauchamp tried to elicit any farther information; he
skipped on from subject to subject, and nothing farther could be made
of him.

Tired of the endeavor, the young Englishman at length rose and
returned to his hotel, bidding the man send the trinkets he had
bought. He there reported his ill success to Mrs. Darlington; and
taking measures to guard against intrusion at the hour he had promised
to be alone on the following nights, he waited anxiously for Captain
Delaware's coming, with that degree of uncertainty--as to whether the
young officer would ever revisit the jeweler, and whether he would
come even if he did receive the message--which Beauchamp could not
endure with that feeling, or rather assumption, of indifference, with
which he sometimes cheated himself.

From seven till ten on the two following nights, he paced his little
saloon with a degree of anxiety which he had hardly ever felt before.
Every step upon the stairs caught his ear--every voice in the
ante-room, where he had placed his own servant on guard, made him
pause and listen; but it was all in vain; and on both nights he heard
ten, and even eleven, strike before he abandoned the consolatory
reflection that clocks might differ, and that the object of his
expectation might still appear.

As he now felt certain, however, that William Delaware was in the same
city with himself, he resolved to wait on in Paris; and, if the
message he had left proved vain, to endeavor once more to discover his
dwelling by other means.




CHAPTER XXXIII.


Henry Beauchamp was, beyond all doubt, by nature an impatient man;
but, for the first five-and twenty years of his life, his impatience
had found so little in his state or situation whereon to work, that it
had gone lame for want of exercise. Nature--notwithstanding Locke--had
given him a store of noble feelings, and education had added thereto a
store of good principles; and, with all this to guard him against evil
desires, he had found little in the world to wish for that his fortune
or influence had not enabled him to obtain with ease: thus he was only
now beginning to find matters whereon to exercise the virtue of
patience.

On the third day after his visit to the jeweler's, he began to find
that his stock was nearly exhausted, and likewise to contemplate
paying another visit to the shop where he had first obtained this
clew, as he hoped it would prove, for discovering the residence of
William Delaware. Indeed, he would have pursued that course at once,
had he not feared that his anxiety on the subject might excite
suspicion, and cause some annoyance to the object of his search. This
reflection, though it did not keep him from going near the jeweler's
house more than once in the course of the day, did prevent him from
venturing into it.

His equanimity, however, was gone; and, whether it arose from his late
attack of fever, or from the air of Paris in the first days of
November, or from disappointment and vexation, I can not tell; but
certain it is, he viewed every thing on the darkest side, and began to
revolve the prospect of losing Blanche Delaware forever, just at the
moment that he had found new hopes of having her heart in his favor.

The consolatory process of dining did nothing for him; and, as seven
o'clock chimed on the third day, the whole array of dinner was
removed, the courier stationed as before in the ante-room, with strict
orders given to admit no one but the person described; and, as soon as
he was admitted, to retire, and leave his master, and the stranger
alone. Eight o'clock came, Beauchamp ordered coffee, and took a book;
but, though he gazed with an involuntary smile upon the grotesque
drawings stitched into the _Roi de Boheme_, no word could he read of
the letter-press. He tried the eloquent nonsense of Chateaubriand, but
it was as unpalatable as the satirical nonsense of Nodier; and,
casting away the books, he gave the matter up in despair, abandoning
himself to the contemplation of the pictures in the wood fire.

At length the door of the ante-room was heard to open, and the voice
of some one speaking to the courier reached Beauchamp's ear; but the
door shut again, the intruder descended the stairs, and all was silent
once more. The moment after, however, the same sounds were repeated;
the door of the saloon also was thrown wide by the servant, who
uttered, at the same time, the pleasant words of, "Here is the
gentleman you expected, sir!"

Beauchamp started up as the visitor entered; but what was his surprise
to see--not the features of Captain Delaware, but those of Walter
Harrison, or Sailor Wat, as he had been called at Emberton, and who
was certainly too nearly connected with one part at least of his long
and hitherto unsuccessful search to be beheld without emotion.
Beauchamp and the young sailor gazed at each other for a moment
without speaking; and even the courier--doubtful, from the
astonishment evident in his master's countenance, whether he had
admitted the right person--stood at the door for a moment, and stared
at them both in turn.

He soon received a sign, however, to depart; and, closing the door, he
left Beauchamp and the sailor alone.

"This is a strange visit, certainly!" said Beauchamp, flinging himself
into a chair, and gazing in some perplexity upon the countenance of
Wat Harrison, which was pale, worn, and haggard, in a frightful
degree. "This is a strange visit enough, certainly!"

"You have sought me, Mr. Burrel," said the young sailor, in a tone of
calm determination; "and now you seem surprised to see me! What is the
meaning of this?"

"I have certainly sought you, sir," said Beauchamp, not yet having
caught the right end of the clew; "but, most assuredly, I little
thought you would present yourself uncompelled--are you aware that
this visit is dangerous to you?"

"Not a whit!" said Wat Harrison, boldly; "and I do not care a d--n if
it were; but I say, not a whit! You are not a man, sir, to ask me here
in order to betray me. I knew that well enough before I came."

Beauchamp now, for the first time, perceived the mistake. The young
sailor, well dressed, and offering the external appearance of a
gentleman, had gained that appellation from the jeweler, the mind of
whose hearer, already filled with idea of Captain Delaware, had at
once become impressed with the notion that the person described was no
other than that officer. The height and the fair complexion had aided
the rest of the circumstances; and Beauchamp now found that he had
invited the visit of one of the murderers of the unhappy miser of
Ryebury, in such a manner as to preclude him from taking advantage of
his coming, to cause his apprehension. He hesitated, indeed, for he
felt that perhaps the duty of bringing the culprit to justice should
be paramount; but the word honor, so often falsely construed, was so
even with Beauchamp, and he could not bring himself to do that which
his conscience told him he ought to do. Although the contest between
reason and prejudice was severe, yet he was not long in forming his
determination; and rising again, after a moment's thought, he said,
"Young man, your coming here has originated in a mistake. From the
description given by the person who sent you, I thought he spoke of
Captain Delaware, when he really alluded to yourself; but as the
mistake was mine, not yours, I will not take advantage of it to give
you up to justice. Nevertheless, remember that I am not ignorant of
your crime; and that, although I suffer you to depart from this house,
and will give you time to seek your place of concealment, yet I hold
myself bound to give notice to the Parisian police--who have orders
from the government to aid in arresting you and your accomplices--that
you are within the walls of Paris, and that, therefore, if you escape,
it is their fault."

"It will not be so easy to arrest me, Mr. Burrel," answered the young
man, in the same calm tone in which he had spoken before. "It will not
be so easy to arrest me, unless I like it myself. So you sent for me
by mistake? Well, I had hoped that there was one man on earth that
knew how to work me properly--but no matter--no matter! And you took
me for Captain Delaware, did you? God bless him, wherever he is, for a
noble gentleman and a gallant officer! So, they tell me they have
accused him of the murder, and made him fly his country, and that
he is to be dismissed his majesty's service;" and as he spoke, the
calm tone was lost, and he was evidently working himself up to a pitch
of excessive fury--"And if he is taken he is to be tried," he
continued--"and there is already a coroner's verdict against him--and
that he will be hanged to a certainty--and that his good name is
already blasted forever--and that poor Miss Blanche will weep her
heart out for him--and poor old Sir Sidney will die of grief for his
son's fate--and all for a crime that he did not commit--and, d--n your
eyes, do you think I am going to stand all that! No, never, by--!
Weren't they kind to me when never a soul was kind to me in all the
world? and didn't they stand by me when every soul abandoned me? And
am I going to see them all go to ruin and to misery, because I myself
and that black villain have brought damnation upon my own head? No,
no, never you think that! Why, it was bad enough before--and every
time I thought upon their going and murdering the poor old man, while
I kept watch in the passage, I was ready to go and give myself up, and
beg them to hang me out of the way, that I might think no more of
it--but now--now that I find all that it has done besides, d--me if I
would not hang forty such fellows as that, rather than that the
captain should come to ill by it!"

From this confused speech, which Beauchamp listened to with eager
attention, though certainly not without some surprise, he learned all
that the judicious reader has already discovered, of what was passing
in the mind of poor Walter Harrison. He saw, in short, that remorse
had done its work; and that the fact of the crime in which he had
taken part, having brought down such misfortunes on the family who had
been his benefactors, had carried remorse to its natural climax of
despair. It was evident, too, that his remorse was of that purer kind
which is kindred to repentance, and that, at all events, he
contemplated atonement; and Beauchamp felt confident that, by proper
management, full and satisfactory evidence might now be procured of
the facts necessary to exculpate William Delaware completely. He saw,
however, at the same time, that the spirit with which he had to
deal--wild, wayward, and violent--would require most skillful
treatment to bring it to the point he had in view.

"You are heated!" he said, "Walter Harisson; but if I understand you
right, there is still a hope, through your means, of saving William
Delaware from all the evils that you have brought upon him."

"Hear me, sir--hear me!" replied the young sailor. "Only tell me what
is necessary to save him--and if you bid me hang a slip-knot to the
yard-arm, then put my neck in it, and cast myself off, I'll do it."

"I take you at your word," said Beauchamp. "There is but one way to
clear him--but one way to restore him to that clear and honorable
character which he always maintained in life, notwithstanding
poverty."

"Ay, there it is! there it is!" cried the young man "clear and
honorable, and yet poor--as poor for his rank as I was for mine--ay,
and I might have a clear and honorable name, too--but never
mind--never mind--it is all coming to an end soon!" And casting
himself down in a chair, he pressed his hands over his eyes.

"You lose your self-command, Walter," said Beauchamp. "Be calm, and
let us speak over this business rationally."

"Calm! calm!" cried the young sailor; starting up. "How the devil
would you have me calm, when you are speaking of things that are
burning in my heart like coals of fire? How can I be calm?"

"You came here," said Beauchamp, somewhat sternly, "with a fixed
determination, I suppose, of some kind--either intending to do right
or to do wrong--to make the only reparation that you can for the
crimes you have committed, by delivering your benefactor from the
consequences of your errors--or boldly to deny what you have
committed. If you intend to do right, the first noble and generous
determination that you have formed for long, should teach you to
execute your purpose with the calmness and fortitude of a man."

"You say true, sir--you say true!" replied the youth, in a tone of
deep melancholy. "You always say true; and if I had attended to what
you told me when you brought me home from the fire that night, I
should not have felt as I do now--but there is no use of talking of
that--I did come here with the intention of doing right; and I will do
right, if you will tell me how. What I want to do, is to clear the
captain of every thing, and make it so plain that he never had any
hand in the bad business, that even those old devils at Emberton shall
have nothing to say. You were going to tell me the way when I stopped
you. Now, I will stick at nothing, either on my own account, or that
of others--for as to that accursed ruffian who entrapped me into the
business, I have had many a black thought, when he sneers at me
because I am sorry, to finish him myself."

"Your only way, then, to make the reparation you propose," replied
Beauchamp, "is to give such information as may lead to the
apprehension and conviction of the men who actually committed the
murder--for, from what you have said, I am led to believe that you had
no absolute share in the deed itself."

"No, no! None, none!" cried the young man, rapidly. "I did not know
they were going to do it--they had promised me, with the most solemn
oaths, not to hurt a hair of his head, and I knew nothing of it till
it was all over."

"Well, then," answered Beauchamp, "if that be the case, you will not
only be enabled to make, as I said before, the only reparation in your
power for the ill you have done, but you will entirely clear Captain
Delaware, and yet run no danger yourself; for in his Majesty's
proclamation on the subject, I find that a free pardon is promised
to any one of the parties--with the exception of the actual
murderers--who will bring his accomplices to justice. So that your
life is safe."

"I care nothing about my life!" cried the young man, relapsing into
impetuosity. "What the devil, do you think I am going to turn a
pitiful king's evidence, and make a bargain for my own neck, while I
am hanging my fellows? No, no! I will tell all that I know--I will go
along with them, and be tried with them, and hanged with them too, for
that matter--I care not--if I am alive on the execution day. But I
will make no bargains about my life--none--none--my days are numbered,
Mr. Burrel!" He added, more calmly, "My days are numbered; and the
last may come when it will--I will shake hands with it when it does.
There is only one bargain I will make, and that I know you will grant
me; for you were one of the few that were kind--it is about my poor
mother I am talking. She has had sorrows enough, sir, and she shall
only have one more for me; so, when I am dead, I hope you will promise
to take care of her, and let her have enough--if the job do not kill
her, which likely it may, too; and that is the worst of it all; but,
however, I have made up my mind, do you see, and so you must promise
me, that she shall have the old cottage and forty pounds a year to
live on; and if nobody else gives it, you must."

"Most willingly will I do it, upon my honor," replied Beauchamp.

"That is enough, sir! Quite enough!" continued the young sailor. "You
and I, Mr. Burrel, are quits in some things--you saved my life once;
and I can tell you, that if it had not been for me on that horrible
night, you would either have been left with your throat cut at the
door of the house, or have gone overboard, and to the bottom, as we
sailed along."

"I imagined that such was the case," answered Beauchamp; "and all
these things tell so much in your favor, that I can not understand how
you could suffer yourself to be led into such a crime as that which
you have committed."

"I tell you, sir, I had nothing to do with it," cried the young man.
"If I had been present, they should not have hurt a hair of his
head--they knew that well enough, and therefore they left me below to
keep watch. As to the robbery, that I did consent to; and that was bad
enough, too--but then, that Harding had the tongue of the devil
himself, to persuade one. He got round me when I was ill--he taught me
to believe that all riches ought to be in common, and that no man
should be wealthy, while another man was poor; and then he told me,
that to take the money which the old miser made no use of, and left
rotting in his chests, could be no harm; and then he harped upon my
mother's poverty and misery, and made things ten times worse than they
were; so at length I consented, on condition that he would promise not
to hurt the old man. Well, even then, when he came down all bloody,
and I saw too well that they had killed him, I do think that I should
have either shot him for deceiving me, or should have gone and given
him up, as he deserved, but I saw that he felt what he had done
himself, and there was something so awful about him just at that
moment, that I do not well know why or how, but he got the mastery of
me, and I did what he liked, till it came to killing you, which the
woman wanted us to do, as you lay stunned at the door. Then my spirit
got up again, and I was master of them all till we came over here. But
now he has forgotten all that he seemed to feel then--that Harding, I
mean--and he talks about it quietly, and sneers and laughs, and looks
coolly at me, while he is speaking of things that would make one's
blood run cold--and he persuades himself that it is all right."

The strong excitement under which the young sailor labored afforded
Beauchamp every means of drawing from him the whole details of the
murder, and the events that followed; and he found that the crime, at
least as far as he robbery went, had been concerted long before it was
perpetrated. The moment for executing their plan had always been
postponed by Harding himself, who had assured his accomplices, that a
large sum of money, which he knew was to be paid into the miser's
hands, and not yet been received; and Beauchamp easily divined that
the murderer had alluded to the sum he himself had drawn for, through
the instrumentality of the unhappy money-lender. So completely
organized had been the whole design, that a French cutter, engaged by
young Harrison, had actually lain upon the coast for several days, in
order to carry the three culprits to Havre, whence they were instantly
to embark for America. The master of the vessel, however, tired of
waiting, had at length left the coast on the very night that the
murder was committed; and the only means of escape that the four
accomplices found when they reached the beach, was the boat which the
young sailor had provided, with money furnished by Harding, for the
purpose of conveying them from the shore to the ship, without the
necessity of making signals, which might have betrayed them. The woman
had, indeed, nearly brought the coast-guard upon them, by accidentally
falling into the sea as they embarked, and screaming for help; but,
nevertheless, they got her into the boat, and pushed off before any
one came up. On their arrival in France, the young man added, they had
taken, under Harding's directions, those measures of precaution which
had baffled Beauchamp and the officers in their pursuit, and had at
length arrived in Paris, where he, who might be considered as their
leader, had boasted that he could lie concealed if all the police of
France and England were set upon his track. Here he proposed to sell a
variety of different articles of jewelry and plate, which he and his
companion had contrived to bring with them, and then to take ship for
the land of Columbus, as they originally had proposed. Harding, the
young sailor said, had soon lost all appearance of that remorse which
he had felt at first; but he described him at the same time as living
in a state of reckless debauchery and excitement, from which Beauchamp
argued that the never-dying worm was still tremendously alive within
his 'bosom. He drank deep, Walter Harrison added, without getting
drunk. The woman whom he had brought with him, and had before seduced,
he treated with contempt and cruelty. He gamed, also, continually, in
the lower and more brutal resorts of Parisian blacklegs and madmen;
and, gratifying every passion to excess, it was evident that he was
striving to drown the voice of remorse in a tide of gross and eager
licentiousness.

"It is a fearful picture," said Beauchamp. "But now tell me how and
when we can bring this atrocious villain to punishment. You, my poor
young man, he has misled and betrayed; and I do not even know that his
crime toward you is not of a deeper die than that which he committed
on the person of the wretched old man at Ryebury. He could but kill
the body of the one--"

"Ay, and of the other," interrupted the young sailor, "he has
condemned the immortal soul!"

"I hope not! I hope not!" said Beauchamp. "Life is still before you,
if you choose to live; and I know of no circumstances in which life is
so inestimably valuable to man, as when he has been greatly criminal;
for every year that he remains here may, if he will, be filled with
the golden moments of repentance. But once more, how can we apprehend
this villain?"

"Ay, he is a villain!" answered the young sailor; "if ever there lived
one, he is the man;" and he was proceeding again to stray from the
subject, when Beauchamp recalled him to it, and mentioned the
necessity there would be of applying to the French police; but at the
very idea the other started wild away.

"No, no, no!" he cried, "that will not do. He's a brave man, though he
be a ruffian; and he shall never say that I took odds against him,
because I was afraid of him one to one."

"Then how do you propose to act?" demanded Beauchamp, in some
astonishment. "This man must be taken, and brought to punishment, if
you would keep your word with me, and clear the character of William
Delaware."

The young man mused sullenly for several minutes, merely muttering,
"He shall--he shall be taken. Hark you, Mr. Burrel," he said at
length, looking up boldly and steadfastly, "you are a brave man. I
have seen you do brave things. Now, there is this Harding and another;
and here are you and I--that is two to two, and fair play. If you
choose to go with me to-morrow night, I will take you to where those
two are alone; and if we do not take them, and tie them hand and foot,
it is our fault; but d--me if I take odds against them."

The proposal was certainly as strange a one as ever was made, and as
unpleasant a one as could have been addressed to Henry Beauchamp. I
have said before that he was naturally fearless; and, consequently,
did not see one-half of the dangers in any thing proposed that most
other people would have done; but, at the same time, he had not the
slightest inclination to run himself into scrapes of any kind without
necessity; and he could not help perceiving that the business was at
once a perilous one, and one which might be much better performed
without his interference. In the next place, he did not think the
occupation particularly dignified or becoming; and thirdly, he did not
at all like the eclat it would produce, and felt most exquisitely
annoyed at the very idea of the romantic interest of the story, as it
would figure in all the newspapers, and be told in all the coteries.
It was quite enough, he thought, to have been made to drown himself
for the amusement of the public; and certainly something too much, to
be obliged to apprehend two murderers, _vi et armis_, without any
cause or necessity whatever.

"Well, sir, will you do it?" demanded the young sailor, seeing that he
paused upon his proposal.

"Why, I think not," answered Beauchamp.

"D--me, then!" cried the other; but Beauchamp interrupted him, in that
commanding tone which no one knew better how to assume.

"Hush, sir! hush!" he said. "You forget yourself, and who you are
speaking to. Call not down in words those curses which I trust that
your present and your future actions may avert, however much the past
may have merited them. In regard to your proposal--in the first place,
I am not a thief-taker; and consequently the task does not become me.
In the next place, by the plan you suggest, the great object I have in
view is likely to be defeated--I mean the bringing these men to
justice, in order to clear Captain Delaware. Suppose, for instance,
that by any accident we should be overpowered by them, we lose his
only hope; and even if we overpower them, having no legal authority to
do so, any one who happens to be near may give them such aid and
assistance as will enable them to escape, and foil us entirely."

"I will tell you what sir," said the young man, sullenly; "I'll go
some length, but I will not go all. To prevent them getting away any
how, you may put the police round the house, if you like--but only you
and I shall go in upon them; for I will not take odds against them any
how; and if you are afraid to go, why--"

"I am not afraid to do any thing, sir!" replied Beauchamp. "And though
it is not at all necessary, and though perhaps it may be foolish of me
to do it--yet, rather than loose any evidence in favor of Captain
Delaware, I will do what you propose; that is to say, I will go in
with you alone, in order to master these two men, if we can: but it
shall be on condition that the agents of the police be stationed round
the house, in such a manner as to prevent their escape, whether we
succeed or fail."

"That is what I say," replied the young sailor. "Let us have a bout
with them, two to two fairly; and then, if they kill us, why, there
will be still men around the house to take them."

"I had forgot," answered Beauchamp, "that, as you say, we may be both
killed in this business; and if you should be killed, pray, what
evidence is there to convict either of these men! If you really intend
to do what you have promised, it will behove you to make a full and
complete declaration of the whole facts, and sign them before two or
three persons, previous to entering upon this undertaking."

Walter Harrison paused and thought, and Beauchamp urged him strongly
to take the precaution he proposed; but he did not succeed. "No," said
the young sailor, at length; "No! I will put it all down in my own
handwriting, which can be well enough proved by the ship's books, and
I will sign it with my name, and I'll give it to you to-morrow night;
but I'll not go it all over again before any one else, till I tell it
all for the last time--there, don't say any more; for I won't do it--I
don't like this police business either; but I suppose it must be
done--so, now I will go. You will find me, to-morrow night, at ten
o'clock, opposite that jeweler's shop. I will not fail you, upon my
honor;" and so saying, he walked toward the door. Ere he had reached
it, however, he turned, and coming nearer, he said, "Mr. Burrel, I
trust to your honor, that when you have got me there with the police,
you will not let them go into the house with us--mind, two to two is
fair play. He shall never say that I brought odds against him!"

"I have given you my word," said Beauchamp, "and I will certainly keep
it."

"Well, then, good night, sir!" replied the young man, and opening the
door, he passed out into the ante-room; but ere he had taken two steps
beyond the threshold, he again returned to bid Beauchamp bring his
pistols with him. "He always has his in his pockets," he said, "so it
would be unfair that you should be without."

"I will take care to come prepared," replied Beauchamp, and his
visitor once more left the room. He paused a moment in the ante-room,
and hesitated as if he had something more to say, but the instant
after he quitted the apartments, and was heard descending the stairs
with a rapid step.




CHAPTER XXXIV.


"Well!" thought Beauchamp, when the young sailor was gone--"Well, this
is a stupid business enough; and I certainly shall not particularly
like being shot for this young rascal's whim; but it can not be
helped, and my will being made, it is not so troublesome as it might
otherwise have proved. At all events, dear Blanche, I am periling
somewhat to fulfill your request, and clear your brother's name and
character."

It is wonderful how much this last thought reconciled Henry Beauchamp
to an undertaking which he had before looked upon as absurd, and in
some sort degrading. Such little collateral associations are strange
conjurors; and as Beauchamp thought over the whole matter, and mingled
up the idea of Blanche Delaware with every particular which he had
before considered in the abstract only, his expedition became bright
and chivalrous, and he lay down to sleep, anxious for the coming
morning.

The first eight hours after Beauchamp rose, on the following day, were
devoted to securing the assistance of the French police, in the
undertaking in which he was about to engage; and although this time
may appear long, yet every moment of it was employed in removing the
many difficulties which, with wise precaution, the French government
throw in the way of the arrest of aliens, for crimes committed in a
different country.

The previous proceedings, although they had smoothed the way, had not
entirely removed all obstacles; and the young Englishman, though
backed by the influence of the whole of the English diplomatic agents
at Paris, found the time barely sufficient to accomplish the necessary
arrangements.

The dull official forms must, of course, have no place here; and it is
only necessary to say that, after the necessary orders were given, the
French officers of police shrugged up their shoulders at the plan
which Beauchamp was obliged to propose in conformity with his
engagement to Walter Harrison, declared that Monsieur was perfectly
welcome to take the first brunt of the business upon himself, and
promised to meet him at the rendezvous a little before the time which
the young sailor had named.

All this being at length settled, Beauchamp returned to his hotel,
dined, loaded his pistols, took one glass of wine less than usual, for
fear of embarrassing his hand, and then sat waiting impatiently for
the appointed hour. By the time it arrived, the sky had got out of
humor, and it was raining furiously; but still there were a great many
Parisians afoot, all pattering along under their pink umbrellas, as
merry as crickets; and many a tender salutation did Beauchamp receive,
in his way to the house of the jeweler.

He reached the street a few minutes before the time; but the police
were at their post, and he found that six powerful men were in
readiness to back his exertions. Walter Harrison, had not appeared,
and a quarter of an hour elapsed without any sign of his keeping the
appointment he had made. The chief of the French police hinted
broadly, that beyond doubt he had deceived the English gentleman; and
Beauchamp himself began to suspect that the young culprit had repented
of his promise.

Before another minute had elapsed, however, the tall, athletic form of
the widow's son was seen coming quickly along on the other side of the
street, and Beauchamp instantly crossed over and spoke to him.

"All is right, sir," said the sailor. "They are both at home, and even
now are engaged in pigeoning a young greenhorn, whom they have
inveigled to play with them. If they do not get his money that way, I
should not wonder if they cut his throat--so, come along, and let us
make haste."

"I am ready," said Beauchamp; "but you promised to write down--"

"Ay, ay! there it is," said the young man, putting a paper into his
hand. "Give it to one of those fellows who are of the police, I
suppose--but make haste, and come along; for if they do not get the
poor lad's money by fair means they will by foul. I heard them talk
about throwing something into the Seine, and getting a sack ready--and
I do not like such words from such folks--"

"Nor I!" replied Beauchamp; "nor I! You walk on, and we will follow;"
and crossing over to the other party, he gave the paper he had
received to the commissary who headed them, and then followed as fast
as possible upon the steps of the young sailor. Walter Harrison
advanced rapidly; and, passing up one of the short streets that lead
from the Rue de Rivoli into the Rue St. Honoré, he turned to the right
in the latter, and then made his way to one of the smaller streets in
the neighborhood of the Rue St. Anne. At length he stopped; and,
pointing forward to a house of respectable size and appearance--"That
is the house," he said; "if these fellows halt in the passage, they
are sure not to lose their game, for there is no back entrance."

Beauchamp explained to the leader of the party the words of the young
sailor, and they now drew near the house in a body, keeping profound
silence. The men were then carefully stationed round the door; and
Beauchamp, with one pistol in his hand, and the other thrust into his
bosom, between his coat and waistcoat, followed his guide into the
house, the door of which, as is frequent in Paris, stood open as a
common entrance to all the different floors.

It were in vain to say that Beauchamp felt no sort of anxiety. The
very excitement of the whole business made his heart beat with a
quicker pulse than usual; and he listened eagerly, as they ascended
the stairs, for any sound that might announce their proximity to the
chamber of the murderers. He was not long kept in expectation. At the
first door they reached, after passing the _entresol_, the young
sailor paused, and rang the bell twice.

As soon as ever he had done so, he whispered to Beauchamp, "I will
take this one, whoever it is, that opens the door. You run on, and
secure the other in the room beyond. I will follow in a minute."

Almost as he spoke, the door was thrown open, and the coarse face of
Tony Smithson, the man who had gone down with him in the stage-coach
to Emberton, was exposed to Beauchamp's sight. He had a light in his
hand, and the moment he saw that there were two men on the stairs, he
would have started back, and retreated; but the young sailor sprang
upon him at once, grappled with him tight, and in an instant both
rolled together on the floor of the little ante-room. Beauchamp rushed
forward to a door which was standing ajar on the other side of the
chamber, and whence there issued forth an intolerable smell of
brandy-punch, together with the sounds of laughter. He reached it in a
moment, but not before the noise of the struggle without had caught
the ears of the tenants of the room; for when Beauchamp flung the door
wide open, he found the murderer Harding already, with a pistol in
each hand, retreating into one corner of the room, from a table
covered with bottles, glasses, and bowls, cards, dice, and markers;
while the unfortunate wretch, whom we have already seen as the dirty
maid of the old miser at Ryebury, now tricked out in all the gay
smartness of Parisian costume, stood by the table, with sudden terror
and agony in her countenance. The moment her eyes rested on
Beauchamp's face, she saw that her fate was sealed, and with a loud
scream, she fell, fainting, by the table. Harding, however, with
scowling determination in his brow, placed his back in the corner, and
pointed the pistol he held directly toward his former master.

Beauchamp paused, and leveled his own weapon at the villain's head,
exclaiming sternly, but coolly, "Throw down your arms, sir! You know I
never miss my aim!"

Harding paused for a moment, slightly dropping the point of his
pistol; and Beauchamp, as they stood face to face, at the distance of
half a dozen yards, could see the corners of his mouth draw gradually
down, into a sort of sneering smile. The next instant he replied, "I
know you never miss your aim. I do; and therefore, this is the best
use I can make of my bullet," and he rapidly turned the pistol toward
his own head.

Beauchamp heard the lock click as the murderer raised the weapon, and
seeing than the clear exculpation of William Delaware, which would be
gained by the trial of the real culprit, might be lost by the act
about to be committed, he brought the muzzle of his own pistol
slightly round, and pulled the trigger. The report rang through the
room, and the arm that Harding was raising against his own life, fell
powerless by his side. A slight cry of pain escaped from his lips at
the same moment, but the fury that the wound stirred up flashed forth
from his eyes; and, with the other pistol in his left hand, he rushed
forward upon Beauchamp, coolly calculating, even at that terrible
moment, that from the unsteadiness of his left hand, he could not
revenge himself as he wished, unless he brought the mouth of the
weapon close to his adversary. Beauchamp, eager to take him alive,
closed with him instantly; the young sailor, hearing the report of
fire-arms, left the other ruffian but half tied, and rushing into the
room, endeavored to wrench the pistol from Harding's hand, as he
strove with the strength of despair and hatred to bring the muzzle
close to Beauchamp's head. At the very moment that he seized it, the
murderer had in a degree succeeded in taking his aim, and was in the
act of pulling the trigger. The flash and report instantly followed
and the ball, cutting along Beauchamp's cheek, laid the cheek bone
bare, but passed through the hair on his temple without doing him
farther injury. Walter Harrison, however, at the same moment relaxed
his hold, started back, and catching at one of the chairs with a
reeling stagger, sunk down into it, while a torrent of blood spouted
forth from his right breast, a little below the collar. Beauchamp,
too, heated by the struggle, seized the murderer by the neck, and,
with a full exertion of his strength, which was not inconsiderable,
dashed him prostrate on the floor, then set his foot upon his chest,
and, drawing the pistol from his bosom, commanded him to be still, if
he would escape without another wound.

Such was the situation of all parties, when three of the French
police, warned by the report of fire-arms that a severe contest was
going on above, and thinking they had waited quite long enough, rushed
up the stairs and entered the apartments. The first that they found
was the man whom Walter Harrison had left, and who was now calmly
untying himself, and about to decamp. He, however, was soon better
secured, and committed to the charge of the officers below, while the
others advanced into the room beyond, and found the young sailor
bleeding profusely, while Beauchamp with some difficulty kept his
prisoner to the ground, as Harding, aware of the fate that ultimately
awaited him, strove, by means of struggles and imprecations, to make
his former master shoot him on the spot.

The moment, however, that he beheld the officers of justice, he become
perfectly quiet; and it surprised even Beauchamp to see how easily he
relapsed into that calm, cold taciturnity which he had formerly
displayed. The first care of every one was the young sailor, for whom
a surgeon was immediately procured; and, after some difficulty, the
bleeding was stopped. The unhappy woman, who had fainted, was then
recalled to life, and the wound in the chief culprit's arm was
dressed. A process-verbal of all the events was then taken and
attested, for the purpose of being transmitted to England, and the
three prisoners were removed, though not without a warning from
Beauchamp, that it would be necessary to withhold every thing from
Harding which might enable him to commit suicide.

"Diantre, monsieur!" cried the commissary, who was a small wit in his
way--"you are going to hang him when he gets to England; why should
you care if he saves you the trouble by hanging himself here?"

"Simply, sir," replied Beauchamp, who, though he could treat great
events with indifference, had a sovereign aversion to jesting upon
serious subjects; "simply, because it may be necessary to exculpate
the innocent, as well as punish the guilty."

There now only remained Beauchamp, two police officers, who kept
possession of the apartments, the surgeon, and the young sailor. The
latter was immediately removed to the bed-room he had occupied since
his arrival in Paris, and there, by Beauchamp's directions, the
surgeon agreed to sit up with him all night.

The lad had never uttered a word since he had received his wound,
although Smithson had poured forth a torrent of abuse upon him, which
the murderer's situation rendered at least excusable. When he saw
Beauchamp's anxiety for his comfort and welfare, however, he said, in
a faint voice--"You are very kind, sir--you always were kind; and I am
glad I got the shot--that I am; for, do you see, if I had not turned
the pistol my way, it would have gone through your head. So that is
some comfort, though it would need a many good actions to make up for
all the bad ones I have done. But, however, don't trouble yourself
about me, for I shan't die, just yet--I am sure of that. All my work
is not done, yet. I shan't live long when it is done, even if they do
not hang me when I get to England."

"As I assured you before," replied Beauchamp, "there is no chance
whatever of such a thing; and I trust you are beginning to think too
properly of your own situation to dream of attempting your life."

"Oh, no! I was not thinking of that," replied the young man. "I one
time thought that I should be glad almost that they did hang me, just
to show those d--d rascals that I had not turned king's evidence
against them with any thought of myself. But I think differently now
I've got this shot. But, mind, I do not make any bargain. I will go
over as a prisoner, and they shall do with me as they like. I'll not
flinch--no, no, I'll not flinch!"

Here the surgeon, who did not understand a word that was said, and of
course did not like the conversation, laid his hand upon Beauchamp's
arm, and gently hinted that perfect quiet was absolutely necessary to
any hope of the wounded man's recovery; and that gentleman accordingly
left him, with a few kind and consolatory words. He then called the
surgeon into one of the other rooms, and making him dress the wound on
his cheek, which had been hitherto neglected, he gave him a
substantial earnest of after reward, explaining to him that the life
of the young man under his care was of the most immense importance as
a witness; and begging him, at the same time, to watch every turn
which the injury he had received might take, in order that his dying
declaration might be drawn up, if recovery were to be found
impossible. He then left his address, and returned home; but although
extremely fatigued, both by exertion and excitement, he did not lie
down to rest till he had seen a courier dispatched to London, bearing
the news of the capture of Harding and his accomplices, and begging
that, without a moment's delay, officers, properly authorized, might
be sent over to convey the prisoners to England.

The messenger was ordered to spare no expense, and to lose no time;
and he certainly performed his task with very great rapidity. In the
mean while the news of Beauchamp's adventure spread through Paris, as
if it had been a country town; and, as it may well be supposed that
the hotel in which he lodged was one of the first places in which the
story developed itself, Mrs. Darlington received it at her toilet the
next morning, and instantly wrote a billet to Mr. Beauchamp,
beseeching him to let her see him as soon as he was up. This, folded
in the newest fashion, and sealed with the newest seal, reached
Beauchamp as he was concluding his breakfast; and, in order to quench
the worthy lady's thirst, he at once walked down to her apartments.

Mrs. Darlington was as delighted as _bienseance_ would permit her to
be, at the sight of Henry Beauchamp, with a black patch on his cheek,
which confirmed all the pretty story she had heard before he came; and
her questions, though excessively small and quiet, were, like the
little hairy savages that scaled Sinbad's ship, innumerable, and
attacking him on all sides.

Beauchamp detailed the whole events; and, if he had been a little
bored by the lady's interrogatories, the joy and satisfaction which
Mrs. Darlington expressed on hearing that the exculpation of Captain
Delaware could now be fully made out--the sincere personal
gratification she seemed to feel, made up for all, and placed her high
in his good graces. The assurance that, among the culprits, one at
least of the personages who had set fire to her house was more than
probably included, did not seem to interest her half so much as the
proofs obtained of William Delaware's innocence; and she returned
again and again to the subject, declaring that nothing would be so
delightful as to write to dear Blanche, and give her the whole
details.

"Pray, are you in possession of her address?" demanded Beauchamp,
assuming as indifferent a tone as it was possible for a man in his
situation to affect.

"No indeed!" replied Mrs. Darlington; "but she will write to me soon,
of course."

Beauchamp was mortified; for he had caught at Mrs. Darlington's words
at once, as if they gave the full assurance of discovering the abode
of her he loved, without farther search or uncertainty. After musing
for a moment, however, he said, "I hope, my dear madam, when you do
write, you will offer my best compliments to Miss Delaware--who, I
dare say you know, is my cousin--and tell her that I have endeavored,
as far as was in my power, to obey the commands with which she favored
me. As I doubt not that you will give her the details of all this
story, you may assure her in the most positive manner, from me, that
her brother's character will at once be cleared of every imputation,
and that all who know him will hail his return to England with the
utmost joy."

Now Mrs. Darlington perceived, as plainly as woman could perceive,
that Henry Beauchamp was in love with Blanche Delaware. She had long
ago seen it would be so, and now she saw it was so; but yet, for one
half of Europe, she would not have let Beauchamp understand that she
saw any thing of the kind. She had known so many excellent
arrangements of the sort spoiled outright by some impolitic,
good-natured, stupid friend, jesting upon the subject, or insinuating
his mighty discoveries, before Cupid was bound hand and foot--which is
never the case ere the matter has come to a declaration--that
she answered in the most common-place way it is possible to
imagine--assured Beauchamp that she would give his message
correctly--declared that she doubted not Blanche and her father would
travel for a year or two; and then began to speak of the beautiful
bonnet brought out by Madame ---- of the Fauxbourg St. Germains.

Beauchamp, though he would have seen through every turning of the good
lady's tact, had any body else been concerned, was completely blinded
in his own case--like all the rest of the world--and, after having
given a scientific opinion upon the _brides de blonde_ and the
_bordures_, he rose and took his leave, fully persuaded that Mrs.
Darlington was as ignorant of his love for Blanche Delaware as he
himself was of millinery.




CHAPTER XXXV.


As rapidly as post-horses and postillions would permit, Beauchamp's
courier returned from London, bringing with him the officers who had
been in Paris already on the same business, both of whom paid the
young gentleman a great many compliments on his skill and proficiency
in their particular branch of science; but, as Beauchamp would very
well have dispensed with such a flattering testimony of his abilities
in thief-catching, we shall not give the somewhat circumlocutory
praises of the officers at length.

By this time the operation of extracting the ball had been performed
upon the young sailor; and although there appeared no chance of his
being able to bear a long journey for some time, yet he was already so
far convalescent that no doubt was entertained of his ultimate
recovery.

Harding, Smithson, and the woman, Sarah Ings, confined apart, had
already shown the difference of the characters in the different manner
in which they had borne their situation. The woman wept continually,
declaring with loud lamentations that she would tell all she knew, if
they would but spare her life. Smithson alternately stormed and raved,
or gave way to brutal jests and wild merriment. Harding remained calm,
cool, and silent, quite disposed to philosophize upon his situation
with any one who would philosophize with him, or to sneer at any who
offered him one word of compassion or admonition; but at the same
time, a great deal too wary to utter a syllable that might endanger
the slight hope of escape which still remained.

After a brief interview with Beauchamp, the officers, with very
natural impatience, hastened to visit their prisoners; and R----, who
held the principal post, immediately addressed Harding with a great
deal of civility. "Oh, Mr. Harding," he said, "I am sorry to see you
here!"

"You mistake, sir," said Harding, "I do not remember you at all."

"What! not when you were secretary to Mr. ----, the banker who
failed?" said the officer. "Poo! poo! that cock won't fight, Master
Harding. Don't you remember going up with me to Mr. Tims's, at
Clement's Inn; and how, after a great piece of work, he promised not
only to drop proceedings against you, but to get you a good place into
the bargain, if you would tell all about the embezzlement of the
money; and a good place he did get you I find--pity you didn't keep it
when you had got it. Howsoever, that is no business of mine--but you
must take part of a shay with me over to England, Master Harding; and
I dare say we shall be very good friends on the road."

"Perhaps so!" replied the prisoner; and, after a few more words, the
officers proceeded to visit the other male culprit. To him, however,
their manner was totally different. "Ha! Tony, my lad!" cried the head
officer; "how do you do this many a day? Why? how the devil were you
such a soft chap as to get taken in for such a bad job as this--but
you had nearly bilked us all, by jingo!"

"Oh, R----," he replied, "Oh, it is a bad job, indeed! But I knew well
enough that I was well nigh up to my weight; and that d--d fellow,
Harding, persuaded me, you see! But I say, R----, tell me, is that
young Harrison like to die? Harding gave him a h--ll of a shot, and
d--n him, if he would die, if I would not take to talking, and plead
the king's pardon, do you see!"

"No, no!" answered the officer. "No chance of his dying! No, no, Tony
It's all up with you! They must hang two of you; and if any one gets
off, in course it will be the woman."

At this hopeless picture of his situation, the ruffian first swore and
blasphemed for two or three minutes, and then, relapsing into the
other extreme, cast himself down and wept like a child.

"Fie, fie, Tony!" cried the officer. "Die game, anyhow; why, I thought
you were more varment than that comes to--a man must die somehow, you
know--and you have had a long pull at it, my lad--besides, it's all
nonsense when one knows that it must be so."

"Ay, that's the job!" said the prisoner. "If one could but think of
someway of getting off--"

"Don't you fancy that," replied the officer. "Why, look ye now, Tony,
if you could get off for this last job, I'll tell you as a friend,
they'd hang you for that burning business; for they've got proof
enough against you for that."

This last argument seemed completely to dispel all Mr. Anthony
Smithson's objections to being hanged; and after two or three
exhortations to those virtues that Bow-street officers expect from
thieves, the two children of Mercury went on to visit the female
prisoner. As, however, we have fully as great a disgust to scenes of
low vice and misery as our readers can have, and only introduce them
where compelled to do so in accordance with truth, we shall leave the
officers to conduct their prisoners to England, and proceed to notice
the events which occurred to Henry Beauchamp.

That gentleman then set off from Paris with all speed, as soon as he
had seen the prisoners safely consigned to the Bow-street officers. He
well knew that such adventures as those in which he had lately been
engaged could not fail to find their way into the mouth of rumor; and
for many reasons he wished to reach London ere that lady was ready to
go a trumpeting before him, like the man with the box on his back, who
walks before Punch.

He succeeded tolerably well; so that the fact of Henry Beauchamp being
living instead of dead, upon dry land instead of under the sea, was
not known to above fifty thousand people when he arrived in London.
Out of this number about a thousand had congratulated Lord Ashborough
on the resuscitation of his nephew; but the noble lord had so
impressed upon his mind that his nephew was dead, that he would not
believe a word of the story, gravely saying, that he would give it
implicit credence as soon as he heard it from any one who would say
that they had seen Henry Beauchamp with their own eyes.

As none of those could be met with, and as the story could be traced
to no authentic source, Lord Ashborough held fast his conviction; and,
up to the hour of Beauchamp's arrival, continued in the same belief.

It was late at night, or rather early in the morning, when Beauchamp
did once more reach the capital; and as he imagined that he was not
likely to find any thing prepared for his accommodation in the house
of a dead man, he directed the post boys to drive to a hotel, rather
than his own dwelling. It was later the next morning when he rose than
he had purposed over night; but nevertheless, as soon as he was up, he
set forth for Lord Ashborough's, and walked immediately into the
drawing-room, where, although the earl himself had breakfasted and
gone out, Beauchamp had soon the pleasure of holding his sister in his
arms.

Although Maria Beauchamp was not in the least surprised to see him, as
she had long before received convincing assurances of his safety--and
though she was as light a hearted girl as ever danced through life,
unconscious of its sorrows--yet when she first met her brother, after
all the dangers he had encountered, the tears rose up in her eyes,
from the more vivid impression which his presence produced upon her
mind of the loss she would have suffered had the report of his death
been true.

The conversation between Henry and Maria Beauchamp was long, and to
them highly interesting; and had the world ever been known to forgive
those who write dialogues between brothers and sisters, it should have
been here transcribed for general edification. In the course of it,
Maria made herself acquainted with a great many of the secrets of her
brother's heart, and, in return, gave him a far more clear and minute
insight into all the views and designs of Lord Ashborough and his
worthy agent, Mr. Peter Tims, than Beauchamp had imagined so gay and
careless a girl could have been shrewd enough to obtain. From her
quick-sightedness in all those particulars, however, in which the
interests of William Delaware were concerned, Beauchamp concluded--a
result which his sister certainly neither wished nor anticipated--that
the surmise of his good lawyer, Mr. Wilkinson, was not so far wrong as
he had at first imagined; and he paused, musing with a smile over all
the events that yet might be in the wheel of fortune.

The anatomy of a smile is sometimes a curious thing, and that which
then played upon Beauchamp's lip was not without its several parts and
divisions. In the first place, the idea of his gay, smart, and dashing
sister falling in love with a frank, straightforward, simple-hearted
sailor, who had neither rank nor fortune to offer her, made him smile.
In the next place, he felt the slightest possible shade of
disappointment at the idea of Maria Beauchamp not marrying the marquis
of this, or the earl of that; and the very absurdity of such a feeling
in his bosom, of all the bosoms in the world, made him smile at
himself; and the two smiles blended together. The third part of the
smile, and which was the purest part too, proceeded from many a sweet
feeling and bland hope which rose up when he suffered his mind's eye
to gaze on into futurity, and thought of the varied sorts of happiness
it might be in the power of him and his to bestow on a noble and
generous race, weighed down by long misfortunes.

As soon as all these feelings had had their moment and were gone, and
he had given his sister an account of his wondrous accidents by flood
and field--Beauchamp wrote a brief note to his uncle, informing him of
his return, and then


    "Nil actum reputans si quid superesset agendum,"


he set forth with all speed to his lawyer's chambers, in order to
carry on the whole proceedings in exculpation of William Delaware, as
rapidly as possible.

In regard to his conversation with Mr. Wilkinson, it may be only
necessary to notice, that Beauchamp found, that with prompt and
judicious zeal, that gentleman, on discovering that some thoughts were
really entertained at the Admiralty of inflicting a signal disgrace
upon Captain Delaware for his evasion, had waited personally on the
First Lord, and had laid before him that part of his client's
deposition which admitted, in the clearest manner, that the money had
been placed by Beauchamp himself in the young officer's room; thus
showing, that the chief circumstance of suspicion was taken from the
evidence. He farther informed him that Beauchamp had discovered the
real murderers, and was at that moment in pursuit of them; and he
ended by beseeching him to pause ere he took any step in the
proceedings which rumor declared to be in agitation.

He was met, in every respect, with frank and gentlemanly courtesy, and
was assured that nothing could be more gratifying to his majesty than
to find just cause for suspending that expression of his indignation
against any officer in his service which the stern voice of justice
could alone compel him to publish.

So far every thing was satisfactory. "And now," said Beauchamp, "all
that remains to be done for the present, is to open the eyes of my
uncle to the conduct of this base attorney of his."

"Spare us! spare us! Mr. Beauchamp, I beg," said Mr. Wilkinson. "But,
without attempting to defend attorneys, who, as a body, have got a bad
name, not so much, I believe, from having more rogues among them than
are to be found in other professions, but from having greater
opportunities of roguery, allow me to say that I am afraid you will
find it a difficult thing to open your uncle's eyes."

"Why, why, my dear sir?" demanded Beauchamp; "we can prove the facts.
Tell me why?"

"Oh, for many reasons," answered Mr. Wilkinson, musing, and perhaps
not exactly liking to state the real basis of his opinion. "The fact
is, it is like eating garlic, Mr. Beauchamp, or drinking spirits, or
taking any other of those things which a man nauseates at first, but
gets very fond of by degrees--when a person grows fond of a rogue he
gradually gets to like him beyond any one else, and soon finds he can
not do without him."

Beauchamp smiled, though there was a slight sort of mistiness about
the conclusion of Mr. Wilkinson's illustration which he did not
exactly like. However, he pressed him no farther and having learned
that Lord Ashborough was carrying on a suit against Sir Sidney
Delaware in regard to the annuity, with somewhat sharper measures than
the generality of the profession considered reputable, he obtained the
bill for ten thousand pounds which Mr. Tims had presented in lieu of
the money due from the earl, and then returned to his uncle's
dwelling.

Lord Ashborough was now at home; and although Miss Beauchamp had broke
the news of her brother's return, and added a number of reasons and
apologies for his not having sooner communicated the fact of his
safety, the earl was still both agitated and offended, and his
reception of Beauchamp showed a strange mixture of pride, and
irritation, and pleasure.

"And pray, Henry, may I ask--" he said, after their first salutations
were over--"may ask, I say--for your movements and their causes may
both require the same diplomatic secrecy which you have of late so
skillfully displayed--may I ask, I say, why you were pleased to
conceal your existence from your nearest relations? Your sister has,
indeed, already favored me with so many reasons, that I confess I have
become puzzled and bewildered by the number, and would fain hear your
own motives from your own lips."

Beauchamp was not a man to make any excuse to any one, if he had not a
true one ready at his hand. In the present instance, he thought it
best to tell Lord Ashborough the simple truth, and then leave him to
receive it as an excuse or not, as he might think best; taking care,
at the same time, to word it with all due respect and kindness, in
deference to the affection which he knew his uncle felt toward him.

"The fact is, my dear sir," he answered, "for the first fortnight or
three weeks after you had fancied me drowned, I was not at all aware
of such a report. I was first detained at a cottage, with a dislocated
ankle, and next ill of a fever at Hartford Bridge; and at the time I
learned the rumor of my own death I was under the absolute necessity
of going to Paris, in order to pursue the miscreants who committed the
horrid murder, of which you have heard, at Ryebury. As I was the only
person who could prove the facts against them, or lead to their
apprehension, the rumor of my death I knew would throw them off their
guard; and therefore it was necessary to leave it uncontradicted.
Besides--"

"But, surely," interrupted Lord Ashborough, who, though strongly
inclined to inquire farther concerning the murderers, was resolved to
press Beauchamp home in the first instance. "But surely you could have
trusted to my discretion in the business."

"Undoubtedly, my lord!" replied Beauchamp; "and I need not tell you
that, under any ordinary circumstances, you would have been the very
first person to whom I should have communicated my situation, and whom
I should have consulted in what I was undertaking."

Lord Ashborough bowed his bead with a placable smile, and Beauchamp
continued--"But I could only have done so by writing to you, or by
coming to see you. The latter, of course, was out of the question; for
I was not willing to trust my secret to your host of servants, and to
write was equally impossible, as there were circumstances to explain
which could only be done personally."

"How so? Why so?" demanded the earl.

"That is what I was about to explain," answered Beauchamp. "The fact
is, that the man of all others whose greatest interest it was to foil
me in endeavoring to bring the murderers to justice--with the
exception, of course, of the murderers themselves--is your
confidential man of business and lawyer, Mr. Peter Tims."

Lord Ashborough started; for though this carried him back again to the
subject of the murderers, it was not exactly in the way he best liked.
"You are mistaken, Henry," he said; "quite mistaken! No man has been
more anxious in thought, or more strenuous in exertion, than Mr. Tims,
to bring the murderers of his uncle to justice--you forget their near
relationship, and he is a great deal too--too--too--"

Lord Ashborough would fain have added, "Too honest a man!" but the
words stuck in his throat, and, as he paused, Beauchamp finished the
sentence for him--"Too great a rogue, my lord, he most certainly is,
ever to think of relationship where interest is concerned. I found
that out some time ago, ere I took the step of removing my affairs
from his hands to those of Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson."

Lord Ashborough drew himself up--"I believe, sir," he said, "that I
have not acquired the character in the world of a man who is likely to
employ a rogue, either from folly or knavery. But, as you have brought
a serious accusation against my ordinary man of business, I shall of
course expect you to substantiate it fully."

"That I will do completely to your lordship's satisfaction," replied
Beauchamp; "and indeed, I trust you will believe me, my dear uncle,
when I assure you, that the certainty of this man having, by a gross
misrepresentation of facts, involved you in circumstances, which will
be very painful to you when you learn all the details, is the great
inducement which makes me accuse your agent at once to yourself,
before I take such measures as must expose him to the world."

Beauchamp paused; but his intimate acquaintance with his uncle's
character had given him a sort of intuitive insight into what was
passing in his mind, and had revealed a great many secrets which, as
his nephew, he would rather not have learned, but which of course he
acted upon in his transactions with the noble earl. In the present
instance, he clearly perceived that Lord Ashborough's vanity was
getting irritable at the very idea of having been cheated, and that,
at the same time, curiosity and anxiety were both striving hard to
keep vanity down till they were satisfied; but that vanity being the
strongest, was likely to have her own way. Under these circumstances,
Beauchamp thought it would be best to throw in a little soothing
matter to quiet the more restive animal of the three, and keep her
from kicking. He therefore added, after a very brief pause, "I
know, my lord, that the plans of this man, which could deceive even
your sagacity, must have been very deeply and artfully laid; and
unless"--he added, anxious not to assume superior wisdom--"and unless
accident and his own imprudence had thrown into my hands the means of
establishing his knavery beyond a doubt, I should not have ventured to
make such a charge as I have brought against him. I know, however,
that you are too candid not to yield to conviction; and my purpose is
to request that you would call him to your presence, and suffer me to
ask him a question or two before you."

"Of course, Henry," replied the earl, "I am not only willing, but
anxious in the highest degree to give up my mind entirely to truth;
for, besides the great personal interest which I have in the honesty
of a man to whom I confide so much as to this Mr. Tims, the abstract
love of severe and impartial justice also, requires that I should hear
any evidence that can be brought in support of so grave a charge, so
boldly made. But tell me," he continued, feeling that there were
particular points on which he would not particularly like to have his
agent questioned in his presence; "tell me, do the questions you
intend to put refer to any affairs of mine, or to affairs of your
own!--for I know you have several times employed this Mr. Tims. If to
mine, I must say nay, most decidedly; for I can permit no one either
to investigate or interfere with business which I am competent to
manage myself."

"My questions will refer entirely to business of my own, my lord,"
replied Beauchamp. "With yours, I should never presume to meddle,
though I feel perfectly convinced that you would not have proceeded at
law against Sir Sidney Delaware for a sum that had been already paid
to your agent, had you not been persuaded by an infamous villain that,
the money received did not constitute a legal payment, inasmuch as he
affirmed that it was the fruits of a robbery."

Lord Ashborough turned a little pale; but he had canvassed the matter
so often with Mr. Tims, and considered all the contingencies so
accurately, that he was prepared at every point for defense. "Nay,
Henry, nay," he said, assuming a benignant smile--"Nay; I see which
way your prejudices lead you. The most connected evidence would not
convince either yourself or your sister of that unhappy young man's
guilt--but even taking the converse of the matter, and supposing that
he has been accused erroneously, still you do great injustice to the
poor little lawyer, who surely commits no great crime in believing a
man to be guilty, against whom a coroner's jury, after calm
investigation and mature deliberation, have given a verdict of willful
murder."

"In the first place, my lord," replied Beauchamp coolly, "in regard to
William Delaware, as I know your lordship would be as much delighted
to see his innocence clearly established as any one--"

"Oh, certainly, certainly!" interrupted the earl, with all the energy
that a man adds to a falsehood in order to make it weigh as much as
truth. "Certainly--let justice be done, and let the innocent be
cleared!"

"Well, then," added Beauchamp, with the slightest possible touch of
causticity in his manner, "you will be delighted to hear, that there
remains not the slightest doubt of William Delaware's innocence. In
the first place, I myself was encountered by the murderers at the very
door of the dead man's house; was carried off by them, after being
knocked down and stunned; which facts I can distinctly prove against
at least two of them. In the next place I have the confession of one
in my writing-desk; and, in the third place, three of them are by this
time at Dover, on their way to trial. The fourth is in Paris, but in
safe hands, too, and will come over to give his testimony as king's
evidence."

Lord Ashborough again turned pale; and while he declared that he
trusted most sincerely it would prove as his nephew anticipated, he
rang the bell, and, in an under tone, bade the servant bring him some
of the drops to which we have before seen him apply.

Beauchamp's next sentences, however, were in some degree a relief, for
they afforded a fair hope of being able to cast all the blame upon Mr.
Tims, should it be rendered necessary by any after-disclosures. "So
much for that matter, my lord," added his nephew; "and of course I can
not blame Mr. Tims for not divining all the evidence that might
ultimately be collected to exculpate Captain Delaware. But what I
intend to establish is, that at the very time that he, Mr. Tims, was
retaining--under the pretense that the money was a part of his uncle's
property--a sum which of right belonged to you, having been paid in
redemption of the Emberton annuity--that at the very time he was
urging you on, to proceed severely against a family which he taught
you to believe was criminal--that while he was doing all this, he was
perfectly well aware that the money did not belong to his uncle; that
it had never been the fruits of robbery; and that I must have placed
it in the chamber of Captain Delaware, as that gentleman himself
asserted."

"If you can prove that, Henry," replied his uncle, "I will admit that
I have been most grossly deceived, and will abandon the fellow
forever; but I should like to hear what evidence you can bring forward
in corroboration of these assertions."

"You shall hear, my lord, to-morrow, if you will order him to be here
after breakfast," replied Beauchamp. "You must confront the accuser
and the accused, before you judge--and in the mean time, as I intend
to dine with you, I will go and dress, for it is growing late."




CHAPTER XXXVI.


The Earl of Ashborough was a good deal disturbed, as the reader who
remembers all the transactions which had before occurred, may easily
imagine. His nephew's return had certainly been a very joyful event;
but it was not unaccompanied by many drawbacks. Thus there was the
probable overthrow of all his schemes against the Delawares, a
considerable loss of money, which was painful to the noble earl just
in proportion as his fortune was immense; and last, not least, there
was a chance--a strong chance--of certain unpleasant imputations
lighting on his character, and of certain disclosures being made in
regard to his plans, which he would rather have died to avoid than
live to see.

The hatred which had rooted itself so deeply in his heart against Sir
Sidney Delaware, had lost none of its freshness--the spirit of revenge
kindled long ago, and fed with a thousand slight circumstances through
a long lapse of years, had lost none of its intensity; but still, for
the time, the fear of shame and dishonor was paramount, and the earl
cursed the day in which he had been tempted to risk one rash step in
pursuit of vengeance.

He determined, however, to lay the whole blame upon Mr. Tims, and if
Beauchamp could prove the lawyer had reason to know that Captain
Delaware was innocent, to affect vast indignation at his conduct; and
to cast him off with all those signs of abhorrence and contempt which
would exculpate himself in the eyes of the world from any
participation in his evil designs. Of the pecuniary loss, too, which
he was likely to suffer by the whole affair, he resolved to make the
most, as a proof that he had been himself deceived and plundered; and
by exclaiming loudly against the perfidy of his agent, to cast a dark
shade of suspicion upon every assertion that Mr. Tims might make, as
springing from the mere malice of a discharged agent. There was one
subject of self-gratulation in Lord Ashborough's breast, which was
doubly sweet, as it flattered his ideas of his own wisdom, and
afforded the best point in his situation with regard to Mr. Tims. This
was the fact of never having committed himself on paper, in regard to
the family of Sir Sidney Delaware, or his purposes of revenge against
them, and he resolved to make the most of that also.

After long consideration of all these particulars, he believed that he
could luckily act toward his lawyer exactly as if he himself had been
perfectly pure and spotless in the whole transaction. He accordingly
sent off a note to Mr. Tims, requesting his presence at eleven o'clock
on the following day, having determined that, in the first instance,
he would give the attorney every sort of gentlemanly support in his
encounter with Beauchamp; but that, if he found Beauchamp's charge
could be made good against the lawyer, he would instantly throw him
off, dismiss him from his employment, and treat him with proud and
indignant contempt.

All these thoughts occupied him some time, and it was late before he
entered the drawing-room, where his nephew and niece were already
waiting; but the space thus employed had fully restored his
equanimity, and the dinner passed over with a degree of cheerfulness
and ease on his part, which Beauchamp had almost doubted that his
uncle would be able to maintain. The evening was equally tranquil; his
wandering nephew's adventures seemed to afford Lord Ashborough fully
as much matter of interest and amusement as it did to Miss Beauchamp,
and their party broke up late, after a pleasant and a tranquil night.

The next morning, the earl perhaps felt a little nervous; but he had
that most blessed quality, which was very probably the subject of the
Scotch pedlar's aspirations, when he added to his prayers, "God send
us a good conceit of ourselves;" and being very far from ever thinking
that he could, by any chance, have acted grossly amiss, he soon
recovered from his more serious apprehensions of the world's censure,
though he admitted that occasionally mankind did put a misconstruction
on the most virtuous conduct; but he trusted that his own character
was too well established to permit of such a result.

With this proud consciousness--we can not say of virtue--but at least
of an established reputation, which often does quite as well, the earl
proceeded after breakfast to his library, accompanied by his nephew,
and, ringing the bell, desired to know whether Mr. Tims had arrived.
The servant replied in the negative; and, after having ordered the
lawyer to be admitted when he did appear, he turned to Beauchamp,
observing that the fellow had grown somewhat negligent of late, since
he had succeeded to his uncle's fortune.

The earl had scarcely concluded his sentence, when Mr. Tims himself
appeared at the door, bowing low, with habitual reverence for Turkey
carpets and ormolu, even before he was completely in the room. On
seeing Beauchamp, which he did the very next moment--as that gentleman
had placed himself at the bay window, and turned round on hearing the
door open--Mr. Tims had nearly fallen prostrate on the floor; and
pale, pale, pale, did he become, with the exception of the red climax
to his nose, which remained of its own ruby hue, while all around
grew, white. His impudence, however, which was a very ph[oe]nix, and
was ever renewed from its own ashes, came instantly to his aid; and,
advancing with a smile of simpering joy, he exclaimed, "Goodness, Mr.
Beauchamp! I am surprised, sir, and delighted to see you. We all
thought you drowned!"

"Of your surprise, Mr. Tims," replied Beauchamp, "I have no doubt; of
your delight, I am not quite so sure; and as to my being drowned, I
know every one believed it, and no one more thoroughly than yourself,
Mr. Tims."

"I beg pardon, sir!--I beg pardon!--but you seem offended," said Mr.
Tims, assuming the aspect of injured innocence. "I meant no offense,
sir--my lord, have I said any thing offensive?"

"No, Mr. Tims! No!" replied Lord Ashborough. "Be so good as to take a
seat, sir; I am inclined to believe that my nephew misconceives you;
but he will explain himself, for it is on his business I sent for
you."

"Oh, is that the case!" exclaimed the lawyer, who began to feel
somewhat perplexed at his situation. "If your lordship had let me know
that such was your purpose, I might have come prepared."

"I acted, Mr. Tims, as I thought best," answered the peer, coldly;
"and I confess I do not see what need you could have for preparation."

"Why, I do think, sir, all things considered," replied the lawyer--"I
do think your lordship might have given me intimation, as the business
in which I am engaged on your lordship's account--"

"Has nothing on earth to do with my nephew, nor my nephew with it, Mr.
Tims!" replied Lord Ashborough, sternly. "We will keep to the point,
sir, if you please. Henry, you said you had some questions to ask this
person; you had better ask them."

"Person!" muttered Mr. Tims, fidgeting on his chair. "Person!" but he
had soon more serious matter to think of; for Beauchamp, approaching
the table, sat down at the side next the window, and taking out his
pocket-book, spoke in a calm, mild tone, which had grown infinitely
more moderate than at first, as he saw the terrible agitation under
which the unhappy man labored.

"Now, Mr. Tims," he said, "I neither want to puzzle you nor to annoy
you, by what I am going to ask; but there are certain matters on which
you must give a full explanation, both for my satisfaction and my
uncle's--"

"No, no, Henry, pardon me!" interrupted the earl; "the business is
yours alone--I am perfectly satisfied for my part--I have heard a
charge, but no proof; and, consequently, I should be doing injustice
to Mr. Tims were I to be dissatisfied."

"My lord, the business is certainly mine," replied Beauchamp; "but it
is also yours to the extent of at least ten thousand pounds, if not
more--but to the point. My first question is, Mr. Tims, how you came
to detain, upon the pretense that it had been stolen from your uncle,
the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds, paid by Sir Sidney Delaware to
you, as Lord Ashborough's agent, when, at the time you detained it
upon that pretext, you perfectly well knew that it had not been
stolen, and that it had been put in Captain Delaware's room by me?"

"But I never knew any such thing, sir!" replied Mr. Tims. "I believed,
as every body else believed, that Captain Delaware, when he murdered
my poor unhappy uncle, had stolen those notes; and permit me to say,
sir," he added, assuming a slight touch of bluster--"permit me to say,
I had better cause to believe such to be the case, than you have to
accuse me of actions I should despise, sir. What reason had I to
suppose you placed the money there?"

"Nay, nay, Mr. Tims," said Beauchamp, calmly, "do not lose your
temper; remember, sir, passion may throw you off your guard, and you
will yet have occasion for all your wit in your exculpation. You ask
what reason you had to suppose I placed the money in Captain
Delaware's room; I will tell you, Mr. Tims. First, because, among your
uncle's papers, you found an acquittance in my handwriting for the
sum of fifteen thousand pounds, received by him on my account from
Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson--"

"But, sir! But, sir!" cried Mr. Tims.

"Do not interrupt me, sir," said Beauchamp. "Next, I say, because you
found a note of hand signed by me for the sum of ten thousand pounds,
advanced to me by your uncle, and dated on the very day on which he
was murdered, poor man!"

"But listen to me, Henry," said Lord Ashborough. "All this does not
show that Mr. Tims knew that these several sums had been appropriated
by you in the somewhat Quixotical manner that, as it proves, they were
employed."

"It is, at least, a strong presumption that he might have known it if
he had liked," replied Beauchamp; adding, with a smile, "especially
when he knew me to be of a Quixotical disposition, and when William
Delaware himself pointed me out as the only person likely to have
placed them there--but you must remember, also, that the sum was
precisely the same, and that, knowing I had received it--"

"I must once more interrupt you, Mr. Beauchamp," said the lawyer, with
a dignified air; "but you are, and have been assuming as facts what
are not facts. I _did not_ know that you had received that sum--I
found no document--at least, I have as yet found no document among my
late uncle's papers, which refers to the sum of fifteen thousand
pounds received on your account, and handed over to you in due
course; and therefore, sir, the basis of your argument is erroneous,
although--as my noble patron declares, with his usual candor and
perspicuity--even were it all true--had I discovered by the papers of
which you speak, that my uncle had paid you the precise sum, still I
had no proof that there was any connection between that fact and the
payment made to me at Emberton Park."

"There was a strong presumption, at least, Mr. Tims," replied
Beauchamp, who had listened with the utmost calmness; "and I certainly
can not prove that you have found the document referring to the
fifteen thousand pounds, _as yet_. Allow me to compliment you on the
introduction of those two words--I certainly can not prove that you
have found my acquittance to your uncle."

"Well, then, Henry," said the earl, with a benign smile to Mr. Tims,
"I think your evidence halts."

"Your pardon, my lord," replied Beauchamp; "I am only disposing of one
part of the subject first--you may not have found it, Mr. Tims, _as
yet_; but let me tell you, sir, that you must find it, or account to
my solicitors for fifteen thousand pounds received by your late uncle
on my account."

Mr. Tims turned very red; for he saw that he was nearer to the horns
of that ugly beast, a dilemma, than he had imagined. Still, however,
he thought that he had triumphantly opposed Beauchamp's charge, and
therefore he replied, with a very tolerable degree of coolness, "I
will search for the papers, sir, and of course act according to the
best of my judgment afterward."

"And in the mean time, Mr. Tims," continued Beauchamp, "we will speak
of the ten thousand pounds which I received from your uncle. I think
you acknowledge, or at least tacitly admit, that you found my note of
hand for that amount among your uncle's papers--indeed, it was only
extraordinary that you should overlook the acquittance, which was
pinned to the note, and which you must have separated from it before
you got it stamped, and presented it to my solicitors, in payment of
the sum of ten thousand pounds due to me by Lord Ashborough, as the
balance of our guardianship account."

Mr. Tims's face grew red, and white, and yellow, and blue, by turns.
Never was there such a prismatic complexion as Beauchamp's last speech
produced.

Lord Ashborough watched them all, and then demanded. "Did you presume,
sir, to stop money which I commissioned you to pay, in the way to
which Mr. Beauchamp alludes?"

Mr. Tims was _aux abois_, and consequently he turned upon the weakest
of his pursuers. "I did, indeed, my lord," he said, in a significant
tone--"I did it for the best, both in accordance with your lordship's
views and interests, and my own poor judgment; and I am perfectly
ready to explain my motives either to your lordship alone, or in the
presence of your nephew."

Lord Ashborough changed color also; and bowing his head haughtily, he
said, "that is unnecessary, Mr. Tims, we will speak of all that
concerns myself hereafter."

"Oh, just as your lordship pleases!" said the lawyer--"I have nothing
to conceal."

"I am glad to hear it," said Beauchamp, willing to spare his uncle any
unpleasant discussion, "I am glad to hear it, sir; for now we come to
the most inexplicable part of the whole transaction. I say
inexplicable, because it is quite so to me, how a man of your sagacity
could commit such an oversight as, at the very time he was accusing an
innocent person of murder--at the very time he was retaining in his
hands twenty-five thousand pounds unjustly, on the plea that they had
been stolen--at the very time he was carrying on two ruinous suits at
law against an honorable man for money which had been already paid--I
say, that it is inexplicable to me, how, at the very time he was doing
all this, he should commit such an oversight as to present to my
solicitors this note of hand, on the back of which is written, in my
own writing, the numbers and dates of all the notes I received from
his uncle, and which are the numbers and dates of the very notes that
he was at that time attempting to show were stolen. Look at it, my
lord, and read:--'Numbers and dates of notes received from Mr. Tims of
Ryebury'--and conceive how avarice must have taken hold of a man, ere
he could commit such an egregious blunder. Why, Mr. Tims, could you
not wait a few days--a week, a fortnight, even a month--to make sure
that the fishes had me safe, before you presented this note? By
Heaven, I should have thought such a thing impossible, had I not
often, or rather always seen, that, by what would seem a law of
Providence, the most egregious rogues are always sure to leave some
door open to detection."

Mr. Tims had remained as one struck dumb--not that he had overlooked
the fact which Beauchamp now brought forward; for he had remarked it
from the first, and knew that it might speak strongly against him; but
the desire of retaining the ten thousand pounds had blinded his eyes
to one-half the consequences, and diminished his estimation of the
other--had made him confidently believe that Beauchamp was really
drowned, and that if he were not, he would never remember the
memorandum he had made on the night which gave birth to so many
events. The folly of his conduct, however, now appeared to him in the
most forcible manner, and for the moment completely overpowered him.
Quirks, quibbles, evasions, impudence itself, all deserted him, till,
by the most fortunate chance in the world, Beauchamp pronounced the
word rogue, which instantly called anger to his aid.

"Rogue, sir! Rogue!" he exclaimed, starting up, while the whiteness of
consternation was succeeded in his countenance by the rubicundity of
wrath, "Rogue, sir! The word is actionable! Did you call me a rogue!"

It was too much for human patience. "Yes, sir!" replied Beauchamp, "I
did! and I do! I call you a rogue, because I have proved you one! I
look upon you as a contemptible blackguard, as I have long done; and
if you stare in my face with that air one moment more, I will kick you
from that door into Grosvenor-square--and the passage is a long one!"

Mr. Tims instantly dropped his eyes to the ground, and Lord Ashborough
interfered. "You are too warm, Henry!" he said, seeing evidently that
Mr. Tims must be given up, said therefore that he might as well assume
the character of the dignified, unimpassioned judge. "You are too
warm! but you have made out your charge most completely. Mr. Tims, you
are no longer my solicitor. You must have known, sir, that this
Captain Delaware, whatever faults he may have, and whatever crimes he
may have committed, had not obtained the notes in question by robbing
your uncle--you must have known it, sir--you could not help knowing
it; and I conceive that your having deceived me into taking a great
many steps which might bring my character into disrepute, if it were
not, thank God pretty well established--I say, I conceive your having
done so, to be more base and criminal than even the sort of frauds you
have committed in regard to the different sums of money--which, depend
upon it, shall be strictly investigated."

Loud insolence not having proved at all successful, Mr. Tims now
resorted to dogged impudence. "Your lordship may find cause, upon a
little reflection," he said, moving gradually toward the door, "to
make your measures toward me somewhat more lenient than you propose. I
should be sorry to injure your lordship's well _established
character_; but, of course, if I am attacked, I must defend myself;
and I will take care that my defense shall be public enough. There are
two or three little transactions, which your lordship will think over,
and determine upon having laid open or not, as you please."

"Do you hear the fellow's insolence?" demanded the earl, turning with
a half-smile toward his nephew. "Mr. Tims," he added, "you are
scarcely worthy of contempt. I fear no true statement of any thing I
have done; and I shall take care, if you make any false one, that you
shall be severely punished. You have deceived me, sir, grossly; you
have represented people to me as criminal, who were really innocent;
and you have labored to stir up my indignation against them for your
own base purposes. Do not answer me, sir, but quit the room and the
house; and I shall take care that your accounts be called for, and
examined by one who will look into them thoroughly."

Thus saying, the earl, with a proud and dignified wave of the hand,
pointed to the door. Mr. Tims would fain have added a few words more;
but Lord Ashborough waved him forth again; and there was also a cloud
lowering upon Henry Beauchamp's brow, which boded no very pleasant
results from farther insolence; so that, upon second thoughts, Mr.
Tims judged it best to make his exit tranquilly. This he was suffered
to do; and the door closed upon him forever.




CHAPTER XXXVII.


We must now for a time leave Henry Beauchamp and the Earl of
Ashborough, and turn to the small, neat country town of ----, in the
jail of which place, Harding, Smithson, and Sarah Ings, were at length
safely lodged, within a few days after Beauchamp's return to his
native country. Walter Harrison, skillfully treated and carefully
attended, was soon able to undertake the journey to England; and as
the fixed determination he had shown to further the ends of justice,
at all risks, left no doubt of his sincerity, he was permitted
to act without restraint, and proceeded steadily toward his
destination--indeed more rapidly than his feeble state properly
admitted. Presenting himself uncalled before the magistrates of the
town, he informed them at once of his name, required them to receive
his voluntary confession, and in consequence, to commit him to prison.
The first part of his demand was of course acceded to; but it was
intimated to him that, in consequence of his firm and determined
conduct, throughout at least the latter part of the dark business in
which he had unfortunately been engaged, he would not be deprived of
his liberty.

To the surprise of the magistrates, however, he replied that he knew
nothing of their forms and manner of proceeding in these matters, but
that he had made up his mind to the line of conduct he was to pursue.
On no consideration whatever, he said, would he be king's evidence--a
term for which he seemed to entertain the most extraordinary aversion.
His confession, he said, was clear and ample, made without any
promises of pardon or favor, demanded or given; he would therefore go
to prison like the others, and be brought to trial like them; but as
he was guilty, he would plead guilty in regard to the robbery, though
not in regard to the murder. This, he said, was his firm
determination, though he would be found ready at any time to give
every sort of information that might be required to make out the case
against his accomplices and himself.

As the jail delivery was to be held in a few days, the penance of
imprisonment which he thus imposed upon himself was not great; but
even the short period of confinement to which he thus voluntarily
subjected himself seemed greatly to affect his health and spirits. In
vain the governor of the prison, under the idea that apprehensions in
regard to his ultimate fate were preying upon his mind, assured him
that the king's pardon, promised by proclamation to any but the actual
murderers, secured him from all danger. He replied, that he feared
nothing but his own thoughts; for that, since he had come back to the
country and the county in which the terrible crime wherein he had
participated had been perpetrated, a heavy cloud had seemed to come
over him, which he could not shake off. His bold, daring, and
impetuous manner was now all gone, and in its place there appeared a
deep, silent sternness, somewhat impatient of contradiction, but
determined rather than violent. The great loss of blood he had
sustained had rendered him as pale as ashes, and anxiety and suffering
had bowed his powerful frame, and left him merely the shadow of what
he formerly was. Some apprehensions, indeed, appeared to be
entertained by those who watched, lest he should become so ill as to
be unable to undergo the business of the trial; but in this they were
deceived; and his strength, on the contrary, appeared greater, and his
energies more alive, on the day before that appointed for the assizes.

At length the day arrived, and all the usual formalities having taken
place, the heavy list of crimes was adverted to, and lamented by the
judge; the grand jury was exhorted and sworn, and proceeded to its
functions. As every one expected, the first bill brought before them,
which was that against Captain William Delaware, for the murder of Mr.
Tims, at Ryebury, was at once thrown out. Not so, however, that
against Harding and his accomplices, which, being found a true bill,
was immediately proceeded on.

All our readers are most probably acquainted with the solemn array of
a court of justice, though an interesting, always a painful scene. On
the present occasion, of course, from the blackness of the crime
committed, and the many extraordinary circumstances that accompanied
and followed it, the excitement produced was great, and the court
crowded in every part. The preliminaries having been gone through, the
four prisoners were put to the bar, and a good deal of confusion
ensued, from the endeavor of the various spectators to obtain a full
view of the accused--the class of women who frequent criminal courts
struggling forward to see the culprits with more than masculine
boldness.

Harding, who was beyond doubt a handsome man, first advanced to the
bar. He was dressed with scrupulous care; and, with his neck wrapped
in a thick black cravat, his double-breasted waistcoat buttoned up to
his chin, and his dark frock-coat thrown back from his chest, he
looked very much like the private secretary of a German prince. His
cool and tranquil air, and easy carriage, might have been construed
into the expression of conscious innocence, but for a slight, very
slight sneer, that curled the corner of his lip, entirely different
from the indignant expansion of the nostril with which innocence
sometimes meets a false accusation. He gazed for a single instant
round the court, and then withdrew his eyes, while all the reporters
scribbled rapidly in their note-books, preparing to make him a
newspaper wonder, and hand him down to posterity as one of the heroes
of the gallows. The next that came up was the well-known Tony
Smithson, who, though he had confronted more than one court of justice
on previous occasions, now, from the magnitude of the offense, and the
certainty that his conviction would follow, had lost all self-command,
and approached the bar pale, trembling, and agitated. Next approached
Sarah Ings, with the most persevering of all human passions, vanity,
still uppermost. Dressed forth in all the gay and vulgar smartness of
the Rue de Vivienne and the Palais Royal, with a touch or two of rouge
upon her cheeks to hide the ravages of apprehension, she presented
herself before the court that was to try her, and the judge who might
have to doom her to death, with a simpering and coquetish smile,
thinking fully as much of the impression of her charms and her finery
upon the spectators, as of her awful situation and its probable
result.

Last appeared Walter Harrison, with a bold, firm step, a bright red
spot on each of his pale cheeks, and his eye sparkling from feverish
excitement. He leaned his hand upon the bar, and after gazing rapidly
and boldly round the court, fixed his eyes upon the clerk of the
arraigns, as he proceeded to read the indictment.

That document was conceived in the usual tenor, and comprised all the
various acts which the prisoners could or might have committed in the
perpetration of their crime, with all the legal terms and expressions
necessary to prevent dubiety.

Harding listened to every word with scrupulous attention; and it was
observed that at several of the counts in the indictment, which
described the act that he had committed with much greater precision
than he had expected, he set his teeth hard. On the question being put
to each of the prisoners--"How say you, guilty or not guilty?"--the
three first pleaded "not guilty," and what is termed put themselves
upon their country, or, in fact, appealed to a jury. Walter Harrison,
however, in a bold, firm voice, replied, at once, "Guilty of the
robbery, but not guilty of the murder;" and consequently it was found
necessary to proceed on his trial also, upon several of the counts in
the indictment.

The trial then went on; and as the reader is already aware of the
greater part of the evidence that could be brought forward, it shall
be but briefly recapitulated here. The footprints on the floor of the
room where the murder had been committed, and the mark of the hand on
the wall, were proved to correspond exactly with the feet of Harding
and Smithson, and with the hand of the latter. The marks in the
passage were also proved to have been caused by the feet of the young
sailor; and evidence was given that Harding had paid the master of a
cutter, hired to carry them to France, with one of the notes which
could be traced to the possession of the miser of Ryebury a few days
before his death. The _ci-devant_ smuggler, Billy Small, swore
positively to the persons of Harding, Smithson, Harrison, and the
woman, and detailed fully the particulars of their arrival at his
house, with a gentleman whose ankle was dislocated, and who had
evidently received a severe contusion on the forehead. The Bow-street
officers proved the state of the prisoners' apartments in Paris, the
considerable sums of money there found, and a variety of minor facts,
which all aggravated the suspicions against them; and as the principal
witness, Henry Beauchamp was at length called, in order to establish
the fact of the prisoners having been on the very night of the murder
at the house of Mr. Tims, and having thence proceeded direct to the
cottage of the smuggler. As he entered the witness-box, the cheek of
Harding turned a shade paler, but at the same time his eye flashed
with an expression rather of rage than fear. As his former master went
on, however, he recovered his composure, and listened calmly, while
Beauchamp clearly and distinctly detailed all the events, from his
second visit to Mr. Tims's house, on the night of the murder, till he
was delivered over to the care of the old smuggler and his family.

Throughout the trial, Harding had acted as his own counsel, and now he
proceeded with an air of cool, determined effrontery, to cross-examine
his former master, mingling skillfully those questions which might
tend to exculpate himself with those which he thought would annoy the
witness.

"Allow me me to ask you, Mr. Beauchamp," he said, "whether, while I
was in your service, you ever detected me in any act of dishonesty!"

"To speak but candidly," replied Beauchamp "I never did."

"Did I not on more than one occasion," proceeded Harding, "when your
tradesmen endeavored to cheat or over-charge you, point out to you the
fact?"

"You certainly did," replied his former master.

"So far, then, your evidence is favorable to me," continued the
culprit. "Now pray tell me Mr. Beauchamp, what was your own errand at
the house of Mr. Tims on the night in question--or rather, what became
of you between the first and second calls which you made at his
dwelling during that evening?" and he fixed his eye upon the witness's
countenance with a degree of sneering triumph at the pain he imagined
the question would cause him. But Beauchamp answered with the utmost
coolness.

"I do not know," he said, "that any law would oblige me to reply to a
demand which does not seem to bear upon the case; but, nevertheless, I
have not the slightest objection to do so. I had, on the first visit I
paid to the unhappy man who was afterward murdered, received from him
the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds, which I had promised to
advance on mortgage on the estate of my cousin, Sir Sidney Delaware.
From the house of Mr. Tims I went straight to Emberton Park; and
having discovered that Captain Delaware was absent from home, I took
the liberty, as a relation and intimate friend, of entering his room,
and leaving the money, enveloped in a packet, upon his dressing-table,
purposing to give him intimation of the fact next morning."

"Was not that rather a hazardous action, sir?" demanded Harding, with
cool insolence; "especially when there were so many thieves abroad?"

"Not more so, it would seem," replied Beauchamp, "than to carry it in
my pocket from Ryebury to Emberton when you were in my neighborhood;
but luckily it happened that you neither knew the one fact nor the
other."

Harding was silent for a moment, finding that sarcasms were edged
tools, which he had better not employ against Beauchamp, who had full
strength to turn them back upon himself, with that sort of cold
calmness which made them a thousand times more stinging. The pause was
so long, that Beauchamp at length asked, "Have you any other questions
to put to me?"

"Yes--several!" replied the prisoner. "Several. Why did you not give
the money into the hands of Sir Sidney Delaware himself, when you
found that his son was absent?"

"Because it was not my pleasure to do so," replied Beauchamp. "I must
submit to the court, whether these questions are relevant."

The judge at once supported the witness's objection; and the prisoner
being told that he must absolutely confine himself to the matter
before the court, proceeded. "Pray, Mr. Beauchamp, was the moon
shining at the time of your return to Ryebury?"

"It was shining brightly," replied Beauchamp.

"Then it was by the light of the moon that you recognized me among the
persons coming out of the miser's house?" demanded the prisoner.

"I did not say that I recognized you in the slightest degree," replied
his former master, "till I found myself in the boat upon the water."

"Then you positively did riot recognize me at all at the miser's
house!" said Harding, with a smile of triumph.

"I did not," answered Beauchamp; "as I said before, all I saw, on the
opening of the door, were the forms of three men and a woman standing
in the passage. As the moon was not shining directly on that side of
the house, I could not distinguish their features so perfectly as to
swear to any one of them; but the foremost of the men was exactly of
your height and appearance, and I have already sworn, that I saw you
in the boat after I recovered my recollection."

"Pray what space of time do you think had elapsed," Harding next
demanded, "between the time of your return to Ryebury and your finding
yourself in the boat!"

Beauchamp replied, that of course he could not exactly tell, but he
imagined that it must have been more than an hour.

"If such was the case," said the prisoner, "then the moon, which you
say was shining on the western side of the miser's house when you
reached the door, must have set before you recovered your senses; and
I should like to know how, without any light on a dark night, and with
your thoughts confused, as they must have been, after such a blow as
you describe, you could recognize me so as to swear to my identity,
when, by your own account, you could not stand up in the boat even for
a moment!"

"In the first place," answered Beauchamp, "the moon had not set,
though she was setting, and her very position at the moment I did
attempt to rise, showed me your features more distinctly than if she
had been higher in the sky; for she shone at that moment under your
hat. I was confused, certainly, and in that confusion I had very
nearly called you by your name; but luckily I recollected in time the
attack made upon my own person, and the extraordinary circumstances in
which I was placed, or probably the consequences might have been fatal
to me also."

"He should not have touched a hair of your head!" said Walter Harrison
aloud, and the eyes of the whole court were instantly turned upon him;
but the young man paused, and looked toward Harding, adding--"I do not
want to interrupt him! Let him say his say, and then I will say mine."

Harding had turned very pale; but he added eagerly--"One more
question, sir, and I have done. Was this momentary and imperfect
glance which you obtained of the countenance of one of the men in the
boat with you, all which led you to believe that I was that person?"

"Although that glance would have been quite sufficient to satisfy me,"
replied Beauchamp; "what I had learned from that glance was confirmed
by the sound of your voice, and by the fact of your having dropped
this powder-flask out of your pocket upon the beach, when embarking
for France; which powder-flask, you must well remember my giving to
you some days before, because it did not measure the right charge for
my guns."

"I never saw it before in my life," replied Harding, solemnly, and
then ceased his interrogatories. The jury had listened to this
cross-examination more attentively than to any other part of the
evidence, and it was clear that the cool and collected manner in which
the prisoner had sifted the testimony of his former master, had
produced no small effect on several of the jurors. When Harding
ceased, Walter Harrison turned to Beauchamp, and the eyes, not only of
the whole spectators, but of his fellow-prisoners, were fixed upon
him.

"Mr. Beauchamp," he said, "I am not going to do what they call
cross-examine you, because I am sure you will tell the truth like a
gentleman. But once, when we were talking about catching these
fellows, you told me as much as that you had overheard what I said on
that bad night to old Billy Small--will you have the goodness to let
those gentleman up there know what it all was!"

Beauchamp detailed the whole; and having suffered a brief
cross-examination on the part of the other prisoners, he was allowed
to retire. The evidence now given, together with the declaration of
Walter Harrison, closed the case for the crown, and the prisoners
entered on their defense. Smithson, who knew too well the proceedings
of a court of justice to believe that he could mend his condition by
his own oratory, declined saying any thing, except that he was
innocent; to which he added all those ordinary but vehement
asseverations, which render the bar of a court of justice an altar to
impiety, whence falsehood and blasphemy reek continually up in the
sight of Heaven. The woman appeared strongly inclined to speak in her
own defense, but her words were drowned in an hysterical burst of
sobbing; and Harding, with the young sailor, were left to address the
court for themselves.

The speech of the first was as consummate a piece of special pleading
as ever was drawn up in ancient or modern days. On the evidence
against himself he commented with the utmost acuteness, and pointed
out that there was no direct proof that he had ever been in the house
of the unhappy man who had been murdered, except that afforded by the
declaration of the young man, Walter Harrison, whose acknowledgment of
participation in the crime, and evident desire to escape the
punishment, by laying the whole of it upon other people, he trusted
that the jury would remember and consider before they attached any
weight to his testimony. Mr. Beauchamp, he continued, had never seen
him in the house, or near the house. At least, though he threw out a
suspicion, yet he had not attempted to swear that he had beheld him
there; and although William Small--an acknowledged smuggler--had
declared that he came to his cottage in the boat with Mr. Beauchamp
and the rest, yet he did not state whether he was there as a voluntary
agent or as under compulsion. In regard to the footmarks in the house,
he argued, that they could not be held as proving any thing; for, in
the number of men who might be supposed to commit such a crime as
that, how many would be found with a foot of nearly the same size as
his! Had his clothes been found bloody! he asked. Had any of the
implements of robbery and housebreaking been found upon him! No! And
the whole case against him, he contended, rested alone upon the very
doubtful testimony of the young sailor, and the fact of his having
paid the freight of the cutter with a note which had been in the
possession of Mr. Tims.

He now paused for a moment; and, after having taken breath, and eyed
the jury to see what effect his oratory had produced, he went on, in a
solemn and serious manner:--"Gentlemen of the jury--having now
commented upon the evidence against me, and stripped it of all those
magnifying circumstances with which human malice is ever too prone to
swell the charge against a person once suspected--having shown upon
how slender a foundation rests the case in respect to myself--I will
proceed to explain to you fully and honestly every circumstance that
appears at all doubtful in my conduct, trusting that the confession of
some errors which I deeply regret, will not prejudice you against me
in the consideration of the present accusation. When I came down to
Emberton with Mr. Beauchamp--against whom I do not pretend to say a
word, although he was somewhat imaginative in his ways of acting and
thinking--I had frequent occasion to go on his business to the house
of the unhappy man who has been so cruelly murdered; and where I was
always received with a degree of kindness, which certainly would never
have prompted the base return which I am accused of having made. I
there became acquainted with the young woman at the bar; an attachment
grew up between us; And having--upon some speculative principles of
general utility, which I now acknowledge to have been foolish and
wrong--taken up a prejudice against marriage, I obtained her promise
to elope with me without any ceremony of the church. In one service or
another I had amassed a considerable sum, and her wages also were long
in arrear. She with difficulty obtained payment from her master; and
it was determined that we should go off together. Our plans, however,
were hurried by Mr. Beauchamp's sudden departure from Emberton; and
hearing, that there was a French vessel on the coast, we resolved to
set off that ill-starred night. Just as I was about to proceed to
Ryebury to meet her at the appointed hour, I found her in the streets
of Emberton, whither she had been sent by her master to Lawyer
Johnstone's for some stamps, and we were returning to Ryebury in order
to procure her clothes, when we met three men dragging along Mr.
Beauchamp, apparently dead. I did not well know what to do; and, in a
scuffle with the men, I was of course overpowered. They treated me
humanely, however, I must say, and told me that they neither wished to
hurt me nor the gentleman they had got; and if I chose to go quietly
along with them till they were safe in France, whither they were
going, they would then set me at liberty; but they vowed, with many
imprecations, that they would not leave any one behind who could give
information against them. I learned from this that they had committed
some crime; but the impossibility of resistance, the desire of getting
to France, and the hope of doing some good to my master, all induced
me to yield quietly; and I accordingly got into the boat with them,
and we went off. By the time we had reached the smuggler's cottage,
however, I had learned enough to show me the horrid crime that had
been committed; and, before I had been there a quarter of an hour,
this young man beside me, whom I have reason to believe was the
principal actor in the Ryebury tragedy, whispered to me that I was in
for it, as he termed it, and that, fair weather or foul, I must sail
out the voyage with him and his companions. I asked him what he meant,
and he then showed me, that if I went back to London, or peached, as
he called it, I should certainly be suspected as accessory to what had
happened. I was overcome with the horror of my situation; and, on my
remonstrating and begging him to allow me to depart, he threatened, if
I said another word, to make it out so that I should appear the
principal in the murder. My courage and my resolution failed; and,
weakly consenting to go with them, I suffered myself to be led on
blindly, and do what they liked. The freight of the ship even I was
compelled to pay, which I did with a pound note that Sarah there had
received from her poor master the night before, and had given me to
keep. After our arrival in France, I gave myself up to despair; my
hopes and prospects seemed utterly ruined, and, to keep away thought,
I gambled deeply. Fortune, however, favored me, and I won large sums.
Suddenly the news that Bow-street officers were pursuing us in Paris,
added new anxieties to my mind, and often I thought to give myself up
and tell all I knew. The apprehension that I would do so, it seems,
induced the other prisoner beside me, to be beforehand with me; and,
on the night that I was taken, when I heard his voice without, and saw
Mr. Beauchamp enter the room, I certainly made a desperate defense,
having no hope of being able to establish my innocence against the
conspiracy that was evidently got up to make me the scapegoat. This,
gentlemen, is the plain, straightforward story of what really
happened. You must all see that I have had no time to make up such a
tale, as I knew not what evidence would be produced against me. There
stands the only witness I could bring forward to prove the truth of my
story; but she, included in the same false charge, is prevented from
giving evidence in my favor."

"It is all true!--it is all true!" cried the unhappy girl, weeping
bitterly; and Harding proceeded--"I have little more to add,
gentlemen. Mr. Beauchamp's evidence is generally correct, though he
was mistaken in one or two particulars; but I trust that you will
allow the good character that he has himself given me, to
counterbalance the assertions that he has erroneously made. In
conclusion, I have only to say, that my very heart and soul revolts at
the thought of the crime with which I am charged; and although I have
been culpable in some things, let me trust that my sins have been
sufficiently punished already by their consequences, and that a jury
of my countrymen will not incur the awful responsibility of condemning
an innocent man for a crime that never entered his thoughts."

With a fine person and graceful action, Harding delivered this address
with so much effect, that a murmur of approbation filled the court
when he concluded; and it was evident that the opinion of the jury was
strongly affected by what he had said.

The gentlemen of the bar, however, whispered together with a
significant smile, and one then remarked to another--"He brought in
the girl devilish neatly. The fellow must have some good in him for
that."

"Poo!" replied the more experienced counsel to whom he spoke. "He
could not have made up his own story without it."

The judge now repressed the noise in the court, and the young sailor
came nearer to the bar to address the jury.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I can't make you a fine speech like this man,
Harding, who, I begin to think, is the devil himself; for none but the
father of lies could have got up such a string of them, do ye see! I
told the whole truth in my declaration before the magistrates; and as
you all know well enough, if what he has said were true, and I had
wanted to betray him to screen myself, I might have been king's
evidence, as the folks wanted me. My lord the judge knows that, and
every one else; and so I should have saved my life to a certainty, and
pocketed the reward. No--no! I had no such thought in my head, do you
see; and now, gentlemen, I will tell you truly how it all happened. It
makes little odds to me whether you hang me or not; for I shall not
live three months if you don't; and death is just as bitter to-morrow
as to-day--though I never feared him much, somehow. The thing is this,
gentlemen:--I have a poor mother, a widow, living at Emberton; and to
see her next to starving always has been a sore heart to me. Well,
there were only three people in all the world that ever were very kind
to me. The first was my mother, who forgave me all my faults, and
loved me notwithstanding all the sorrows I brought her. The next was
Captain William Delaware, who, when I got into a scrape about
poaching, and might have been sent to the hulks, took me aboard his
own ship, treated me as kindly as possible, and sent me back with a
better character than ever I had before. The next was Mr. Henry
Beauchamp--though I always took his name to be Burrel. He saved my
life at the risk of his own; had me doctored and tended; was kind to
me and my mother; gave me advice and encouragement, which would have
been a blessing if I had remembered it, and promised me help if I
behaved well. But I did not behave well; for that cursed villain, his
servant, Harding there, did me more harm than all his master could say
did me good. He was always at me about what he called the unequal
distribution of property; and it was very natural to get from thinking
that other folks had no right to their property, to thinking that one
should take it from them the best way one could; and so it turned out.
I have told all about the robbery in my declaration: but I never could
tell, gentlemen, what a turn it gave me, when I found they had
murdered the old man. Ay, when first they came down, with their hands
all bloody: I shall never forget it, sleeping or waking. However, that
I got over, though it was always like a red-hot coal lying at my
heart; but then I thought that sometime it would go out of my head;
till one day I went into a shop in Paris to sell some of the things
for them that they had stolen, when they set fire to the lady's house
upon the hill, and there I took up an English newspaper, and I saw all
about the murder. That was bad enough; but when I found out that a set
of rogues and fools had laid the blame of what we had done upon the
noblest gentleman in all the country, who would not not hurt a fly, if
it were not when he is alongside of an enemy--when I saw that, and
thought how it would break his gallant heart, and that of his good
father, and poor Miss Blanche's too, and remembered what Captain
Delaware had done for me, and what his father and Miss Blanche had
done for my poor mother--why, gentlemen, I thought I should have gone
mad. Well, I believe I was mad; till, as good luck would have it, I
found out Mr. Beauchamp, and told him all about it, and offered, if he
would not take odds against the two fellows, but would go with me and
face them singly--I offered, I say, to give them up, and myself too.
Well, he told me of the king's proclamation, and promise of pardon,
and all that; but I told him I would be tried too, like the rest; and
away we went, and took them, though I got shot in the shoulder, and
Mr. Beauchamp in the face. Now, gentlemen, you all know that I was
left behind in Paris, and came over here of my own accord, and gave
myself up without any one telling me; and so you may believe the rest
of my story or not, as you like. All I want is to clear Captain
Delaware; for he is a noble gentleman, and a good officer, and a
kind-hearted man--God bless him forever!"

Harding had been really eloquent; for from the adaptation of his story
to the evidence produced immediately before, it was beyond doubt that
he had poured forth his long address upon the spur of the occasion.
Walter Harrison, however, was not eloquent; and, if there had been any
thing like eloquence in his speech, it was the eloquence of passionate
sincerity. Still his tale produced the deep impression; Harding's
alone the transient one. In the case of the latter, the jury and the
spectators had felt that the account was plausible, and might be true;
but when Walter Harrison concluded his rough oration, there was not a
man in all the court that doubted his assertions. There was a
momentary pause, and then more than one person murmured, "Poor
fellow!"

At length the judge summed up the evidence, with that clear,
straightforward, noble impartiality, that dignified and equitable
firmness, which is so universally characteristic of an English judge.
He noticed Harding's defense, and gave him the full credit of every
probability that existed in favor of the story he had told, but he
noticed also the singular conduct of Walter Harrison, pointed out the
minute resemblance between the declaration he had made in Paris, and
that which he had made in England, and the harmony of the whole of it
with both his conduct toward Beauchamp and the conversation he had
held with the smuggler. Nevertheless, he said, there was a peculiar
feature in the case which greatly affected it, and he begged the jury
to give the prisoners the advantage of any doubt that might thence
arise in their minds. This peculiar feature was, that Walter Harrison
having refused to become king's evidence, the prisoners had not had an
opportunity of cross-examine him, as they might have done any other
witness. At the same time, his declaration could not fail to have a
considerable effect upon the minds of the jury in regard to the other
prisoners, as well as to himself, and therefore it was to be received
cautiously, from the peculiarity adverted to.

The judge's exposition of the law, and his classification of the
evidence adduced, was clear, judicious, and impartial; and, on
dismissing the jury to deliberate, he called upon them to cast away
from their minds the remembrance of every thing but what they had
heard in that court, and never to forget, that the duty they were then
called upon to perform, involved the most awful responsibility which
it is possible for a human being to undertake.

The eyes of each of the prisoners were fixed upon the jury-box while
the judge addressed the jurors; and it was remarked, that at one
particular point of the summing up, where the declaration of the young
sailor, and his conduct throughout the whole transaction, were clearly
stated, Harding turned extremely pale, and, casting down his eyes,
remained in deep thought.

In a very few minutes the jury re-appeared in court, and the foreman
announced their verdict of guilty against Smithson, Harding, and his
paramour; not guilty in regard to the young sailor, except on the
count referring to the robbery.

As the fatal words rang in her ear, the unhappy woman dropped down on
the floor of the dock, as if she had been shot. Smithson alone
muttered a few words in his peculiar slang, consigning the judge and
jury to the place for which his own deeds qualified him much better.
Harding remained profoundly silent, and heard not only the
announcement of his condemnation, but the awful sentence that followed
it, with a calm but steadfast composure.

While sentence of death was passing on Harding, Smithson, and Sarah
Ings, the head of a woman, dressed in deep mourning, pale, haggard,
and agitated, but with the traces of former beauty shining through
all, was seen gazing eagerly upon the judge; till at length he turned
to Walter Harrison, and informed him that, at the suggestion of the
king's counsel on the occasion; his sentence should be reserved for
farther consideration. At those words a passionate flood of tears were
seen to burst from the poor woman's eyes, which had been dry as the
desert before; and she hurried eagerly from the court ere the crowd
made their way toward the door.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.


There are some men so highly gifted with fine and generous feelings,
that they feel a sort of sympathetic excitement in the trials and
behavior of murderers and highwaymen--prize the rope that hanged a
noted criminal, and guard, as a relic, the implements with which some
great crime was perpetrated. We own the narrowness of our own mind in
these respects, and turn without reluctance for a time from the fierce
and ruthless deeds of men in the last stage of human depravity, to
scenes where the same passions, and perhaps the same vices, had to
struggle with the bonds of education and circumstances, and were
restrained to crooked and confined passages, by all the respects of
rank, and station, and a well preserved name.

On the Saturday morning which succeeded the trial of Harding and his
accomplices, the Earl of Ashborough sat waiting for his carriage,
which was to be at his door at nine precisely, in order to whirl him
and his niece down to one of his country seats, for the purpose of
spending the Christmas holidays with true old English hospitality, as
the newspapers term it, amidst his neighbors and tenants.

About three weeks had now elapsed since the return of his nephew and
the dismissal of Mr. Tims, and agents had been appointed by the earl
to examine into that worthy's accounts, in which they had hitherto
made but small progress. The noble lord had in the mean while pursued
his plan of speaking of his _ci-devant_ lawyer, and treating him in
every respect with calm and supreme contempt. But Mr. Tims had at the
same time proceeded upon his plan also; and scarcely a daily or a
weekly newspaper appeared--from that which instructs and bullies the
statesman, to that which sets the pot-house in a roar--that did not
contain some galling allusion to the Earl of Ashborough and his
private affairs.

His lordship took no notice, but still the same attack went on; and
though he spoke not a word upon the business to anyone, yet it was
evident that the annoyance he felt was sufficient seriously to affect
his health. A physician's carriage was seen almost daily at his door;
and in the end, it being discovered that the length of time he had
spent that year in the dull and smoky atmosphere of London, had hurt
his constitution, it was determined that he should set out for the
country, and not return till his parliamentary duties absolutely
compelled his attendance in the House of Peers. The carriage then was
ordered, and his lordship, with his usual punctuality, was ready to
the moment. The carriage, however, and his lordship's niece were any
thing but ready to the moment; and the earl was sitting in attendance
upon their will and pleasure, and in no very quiescent mood, when the
loud clatter of a horse's feet beneath the windows broke the silence;
and in a moment after, a letter, brought by express from the little
county town of ----, was put into his hand, together with another,
bearing his address in the handwriting of Henry Beauchamp.

The first was signed by the sheriff of the county, and went to inform
him that a man of the name of Harding, having been that day, at twenty
minutes after three o'clock, condemned to death for the murder at
Ryebury, had expressed an earnest wish to see his lordship, and had
intimated that, if he were so indulged, he would make disclosures of
very great importance, and which, he believed, might even save his own
life. These facts the sheriff had thought necessary to bring before
his lordship, leaving him to judge whether it would be proper or not
to comply with the desire of the prisoner. The letter from Beauchamp
contained but a few lines, urging his uncle strongly to give immediate
attention to the demand of the felon; and Lord Ashborough, in his
first burst of angry impatience, threw both the epistles into the fire
together.

Now, as Lord Ashborough was a man who seldom gave way to such
unnecessary displays of vehemence, it was very easy to divine, from
his violent demolition of the letters, that he would ultimately do
what was required, whatever he might say to the contrary; for, had he
not intended to go, there would not have been the slightest use of
being angry about the matter.

"What could the fellow want with him?" he asked. "It was all nonsense!
There could be no reason for his going down; nor could the rascal have
any matter of import to relate!"

But the very fact that his lordship could by no means divine what
Harding could want with him, served in the greatest degree to
strengthen that principle, or passion, or folly--whichever curiosity
may be termed by the learned--that now urged the earl to travel to the
town of ----. By the time the carriage came up, he had got as far as
to think, "Well, I suppose I must go!" and by the time Miss Beauchamp,
be-cloaked and be-furred, entered the drawing-room, he had summoned
resolution to say, "Had you and the carriage been ready at the time,
Maria, I should have had a pleasant journey with you down to ----,
instead of an unpleasant one by myself down to ----."

What convenient things blanks are!

He then explained to his niece the circumstances which called him in a
different direction from that which he had proposed to follow, and
left her the choice of taking the barouche and the old butler, and
proceeding at once into the country, as they had intended at first, or
of going with him in the chariot to the county town of ----.

"Oh, not I, my dear uncle, for the world!" cried Miss Beauchamp. "You
surely do not expect me to go and dance at what they call the '_Size
ball!_ No, indeed; I must be excused. The barouche, the old butler,
and the country house for me; but remember, I shall expect your
lordship to join me in two days, for the house is to be full of
people, the newspapers tell me; and, of course, you can not expect me
to act the landlady of the inn, when the landlord is away."

Lord Ashborough, as a matter of form, scolded his gay niece for her
pertness, although he knew her to be incorrigible; and then leaving
her to make her own arrangements, which, to say sooth, she had never
any great difficulty in doing, he got into the chariot, and rolled
away in a very different direction from that in which he had
previously intended to turn his steps.

There is nothing so dry and disgusting on earth as traveling on paper.
It is a sort of algebraic locomotion, full of false positions and most
uninteresting abbreviations; and therefore, instead of posting on by
the side of the earl of Ashborough, we shall take the liberty of
getting into the chaise with him, and while he leans back with his
eyes half shut, will gently unbutton the two top buttons of his
waistcoat, where the lapel folds over the black handkerchief, and,
drawing it back, peep in through the window the old Roman wished for,
and ascertain what is doing in his lordship's breast.

There was once, in the days of Cheops, an Egyptian who had a
remarkably fine poultry-yard, in which were all the fowls of all the
feathers that Egypt ever saw. One day it so happened, that, walking by
the side of the Nile, the Egyptian espied an egg, which he immediately
took up, and, putting it in his breast, he carried it home, and laid
it carefully in the nest of a sitting hen. Twenty days after, on
entering his poultry-yard, to his great surprise he found--nothing but
feathers and a young crocodile, which instantly attacked him also.
With great difficulty the Egyptian freed himself of the destroyer of
his hens; and when he died, he directed in his will, that on the
frontal bandage of his mummy, there should be written, both in the
hieroglyphic and the vulgar character, "_Beware how you hatch a
crocodile's egg in your poultry-yard!_" Cheops, when he heard it,
laughed; but one day, when he was going to give way to his revenge,
contrary to the best interests both of himself and his people--contrary
to wisdom, and policy, and justice, and good faith--he caught himself
saying, "Beware how you hatch a crocodile's egg in your poultry-yard!"
and ever after that, when he found a violent passion springing up in his
breast, his instant address to his own heart was, "_Beware how you hatch
a crocodile's egg in your poultry-yard!_"

Now, the Earl of Ashborough had lately discovered, that in pursuit of
his right honorable revenge against Sir Sidney Delaware, he had
hatched a crocodile's egg in his poultry-yard; and though he certainly
repented having done so, in exact proportion to the consequent evil it
had brought upon himself, he, of course, felt his hatred toward Sir
Sidney Delaware increased in the same degree. Lord Ashborough would
not have given his right hand, or any, thing the least like it, to
have had full vengeance on the Delaware family, for he was a man that
valued both his hands highly, and would not have parted with either of
them; but whereas he would, a month or two before, have given a
considerable portion of his golden stores, which were the next things
to drops of his blood, he would now have given double the sum to see
the ruin of the race he hated. As he lay back, then, in the chariot,
he thought over all the events, and could not help hoping that some
circumstance might yet give him an opportunity of balancing the long
account of those vexations and uncomforts which had fallen upon him,
in, with, from, through, and by the affairs of Sir Sidney Delaware,
and also of inflicting upon that gentleman and his family evils in a
like proportion.

"At all events," he thought--and it was the most consolatory
reflection that he had been able to find--"at all events, they have
been forced to leave the country, and have most probably gone to
America; so that all danger of such a degrading connection being
formed by Beauchamp is now at an end. So far, therefore, my labor and
anxiety has not been in vain, and I may flatter myself, at least, that
one great object has been gained, if not the whole."

There was another slight gleam of hope or expectation, flickering over
the dying lamp of the earl's former designs. If one may use the term,
it was a hopeless hope--the stout swimmer's last gasp--yet without it
Lord Ashborough would probably never have attended to Harding's
request. Hating all the Delaware race as he did, he had not been able
to persuade himself fully that Captain Delaware was entirely innocent,
notwithstanding the convincing proofs that Beauchamp had laid before
him; and he now thought it possible--barely possible--that the
murderer Harding might have something to say which would in some way
inculpate William Delaware.

All these ideas rolled in the earl's mind like the morning clouds of
spring--misty, and vague, and varying in shape and size, though still
keeping one general character--till night came, and he fell asleep.

He awoke about eight o'clock, as the carriage stopped in the county
town of ----, and looking out, saw the bright lamp over the ever-open
glass doors of the principal inn, and the waiters rushing forth to
seize upon the inmate of the carriage-and-four. His lordship's agility
not being what it had been, he entered the house of many tenants with
slow and dignified steps, and taking possession of the best apartment,
demanded whether Mr. Beauchamp were still there. The waiter replied in
the affirmative, and in a few minutes the greeting of the uncle and
nephew had taken place. As neither had dined, and Beauchamp's dinner
was just upon the table, the earl became his guest, while a servant
was dispatched to the prison, in order to notify his arrival, in
compliance with the request of Harding.

As far as possible, Lord Ashborough never disturbed his appetite in
the exercise of its functions by any conversation which might become
disagreeable; and, consequently, he abstained, with infinite
forbearance, from touching upon the proceedings in regard to the
Ryebury affair, till biscuits and wine stood upon the table by
themselves. He then, however, asked his nephew how the events of the
assizes had gone. Beauchamp, in reply, gave him a succinct account of
all that had taken place, without forgetting to mention that the bill
against Captain Delaware had been thrown out by the grand jury with
every mark of indignant rejection; and, on seeing his uncle bite his
lip, he added--"So now, every shade of doubt and suspicion has been
removed from the character of William Delaware; and I trust very soon
to see him and his family return to England, and resume that station
in society for which they were born, and in which your lordship's
liberal conduct, in regard to the annuity, will enable them to move
with greater ease."

Lord Ashborough turned rather pale; but he replied at once, "I trust
not, sir! I trust not!"

"And pray, why not?" demanded Beauchamp, with more surprise at the
frank avowal of such a wish, than at the existence thereof.

"I will tell you, Henry Beauchamp," replied the earl; "I will tell
you. It is on your account, I say, that I hope not. I have not chosen
to speak to you, since your return, upon your previous conduct toward
this family of Delawares, because I trusted that circumstances would
have removed them forever from our neighborhood; but now, that there
means a possibility of their returning, I must tell you that I have
never been ignorant, from the first, of your masquerading visit to the
country; and I must further say, that a report has reached me of your
trifling with the old man's daughter. That you would ever dream of
marrying the girl, of course I do not believe; but the very report is
unpleasant, and might injure your views in a fitting alliance."

Beauchamp had a great deal of trouble to master the mixture of
personal anger and indignation which his uncle's speech had created in
his bosom, and to reduce his reply to terms of respect and moderation.
He succeeded, however, in putting out a good deal of the fire ere he
answered, "My lord, as far as a kindred interest in my affairs and
prospects goes, I feel that your zeal on the present occasion must of
course add to the gratitude and affection I entertain toward you, for
a long train of kindnesses in the past; but you will pardon me, if I
say that a certain line must be drawn between anxiety in regard to my
welfare, and dictation in regard to my conduct--for beyond that line I
can permit no one to trespass."

Lord Ashborough turned very red, and he replied hastily, "All these
are mere fine words, Mr. Beauchamp. What I wish to know simply is, do
you, or do you not, intend to marry this girl?"

"That, my lord, is a question," replied Beauchamp, still bridling his
anger, "which no man on earth has any right to ask me, and to it I
shall give you no reply. But that you may not at all deceive yourself,
let me add, that if you desire to know whether I think Miss Delaware
fitted by station and circumstances to become my wife, I will reply at
once, that a man of much higher rank, and much greater fortune than
myself, should think himself honored could he obtain her hand."

"Enough, sir! Enough!" cried Lord Ashborough. "You have said quite
enough. In regard to my right to question you, I slightly differ with
you in opinion, inasmuch as my conduct will of course be regulated
toward you by the answers you have made; and now, Henry Beauchamp, I
have to tell you, that you will do of course as you like; but if these
Delawares ever return to England--and may the sea swallow the scheming
beggars ere they reach the shore--but if ever they should come, and
you pursue your foolish conduct toward that girl, I leave every
farthing which I can by any means alienate from the estates attached
to the title, to the most distant connection I have, rather than to
yourself. Mark me, you throw away at least twenty thousand per annum;
and, at the same time, I cast you off forever, and will never see you
more!"

"My lord," replied Beauchamp, in a firm tone, "although you have yet
shown me no right to ask the question you did ask, you have at least
afforded me a good reason for answering it more pointedly than I have
hitherto done; and therefore, that you may make any dispositions in
regard to your property which you think fit without delay or
uncertainty, I tell you plainly and positively, that if ever Miss
Delaware does return to this country, I shall at once offer her my
hand; that if she should not return immediately, I will seek her
through every country in Europe for the same purpose! Now, my lord,
having said this much, allow me to remind you, that I am not a man
whom the loss even of twenty thousand pounds a year can awe into doing
one single thing that he would not otherwise have done, nor leave one
regret upon his mind for doing that which he thinks right. The loss of
your lordship's affection and society cuts deeper, and will be painful
under any circumstances; but I can not help thinking, that on this
point, at least, you will see cause to change your determination."

"Never, sir! Never!" cried Lord Ashborough, whose passion had got into
the white stage. "Never, while I live!" and ringing the bell
violently, he threw open the door, and retired to his apartments.
Beauchamp took two or three turns up and down the room; told his
uncle's servant who appeared, that he would find him in his own room;
and then sat down to contemplate all that had just occurred.

"At all events," he thought, after he had revolved the whole
particulars for several minutes--"at all events, it is a very
disagreeable business done and over. It must have come sooner or
later; and however painful it may be to give such deep offense to a
person toward whom I have many debts of gratitude, yet, of course,
this was a point upon which I could yield nothing. His lordship, I
think, _will yield_ something; and if he relent on the point of
excommunication, he may enrich the first chimney-sweeper he meets, for
aught I care!"




CHAPTER XXXIX.


Lord Ashborough's servant found him pale and exhausted; for the first
energy of anger had passed away, and the languor which it leaves
behind had taken possession of a frame already weakened by an organic
disease, the attacks of which had lately been more frequent and severe
than they had ever proved before.

"Well!" said the earl, as the man entered--"Have you been to the
prison!"

"I sent Johnstone, my lord," replied the valet. "I thought your
lordship might want me."

"Well, well!" cried the earl, impatiently. "What does Johnstone say!"

"The governor sends his respects, my lord," answered the valet; "and
although it is past the hour, he will of course admit your lordship,
especially as the man has asked several times, he says, whether you
had arrived or not."

"Order the carriage!" said the earl. "But stay--is it far to the
prison!"

"Not two hundred yards," replied the servant; and Lord Ashborough
declared he would walk thither. The valet, however, took the liberty
of remonstrating, with that tender interest in his master's health
which he thought might add two or three hundred pounds to the legacy
he firmly expected to find in the earl's will. "I hope you will
remember, my lord, that you are not well. Sir Henry said you were not
to make any great exertion, or take too much exercise; and your
lordship is looking very pale to-night."

"I dare say I do," answered the earl. "However, I must go. Give me my
cloak, Peregrine; and call Johnstone to show me the way."

The valet, of course, made no farther opposition; and Lord Ashborough
was soon on his way to the county jail, with a footman lighting him
on--for the town was very dark--and with a most fervent wish in his
heart that the felon he was going to see might place it in his power
to fix at least one damning spot of suspicion on the name of Delaware.
The governor of the prison received him with deep respect; and doors
opened, and keys turned, for the Earl of Ashborough, throughout the
long passages and chilly courts of the county jail.

"We have given this man every convenience in our power," said the
governor, as he led Lord Ashborough along toward the condemned cells,
"because he seemed to be a person of superior mind; and he assured the
sheriff so earnestly, that he had something to communicate to your
lordship, which might probably influence his majesty in regard to his
fate, that it was thought indispensable to trouble your lordship on
the occasion."

"Pray, has he seen Mr. Beauchamp since his condemnation?" demanded the
earl.

"No, sir! Nor has he expressed any wish to do so," answered the
governor; "but the sheriff thought it best to consult that gentleman
ere he troubled you. This is the cell, my lord. Here, Nixon, open the
door. I will attend your lordship's return in the waiting-room; and
the turnkey will be at the door when you wish to come out of the cell.
Mr. Harding," he added, as the door was opened, "here is the Earl of
Ashborough kindly come to see you. Stand away from the door, sirs,"
continued the governor, to two of his satellites, "and leave the
prisoner to speak with the earl at liberty."

The culprit rose as Lord Ashborough entered, looking somewhat annoyed,
however, at the noise made by his fetters, as he did so. He was
composed and calm as usual; but the hollow eye, and sunken cheek,
betrayed the secret of the heart within; and showed that his
stoicism--as all stoicism probably ever has been--was all on the
surface.

"Your lordship is very kind," he said, in a quiet, tranquil tone; "to
attend so promptly to my request."

"The information sent me by the sheriff," replied the earl, "made me
hold it as a duty to come without loss of time. But, let me know, what
have you to communicate to me?"

"I have first to make a request, my lord," answered Harding, who knew
Lord Ashborough far better than Lord Ashborough knew himself, and
therefore counted his expressions in regard to duty, &c., at exactly
their true value.

"When you have granted or denied my petition, I will tell you what I
have farther to communicate."

"And pray, what may your petition be!" asked the earl. "I must not
waste time in many words, sir--for it is short."

"No one should know that better than myself, my lord," replied the
prisoner; "but my petition is simply, that you would personally apply
to his majesty for my pardon."

The earl was surprised; but not so much as might have been expected;
for he anticipated some discovery which might give the culprit a claim
to mercy. "Your request is a most extraordinary one, my good friend,"
he replied, "considering the evidence which has been brought against
you. Nevertheless, I will do as you desire, if you will give me any
excuse for doing so. In short, if you are not the real offender, and
can point out who is--or if you only participated in the crime which
another, more criminal than yourself, led you to, or committed with
his own hand--and if you can give me any proof, or can lead in any way
to the detection and punishment of the guilty, I shall feel myself
justified in pleading strongly in your behalf."

"Sorry I am to say, my lord," answered Hardin, coolly, "that I can do
none of all these things."

"Then, sir, in the name of every thing impudent," exclaimed the earl,
angrily, "how came you to ask of me to plead for you to his majesty?"

"I think I can show your lordship a strong reason for doing so,"
replied Harding, with a slight sneer curling his lip; "and I must then
leave it to your lordship's ingenuity to discover some motive to
assign to his majesty for granting me his gracious pardon; although,
let me remark, that you may well say the case is a very doubtful one;
for certain I am, that not one of the twelve jurors who condemned me,
did not lie down on his bed last night with a doubting heart, as to my
guilt or innocence."

The earl listened with no slight degree of anger to the prisoner's
cool and impudent harangue; but curiosity kept him silent, or at least
taught him to conceal his contempt and indignation, till he had heard
the circumstances to which the culprit alluded. "Well, sir! well," he
said, as Harding paused--"Pray, what are the extraordinary motives
which you suppose will prove capable of inducing me to furnish his
majesty with reasons for pardoning a convicted felon? What is there,
sir, that should tempt me to undertake such a task?"

"Simply, my lord, that scrupulous care for your lordship's
reputation," Harding replied, "which you have displayed through life."

Lord Ashborough laughed aloud; but Harding maintained the same calm
and somewhat sneering aspect, as if he had made up his mind to every
turn that his conference with the earl might take, and could not be
turned aside from his direct object for a moment, by either scorn or
anger.

"And pray, sir," demanded his noble visitor, when he had exhausted his
scoffing laugh--"Pray, what has my reputation to do with your
situation? Do you intend to accuse me, in your last dying speech and
confession, of having committed the murder myself, or of having aided
you to commit it?"

"Neither one nor the other, my lord," answered the prisoner; "but if I
do make any confession at all, which will depend upon your lordship's
conduct, I intend to state that the robbery was first suggested to me
by the following letter, written to me by your lordship's lawyer on
your account, in order to persuade me to delay or carry off a sum of
money which my master was to receive through the hands of the old man
at Ryebury."

Lord Ashborough turned deadly pale; and taking a step forward, while
he advanced his hand toward the paper which Harding held, he
exclaimed, "Let me see, sir--Let me see!"

"Your pardon, my lord!" said the prisoner, drawing back the paper.
"One does not usually give such valuable documents out of one's own
hand. I will read it to you, however;" and in a calm, sustained voice,
he proceeded to treat the ears of Lord Ashborough, sentence by
sentence, with the whole of that letter which had been formerly
written to him by Mr. Peter Tims, in regard to the money which
Beauchamp had expected from London, to pay off the annuity on Sir
Sidney Delaware's estate. "Your lordship will see," continued the
prisoner, "that such a letter was very well calculated to induce me to
commit a robbery; you will see, also, that Mr. Tims uses your lordship
as his authority throughout; and I look upon myself as extremely lucky
in having always preserved this letter in the lining of my waistcoat,
as it now gives me the hope that so highly respected and honorable a
nobleman as yourself may interest himself in my favor."

Now, in Lord Ashborough's mind, there was a great portion of that very
same principle which had led Beauchamp to make the most uncompromising
declaration of his purposes toward Blanche Delaware, as soon as he
found that his uncle held out a threat upon the subject. Or, as the
matter would be explained in one word by the phrenologists--who, if
they have discovered nothing else, have at least, by the clearness of
their definitions and their classification of human passions, rendered
great services to moral philosophy--Lord Ashborough had no small
development of combativeness in his brain; and the very idea of being
bullied by a felon into demanding the royal mercy for a murderer,
without one plausible motive to allege, instantly armed him to resist,
though at the same time he felt terribly the additional wound his
character might receive from such a paper being published as that
which Harding had read.

"You are mistaken, sir," he replied, sternly. "You are entirely
mistaken in your anticipations. That letter was totally unauthorized
by me; and the rascal who wrote it, for that and several similar acts
has been dismissed from my employment."

Harding heard him with the same cool smile, and then replied, "Your
lordship's memory is short, I know; but luckily I can refresh it, for
Mr. Tims has favored me only last night with this authentic and
original copy of the letter, containing numerous corrections and
improvements in your lordship's own handwriting."

Lord Ashborough saw that the day was lost, and that his discarded
agent had triumphed. He had not committed himself in regard to the
Delawares, it is true; but he had committed himself hopelessly in
regard to the very man who now stood before him a convicted felon; and
he felt that the reputation, of which he was proud just in proportion
as he little deserved it, was gone forever. He made no reply, however;
but with a slight, and--as Harding fancied--scornful movement of the
lip, he turned suddenly toward the door, struck it sharply with his
hand, and exclaimed "Open the door, turnkey! Open the door!"

It was instantly thrown wide to give him exit--but Lord Ashborough
never went out! The one word, "Villain!" was all that he pronounced in
the hearing of the turnkey; and he then fell forward at once, across
the threshold of the door.

All was now confusion. Both jailers started forward to raise the
nobleman, whom they believed to have tripped his foot in the doorway.
Harding gave one longing look toward the open door and the embarrassed
turnkeys; but then, turning his eyes to the fetters upon his own
limbs, he sat down with a sigh of infinite compassion for himself,
while the earl was raised, and the door locked.

"He has fainted, Mr. Jones!" said one of the jailers. "Here, take his
feet, and help me to carry him along to the waiting room."

"He looks deadly pale!" replied the other, stooping forward, and
gazing in Lord Ashborough's face, while he aided to bear the earl
onward through the passage. "He looks mighty like a dead man."

The consternation of the governor of the prison was excessive when he
saw the state of the noble visitor; and, while physicians were sent
for from every quarter, he himself pressed his hand upon the earl's
wrist, and upon his heart; but no pulse made itself felt in return;
and all the usual restoratives were applied in vain.

A moment or two after, the surgeon of the prison appeared; but, as
soon as he beheld the countenance of him to whose aid he was called,
he shook his head, declaring that he believed him to be dead. He
attempted to bleed him, however; but by this time no blood was to be
obtained, and two or three medical men, from different parts of the
town, arriving soon after, confirmed the opinion of the first.
Nevertheless, various means were still resorted to in the hope of
restoring animation, while messengers were dispatched to the different
inns to ascertain at which the earl had alighted, and to inform his
relations and servants of what had occurred.

Henry Beauchamp was still musing over the fire when Lord Ashborough's
valet opened the door, and, with a face of grief and terror, extremely
well compounded, exclaimed, "Sir, I am sorry to tell you that my lord
has been taken very ill at the prison--"

Beauchamp started up, and took his hat, while the servant added,
"Indeed, they seem to fear, sir, that he is dead!"

"Good God!" cried Beauchamp, as he rushed past the man--"Good God!"
and, darting down stairs, he proceeded with rapid steps to the prison,
into which, on giving his name, he was instantly admitted.

He found what had been Lord Ashborough extended on a table with a
pillow under his head, and the surgeons still busy about the body; but
one glance at his uncle's countenance showed him that the spirit had
fled; and for a moment he gazed upon him without question or remark,
while busy memory did her work, and gathered from the past every kind
act of the dead, to build him up a monument in his nephew's heart.

"How did this happen, sir!" demanded Beauchamp at length, in a low
tone, as if afraid of disturbing that deep sleep that had fallen upon,
his uncle.

The governor told all he knew, and Beauchamp anxiously requested that
the prisoner, Harding, might be asked if he could assign any cause for
the accident that had befallen the earl. One of the turnkeys was
accordingly sent to his cell; and while he was absent. Beauchamp,
perceiving that the medical men were addressing all their means of
restoration to the head, informed them that Lord Ashborough had been
for some years subject to spasms of the heart.

"If that be the case, then, sir," replied one of them, "we may abandon
the attempt, as the earl is certainly dead."

"Nevertheless," replied Beauchamp, "leave no means untried, while
there is even the most remote hope."

The surgeon shook his head, but still made some more efforts; and the
turnkey, returning almost immediately from the condemned cell reported
that the prisoner could only be brought to say, that the earl had
fallen into a violent passion, and that he himself desired not to be
farther troubled upon the subject.

After a pause of a few minutes more, the principal surgeon again
addressed Beauchamp saying, "As I imagine, sir, from your manner that
you are a near relation of the earl, I feel my duty to tell you
positively that he is no more and that to continue all these efforts
in your presence, would be but to harrow up your feelings for no
purpose. All men must die, and the nobleman will never have to endure
that pang again."

Beauchamp bowed his head, and crossing his arms upon his bosom,
remained for a few moments in silence. Then begging that one of the
younger surgeons would remain with the body all night, and that the
elder person who had addressed him would accompany him to the inn, he
added a few words of course to the governor of the prison, and
departed from the chamber of the dead.




CHAPTER XL.


We generally, through life, write the actions of each of our friends
and acquaintances on the two sides of one leaf in the book of memory,
the good upon one side, and the bad upon the other, so that it is
scarcely possible to see both at once. With an amiable weakness,
however man most frequently suffers the death of any one he has known
to turn the leaf forever, and reads the character of him that is no
more as if the good were alone recorded. Beauchamp's heart would not
suffer him to do otherwise; and, after he had spoken with the surgeon
in regard to several points of all the sad ceremonies that were to
follow, he sat down in solitude, giving way to feelings that were far
more bitter than he had anticipated. Even had he not felt his uncle's
loss deeply, on the ground of personal regard, there was in his bosom
another motive for regret which would have pained him much.

He asked himself whether the angry discussion which had taken place
between himself and the earl, so shortly before the decease of the
latter, might not have hastened that catastrophe; and although he was
obliged to acknowledge that, were the same circumstances to come over
again, he could not, and would not act otherwise than he had done, yet
he was deeply grieved that the disagreement should have taken place so
immediately previous to the death of his uncle, and that they had
parted from each other forever in anger and ill-will.

We shall pass over Beauchamp's grief, however, merely saying that he
grieved sincerely. Nor shall we dwell upon the details of the funeral
of the Earl of Ashborough--nor treat the reader to the full, true, and
particular account of the execution of three criminals, against whom
we have seen that a jury of their countrymen pronounced a just
verdict, and to whom a judge had awarded a righteous punishment.
Suffice it, that they died!

In regard to Harding alone, a few words must be said. To all
appearance, he met his fate with the same determined coolness which he
had shown through life; rendered, perhaps, a degree more stern and
intense from the awful situation in which he was placed. One
circumstance, and one circumstance alone, seemed to show that the drop
of better feeling which almost every man has at the bottom of his
heart was not entirely polluted by the poisonous streams that flowed
around it. On the night before his execution, after having obdurately
rejected those religious consolations which were offered with
persevering piety by several zealous clergymen, he suddenly desired to
speak with two magistrates; and then, in their presence, made a full
and clear confession of all the particulars connected with the murder
at Ryebury, confirming in every point the testimony of Walter
Harrison. This he signed in the presence of the magistrates, and
caused them to affix their names as witnesses; which being done be
added, "I have made this confession, gentlemen, because the act for
which I am to die has been attributed to a young gentleman who had
nothing to do with it; and because--that gentleman, being well
calculated to do service to himself and his country, if every shade of
imputation be removed from his character--I think the general
considerations of utility require--or rather," he said, breaking off
abruptly the tirade in which he was about to indulge--"or rather, I do
it because I have learned what mental as well as bodily suffering is,
and therefore would spare it to another where there is no occasion for
its infliction. So now, gentlemen, I have done with this world
forever, and I wish you good night."

In the various accounts of the execution, which every one must have
seen in the newspapers, a number of contradictory statements appeared;
some journals affirming that Harding had died, maintaining his
innocence to the last; some, with more truth, that he had made a full
confession. His statement, however, was immediately sent up to London,
properly authenticated, together with the case of Walter Harrison, and
both were laid before the Home Secretary, for the consideration of his
majesty.--The necessary measures for issuing a free pardon to the
young sailor were immediately taken; and when it was presented for
signature, the great personage paused for a moment, to ask some
questions in regard to Captain Delaware, expressing considerable
indignation that so grave a charge should have been brought against a
distinguished officer on such light grounds. "Had that officer not
run off," he said--"a point of which it may be as well to take no
notice--had he not run off, it might have been necessary to make him
some compensation. But that was a great error--that was a great error,
to flinch from trial--a brave man, too--a very brave man!"

"Sir A---- B----, the judge who presided at the trial, sir," replied
the secretary, "informs me, that it was lucky he did make his escape,
alleging that he would have been hanged to a certainty, before
evidence of his innocence could have been procured. So that your
majesty has, at all events, saved a good officer."

"Always a great gain, sir," replied the personage whom he addressed;
"and if that was the case, Captain Delaware did very right. Always
stay in the ship till the very last moment, but don't go down with
her, if you can help it."

With these observations the pardon was signed, and dispatched to the
country town where the young sailor was still confined. Being set at
liberty, he immediately took his way on foot toward the village of
Emberton, where so many of our scenes have been laid. It was by this
time winter, and a hard frost rendered the road firm and dry, so that
Walter Harrison, though greatly debilitated, walked on better than
might have been expected. Night, however, had fallen ere he reached
Emberton; and glad he was that darkness hid him from the cold and
abhorrent eyes he must otherwise have encountered in the streets. But
what tongue could tell the many painful and thrilling memories that
were awakened in his bosom by every spot, as he passed through his
native town, and saw again all the scenes of youth and innocence--as
he marked the various resorts of his boyish hours, and felt that a
night, far darker than that through which he wandered, had fallen over
his life forever.

At the door of his mother's cottage garden he paused, and gazed
wistfully over the house, with feelings that would scarcely let him
enter the gate. There was a light, however, within; and his step over
the gravel of the footpath had instantly caught the mother's unerring
ear--the light moved--the door was thrown open--and the worn and weary
lad, weighed down with sin, and sickness, and sorrow, was pressed in
his mother's arms, and his cold cheek bathed in her tears!

It was long ere either could speak, and for nearly half an hour the
young sailor sat gazing upon the fire, while thick recollections of
all the past held him dull and voiceless. All the time his mother
stood by his side, and fixed her eyes upon him, tracing every line
that remorse had written, and every hue that sickness had spread over
his face; but at length she laid her hand upon his arm, and said,
"Walter, my beloved boy, we must go hence. You must not stay in this
hateful place, which has seen our ruin, our poverty, and our shame. We
must go across the sea, and I will lead you to a place that you will
like to see."

"You forget, mother! You forget!" said the youth, with a deep sigh;
"people travel not without money; neither can they live without it in
foreign countries, more than here. I am sure you do not think that I
am going to take the reward the people offered me, for giving up the
murderers.--No, no! I will not take a price for their blood!"

"I would not have you, Walter!" cried his mother, eagerly. "I would
not have you touch it with the tip of a finger, if they offered you a
world of gold on such an account. But fear not, my boy, I have the
means. Look here--what I received but yesterday--two hundred golden
sovereigns, and this kind letter; and this deed of annuity to you and
me, for one hundred pounds a year, as long as either of us live,
charged upon the estates of Mr. Henry Beauchamp."

"God bless him!" said the youth, fervently. "God bless him!"

"God will bless him, my boy!" replied the widow. "God will bless him
and make him happy, I am sure; for if ever there was a friend to the
friendless, it is Mr. Beauchamp. Only three days after the trial he
sent me this;" and she put into her son's hands a letter, in which
Henry Beauchamp explained to her that the young sailor, having been
severely wounded in turning away a pistol which had been directed
toward his head, he was not only bound, but pleased to make him a
return, which would place him above temptation from poverty.

Beauchamp, who hated that any one should feel he was conferring an
obligation upon them, added many a reason to show that he was rather
pleasing himself than loading them with benefits; and, as he read, the
young sailor shook his head with the first smile that had curled his
lip, for many weeks. "Ay!" he said, "he is a noble gentleman as ever
lived; but he need not have said so much to make us take the money,
mother; for if there is any body in the world I could be proud to take
it from, it is from Mr. Beauchamp; and I declare, mother, if I get
over it all, I will try all my life long to do nothing but what is
right--just to show him that I am grateful."

"It is far the best way that you can show it, Wat," replied his
mother; "and oh, my boy, it is the only way that ever you can set your
mother's heart at peace again!"

"Well, I will, mother, I will!" cried the lad, grasping her hand; "and
I am sure Heaven will help me, if I try--for since I have had this
wound through my side, I have not felt half so wild and willful as I
used to do; and when I was in the prison of a night, I tried to pray
many a time--and if it had not been for that, I don't think I should
have got through the whole of that bad business steadily. So, I will
try and do right; indeed I will!"

The tears streamed down his mother's cheeks; for the relief that
Beauchamp's liberality had given her was nothing to that which those
words afforded, and the night passed over in peace. The next morning,
the news spread through Emberton that the widow's son had returned;
and one or two of the ladies of that place, suddenly smitten with an
interest in the widow's fate, called at the cottage they had never
entered before, just to ask after her and her son. They carried no
gossip back into the town with them however; for the widow coldly,
though civilly, replied that her son was not well, and dismissed them
with a brief answer to more impertinent questions. Three days after
that again, the fresh tidings fluttered on the air of Emberton, that
Widow Harrison and her son had left the place, and had gone to France.
Every one opened their eyes--every one conjectured--and then the nine
days' wonder was over, and the whole affair was forgotten.

Only one person in the neighborhood saw the young sailor after his
return. This was Dr. Wilton, who, having delivered in person the
packet which Beauchamp had sent to the widow, was now visited by both
herself and her son, ere their departure, with a request that he would
convey to their benefactor the expression of their deepest gratitude.
The worthy clergyman, on first hearing who it was that awaited him in
his library, had meditated an exhortation to the young sailor on his
future conduct; but when he saw the worn and haggard look, and the
evident traces of ruined health which his countenance displayed--all
that was severe in the good man's oration died away, and it breathed
nothing but hope and consolation.

"You say you are going to France," he added; "and I will give you two
books to take with you, which, after your Bible, I should wish you to
read attentively. They contain neither cant nor affectation," he
added; "but they point out the best way for one who has been led
astray to return unto right."

Both mother and son received the books with gratitude; and after
having promised to let him know where they settled in France, they
left the worthy clergyman in the act of muttering to himself, "He'll
not live three months, poor, unhappy lad!--There is consumption in his
eyes and on his cheek!"

Scarcely were they gone, and scarcely was Dr. Wilton's comment on the
young sailor's appearance pronounced, when the rush of wheels was
heard before his windows, and in a moment the servant announced Lord
Ashborough. The doctor started up, bewildered; but as Beauchamp
entered the room, dressed in deep mourning, the events that had lately
taken place recurred to his old preceptor's mind; and, shaking him by
the hand, he exclaimed, "Welcome, my dear Harry, and let me pay my
tribute to your new rank; though, to tell you the truth, when the
servant announced the Earl of Ashborough, I scarcely knew who to
expect. I had forgotten all about it, and have been calling you Mr.
Beauchamp for this half hour, with two pensioners of yours--Widow
Harrison and her son. But with me, I am afraid, you will be Harry
Beauchamp to the end of your days."

"Let me never be any thing else, I beseech you, my dear sir," replied
Beauchamp. "The poor widow and her son, too, know me by no other name;
for the deed was drawn up before my poor uncle's death. But I must go
and see them when I visit Emberton."

"You will hardly find them there," replied Dr. Wilton; "for
apprehensions of the rude curiosity and brutal scorn of that most
gossiping place, have driven them to seek an asylum on the continent.
But tell me, Harry, what is the meaning of your looking so ill and so
anxious!"

"In regard to my ill looks," answered Beauchamp, smiling, "you must
remember, my dear sir, that, as I wrote to you, I have been seriously
indisposed since we last met; and as to my anxious looks, I have
certainly had many a subject, both of care and anxiety, pressing
heavily upon my mind. The sudden death of my uncle, and all the
consequent trouble--both in examining his affairs, and in punishing a
rascally agent, who endeavored to throw the basest imputations upon
the memory of his benefactor--have occupied more of my time and
attention than was at all pleasant to me."

"I hope at least you have succeeded in doing justice upon the agent,"
replied Dr. Wilton; "I have seen something of the affair in the
newspapers."

"I have not punished Mr. Tims quite so well as I could have wished,"
Beauchamp answered, "though he thinks the retribution more than
severe. The fact is, I am afraid my uncle suffered him to make use of
his name with too great freedom, and the lawyer has of course taken
advantage of it to screen himself at his patron's expense.
Nevertheless, I compelled him to refund every thing that he had
unjustly appropriated; but, although I believe we had proof sufficient
of one or two direct frauds to have had his name struck off the roll
of attorneys with disgrace, and perhaps might have punished him still
farther, I have been obliged to compromise that matter, and suffer him
to make his retirement from business a voluntary act."

A slight glow upon Henry Beauchamp's cheek showed Dr. Wilton plainly
that there had been parts in the conduct of the late Earl of
Ashborough which his nephew did not feel to have been quite
justifiable; and therefore, turning the conversation from a topic
which he saw was disagreeable in some of its details, he answered,
"That the man was a rogue in grain I have never had any doubt since
all the business relating to the murder of his unhappy uncle, and the
charge he preferred against poor William Delaware. But pray, Harry,
can you tell me what has become of Sir Sidney and his family--you of
course know?"

"Indeed, my dear sir, I do not," answered Beauchamp; "and one great
reason of my coming down here was to ask you the very question that
you have asked me. I have caused my solicitor in London to apply to
the trustee of Captain and Miss Delaware, to ascertain their present
residence. He replied, however, that he was as ignorant upon the
subject as any one. The ten thousand pounds that they inherited from
their mother, he had sold out, he said, at a moment's notice, and
transmitted to Sir Sidney at Mrs. Darlington's, since which time he
had heard nothing of their movements."

"Strange enough!" replied Dr. Wilton; "but we must make inquiries in
the neighborhood while you stay with me; and of course we shall find
some one who knows their address--some of the farmers, or Mr.
Johnstone, who used to collect Sir Sidney's rents, or some one."

"I am afraid it will be a more difficult matter than you anticipate,"
replied Beauchamp; "I sought them in vain when I was in France, though
I knew that they must have landed at Cherbourg; but I found that, as
they had undoubtedly gone to join William Delaware himself, their
route had been studiously concealed. Several weeks have now elapsed
since the trial; and yet, though Captain Delaware's character stands
as clear as ever it did, we have heard nothing of him."

Dr. Wilton did not now require to be told what was the chief cause of
that expression of anxiety which he had remarked in Beauchamp's
countenance; but he knew that to a lover, and an ardent one--which he
felt sure his pupil would be wherever he did love--the subject of his
hopes and fears could never become painful or tiresome when once it
had been spoken of; and he therefore went on boldly to ask, whether
Beauchamp had or had not discovered since, that he was right in
thinking that Blanche's conduct, in rejecting his hand, had proceeded
from some misapprehension.

"No, indeed, my dear sir!" replied Beau champ. "As I told you at the
time, there could be no misapprehension in the business. Nor have I
discovered any thing since, on any subject which would lead me to
think so. Indeed, I have but had the pleasure of meeting Miss Delaware
once since I last saw you."

"Nay, nay! if you speak of her in such set and formal terms, poor
girl," cried the clergyman, with a gay smile, "I shall think that your
lordship's new dignity has changed your views in regard to such an
alliance. Is it so, my noble lord?"

Beauchamp laughed, but faintly. "No, no!" he replied. "My views are
the same. All I can hope is, that the new dignity you speak of may
change hers--and yet," he added, "that would make it all worthless
together."

"Take care, Harry! Take care!" cried Dr. Wilton, with a warning shake
of the head--"Many a man has frittered away his happiness with just
such sentences as that. But I will insure you, that your title will
make no difference in the views of Blanche Delaware; so that, if you
have no other recommendation than that, you may give yourself up to
despair. But you young men are so impatient. Here you are fretting
yourself to death, because you do not discover the residence of your
ladye-love as soon as you think fit to seek it."

"Indeed, my dear sir, you are quite mistaken," answered Beauchamp. "My
chief desire is to see William Delaware and his father; and--showing
them that every difficulty which surrounded them in life is now
removed--to share in the happiness that such a change must occasion
them--that is all, indeed!"

"Poo! my dear Harry! Nonsense!" cried his old preceptor. "I never saw
a man yet who could cheat his own understanding so completely as you
sometimes do. You are just as anxious to see Blanche Delaware as ever
man was to see the woman he loved best in the world. But we will find
her, my dear boy! We will find her!"

Their search, however, in the neighborhood of Emberton, proved
entirely in vain. Neither agent nor farmers knew any thing of the
track of Sir Sidney and Miss Delaware; and at the end of a week,
Beauchamp's last hope was reduced to the information possessed by Mrs.
Darlington.




CHAPTER XLI.


"Maria!" said the Earl of Ashborough, addressing Miss Beauchamp on the
morning after his return from Emberton, "what say you, dear sister, to
a tour on the continent for six months or a year?"

"Why, personally, I should have no objection, Henry," answered Miss
Beauchamp; "but you forget, my dear brother, there are nine very
respectable gentlemen, young and old, expiring for me at this present
moment. Now, what would they do if I were to go abroad?"

"Expire for somebody else, I suppose," replied Beauchamp; "I can not
perceive any other event."

"Henry! Henry!" cried his sister, "you are perfectly insulting. But to
tell you the truth, I think it is the best thing you can do, to travel
to the south; for during the past month you have looked so like a
gambler, or a member of the Lower House, or some of those people that
sit up all night, and come home pale and thin in the morning, that I
am ashamed to be seen with you. But seriously, I will go where you
like, noble brother," she added, leaning her two hands half
affectionately, half maliciously, on Beauchamp's arm, and looking up
in his face; "I will go where you like, and help you to search for
sweet Blanche Delaware, with all my eyes."

Beauchamp smiled, much less annoyed than his sister had expected; but
gliding his arm round her waist he held her tight, while he answered,
"Will you, indeed, Maria? Well, then, as a reward for your
disinterested kindness, I trust you may find William Delaware with his
sister."

Maria Beauchamp turned as red as an infantry regiment, and struggling
away from her brother's grasp, ran into her own room, where, strange
to say, she wept like a child. But Beauchamp, by his retort, had, at
all events, insured that not one teasing word upon the subject of
Blanche Delaware should pass his sister's lips; and as soon as he
could arrange his affairs--which of course kept him three weeks longer
than he had expected--with two carriages, as little baggage, and as
few servants as his sister would suffer him to take, he was once more
rolling away toward Dover.

Following the invariable rule of looking in, instead of looking out,
we shall much prefer giving a sketch of what was passing in the heart
of Henry Beauchamp, Earl of Ashborough, to depicting the beauties of
the Canterbury road, or expatiating on the sublimities of Rochester
and Chatham.

As Dr. Wilton had imagined, Beauchamp certainly was as impatient as
human being could be, to see Blanche Delaware, and to make one more
effort for happiness; but there were many points in Beauchamp's
situation, and many feelings at Beauchamp's heart, which the good
rector had not taken at all into account. Ever since he had parted
with Blanche at the Prior's Fountain, he had been placed in the
painful circumstances of a rejected lover, while just a sufficient
degree of hope had been left to keep love alive, to render the feeling
of disappointment perpetual, and to aggravate its bitterness by doubt.
In seeking her he loved, therefore, he knew not what he was to expect;
but as he was not one to be satisfied with any thing less than love
for love, he determined that he would not suffer his exertions in
favor of William Delaware to be urged as any tie upon Miss Delaware's
affection; but that he would have the clearest assurance that the
heart was his, before he again asked the hand, which, in his eyes,
would be worthless without it. He felt, indeed, that it would be
difficult to press Blanche upon the subject of her former rejection of
his suit, and yet he perversely determined that the rejection ought to
be explained before the suit could be renewed. These thoughts,
however, and the many contending emotions with which they were
connected, both agitated and depressed him; and the hopes which his
short interview with Blanche at the inn, as well as several previous
considerations had excited, waxed weak and faint as he crossed the
channel and found he was approaching nearer to her dwelling.

In Paris, however, he was destined to meet another
disappointment--slight, indeed, but calculated to increase the
impatience that was glowing upon him. He found, on inquiring at Mrs.
Darlington's hotel, that she had left the French metropolis two days
before for Italy; and, as the people of the house had informed him
that her departure had been somewhat sudden, he immediately settled it
in his own mind that she had heard some tidings of the Delawares, and
had proceeded at once to join them. Now, although, when Beauchamp came
to reflect upon this supposition, he found that it did not very well
agree with the indifferent, comfort-loving, bonnet-and-cap sort of
character of Mrs. Darlington, yet it was a favorite fancy, and he did
not chose to give it up. He therefore intimated his wish that his
sister would agree to pursue their way toward Italy without delay; and
Miss Beauchamp--although she was really fatigued with a long journey
over a road that can never have been mended since the days of
_Klovigh_, as Chateaubriand calls the French king--acquiesced at once
without farther question. She did it so sweetly and good humoredly,
too, that it opened her brother's heart at once; and, sitting down
beside her, he told her all his motives, and all his wishes, and all
his hopes, in a way that defied her taking advantage of him even by a
smile. In return, he gained a world of good advice, which, as it came
from a woman, and related to a woman, Beauchamp wisely treasured up
for service.

With scarcely a day's interval, the whole party were once more upon
the road; but as the way or ways from Paris to Geneva are each and all
as well beaten by English travelers as that between London and Dover,
we shall not pause to itinerarize even here. At only one small town on
the road shall we take the liberty of stopping, inasmuch as an
accidental circumstance induced Beauchamp to stay there longer than he
had at first proposed. He had chosen the road by Dijon instead of that
by Macon, and, after sleeping at Dole, set out early in the morning,
in hopes of reaching Geneva that night. The first stage from Dole, if
we remember right, is Mont sous Vaudrey. At all events, if it be not
the first it is the second; and perhaps the reader and the guide-book
will excuse us if we make mistake. Here, however, Beauchamp changed
horses about half-past ten, and then rattled on through that neat
little village, entered a part of the forest of Rahon, and then, after
winding on up and down the wavy hills at the foot of the Jura, reached
the small village of Aumont, at the distance of about five or six
miles from the relay. Without stopping there, however, the postillion
trotted on, and, driving through the Crozanne, paused for a moment to
let his horses pant, while Beauchamp and his sister gazed out upon a
wide and very beautiful scene of hill and valley, lighted up by the
soft sunshine of spring, with an occasional wreath of morning mist
hanging upon the brows of the mountains.

"What town is that?" demanded Beauchamp, speaking out of the window to
the postillion. "There--before you--a little to the left, leaning its
back against the hills, with two or three neat châteaux scattered on
the <DW72>."

"C'est Poligny, monsieur!" replied the postillion; and, adding that
they changed horses there, rode on.

As they approached the little town, the country became richly
cultivated in vines and corn; and the aspect of the whole scene,
backed by mountains and sparkling with a thousand streams, was gay and
engaging.

"What a beautiful spot!" cried Miss Beauchamp. "I really think, Henry,
when you marry, and turn me out of your house to die an old maid, I
will buy yon gray château on the hill--looking something between a
village church and a farm house--and spend the rest of my days at
Poligny."

"See it first on a rainy day, Maria!" replied her brother, whose
increasing anxiety and impatience did not afford the brightest medium
through which to view the world.

"Out, cynic!" cried his sister; "I will never see things on a rainy
day when I can see them on a fine one; and now, tell me, whither are
you going to whirl me at this violent rate? What particular spot of
the earth's surface is the ultimate object of this journey, my lord?
Or are we to go on rolling forever?"

"Why, I think, my dear sister," replied Beauchamp, musing; "I think it
is not unlikely to end in Sicily--I have some reason to imagine--"

"Goodness!" exclaimed Miss Beauchamp, interrupting him, "that must
surely be an English woman in the widow's dress."

"Hai, postillion! Arrettez! Arrettez donc!" was all the young earl's
reply to his sister's observation; and the next moment, much to her
surprise, he was out of the carriage, and speaking kindly to the woman
whom she had noticed, and who had turned round to take a casual glance
of the two gay carriages that came dashing up into the little quiet
town of Poligny.

"Indeed! Is he so ill!" said Beauchamp, gravely, as he listened to
widow Harrison's account of the journey she had lately taken, and her
son's present situation. "I sill really sorry to hear it--but you can
not have good medical advice here. It would be much better to get him
on to Geneva."

"Oh, but indeed we have very good advice, sir!" answered the widow.
"There is good Dr. Arnoux here, who was in England in the time of the
war--an emigrant--and lodged for three years in our house in Emberton,
before our misfortunes. I have just been getting Walter's medicines
while he is asleep."

"Well, Mrs. Harrison," replied Beauchamp, whose natural kindness of
heart was not to be mastered even by impatience. "I will stay here at
the inn to-day; and whenever you think that your son is likely to be
awake, I will come down and see him. But you must point me out the
house."

The poor woman replied that the young sailor was generally more drowsy
in the morning, and seemed much better and more lively in the evening;
and, with many unobtrusive but heartfelt thanks she described to
Beauchamp the way to her dwelling.

"Well, then, I will come down in the evening," answered Beauchamp,
"and we will see whether we can not devise some plan that may improve
his health."

With this promise, he returned to the carriage; and, while it drove on
to the auberge, satisfied his sister's curiosity in regard to the poor
widow. "So now, Maria," he said, "you will have the day's rest you
have been sighing for so long."

"Granted out of compassion to the widow," cried his sister; "but not
out of pity for me, though my whole frame has been aching for the last
three days, and my maid was very nearly expiring at Dole."

Notwithstanding this complaint, Miss Beauchamp, after luncheon, showed
herself quite willing to accompany her brother on an expedition in a
_char-à-banc_ of the country, among the neighboring hills; and as they
descended the stairs of the auberge to enter their little vehicle,
they heard another female tongue asking one of the servants, in
provincial English, who was the owner of the two splendid carriages
that stood before the house? The young earl smiled as he listened to
his title, given with vast pomposity by his courier, remarking to his
sister, that if his new rank was of no great use to himself, it was at
least of some service to his servants. By the time they had reached
the door however, both the inquirer and respondent had made themselves
invisible; and getting into the _char-à-banc_ without any other
attendance than the driver, the earl and his sister proceeded on their
expedition. Of it we shall say nothing, but refer our readers to the
indispensable Mrs. Marianna Starke. On their return, however, they
found their dinner prepared; and after somewhat hastily concluding
that meal, Beauchamp said he would leave his sister, and walk down to
the widow's cottage. But Miss Beauchamp, whose heart was not always as
light as it seemed, declared that she would accompany him, protesting
that men were worth nothing upon a charitable errand.

It was a sweet, bright evening in the end of March, with the sky,
through which the sun was dipping down toward his rest, so rich and
warm, that one might have taken it for the beginning of October, had
it not had been for the almanac, and for the tender green of the
trees, and the flood of untaught melody that came pouring from
every bush. The road led down to where there are two or three
scattered houses of a better class--which they call _les maisons
bourgeois_--built upon the <DW72> of a little dell at the back of the
town, between it and the rise of the mountains. In one of these, with
the face looking through the valley of the Glantine to the open
country beyond, was the house now occupied by the widow. It was easily
found, and Beauchamp and his sister paused ere they entered, to gaze
for a moment on the rich view, lying calm and purple under the evening
sky, while the dark masses of hill on the other hand--rising up from a
base of mingled wood and mature, with the small château that Miss
Beauchamp had so much admired, breaking the line of the trees--towered
up in solemn majesty above the whole.

The door was open, and Beauchamp entering first, proceeded into one of
the rooms, where he heard some one speaking. The widow and her son
were sitting together near the window, and both rose (though the
latter moved with difficulty) to receive their benefactor.

"Here is my sister come to see you, Mrs. Harrison," he said, as he
entered. "Sit down, Walter. I am sorry to hear that the journey has
made you so ill, my poor fellow;" and taking a seat opposite to
him--while Miss Beauchamp beckoned Mrs. Harrison out to the door, in
order to leave her brother's conversation more at liberty--he gazed
upon the sunk but hectic cheek of the young sailor, and the dazzling
brightness of his feverish eye.

"It was not the journey, sir," replied the young man with a shake of
the head, mournful, but not discontented--"it was not the journey;"
and then, looking round to see that his mother was not there, he
added--"I told you sir, it would not last long, and I thank God for
it! for I have never forgiven myself--and every hour that I linger on
is a reproach to my heart. So now that I know mother will be cared
for, and that I have shown my gratitude to you and to the captain, God
bless him!--and that I have learned to think better than I used--I
don't care how soon it comes to an end. But, sir," he continued,
quickly, as if he had forgotten to do so before, "I ought to thank you
deeply for all your kindness; and especially, I am sure, for taking
the trouble to come and see me to-night, when there are so many things
you must have to do and talk about."

The young man's eyes gazed vacantly out upon the prospect as he spoke.
"He wanders!" thought Beauchamp. "I have heard physicians say that it
is the sign of approaching death with consumptive people."

"Oh no!" he added, aloud; "I have but little business of any kind to
do; and, indeed, I should have been here before, but your mother said
you were sleeping."

"I sleep more in the day than at night," replied the young man; "the
cough keeps me awake. But I hope, Mr. Beauchamp," he continued, in the
same abrupt manner--"I hope you will forgive me every thing I ever did
or said amiss to you. Indeed, I am very sorry for every wrong thing
that I have done through life--and hope God will forgive me!"

"Your offenses toward me," answered Beauchamp, "if there have been
any, which I do not know, are easily forgiven; and in the Almighty we
are sure of a more merciful judge than man can be. Mrs. Harrison," he
said, wishing to change the subject, and hearing the door behind him
open, "I should wish much to see this Dr. Arnoux whom you mentioned to
me. Where does he live?"

As Beauchamp spoke, he turned round slowly in his chair, in order to
address the widow; but the words had scarcely passed his lips, when he
started up. Looking in at the door, indeed, was the figure of his
sister, with the poor widow behind her; but between him and them were
two other figures--and darting forward, with all his doubts, and
apprehensions, and restitutions swallowed up in joy, Beauchamp clasped
the hand of Blanche Delaware in his own, while his left was pressed
almost as warmly by Captain Delaware.

"Good God!" he exclaimed. "Blanche! William! Is it possible!"

"Yes, yes, indeed!" replied Captain Delaware. "Beauchamp, our friend,
our benefactor, our guardian angel I may call you, we have met again,
at length!"

Blanche Delaware said not a word; and though her eyes sparkled with
joy that would not be kept down, and her cheek glowed like crimson at
the joy her eyes betrayed, she trembled like an aspen in the wind,
and, sinking into a seat, a few sweet, happy tears rolled over her
fair face.

"Well," said Miss Beauchamp, advancing from the door, "I must
acknowledge that this is hardly fair--that I, who drew Mrs. Harrison
out of the way when I heard who was coming, in order that this merry
meeting should have none of its surprise anticipated, can find no one
to welcome _me!_ Blanche Delaware, my dear cousin," she added, taking
Blanche's hand, and kissing her as a sister, "How have you been this
many a day? We have not met since we were no higher than that stool;
but I have learned to love you, nevertheless. Have you quite forgotten
Maria Beauchamp?"

Blanche wept outright.

"What then, Mr. Beauchamp, have you not seen Sir Sidney?" asked the
widow's son, almost at the same moment. "It was very kind indeed of
you to come and see me first."

As he spoke, a violent fit of coughing seized him; and Beauchamp,
seeing that the excitement of all that was passing around was too much
for him, proposed to depart at once, telling him that he would come
early the next day, after having seen the physician. Miss Beauchamp,
holding Blanche's hand kindly in her own, led her toward the door of
the cottage, while their two brothers followed; and perhaps there was
never a congregation of happier faces went forth into the world, than
those which then stood looking over fair France from the borders of
Switzerland.

Maria Beauchamp turned toward the town; but Blanche hesitated, and
looked up to her brother.

William Delaware caught her glance immediately, and, straightforward
as ever, came at once to the point. "The truth is, Beauchamp," he
said, "it might be somewhat painful for us to go up to Poligny with
you; for, this morning, we learned a circumstance from our old
housekeeper, which, in fact, kept us from coming down to widow
Harrison's at an earlier hour--though, indeed, I should personally
care nothing about it."

"But what is it? What has happened now?" demanded Beauchamp, in the
eager and apprehensive tone of one who fears that the cup of happiness
just offered to his lip may be snatched away before he can drink.
"What, in fortune's name, has occurred now?"

"Nothing of any consequence," answered Captain Delaware. "Only we
understand--and you, who know all that has passed, will comprehend our
feelings on the occasion--we understand that the Earl of Ashborough is
here."

"He is, indeed, I am sorry to say," replied Beauchamp, pointing to the
deep mourning that he wore. "But let us forget, I entreat, that any
one who has ever borne the title that I now bear, felt differently
from myself toward the name of Delaware."

Blanche looked up to heaven, and her lips moved; but her cheek glowed
eloquently again as Maria Beauchamp's hand clasped somewhat tighter
upon her own, and she saw a smile, half sad, half playful, shining on
her fair cousin's lip.

Still the whole party paused in silence; for there was so much to be
said that there was nothing said at all. Each heart was full of
feelings that would have taken days to pour forth; and at length
William Delaware proposed the wisest thing for all parties, that they
should part for that time, as night was coming on, and meet again the
next morning.

"You know," he said, "what delight my father will have in seeing you,
Beauchamp; and, indeed, I feel as if we were wronging him in
anticipating any part of all that we have to talk to you about. Yonder
is our residence," he added, pointing to the identical château that
Miss Beauchamp had fixed upon in entering the town; "and I am sure I
need not say that the sooner you come the greater will be the pleasure
to us."

"I shall not be late," answered Beauchamp; "depend upon it, I shall
not be late."

"But, Maria, you will come also," said Blanche, looking up in her
cousin's face.

"Oh, certainly! dear Blanche," replied Miss Beauchamp; "as your
brother can tell you, I am a very early person in my habits. You may
expect to see me at six in the morning."

Captain Delaware smiled, and could have said something in reply; but
as he began to divine that, whatever might be the result, he should
have more than one opportunity of seeing Maria Beauchamp again, he
reserved his rejoinder, and after another lingering pause, they
parted.

"Henry, I admire your taste," said Miss Beauchamp, as they walked back
to the inn; "she is a beautiful, sweet girl, indeed, and will do very
well to make a countess of."

"Hush, hush, Maria!" said her brother. "Spare your raillery yet for a
while. There is much to be got over, before we come to such
conclusions as that. The game is yet to be played, and I will give you
leave to laugh if I win."

"You will be a sad bungler, my dear brother, if you lose such a game
as that," replied Miss Beauchamp; "for you have all the cards in your
own hands; but let us arrange our plans, Harry. At whatsoever hour you
please to-morrow, you take some vile beast of a horse from the inn,
and ride over by yourself. I will come to breakfast at my own time in
the carriage. Nay, I will have my way this time at least; for I do not
choose to have any lover in the carriage with me--except it were one
of my own."

Beauchamp yielded, of course; for there were more cogent arguments in
his own breast in favor of his sister's plans, than any she thought
fit to produce. He had now food enough for thought during the evening;
but he did not forget to send for good Dr. Arnoux, from whom he
received a confirmation of his worst apprehensions in regard to the
widow's son. From that worthy man, also, he learned that it was at his
suggestion that Captain Delaware, and Sir Sidney--who had been an old
friend of his while he lived as an _emigré_ at Emberton--had fixed
their abode at Poligny, the retired situation of which, and its
immediate proximity to both Switzerland and Germany, rendered it
peculiarly advantageous under the circumstances in which they were
placed for the time.

This conference ended, Beauchamp retired to bed, and obtained such
sleep as lovers usually are supposed to gain while their fate is in
suspense.




CHAPTER XLII.


A horse was easily procured, and early on the following morning
Beauchamp was on his way to the château inhabited by Sir Sidney
Delaware and his family. The house was, like most French houses of the
kind, furnished with a court in the front, large iron gates, and a
wide woody inclosure called a park, stretching up the side of the
hill, full of straight alleys and mathematical walks.

At the corner of the inclosure, Beauchamp looked at his watch, and to
his surprise found that it still wanted nearly half an hour of eight.

"This is very foolish of me," thought he, as he rode along the park
wall--"I shall find no one up, and they will all think me mad." But at
that moment, as he looked over the low wall and up one of the long
alleys, he caught a view of two persons crossing the farther extremity
of it; and he was instantly satisfied that there were other wakeful
people in the world as well as himself. "It is Blanche and her
brother," he thought; and, riding up to the court, he flung his bridle
to a boy who was standing there, and without further inquiry hastened
into the park. The wood was somewhat labyrinthine; but Beauchamp had
observed the direction taken by the figures he had seen, and following
one of the cross alleys, he soon entered that wherein he had beheld
them, and in which he found that they were still walking slowly on,
about a hundred yards before him, unconscious that there was any one
in the park but themselves.

As Captain Delaware was speaking eagerly and loud, Beauchamp, to avoid
overhearing his conversation with his sister, hastened forward,
pronouncing his name, and was almost immediately by their side. He was
greeted by both with evident pleasure; but upon Blanche's cheek,
though it was much paler than it had been in England, there was still
that flickering blush, on which we have already written a long
discussion.

After their first meeting was over, and Beauchamp had explained that
his sister would be there in about an hour, of course all three, as
they took a step or two slowly forward, felt themselves rather
awkward. But William Delaware was fond of cutting Gordian knots; and
the next moment, after a silent smile, as he glanced first at his
cousin and then at Blanche, he abruptly let her arm slip from his own,
and, looking gayly into Beauchamp's face, he said, "Here, Henry, give
Blanche your arm, while I go to tell my father that you are here."

His sister looked at him almost reproachfully, and proposed that they
should all return; but Captain Delaware stayed not to listen, and the
next moment she stood alone with Henry Beauchamp, with her trembling
hand laid upon her lover's arm. Heaven knows what they said, for I am
sure I do not; but doubtless it was something very extraordinary, for
ere they had taken two steps forward, Beauchamp woke, and detected
Blanche Delaware calling him "My lord."

"My lord!" he repeated. "My lord! Is such the cold title by which I
am alone to be called! Oh, Blanche!"

Blanche found that she had got into a scrape; and as there was but one
way of getting out of it in all the world, she took it at once. She
paused, and though she was ready to sink where she stood, she raised
her long eyelashes and fixed her beautiful eyes upon her cousin's face
for one single moment, with a glance that was worth all the Oriental
love-letters that ever were composed--imploring, tender, full of
gentleness and affection. It seemed to say, "Do not--do not overpower
me--I am yours, heart, and soul, and mind--but my heart is so full,
another word will break it."

Beauchamp read it all at once; and pressing her hand in both of his,
he asked the very intelligible question, "Is it--is it mine, dear
Blanche!"

"If you still wish it, Henry," she replied. "Can I refuse any thing to
the saviour of my brother's character, and the generous benefactor of
our whole family?"

The spirit of perversity seized upon Beauchamp again in a moment; and
he was not satisfied. "Nay, Blanche!--nay!" he said; "I must win a
dearer assurance than that. I will not owe to gratitude--little as I
have deserved it--what I would fain owe to love. No, no; I must have a
dearer assurance, or I shall think that the same Blanche Delaware who
accepts Henry Beauchamp in France, would again refuse Henry Burrel
if--unbacked by some pitiful service--he again stood by the Prior's
Fountain."

Beauchamp's exacting mood gave Blanche the advantage; and by amusing
her fancy even for a single instant, got the better of a part of her
agitation. She smiled, and was half inclined to triumph, for she felt
that she could if she liked; but love was the more powerful motive,
and she only misused her advantage by that one playful smile, and a
few words like it. "I no more refused him then," she replied, "because
he was Henry Burrel, than I now accept him because he is Earl of
Ashborough. Do you believe me, Henry?" she asked, after a pause.

"I do, indeed, dear Blanche," replied Beauchamp. "But you are smiling
at me still; and indeed--indeed, if you could tell all the agony, and
long, long days of misery which that rejection caused me, I am sure
you would pity the feelings that your words produced."

"I did from the first, Henry! I did from the first!" replied Blanche,
earnestly; "but you must believe me, Henry, when I tell you, that I
suffered double what you did. Yes, yes!" she added, seeing him shake
his head--"Yes, yes, I did; for I was crushing my own heart at the
very time I was _obliged_ to crush that of him--of him--Oh, Henry, you
do not know what I felt!"

"Obliged!" cried Beauchamp, catching at the word. "Obliged! Did Sir
Sidney, then, object?"

"Oh, no!" answered Blanche; "nor would have objected. But it shall all
be explained, Henry, if you can forgive me, and love me still,
notwithstanding all the pain I have made you suffer."

"I have loved you ever, Blanche, with the most unabated affection,"
replied Beauchamp. "Nay, more, what between affection, and what
between vanity, I had fancied that there must be some latent cause
for conduct that seemed inexplicable. I had endeavored for some
time so to frame my every word and action toward you, that you could
not mistake them; and it was only because you permitted those
attentions--because they did not seem to displease you"--(Blanche
blushed deeply)--"because, in short, you did not repel them, that I
dared to hope. I would not--I could not believe that such a heart and
such a mind as that of Blanche Delaware would suffer me to go on so
long unchecked, if she felt that the affection she must have seen
could not be returned."

"Indeed--indeed I would not!" replied Blanche. "I do not pretend not
to have seen what were your feelings toward me, and it is no use now
of concealing what were my own," and for a moment her eyes again
sought the ground. "The fact was, however," she added, smiling, "that
what happened afterward was not because you were Mr. Burrel, but
because I discovered you were Mr. Beauchamp."

"And was that name, then, so hateful, to you!" asked her lover.

"No, no!" answered Blanche. "But I see I may as well tell you at once,
for you will not cease to question me till I do. Do you remember the
last day you ever came up to the Park! Well, just after your arrival
the post came in, and among other things were two letters to me--one
from Mrs. Darlington, and another which made me run to my own room as
soon as I had opened it. It was from your uncle, the late Lord
Ashborough. I scarcely like to think of it even now. It told me who
you really were, and in terms--oh, so bitter!--hinted that I must know
it already, and must be using that knowledge for evil purposes. It
then went on to state, that, however determined you might be in the
foolish line of conduct you were pursuing, your relations would never
forgive our union; and that if it took place, he, Lord Ashborough,
would not only disown you as his relation, but would leave every acre
of land which he could alienate, to the most distant relation he had,
sooner than to you. The whole was wound up with the same denunciation
against you, in case I ever revealed to you the fact of my having
received that letter; and it ended with telling me, that now, knowing
these facts, I might still _strive to force myself into your family if
I would_. But I will show you the letter, Henry, and you shall judge
for yourself whether I could do otherwise."

"He might, indeed, have alienated a large part of his property,"
replied Beauchamp; "but there was still more than enough left. And did
you think, Blanche, from what you knew of me even then, that I would
not have preferred a cottage with you, to ten times the amount he
could have taken away without you?"

"Henry Beauchamp in a cottage!" said Blanche, smiling. "I am afraid
that would have suited Blanche Delaware better. But remember, Henry,
that I knew not what he could take from you; and even if I had known,
should I have had any right to accept, to permit, such a sacrifice.
Oh, no! and if it had broken my heart, I must have acted as I did act.
But now, Henry, let us return home; we have walked on long, and papa
will certainly think it strange that I have been thus left alone with
you at all."

"He shall soon have a good reason, dear Blanche," replied her lover;
"and I trust that we shall never--never part again."

Beauchamp found Sir Sidney Delaware more shaken by all he had
undergone than he had anticipated; but the baronet's delight at seeing
his young cousin, he declared, took twenty years from the load of age.
"Your father, my dear Harry," he, said, "was my school and college
companion, and the constant friend of my heart. I thought, when first
I saw you at Emberton, that your face, and voice, and manner, were all
as familiar to me as household words. But why, Harry--why did you not
tell me your real name--especially when you came plotting such a
service as you afterward rendered me?"

"Because, my dear sir," replied Beauchamp, "when I wrote to you, a few
years before, you showed no disposition to receive me in my real
character."

"That was because you refused my first invitation, just after your
father's death," answered Sir Sidney.

"I never received it," replied the earl; "I never received it, upon my
honor--but I am afraid, my dear sir, that there has been more than one
juggle in the business, which we had better, perhaps, consign to
oblivion altogether; and now, let me take advantage of your daughter's
absence to make one request. You know me, Sir Sidney--my principles,
my mind, my heart, and my situation--can you trust Blanche's happiness
to my care?--will you give me her hand?"

Sir Sidney Delaware started up. "I have been blind to the last!" he
cried; "I have been blind to the last! But think, Henry! remember what
you are about! Take back your request; and ere you make it again, call
to mind your rank and prospects; and judge whether interest, or
ambition, or the world's smile, may never hereafter induce you to
regret that you have married a portionless girl, because she had a
fair face and a gentle heart."

"Never! Sir Sidney," replied the earl. "It requires no thought.
Interest, and ambition, and the world's smile, have never had any
effect upon me yet, and never shall have, while my faculties remain."

"Well, well," replied Sir Sidney, "I have not forgot that you do not
'worship any man for the money in his purse, nor bow low to the bottle
of Lafitte upon his sideboard.' So, if your mind be really made up,
you must ask Blanche herself; but by William's smiling, I fancy you
have settled that matter between you already. If so, God's blessing
and mine upon you both; and you shall have my consent upon one sole
condition, which is, that you will explain to me, clearly and
distinctly, all the particulars of this business, from beginning to
end--for I confess I sometimes begin to think that my intellect is
impaired, because I can not get it clearly stated in my own head. But
stay, here are a number of questions which I have written down in
pencil on the broad margin of my Seneca, intending to ask William.
Will you undergo the catechism instead?"

"Willingly!" answered Beauchamp; "and as I see Maria's carriage coming
slowly up the hill from the town, we shall have just time, I dare say,
to get through your questions before she breaks in upon us with her
gay pertness."

"She shall be most welcome," said Sir Sidney; and then, with
spectacles on nose, and book in hand, he proceeded to read the
interrogatories with which he had charged the margin of his Seneca,
and thus Beauchamp was called upon to explain a great deal that the
worthy reader, who has walked hand in hand along with him through the
book, already understands full well.

"And now then, tell me," continued Sir Sidney, after he had dispatched
a great number of his questions; "how did you contrive to place the
money so cleverly in William's room at Emberton, without any one
seeing you?"

"The fact is, my dear sir," answered Beauchamp, "that I knew the house
and all its passages, as well as, if not better than any of you. You
must remember that a great part of my boyhood was spent there, and a
thousand times, under my incognito name of Burrel, I had nearly
betrayed my acquaintance with every room in the building. I had seen,
in walking round the house, that the door of the well-vault, as it
used to be called, was always open; and when I wanted to place the
money in your son's room, without being seen, I resolved to try
the little staircase, up and down which I had often played at
hide-and-seek. I thus made my way to the trap-door, when, to my
surprise and mortification, I found it nailed. As, however, it shook
under my hand when I tried it, I resolved to make a strong effort to
push it open, in which I succeeded, the nail either breaking or coming
out, I did not stay to examine which. My hand, however, was torn in
doing so; and unfortunately a drop of blood fell upon one of the
notes, as I folded them up in a sheet of paper I found upon the table.
The packet I directed as well as I could by the moonlight, and I then
put down the money and went away as fast as I could."

"That just brings me to my last question," said Sir Sidney, "and here
is your sister driving into the court; so tell me why it was you did
not rather give the money into my hands, or William's, or Blanche's,
or any one's rather than risk it in such a situation?"

Beauchamp laughed, and turning toward Miss Delaware, who was just then
re-entering the room, he replied, "Really, Sir Sidney, I must refuse
to plead--you must ask Blanche."

"Well then, you tell me, my love," continued the baronet, turning to
his daughter, "What could your cousin's reason be for putting the
money, that has caused us so much anxiety, into William's room that
night, rather than giving it to me or you, as it seems he knew that
William was out?"

Beauchamp and Captain Delaware both smiled, and Blanche blushed
deeply, but was silent.

"So, so!" said Sir Sidney. "Is it so? Well, well, I stop my questions
there--William, run out and welcome your fair cousin! Blanche, give me
your hand--there, Henry, take her; and may she ever be to you as dear,
as gentle, as good, and as beloved a wife, as her mother was to me."

There was but little more now to be explained; though Sir Sidney, in
reward for the young earl's patience under cross-examination, took
great pains to make him understand how his son William had found
means, through their poor pensioner, widow Harrison herself, to
communicate to the family his safe arrival in France, and a plan for
their meeting, which had been immediately adopted--how they had
skillfully contrived to conceal their route--and how their good old
friend Arnoux had prevailed upon them to pause at Poligny, instead of
going on to Sicily, as they had at first intended.

From widow Harrison, too, to whose faith and gratitude they could
trust, and to whom alone their place of residence had been
communicated, they had learned by letter many of Beauchamp's efforts
in their favor, as well as their success and the ultimate result of
the trial; but still, although, they had heard so much, there was yet
matter enough left to be told on both sides, to furnish forth many a
story for the bright fireside.

Nothing more remains for the writer, to whom their own lips kindly
furnished the materials for composing this book, than to add that a
very few months afterward, at the chapel of the British Embassador at
Paris, Henry, Earl of Ashborough, was married to Blanche, only
daughter of Sir Sidney Delaware; and that the body of poor Walter
Harrison sleeps by the side of the Lake of Geneva.

Nevertheless, it behoves us to record one serious dispute which took
place between the young Earl of Ashborough and Sir Sidney Delaware,
which was occasioned by the baronet insisting that his noble
son-in-law should take a mortgage upon the Emberton estate for the
amount of the twenty-five thousand pounds advanced by him to pay off
the former annuity.

On the other hand, however, it appeared that the late earl had been,
at the moment of his death, in the prosecution of a suit to prove that
the annuity had not been legally paid off. It was true, also, that
Beauchamp had received the five-and-twenty thousand pounds back again
from Mr. Tims, and that the annuity had been paid up to the very last
day of the late earl's life. Beauchamp, therefore, contended that he
had no right whatever to demand or accept any mortgage, as the money
had returned to his own possession, and the annuity must be considered
to have lapsed with the life of his uncle.

Sir Sidney would not see it in this point of view, and a great deal of
good-humored special pleading went on upon the subject between him and
the earl. How it would all have ended, heaven only knows, had not
Maria Beauchamp, who had got safely over the critical epoch of her
brother's marriage, and even held out for four months after, while he
brought his fair bride to England, and made her look into an English
court for one moment--which was quite enough for both of them--had she
not, I say, at the end of the time, broken the hearts of her nine
London admirers, young and old, by giving her hand to William
Delaware. She protested, indeed, that she only did it for convenience,
as her brother and Blanche, with Sir Sidney, his son, and herself;
were about to take a long rambling tour over one quarter of the world,
and she could not, of course, go so many thousand miles with a young,
single man, without giving employment to the tongues of her
acquaintances.

However that might be, to end the dispute about the twenty-five
thousand pounds, the earl insisted upon adding it to his sister's
fortune, which was already sufficient to clear off every incumbrance,
and leave the family of Delaware more prosperous than it had been for
nearly a century before.

We could go on a long time, and write another volume upon Blanche's
happy looks, and tell how Beauchamp, contented in his love, weaned
himself from many of his perversities and caprices, without losing the
brighter and the nobler qualities of his character. Nor would
adventures be wanting, nor the same light and idle nothings of which
this book is already principally composed; but, unfortunately, having
called the Work "THE RUINED FAMILY," we find ourselves bound to close
it here, now that we can no longer apply that term to the house of
DELAWARE.



THE END.








End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Thirty Years Since, by 
G. P. R, (George Payne Rainsford) James

*** 