



Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by the
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Transcriber's Notes:
     1. Page scan source: Web Archive:
     https://archive.org/details/06793116.2602.emory.edu
     2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
     3. The source book had two chapters titled "Chapter XXIV".
        The second one was changed to "Chapter XXV".






                             THE ROBBER,


                               A TALE.



                                 BY

                           G. P. R. JAMES,

                 AUTHOR OF "RICHELIEU," "GIPSY," ETC.



     "More should I question thee, and more I must----
      Enough more to know would not be more to trust----
      From whence thou cam'st, how tended on. But rest
      Unquestioned, welcome; and undoubted, blest."



                           _A NEW EDITION_.



                               LONDON:
                      GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,
                        THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE.
                    NEW YORK: 416, BROOME STREET.






                             THE ROBBER.



                              CHAPTER I.


It was in the olden time of _merry England_--not at that far removes
period when our native land first received its jocund name from the
bowmen of Sherwood, and when the yeoman or the franklin, who had
wandered after some knightly banner to the plains of the Holy Land,
looked back upon the little island of his birth with forgetfulness of
all but its cheerful hearths and happy days. Oh, no! it was in a far
later age, when, notwithstanding wars and civil contentions not long
past by, our country still deserved the name of merry England, and
received it constantly amongst a class peculiarly its own. That class
was the "good old country gentleman," an antediluvian animal swallowed
up and exterminated by the deluge of modern improvements, and whose
very bones are now being ground to dust by railroads and
steam-carriages. Nevertheless, in that being there was much to wonder
at as well as much to admire; and the inimitable song which
commemorates its existence does not more than justice to the extinct
race. It was in the days of Walton and Cotton, then or somewhere
thereabouts (for it is unnecessary in a tale purely domestic, to fix
the date to a year), that the events which we are about to narrate,
took place, and the scene is entirely in _merry England_.

The court and the country were at that period--with the present we have
nothing to do--two completely distinct and separate climates; and while
the wits and the libertines, the <DW2>s and the soldiers, the poets and
the philosophers, of the reigns of Charles, James, William, and Anne,
formed a world in which debauchery, vice, strife, evil passion, rage,
jealousy, and hatred, seemed the only occupations of genius, and the
true sphere for talent; while Oxford and Cambridge had their
contentions, and vied with the capital in nourishing feuds and follies
of their own; there was a calm and quiet world apart, amidst the shady
brooks and sunny fields and dancing streams of merry England; a world
which knew but little of the existence of the other, except when the
vices, or follies, or crimes of the world of the court called upon the
world of the country to resist the encroachments of its neighbour, and
defend its own quiet prosperity.

From the peasant who tilled the glebe, and whistled to outsing the lark
over his happy toil, up to the lord of the manor, the knight whose many
ancestors had all been knights before him, the countrymen of England
mingled hardly, if at all, with the world of the metropolis and of the
court; except, indeed, when some aspiring spirit, filled with good
viands and a fair conceit, raised his wishes to be knight of the shire,
and sit in parliament amongst the more courtly of the land; or else
when some borough sent its representative to the senate to bring down
strange tales of London life and fresh fashions for the wives and
daughters.

There was, indeed, a connecting link between the two states of being we
have described, afforded by the old hereditary nobility of the land,
many members of which still lingered by the ancestral hall, as yet
unallured from the calm delights of rural life, and the dignified
satisfaction of _dwelling amongst their own people_, even by all the
amusements or luxuries of the capital. An annual visit to London, an
appearance in the court of the sovereign and the house of peers, at
certain times, varied the existence of this class of men; and neither
liking, comprehending, nor esteeming the wits and foplings of the
metropolis, they returned well pleased to hold their ancient state in
the country, bearing renewed importance amongst the country gentlemen
around, from this fresh visit to the fountain of all honours and
distinctions.

Great, indeed, was their importance amongst their neighbours at
times--far greater than we in the present day can well picture to
ourselves; for independent of the consequence acquired by spending
large incomes within a limited sphere, the feeling of feudal influence
was not extinct, though the fact had become a nonentity; and the
tenantry on a great man's estate looked up to him in those days with
the greater veneration and devotion, because they were not compelled to
do so. Above the tenantry, again, the squire and the magistrate, who
not only owed a great part of their comfort in the county, their
consideration with their neighbours, and their estimation in their own
eyes, to the degree of favour in which they stood with the earl, the
marquis, or the duke, but who might at any time be rendered
uncomfortable and persecuted, if not oppressed, in case they forfeited
his good graces, failed not to show their reverence for him on every
legitimate occasion--and sometimes, perhaps, went a little further.

Thus, of the little hierarchy of the county, there was generally some
nobleman as the chief, and from him it descended through baronets,
lords of the manor, knights, justices, squires, and many an _et
cetera_, down to the lowest class of all, who still looked up to that
chief, and would tell the passer-by, with much solemn truth, that "the
earl was quite a king in his own part of the world."

Amongst such classes, in such scenes, and at such a period, took place
the events about to be described.

At the door of a small, neat country inn stood gazing forth a
traveller, one clear bright morning in the end of the month of May. The
hour was early: the matutinal servants of the house were scarcely up;
and Molly, with mop and pail, was busily washing out the passage which
was soon to be thickly strewn with clean yellow sand. The scene before
the traveller's eyes was one on which it is pleasant to dwell; the
centre street of a small country town, many miles from a great city.
There were a few light clouds in the sky, but they did not interrupt
the rays of the great orb of light, who was yet low down in the heaven;
and the shadows of the manifold white houses, with their peaked gables
turned across the street, forming a fanciful pattern on the ground; the
yellow sunshine and the blue shade lying clear and distinct, except
where a little fountain burst forth half way down the town, and mingled
the two together.

It was, as I have said, a cool and pleasant scene for the eye to rest
upon; and even the casements of the houses opposite, shaded by the
close-drawn white curtain, gave an idea of calm and happy repose. The
world within were all yet asleep: the toil, the anxiety, the care, the
strife of active life, had not yet began.

The eye of the traveller rested upon the picture apparently well
pleaded. It gazed contemplatively up the street to where the road had
been made to take a turn, in order to avoid the brow of the gentle hill
on which the town was built, and which, crowned with houses of pleasant
irregularity, interrupted the further view in that direction; and then
that eye turned downward to the place where the highway opened out into
the country beyond, after passing over a small bright stream by a brick
bridge of ancient date. Over the bridge was slowly wending at the same
moment a long line of cattle, lowing as they went, forth to pasture,
with a herd following in tuneful mood, and neither hurrying himself nor
them. The stranger's eye rested on them for a single moment, but then
roved on to the landscape which was spread out beyond the bridge, and
on it he gazed as curiously as if he had been a painter.

On it, too, we must pause, for it has matter for our consideration. The
centre of the picture presented a far view over a bright and smiling
country, with large masses of woodland, sloping up in blue lines to
some tall brown hills at the distance of ten or twelve miles. A
gleaming peep of the river was caught in the foreground, with a sandy
bank crowned with old trees; and above the trees again appeared the
high slated roofs of a mansion, whose strong walls, formed of large
flints cemented together, might also here and there be seen looking
forth, grey and heavy, through the green, light foliage. Three or four
casements, too, were apparent, but not enough of the house was visible
to afford any sure indication of its extent, though the massiveness of
the walls, the width of the spaces between the windows, the size of the
roofs, and the multitude of the chimneys, instantly made one mentally
call it the _Manor House_.

This mansion seemed to be at the distance of about a mile from the
town; but upon a rising ground on the opposite side of the picture,
seen above bridge and trees, and the first <DW72>s of the offscape,
appeared, at the distance of seven or eight miles, or more, a large
irregular mass of building, apparently constructed of grey stone, and
in some places covered with ivy--at least, if one might so interpret
the dark stains apparent even at that distance upon various parts of
its face. There was a deep wood behind it, from which it stood out
conspicuously, as the morning sun poured clear upon it; and in front
appeared what might either be a deer park filled with stunted hawthorn
and low chestnut trees, or a wide common.

Such was the scene on which the traveller gazed, as, standing in front
of the deep double-seated porch of the little inn, he looked down the
road to the country beyond. There was no moving object before his eyes
but the herd passing over the bridge; there was no sound but the lowing
of the cattle, the whistling of their driver, and a bright lark singing
far up in the blue sky.

It is time, however, to turn to the traveller himself, who may not be
unworthy of some slight attention. Certain it is, that the good girl
who was now sprinkling the passage and porch behind him with fine sand,
thought that, he was worthy of such; for though she had seen him
before, and knew his person well, yet ever and anon she raised her eyes
to gaze over his figure, and vowed, in her heart, that he was as
good-looking a youth as ever she had set eyes on.

His age might be five or six and twenty, and his height, perhaps, five
feet eleven inches. He was both broad and deep-chested, that
combination which insures the greatest portion of strength, with length
and ease of breadth; and though his arms were not such as would have
called attention from their robustness, yet they were evidently
muscular and finely proportioned. Thin in the flanks, and with the
characteristic English hollow of the back, his lower limbs were
remarkably powerful, ending, however, in a small well-shaped foot and
ankle, set off to good advantage in a neat close-fitting shoe.

His countenance was as handsome as his figure, and remarkably
prepossessing; the features, slightly aquiline; the colouring, a rich
brown, though the eyes were found to be decidedly blue, when fully seen
through the black lashes. His hair waving round his face, and curling
upon his neck, was of a deep glossy brown, and the fine shaped lips,
which, in their natural position were slightly open, showed beneath a
row of even teeth as white as snow. The brow was broad, straight, and
high, with the eye-brow, that most expressive of all the features,
forming a wavy line of beauty, strongly marked upon the clear skin, and
growing somewhat thicker and deeper above the inner canthus of the eye.
Between the eyebrows, however, appeared the only thing that the most
fastidious critic of beauty could have objected to. It was a deep scar,
evidently the mark of a severe cut; whether received by accident in the
jocund days of boyhood, or in the manly sports of the country, or in
the field of battle, might be doubtful; but there it rested for ever, a
clear, long scar, beginning halfway up the forehead, and growing deeper
as it descended, till it formed a sort of indentation between the
eyebrows, similar to that produced in some countenances by a heavy
frown. Thus to look at the brow, one would have said the face was
stern; to look at the eyes, one might have pronounced it thoughtful;
but the bland, good-humoured, cheerful smile upon the lips contradicted
both, and spoke of a heart which fain would have been at ease, whose
own qualities were all bright, and warm, and gay, if the cares and
strifes of the world would but let them have way.

We shall not pause long upon the stranger's dress. It was principally
composed of what was then called brown kersey, a coarse sort of stuff
used by the common people; but the buttons were of polished jet, the
linen remarkably fine, the hat, with its single straight feather, set
on with an air of smartness; while the fishing-basket under the arm,
and the rod in the hand, and all the rest of an angler's paraphernalia
conspicuous upon the person, reconciled the homely dress with the
distinguished appearance. He was evidently bound for the banks of the
clear stream; and yet, though it was the hour of all others which a
fisherman should have cultivated, he lingered for some minutes at the
door of the little inn; gazing, as we have depicted him, alternately up
and down the street, with a slow, meditative look, as if enjoying the
beauty of the morning, and the fair scene around him. It is true, that
his eyes turned most frequently, and rested longest, upon the bridge
and stream and old Manor House, with the wide country beyond; but still
he occasionally looked to the other bend of the road, and once seemed
to listen for some sound.

He had at length taken one step forward, as if to pursue his way, when
the voice of the host of the Talbot, good Gregory Myrtle, was heard
coming down the stairs, talking all the way for the benefit of any one
who might hear, with a fat, jovial, ale-burdened sound, which at other
times and seasons rejoiced the hearts of many a "gay companion of the
bowl." The first indication of his coming was a peal of laughter, a
loud "Haw, haw, haw!" at some conjugal joke uttered by his dame as he
left his chamber.

"Well said, wife! well said!" he exclaimed; "it is good to be fat; for
when I can no longer walk, I shall easily be rolled--Haw, haw, haw!
Gads my life! I must have these stairs propped, or else choose me a
chamber on the ground-floor. Sand the floor well, Molly--sand the floor
well! Think were I to slip, what a squelch would be there. Ha, Master
Harry! ha!" he continued, seeing the stranger turn towards him, "how
was it I saw you not last night, when you arrived? You flinched the
flagon, I fear me, Master Harry! Nay, good faith, that was not right to
old Gregory Myrtle!"

"I was tired, good Gregory!" replied the stranger: "I had ridden more
than fifty miles to be here to-day, and I wished to rise early, for the
sake of my speckled friends in the stream."

"Ale keeps no man from rising," cried the host. "See how it has made me
rise, like a pat of dough in a baker's oven! haw, haw, haw!" and he
patted his own fat round paunch. "But whence come ye, Master Harry?
from the court, or the city, or the wars?"

"From neither, Myrtle," replied the stranger; "I come from a far
distance, to take my tithe of the stream as usual. But how goes on the
country since I left it?"

"Well! mighty well!" answered the landlord, "all just as it was, I
think. No! poor old Milson, the sexton, is dead: he had buried four
generations of us, and the fifth has buried him. He caught cold at the
justice room, giving evidence about that robbery, you remember, out
upon the moor; and took to his bed and died."

"Which robbery do you mean?" demanded the other; "there were many going
on about that time upon the moor and over the hill. Have there been any
lately?"

"Not one since you left the country, Master Harry," replied the
landlord.

"I hope you do not mean to hint that I had any hand in them," rejoined
his companion, with a smile.

"God forbid!" exclaimed good Gregory Myrtle--"Haw, haw, haw! That was a
funny slip of mine! No, no, Master Harry, we know you too well; you are
more likely to give away all your own than take a bit of other
people's, God bless you!"

"I think, indeed, I am," answered the young man, with a sigh; "but if I
talk with you much longer, I shall be too late to rob the stream of its
trout. Don't forget, Myrtle, to send up to the Manor for leave for me,
as usual. I suppose his worship is awake by this time, or will be, by
the time my tackle is all ready;" and so saying, he sauntered on down
the street, took the pathway by the bridge, and turning along by the
bank of the river, was soon lost to the sight.




                             CHAPTER II.


Sometimes in bright sunny expanse over a broad shallow bed of
glittering stones and sand; sometimes in deep pools under high banks
bending with shrubs and trees; sometimes winding through a green
meadow; sometimes quick and fretful; sometimes slow and sullen; on
flowed the little river on its course, like a moody and capricious man
amidst all the various accidents of life.

Beginning his preparations close to the bridge, upon a low grassy bank
which ran out from the buttress, and afforded a passage round beneath
the arches, the stranger, whom the landlord had called Master Harry,
had not yet completed all the arrangement of his fishing-tackle, when
one of those servants--who, in the great hall, were as famous for a
good-humoured idleness in that day, as their successors are for an
insolent idleness in the present times, and were known by the familiar
name of _blue-bottles_--made his appearance, carrying his goodly
personage with a quick step towards the fisherman. The infinite truth
generally to be found in old sayings was never more happily displayed
than in the proverb, "Like master like man!" and if so, a pleasant
augury of the master's disposition was to be derived from the demeanour
of his messenger. As he came near he raised his hand, touched his cap
respectfully, though the fisherman was dressed in kersey; and, with a
grave, complacent smile, wished him good morning.

"Sir Walter gives you good day, sir," he said, "and has told me to let
you know that you are quite welcome to fish the stream from Abbot's
Mill to Harland, which, God help us, is the whole length of the manor.
He says he has heard of your being here these two years, and always
asking leave and behaving consistent; and he is but too happy to give
such a gentleman a day or two's pleasure. Let me help you with the rod,
sir--it is somewhat stiffish."

The stranger expressed his thanks both to Sir Walter Herbert for his
permission, and to the servant for his assistance; and the
_blue-bottle_, who had also a well-exercised taste for angling, stood
and looked on and aided till all was ready. By this time the day had
somewhat advanced, and the steps passing to and fro over the bridge and
along the road had become more frequent; but they did not disturb the
fisherman in his avocations; and as he prepared to ascend the stream,
whipping it as he went with the light fly, the old servant turned to
depart with one more "Good morning, sir;" adding, however, as he looked
at the birding-piece which the stranger carried across his shoulder,
and then glanced his eye to some red coots which were floating about
upon the stream as familiarly as if they had been small farmers of the
water and held it under lease, "Perhaps, sir, you will be kind enough
not to shoot the coots and divers; Sir Walter likes to see them on the
river."

"I would as soon think of shooting myself, my good friend," replied the
other; "I have heard that poor Lady Herbert was fond of them, and I
would not repay Sir Walter's permission so ill."

The servant bowed and withdrew; and, as he passed on, took on his hat
reverentially to an old gentleman and a young lady who were leaning
over a low parapet-wall flanking a terrace in the gardens just opposite
the bridge. The last words of the servant and the angler had been
overheard, and the result we may soon have occasion to show.

We will not write a chapter upon angling. It matters little to the
reader whether the stranger caught few or many fish, or whether the
fish were large or small. Suffice to say that he was an expert angler,
that the river was one of the best trout streams in England, that the
day was favourable; and if the stranger did not fill his basket with
the speckled tenants of the stream, it proceeded from an evil habit of
occasionally forgetting what he was about, and spending many minutes
gazing alternately at the lordly mansion to be seen in the distance,
and the old manor-house beyond the bridge. He came at length, however,
to a spot where both were shut out by the deep banks overhead, and
there he soon made up for lost time, though he still threw his line, in
thoughtful mood, and seemed all too careless whether the fish were
caught or not.

It was their will, however, to be caught; but at the end of four or
five hours' fishing, he was interrupted again by the appearance of the
same old servant, who now approached, bearing on his arm a basket
evidently well laden.

"Sir Walter desired me to compliment you, sir," he said, "and to wish
you good sport. He prays you, too, to honour him by supping with him,
for he will not interrupt your fishing by asking you to dine. He has
sent you, however, wherewithal to keep off hunger and thirst, and
trusts you will find the viands good. Shall I spread them out for you?"

There is no sport in the world better calculated to promote the
purposes of that pleasant enemy, hunger, than throwing the long light
line over the clear brook; and the angler who, in the busy thoughts of
other things, had left chance to provide him with a dinner, willingly
availed himself of the good knight's hospitable supply, and did ample
justice to all that the basket contained. But there was something more
in his feelings on this occasion than the mere gratification of an
appetite, though the satisfaction of our hunger has proved a
magnificent theme in the hands of our greatest epic poets.

There were other feelings in the breast of the angler, as he sat down
and partook of the viands provided for him, which rendered these viands
grateful to the mind as well as to the body; and though the beauty of
the scene around, the freshness and splendour of the bright spring day,
the wooing of the soft air by the bank of the river, the music of the
waters as they glided by him, and the carols of manifold birds in the
neighbouring woods, were all accessories which might well render a
meal, tasted in the midst of them, not only pleasant at the time, but
memorable in after days, yet there was something more than all this
which made the little basket of provisions thrice agreeable to him;
something that made him believe he had been understood, as it were
intuitively, by the only persons he would have stooped to seek in the
neighbourhood, if he could have stooped to seek any one; something,
perhaps, beyond that which may or may not be rendered clear hereafter,
as the reader's eye is obscure or penetrating into the secrets of the
human heart and character. He received, then, the gift with gladness,
and sat down to partake of it with something more than hunger. He
accepted willingly also the invitation to sup at the Manor House; and
bestowing a piece of money on the serving man, which amply repaid the
pains he had taken, he suffered him to depart, though not till he had
lured him down the stream to see several trout brought out of the
bright waters with as skilful a hand as ever held a rod.

The fisherman was still going on after the old servant had left him,
when he was suddenly roused by a rustling in the high-wooded bank
above; and the moment after, he saw descending by a path, apparently
not frequently used, a personage upon whose appearance we must dwell
for a moment.

The gentleman on whose person the fisherman's eyes were immediately
fixed, was somewhere within the ill-defined limits of that vague period
of human life called the middle age. None of his strength was gone,
perhaps none of his activity; but yet the traces of time's wearing hand
might be seen in the grey that was plentifully mingled with his black
hair, and in the furrows which lay along his broad, strongly marked
brow. He was well dressed, according to the fashion of that day; and
any one who has looked into the pictures of Sir Peter Lely must have
seen many such a dress as he then wore without our taking the trouble
of describing it.

That was a period of heavy swords and many weapons; but the gentleman
who now approached bore nothing offensive upon his person but a light
blade, which looked better calculated for show than use, and a small
valuable cane hanging at his wrist. There was a certain degree of
foppery, indeed, about his whole appearance which accorded not very
well with either his form or his features. He was about the same height
as the angler whom we have before described, but much more broadly
made, with a chest like a mountain bull, and long sinewy arms and legs,
whose swelling muscles might be discerned, clear and defined, through
the white stocking that appeared above his riding boots. His face was
quite in harmony with his person, square cut, with good, but somewhat
stern features, large bright eyes flashing out from beneath a pair of
heavy overhanging eyebrows, a well shaped mouth, though somewhat too
wide, and a straight nose, rather short, but not remarkably so.

The complexion was of a deep tanned brown; and there were many lines
and furrows over the face, which indicated that the countenance there
presented was a tablet on which passion often wrote with a fierce and
fiery hand, leaving deep, uneffacable traces behind. That countenance,
indeed, was one calculated to bear strong expressions; and which,
though changing rapidly under the influence of varied feelings, still
became worn and channelled by each--by the storm and the tempest, the
sunshine and the shower.

On the present occasion the expression of his face was gay, smiling,
and good-humoured; and he approached the angler he exclaimed, with a
laugh, "You have dined well, Master Harry; and methinks, had you been
generous, you might have saved me a nook of the pie, or a draught out
of the bottle."

"I did not know you were so near, Franklin," answered the angler,
somewhat gravely: "I thought you would have met me at the Talbot this
morning; and, not finding you, I fancied that you had forgotten your
promise."

"I never forget a promise." replied the other, sharply, and with his
brow beginning to lower; "I never forget a promise, Master Harry, be it
for good or evil. Had I promised to blow your brains out, I would have
done it; and having promised to meet you here this morning, here I am."

"Do not talk such nonsense to me, Franklin, about blowing men's brains
out," replied the angler, calmly; "such things will not do with me; I
know you better, my good friend. But what prevented you from coming?"

"You do not know me better!" replied the other, sharply. "If I ever
said I would blow your brains out--the which God forbid--by the rood I
would do it! and as to what has kept me, I have been here since
yesterday morning, seeing what is to be done. I tell you, Master Harry,
that the time is come; and that if we lay our plans well, we may strike
our great stroke within the next three days. I had my reasons, too, for
not coming up to the Talbot; but you go back there and hang about the
country, as if you had no thought but of fishing or fowling. Have your
horses ready for action at a moment's notice, and I will find means to
give you timely warning. You know my boy Jocelyn? When you see him
about, be sure that there is something to be done; find means to give
him a private hearing instantly, and have your arms and horses, as I
have said, all prepared."

While the other was speaking, the angler had laid down his rod on the
bank, and crossing his arms upon his chest, had fixed his fine
thoughtful eyes full, calmly, and steadfastly, upon his companion.
"Franklin," he said, at length, "I trust you to a certain point in the
conduct of this business, but no further! I trust you because I believe
you to be faithful, bold, active, and shrewd. But remember, there is a
point where we must stop. What is it you propose to do? I am not one to
be led blindfold even by you, Gray; and I remember but too well, that
when in other lands fortune cast our lots together, you were always
bent upon some wild and violent enterprise, where the risk of your own
life seemed to compensate in your eyes for the wrong you at times did
to others. Forgive me, Gray; but I must speak plainly. You have
promised--you have offered to do me a great service--the greatest,
perhaps, that man could render me; but you have not told me how it is
to be done, and there must be no violence."

"Not unless we are obliged to use it in our own defence," replied the
other sharply. "As to the rest, Master Harry, the enterprise is mine as
well as yours: so do not make me angry, or you may chance to fail
altogether, and find Franklin Gray as bad an enemy as he can be a good
friend."

"No threats, Franklin," replied the other: "you should know that
threats avail not with me. I thank you deeply for all your kindness,
Franklin; but neither gratitude nor menaces can lead me blindfold.
Years have passed since, in the same high and noble cause, and under
the same great good man, we fought together on the banks of the Rhine;
and you seem to have forgotten that even then, boy as I was, neither
threats nor persuasions would move me to do anything I judged--though,
perhaps, falsely--to be really wrong. A change has come over you, Gray;
but no change has come over me. I am the same, and will remain the
same."

"Did you not promise to leave the conduct of this to me?" cried his
companion. "Did you not promise to submit to my guidance therein? But
never mind! I give you back your promise. Break it all off! Let us
part. Go, and be a beggar. Lose all your hopes, and leave me to follow
my own course. I care not! But I will not peril my neck for any dastard
scruples of yours."

"Dastard!" exclaimed the other, taking a step towards him, and half
drawing his sword out of the sheath with the first impulse of
indignation, while his brow contracted, so as to cover entirely the
deep scar between his eyes. "Dastard! such a word to me!"

"Ay, to you, or any one," replied Franklin Gray, laying his hand upon
the hilt of his sword also, as if about to draw it instantly, while his
dark eye flashed and his lip quivered under the effects of strong
passion.

The next impulse, however, was to gaze for a moment in the countenance
of his young opponent; the expression of anger passed away; and
withdrawing his hand from the hilt, he threw his arms round the other,
exclaiming, "No, no, Harry! We must not quarrel! We must not part! at
least not till I have fulfilled all I promised. I have nursed you as a
baby on my knee; I have stood beside you when the bullets were flying
round our heads like hail; I have lain with you in the same prison; and
for your own sake, as well as for those that are gone, I will serve you
to the last; but you must not forget your promise either. Leave this
matter to me, and, on my soul. I will use no violence, I will shed no
blood, except in our own defence! Even then they shall drive me to the
last before I pull a trigger."

"Well, well," replied the other, "I will trust you, Franklin, though I
have had many a doubt and hesitation lately."

"Did you not promise your mother on her death-bed," demanded the other,
straining both his companion's hands in his--"did you not solemnly
swear to her to follow my suggestions, to put yourself under my
guidance till the enterprise was achieved?"

"I did, I did:" replied the angler. "I did; but then you promised,
freely and frankly, to accomplish the object that was at that moment
dearest to her heart; and I had no doubt, I had no fear, as to the
means. I certainly did so promise my poor mother; but when she exacted
that promise, you and I were both differently situated; and I fear me,
Franklin, I fear me, that you are over fond of strife, that you are
following paths full of danger to yourself, and that you will not be
contented till you have brought evil on your own head."

"Pshaw!" replied his companion, turning away. "That is my affair; I
will leave the more maudlin part of the business to you: let me have
the strife, if there should be any; but remember your promise, Harry;
and let this be the last time that we have such fruitless words."

The other made no reply; and Franklin, after gazing on him moodily for
a moment, cast himself down upon the bank, and asked, "How do you
bestow yourself to-night?"

"I am invited to sup at the Manor House with Sir Walter Herbert,"
replied the angler; "and I shall go."

"Go, to be sure!" exclaimed his companion: "It may serve us more than
anything. Have you ever seen Sir Walter?"

"At a distance," replied the other; "but I never spoke to him. I know
him well, however, by repute. They tell me he has fallen into some
difficulties."

"From which, perhaps, you may help him," said Franklin, thoughtfully.

"Perhaps I may," answered the angler, in the same tone; "perhaps I may,
if I can discover how it may best be done; but at present I only know
that difficulties exist, without knowing why or how; for the estates
are princely. However, if within my reach, I will try to aid him,
whether fortune ever turns round and smiles upon me or not; for I hear
he is as noble a gentleman as ever lived."

"Ay, and has a fair daughter," answered his companion, with a smile.
"You have seen her, I suppose?"

"Never," replied the angler: "I saw her mother once, who was still very
lovely, though she was ill, and died ere the month was out."

"Go! go!" cried his companion, after a moment's thought; "go
to-night, by all means; I feel as if good would come of it."

"I do not know how that can be," said the other, musing, "but still I
will go; though you know that, in my situation, I think not of men's
fair daughters."

"Why not?" asked Franklin Gray, quickly, "why not? What is the
situation in which woman and woman's love may not be the jewel of our
fate? What is the state or condition that she may not beautify, or
soften, or inspirit? Oh! Harry, if you did but know all, you would see
that my situation is, of all others, the one in which woman can have
the least share; and yet, what were I--what should I become, were it
not for the one--the single star that shines for me on earth? When the
fierce excitement of some rash enterprise is over, when the brow aches,
and the heart is sick and weary, you know not what it is to rest my
head upon her bosom, and to hear the pulse within that beats for me
alone. You know not what it is, in the hours of temporary idleness, to
sit by her side, and see her eyes turn thoughtfully from our child to
me, and from me to him, and seem busy with the strange mysterious link
that unites us three together. Why, I say, should you not think of
woman's love, when you, if not riches, have peace to offer--when, if
not splendour, you have an honest name? I tell you, Henry Langford,
that when she chose me I was an unknown stranger, in a foreign land;
that there were strange tales of how and why I sought those shores;
that I had nought to offer but poverty and a bold warm heart. She asked
no question--she sought no explanation--she demanded not what was my
trade, what were my prospects, whither I would lead her, what should be
her afterfate. She loved, and was beloved--for her, that was enough;
and she left friends and kindred, and her bright native land, comfort,
soft tendance, luxury, and splendour, to be the wife of a houseless
wanderer, with a doubtful name. He had but one thing to give her in
return--his whole heart, and it is hers."

His companion gazed earnestly in his face, as he spoke, and then
suddenly grasped his hand. "Franklin," he said, "you make me sad; your
words scarcely leave me a doubt of what I have long suspected."

"Ask me no questions!" exclaimed the other--"you have promised to ask
no questions."

"Neither do I," rejoined his companion. "What you have said scarcely
renders a question needful. Franklin, when several years ago we served
with the French army on the Rhine, and when first you showed that
interest in me, which was strange, till my poor mother's sad history
explained it in some degree, you promised me solemnly that if ever you
should need money you would share my purse, which, however scanty, has
still been more than sufficient for my wants."

"But I have never needed it!" interrupted the other. "The time has not
come! When it does, I will."

"You trifle with me Franklin," rejoined his companion; "if you betake
yourself to rash acts and dangerous enterprises, as your words
admit----"

"I may be moved," said Franklin Gray, again interrupting him, "by a
thousand other causes than the need of money; the love of activity, the
restlessness of my nature, habits of danger and enterprise--"

"And is not the love of such a being as you have spoken of," demanded
his companion, "is it not sufficient to calm down such a nature, to
restrain you from all that may hurt or injure her? Think Franklin,
think, if you were to fail in some of these attempts--if--if--you are
moved!--think what would be her fate--think what would be her
feelings;--nay, listen to me--share what I have, Franklin. It is enough
for us both, if we be but humble in our thoughts and----"

But the other broke away from him with a sudden start, and something
like a tear in his eye. "No, no!" he cried, "no, no!" but then again he
turned, ere he had reached the top of the bank, and said, in a low, but
distinct voice, "Harry, if I succeed in this enterprise for you, and in
your favour, you shall have your way."

"But no violence!" replied the angler, "remember, I will have no
violence."

"None," rejoined Franklin Gray, "none; for I will take means to overawe
resistance; and we will, as we well and justly may, enforce your rights
and laugh those to scorn who have so long opposed them: and all without
violence, if possible!" But the latter words were uttered in a low
tone, and were unheard by his companion.




                             CHAPTER III.


Perhaps the sweetest hour of a sweet season is that which precedes the
setting of the sun upon a May day. All the world is taking holiday,
from the lowing herd that winds slowly o'er the lea to the shard-born
beetle and the large white moth. The aspect of the sky and earth
too--clear, calm, and tranquil--are full of repose. The mistiness of
the mid-day sunshine is away; and the very absence of a portion of the
full daylight, and the thin, colourless transparency of the evening
air, afford that contemplative, but no way drowsy charm which well
precedes, by thought tending to adoration, the hour when, in darkness
and forgetfulness, we trust ourselves unconscious to the hands of God.
The heart of man is but as an instrument from which the great musician,
Nature, produces grand harmonies; and the most soothing anthem that
rises within the breast is surely elicited by the soft touch of that
evening hour.

It had shone calmly over the world in those scenes we have lately
described, and the last moments of the sun's stay above the horizon,
were passing away, while, within one of the rooms of the old Manor
House of Moorhurst Park, the father and the daughter were sitting
tranquilly in the seat of a deep window, gazing over the beautiful view
before their eyes, and marking all the wonderful changes of colouring
which the gradual descent of the sun and the slow passing of a few
light evening clouds brought each moment over the scene. There is in
almost every heart some one deep memory, some one powerful feeling,
which has its harmonious connexion with a particular hour, and with a
particular scene; and as the father and the daughter gazed, and marked
the sun sinking slowly in the far west, one remembrance, one image, one
sensation, took possession of both their bosoms. The daughter thought
of the mother, the father of the wife, that was lost to them for ever.
Neither spoke--both tried to suppress the feeling, or rather to indulge
the feeling, while they suppressed its expression. But such efforts are
vain, at least with hearts untutored by the cold policies of a
superficial world. A tear glistened in the daughter's eye, and she
dared not wipe it away lest it should be remarked. The father's eye,
indeed, was tearless, but his brow was sad; and as he withdrew his gaze
from the scene before him, and turned his looks upon his daughter, it
was with a sigh. He marked, too, the bright drop that still hung
trembling on her eyelid, catching the last ray of the setting sun; and,
knowing the spring whence that drop arose, he cast his arms around her,
and pressed her in silence to his breast.

At that very moment, however--for it is still at the time when the deep
shy feelings of the warmest hearts peep forth to enjoy some cool
secluded hour, that the world is sure to burst upon them like the cry
of the beagles upon the timid hare--at that very moment, one of the
servants opened the door of the chamber, and announced Captain Henry
Langford. Sir Walter Herbert withdrew his arms from his daughter, and
took a step forward; and Alice Herbert, though she felt prepossessed in
their visitor's favour, felt also almost vexed that he had come so soon
to interrupt the sweet but melancholy feelings which were rising in her
father's heart and in her own. She gazed with some interest towards the
door, however, and the next instant, the angler, whose course through
the day we have already traced, entered the apartment. Rod, and line,
and fishing-basket had been, by this time, thrown aside, and he stood
before them well, but not gaily, dressed; with scrupulous neatness
observable in the every part of his apparel, and with his wavy brown
hair arranged with some care and attention.

His air was distinguished, and not to be mistaken--his person was, as
we have before said, eminently handsome; so that, although a stranger
to both the father and daughter, he bore with him a letter of
recommendation of a very prepossessing kind.

As he entered, Sir Walter Herbert advanced to meet him, with the calm
dignity of one who, in former years, had mingled with courts and
camps--who felt within his breast the ease-giving consciousness of a
noble and an upright mind; and he was met by the stranger with the same
bearing.

Sir Walter, though not usually familiar, offered him his hand, saying,
"Captain Langford, I am very glad to see you; and must explain how it
is that I took the liberty of sending you the invitation that has
procured me this pleasure. Without intending to act the part of
eavesdroppers, my daughter and myself overheard, this morning, the
conclusion of a conversation between you and one of my servants,
regarding some birds that float about upon the stream; and the few
words that fell from you on that occasion breathed a spirit which gave
me a temptation too strong to be resisted of seeking your acquaintance,
even at the risk of intruding upon the calm and tranquil solitude which
you, who are, doubtless, a denizen of cities and courts, seek, in all
probability, when you venture into the country."

"It could be no intrusion, sir," replied his guest; "and let me assure
you that, in forbidding me to shoot the wild fowl on the stream, your
servant imposed upon me no hard condition. Those birds have been a sort
of companions to me, during my sport, for these two or three years
past, and I should never have thought of injuring them; but would still
less have wished to do so, when I knew that you took a pleasure and an
interest in them."

"They are associated with past happiness," said Sir Walter; "and,
though I believe it is foolish to cling to things which only awaken
regret, yet I confess I do take a pleasure, a sad pleasure, perhaps, in
seeing them."

"I cannot but think," replied his guest, "that there are some regrets
far sweeter than all our every-day enjoyments. The only real pleasures
that I myself now possess are in memories; because my only attachments
are with the past."

"You are very young to say so, sir," answered Sir Walter; "you must at
an early age have broken many sweet ties."

"But one," replied Langford; "for, through life, I have had but
one--that between mother and son; but of course it broke with the
greater pain from being the only one."

"And your father?" demanded Sir Walter.

"I never knew him," replied the stranger; and, seeing that the
conversation might grow painful, Sir Walter Herbert dropped it; and,
turning to his daughter, presented the stranger to her, which he had
neglected to do before.

It might be that, as the old knight did so, the remembrance of what had
passed not long before, regarding the beautiful girl to whom he was now
introduced, called the colour rather more brightly into Langford's
face; and certainly it produced a slight degree of embarrassment in his
manner, which he had never felt on such an occasion before. She was,
certainly, very beautiful, and that beauty of a peculiar cast. It was
the bright and sunshiny, united with the deep and touching. Her skin
was clear, and exquisitely fair: her lips full, but beautifully formed,
the brow broad and white; and the eyes of that soft peculiar hazel,
which, when fringed with long black lashes, perhaps is more expressive
than any other colour. The hair, which was very full and luxuriant, was
of a brown--several shades lighter than Langford's own--soft and glossy
as silk, and catching a golden gleam in all the prominent lights. She
was not tall, but her form was perfectly well proportioned, and every
full and rounded limb was replete with grace and symmetry.

Langford's slight embarrassment wore off in a moment; and the
conversation turned upon more general themes than those with which it
begun. Sir Walter and his daughter, from the few words they had heard
in the morning, undoubtedly expected to find in their guest high and
kindly feelings, and that grace, too, which such feelings always afford
to the demeanour and conversation of those who possess them. But they
found much more than they had expected--a rich and cultivated mind,
great powers of conversation, much sparkling variety of idea, an
inexhaustible fund of experience, and information regarding many things
whereof they themselves, if not ignorant, had but a slight knowledge,
which he had gained apparently by travelling far and long in foreign
countries, and by mingling with many classes and descriptions of men.
There were few subjects on which he could not speak; and, on whatever
he did speak, there was something more displayed than mere ordinary
judgment. The heart had its part as well as the understanding, and a
bright and playful imagination linked the two together.

Had Sir Walter Herbert and his daughter felt inclined to be distant and
reserved towards the stranger, whom they had invited, they could not
have maintained such a demeanour long; for he was one of those who
applied for admittance to every door of the human heart, and was sure
to find some entrance; but when, on the contrary, they were predisposed
to like and esteem him, even the first slight chilliness of new
acquaintance was speedily done away; and ere he had been an hour in the
house the reciprocation of feeling and ideas had made them far more
intimate with him than with many persons whom they had known for long
and uninterrupted years.

Music was talked of, and painting, and sculpture; and in each,
Langford, without affecting the tone of a connoisseur, displayed that
knowledge which is gained rather by a deep feeling for all that is fine
and beautiful than from an experimental acquaintance with the arts
themselves. He had heard Lulli--had been present when some of his most
celebrated compositions had been first performed; and, though he talked
not of the scientific accuracy of this piece of music or of that, he
spoke with enthusiasm of the effect which each produced upon the mind;
of what feelings they called up; whether they soothed, or inspired, or
touched, or saddened, or elevated.

Then, again, when the conversation turned to the sculpture or the
painting of Florence or of Rome, he did not--perhaps he could not--use
the jargon of connoisseurs: he did not speak of breath, and juice, and
contour, but he told of how he had been affected by the sight, of what
were the sensations produced in his bosom, and in the bosoms of others
whom he had known, by the Venus, or the Apollo, or the Laocoon, or the
works of Raphael, or Guido, or Titian, or Michael Angelo. In short, he
dwelt upon that part of the subject which referred to the mind, the
imagination, or the heart; and in regard to which all those who heard
him could go along with him--feeling, comprehending, and enjoying all
he spoke of or described.

Alice Herbert, though she was not learned in such things, yet had a
natural taste, which was not uncultivated. In the seclusion in which
she dwelt, the ordinary household duties of a young Englishwoman of
that period had not been enough for her; and her mind had been occurred
with much and various reading, with music, as it was then known and
taught, and with drawing; though in the latter art she had received no
instruction but from her mother, who had acquired it herself while in
exile at the court of France. Her father, also, had some taste in, and
much feeling for, the arts, and she joined eagerly in the conversation
between him and Langford, often leading it, with the sportive eagerness
of a young and enthusiastic mind, to a thousand collateral subjects,
which constantly elicited from their new companion remarks full of
freshness and of genius.

She listened, well pleased--something more than well pleased, struck
and surprised: and from that night's interview she bore away matter for
deep thought and meditation--the most favourable effect that man can
produce when he wishes to make an impression on the heart of woman.

Did Langford seek to produce such an effect? Perhaps not, or most
likely, he would not have succeeded so well, but he was pleased
himself: he, too, was struck and surprised: and, carried away by his
own feelings, he took, unconsciously, the best means of interesting
hers.

But the interview ended not so soon; and they had scarcely sat down to
the evening meal when a fourth person was added to the party. He came
in unannounced, and seemed to be a familiar and a favoured guest.
Young, handsome, and prepossessing, with a frank and noble countenance,
an air full of ease and grace, and an expression, in some degree,
thoughtful, rather than sad; his coming, and the hour and manner in
which he came, seemed to Henry Langford a warning, that if there were a
day-dream dawning in his bosom, in regard to the sweet girl by whom he
sat, it would be better to extinguish it at once. But feelings such as
he had never experienced before came across his bosom; an eager and
irritable anxiety, an inclination to retire into himself, and to watch
the conduct of those around him; a tendency, whether he would or not,
to be ungracious, not alone towards the stranger, but towards all; such
were the strange and new sensations which he experienced. There is no
stronger indication of a new passion having begun to take a hold of our
heart, than a change in our ordinary sensations, in regard to things
apparently trifling. Langford was a great inquisitor of his own bosom,
and by that inquisition had, through life, saved himself from much
pain. The examination, in the present instance, was made in a minute;
and before the stranger had come round, and had been introduced to
himself, he had asked his own heart more than one keen question. He had
demanded, why he felt displeased at any addition to their party? why he
felt disposed to deny to the stranger those graces of person and manner
which he certainly possessed, and which were at once discernible? why
he watched so eagerly the manner in which Sir Walter received him? why
he gazed so intently upon Alice Herbert's cheek, to see if the
tell-tale blood would rise up in it, and betray any secret of the
heart? He asked himself all these questions in a moment, and suddenly
felt that he had been dreaming--ay, dreaming sweet dreams, without
knowing it. He banished them in a moment.

Sir Walter received the stranger kindly and familiarly, though with a
slight degree of stateliness, which was from time to time observable in
his demeanour to all. It was a stateliness evidently not natural to
him, for his character was frank and kindly, and this, perhaps, was the
only little piece of affectation that shaded--for it did not stain--a
mind all gentleness, and warmth, and affection. He shook hands warmly
with the young man, called him Edward, and suffered him to go round to
shake hands with his daughter before he introduced him to their guest.
While he did speak with Alice Herbert we have said that Langford's eye
was fixed upon her cheek. It betrayed nothing, however--the colour
varied not by a shade; and, though the lips smiled and the eye sparkled
as she welcomed him, there was no agitation to be remarked.

Langford was accustomed to read other hearts as well as his own, and
the translation he put upon the indications he beheld was--not that
there was no love between the stranger and Alice Herbert--but that the
period of emotion was past. He was not usually an unskilful reader of
hearts; but in interpreting that book it is necessary to take care that
no passion in our own breast puts a false gloss upon the text. Whether
such was the case in the present instance will be seen hereafter; but,
at all events, the knowledge Langford speedily obtained of what his own
feelings might become, taught him to regulate and restrain them. He
resolved that the coming of the stranger should produce no change in
his demeanour; that he would not forget the suavity of his manner, nor
let any one around remark an alteration which, to them, would be
unaccountable, and which he never could have an opportunity of
explaining.

After having given his visitor an opportunity of speaking for a moment
to his daughter, Sir Walter Herbert introduced him to Captain Langford,
saying, "Captain Langford, Lord Harold, the son of our good neighbour
on the hill. Edward, Captain Langford, one whom I know you will
esteem."

Langford gazed upon the new guest earnestly; but, whatever were his
first thoughts, his mind almost immediately reverted to Lord Harold's
situation in regard to Alice Herbert. The words in which the young
nobleman's introduction to himself was couched, even more than what he
had seen before, made him say in his own heart, "The matter is settled.
Idle dreams! idle dreams! I thought I had held imagination with a
stronger rein."

Lord Harold unslung his sword, and, giving it to one of the servants to
hang it up behind the door, he sat down to supper with the party, and
the conversation was renewed. The new guest looked at Langford more
than once with a keen and scrutinising expression, though his
countenance was not of a cast with which that expression suited, the
natural one being of a frank and open character, with somewhat of
indecision about the mouth, but an air of sternness, perhaps of
fierceness, upon the brow. There was nothing in it, however, either
very shrewd or penetrating; but, nevertheless, such a look was not
uncalled for, as, the moment that Langford resumed his seat, after
bowing to Lord Harold on their introduction, he turned deadly pale, and
remained so for several minutes.

It might be that there was a struggle going on within to overcome
himself, which none of those present knew or understood; but the
outward expression thereof was quite sufficient to call the attention
of the whole party; and it was, as we have said, some time before he
had sufficiently mastered himself to resume the conversation with spirit.
Even when he did so, there was a tone of sadness mingled with it,
which rendered it quite different from what it had been before. It was
no longer the gay, the sparkling, the playful; it was no longer the
mountain current, rushing over a clear and varied bed, now eddying
round every larger object in its course, now rippling brightly over the
pebbles, which it seemed to gild as it flowed amongst them; but it had
become a deep stream, strong, powerful, and, though still clear and
rapid, yet calm, shady, and dark, from its very depth.

Lord Harold took his part in the conversation well and gracefully. A
high education, and an early acquaintance with the court, which had
polished but not spoilt him, acting upon a heart originally good,
feeling, and generous, had improved what powers of mind he possessed as
far as possible. His talents were, however, evidently inferior to those
of Langford; and though he himself, apparently, was as much struck with
the charm of the other's conversation as either Sir Walter or his
daughter had been, yet he felt he was far surpassed by the new guest at
the Manor House; and besides that sensation, which is in itself a heavy
burden to be borne by those who seek to please, there was an
indescribable something in Langford's presence which put a restraint
upon him, and even made him bend down his glance before that of the
stranger. It was late before any one prepared to depart, and the first
who did so was Langford. He took leave of Sir Walter with graceful
thanks for his hospitality and kindness, and the old knight expressed a
hope that they should see him several times again before he left the
country; adding, "Of course you do not mean to limit your angling to
one day?"

"I really do not know," replied Langford, with a somewhat melancholy
smile; "I may be summoned to the capital at a moment's notice; but, at
all events, I shall not fail to pay my respects here before I go. I
will take your hint, Sir Walter, as a permission to continue my
depredations on the trout."

"As often and as much as you please," rejoined the old knight. "The
stream, as far as my manor extends, shall always contribute to your
sport."

"I hope," said Lord Harold, taking a step forward with graceful
courtesy, "that Captain Langford will not make Sir Walter's manor the
boundary. Our lands march, and the stream which flows on beyond, my
father will make as much at his service as that in Sir Walter's
property is already."

Langford thanked him, though somewhat coldly; but after he had taken
leave of Miss Herbert, he turned to Lord Harold, and advanced as if to
shake hands with him, then suddenly seemed to recollect himself, and,
wishing him good night in a more distant manner, quitted the apartment.

Lord Harold remained behind for nearly an hour; and the conversation
naturally rested on him who had just left them. The young nobleman
praised him with a sort of forced praise, which evidently sprang more
from candour and the determination to do justice, than from really
liking him. Sir Walter spoke of him warmly and enthusiastically,
declaring he had seldom met any one at all equal to him. Alice Herbert
said little, but what she did say was very nearly an echo of her
father's opinion. After his character his appearance, his manners, and
his talents had been discussed, his state of fortune and history became
the subjects of conjecture. Lord Harold was surprised when he heard
that the Knight of Moorhurst had invited an unknown angler to his
table, and had introduced him to his daughter; and, though he said
nothing, yet Sir Walter marked the expression of his countenance, and
was somewhat nettled that the young man, even in thought, should
comment on his conduct.

Lord Harold, however, soon obliterated any evil impression from the
mind of the kind-hearted old knight; and turning the conversation to
other things, his spirits seemed to rise after Langford was gone, and
he found opportunity of whispering a word or two in Alice Herbert's
ear. Whatever words those were, they seemed to take her much by
surprise, for she started, turned pale, then  highly; and,
after a few minutes passed in what seemed uneasy silence, she rose and
retired to rest. Lord Harold gazed for a moment or two upon the ground,
then looked earnestly at Sir Walter, as if there had been something
that he would fain have spoken; but in the end, apparently irresolute,
he took down his sword, gave orders to a servant to have his horse
brought round; and, taking leave of the good knight, mounted and
galloped away, followed by two attendants.

The moon had just gone down, but the night was clear, and the heavens
sparkling with a thousand stars. Lord Harold's way lay through some
thick woods for about two miles, and then descended suddenly to the
bank of the stream, where the trees fell away and left the bright
waters wandering on through a soft meadow. As the young nobleman issued
forth from among the plantations, he saw a tall dark figure standing by
the river, with the arms crossed upon the chest, and the eyes
apparently bent upon the waters. The sound of the horses' feet caused
the stranger to turn; and although the darkness of the night prevented
Lord Harold from distinguishing his features, the whole form and air at
once showed him that it was Langford. He wished him good evening, as he
passed, in a courteous tone, and was pulling up his horse to have added
some common observation; but Langford did not seem to recognise him,
and merely wishing him "Good night" in answer to his salutation, turned
away and walked down the stream.




                             CHAPTER IV.


There has scarcely been a poet or a prose writer, in any country, or in
any tongue, who has not first declared that there is nothing like love,
and then attempted to liken it to something. The truth is, that fine
essence is compounded of so many sweet things, that, though we may find
some resemblance to this or that peculiar quality, which forms a part,
we shall find nothing which can compare with the whole--nothing so
bright, nothing so sweet, nothing so entrancing, nothing so
ennobling--must we add, nothing so rare. Every fool and every villain
impudently fancies that he can love, without knowing that his very
nature renders it impossible to him. Every libertine and every
debauchee talks of love, without knowing that he has destroyed, in his
own bosom, the power of comprehending what love is--that he has shut
down and battened the pure fountain that can never be opened again.
Every one who can feel a part of love--and that, in general, the
coarser part--believes that he has the high privilege of loving, as
though a man were to drink the mere lees, and call it wine. Oh, no! How
infinite are the qualities requisite--each giving strength, and vigour,
and fire to the other! There must be a pure and noble heart, capable of
every generous and every ardent feeling; there must be a grand and
comprehensive mind, able to form and receive every elevated thought and
fine idea; there must be a warm and vivid imagination, to sport with,
and combine, and brighten every beautiful theme of fancy; there must be
a high and unearthly soul, giving the spirit's intensity to the earthly
passion. Even when all this is done, it is but a sweet melody: the
harmony is incomplete, till there be another being tuned alike, and
breathing, not similar, but responsive tones. Then, and not till then,
there may be love. Man, lay thy hand upon thy heart, and ask thyself,
"Is it not so with me?" If so, happy, thrice and fully happy, art thou.
If not, strive that it may be so; for, rightly felt, the most ennobling
of all earthly impulses is love.

The night that we have seen commence passed over not tranquilly to any
of the party which had been assembled at the Manor House. Alice Herbert
laid her sweet limbs down on the couch which had so often brought her
calm soft slumbers, but it was long ere she closed her eyes; and before
she did so, there dropped from them some tears. Sir Walter lay upon his
bed and thought, and a single sentence will show the subject of his
meditation. "Poor boy," he said, in a low tone, after thinking long;
"he is doomed to disappointment."

Lord Harold tossed in feverish anxiety; and for many an hour Langford
cooled his burning brow by the night air on the banks of the stream.
Day was fast dawning when he prepared to return to the inn; but ere he
had crossed the bridge, a boy of ten years of age, or thereabouts, with
fair curling hair, and a sunny countenance, crossed his path, saying
quickly, "My master waits to speak with you."

"Where is he, Jocelyn?" demanded Langford.

"In the thick wood in the manor park," replied the boy, "just above the
stream: but I will show you."

"Go on!" said Langford; and they were both soon hidden by the trees.

The park of the old manor-house, in its laying out and arrangement,
resembled the period of our tale--that is to say, it lay between two
epochs. There was still, in the neighbourhood of the house, the old
trim flower garden, with its rows of sombre yew trees; there who also
that more magnificent kind of billiard table in which our robust
ancestors used to take delight, the bowling-green; there were also
several long alleys of pine and beech, carried as far as the inequality
of the ground would permit; but then, beyond that again, came the park
scenery, in which we now delight--the deep wood, the dewy lawns, the
old unpruned trees, with every here and there a winding walk, cut
neatly amongst the old roots and stems, and taking advantage of all the
most beautiful points of view. But we will dwell on such matters no
longer; it is with pictures of the human heart that we have to do.

The dew was still upon the turf in the bowling-green, and in the long
grassy walks of the flower garden, when Alice Herbert came forth to
take her morning ramble alone. She was fond of taking the fresh air of
the early day; and enjoyed, as much as ever poet or painter did, the
varied lights and shades cast by the rising sun over the world; lights
and shades like the fitful visions of our boyhood, when the rising sun
of life renders all the shadows longer and deeper, and the brightness
doubly bright. In these morning expeditions, when she went forth to
enrich one hour of her young life with treasures from the bosom of
nature--treasures which she stored up, hardly knowing that she did so,
to be employed long after they were gained, in decorating and
embellishing all her being--there was scarcely anything that met her
eye, or any sound that met her ear, that was not marked and thought of;
examined and commented upon; played with, embellished, and illustrated
by her rich and poetical imagination. The fluttering butterfly that
passed before her was not remarked for the beauty of its colouring
alone; fancy found in it an image of a thousand other things; the mind
moralised upon it, and the heart took the lesson home. Even the clouds,
the slow fanciful clouds, as, writhing themselves into strange shapes,
they floated over the spring sky, sweeping lightly with their blue
shadows the soft bosom of the earth, gave equal food for imagination,
and induced manifold trains of thought; and in the lark's clear melody,
the ear of Alice Herbert heard something more than merely sweet sounds;
her heart joined in his anthem, her thoughts took the musical tone of
his sweet song, and her spirit rose upon his wings towards the gates of
heaven.

It often happened that, in these walks, her father bore her company,
and it was always a joy and satisfaction to her when he did so; for
between father and daughter there was that perfect reciprocity of
feeling that made it delightful to her to be able to pour forth in his
ear all the thoughts that sprang up from her heart; and to hear, as she
leant clinging to his arm, all the sweet and gentle, the simple, but
strong-minded and noble, ideas which the face of native suggested to
her father's fancy. To him she would listen well pleased, though many a
creature of the great world might have scoffed at the simplicity of the
words he uttered. To him she would tell all she herself felt; for
never, from her childhood upwards, had her father checked the
confidence of his child, even by a laugh at her young ignorance.

Thus, when she came down in the morning to go out, she would pause for
a moment at her father's door, to hear if he were stirring. If there
were sounds within, she would knock gently for admission; if there were
no sounds, she would pass on her way. This morning her father was still
sleeping when she came forth, for he had passed a somewhat restless
night, and she went on alone, with, perhaps a more grave and thoughtful
air than usual. She lingered for some moments in the flower-garden; and
then, with a slow step, took her way up the gravel walk which led into
one of the park paths, running along through the woods that crowned the
bank above the stream.

The path she followed was like a varied but a pleasant life, now
emerging into full sunshine as it approached the edge of the bank, now
dipping down into cool and contemplative shadow, as it wound in again
amongst the trees, now softly rising, now gently descending, but never
so rapidly as to hurry the breath or to hasten the footsteps. It was
broad, too, and even; airy and free. Along this path, then, she
wandered, casting off as she went the slight degree of melancholy that
at first shaded her, and turning her mind to its usual subjects of
contemplation. She thus proceeded for more than a mile, and had turned
to go back again to the house, when, as she approached a spot where
another path joined that which she was following, she suddenly heard
quick footsteps coming towards her.

The mind has often, in such cases, rapid powers of combination, seeming
almost to reach intuition; and though Alice Herbert had no apparent
means of ascertaining who was the person that approached, yet she
instantly turned pale, and became, for a moment, a good deal agitated.
With woman's habitual mastery over her own emotions, however, she
recovered herself almost immediately, and was walking on as calmly as
before, when Lord Harold, as she had expected, joined her in her walk.

"Good morning, Alice," he said; "I have just seen your father, and have
come out to meet you."

"Good morning, Edward," was her answer. "You must have been early up to
have been over here so soon. But as my father has risen, let us go in
to breakfast."

"Nay, stay with me a moment, Alice," said the young man; "it is but
seldom that I have a few minutes alone with you."

Alice made no reply, but continued on the way towards the house, with
her eyes cast down and her cheek a little pale. Lord Harold at length
took her hand and detained her gently, saying, "Nay, Alice, you must
stay; I have your father's permission for keeping you a little longer,
though I fear, Alice, from what I see, that I shall keep you here in
vain. Alice," he added, after making an attempt to command his
feelings, "dear Alice, did you mark the few words I said to you last
night?"

Alice Herbert paused for a moment, and one might have heard her heart
beating, so greatly was she agitated; but at length, evidently exerting
a strong effort of resolution, she looked up and replied, "I did mark
them, Edward, and they gave me very great pain, and I have been grieved
about them ever since."

"Why--why?" demanded Lord Harold, eagerly, "why should they give you
pain, when it is in your own power to render them for me, at least, the
happiest words that ever were spoken; and to give me an opportunity of
devoting my whole life to make you happy in return?"

"It is not in my own power, Edward," replied Alice, firmly but gently,
not attempting to withdraw the hand that Lord Harold still held, but
leaving it in his; cold, tranquil, ungiven though unresisting--"it is
not in my own power."

"Then am I so very distasteful to you," he exclaimed, sorrowfully,
"that no attention, no pains, no affection, no time can make you regard
me with complaisance?"

Alice was pained. "Indeed, indeed, Edward, you do me wrong," she said.
"You are not distasteful to me. I do regard you with complaisance. You
know that your society is anything but disagreeable to me; but yet, I
cannot love you as you ought to be loved, as you have a right to be
loved; nor can any attention, nor any kindness which you could show me,
nor any time, make a difference in this respect. We have known each
other from our childhood. You have shown me every degree of kindness,
every sort of attention that any one can show. You have gained my
esteem and my regard; I have always felt towards you almost as a
sister; and perhaps that very feeling may have prevented me from
feeling more."

"Nay, but, Alice, still hear me!" replied Lord Harold,
earnestly--
"hear me, hear me patiently; for remember, I am pleading for something
more than life--for the whole happiness of life! You say you have
regarded me as a brother, that you esteem me, that you do not dislike
my society; were I to become your husband, might not these feelings
grow warmer--stronger?"

"They might, or they might not," answered Alice; "but, Edward, I must
not, I cannot, I will not put them to the test. There is but one thing
that will ever induce me to marry any man--loving him deeply, strongly,
and entirely: loving him with my whole heart."

"And is there such a man?" demanded Lord Harold, suddenly, and at the
same time fixing his eyes keenly upon her.

Alice lifted hers in return, full, but somewhat reproachfully to his
countenance. "Edward," she said, "that is a question you have no right
to put! However," she added, after a moment's pause, "because we have
been companions from our childhood, because I do really esteem you, I
will answer your question. There is no one who has such a hold of me;
and till I meet with such, I will never marry any one."

"Then, dear Alice, there is yet hope!" he exclaimed.

"You construe what I have said very wrongly," she replied. "Do not! Oh!
do not, Lord Harold, by taking words of kindness for words of
encouragement, force me to speak that harshly which I would soften as
much as may be."

"Nay, Alice," answered Lord Harold, "your lesson comes rather late to
produce any benefit to me. I fear that I may have mistaken, before now,
words and acts of mere kindness for words and acts of encouragement. I
have--I acknowledge it--I have entertained hopes; I have thought that
Alice sometimes smiled upon me."

"Now, Edward, for the first time since I have known you," replied
Alice, "you are ungenerous, you are unkind. Brought up together from
childhood, seeing each other constantly, looking upon you almost as a
brother, esteeming, as I acknowledge I esteem you. I could but act as I
have acted. Has there been any change in my conduct towards you from
what that conduct was five, six, or seven years ago? Ought there to
have been any change in my conduct towards you, till I knew that there
was a change in your feelings towards me? Would you not have been the
first to accuse me of caprice, of unkindness, of forgetfulness of old
regard and early friendship? Oh! Edward, why should anything thus come
to interrupt such friendship--to bring a coldness over such regard?"

"Pardon me, pardon me, Alice," said Lord Harold, "I was wrong to refer
to my hopes; but I meant not to say that you had willingly given them
encouragement; I meant rather to excuse myself for entertaining them,
than otherwise. Blame you, I did not, I could not. All that you have
done has been gentle and right. Do not then, Alice, do not let anything
which has passed to-day interrupt our friendship, or bring, as you say,
a coldness over your regard for me. Let me still see you as heretofore;
let me still be to you as a friend, as a brother. There is no knowing
what change may take place in the human heart, what sudden accidents
may plant in it feelings which were not there before. Some good chance
may thus befriend me--some happy circumstance may awaken new feelings
in your heart."

"I cannot suffer you to deceive yourself," she said. "Such will never
be the case. It would be cruel of me, it would be wrong both to myself
and you, could I suffer you to think I should change. Oh, no! This
cannot have taken so strong a hold of you as not to be governable by
your reason. I shall ever esteem you, Edward, I shall ever be your
friend, but I can be nothing more; and let me beseech you to use your
powers of mind, which are great, to overcome feelings that can only
make you unhappy, and grieve me to hear that you entertain them."

She spoke in a manner, in a tone, that left no hope; but though he had
become deadly pale, he seemed now to have made up his mind to his fate.
"Fear not, Alice," he said, "fear not! Whatever I suffer, you shall
hear no more of it. Love you, Alice, I shall ever, to the last day of
my life; but trouble you with that love, will I no more. There is only
one thing I have to request; and that I do from no idle motive of
selfish vanity, from no tear of being pointed at and pitied by our
friends as Alice Herbert's rejected lover, but from motives of some
importance to all. Do not let it be known that such words have passed
between us as have been spoken this day."

"You cannot suppose me capable of speaking of such a thing," cried
Alice, both mortified and surprised.

"Oh, no!" he said; "but I mean to ask that it may remain a secret even
from my father."

"With your own father," said Alice, "you must of course deal as you
please, but with mine----"

"Yours knows my object in coming to-day already," interrupted Lord
Harold, "and must, of course, know the result. Mine has given his
fullest consent, upon my honour, to my seeking your hand. All I ask is,
that he may not know I have sought it and it has been refused. Let me
visit here as usual, let me--"

"I had heard," said Alice, "that you are going up to London. Why not do
so at once?"

"I will," he answered; "I will. But that will be only for a few days;
and, at my return, there must be no difference, Alice. Promise me that;
promise, if but for the sake of early friendship, for the sake of
childish companionship."

"Well," she said, after a moment's pause; "well, but there must be no
mistaking, Edward."

He looked pained. "Do not suppose, Alice," he replied, "that I have any
ungenerous object. When I ask this favour, I ask it for your sake as
well as my own. You must not ask me how or why, but trust me."

"I will," she said; "I will! I have always found you honourable and
generous; but, indeed, let me say, without thinking me unkind, that for
your own sake, with such feelings as you possess towards me, it were
better to be here as little as may be till you have conquered them."

"That will never be, Alice," he answered. "It is enough that you shall
never hear more of them. But here comes Silly John, as people call
him," he added, bitterly. "It is fit that a fool should break off a
conversation begun with such mad and silly hopes as mine! Let us so
back to the Manor, Alice; we shall never get rid of him."

The person who thus interrupted the painful interview between Lord
Harold and Alice Herbert, was one of a class now much more rarely seen
than in those times. There were, it is true, even then, hospitals and
asylums for the insane, but they were few; and Silly John, as he was
called, was not one of those whom the men of that day would ever have
dreamed of putting in confinement. He was perfectly harmless, though
often very annoying; and the malady of the brain under which he
suffered was rather an aberration of intellect than the complete loss
of judgment. It went a deal further, indeed, than in the case of the
_half saved_, in that most beautiful of biographies, that quintessence
of rare learning and excellent thought, _The Doctor_. He was decidedly
insane upon many points; and upon all, the intellect, if not weak, was
wandering and unsettled. His real name was John Graves: he had been an
usher in a small school, and consequently was not without a portion of
learning, such as it was. But his great passion was for music and
poetry: the one would call him into a state of sad though tranquil
silence, the very name of the other would excite him to an alarming
pitch of loquacity. Withal, he was not without a certain degree of
shrewdness in some matters; and what was still more singular and
apparently anomalous, his memory of events and dates was peculiarly
strong, and his adherence to truth invariable.

He now approached Alice and her companion with a quick step, dressed in
an old wide coat of philomot colour, with a steeple-crowned hat, which
had seen the wars of the great rebellion, rusty and battered, but still
whole, and decorated with two cock's feathers which he had torn himself
from the tail of some luckless chanticleer. His grey worsted hose were
darned with many a colour; and in his lean but muscular hand, he
carried a strong cudgel, which steadied his steps, being slightly lame
in the right leg. When he had come within a few feet of the lady and
her suitor, he stopped directly in the path, so that they could not
pass without going amongst the trees; and, for a moment or two, looked
intently in both their faces, with his small grey eyes peering into
theirs, and his large head leaning considerably to the side, so as to
bring the heavy ashy features quite out of the natural line.

"Well, John, what do you want?" demanded Alice, who had been familiar
with the sight of the poor man from her childhood. "Is there anything I
can do for you?"

"No, Mistress Alice; no, my pretty maid!" replied the man. "Only
take care of your sweet self, lady. I came up to be at the
conference--wherever there is a conference, there am I; and I heard you
and Harold talking when I was on the other side of the bushes; and now,
lo! the conference seems over."

"It is so for to-day, at least, John," replied Lord Harold; "so now let
us pass, my good man."

"Call me not good, Harold," he replied.

        "'There yet was good but One,
            That trod this cold earth's breast.
          And now to heaven he's gone
            For our eternal rest.'

"But you see I was right, Harold. They call me silly; but I am not silly
in matters of love. I told you how it would be this morning as you
crossed the bridge."

"My good man, I heard you say something," replied the young nobleman;
"but what, I did not know."

"You should have listened, then," replied the madman. "Always listen
when any one speaks to you. Did you not learn that at school? Always
listen, especially to the masters. Now, if you had listened, you would
have heard. I told you she would not have you."

Lord Harold turned red, and Alice felt for him; but he replied,
good-humouredly, as they walked on with the madman following them--"I
rather imagine, John, you have been listening to some purpose."

"No, I have not been listening, but I heard," replied the madman "and
two other pairs of ears did the same."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Lord Harold; "and who might they be?"

"Oh, the fox and the dog!" replied Silly John, in a rambling way; "The
fox and the dog, to be sure. The dog wanted to go away when you came,
but the fox would not let him, saying, that if they stirred they would
be heard and seen, and then folks would wonder what they came there for
so early of a morning--was not that a cunning fox? But I could have
told him what they both came there for, if I had liked, but that would
never do."

"And pray what is the dog's name?" demanded Lord Harold, in a quiet
tone, well knowing that an appearance of curiosity would often set
their half-witted companion rambling to different subjects from that
which had before engaged him.

"Oh, every dog has a name," replied the madman; "but they change their
names as well as men and women, Harold. This dog's name was once Lion,
and it is now Trusty, and to-morrow it may be Lord. I have known dogs
have twenty names in their lives. God help us! we are queer creatures!
And talking of dogs, I had a dog when I was second master at Uppington
School,"--and so he rambled on.

There was no stopping him, or recalling him to the subject; and he
followed Alice and Lord Harold, keeping close to the side of the
latter, and talking incessantly, but now so deeply engaged in the wild
and disordered stream of his own thoughts, that taking no further
notice of the conversation which the young nobleman renewed with his
fair companion, and continued with a low voice till they reached the
house, he went on volubly, touching upon a thousand subjects, and
darting after every collateral idea that was suggested by a chance word
spoken even by himself.




                              CHAPTER V.


The day which we have begun in the last chapter, passed over without
any other event of importance. Lord Harold left Alice at the door of
the house, mounted his horse, and departed. Alice communicated to her
father all that had taken place, and found him more grieved than she
had expected, but not at all surprised. The angler was again seen
fishing in the stream as the first shadows of evening began to fall;
but his efforts were not so successful as before, and he retired early
to rest.

The following morning was again a bright one--too bright, indeed, for
his sport; and in the course of the forenoon Langford made his
appearance at the Manor House and paid a lengthened visit. At first he
found only Sir Walter Herbert at home, but the visitor seemed to enjoy
his conversation much; and the good old knight suffered it to be
sufficiently evident that the society of his new acquaintance was
anything but disagreeable to him. In the course of half an hour,
however, Alice Herbert herself appeared; and not only did Langford's
eye light up with pleasure, but the conversation, which had before been
of somewhat a grave, if not of a sad cast, instantly, as if by magic,
became bright and sparkling, like the dark woods in the fairy tale,
which, by a stroke of the enchanter's wand, are changed to crystal
palaces and illuminated gardens. Alice, without knowing what had passed
before, felt that her presence had produced a change. She felt, too,
that her society had an influence upon Langford; that it called forth
and brought into activity the treasures and capabilities of his mind;
and, if truth must be spoken, it was not unpleasant to her to feel that
such was the case.

We may go further still, and look a little deeper into her heart. Her
acquaintance with Langford, short as it had been, had proved most
disadvantageous to the hopes and wishes of Lord Harold; but in saying
this, we mean no more than we do say. She was not--hers was not a
nature to become in so short a time--in love with Henry Langford; nor,
indeed, so rapidly to become in love with any one on the face of the
earth. She was capable of deep, and intense, and ardent feeling; and
the depths of her heart were full of warm affections. But the waves of
profound waters are not easily stirred up by light winds; a ripple may
curl the surface, but the bosom of the deep is still. She was not in
love with Langford; but had she not known him, it is possible--barely
possible, that though she would not have accepted Lord Harold at once,
she might, as many a woman does, have suffered him to pursue his suit
till she felt herself bound in honour to give him her hand, without
feeling any ardent attachment towards him even at last, and trusting
for happiness to esteem and regard. Her acquaintance with Langford,
however, had given her feelings a more decided character, had taught
her that she could not marry any one whom she did not absolutely love.
It went no further; but as far as that, the sort of surprise and
pleasure which his conversation had given her certainly did go; and
now, on their second meeting, there might be a kind of thrilling
satisfaction at her heart in finding that her society had an influence
over him, that his eye sparkled with irrepressible light, that his
thoughts, and manner, and feelings seemed to take a deeper tone as soon
as she appeared.

So went on the conversation for some time; both feeling, while it
proceeded, that though they might be talking of indifferent subjects,
they were thinking a good deal of each other; and thus they established
between themselves, all unwittingly, a secret sympathy, which but too
often throws wide the doors of the heart, to admit a strange guest, who
soon takes possession of the place.

The course of the conversation speedily brought Sir Walter to remark,
"You must have visited many foreign countries, Captain Langford, and
apparently not as our young men usually do, in a hurried and rapid
expedition, to see without seeing, and to hear without understanding. I
must confess it was the case with myself, in my young days; but the
habit of travel was not then so much upon the nation as at present, and
it was something for a country gentleman to have been abroad at all."

"I have been very differently situated, Sir Walter," replied his guest;
"though not born upon the continent, being, thank God! an Englishman,
yet the greater part of my early life was spent in other lands. My
mother was not of this country, and she loved it not--nor, indeed, had
occasion to love it. We resided much in France and much in Italy: some
short time, too, was passed in Spain; but those visits were in early
years; and I have since seen more of various countries while serving
with our troops under Turenne. I was very young, indeed, a mere boy,
when the British forces in which I served were recalled from the
service of France; but I was one of those who judged, perhaps wrongly,
that England had no right to leave her allies in the midst of a severe
war, and who therefore remained with the French forces till the peace
was concluded. I have since served for many years in several other
countries; and I have always been of opinion, that while there is no
life which affords more opportunity for idleness than a soldier's, if
his natural disposition so lead him, there is no life which gives so
much opportunity of improvement, if he be but inclined to improve."

Alice had listened eagerly and attentively, for Langford had approached
a subject which had become of interest to her: his own fate and
history. Sir Walter listened, too, with excited expectation; but their
guest turned the conversation immediately to other things, and shortly
after took his leave.

When he was gone, Sir Walter himself could not refrain from
saying--"That is certainly an extraordinary young man. Poor fellow! I
much fear, Alice, that he is one of those whom the faults of their
parents--the weakness of a mother, and the vices of a father--have sent
abroad upon the world without the legitimate ties of kindred."

"Oh! no, indeed, my dear father!" cried Alice, "I cannot believe that.
He would never speak so boldly and so tenderly of his mother, if there
were any stain upon her name. He has twice mentioned her, and each time
I have seen a glow of mingled love and pride come up in his
countenance."

"Well, I trust it is so," replied Sir Walter, "for otherwise no
situation can be more lamentable; with no legitimate relations of his
own, with no hope of uniting himself to any upright and ancient house;
for that bar sinister must always be an insuperable objection to every
family of pure and honourable blood."

Perhaps Alice might not see why it should be so; but she knew her
father's prejudices upon that point well, and she dropped the subject.

In the meanwhile, the person who had thus afforded them matter for
speculation, returned to the inn, sat, read, and wrote for some time in
his own chamber, and then sauntered forth with a book in his hand, and
his rod and line left behind, in order to meditate more at leisure by
the side of the stream, wherein, during the whole of the preceding
evening, he had lost his time in unsuccessful angling. He was not at
all inclined to renew his sport; and if truth were to be spoken, he
took his book more to cover his meditations than to prompt them.

Let us draw back the curtain, however, for a moment, and look through
the window in his breast, in order to see what were the motives and
causes which rendered even that sport which has been called "The
contemplative man's recreation," too importunate an occupation for the
body, to suffer the agitated mind to deliberate with ease. We have seen
what had been the effect of Alice Herbert's society upon him, during
the first evening of their acquaintance: he could not but admire her
beauty, for it was not of that cold and abstracted kind which may be
seen and commented on by the mind, without producing any other emotion.
It was of what we may call the most taking sort of beauty; it was of
that sort which goes at once to the heart, and thence appeals to the
mind, which cannot but admit its excellence. But still, even had he
fallen in love that night, it might have been called love at first
sight, and yet have implied a very false position. During each of the
preceding years he had spent nearly six weeks in the small country town
we have described; and, in the neighbourhood of Alice Herbert, he had
heard from every lip but one account of her character. He had spoken of
her with many, and every one with whom he spoke loved her.

He might therefore be well pleased to love her too, when he found that
to virtue and excellence were joined beauty, talents, and sweetness,
such as he had never beheld united before. We know also what was the
conclusion he had come to when he saw her in the society of Lord
Harold; and we may add, that he was more mortified, disappointed, and
angry with himself, than he was at all inclined to admit. When,
however, on the following day--placed in a situation from which he
could not retreat unperceived--he had been an unintentional, and even
an unwilling witness to a part of her conversation with Lord Harold,
and when from that part he learned undeniably that she rejected that
young nobleman's suit, he felt grateful to her for reconciling him with
himself, and for removing so speedily the mortification of the
preceding evening. That which had been at first but a mere spark upon
Hope's altar, and had dwindled away till it seemed extinct, blazed up
into a far brighter flame than before: and in their second interview he
felt as if an explanation had taken place between them, and that she
had told him, "I am to be won, if you can find the right way and use
sufficient diligence."

But still there was much to be thought of, there was much to be
considered; there were peculiar points in his own situation, which
rendered the chance of gaining her father's consent to his suit almost
desperate. He felt--he knew, that if he lingered long near her, he
should love her with all the intensity of a strong and energetic mind,
of a generous and feeling heart; he felt, too, from indications which
he did not pause to examine, but which were sufficient for him, that
there was a chance of his winning her love in return. But then, if
giving his heart and gaining hers were to produce misery to both, ought
he--ought he to pause for a moment, ere he decided on flying for ever
from a scene of such temptation? But then came in again the voice of
hope, representing prospects the most improbable as the most likely,
changing the relative bearings of all the circumstances around him, and
whispering that, even for the bare chance of winning such happiness, he
might well stake the tranquillity of his whole life. Such were the
thoughts that agitated him, with many another, on which it is needless
here to touch. Such was the theme for meditation on which he pored
while wandering on beside the stream.

The afternoon had gone by, and the brightness of the day had become
obscured, not only by the sinking of the sun, but by some large heavy
clouds which had rolled up, and seemed to portend a thunder-storm.
Langford had looked up twice to the sky, not with any purpose of
returning home, for the rain he feared not; and, in witnessing the
grand contention of the elements he had always felt an excitement and
elevation from his boyhood. There seemed to him something in the bright
light of the flame of heaven, and in the roaring voice of the thunder,
which raised high thoughts, and incited to noble efforts and great and
mighty aspirations, he looked up twice, however, to mark the progress
of the clouds, as writhing themselves into strange shapes, they took
possession of the sky, borne by the breath of a quiet sultry wind,
which seemed scarcely powerful enough to move their heavy masses
through the atmosphere.

When he looked up a third time, Langford's eye was attracted to the
opposite bank by the form of the half-witted man, Silly John, making
eager signs to him without speaking, although, from the point at which
he stood upon this <DW72>, Langford could have heard every word with
ease.

As soon as he saw that he had caught the angler's eye, however, the
half-witted man called to him vehemently to come over, pointing with
his stick towards a path through the trees, and shouting, "You are
wanted there!"

Langford paused, doubting whether he should cross or not; for though
the stream was shallow, and the trouble but little, still the man who
called him was, as he well knew, insane, and might be urged merely by
some idle fancy.

While he hesitated, however, the other ran down the bank, exclaiming,
when he had come close to the margin--"Quick, quick, Master Harry, or
ill may happen to her you love best!"

Langford stayed not to ask himself who that was, but crossed the stream
in a moment, demanding, "What do you mean, John?--what ill is likely to
happen to----"

He was about to add the name of her who had so recently and busily
occupied his thoughts; but suddenly remembering himself, he stopped
short, and the half-witted man burst into a laugh, exclaiming, "What,
you won't say it, Master Harry? Well, come along with me; you will find
I am right. I settled it all for you long ago, when I was an usher at
Uppington School; and I said you should marry her, whether the old lord
liked it or not. But come on! come on quickly! There are two of the
foxes down there waiting by the dingle, just beyond the park gates. You
know what foxes are, Master Harry? Well, you never thought to go
fox-hunting this evening; but I call them foxes, because the law won't
let me call them by any other name; and she has gone down to the old
goody Hardy, the blind woman, to talk with her. Then she will have to
read a chapter in the Bible, I warrant; so that she will be just coming
back about this time, and then she will meet with the foxes; though,
after all, they are waiting for Master Nicholas, the collector's clerk,
I dare say; but they will never let her pass without inquiry."

While he spoke these wild and rambling words, he walked on rapidly,
followed by Langford, who was now seriously alarmed; for, although what
his companion poured forth was vague and incoherent, yet there were
indications in it of something being really wrong, and of some danger
menacing Alice Herbert. He remarked, too, that the half-witted man, as
he walked along, frequently grasped the cudgel that he carried, and
lifted it up slightly, as if to strike: but it was in vain that
Langford tried to gain any clearer notion of what was amiss, for his
questions met with no direct reply, his companion answering them
constantly by some vague and irrelevant matter, and only hurrying his
pace.

Thus they proceeded through the wood that topped the bank over the
stream, across a part of the manor-park, to a spot where a belt of
planting flanked the enclosed ground on the side furthest from the
house and the village. It was separated by a high paling from a lane
which ran along to some cottages at the foot of an upland common, and
the lane itself was every here and there broken by a little irregular
green, ornamented by high trees.

The ground around, indeed, seemed to have been cut off from the park,
and probably had been so in former times.

There was a small gate opened from the park into the lane, at the
distance of about a quarter of a mile from the spot at which Langford
and his companion approached the paling, and at that hour of the
evening they could discern the gate with the path leading up to it; for
though the sun was just down, it was yet clear twilight. Towards that
gate Silly John rapidly bent his steps; but they had not yet reached
it, when Langford suddenly heard a scream proceeding from the lane on
his right hand, and apparently close to them. The memory of the ear is
perhaps stronger and keener than that of the eye; and, though he had
never heard that voice in any other pitch than that of calm and
peaceful conversation, the distinctive tone was as discernible to the
quick sense in the scream now heard, as it would have been had Alice
Herbert simply called him by his name. He paused for no other
indication in a moment he was through the belt of planting; and
vaulting at a bound over the paling, he stood in one of the little
greens we have mentioned, an unexpected intruder upon a party engaged
in no very legitimate occupation.

On the sandy path which marked the passage of the lane across the
green, stood Alice Herbert, with a tall powerful man grasping her
tightly by the right shoulder, and keeping the muzzle of a pistol to
her temple, in order, apparently, to prevent her from screaming, while
another was busily engaged in rifling her person of anything valuable
she bore about her. So prompt and rapid had been the approach of
Langford, that the two gentlemen of the road were quite taken unawares,
and the one who held her was in the very act of vowing that he would
blow her brains out if she uttered a word, when the muzzle of the
pistol he held to her head was suddenly knocked up in the air by a blow
from the unexpected intruder. The first impulse of the robber was to
pull the trigger, and the pistol went off, carrying the ball a foot or
a foot and a half above the head of Alice Herbert.

Instantly letting go his grasp of the terrified girl, the man who had
held her threw down the pistol and drew his sword upon his assailant.
But Langford's blade was already in his hand; and his skill in the use
of his weapon was remarkable, so that in less than three passes which
took place with the speed of lightning, the robber's sword was wrenched
from his grasp and flying amongst the boughs of the trees, while he
himself, brought upon his knee, received a severe wound in his neck as
he fell. At that moment, however, another terrified scream from the
lips of Alice Herbert called her defender's attention, and turning
eagerly towards her, Langford at once perceived that it was for him and
not for herself that she was now alarmed. The robber whom he had seen
engaged in rifling her of any little trinkets she bare about her, had
instantly abandoned that occupation, on the sudden and unexpected
attack upon his comrade, and was now advancing towards Langford, better
prepared than the other had been, with his drawn sword in one hand and
a pistol in the other. The moment which Langford had lost in turning
towards Alice had been sufficient to enable the man whom he had
disarmed to start upon his feet again, and to run to the spot where his
sword had fallen, and the angler found that in another instant he
should be opposed single-handed, and with nothing but his sword, to two
strong and well-armed men. He did not easily, however, lose his
presence of mind; and seizing Alice Herbert's arm with his left hand,
he gently drew her behind him, saying, "Crouch down low that you may
not be hurt when they fire. I will defend you with my life."

Scarcely had he spoken, when the second ruffian deliberately presented
the pistol at him, and fired. Langford felt that he was wounded in the
left shoulder, and the blow of the bullet made him stagger; but, in the
course of a soldier's life he had been wounded before, more than once,
and as far as he could judge, he was not now severely hurt.

His two assailants, however, were rushing fiercely upon him, and the
odds seemed strong against him; but at that moment another arm, and a
strong one, came in aid of his own. His half-witted guide had by this
time scrambled over the paling, as well as his lameness would permit;
and, with the cunning of madness, had crept quietly behind the two
plunderers. As soon as he was within arm's length, which was but a
moment after the shot was fired that wounded Langford in the shoulder,
he waved his cudgel in the air, and struck the man who had discharged
the pistol a blow on the back of the head, which laid him prostrate and
stunned upon the ground.

Langford's quick eye instantly perceived the advantage, and he rushed
forward, sword in hand, upon the other man. Finding, however, that the
day was against them, the ruffian fled amain, after making an
ineffectual effort to raise his companion; and, in a moment after, the
sound of a horse's feet, as it galloped rapidly away, was heard in the
road above.

"It is right that every man should have his nag," said the half-witted
man, turning over the prostrate robber with his foot; "but thou wilt
ride no more, simpleton! I wonder if these clerks of Saint Nicholas,
have lightened the burden of Master Nicholas, the clerk?" he continued,
turning as if to speak to him whom he had guided thither; but by this
time Langford had returned to the spot where Alice Herbert stood; and,
holding both her hands in his, was congratulating her upon her escape,
with all those feelings sparkling forth from his eyes which might well
arise from the situation in which he was placed, combined with all the
thoughts and fancies that had lately been busy at his heart.

Alice looked up in his face with an expression that could not be
mistaken. It was full of deep gratitude. Perhaps there might be
something more in it too; and without listening much to vanity, he
might have read it: "I would rather be thus protected by you than by
any one I ever knew."

There are times and circumstances that draw two hearts together in a
moment, which might otherwise have been long in finding each other out;
and such were the times and circumstances in which they stood. She was
very pale, however; and Langford was somewhat apprehensive, also, that
the worthy personage who had galloped off might return with more of his
fraternity; so that, after a few words of congratulation and assurance
to Alice, he called to his half-witted companion--"Come, John, come!
Leave the scoundrel where he is: we have not time to make sure of him,
and we had better get into the park and towards the manor as fast as
possible."

Thus saying, he drew Alice's arm within his own, and led her to the
gate, speaking eagerly to her of all that had occurred. The madman
followed more slowly; but they had scarcely gone a hundred yards within
the paling when Langford perceived that his fair companion was turning
more and more pale every moment. Her eyelids too drooped heavily, and
she said at length, in a low voice, "I am very faint." Scarcely had she
spoken the words when he felt that she was beginning to sink, and
placing her upon a bank beneath one of the old trees of the park, he
bade their crazy companion hasten as fast as possible to the house, and
bring some of the servants to assist in carrying their fair mistress
home.

The man seemed to comprehend at once, and set off to obey; but Langford
did not wait for the return of his messenger ere he endeavoured to
recall Alice to herself. From a little brook which ran towards the
stream, he brought up some water in his hands, in order to sprinkle her
face therewith; but as he did so, something struck his eye which he had
not before perceived, and which made his heart sink with sensations
that he had never yet felt, even in scenes of carnage and horror such
as man seldom witnesses: the sleeve of Alice Herbert's white dress on
the right arm was dripping with blood, and Langford, in agony lest she
should have sustained some injury, after casting the water in her face,
tore her sleeve open to seek for the wound. No hurt was to be found,
however; no blood was flowing down that fair smooth skin; the stains
were less in the inside of her garment than on the out, and the blood
which he now saw trickling down his own arm--the arm on which she had
been leaning--so as to dabble the back of his hand, showed him whence
that had proceeded which had stained her dress.

The cool air, the recumbent position, and the water he had thrown in
her face, had by this time begun to recall Alice to consciousness; and
the joy of seeing her recover, of finding that she was unhurt, and of
having successfully defended her, threw Henry Langford off his guard,
so far at least that he pressed a long kiss on the fair hand he held
fondly in his own. Alice's languid eyes met his as he raised his head;
but there was a slight smile upon her lip, and he saw that he had not
offended.

Her first faint words, as soon as she had sufficiently recovered
herself to speak, were--"You are hurt! Oh, Captain Langford, I am sure
you are very much hurt; and my being weak enough to faint when I found
the blood trickling down my arm has delayed you but the longer in
getting assistance. For Heaven's sake leave me here, and seek some one
to attend to your wound as soon as you can. I shall be quite safe here.
I have no fear now, but am only afraid that I cannot walk very fast;
and, indeed, you should not be without help any longer."

Langford assured her that his wound was a trifle, that it was a mere
nothing, that the blood he had lost could do him no injury. But Alice
would not be satisfied; and, finding that Langford would not go without
her, she insisted upon proceeding immediately. She trembled very much,
and could walk but slowly; but she persevered in her determination, and
had half crossed the park when they were met by Sir Walter himself and
four and five of the servants. The feelings of the father at that
moment may be conceived, but cannot be described; he threw his arms
round his daughter, exclaiming, "My child, my dear child! But are you
not hurt, my Alice? Yes, yes, you are! You are covered with blood!" and
his own cheek grew deadly pale.

"It is his, my father," replied Alice, leaning upon Sir Walter's bosom,
and holding out her hand to Langford; "I am quite unhurt, but he is
wounded, and I am afraid seriously. He gave me his arm to help me home,
and, in a minute, my whole sleeve was wet with blood. I was foolish
enough to faint when I saw it, and that has made us longer; so pray
look to his wound immediately."

All eyes were now turned upon Langford; and as Sir Walter hurried him
and his daughter on to the Manor House, he loaded him with both thanks
and inquiries. Langford assured him the wound that he had received was
a mere trifle, that the ball had lodged in the flesh, and that he could
move his arm nearly as well as ever; and then, to change the subject,
he recounted to Sir Walter and Alice as they went how he had been led
to the spot where he had found her, by the unfortunate half-witted man,
John Graves.

"He shall wander about the world no more, if I can provide him with a
home," exclaimed Sir Walter, turning to look for the person of whom
they spoke; but he was no longer with the party, and they could hear
his voice in the woods at some distance singing one of the old melodies
of those times.

When they reached that door of the Manor House which opened into the
park, Langford was about to take his leave, and proceed to the village
to seek for a surgeon. Alice cast down her eyes as he proposed to do
so; but Sir Walter grasped him by the hand, and led him gently in,
saying, "In no house but mine, Captain Langford! Do you think, after
having received such an injury in defending my daughter, that we would
trust you to the attendance of an inn?"

Langford made but slight opposition. If there had been hesitation in
his mind, and doubt at his heart, when he had gone forth that afternoon
to wander by the side of the stream, both doubt and hesitation were by
this time over; and, after a few common-places about giving trouble, he
accepted Sir Walter's invitation, and became an inmate of one house
with Alice Herbert.




                             CHAPTER VI.


We must now return for a short space of time to the spot beneath the
park wall where we left one of the assailants of Alice Herbert stunned
by a blow from the cudgel of John Graves. He lay there for some minutes
perfectly motionless and perfectly alone. At length, however, the sound
of a horse's feet, cantering lightly along the road was heard, and a
goodly gentleman, dressed in a fair suit of black, and mounted on a dun
fat-backed mare, made his appearance in the lane, and approached
rapidly towards the spot where the discomfited wayfarer lay.

The good round face of the new comer was turned up towards the sky,
calculating whether there was light enough left to admit of his
reaching Uppington in safety, or whether he had not better pause, and
sleep at the little neighbouring town; and the first thing that called
his attention to the object in his path was his dun mare, who had never
before shied at any object on earth, recoiling from the body of the
robber so violently as to throw forward the good round stomach of the
rider upon her neck and shoulders with a sonorous ejaculation of the
breath.

"Ugh! Gad's my life! who have we here?" exclaimed Master Nicholas, the
clerk of the collector at Uppington, whose saddle-bags were in truth
the tempting object which had brought forth the gentlemen of the road,
when they had been unseasonably diverted from their purpose by the
appearance of Alice Herbert--"Gad's my life, who have we here?" and,
dismounting from his mare, with charitable intent, he bent down over
the stranger.

There were two or three particulars in the sight that now presented
itself which made the heart of the collector's clerk beat rather more
rapidly than was ordinary. In the first place the stranger had in his
hand a drawn sword, in the next place a discharged pistol might be seen
lying within a foot of his nose, the sand was stained with blood hard
by, and in the countenance of the prostrate man, the collector's clerk,
who was a great physiognomist, discovered at once all the lines and
features of a robber. The good feelings of the Samaritan vanished from
his bosom as soon as he had made this discovery, and, stealthily
creeping away, as if afraid of waking a sleeping lion, the gentleman in
black regained his mare's back, made her take a circuit round the
little green, and, riding on as hard as he could to the country town we
have described in the commencement of this book, sent out a posse of
people to take charge of the body of the stunned or defunct robber.

Before this detachment reached the spot, however, the personage it
sought was gone. Shortly after the clerk had passed, he had began to
recover, and speedily regained his legs, looking about him with some
degree of wonder and amazement at the situation in which he found
himself. Whilst busy in recalling all that had passed, the sound of
some one singing met his ear, and, in another minute the head and
shoulders of John Graves appeared above the park paling. The
half-witted man saw that the robber was upon his feet again, and
without any hesitation, he proceed to clamber over the fence, and
approach his former antagonist.

"I have come to apprehend thee!" cried the madman, laying his hand
boldly upon the collar of the robber's vest. Strange to say, the
freebooter not only suffered him so to take hold of him, but very
probably might have even gone with him like a lamb to the slaughter, so
much was he overpowered by surprise, and so little did he imagine that
such an act would be performed without some power to support it, had
not two or three horsemen at that moment come galloping down the lane
as hard as they could ride. A single glance showed the captive of John
Graves that there was an infinite accession of strength on his side. He
accordingly twisted himself out of his mad antagonist's grasp in a
moment, and prepared to lay violent hands upon him in return. Silly
John, however, seemed by this time entirely to have forgotten his
purpose of arresting the robber; and looking round him as the others
came up, with an air of wonder, indeed, but not of alarm, he muttered,
"More foxes! more foxes!"

The worthies by whom he was surrounded, in the meantime held a sharp
consultation, of which he seemed to be the object; but at length one of
them exclaimed, "Come along, come along! Bring him with you, and do
what you like with him afterwards. If you stay disputing here, you will
have the whole country upon you."

After a moment's hesitation, the plan proposed was adopted, and two of
the robbers, seizing upon John Graves, dragged him along between them,
at a much quicker rate of progression than was at all agreeable to him.
After the first ten or twelve steps he resisted strenuously, and showed
a disposition to be vociferous, which instantly produced the
application of a pistol to his head, with a threat of death if he did
not keep silence. He was quite sufficiently sane to fear the fate that
menaced him; and the sight of the pistol had an immediate effect both
upon his tongue and his feet, which now moved rapidly onward. The paths
pursued by his captors were as tortuous as might well be, and the lane
which had been the scene of their exploits was quitted almost
immediately. For nearly an hour they hastened on as fast as they could
drag the half-witted man along; but at length, much to his relief, the
whole party stopped before a small lonely house on the edge of a wide
common. There was a tall pole, with a garland at the top, planted
before the door; and a bush hung above the lintel, giving notice to all
whom it may concern that entertainment for man, at least, was to be
found within. The sound of the strangers' arrival, in a moment drew out
the landlord of the place, who seemed not at all surprised to see the
company which visited his house at that late hour; and his own
pale-brown countenance bore, in its hawk-like features, an expression
very harmonious with the calling of his guests.

"Quick! take the horses up to the pits," he said, speaking to the boy
of all work, who appeared round the corner; and shading the candle
which he carried in his hand from the wind. "Why, Master Hardie, who
have you got there? By my life, it is Silly John! What, in the devil's
name, did you bring him here for?"

"Why, Master Guilford," replied one of the men, but not he to whom he
spoke, "here's Hardy and Wiley have got themselves into a pretty mess.
They would go out against the Captain's orders to try a bit of business
on a private account, and they have got more than they bargained for, I
take it. Here is Hardie with a cut in his neck, which has made him
bleed like an old sow pig; and Wiley was left for dead by a blow of
this same fellow's cudgel whom we have got here. Hardie came up for us
two upon the downs, or else it is likely Wiley would have been in the
pepper-pot at Uppington by this time; for we caught his horse half a
mile up the green lane."

This conversation had taken place while the party was alighting; but no
sooner was that operation concluded than the landlord pressed them to
come in quickly, and Silly John was hurried by them into a large room
behind, with a long deal table, and several settles and benches, for
its sole furniture, if we except a polished sconce over the chimney,
from which a single candle shed its dim and flickering rays. Underneath
the light, with his two arms leaning on the table, and his head resting
again upon them, the curls of the fair hair falling over the sleeves of
his coat, and his face hidden entirely, sat the boy Jocelyn, whom we
have before mentioned; and the gang of plunderers had been in the room
several minutes before he was aware of their presence, so sound was the
slumber in which he was buried.

"Hark ye, Master Doveton!" said the landlord, as soon as the door was
shut, and addressing the man who had given him an account of his
companions' adventure; "hark ye! I think it a very silly thing of you
to bring this fellow up here."

"Why, we did not know what else to do with him, Guilford," answered the
other. "Wiley wanted to shoot him as soon as he heard that it was his
cudgel which had beaten about his head so foully."

"You shall do no harm to him in my house, Master Doveton," replied the
other; "the man is a poor innocent, whom I have known this many a year,
and I won't have him hurt."

"Thank you, Master Guilford, thank you!" exclaimed the poor fellow, as
he heard this interposition in his favour. "These foxes have almost
twisted my thumbs off. Do not let them hurt me, Master Guilford, and
I'll give you the crooked sixpence out of my tobacco-box."

"You see, Guilford," replied Doveton, while one or two others crowded
round to hear the consultation, "the thing is we risk this fellow
betraying us. He has seen all our faces, and could, I dare say, swear
to us any where."

"What signifies _his_ swearing?" demanded the landlord; "he is as mad
as a March hare; nobody will believe his swearing."

"Ay, but he may give such information as will lead them to ferret us
out," replied another of the gang; "now we do not want to hurt the man,
but he must be got out of the way somehow."

"He sha'n't be got out of the way by foul means, howsoever, Master
Doveton," replied the landlord, whose new character of protector was
pleasant to him. "Come: nonsense! make him sit down and drink with you,
and he'll forget all about it. He'll sing you as good a song as any man
in the country; and, if he promises not to tell anything he has seen,
you may be quite sure of him."

"Truth--truth, Master Guilford," cried the object of their discourse.
"If my godfathers and godmothers at my baptism had known what they were
about they would have called me Truth. Why not Truth as well as Ruth? I
had a sister they called Ruth, though she never found out a Boaz, poor
girl! but died without being a widow--how could she, when she was never
married? If I had been married to Margaret Johnson myself, I should not
have gone mad, you know; but I always tell truth. Did anybody ever hear
me tell a lie in my life?"

So he rambled on, while the friendly landlord busied himself in hastily
setting out the table in the midst for the coming entertainment of his
worthy guests; and, at the same time, lent a sharp ear to the
consultation which they held together concerning the madman. That
consultation was not of a nature to satisfy him entirely; for, though
it seemed that the party were willing to follow his counsel so far as
keeping poor Silly John to drink with them, a word or two was spoken of
its being easy to do what they liked with him when he was drunk, which
did not at all please Master Guilford.

As he went round and round the table, however, setting down a cup here,
and a platter there, he gave the boy Jocelyn a sharp knock on the
elbow, which roused him from his sleep; and, the next time he passed,
the landlord whispered a word in his ear. The boy took no particular
notice at the moment, but rubbed his eyes, yawned, spoke for a moment
to Doveton and the rest, and then disappeared from the room.

Large joints of roast meat soon graced the board; and the hall assumed
very much the appearance of the palace of Ulysses, in the days of the
suitors; except that, in all probability, it was a little more cleanly,
and that the beef was not killed at the end of the table. Silly John
was made to sit down between the two men, Hardcastle and Wiley, who
were certainly not his greatest friends; but they, nevertheless, loaded
his platter with food, which he devoured with a wonderful appetite, and
filled his cup with ale from a tankard called a black jack, which
circulated freely till supper was over.

The gentlemen into whose society he was thrown, however, were not of a
class to rest satisfied with even the best old humming ale; and while
one body of them demanded the implements and materials for making
punch, another called for a pitcher of Burgundy, which, notwithstanding
the size, character, and appearance of the house, was produced as a
matter of course. John Graves had his ladleful from the bowl, and his
glassful from the pitcher; and Doveton, who was beginning to get merry,
and eke good-humoured in his cups, insisted upon having one of the
songs the landlord had so much vaunted. The madman required no
pressing; the very name of music was enough for him; and with a full
sonorous voice, and memory which failed not in the slightest
particular, he began an old song, one of the many in praise of punch.

"Now I will sing you a song in return, Master John," cried the
rough-featured fellow called Hardcastle, who had been one of the
assailants of Alice Herbert.

"Why, Hardie, thou canst never sing to-night," replied Doveton. "Thou
canst never sing to-night, with the slit in the weasand thou hast
gotten there. It will let all the wind out, and thy song will be like
the song of a broken bellows or bursten bagpipe."

"Never you mind that, Doveton," replied the other; "my song shall be
sung, if the devil and you stood at the door together; a pretty pair of
you!" and he accordingly proceeded to pour forth, in a voice of goodly
power, but very inferior in melody to that of the madman, a song well
suited to the taste of his auditors:--

                           THE WATERY MOON.

   The wat'ry moon is in the sky,
   Looking all dim and pale on high;
   And the traveller gazes with anxious eye,
     And thinks it will rain full soon:
   And he draws his cloak around him tight,
   But if I be not mistaken quite,
   He will open that cloak again to-night
     Beneath the wat'ry moon.

   The wat'ry moon is sinking low,
   The traveller's beast is dull and slow,
   And neither word, nor spur, nor blow
     Will bring him sooner boon.
   But the saddle-bags are heavy and full,
   And all too much for a beast so dull,
   Up this steep shady hill to pull,
     Beneath the wat'ry moon.

   The wat'ry moon is gone to bed;
   The traveller on his way has sped;
   The horse seems lighter the road to tread,
     And he'll be home very soon;
   But with a young man he met on the hill,
   Who lightened his load with right good will,
   Hoping often to show the same kindness still,
     Beneath the wat'ry moon.


Scarcely had Hardcastle done his song, amidst great applause on the
part of his companions, when a step was heard in the neighbouring
passage, which made the whole party start and look in each other's
faces. The next moment, however, the door was opened, and the personage
of whom we have already spoken more than once, under the title of
Franklin Gray, stood amongst them. It was very clear that he was an
unexpected and not a very welcome guest at that moment; but, at the
same time, the whole of the fraternity who occupied the hall,
immediately put on the most agreeable look in the world, and strove to
appear delighted with his coming. His brow was somewhat cloudy, indeed,
but his bearing was frank and straightforward; and sitting down in a
chair which had been placed for him with busy haste by the others, he
fixed his eyes sternly upon the man who had suffered from the cudgel of
Silly John, demanding, "What is all this I hear, Wiley?"

The personage to whom he spoke hesitated to reply, bit his lip, tried
to frown, and to toss his head; and, before he had made up his mind
what to say upon the occasion, the one who had been called Doveton
answered for him.

"I believe, Captain," he said, "the best way when one has been in the
wrong is to own it, and to tell the truth. Now, we have all, more or
less, been wrong, I believe. Wiley, there, heard that Master Nicholas,
the clerk of the collector at Uppington, was coming along the green
lane this evening with all the receipts, and he thought it would be a
good sweep for us all if we could get the bags. He asked us all to go,
but only Hardcastle would have a hand in it, though the rest of us
promised to exercise our horses upon the hill above, and come down if
they were likely to be caught. Well, they fell in with a young lady
first, and they thought they might as well have her purse too--"

Franklin Gray set his teeth hard, but said nothing; and Doveton, who
saw the expression on the other's face, went on--"It was very wrong, I
know, Captain Gray--quite contrary to your orders, to do anything of
the kind; and more especially to attack a woman, which you spoke of the
other day. But, however, temptation, you know, Captain, temptation will
get the better of us all, at times. As I was saying, however, some one
came to help the lady, with this poor silly fellow; and Hardcastle got
a cut in his neck that won't be well these ten days, and Wiley a broken
head, which I hope will teach him better manners for the rest of his
life."

The brow of Franklin Gray never relaxed its heavy frown, except at the
moment when Doveton announced the corporeal evils which had befallen
the two adventurers as a reward for their disobedience; and then a grim
smile for a moment curled his lip. It passed away, however, instantly,
and he demanded, looking at Wiley, "Do you know who it was that came to
the lady's help?"

"Oh! I marked him well enough," replied Wiley; "I shall not forget him;
and, if ever the time comes----" The rest of the sentence was lost
between his teeth; but he went on in a louder tone immediately after,
adding, "He is one of your good friends, Captain Gray. I have seen you
walking with him twice; and I think he might have known better than
interrupt a gentleman in his occupations. We should not have hurt the
young woman. What business was it of his?"

"The only pity is," said Franklin Gray, coolly, "that he did not send a
bullet through your head."

"He has got one in his own shoulder," said Wiley, doggedly; "for I saw
the ball strike, and I hope it may do for him."

"If he chance to die of it," said Gray, in the same calm, stern tone,
"I will blow your brains out! Remember what I say, Master Wiley: you
know me! Nay, a word more. When we joined together, and came down here,
it was for a particular purpose, and you all swore an oath to obey my
directions, and submit to my laws for the next three months. You and
Hardcastle have scarcely been a fortnight with me, but you break your
oaths; and when I especially told you not to enter into any petty
enterprise, because we had a greater in hand, which you would ruin if
you did, you go and disgrace yourselves by attacking a girl. Now it
seems that you have received some punishment in the very act, and
therefore I shall inflict no other; but be warned, both of you! I am
not a man to be trifled with; and if once more either of you disobey,
be sure that I will then be as severe as I am now lenient. Can any one
tell," he continued, "who the lady was that was attacked by them? I can
only suppose that it was old Sir Walter's daughter."

"Just so! just so!" cried Silly John Graves, from the other end of the
table; "it was pretty Mistress Alice Herbert, and good Mrs. Alice
Herbert, too, which is better than pretty: and you too, seem to be
good, which is better than brave--very good, indeed, for a fox, and a
leader of foxes. I vow and protest you have read them a homily as fair
as any in the book; and now pray let me go, for I have sung them a song
such as they won't hear again in a hurry."

"Why have you brought him hither?" continued Franklin Gray, in a sharp
tone, without making any reply to John Graves's observation. "Was it to
end folly by madness, and conclude your own disobedience by insuring
its own punishment?"

It took some time to explain to the leader of the band the motives
which had induced them to bring the half-witted fellow thither, and how
he had been found busy in the laudable occupation of arresting Wiley
when the rest of the party came to the rescue.

"And therefore," exclaimed Gray, interrupting the speaker, "because he
was likely to recognise Wiley, and bring him to the gallows, Master
Wiley persuaded you to drag him up here, that he may recognise us all,
and bring us to Tyburn along with him. It was worthy of you, Master
Wiley."

"You are wrong for once, Captain," said Wiley; "if I had had my wits, I
would have taken care that he should recognise no one. Dead men tell no
tales, I said then; and I say so still."

"They tell tales that are heard long years after!" replied Franklin
Gray, with melancholy sternness. "Ay! and often, when time has flown,
and the hot blood has become cool, and the black hair grey, and the
strong limbs feeble, and easy competence has soothed regret, and either
penitence or pleasure has stilled remorse; I tell ye, my masters, that
often then, in the hour of security, and tranquillity, and luxury, the
avenger of blood needlessly spilt--the avenger, who has slept so
long--will awaken, and the merest accident bring forth proof fit to
lead us to shame, and condemnation, and death. No, no! I will deal with
this man, but I must first go forth, and ascertain what are likely to
be the consequences of this act of folly. In the mean time, Harvey, I
leave him under your charge! See that no evil befal him, and keep as
quiet as may be. No roaring, no singing, mark me! and, if possible,
abstain from drink."

Thus saying, he left them: but returned much sooner than they had
expected, and when he appeared was evidently much moved. His dark brow
was gathered into angry frowns, and his bright eye flashed in a manner
which made those who knew him best augur some sudden violence. He sat
down at the table, however, and remained for a moment in silence, with
his brow leaning upon his hand.

"I am foolish enough," he said, at length, "to follow the weak custom
of the world, and be more angry at the bad consequences of an evil act
than I was at the act itself: but I will not yield to such folly. What
think ye, sirs? I find that the whole county is already in a stir
against us on this bad business. There have been large parties of men
from Uppington, scouring the lanes in every direction. Messengers have
been sent out from the Manor to call a general meeting of the
magistrates for to-morrow. There is foolish Thomas Waller and silly
Matthew Scrope, and all the men who are likely to be the most active
and violent against us, called to consult at the Talbot; and nothing is
to be done but for each one of us to take his own way out of the county
till the storm has blown over. Let us all meet this day week at Ashby.
That is seventy miles off; and we can there see how to pass the time
till we can return here, and pursue our great enterprise in safety. But
one word more. We are all men of honour; and, if any of us should
chance to fall into the hands of the enemy, we can die in silence: that
is enough."

"But what is to be done with him?" demanded one or two of the
fraternity, pointing to the unhappy lunatic; while, at the same time,
some of the others came forward and whispered to their captain,
apparently on the same subject, with somewhat sinister looks. But Gray
replied, sternly, "No! I say, no! Leave him to me: I know him well, and
he may be trusted. I shall remain a day, or perhaps two, behind you.
Now to horse, and depart, but one by one."

The tone in which he spoke courted no reply; and the band quitted the
room, every man according to his own peculiar manner of doing such
things; for there is as much art in quitting a room as in entering one,
though the first is much more important as an evolution. However, one
walked straight out, without saying a word to anybody; one spoke for a
few minutes with a companion, and then, suddenly turning, passed
through the door; one entered into a conspiracy with another to go out
conversing with each other; one stayed a moment to empty the remains of
the tankard into a large cup, and drink it off at a draught; and
another (Doveton) went up to Gray, shook him by the hand, wished him
well, and told him he was very sorry that he had even connived at
Wiley's scheme. The last was the only one who, in fact, suffered to
appear the feelings which affected all the others, and embarrassed them
in their exits. They all felt they had been wrong, with the exception
of him who emptied the tankard; they all felt that Gray had just cause
to be angry and indignant; but one feeling or another--pride, vanity,
shyness, and many others, keep nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of
a thousand from opening their lips under such circumstances. It is only
the thousandth who candidly and straightforwardly walks up to the
truth, and says, "I am sorry I have done wrong."

At length the room was left untenanted by any but Franklin Gray and his
half-witted companion, who sat twirling his thumbs at the table,
apparently lost to the recollection of what was passing around him. He
was roused, however, by the voice of Gray pronouncing his name, and
found the keen dark eye of the Robber fixed intently upon him.

"John Graves," said Gray, "do you know what those men pray me to do
with you? They say that if I let you go, you will betray what you have
seen this night, lead people to the places where we meet, or give
evidence against us if ever we are in trouble; and they say that the
only way to avoid this is, to silence your tongue for ever."

"No, no, no!" cried the poor man, fully awakened to his situation by
such words; "pray don't! pray don't! I will never tell anything about
it, as I hope for God's mercy, and that he will restore my wits in
another world. Wits? I have not got wits enough to tell anything;
besides, I won't, indeed I won't."

"If you will swear," said Gray, "by all you hold dear, never to tell
any one what you have seen to-night; never to point any one of us out,
by word, or look, or gesture, as men you have seen do this or that;
never to lead any one to this our place of meeting."

"I will! I do!" cried the madman, solemnly; "I will betray you in no
respect--"

"So far, so good," answered Gray; "but that is not all. I give you your
life, when every voice amongst us but my own was for taking it; and
with it you must promise, if ever I call upon you, to do me a piece of
service."

The other gazed earnestly in his face, seeming, by a painful effort, to
gather together all his remaining fragments of mind, to cope with one,
who he feared was trying to lead him astray by the bribe of life. "What
is it," he demanded; "what is it I am to do? I will break none of the
commandments. I will neither rob nor murder, nor help to rob, or
murder. Ah, man! remember, though perhaps I am crazy, as people say, I
have a soul to be saved as well as others. If it must be, I will die
sooner than do these things."

"I require no such things at your hands," replied Gray, moved a good
deal by his companion's earnestness. "I may only require you to guide
me on my way in a moment of difficulty; to lead me by the paths which,
I am told, no one knows so well as you do, and, perhaps, to guide me
into a house--"

"Not to take other men's goods!" cried Graves. "No, never! Guide you I
will, in moments of difficulty; lead you I will, when you want it, but
not to commit a crime, for then I am a sharer."

"What I shall ask you." said Gray, solemnly, "is to commit no crime. My
purpose shall be to take no man's goods, but rather to restore to him
who is deprived of it that which is his own."

"Swear to that!" exclaimed the other, "and I will lead you anywhere."

"I swear it now!" answered Gray; "and remember that, having sworn it, I
shall never ask you to do anything but that which you now agree to do,
and in consideration of which I give you your life. No questions,
therefore, hereafter, even were I to ask you to lead me into the heart
of Danemore Castle."

The madman laughed loud. "There should be none!" he answered; "for I
know why you go."

"Indeed!" said Gray, with a smile; "but it is enough that you are
willing. I trust to your word in everything, and doubt not that you
will keep it to the letter. Hast thou any money, poor fellow?"

"Nothing but my crooked sixpence in my tobacco-box," replied the man,
looking ruefully in his interrogator's face. "Pray, do not take that
from me: it and I are old friends."

"I would rather give than take from thee," replied his companion.
"There is a guinea to keep thee warm; and now thou art at liberty to
go, so fare thee well."

As he said this, he turned away, and left the room, and poor Silly John
continued gazing upon the gold piece in his palm with evident delight,
though he held some curious consultations with himself regarding the
lawfulness of taking money from such hands as those which had bestowed
it. In those consultations much shrewd casuistry was mingled with much
simple folly; but, in the end, the counsel for the defence, as usual,
got the better, and he slipped the gold piece into his pouch,
chuckling. He then crept quietly out of the inn; and, although it may
seem strange to attach ourselves go particularly to a personage of the
class and character of Silly John, yet must we nevertheless follow him
a little further in his wanderings.

By the time that all this had passed, it was near midnight; and,
instead of taking his way back to the little town of Moorhurst, the
half-witted man walked on, with his peculiar halting gait, towards the
high dim moors that might be seen rising dark and wild against the
moonlight sky, like the gloomy track of difficulties and dangers which
we too often find in life lying between us and the brighter region,
lighted up by hope, beyond. On the edge of the moor was a low shed and
a stack of fern, which the poor fellow must have remarked in some of
his previous peregrinations; for towards these he directed his steps at
once, pulled down a large quantity of the dry leaves, dragged them into
the shed, and, having piled them up in a corner, nestled down therein,
though not without having addressed a prayer and a thanksgiving towards
the God whom, in all his madness, he never forgot. We will not inquire
whether that act of adoration was couched in wild and wandering terms,
whether it was connected or broken, reasonable or distracted--it was
from the heart, and we are sure it was accepted.

By daylight he was upon his way, and an hour's walk brought him into
the deep woods that backed the splendid dwelling of Lord Harold and his
father, which was known in the country by the name of "The Castle;" for
very few of the good folks round had ever seen any other building of
the kind, and it was therefore "their castle," _par excellence_, It was
by the back way that Silly John now approached the mansion, seeming
quite familiar with all the roads and paths about the place; but before
he reached the spot where the wood, cut away, afforded an open space,
in which were erected the principal offices, he was met by a person, at
the sight of whom he bent down his head, and glanced furtively up with
his eye, like a dog who does not very well know whether it will be
kicked or caressed.

The figure that approached him in the long dim walk was that of a tall
thin woman, of perhaps fifty years of age, dressed in dark-
garments, exceedingly full and ample, with a sort of shawl of fine
white lace pinned across her shoulders; while over a broad white coif,
which she wore upon her head, was a black veil drawn close, and
crossing under the chin. Her features were high and sharp, her eyes
fine, and fringed with long black eyelashes, her lips thin and pale,
her teeth very white, and her complexion, which must have been
originally dark and troubled, now sallow, without the slightest trace
of red in any part of the cheek. She did not frown, but there was a
cold calmness about her compressed lips and tight-set teeth, and a
piercing sharpness about her clear black eye, which rendered the whole
expression harsh and forbidding. Although past the usual period of
grace, yet she walked gracefully and with dignity, and bore every trace
of having been a very handsome woman, though it was impossible to
conceive that she had ever been a very pleasing one.

From the moment she saw him, her eye remained fixed upon Silly John,
steadfastly, but not sternly: and he advanced towards her, crouching,
as we have said, and sidling with a degree of awe which he would not
have shown to the highest monarch on the earth from any reverence for
mere external rank. But the sharp and seemingly cold decision of her
character was exactly that which most strongly affects people in his
situation; and "Mistress Bertha, the housekeeper of Danemore Castle,"
the servants used to declare, "could always bring Silly John Graves to
his senses when she pleased." Although no smile curled her lip, and her
countenance underwent no change, the tone of her voice, while she spoke
the first few words, at once showed the half-witted man that he was not
out of favour.

"Why, how is it, John," she asked, speaking with a very slight foreign
accent, "how is it that you have not been up at the Castle for these
six weeks?"

"Because I got my fill at the town and the Manor, Mistress Bertha,"
replied the other.

"Ay, that is it!" she exclaimed; "that is it! if every one would but
say it. Men go for what they can get; and when they can get their fill
at one place, they seek not another. The only difference between madmen
and the world is, that madmen tell the truth, and the world conceals
it."

"I always tell the truth," cried the half-witted man, caught by the
sound of a word connected with one of his rooted ideas; "I always tell
the truth; do not I, Mistress Bertha?"

"Yes; but you are only half mad," answered the housekeeper; "for you
can sometimes conceal it too. But go in John; go into the Castle; and,
if you go through the long back corridor below, you will find my little
maid in the room at the end. Bid her give you the cold meat that Lord
Harold left after his breakfast."

"After his breakfast!" cried the half-witted man. "He has breakfasted
mighty early! But now--oh, I guess it; he has gone to London. I heard
her tell him to go."

"Heard who tell him?" demanded Mistress Bertha, with an air of some
surprise.

"Why, pretty Mistress Alice Herbert, to be sure," replied the other.
"Did not I hear all they said as they came down the walk and through
the woods?"

"Nay, then," said the housekeeper, smiling, as far as she was ever
known to smile, "I suppose he's gone to buy the wedding ring, and have
the marriage settlements drawn up. Methinks he might have told me,
too."

"Nay, Mistress Bertha," replied the other, "no wedding rings! no
marriage settlements! Mistress Alice is not for him!"

A slight flush came over the pale cheek of her to whom he spoke. "Not
for him!" she exclaimed! "Does she refuse him, then!"

"Yes, to be sure," replied John Graves; "every man is refused once in
his life. I was refused myself, for that matter; but I was wise, and
resolved that I would never be refused again."

"Art thou lying, or art thou speaking truth?" demanded Mistress Bertha,
fixing her eyes sternly upon him. "Did she refuse him?"

"Truth!" replied the man: "I always speak truth! She refused him, as
sure as I am alive: nothing he could say would move her. I knew it very
well, and I told him so before; but he would not believe me."

Bertha stood and gazed upon the ground for several minutes "I do
believe," she said, speaking to herself, "I do believe that things
possessed without right have a doom upon them, which prevents them from
bringing happiness even to those who hold them, unconscious of holding
them wrongly. Now is this poor boy, notwithstanding all his great
wealth and high expectations, destined to be crossed in this
long-cherished love, which was to make both himself and his father so
happy! Poor youth! how long and deeply he has loved her! How his heart
must have ached when I talked about her this morning! and shall I help
to take from him anything he possesses?"

"We ought always to do what is right, Mistress Bertha," exclaimed the
half-witted man, whose presence she had totally forgotten. "And both
you and I know that right has not always been done."

"Out upon the fool!" exclaimed the housekeeper. "Hold thy mad tongue!
Now darest thou prate of right and wrong, not having wit to keep thee
from running thy head against a post! Get thee in before me! Thou shalt
give the Earl an account of this refusal!"

John Graves slunk away before her flashing eye and angry words, like a
cowed dog, looking ever and anon to the right and left, as if for some
means to escape; but she kept him in view, following closely upon his
steps till they both entered the large mansion before them.




                             CHAPTER VII.


The injury which Henry Langford had received was more severe than he
had at first imagined. The extraction of the ball was very painful, and
so much inflammation succeeded that he was confined to his room for
several days. The delay and restraint, in truth, annoyed him as much as
the pain and restlessness which he suffered, for at that time there
were various important objects before him, which he was prevented from
pursuing with the calm but rapid energy of his character. He had one
great consolation, however: that the injury he had sustained was
received in defence of Alice Herbert; he had one great pleasure in the
midst of his sufferings: to feel sure that she was thinking of him, and
thinking of him with interest. Alice Herbert did not attend him as a
lady of romance; she neither dressed his wounds nor sung to lull him to
repose. She did not even show him that care and attention, visiting his
sick chamber often in the day, making cooling drinks with her own hand,
and pressing him to take care of himself, and to follow exactly the
surgeon's directions, which many a lady of that very age would have
done. Nay more, strange as it may seem, she did not display half so
much interest towards him as she might have done towards any person in
whom she was not so deeply interested. She took care, indeed, that
everything should be done for his comfort and convenience; but she did
so seeming to do it as little as possible. She did give up ever thought
to him, and to how he might be best brought back to health especially
during the three first days, while the surgeon shook his grave and not
very sapient head, and declared that the result was doubtful; but she
took great care that nobody should know that her thoughts were so
employed.

When at length he was permitted to leave his room, she received him
with a degree of timidity that was not without its share of tenderness.
It seemed as if she felt that towards him she was placed in a different
relationship to that in which she stood towards any other human being,
and the feeling was strange and new to her, but it was not without its
pleasure. Langford's manner, too, soon dispelled everything that was in
the least embarrassing in such feelings, and left them all their
delight.

With fever and loss of blood he had been greatly weakened, and there
was a degree of languor in his conversation during the first two or
three days which rendered it perhaps more interesting to Alice Herbert
even that it had been before. It was still bright and sparkling; it was
still rich and deep; but there was a softness and a gentleness in it
which were the more winning from the contrast between the power of the
thought and the mildness of the manner. The mind of Alice, too, had
undergone some change, from what reason she scarcely knew. She was
becoming fonder of grave thoughts; she was more pensive; and once or
twice, even when she was alone, she blushed deeply at finding herself
guilty of some little act of absence of mind--a thing she never had
accused herself of before. She blushed, because she was conscious that
on these occasions she was thinking of Henry Langford; her meditations,
indeed, were such as she needed not to have blushed for; they were all
pure, and upright, and good; but it was for their intensity that she
blushed, not for the matter of them.

There was in Langford's manner towards her, however, a tenderness, a
gentleness, an appealingness, if we may use the term, which, without
words, very soon told her that if she thought deeply of him, he thought
no less deeply of her. Her father was about this time a good deal
absent from home; for the attack upon his daughter, at the very gates
of his own park, had raised his indignation to a high pitch; and he
declared that he would not rest, night nor day, till he had rooted out
of the country the band of villains who deprived it of its ancient
peace and security. Meetings of the justices in the neighbourhood were
accordingly held for the purpose of causing the apprehension of the
offenders; and at all these Sir Walter, who was himself an active
though kindly magistrate, was present, taking a prominent part; so
that, as we have said, he was much from home, and Alice Herbert was
left, not alone, but in company with Henry Langford.

Such circumstances seldom lead but to one result, and must have done so
now, had not that result been long before reached by the heart of each.
Langford, however, was extremely careful; he could not, indeed, so far
govern his manner as to prevent it from betraying the growing
tenderness, the daily-increasing love that he felt for Alice Herbert;
but not a word ever escaped his lips to confirm what his manner told
unwittingly. They spoke of all the various matters, on all the
multitude of themes, which are to be found in the treasury of rich and
well-cultivated minds; there was not one fine subject in all the mighty
universe, there was not an object in all the tide of bright and
beautiful things which the God of nature has poured through every
channel of the immense creation, that might not become for them a topic
of discourse, for in all they could find sources for enjoyment and
admiration.

And thus they went on conversing upon different things, deriving
amusement, and instruction, and employment for imagination from all.
Yes! conversing of indifferent things, but conversing as people who
were not indifferent to each other; speaking of matters which had no
reference to themselves, yet each learning as they spoke but the more
to admire, to esteem, to love the other.

There were looks, too--unintentional looks--that betrayed the secrets
of the heart more than words. When Alice Herbert's eyes were turned
away, Langford would look at her with long and tender earnestness till
she turned towards him, and then he would immediately withdraw his
gaze. But still, more than once, she caught his eyes fixed upon her,
and felt sure that they had been so long. She, too, while working or
drawing, and conversing at the same time on any passing subject that
was before them, would occasionally, when his rich eloquence poured
forth in a current of more than ordinary brightness, raise her eyes to
his face with a look of deep eagerness which made her very heart
thrill.

Thus it went on, as might be naturally expected, and before three weeks
were over, Alice Herbert found that there was but one happiness for her
on earth; and Henry Langford knew that his fate was decided, as far as
intense, and true, and ardent love decides, for weal or woe, the fate
of every man capable of feeling it.

For the last two or three days, however, Alice had remarked that he was
more thoughtful, perhaps more grave, than usual. The magisterial
labours of her father were now nearly at an end. Though none of the
offenders had been taken, he had satisfied himself that their bad
neighbours had been driven from the vicinity; and two or three daring
robberies, which were committed about this time in the next county but
one, confirmed him in the belief. He was therefore much more at home
with Alice, and with him whom we may now call her lover, and the
delight which he took in Langford's society was every day more and more
apparent, and every day more sweet and reassuring to his daughter's
heart. The regard of the old man and the young man was evidently
reciprocal, for Langford was one of those who could feel and estimate
to the full the beautiful and natural simplicity, the straightforward
singlemindedness of the old Knight of Moorhurst.

However, during the two or three days which we have just mentioned, as
having displayed an unusual degree of gravity in Langford's manner, his
eyes would often rest with a sort of doubtful and inquiring look upon
the face of Sir Walter; and Alice also fancied that her father was
pale, thoughtful, and uneasy. Langford, too, though scarcely fully
recovered, had been out several times alone, pleading urgent business;
and, in short it was clear that, in the bosoms of many of the party
tenanting the Manor-House, there were busy thoughts, which from some
reason they concealed from each other.

Such was the state of things just three weeks after the affray with the
robbers; when one evening Alice had walked out alone, in order to think
over all that she felt, and all that she had remarked, without having
her thoughts interrupted even by the conversation of those who were the
objects of her meditation. She had now learned not to go very far from
the house when alone, and she sat down for a moment in a seat at the
end of the bowling-green, which was a small oblong piece of ground,
hollowed out between high banks on every side, which banks, like the
flat little lawn that they surrounded, were covered with smooth green
turf, and were surmounted on three sides by a range of fine yew trees,
cut with exact precision into the form of a high wall. Her father,
before she left the house, had seated himself in his arm-chair in the
library, to take the afternoon nap in which he sometimes indulged; and
Langford, whom she had not seen for nearly an hour, she believed to
have gone to the village.

It was not so, however; and ere she remained long in that spot,
thinking over her situation, and somewhat schooling herself for
feelings which she could not suppress, she heard a rapid footfall
coming from the direction of the house, and the thrill that went
through her heart, the agitation that took possession of her whole
frame, showed the quick memory of love. Had she yielded to her first
impulse, though there was no one upon earth in whose society she felt
so happy as in that of the person who now sought her, she would have
risen and made her escape through the trees behind her. She restrained
herself, however, and sat still, with a beating heart, indeed, and with
her breath almost suppressed, while Langford with a quick step crossed
the bowling-green, and approached her. Although she strove to do so,
although she would have given worlds to appear unconcerned, she could
not raise her eyes to welcome the visitor with her usual smile, and she
suffered him to traverse the whole open space as if she had not seen
him, only looking up with a glance of consciousness, and a deep blush
when he came close to her.

Langford was agitated too: but the agitation showed itself merely in a
great degree of paleness. His step was firm, his manner calm and
decided.

"I have sought you," he said, as he came up; "I saw you go away from
the house, and thought you had gone to the flower garden."

Alice strove hard to reply as usual, but all that she could say was, "I
thought it would be cooler here;" and there she stopped: she could go
no further.

"We shall be less likely to be interrupted, too," replied Langford,
"and that, with me, is a great object at the present moment, for I wish
much to speak with you--to detain you for half an hour--nay, perhaps,
for a whole hour with me alone."

Alice could now reply nothing indeed; but with eyes bent down, and the
tears ready to rise up in them, she suffered Langford to take her hand
and to proceed.

He seldom did anything like other men, acting upon principles which we
may hereafter pause upon for a moment; and he did not now come at once
to the declaration which Alice felt was hanging upon his lips, but went
on to speak of things apparently of far less interest. "You will give
me this half hour, or this hour, I know, sweet lady; and afterwards you
shall give me more or not as you please. I had some idea of detaining
you before you went out; but I am glad I did not, because I think when
one has anything of great importance to say--anything, I mean, which
deeply interests and moves us, in which the whole feelings of our
hearts are engaged--I think that there is no place we can so well
choose as in the face of nature, under the free canopy of heaven. One's
spirit feels confined and crushed in chambers built by hands; one's
heart has not room to expand; one's soul has not space to breathe forth
at liberty."

He saw that by this time Alice's emotion had a little subsided; she had
even ventured, at the last words, to look up in his face; and he now
went on, coming nearer to the matter of his thoughts. "Alice," he said,
"dear Alice, I would beseech you not to agitate yourself, and yet I
must speak to you on subjects which will create much emotion."

Did Alice think, even for a moment, that he was too confident--that he
was too sure of possessing such great influence over her mind? She did
not; but even if such an idea had presented itself for a moment, it
would have vanished immediately, for he went on: "I know that I must
greatly agitate and move you; for if my brightest and dearest hopes are
true, that heart is too deep and too intense in all its feelings not to
be agitated by the words you must hear, and the words you must speak;
and if those hopes are not true, if, like so many other of life's
illusions, they have given me a moment of brightness but to plunge me
in the deeper night, that heart is too gentle and too kind to tell me
that the whole of the rest of my life is misery, without feeling wrung
and pained. Alice, I have sought you, not to tell you that I love you;
for that you must have known long----"

"Oh no!" she cried, suddenly looking up through a flood of bright and
happy tears, "Oh no! I might think so, but I could not be sure of it!"

Langford smiled, and pressed her hand to his lips. "Do not think me
presumptuous," he answered; "do not think me presumptuous when I say,
that those words and that look have already given a reply, and made me
most happy. Oh no! I am not presumptuous, for I know Alice Herbert too
well not to feel that such words, and such a look, may well spare my
agitating her further, on one subject at least. Yet tell me, Alice, am
I as happy as I dream myself to be?"

For a moment she made him no answer, and he added, "Oh speak!"

"What can I say, Langford?" she murmured, in a low voice; "you, who
know the human heart so well, must have read mine perhaps too deeply."

He gave up a few moments to thanks and to expressions of his joy: but
after that, a graver shade came upon his countenance, and he said,
"There is much, much, my beloved, to be spoken of between us. With that
bright confidence which you shall never find misplaced, you have
yielded your heart and your happiness to one of whose rank and station,
fortune and family, you know nothing."

"I know himself," replied Alice, gazing up in her lover's face, "and I
know that he is everything that is noble and good."

"May I ever justify such feelings, Alice," replied Langford; "but
still, my beloved, it is necessary that you should know something of
me, especially as I may have to draw still more deeply upon your
confidence, to call for trust and reliance such as are seldom
justified. During the last three or four days, Alice, my mind has been
in a state of hesitation and doubt as to what course I should pursue. I
felt that under some points of view I ought, in propriety, to
communicate my feelings to your father, in the very first place; and
yet, Alice, as I was sure that you knew that I loved you, as I had
determined to bind you by no promise till your father's full consent
was obtained, and as I had to confide in you, to consult with you, to
ask your advice even upon a matter that must affect the whole course of
my life, my fortune, my station, and everything--a matter which, for
many reasons, I do not wish to communicate to your father at present, I
have judged it best, and determined, to open my whole heart to you at
once."

Alice listened with a slight look of anxiety, for she had entertained
some hopes that Langford had communicated his purpose to her father
before he came to seek her; but still her apprehensions of opposition
from one who loved her so much, and esteemed him so highly, were not
great, and she only replied, "But, of course, you do not wish our
engagements to be concealed from my father?"

"Not _our_ engagements, sweet Alice," replied Langford; "for while I
hold myself bound for ever to you. I ask you to make no engagement, I
suffer you to make none, till you have your father's full consent, and
my love for you shall be told to him immediately. But let me first
inform you how I am situated. The property which I actually possess is
but small; sufficient, indeed, to maintain me in comfort and
independence as a gentleman, but no more. My name and reputation, with
my companions in the field, and with those under whom I have served,
is, I have every cause to believe, fair--may I say it without
vanity?--high. This small fortune, and this good reputation, are all
that I absolutely have to offer; but, at the same time, I tell you that
a much larger fortune, one that would at once place me on a level, in
those respects, with yourself, is withheld from me unjustly, and
cannot, I fear, be recovered by law."

"What matters it?" demanded Alice. "What matters it, Langford? My
father's consent once given, will not his house, his fortune, be our
own? What need of more?"

"To you, perhaps not, Alice," replied her lover. "But to me it would be
painful--it would be the only painful part of my fate to know that a
great disparity existed between your fortune and mine--to have any one
insinuate that my Alice had married a mere adventurer. In regard, too,
to your father's fortune, Alice, I have much, hereafter to say to you;
I have something even to say to him. But of that we will not speak now.
Suffice it that I could bear no great disparity. But, besides," he
added, seeing her about to speak, "I have made a solemn promise, Alice,
to pursue, without pause or hesitation, the recovery of this property."

"But you said," exclaimed Alice, "that it could not be recovered by
law."

"It cannot," replied Langford, "for the papers by which it could be
recovered are withheld from me by one who is both powerful and daring,
and I cannot obtain them by any act which the law would justify."

"Then, give it up altogether," exclaimed Alice. "Do not, do not,
Langford, attempt anything that is not justified by the law."

"But sometimes," replied her lover, "the law is in itself unjust, or
else, as in the present instance, is impotent to work redress, and
would justify the act if it proved successful. The papers are withheld
from me by one, as I have said, who is both powerful and daring. What
mandate of the law can make him give them up? While I, by force, if I
chose to exert it, might take them for myself; and the possession of
them would at once justify the deed by which they were acquired."

"Oh, no, no! do not attempt it, Langford," cried Alice. "Suppose you
were to fail in obtaining them, what terrible consequences might ensue!
He might resist force by force; blood might be spilt, and the man I
love become a murderer."

Langford paused for a moment upon the words, "The man I love;" and,
casting his eyes towards the ground, he fell into a sweet but short
reverie. A moment after, however, he returned to the subject, saying,
"But my promise, Alice, my promise to the dead?"

"Langford," said Alice gravely, and somewhat sadly, laying her right
hand at the same time upon his, in which he had continued to hold her
left, and gazing up in his face with a look of tenderness and regard:
"Langford, I am no great casuist in such matters; but I have always
heard that no promise to do what is unlawful can be binding upon any
man. God forbid that I should hold that it is right to do any evil,
even to the breaking of the slightest promise; but here, Langford, you
are between two evils: the breaking of a promise, and the committing of
an unlawful act. The breaking of that promise can do wrong to no one;
the keeping it may bring misery on yourself, on me, on all who know
you; may be followed by bloodshed, ay! and the loss of your good name."

"You are eloquent, my Alice," replied Langford, "and I believe that you
are right; but still the temptation is so strong, the matter involved
is so great and so important, the means of obtaining those papers
without force so very doubtful----"

"Oh, if there be means," exclaimed Alice, "if there be _any_ means
employ them. Speak with my father upon it: take counsel with him."

"Alice," replied her lover, "it is impossible. I must not speak with
him, I ought not to speak with him, upon this subject. For his sake,
Alice, for yours, I ought not. Alice, forgive me if I am obliged to use
some mystery for the present. That mystery shall soon pass away, and
you shall know all."

"I seek not to know it, Langford!" she replied, gazing up in his face;
"I am quite satisfied: I am quite sure! Now and for ever my trust is
entirely in you. Tell me what you like: conceal from me what you like.
I know that I shall never hear of your doing what is wrong; and as for
all the rest, I care not."

Langford could not resist such words. He threw his arms round her, and
pressed her to his heart. His lips met hers in the first kiss of love,
and he set her heart at ease by promising to use none but lawful means
to obtain even his right. He still held her gently with one arm thrown
lightly round her, and her left hand locked in his, when the sound of a
footstep met his ear, and he looked up. Alice's eyes were raised too,
and her cheek turned very red and then very pale, for, at the aperture
at the other end of the bowling-green, appeared no other than Lord
Harold, advancing rapidly towards them.

The reader may have remarked that whenever we are interrupted in those
seasons when the shy heart comes forth from the depths in which it lies
concealed, and suns itself for a moment in the open daylight, the
person who breaks in upon us is sure to be the one of all the world
before whom we should least like to display the inmost feelings of our
bosom. Had it been her father who now approached, Alice would have run
up to him, placed her hand in his, hid her face upon his bosom, and
told him all at once. But, both on her own account and on his, Alice
would rather have beheld any other person on the earth than Lord Harold
at that moment. He could not but have seen the half embrace in which
Langford had held her; he could not but know and divine the whole; and
Alice felt grieved that such knowledge must come upon him in so painful
a manner; while--though not ashamed--she felt abashed and confused that
any one should have been a witness to the first endearment of
acknowledged love. Langford's proud nostril expanded and his head rose
high; and drawing the arm of Alice through his own, he advanced with
her direct towards Lord Harold, as if about to return to the house. The
young nobleman's countenance was deadly pale, and he was evidently much
moved, but he behaved well and calmly.

"Your father wishes to speak to you, Alice," he said; "I left him but
now, just awake."

Langford saw that Alice could not reply, and he answered, "We are even
now about to seek Sir Walter, my lord."

"I rather imagine that he has business which may require Mistress
Alice's private attention," replied Lord Harold, in the same cold tone
which both had used; "I have also to request a few moments'
conversation with Captain Langford. I will not detain him long."

Alice suddenly raised her eyes, and looked from one to the other.
"Langford," she said, aloud, "before I leave you, I have one word more
to say."

"I will rejoin you here in a moment, my lord," said Langford, calmly.
Lord Harold bowed; and Langford, with Alice's arm still resting in his,
walked on towards the house. Alice spoke to him, as they went, eagerly,
and in a low voice. His reply, as he left her at the door of the Manor
was, "On my honour!--Be quite at ease!--Nothing shall induce me."

As soon as he had left her, he returned at once to Lord Harold, whom he
found standing, with his arms crossed upon his breast, in an attitude
of deep thought.

"Your commands, sir?" said Langford, as soon as they met.

"By your leave, Captain Langford," replied Lord Harold, "we will walk a
little further, where we are not likely to be interrupted."

Langford signified his assent, and they proceeded in silence for some
way till they reached a small glade in the park, where Langford paused,
saying, "This is surely far enough, Lord Harold, to prevent our being
interrupted in anything you can have to say to me, or I to you."

"Perhaps it may be," replied Lord Harold. "I have a question to ask
you, which may perhaps lead to other questions, and I beg you to give
me a sincere and open answer, as it may prevent unpleasant consequences
to us both."

"If I think fit to give you any answer at all, Lord Harold," replied
Langford, "I will give you a sincere one; but I must first know what
your question is before I even consider whether I shall answer it or
not."

"The question is simply this," rejoined Lord Harold, in a somewhat
bitter tone: "Who and what the gentleman is who visits this part of the
country, introduces himself into our families, and calls himself
Captain Langford?"

Langford smiled: "Had I, my lord," he said, "either visited your
property, even as a sportsman, in answer to your lordship's own
invitation, or had I introduced myself into your family, I might have
thought myself bound to give some answer to your question; but, as I
have done neither the one nor the other, I will beg you to excuse me
from replying to it, and I will pardon you for putting it."

"This is all very good, sir," said Lord Harold; "but you do not escape
me by an affectation of dignity. In the first place, sir, you cannot
suppose that I shall conceal from Sir Walter Herbert what I remarked
to-day between yourself and his daughter."

Langford turned very red, but he still replied calmly: "In regard to
that, my lord, you may do as you please. To be a spy upon other
people's actions, or a tale-bearer, in regard to a matter accidentally
discovered, and not intended for his eye, is certainly a pleasant
employment for a gentleman. But all these things depend upon taste; and
if Lord Harold's taste lead him in such a way, Heaven forbid that I
should stop him!"

Lord Harold bit his lip: "I shall not be put out of temper, sir," he
replied, "by your sarcasm; and were Captain Langford known to me as a
gentleman of honour and character, I should--whatever might be my own
personal feelings in this matter--I should be far from betraying a
secret which came accidentally to my knowledge; but when Captain
Langford is totally unknown in this part of the country, when I have
reason to believe that he is not always called by the same name, or
seen in the same character--when, in short, Captain Langford is a very
doubtful personage, and I find him introducing himself into the house
of my oldest and best friend, and, apparently unknown to that friend,
engaging the affections of his daughter--I feel myself bound in honour
to be no party to such a transaction, but to bring the whole matter to
light as soon as possible."

Langford had remained standing while the other spoke, in an attitude of
attention, and with his eyes bent down upon the ground. The moment that
Lord Harold had done, he raised them, and, with a degree of
tranquillity which the young nobleman did not expect, replied,
"Perhaps, my lord, you are in the right. I rather believe, in your
situation. I should act in the same manner."

Lord Harold looked both surprised and confused. "This is very
extraordinary," he said, "and I cannot but believe that there is some
design under it. I must insist, sir, upon having an explanation on the
spot, as to who and what you are; as to what is your title to be in the
society in which I find you, and what are your claims to the hand of
one of the first heiresses in this country."

"Your pardon, my lord," replied Langford; "you are now going too far. I
shall give every explanation that I think fitting to the father of the
lady in question; to you I shall give none, till you show me some right
which you may have to interfere in the affairs of Mistress Alice
Herbert, which, I rather suspect, you cannot do."

Lord Harold again bit his lip; but he replied, almost immediately: "The
right I have, sir, is twofold; that of one of her oldest friends, and
that of an applicant for her hand."

For a moment Langford was about to demand, in reply, whether Lord
Harold meant an accepted or a rejected suitor; but he was generous, and
refrained. "In neither quality," he said, "can I recognise in you any
right to interfere; and you will pardon me if I say, that I will not
only give you no explanation whatever on the subject, but will not
condescend to hear you speak any further on a matter with which you
have no title to meddle."

"Then, sir," replied Lord Harold, sharply, "nothing remains but to draw
your sword. I do you honour in taking it for granted that you are
worthy of mine;" and as he spoke he drew his weapon from the sheath,
and with the point dropped, stood as if in expectation that Langford
would follow his example.

Langford remained, however, with his arms crossed upon his chest, and a
somewhat melancholy smile upon his countenance. "Once more," he said,
"you must pardon me, Lord Harold: neither in this matter can I gratify
you; not alone because it is a stupid and contemptible habit, only
worthy of cowards, or of boys who have no other way of showing their
courage, but--"

"Well said, Master Harry," cried a voice close beside them: "Well said,
well said! I think, my little lordling, you had better put up your cold
iron, and go your way home to your father. To think of a man wishing to
bore a hole in his neighbour, like Smith, the house-carpenter, with his
long gimlet! Let us look at your skewer in a handle, my lord;" and as
he spoke. Silly John, the half-witted man of the village, whom we have
before described, advanced, extending his hand to take hold of the
blade of Lord Harold's sword. The young nobleman pushed him sharply
aside, however, bidding him begone, with an angry frown.

"Well, I'll begone," replied the half-witted man; "but I'll be back
again in a minute, with more hands to help me;" and away he ran in the
direction of the stream and the village.

"Now, sir! quick!" exclaimed Lord Harold. "If you would not have me
suppose you both a coward and an impostor, draw your sword, and give me
satisfaction at once."

"Your lordship may suppose anything that you please," replied Langford;
"having done nothing that can reasonably dissatisfy you, I shall
certainly do nothing to give you any other sort of satisfaction."
"Then, sir, I shall treat you as you deserve," replied Lord Harold,
"and chastise you as a cowardly knave;" and putting up his sword, he
advanced to strike his opponent.

But Langford caught his hand in his own powerful grasp, and stopped
him, saying, "Hold, Lord Harold, hold, I _will_ give you one word of
explanation! If, after having heard that, you choose to draw your sword
and seek my life, you shall do so; but remember, as you are a man of
honour, to none--no, not to the nearest and dearest, must you reveal
the import of these words;" and, drawing him closer to him, he
whispered what seemed to be a single word in the young nobleman's ear.
Langford then let go his hold; and, pale as ashes, with a quivering lip
and a straining eye, Lord Harold staggered back. His companion turned
upon his heel, and walked away; either not hearing, or not choosing to
attend to the young nobleman's entreaty to speak with him one word
more.

Langford took his way direct to the Manor House; but upon entering the
door which stood open to the park, he perceived a good deal of bustle
and confusion amongst the servants; and on asking if Sir Herbert were
in the library, the reply was, "Yes," but it was added, that he and
Mistress Alice were both busy with a gentleman, on matters of deep
importance. "While he was speaking with the servant, Langford, through
a door which stood open at the end of a long passage, and afforded a
view into the court, perceived Lord Harold come in, with a quick step
and a somewhat disordered air, and mounting his horse, which was held
by one of Sir Walter's grooms, ride slowly away, without even
attempting to enter the house.

"I am about to walk to the village," continued Langford, speaking to
the servant. "Will you tell Sir Walter so, when he is visible; for I
expect a messenger from London, and may not be back to supper, if I
find letters which require an answer."

He then proceeded through the house, gained the road which led over the
bridge, and was proceeding towards the village, in the twilight, which
was now beginning to fall, when he thought he recognised a form that
was advancing towards him, though still at some distance. It proved to
be that of the same fair-haired boy, named Jocelyn, whom we have more
than once had occasion to mention, he spoke not a word when he came
near, but placed a letter in Langford's hands, which the other tore
open, and read, though with some difficulty, from the obscurity of the
light.

"There is scarcely time," he said, after he had made out the contents
of the epistle, which was very short. "There is scarcely time.
Nevertheless, tell him I will be there: but say also, good Jocelyn,
that my resolution is the same as when we last met. I will not try it!"

"I will tell him," was the boy's only reply; and leaving Langford, he
ran down the road by the stream, with a rapid pace.




                            CHAPTER VIII.


The moon had not risen; the sun had gone down; the sky, which for near
a month had been as calm and serene as a good mind, was covered over
with long lines of dark grey cloud, heavy, and near the earth; when a
solitary horseman took his station under a broad old tree upon the wide
waste, called Uppington Moor, and gazed forth as well as the growing
darkness would let him. It was a dim and sombre scene, unsatisfactory
to the eye, but exciting to the imagination. Everything was vague and
undefined in the shadows of that hour, and the long streaks of deeper
and fainter brown which varied the surface of the moor, spoke merely of
undulations in the ground, marking the great extent of the plain
towards the horizon. A tall solitary mournful tree might be seen here
and there, adding to the feeling of vastness and solitude; and about
the middle of the moor, as one looked towards the west, was a small
detached grove, or rather clump of large beeches, presenting a black
irregular mass, at the side of which the lingering gleam of the
north-western sky was reflected in some silvery lines upon what seemed
a considerable piece of water. That was the only light which the
landscape contained, and it would have cut harsh with the gloomy and
ominous view around, had not a thin mist, rising over the whole,
softened the features of the scene, and left them still more indistinct
and melancholy.

It was an hour and a place fit for sad thoughts and dark forebodings,
and the horseman sat upon his tall powerful gelding in the attitude of
one full of meditation. He had suffered the bridle to drop, his head
was slightly bent forward, and his eye strained upon the scene before
him; while his mind seemed to drink in, from its solemn and cheerless
aspect, feelings as dark and dismal as itself. He sat there about a
quarter of an hour, and not a sound had been heard upon the moor but
the deep sort of sobbing creaking of a neighbouring marsh, or the
shrill cry of some bird of night, as it skimmed by with downy and
noiseless wings. There was not a breath of air stirring; no change took
place in the aspect of the sky or the earth; it was as if nature were
dead, and the feeling seemed to become oppressive, for the horseman at
length gently touched his beast with his heel, and made him move slowly
out from under the branches of the tree.

Scarcely had he done so, however, when the distant sound of a horse's
feet was heard, as if coming at a very tardy and heavy pace from the
west. The sound, indeed, would not have been perceptible at that
distance, but for the excessive stillness of all around, and the
eagerness with which the traveller listened. His eye was now bent
anxiously, too, upon the western gleam in the water, and in a few
minutes the dark figure of another man on horseback was seen against
the brighter background thus afforded, riding slowly on, as the road he
followed wound round the mere.

It was like a scene in a phantasmagoria, and in a moment after, two
more figures were added, and all three suddenly stopped. None of the
minute part of their proceedings were visible, and it was impossible,
at that distance, to discern how they were occupied; but a moment
after, there seemed a sudden degree of agitation in the group, then
came a bright flash, followed at a considerable interval by the report
of a pistol, and immediately after all three horsemen disappeared.

"What may this mean?" said the stranger, aloud. "I fear there is
mischief." The sound of his voice seemed strange in the midst of this
solitude, but he had scarcely spoken when the stillness was again
broken by the noise of a horse's feet; but this time it came from
another direction, not exactly opposite, but much to the right hand of
the spot whence the former sounds had proceeded, and the beast was
evidently galloping as fast as he could, over turf. It came nearer and
nearer, and the watcher went back under the tree.

At length, another powerful cavalier became visible, approaching at
full speed; and as he drew nigh he looked round more than once, and
pulled up his horse suddenly by the tree. "Are you there?" he asked, in
a low voice: and the next moment the other came forth and joined him.

"Quick! quick! master Harry," continued the one who had joined him:
"Put your horse into a gallop, and come on with all speed."

"But I told you, Franklin," replied the other, holding back, "I told
you that I would have nothing to do with it! What I saw a month ago
under the park wall was quite sufficient: and I would have no hand in
such a business, were it to put a crown upon my head."

"Foolish boy! the business is done without you to a certain point,"
replied his companion. "I have served you whether you would or not; and
I suppose, of course, you will be ungrateful. Come on with me, and you
shall have the key of the chest, which I have ventured my neck to get
for you. You have nothing to do but to walk in and take what is your
own. But come on quickly! You would not have me taken, I suppose; and I
have reason to think I am followed."

Thus saying, he put his horse again into a gallop, and Langford
followed at the same pace. Two or three times, as they rode on,
Franklin Gray looked back over the moor; but no moving object of any
kind was to be seen, except one of those creeping phosphoric lights
which linger on the edges of an old marsh; no sound of any kind was to
be heard, but the measured beating of their horses' feet upon the
hollow-sounding turf.

At length, when they had gone about two miles further, Franklin Gray
cheeked his horse's speed, saying, "There is no one following now--yet
they made the signal from the hill! Did you not hear a pistol shot just
before you came up?"

"Yes," replied Langford; "I heard it distinctly, and saw the flash. Was
that a signal that some one was following you?"

"It was," answered Gray. "But how you could see the flash I don't
understand, for they were down below the brow of the hill, where one
can see both roads to the castle."

"Oh no!" said Langford. "The men who fired that shot were upon the moor
close by Upwater Mere; and I very much fear, Gray, that some of these
accursed evil companions of yours have been again committing an act
that you neither knew of nor desired."

"If they have," exclaimed Gray, with a horrid imprecation, "I will
shoot the first of them, were he my own brother."

"How many were there of them on the watch?" demanded Langford. "Two,"
replied his companion.

"Then I will tell you what I saw," answered Langford. "As I sat on my
horse and looked out over the mere, which just caught a gleam from the
sky, the figure of a horseman crossed the light, as if he were going to
the castle. Just at that minute two more came out upon him--from
amongst the beeches, it seemed to me; then came the pistol shot; and a
minute after they all disappeared."

Gray gave utterance to another terrible oath; and then, after thinking
a few minutes, he added, "But it can't be any of my people! They dared
not, after the warning I gave them about that bad business under the
park fence."

"At all events," cried Langford, reining up his horse entirely, "had we
not better go back and see? I fear very much, Franklin, that they have
shot the man, whoever he is."

"No, no," replied Franklin; "if they have shot him, he is shot, and
there is no need of our meddling with the matter."

"But he may be merely wounded," replied Langford; "we had better go
back."

"No!" thundered Franklin Gray--"I tell you no! It is mere madness! We
are but half a mile from the house; when I have got there, we shall
learn who has done this, and I will send out and see if there is any
one hurt. Come on, come on!"

Langford followed his bidding; and renewing their quick pace, they rode
on for about half a mile further, till, amid a clump of tall trees, at
the very edge of the moor, where some poor thin unproductive fields
connected it with the cultivated country, they perceived a light
shining from a small window in a tall building before them.

At that period there still remained scattered over the face of England
a number of those edifices which, fortified to a certain degree,
combined the modern house with the ancient feudal hold, and had been
rendered very serviceable to both parties in the progress of the great
rebellion. These fortified houses were of every size, from that which
really well merited the name of castle, to that which was no more than
a mere tower; and many of them, either from being injured by the
chances of war, or from having lost a great part of their utility when
the scourge of civil contention was removed from the country, had gone
to decay, or had been applied to the calmer and more homely uses of the
barn, the grange, or the farm-house.

Such was the house which Langford and his companion now approached;
and, as far as the darkness of the hour suffered its outline to appear,
it seemed to the former to be a tall heavy tower of stonework, with
four small windows on the side next to them. Beneath its protection,
and attached to it on one side, with the gable end turned towards the
road, was a lower building with a high peaked roof of slates; and close
by, another mass of masonry, apparently the ruins of a church or
chapel. The light that the horsemen had seen came from one of the upper
windows of the tower; but there were lights also in the less elevated
building by its side. A low wall stood before the whole, enclosing a
little neglected garden; and through a gate which stood open in this
wall, Franklin Gray led his companion in, and up to the door of the
tower. There, beside the door, stood the ancient steps which many a
burly cavalier in the Hudibrastic days, and in days long before that,
had employed to mount his horse's back; and there, too, on either side
of the entrance, was many a ring, staple, and hook, for the purpose of
fastening up the troopers' horses, while their masters rested or
caroused in the hall hard by.

Having attached their bridles to two of these hooks, Franklin Gray and
his companion proceeded to seek admission into the tower. To gain this,
Gray first struck the door three or four times distinctly with his
heavy hand. The moment he had done so, a light step was heard running
along within, and after manifold bolts and bars had been withdrawn, the
boy Jocelyn threw open the door; and Langford followed his companion
into a low narrow entrance hall, on the right of which was another
door, and at the end a dim flight of stone steps leading apparently to
the upper apartments.

Scarcely, however, had the foot of Franklin Gray fallen three times on
that stone passage, when a light came gleaming down the stairs, and the
next instant the flutter of a woman's garments was seen, as she
descended with a step of joy. She was as lovely a creature as the eye
of man ever rested upon, though the first years of youthful grace were
passed, and though the sun of a warmer land than this had dyed her skin
with a rich brown. Her eyes--her large full liquid eyes--were as black
as jet, and the long dark fringe that edged both the upper and the
under lid left but little of the white visible. The glossy black hair,
divided on the forehead, was tied in a large massy knot behind, without
any ornament whatsoever; but along the whole line might be traced a
strong undulation, which told that, if free, it would have fallen in
ringlets round her face; and even as it was, two or three thick curls
escaped from the knot behind, and hung in glossy masses on her neck.
Her age might be three or four and twenty, and her form had the fulness
of that age, but without having lost any of the symmetry of youth.

She carried a lamp in her hand, and the light of it showed her dark
eyes sparkling with joy as they rested upon Franklin Gray. Setting down
the light upon the stairs, she darted forward at once, and cast herself
upon his bosom, exclaiming, with a strong foreign accent, "You have
come back! You have come back! Oh, I have been so uneasy about you!"

"But why, my Mona?" demanded Franklin Gray, with his whole tone and
manner changed to one of the utmost gentleness, as soon as he addressed
her. "Why more to-night than at other times, when I am obliged to leave
you?"

"Oh, I do not well know," she replied; "but you kissed me twice before
you went, and then you came back to kiss me once more, and bid me
remember you; and I felt sure you were going on some dangerous
expedition. I felt sad at heart myself, too, as if some evil would come
of this night."

"Evil has come of it, I fear," replied Franklin Gray; but he then added
quickly, seeing her turn pale at his words, "Evil not upon me, or of my
doing, Mona. But go up again, beloved! and I will come to you directly.
You see I have some one with me."

She turned her eyes upon Langford, whom she appeared not to have
noticed before; and then bowing her head gracefully and slowly, she
raised the lamp again, and disappeared up the steps.

When she was gone, Franklin Gray turned round and gazed upon Langford
for a moment, with a proud yet melancholy smile. There was a world of
meaning in his look, and Langford could only reply to it by exclaiming,
with a glance still more sorrowful, "Oh, Gray, this is very sad!"

"Come, come," cried his companion; "it shall be amended some day,
Harry. Come, Jocelyn," he continued, turning to the boy, "tell me,
master page, who are in the hall, and how many?"

The boy's brow became grave at the question. "There are but three,
sir," he replied; "there is James of Coventry, and there is Doveton and
little Harvey."

"Indeed!" said Gray, shutting his teeth close, as if to keep down angry
feelings that were rising fast--"indeed!" and with his right hand he
threw open the door which led into a small dark room. That again he
strode across, giving Langford a sign to follow, and then opened
another door, which admitted them into a much larger chamber, well
lighted, in the midst of which was a large table furnished with a
flagon and some drinking cups. At the further end sat two men playing
with dice, while a third, a short smart-looking personage, was standing
behind, observing their game. They ceased when Gray and his companion
appeared; and the merriment which they evidently had been enjoying, was
over in a moment.

"But you three left!" said Gray, as he entered, "but you three left!
Where are Hardcastle and Wiley?"

"They went out shortly after you, Captain Gray," replied one of the men
who were playing; "I can't tell where they are."

"Doveton," replied Gray, in a calm grave tone, "you are a gentleman and
a soldier; so are you, James; and Master Harvey, too, though he did not
serve with us either in Germany or in the New World, has had the honour
of serving in Ireland, and is a man of honour. Now, I ask you all,
straightforwardly, where are these two men gone to? Marcham and Henry
of the Hill I took with me; all the others I know about also; but where
are Wiley and Hardcastle, and what are they about?"

"Why, really, sir," replied the man called Doveton, "we can only tell
by guess; for since that business down in the green lane they have kept
very much by themselves, and don't seem to deal fairly with us,
especially Wiley."

"I'll tell you what, captain," said the man who was standing behind,
and whom they called amongst themselves Little Harvey, "I wish Wiley
was out from amongst us; he will get us all into mischief some day. He
does not do things in a gentlemanlike way. I guess what he has gone
after, but he has not succeeded, I see." And as he spoke, he gave a
significant glance towards Langford, as if he were in some degree
connected with the matter in question.

"Indeed!" said Gray; "I suspect your meaning, Harvey; but let us hear
more plainly what you think. Though I direct and guide, and am always
willing to take the greatest dangers on myself, still we are comrades,
and should treat each other as such. What is it you think, Harvey?"

"I won't say what I think," replied the man; "but I'll say what I saw.
When you sent the boy Jocelyn down to the Manor, Wiley cross-questioned
him both before he went and when he came back; and when he heard him
give you a message about a gentleman meeting you on the moor, he
whispered a good dead to Hardcastle, who came up and asked me if I
would go along with them upon an enterprise which must be quite secret,
and which must be done without your knowing it. I refused; and told
him, I thought that after the business down in the lane, he had better
not let Wiley lead him; but to that he answered, that this was a matter
which could not fail as the other had done, and that it would be over
in five minutes. I said I would not go, however, and they went without
me."

"Hark, they are coming!" said Gray, as the sound of horses' feet was
heard stopping opposite the house. "Let them in the back way, Jocelyn,
and bring in supper. Here! Come with me, Master Harry." And he led the
way back into the hall by which they had at first entered, and in which
there still remained the lamp that the boy Jocelyn had carried when he
gave them admittance. Gray carefully shut the doors behind him; and
when he stood alone in the passage with Langford, he unbuttoned his
vest, and took from an inner pocket a key of a very peculiar and
extraordinary form.

"There is the key, Master Harry," he said, speaking quickly, and with,
strong passions of some kind evidently struggling in his breast. "Your
own fate is now in your power! Manage it as you will!"

"But tell me how this has been obtained," said Langford.

"I have no time for long stories," replied his companion sharply.
"There it is! that is sufficient. But I will tell you so far, I--I
alone--though directed by one who knew the house well, walked through
it this night, from one end to the other; and within six yards of the
old man himself, with nothing but a door between us, took this key from
the hiding place where he thought it so safe, and brought it away
undiscovered. Now, Harry, leave me! I am not in a humour to speak much.
I have matters before me that may well make me silent. Mount your
horse, and be gone with all speed. Why do you linger? Oh! I will send
out ere ten minutes be over, and if there be a possibility of undoing
what has been done amiss, it shall be undone, on my honour. Take the
back road," he added, as he opened the door for Langford; "and for
worlds go no more upon the moor to-night! I ask you for my own sake,"
he added, seeing his companion hesitate; "not for yours, but for mine!"

Langford made no reply, but mounting his horse, rode away with feelings
of a nature the most mingled and the most painful.

Those of the man he left behind were of a different character, but
still terrible. With Langford there were feelings which he seldom
experienced, doubt and hesitation as to his own course of action,
mingling with vague apprehension of evil, and deep regret to see a man
possessed of many noble qualities, who had been his friend, his
companion, and even his protector in the early days of youth, now
plunged into a current, terrible in itself, and terrible in its
consequences--following a course which he had long suspected that Gray
did really follow, but without having conviction forced upon him till
that night.

With Franklin Gray it was very different; his whole feelings, for the
time, were swallowed up in one stern and gloomy resolution.

There was anger, indeed, at the bottom of that resolution; wrath of the
most bitter and deadly kind; but even that was almost lost in the
effort to exclude from his thoughts everything that might shake, even
in the least degree, the dark and terrible determination he had formed.

As soon as Langford had quitted him he returned to the hall in which he
had left his comrades, and there, as he expected, he found the party
increased by the presence of the two men, Wiley and Hardcastle, whose
names we have mentioned more than once, and whom we have seen busy in
the attack upon Alice Herbert.

It was evident that some conversation had passed between them and the
others regarding the indignation which they had excited in their
leader, and while, in the rough countenance of Hardcastle, might be
traced a great deal of shame and apprehension, in the more cunning face
of Wiley appeared a degree of hesitating uncertainty, mingling
strangely with dogged defiance, and making him look like an
ill-tempered hound about to receive the lash, but not very sure whether
to lie down and howl, or fly at the throat of the huntsman. The boy
Joselyn was busily bringing in some dishes, and setting them on the
table; but he glanced at Franklin Gray from time to time, seeming to
know better than any one present the character of the man with whom
they had to deal, and to divine what was likely to be the issue.

Franklin Gray said not a word in regard to the matter which was in all
their thoughts; but sitting down at the head of the table he made some
observation upon the bread, which was not good; and then added,
speaking to the others--"Begin, begin! Marcham and Henry of the Hill
won't be long."

"I heard them coming over the hill but now," said the boy Jocelyn.

Gray made no reply, and the rest began their meal in silence; but he
ate nothing, looking curiously at the knife in his hand, as if there
was something very interesting in the blade. He made the boy give him a
silver cup, indeed, full of wine from the tankard; and as he was
drinking it, the two others, whom he had mentioned, came in laughing,
and seemed surprised to see the grave and stern manner in which the
supper was passing.

The matter was soon explained, however; for no sooner had they sat down
in the places left for them, than Franklin Gray fixed his eyes upon
Wiley, and said, "Now, my masters Wiley and Hardcastle, we are all
present but two: be so good as to tell me where you have been
to-night?"

The time which had elapsed, the indifference, and even carelessness,
which had hitherto appeared in Gray's manner, and a cup or two of wine
which he himself had drunk, had removed the degree of apprehension
which at first mingled with the sullen determination of Wiley; and he
replied at once, with a look of effrontery, "I don't think that at all
necessary, Captain! I rather believe that I have as much right to ride
my horse over any common in the kingdom as you have, without giving you
any account of it either."

"You hear!" said Franklin Gray, looking round calmly to the rest, "you
hear!"

"Come, come, Master Wiley," cried the man, called Doveton, "that won't
do, after what we all swore, when we came down here. Come, Hardcastle,
you are the best of the two; come, you tell Captain Gray at once what
you have been about. We must know, if it be but for our own safety."

"Oh! I'll tell at once," said Hardcastle. "Devilish sorry am I that I
ever went; and I certainly would not have gone had I known how it would
turn out. I'll never go again with Wiley as long as I live: I told him
so, as we came over the common."

Wiley muttered something not very laudatory of his companion; but it
was drowned in the stern voice of Franklin Gray, who exclaimed, "Go on,
Hardcastle!"

"Why, we went out to the beeches by Upwater Mere," replied Hardcastle;
"and we had not been there long, when up came some one on horseback,
going along slowly towards the castle. It was not the person we were
looking for, however----"

"Pray, who were you looking for?" interrupted Franklin Gray.

"Why, I think that is scarcely fair, Captain," said Hardcastle.

"It matters not," replied Gray; "I know without your telling me. Go
on!"

"Well, as the young man came up," continued the other, "Wiley said we
might as well have what he had upon him. So we rode up, and asked him
to stop, quite civilly; but, instead of doing so, he drew his sword,
and spurred on his horse upon Wiley, and----"

"Well," exclaimed Gray, impatiently; "what then? I heard the pistol
fired," he said, seeing the man hesitate; "so tell the truth."

"Well," said Hardcastle, "well;" and as he spoke he turned somewhat
pale: "well, then Wiley fired, you know, and brought him down; and we
pulled him under the beeches, and took what we could get. We have not
divided it yet, but it seems a good sum."

As his companion had been detailing the particulars of their crime, the
changes which had come over Wiley's countenance were strange and
fearful. He had watched with eager anxiety the countenance of Franklin
Gray, who sat nearly opposite to him at the other end of the table;
but, being able to gather nothing from those stern dark features, he
ran his eye rapidly round the faces of the rest, and after several
changes of expression, resumed, as well as he could, the look of
cunning and daring impudence which he had at first put on. The entrance
of the boy Jocelyn with some plates, just behind him, however, made him
give a sharp start and look round. Franklin Gray fixed his eyes upon
the boy, and waved his hand; and Jocelyn immediately went round to the
other side of the table.

"Hardcastle," said their leader, "I shall find some means of punishing
you. As for you, Wiley----"

"You shall not punish me, Captain Gray!" interrupted Wiley, knitting
his brows and speaking through his teeth; "for by----, if you don't
mind what you're about, I'll hang you all."

Franklin Gray sat and heard him calmly, keeping his eyes fixed upon him
with stern unchanging gaze till he had done speaking. He then looked
round once more, saying, "You hear!" and, at the same moment, he drew a
pistol from under his coat. Every face around turned pale but his own;
and Wiley started up from the table. But before he could take a single
step, and while yet, with agony of approaching fate upon him, he gazed
irresolute in the face of his leader, the unerring hand of Franklin
Gray had levelled the pistol and fired.

The ball went right through his head; the unhappy man bounded up two or
three feet from the ground, and then fell dead at the end of the table.
Franklin Gray sat perfectly still, gazing through the smoke for about a
minute; and through the whole hall reigned an awful silence. He then
laid the pistol calmly down on the table before him, and drew forth a
second.

Hardcastle crossed his arms upon his breast, and looked him full in the
face, saying, "Well, Captain, I'm ready."

"You mistake me," said Gray, laying down the pistol on the table, with
the muzzle towards himself. "My friends, if I have done wrong by the
shot I have fired, any of you that so pleases, has but to take up that
pistol and use it as boldly as I have done its fellow. What say you; am
I right or wrong?"

"Right, right!" replied every voice.

"Well, then," said Gray, putting up the weapons again, "some of you
take him down; and you, Doveton and Marcham, hark ye;" and he spoke a
few words to them apart. "Take Hardcastle with you," he added; "that
shall be his punishment!" so saying, he turned, took up a lamp that
stood near, and quitted the hall.

Franklin Gray mounted the steps in the tower that we have mentioned,
slowly and sadly; paused halfway up, and fell into deep thought. His
reverie lasted but a minute: he then proceeded, and reached the room
where the fair being whom he called Mona was watching anxiously for his
coming. Her eyes questioned him; but he made no reply in words. He
threw his right arm round her, however and rested his face upon her
bosom for several minutes, with his eyes shut; then pressed her to his
heart, kissed her cheek, and said "Come my Mona, come and see our babe
sleeping."




                             CHAPTER IX.


For nearly three miles Langford rode rapidly on. His mind was in that
state of confusion and uncertainty which admitted not of any slow
movement of the body; but as he thought again and again of all that had
occurred, he the more deeply regretted that he had ever gone to the
rendezvous with Franklin Gray, although his purpose in there going was
to separate his own proceedings for ever from those of one whose
present pursuits could be no longer doubtful. When Langford had known
him in former years he was a wild and reckless soldier of fortune,
whose bold rash spirit had prevented rather than aided him in rising to
those high grades in the service which his talents might otherwise have
obtained. His heart had ever, as far as Langford had seen it, been
kind, noble, and generous; there were many circumstances which had
connected them closely in our hero's early life; and in himself and his
fate, Franklin Gray had ever taken a deep and affectionate interest.

His hatred of inactivity, his love of enterprise, his daring courage,
his strong and determined resolution, his rapid powers of combination,
and that peculiar talent for command which is a gift rather than an
acquirement, had made him loved and admired by the soldiery under him,
and might have gone far to constitute one of the greatest generals of
the age. But by his fellow officers he had never been loved, and by
those above him he had constantly been used, but had never been trusted
nor liked. In truth, there was a fierce and overbearing spirit in his
bosom, a contempt for other men's opinions, and an abhorrence of the
ordinary littleness of human nature, which prevented him from seeking
or winning the regard of any one, towards whom some peculiar
circumstance, or some extraordinary powers, had not excited in his
bosom feelings either of tenderness or of respect; and for this reason
he had never been loved. Why he had never been trusted was another
matter. He had set out in life depending more upon feeling than upon
principle as his guide; and though, as he went on, he had framed for
his own bosom a sort of code of laws by which he was strictly bound,
those laws did not always very well accord with the ordinary code of
mankind, and if generally acted upon must have been disastrous to
society. Those who disliked him--very often for his superiority to
themselves--were glad to find in his failings a specious excuse for
undervaluing his better qualities, and thus he had been always thwarted
and bitterly disappointed in his progress through life.

Brought up as a soldier from his earliest years, he had ever looked
upon strife as his profession, life as one great campaign, the world as
a battle-field, mankind as either enemies or fellow soldiers. The great
law that he had laid down for himself was, never to measure himself
against any but those who were equal to the strife; and he would just
as soon have thought of injuring the weak, the innocent, or the
defenceless, as he would of murdering the wounded in an hospital. The
proud, the haughty, and the strong he took a pleasure in humbling or
overthrowing, even when bound to the same cause with himself, and the
constant single combats in which he was engaged had raised him up a bad
name in the service.

In other respects, though no one could ever accuse Gray of injuring
the peasant, or taking away a part of the honest earnings of the
farmer--though, even under the orders of his general, he would take no
part in raising contributions from the hard-working and industrious,
and it was in vain to send him upon such expeditions, yet there had
been many a tale current in the camp, of Gray and his troopers sacking
and burning the castles in the Palatinate, driving the cattle from
under the very guns of the enemy's fortresses, and sweeping the wealth
from the palace of the Prince or the Bishop. Thus he had established in
some degree the character of a daring, but somewhat marauding officer,
and any soldier of more than ordinary enterprise and rashness ever
sought to be enrolled in his troop. He had quitted the service of
France in disgust some time before Langford, and they had not met again
till Langford, called suddenly to the death-bed of a parent, found
Gray, who had known her and hers in happier days, tending her with the
care and kindness of a son.

Of what had taken place in the interim Langford was ignorant. From time
to time Gray talked of other lands which he had visited, and more
burning climates which he had known; but he did so in a vague and
obscure manner, which excited curiosity without inviting inquiry.
Langford had made none; and though they had met frequently since, and
dark suspicions and apprehensions--springing from a comparison of
Gray's former poverty and his known prodigality with the wealth he
seemed now to have at command--had from time to time crossed his
friend's mind in regard to the pursuits to which he had dedicated
himself, it was only on the occasion of the present visit to Moorhurst
that Langford had obtained a positive certainty of the painful truth.
As soon as he had obtained that certainty, he determined to warn, to
exhort, to beseech his former friend to quit the dangerous pursuits in
which he was engaged; to offer once more to share with him all his
little wealth, in gratitude for many an act of kindness gone before,
and for a service that Gray was even then anxious to do him, at the
risk of life itself; but on no account to participate in any scheme
conducted by the other, however great and important the object to be
gained for himself.

His own wound, and the temporary disappearance of Gray and his
companions from that part of the country, had prevented Langford from
notifying to him this intention fully, after the night of the attack
upon Alice Herbert, though he had done so in general terms twice
before, and he had gone to the rendezvous appointed by Gray, on the
night of which we have just been speaking, supposing that it was to
have preceded, not to have followed, the enterprise proposed. All that
he had seen had been terribly painful to him; and in what had occurred
upon the moor he had too good reason to believe that an act had been
committed which he should not be justified in concealing. Yet, how was
he to reveal it, without the basest breach of confidence, and the
grossest ingratitude towards a man who had been risking all to serve
him? How was he to denounce the crime that had been committed, and
bring to justice the perpetrators thereof, without involving Gray in
the same destruction?

Such were the matters in his thoughts, as he rode rapidly on towards
the Manor House; but by the time he had gone about three miles his mind
had been naturally led to inquire, who was the unfortunate person that
had been attacked; and for the first time an apprehension crossed his
mind that it might be Lord Harold.

"And yet," thought Langford, as he rode along, "he would never go over
the moor at that time of night, and alone. He must have been home long
before, too: nevertheless he set out very slowly; and he seemed to turn
to the right, as if he were going by the moor. He may have loitered by
the way, or visited some cottage, or called at some house. Good God!
this uncertainty is not to be borne. I must, and will go back to the
moor."

As he thus thought, he turned his horse short round, and galloped back
as fast as possible, following the road which led to the piece of water
called Upwater Mere. By the time he reached it, the moon was just
rising, and spreading through the hazy sky, near the horizon, a red and
ominous glare. It served to cast some light upon the road, however; and
Langford, calculating with the keen accuracy of a soldier, had fixed
exactly upon the spot before he reached it, where he had seen the
unfortunate traveller encountered.

When he did reach that spot, the deep gory stains in the sandy road but
too plainly showed him he was right; and he traced the course of the
murderers along by the thick drops of gore, till the track was lost in
the grass beneath the beech trees. The darkness which reigned under
their branches rendered all further search fruitless; and, after having
given up nearly half an hour to the painful, but unsuccessful task, he
once more mounted his horse, and, with feelings of deep gloom and
despondency, took his way back towards the Manor House.

It was nearly eleven o'clock at night ere Langford reached the gates;
and the family generally retired to rest before that hour.

Certain doubts and apprehensions, however, in regard to the affairs of
Sir Walter Herbert--doubts and apprehensions springing from a thousand
minute incidents, which he had noticed while staying as a visitor in
the house--had induced him to inquire farther, from sources whence he
might derive certain information; and the information he had thus
acquired made him now determine to return to the Manor that night,
rather than go to the inn, though the hour was somewhat unseasonable.

He found all the servants up: and there was a look of anxiety and
apprehension in the countenances of all, which led him to believe that
his fears were not unfounded, and that the business in which Sir Walter
had been engaged during the evening was both painful in itself, and
such as could no longer be concealed from his household.

In those days, when difficulties and embarrassments overtook a country
gentleman, the case was much more painful than it is at present. Habits
of luxury and dissipation, ostentatious rivalry with one another, and
many of the other vices which, in the present times, have rendered the
transfer of property from the old gentry of the land but too common,
and burthens upon that which does remain, very general, had then
scarcely reached the country; and though the dissipated inhabitants of
towns, the gay debauched peer, the fopling of the court, and the
speculating merchant, might know, from time to time, every reverse of
fortune, it seldom occurred in those days that the old proprietor of
lands in the country experienced any great and detrimental change,
unless tempted to quit the calm enjoyments of rural life for the more
dangerous pleasures of the town.

Civil wars, indeed, and political strife had brought about, or laid the
foundation for, the ruin of a great number of the country gentry; and
such, in some degree, had been the case with Sir Walter Herbert. His
father had served king Charles both with sword and purse, and had never
received either payment or recompence. The matter had gone on slowly
since, drop by drop, till the cup was nearly full.

Sir Walter had shut his eyes to the fact, and had carefully concealed
from the eyes of those around him difficulties, the whole extent of
which he did not himself know, and which he always hoped to remedy. It
could not be, however, but that reports of embarrassment should get
abroad, and it was well known in the country that, some five or six
years before, he had become security to the amount of ten thousand
pounds for a neighbouring gentleman, who failed to pay the debt, fled,
and left the country. But every one knew, also, that the bond was in
the hands of Lord Danemore, Sir Walter's acquaintance and neighbour:
and every one, when the subject was mentioned, smiled, and declared
that Lord Harold, the son of the peer, and Mistress Alice Herbert,
would find means of cancelling the debt.

We have already had occasion to show that such expectations were vain:
and the reports of embarrassments which had reached Langford's ears,
from sources which he could not doubt, had rendered his suit to Alice
Herbert as disinterested as it could be, but had prepared his mind for
what he was about to hear.

"I am afraid something is the matter, Haliday," he said, addressing the
servant who gave him admittance. "What has happened, do you know?"

"I am afraid something has gone wrong too, Captain," replied the
servant, with a sorrowful expression of countenance; "but Mistress
Alice, I dare say, will tell you all about it. She is sitting up in the
library to see you; and begged you would come to her whenever you came
in."

Langford waited for no one to usher him to her presence: but by two or
three rapid steps passed the servant, and opened the library door.

Alice was sitting at a table with a book before her. It were vain to
say that she was reading; for though her eyes had more than once fixed
upon the pages, and had scanned several sentences, so as to make out
the words, of the meaning of those words her mind was very little
conscious. Her eyes were now tearless; but it was clear to Langford
that she had been weeping not long before. The noise of his foot made
her instantly rise, and the colour became a good deal deeper in her
cheek; betraying a part, but a very small part, of the varied emotions
that were going on within.

The heart of her lover was throbbing at that moment with many an
anxiety, it is true; but, strange as it may seem, love and noble pride,
ay, and even joy, engrossed by far the greater part. He guessed--no, he
divined all that she felt, however; the pain, the care, the
apprehensiveness, that burdened her breast, as she rose after waiting
there alone to receive him in order to tell him the tale of her
father's embarrassments; a tale which he well knew she had never
herself heard before that night.

Langford would not have paused a moment under such circumstances for
worlds; and, with a step as quick as lightning, he was by her side: he
took her hand in his; he made her sit down again, and drew a chair near
her; gazing upon her with a look so full of tenderness and affection,
that--though sweet, most sweet to all her feelings--it made the tears
again rise into her eyes. It matters not whether what we drop into a
full cup be earth or a jewel; in either case the cup overflows.
Langford was anxious to speak first himself, and was not sorry that any
emotion not painful in itself should prevent her from commencing the
conversation.

"Alice," he said, "dear Alice, something painful has happened, I know,
and I guess the nature of it; but do not let it affect you too deeply.
If you did but know how common these events are in the gay world of the
metropolis, it would become lighter in your eyes than it is now,
breaking upon you suddenly, and ignorant as you are of all such
transactions."

"Then you have heard?" said Alice, gazing mournfully in his face.

"No, I have not," replied Langford; "but I have divined what is the
matter: I divined long ago."

"Then you were indeed generous," she said, "to wish to link your fate
with mine; for it seems to me an evil one."

"Not so, dearest," replied Langford; "not so! I would say, that all I
ask is to share it, if I had not the vain hope, my beloved, of doing
more, and rendering it a happy one."

"Oh! but Langford, I fear you do not know all," replied Alice; "and
though I waited here on purpose to tell you, I do not know whether I
shall be able to do so distinctly; for I am unacquainted with even the
terms of these things. But I will tell you what happened when I came
home. I found my poor father sitting here, in a terrible state of
agitation, and Lord Danemore's lawyer with him, looking cold and stiff,
and taking snuff, and a very different man, indeed, from what I have
seen him in former days, bowing down to the ground, and scarcely
venturing to sit down in the same room with my father. He it was who
told me, for my father could not, that there was what he called a bond
and judgment for ten thousand pounds and interest, which my father owed
Lord Danemore; and that my father had offered to give him a mortgage on
his estate for it; but that Lord Danemore would not take one, both
because he wanted the money, and because he said that the estate was
mortgaged already up to its value."

"That must be a mistake, I think," said Langford. "You will forgive me,
Alice, for having made some inquiries lately; and will not, I know,
attribute my having done so to any motive but the true one. I have,
however, made such inquiries; and I feel sure that this lawyer of Lord
Danemore's has greatly exaggerated, and has done so for the purpose of
embarrassing your father."

"Oh! I cannot think he could be so cruel," exclaimed Alice, "when he
saw the dreadful state of agitation in which my father was. However, he
made it out, in short, that we had nothing on earth left but the
pictures and the plate, and my poor mother's jewels; and he said, that
all he wanted to know was, first, whether I would be willing to give up
the little fortune that was left me by my aunt, to pay one half of the
debt; and next, when my father would pay the remainder. He said, too,
he had no objection to give him a week to do so."

"A week!" exclaimed Langford, "a week! The pitiful scoundrel! Is that
the way he treats his master's friend? However, Alice, he shall find
himself mistaken! Listen to me, my beloved," and clasping her hand in
his, he glided his arm round her waist, and gazed fondly and tenderly
in her face: "I have some means of knowing, Alice, what is taking place
in this neighbourhood, which it is needless to explain: and certain
circumstances induced me to believe that this claim would be made by
Lord Danemore on your father immediately. Alice," he added, with a
meaning look, "you know that there may be motives sufficient to induce
Lord Danemore to entertain some slight feelings of anger towards you
and your father at this moment."

Alice blushed very deeply, and looked up with surprise, saying, "What
motives do you mean, Langford?"

"I mean on account of his son," replied Langford.

"I did not know," replied Alice, ingenuously, "that either you or
anybody else, but my father, knew aught of that business, till
to-night."

"Several persons knew it," replied Langford; "and though I do not mean
to excuse Lord Danemore, yet we must allow something for anger--and I
think that such was his motive."

"Oh, that it certainly was," replied Alice, "for the attorney did not
scruple to acknowledge it; but I did not think myself justified in
mentioning it even to you, Langford."

"I do not mean to excuse Lord Danemore's conduct," said Langford. "It
was unjust and unkind; but, perhaps, it was consistent with human
nature, and certainly was consistent with all I know of his nature,
which is quick, vehement, and passionate, if we may believe one-half of
what is said. But, after all, very likely this lawyer has outdone his
instructions. However, Alice, as I said, he shall be disappointed.
Learning that something of the kind was in agitation, I wrote several
days ago to London, in order to be prepared to meet this matter. By
this time my messenger is at the village, and brings with him a
sufficient sum to discharge your father's obligation to Lord Danemore.
For the last two or three days, Alice, I will acknowledge to you that
my mind has been in a great state of doubt and agitation: the sum for
which I have sent is more than one-half of what I actually possess; but
it was no fear in regard to that which made me at all hesitate. I only
doubted whether I should tell you all I feel towards you before I
offered this little assistance to your father or not. I thought that if
hope had deceived me, and Alice rejected my love, her father would then
refuse to receive any aid from me, however needful it might be to him;
and, therefore, on the one hand, I fancied it might be better to
mention the subject of the money first. But then again, on the other
hand, I thought if I did so it might place my Alice in embarrassing
circumstances, should she find herself obliged to refuse a man who had
come to her father's assistance in a moment of difficulty. I judged it
would seem ungenerous of me even to ask her very soon after. In short,
Alice, I gave way to hope and impatience, trusting that my Alice, by
accepting me, would give me a right both to protect her and to assist
her father."

"In short, Langford," replied Alice, placing her other hand upon his,
"in short, you thought of everything that was generous, and kind, and
noble, and acted accordingly."

"Nay, nay, not so, Alice," replied Langford; "but, of course, you have
told your father what has passed between us."

"Immediately that man was gone," replied Alice, "I felt myself bound to
do so, Langford; the more bound, from all the digressing and agitating
events which had occurred."

"You did quite right, my beloved," he replied. "What did he say?"

"He said everything that was kind and affectionate," replied Alice. "He
said everything that I should like to hear said of one I love; but he
said that he feared you would be disappointed when you heard all this
bad news, and that I was bound in honour to set you free from all
promises, as much as if no proposal had ever been made. On his own
part, he said that he should never raise any objections in regard to
fortune; that he would never have done so even in his most prosperous
days; but there was one question which he wished to ask regarding
birth." Alice blushed, and cast down her eyes as she spoke. Then
raising them suddenly and frankly to Landlord's face, she added, "It is
one of his prejudices, you know, Henry. But even if there should be any
difficulty, his love for me and his esteem for you will make it but the
matter of a moment."

Langford gazed in her face for an instant with a melancholy smile,
which almost made her believe that her father's suspicions with regard
to his history were correct. The next instant, however--whether he
understood her meaning clearly or not--he answered, "Set your mind at
rest, clear Alice; my birth is as good as your own! Is your father gone
to bed?"

"He went up stairs about half an hour before you came," said Alice;
"but he is not asleep yet, I am sure. I sat up both to tell you all
this and to put my mind at ease about you and Lord Harold. You were so
long absent that I was uneasy. If you had not given me your solemn
promise not to quarrel with him, and if my father's grief and agitation
had not occupied so much of my thoughts, I am afraid I should have been
very foolish, and both terrified and unhappy at your not returning."

"I have been very busy about other things," replied Langford, the
chilly recollection of all that had passed in the interval, coming back
upon him like a sudden gust of cold wind; "but my conversation with
Lord Harold only lasted ten minutes. I do not mean to say that he would
not willingly have quarrelled with me, but I would not quarrel with
him; and I trust that my reputation for courage does not require to be
sustained by any such silly contests. However, dear Alice," he
continued, suddenly turning the conversation back again to its former
subject--"however, if your father be not asleep, it may put his mind
more at ease to hear that means are provided for meeting Lord
Danemore's claim upon him; and you may also tell him, my Alice, in
order to remove every shade of doubt, that although my fortune be but
scanty, as it at present stands, yet there is good hope of its being
greatly increased, and that my birth is certainly not inferior to that
of her whose hand is already too valuable a gift to need the
enhancement of superior station."

As he spoke, he raised the hand he held, tenderly, but reverentially,
to his lips; for he felt that he was bound to double every outward
token of respect at a moment when Alice announced to him that her own
expectations of high fortune were disappointed, and that the rich
heiress, who had thought a few hours before she had great wealth and
broad lands to give, was now dowerless, except in her beauty, her
virtues, and her gentleness.

So he felt, and so he acted; and Alice saw his feelings and appreciated
them to the full.

She rose then to go, but hesitated a moment as she wished him
good-night, not knowing well how to express all the sensations that his
conduct had produced. "Langford," she said, at length, "how shall I
thank you? I will not attempt to do it now, the time is too short; but
I shall find time, if endeavouring through life to make you happy be
enough."

Langford could not resist it, and for a moment he pressed her to his
bosom, adding--"Good-night, my Alice; good-night, my beloved. Hasten to
your father before he is asleep, and I will remain for a few minutes
here, to write a note to the landlord of the Talbot, bidding him send
up to-morrow morning early the packet, which must have arrived
to-night. I will tell him to address it to you; so that, before your
father is awake to-morrow, you will have in your own hands the means of
freeing him from all apprehension regarding this claim. I trust, too,
dear Alice, that the time will come, when he will so much regard me in
the light of a son, as to permit me to examine into the matter of these
mortgages, and I think I can show him, and others too, that his estates
are far from being as much involved as they have been represented to
be."

They parted; and after Langford had written the note he spoke of, and
had given it to a servant to take to the little town early in the
morning, he retired to rest. He found in his chamber, busily engaged in
laying out his toilet for the night, the old servant Halliday, who,
during the whole time he had been confined in consequence of his wound,
had attended him with the utmost care and attention, springing from a
feeling that he was in some degree paying off a debt of his young
mistress, in whose service that wound had been received. There was now
in his countenance, though his nature was too respectful to suffer him
to put any questions, an anxious sort of inquiringness, which Langford
could not resist. "It is not so bad, Halliday," he said. "Your
excellent master has alarmed himself too much. All will go quite well,
depend upon it."

The man made him a low bow with an air full of gratitude. "I am very
much obliged to you, Captain," he said. "I was frightened, I confess;
for the steward, you see, told me, at least three months ago. But,
however, we servants have no right to be talking about such matters;
and though it is all out of love and regard to Sir Walter and Mistress
Alice, perhaps we had better hold our tongues."

"Perhaps so, Halliday," replied Langford. "And now, good-night; all
will go well, depend upon it."

The man again bowed low and respectfully, and left the room, and
Langford proceeded calmly to undress himself; for--though his mind was
oppressed, and the moment his thoughts were turned from the immediate
subject of Sir Walter Herbert's affairs, they reverted naturally to the
more painful topics with which they had before been engaged---he was
not a man to suffer his feelings to overpower him, or to interrupt him
in his ordinary habits and occupations. He felt deeply and strongly;
but he was too much accustomed to such feelings to suffer the emotions
of his mind greatly to affect his corporeal demeanour. It is those who
feel by fits and starts alone that give full way to sudden emotions.
Langford could feel as poignantly as any one. He did feel so at that
moment; and yet he proceeded with his ordinary preparations for repose
as if nothing had occurred to affect his feelings or to shake his
heart. He ended by kneeling and commending himself and those he loved
to the care of the Great Protector, and then lay down to rest, but not
to sleep. That he could not command; and for many an hour he remained
with his right arm bent under his head, his eyes cast upwards through
the darkness, peopling vacancy with strange shapes, and suffering
imagination to suggest to him many a melancholy and many a painful
image, which, after all, were not so dark and gloomy as the reality
soon proved to be. The sky was beginning to turn grey with the morning
light, when he first closed his eyes. He started up again, however, in
another moment, and then lay awake till it was broad daylight.
Perceiving that such was the case, he was about to rise, but a degree
of drowsiness came over him; and yielding to it for a moment, it took
possession of him quite, and he fell into a deep sleep.




                              CHAPTER X.


Day had long dawned, as we have said, ere Langford woke; and even then
he woke not of himself, nor till the servant, Halliday, had twice
called him by name, standing close by his bedside, and looking upon him
with an expression of much interest, indeed, but with a face from which
all colour was banished, apparently by fear and agitation.

"Master Langford!" he said; "Master Langford! No guilty man ever slept
so sound as that. Poo, nonsense! Captain Langford, I say!"

Langford woke, and looked up, demanding what was the matter.

"Why, sir," replied the servant, "here is good old Gregory Myrtle, the
landlord of the Talbot, wants to speak with you immediately. I met him
as I was going up to the village, coming down here as fast as he could
roll."

"Then you have not got the packet I sent for?" said Langford, coolly.

"He has got it, sir, safe," replied Halliday; "but he would not give it
up, for he was coming on to you himself."

"He should have given it, as he was directed," said Langford. "Tell him
to wait; I will see him when I am dressed."

"But he says, sir, that he must see you directly; that his business is
of the greatest importance; that there is not a moment to lose."

"Oh, then, send him up," said Langford, "if the matter be so pressing
as that."

Halliday instantly disappeared, as if he thought that too much time had
been wasted already; and while Langford proceeded to rise, good Gregory
Myrtle was heard creaking and panting up the stairs, as fast as his
vast rotundity would let him. His face, too, was pale, if pale it ever
could be called; and he was evidently in a great state of agitation,
though the jolly habitual laugh still remained, and was heard before he
was well within the door of Langford's room.

"Haw, haw, haw!" he cried, as he laid down the expected packet before
Langford. "Lord a' mercy, Master Harry, this is a terrible business,"
he continued. "Well, I never did think--however, it's all nonsense, I
know," and he again burst into a loud laugh, ending abruptly in the
midst, and staring in Langford's face, as if for a reply.

"Well, good Gregory," replied Langford, who, in the meantime, had
broken open the seals of the packet, and seen that various bills of
exchange which it contained, together with other equivalents for money,
were all right--"well, good Master Myrtle, what is it that is very
terrible? What is it you did never think? What is it that is all
nonsense? I am in the dark, Master Myrtle."

"Gad's my life, sir, they won't let you be in the dark long," cried the
landlord of the Talbot; "and I came down to enlighten you first, that
you might not be taken by surprise."

"As to what?" said Langford, somewhat impatiently.

"Lord, sir! I thought that Halliday must have told you something, at
least," replied Gregory Myrtle, "or that his face must if not his
tongue, for it's all black and white, like the broadside of the 'Hue
and Cry.' But the matter is this," he added, after pausing a moment to
laugh at his own joke: "it seems that poor Lord Harold, who was a good
youth in his way, though he was somewhat sharp upon poachers and
deer-stealers, and the like, was murdered last night upon the moor."

"Good God!" cried Langford, clasping his hands. "Good God!"

"It's but too true, sir," continued Myrtle, throwing as much solemnity
as he could into his jocund countenance, "it's but too true; and
there's poor Lord Danemore, his father, distracted. And for the matter
of that, I think Sir Thomas Waller and Sir Matthew Scrope are as much
distracted too; for after having been with my lord since five o'clock
this morning, they come down to my house, and begin examining witnesses
and taking evidence, and sending here and there, and the end of it
all is--for I heard them consulting over it through a chink in the
door--they judge that you are the person who murdered him, only because
that mad fellow, silly John Graves, came running down to the village
last night for help, swearing he had seen you and Lord Harold with your
swords drawn upon each other. So, while they were busy swearing in
constables, and all that, I thought it but friendly-like to come down
here and tell you, in case you might think it right to get upon your
horse's back, and gallop away till the business is over."

"Swearing in constables!" said Langford, without seeming to take notice
of the worthy host's suggestion. "Why, they don't suppose my name is
'Legion,' do they? One constable, I should suppose, would be quite as
useful as twenty."

"Ay, Master Harry," replied Gregory Myrtle; "but they vow that you are
connected with the gentlemen of the road, who have been sporting round
here lately, and they are afraid of a rescue."

"Indeed!" said Langford; "the sapient men! However, Master Myrtle, ring
that little bell at the top of the stairs."

The silver hand-bell to which he pointed was immediately rung, and
Halliday, who had remained halfway down the stairs, was in the room in
a moment. No sooner did he appear, than Gregory Myrtle, who put his own
construction upon Langford's coolness, exclaimed, "Quick, Master
Halliday, quick! Saddle the Captain's horse for him!"

"No, no, Halliday," said Langford. "You are making a mistake, my good
Master Myrtle. Take this packet, Halliday, and give it into Mistress
Alice's own hands as soon as ever you can. I am going out with Master
Myrtle here upon this business, which I see you have heard of. What may
be the result of these foolish people's silly suspicions, I cannot
tell; but do what you can, Halliday, to keep the matter from the ears
of Sir Walter and Mistress Alice as long as you can. Warn the other
servants too; for there is no use of adding fresh vexation to that
which your master and mistress are already suffering. You must all know
very well that I have nothing to do with this business, and can make
that clear very soon. Say, therefore, that I have gone out for a few
hours, but left that packet for Mistress Alice, with my best wishes.
Now, good Gregory Myrtle, go back to your inn, and tell Sir Thomas
Waller and Sir Matthew Scrope that I will be with them in five minutes,
as soon as I have dressed myself."

Our host of the Talbot pursued the direction he had received, rolled
down the stairs, and laboured along the road towards the village, with
his surprise and admiration both excited by the extraordinary coolness
and self-possession displayed by Langford under such circumstances. By
the time he had reached the middle of the bridge, he perceived a great
number of people issuing from the door of his own house; and, ere he
was halfway up the street of the little town, he encountered ten or
twelve constables and special constables, headed by the two magistrates
in person. No sooner did he approach than the stentorian voice of Sir
Thomas Waller--all unlike the dulcet notes of Sacharissa's lover--was
heard to exclaim, "Take him into custody, Jonathan Brown!"

"Where hast thou been, Gregory Myrtle, Gregory Myrtle?" exclaimed, in
softer tones, almost in the same moment, the voice of Sir Matthew
Scrope.

"You have been aiding and abetting felony!" cried Sir Thomas.

"You have been warning the guilty to escape!" said Sir Matthew.

"You have been helping the lion to fly from his pursuers!" said Sir
Thomas.

"You have been proditoriously giving information of our secret
councils!" said Sir Matthew.

"It is being an accessary after the fact!" said his companion.

"It is misprision of treason!" said the other.

"It is levying war against the king!" shouted Sir Thomas.

"It is a gaol delivery!" cried the head constable, determined not to be
outdone by his betters.

"Haw, haw, haw.'" exclaimed Gregory Myrtle, laying his two hands upon
his fat stomach, "What is the matter with your worships?"'

"Hast thou not gone down on purpose," said Sir Matthew Scrope, "to warn
Harry Langford, alias Captain Langford, alias Master Harry, to evade
and escape the pursuit of justice, by flying out of the back door while
we are approaching the front? Hast thou not done this, Gregory Myrtle?
and woe be unto thee if he have so escaped! Take him into custody, I
say!"

"Well, your worships," said Myrtle, beginning to look a little rueful
under the hands of the constables. "I have been down to Master Harry, I
own it; but I went upon other business that I had to do with him. Does
not everybody know that I had a packet down for him by a special
messenger yesterday night, with orders to deliver it into his own
hands? and if I did talk with him this morning of what was going on,
did he not send his compliments to your worships, and bid me say that
he would be up with you in five minutes, as soon as he had got his
clothes on!"

"Poo, nonsense, man!" exclaimed Sir Thomas Waller, growing red in the
face. "Do you think we are fools, to be taken in with such a story as
that? Are you fool enough yourself to think that he will come."

"I say, as sure as I am a living man, he will come!" said Gregory
Myrtle. "Ay, more, my masters," he continued, after giving a glance
towards the Manor House, "I say, there he is coming."

All eyes were instantly turned in the direction in which his own had
been bent the moment before, and the figure of a man, which seemed to
have just issued out of the gates of the park, was seen walking with a
slow calm step along the road towards the village. The magistrates, the
constables, and the multitudinous crowd which followed them, all stood
in silence and what we may call _thunderstruckness_, so little credence
had they given to the assurances of Gregory Myrtle; for let it be
remembered, that the first effect produced by an accusation against any
one, upon vulgar minds, is to lead them at once to condemn him. I am
afraid there is something in the human heart that loves the act of
condemnation--an act which either gratifies malignity or vanity.

However that may be, the party assembled in the streets of the little
town could not believe their eyes, and, indeed, would not believe their
eyes long after the form of Henry Langford, a form with which many of
them were perfectly acquainted, had become distinctly visible,
approaching with slow calm steps towards the spot where they were
gathered together. The matter, however, could no longer be doubted; and
the magistrates stood still, not knowing very well how to act in such
unusual circumstances.

Henry Langford, in the mean time, approached without the slightest
appearance of hesitation or dismay at the sight of the formidable
phalanx which they presented. Walking up to the magistrates with the
calm and graceful dignity which characterised all his actions, he bowed
slightly, saying, "I am told, gentlemen, that a most distressing
occurence has taken place, and that you imagine there is some cause for
supposing that I am implicated in this matter. Now, with your leave,
gentlemen, we will go to the inn, as this is no place for discussing
such subjects, and we will there investigate the matter accurately.
Doubtless, you have had good reason for attributing to me the
commission of a crime; but some person or another must have gone out of
the way, to insinuate or to urge such a charge against me; and who it
is that has been kind enough and liberal enough to do so, I shall make
it my business to discover, in order to punish him as he deserves."

Langford concluded somewhat sternly; and the magistrates, entirely
taken by surprise, looked rather foolish, and began to imagine that
they might have been too hasty in their conclusions. There was a tone
and an air, too, in the person whom they had suspected, which forbade
all high words or violent measures. He spoke to them as certainly their
equal, if not their superior, and there was so much of the
consciousness of innocence in his whole demeanour that it was very
difficult to conceive their suspicions were justified.

Not knowing well what to reply, they followed his suggestion in
silence, the one walking on one side of him, and the other on the
other. By the time they reached the Talbot, however, they began to
recover from the effect of his presence, and Sir Thomas Waller, with
what he conceived to be wise foresight and presence of mind, gave the
chief constable a hint in a whisper to guard the doors well, and to
take care that the prisoner did not escape. They did not, however,
venture to treat him as a prisoner in any other respect; and walking up
into the room where they had held their investigation, he sat down with
them at the table, and begged in a grave but not sarcastic tone, that
they would have the goodness to let him know on what grounds they for a
moment conceived that he had had any share in the unfortunate death of
Lord Harold.

The magistrates looked to their clerk, who had remained behind, putting
the evidence in order while they had proceeded with the constables for
the purpose of arresting Langford. The clerk who, upon the whole,
seemed a sensible little man, proceeded, as it was very common in those
days, to take the whole business into his hands, and recapitulated
coolly, but civilly, to Langford the heads of all the evidence that had
been taken.

Langford now discovered that the charge against him was much more
serious than he had at first imagined. He found that, in the first
place, several persons had deposed that silly John Graves, whose
adherence to truth was well known, had come down to the town in great
agitation, begging for help to stop Lord Harold and Master Harry
Langford from killing each other. It was proved, also, by the horse
boys from the Manor House, that Lord Harold, after having been in the
park with Master Langford, had returned for his horse about the same
time that the other had returned; that the young nobleman had ridden
away very slowly, and that Langford, after proceeding part of the way
towards the village, had suddenly come back, mounted his horse, and
ridden away very rapidly; that he had been absent till between ten and
eleven o'clock at night, and that big horse was evidently fatigued, and
had been hard ridden. Several people, too, had seen him pass at
different times, and on several parts of the road leading to the moor;
and, in short, there was quite sufficient evidence to prove that a
quarrel had taken place between Lord Harold and himself; that they had
both gone towards the same spot at the same time, and that he had been
absent a sufficient number of hours to commit the deed with which he
was charged, and to return.

As the evidence was recapitulated, the worthy magistrates gained
greater and greater confidence every moment; and at length Sir Matthew
Scope exclaimed, "If this is not sufficient to justify us in committing
the prisoner, I do not know what is."

"Not, perhaps, in committing him, your worship," said the clerk, whose
philology was choice without being very accurate; "but certainly in
remanding him."

"Why, I did not exactly mean to say committing," rejoined the
subservient magistrate; "remanding was the word I meant to use; but
where can we remand him to? If we remand him to the county jail,
Justice Holdhim will take the matter out of our hands, and we shall
lose all credit with the good Earl for arresting the murderer of his
son."

"Would it not be as well," said the clerk, "to take him up at once to
the castle? It is not improbable that the noble Earl might like to
examine him himself; and you can keep him confined there till you have
obtained further evidence to justify his committal."

"A very good thought, a very good thought!" cried Sir Thomas Waller,
rubbing his hands. "He shall be placed in my carriage with a constable
on each side, and we will follow in yours, Sir Matthew, with the other
constables on horseback."

Langford had listened in silence to the conversation between the
magistrates and their clerk, and though he evidently began to perceive
that the affair would be more serious and disagreeable than he had
anticipated, he could not refrain from smiling at the arrangement of
the stately procession that was to carry him to Danemore Castle. He
resolved, however, to make one effort to prevent the execution of a
purpose which would, of course, on many accounts, be disagreeable to
him; and he therefore interposed, as the clerk was about to leave the
room, saying, "You are rather too hasty, gentlemen, in your
conclusions, and I think you had better be warned, before you commit an
act which you may be made to repent of----"

"Do you mean to threaten us, sir?" exclaimed Sir Thomas Waller. "Take
those words down, clerk! Take those words down!"

"I mean to threaten you with nothing," replied Langford, "but the legal
punishment to which bad or ignorant magistrates may be subjected for
the use, or rather misuse, of their authority. You will remark--and I
beg that the clerk may take these words down--that one half of the
matter urged against me rests upon the reported words of a madman, who
has not been brought forward even himself."

"You would not have us take the deposition of an innocent, a born
natural!" demanded Sir Matthew Scope.

"His evidence is either worth something or worth nothing," replied
Langford. "You rest mainly upon his testimony reported by others, which
is, of course, worth nothing; and yet you will not take his testimony
from his own mouth, when I inform you, that if it were so taken, he
would prove that, though Lord Harold chose to quarrel with me, which I
do not deny, that I positively refused to draw my sword upon him, even
when he drew his upon me."

"That might be," said the clerk, "to take more sure vengeance in a
private way. Their worships have on the contrary to remark, that you
have not in any way attempted to account for the space of time you were
absent from the Manor House last night. Neither have you stated where
you were, or what was your occupation; and, without meaning to say
anything uncivil, sir, let me say, that there have been a great many
nights, while you remained at the inn, which might require accounting
for also. Their worships have not judged harshly of you, nor even given
attention to suspicious circumstances, till they found that the whole
of your conduct was suspicious." This was spoken while standing beside
the chair of Sir Matthew Scrope; and, after whispering a few words in
his ear, the clerk left the room.

Langford remained, with his eyes gloomily bent upon the table, without
speaking to either of his companions, busy with varied thoughts and
feelings, which began to come upon him, thick and many--to weigh him
down, and to oppress him. During the early part of the disagreeable
business in which he had been engaged, he had thought solely of his own
innocence, and of the absurdity, as it seemed to him, of the charge
against him; but as the matter went on, other considerations forced
themselves upon his attention. He was conscious he could give no
account of where he had been on the preceding night, when the murder
was committed; and yet he felt that he was called upon strongly to do
so, not for the purpose of freeing himself from suspicion, but with a
view to bring the real murderer to justice. Yet how could he reveal any
part of what he knew, without bringing down destruction on the head of
Franklin Gray, who had no share in the deed; who, at the very time it
was committed, was engaged in serving him, even at the risk of life; to
whom he was bound by so many ties of gratitude, and whose good
qualities, though they did certainly not serve to counterbalance his
crimes, yet rendered him a very different object in the eyes of
Langford from such men as Wiley and Hardcastle? At all events, he felt
that it was not for him to bring a man to the scaffold who had saved
his life on more than one occasion, and who had shown himself always
willing to peril his own in order to procure a comparatively trifling
benefit to him.

Mingled with all these feelings, was deep and bitter sorrow for Lord
Harold; and thus many conflicting emotions, all more or less painful,
together with the most painful of all, the knowledge that he could not
do his duty with that straightforward candour and decision which in all
other situations of life he had been accustomed to show, kept him in
stern and somewhat gloomy silence.

The magistrates, in the meanwhile, conversed apart in a low voice, Sir
Thomas Waller delighted with the plan they were about to pursue, and
anticipating great credit with Lord Danemore for the arrest of his
son's murderer; while Sir Matthew Scrope, who seemed to stand in
considerable awe of the old nobleman, declared, that he never half
liked to come across the Earl, who was so fierce, and fiery, and
imperious. In about a quarter of an hour the clerk returned, and
announced that all was ready, and Langford, surrounded by a complete
mob of constables, was placed in the rumbling carriage of Sir Thomas
Waller, and borne away towards Danemore Castle.

The two magistrates followed in the carriage of Sir Matthew, and the
train of constables, mounted on all sorts of beasts, came after
swelling the procession; while good Gregory Myrtle stood at his door
declaring, that he never saw such a piece of folly in his life: and the
poor chambermaid, dissolved in tears, wiped her eyes and vowed it was
impossible so handsome a young man could murder any body.




                             CHAPTER XI.


After a slow progress of between two or three hours, along roads, which
in those days frequently tossed the heavy carriage wheels high in air
over some large unbroken stone, and still more frequently suffered them
to repose in deep beds of sand or mud, till the efforts of four strong
Flanders horses had dragged them forth--the vehicle which contained
Henry Langford gained the brow of Danemore Hill, and came within sight
of the building, which in that part of the country was known under the
name of the Castle.

This view was obtained from the side of the park which lay in front,
and which was separated from the road merely by a low park paling
crowned with open palisading at the top. A part of the park itself lay
between the mansion and the road, which were at the distance of about
three quarters of a mile from each other, the ground sloping with a
thousand fanciful undulations, and covered with short turf of a rich
bright green in all the dells and hollows, though becoming slightly
brown upon the tops of the knolls, where the fierce summer sun, like
the withering glare of the great world, had already taken off the
freshness of the vegetation.

Scattered here and there were groups of old hawthorns, contorted into
many a strange and rugged form; while on either hand appeared clumps of
fine old trees, the chestnut, the beech, and the oak. The latter were
seen gradually deepening and clustering together to the right and left
of the house till they joined a thick wood, through which every here
and there stood forth, dark and defined amidst the tender green of the
other plants, the sombre masses of the pine and fir; like some of those
stern memories of sorrow, of sin, or of privation, which are to be
found in almost every human heart, and which still make themselves
known in gloomy distinctness, amidst the freshest scenes and brightest
occupations of life.

In the midst, backed by that thick wood, stood the house, or Castle, as
it was called, and the name was not ill deserved. It was an irregular
pile of building, erected in different ages by its different lords, and
showing the taste of the various individuals who had possessed it, as
well as of the various ages in which it had been constructed. On the
left was an old unornamented tower, in the simplest style of the old
Norman architecture. It was like one of the plain towers of some of the
Kentish churches, with square cut windows, or rather loop-holes, under
a semicircular arch, which denoted the original form. It was crowned by
a plain parapet with a high conical roof.

Then came a long range of buildings in a much later style of
architecture, with oriel windows, and a good deal of rich stone carving
and ornamental work; then two massive towers, projecting considerably
before the rest of the façade, and joined to it by two corridors,
through each of which was pierced a gateway, under a pointed arch; and
then again, as the building sunk into the wood, upon the right, were
more towers and masses of heavy masonry, united in general by long
lines of building of a lighter and more graceful character. On the
older parts the ivy had been suffered to grow, though not very
luxuriantly. The space in front, too, was kept clear of trees; and even
as the carriage passed along, at the distance of nearly a mile, the
wide esplanade on which the Castle stood, with a part of the barbican,
which had been suffered to remain, was distinctly visible.

The constables who sat with Langford in the carriage of Sir Thomas
Waller, gazed up, with feelings of awe and reverence, towards an
edifice, which the people of the country but seldom approached. The
eyes of Langford, too, were fixed upon it, but with sensations which
they little understood. All that they remarked was, that he kept his
eyes fixed upon the Castle steadfastly during the whole time that it
was visible as they passed along in front; that he looked at it calmly,
though gravely; and that, when he had done, he raised his head as if
waking from a reverie, and then suddenly turned and gazed from the
other window, where a wide and beautiful view was seen, spread out
below, reaching to the old Manor House, and the wooded banks and hills
beyond.

The carriage then rolled on, and, winding round under the park, entered
by a castellated lodge, and drove slowly up to the mansion, the
vehicles passing under the arches of the two large towers, which
projected from the centre of the building. A loud-tongued bell gave
notice of their coming, and three or four servants, fat, pampered, and
saucy, made their appearance to answer its noisy summons.

Sir Thomas Waller was the first to speak, and, with an air of
importance, he demanded immediately to see the Earl. One servant looked
at another, and he, who seemed to be the chief porter, replied shortly
that that was impossible, for the Earl had gone out.

"Gone out!" cried Sir Thomas, in surprise. "How? where?"

"He is gone out on horseback," replied the man, "that is how, sir; and
as to where, I fancy he is gone to the moor, where my young lord was
killed."

"But we must, at least we ought, to see my lord the Earl," said Sir
Matthew Scrope, "for we have brought up a prisoner for him to examine."

"I can't say anything about that," replied the man, with a sort of
sullen incivility; "my lord is out, but I will go and ask Mistress
Bertha, if you like."

"I do not know what Mistress Bertha can do in the matter," said Sir
Thomas Waller.

"Oh! she can do anything she likes," replied the man with a sneer, to
which he did not dare to give full expression.

"Well, ask her--ask her, then," said Sir Matthew; "you know who I am;
you know I was with the Earl three or four hours this morning. You know
I am a justice of the peace, and one of the quorum."

Sir Matthew did not seem by this announcement to raise his dignity
greatly in the eyes of the servant, who walked away, with slow and
measured steps, to make the proposed application. He returned in about
five minutes, saying, that Mistress Bertha's reply was, that, as it
might be a long time before the Earl returned, the magistrates had
better leave the prisoner locked up there, and come back in the evening
about the hour of his lordship's supper.

Sir Matthew Scrope and Sir Thomas Waller looked at each other. There
were some points in this suggestion which they did not much like; but
then, again, the magical words, "His lordship's supper," which were
coupled in their imagination with fine and exquisite wines from foreign
lands, fat haunches, rich sauces, and many another delicacy and luxury,
which rumour declared to be prevalent in Danemore Castle, rapidly
removed all objections from their minds; and after a few minutes'
consultation they determined to obey to the letter.

The next object of consideration was, how to secure their prisoner, and
in what room to place him; but their conference on that point was soon
cut short by the porter, who interrupted them by saying, "You had
better leave all that to Mistress Bertha; for, depend upon it she will
put him where she likes herself, and most likely has settled it
already. The best way will be to bring him in, and go to her. She is in
the long gallery."

Although the two magistrates did not at all approve of the whole
business being taken out of their hands by a woman, they nevertheless
yielded with some symptoms of displeasure; and Langford, being made to
descend from the carriage, was escorted by the two constables through a
long dim entrance passage, which led into a handsome vestibule beyond.
He offered no resistance to their will; he made no observation; he
asked no question; but with a calm and thoughtful dignity, which had
its effect even upon the pampered servants of the castle, he walked on,
looking casually at the different objects he passed, as if almost
indifferent to the part he was himself acting in the scene.

From the vestibule a handsome flight of stone stairs, lighted by a tall
painted window, led up to a gallery extending on either side for about
seventy yards; and up these stairs Langford was led, following the two
magistrates, who went on with slow steps, preparing to give Mistress
Bertha, the housekeeper, a just notion of their dignity and importance.
At the top of the stairs they were met by that personage herself,
dressed as we have before described her, except that her broad white
coif was no longer surmounted by the black veil with which she covered
her head when she went abroad. Her thin aquiline features might have
gained an additional degree of sharpness; her sallow skin was, if
anything, more sallow; and the cold severe expression, which always
reigned in her countenance, was now increased to a degree of stern
bitterness which somewhat humbled the tone of the two magistrates.

They approached her, however, with a very tolerable degree of
pomposity; and Sir Thomas Waller introduced himself and then presented
Sir Matthew Scrope, announcing to her that they were magistrates of the
county, and two of the quorum. As he spoke, the attention of the
housekeeper wandered beyond the two worshipful gentlemen altogether,
and was attracted to the prisoner, who followed them. There was
something in his good looks, his calm and dignified demeanour, his
apparel, or his expression of countenance, which made the thin eyelids
of Mistress Bertha's eyes expand from the bright dark orbs they covered
at the first moment they lighted on him, and she demanded, "Is that the
prisoner?"

Sir Thomas Waller replied that it was; and then recapitulated what he
had been saying in regard to the dignity of himself and Sir Matthew
Scrope.

"Yes, yes," replied Mistress Bertha, with her slight foreign accent, "I
know who you are, both of you; and now you have nothing to do but to
leave the prisoner here till the Earl comes home. You can return at his
supper hour. I do not know that he will eat with you himself, but if he
do not, meat shall be provided for you."

"There can be no reason, madam," said Sir Matthew Scrope, "why the Earl
should not sup with us; we have supped with men of as high rank, I
trow."

"When a man has lost his only son," said the housekeeper, sharply, "is
that no reason why he should not sup with two fat country knights, to
whom his sorrow and his presence would only bring gloom and stiffness?
Better sup by yourselves, and eat, and drink, and make merry, as you
are accustomed to do."

"Gadzooks!" said Sir Thomas Waller, in a low voice to his companion, "I
think the old lady is right; but madam," he added in a louder tone, "we
must be made sure of the safety of our prisoner."

"Leave that to me, leave that to me," replied the housekeeper, shortly.
"Follow me, Williams and Hanbury, to guard the prisoner; and you, John
Porter, come on too. Come with me, young gentleman," she added,
speaking to Langford in a more benign tone. "You do not look as if you
would commit a murder; but, God knows, looks are deceitful things. Come
with me."

"But, madam, we have no authority," interrupted Sir Matthew Scrope.

"Authority!" exclaimed the housekeeper, fiercely raising up her tall
thin person to its utmost height, "who talks of authority in this
house? You may well say you have no authority, for you lost it all the
moment you crossed that threshold. No one has authority here but the
Earl; and, when he is absent, myself--now that that poor boy is gone,"
she added, while a bright drop rose into her eyes, sparkled upon the
black lashes that fringed them, and then fell upon the sallow skin
beneath. "I trust in God you did not kill him, young gentleman; for if
you did, you committed a great crime."

"Indeed I did not, madam," replied Langford; "I should sooner have
thought of killing myself."

"I believe you, I believe you," replied the housekeeper; "but yet I
must have you as safely guarded as if you had. If you want to see where
I put him," she continued, speaking to the magistrates in a somewhat
gentler tone than she had hitherto used, "you may come with me: there
is a room which no one even enters but my lord and myself: it is
high up in the oldest tower; and even if he could get through the
windows--which he cannot--there is a fall of sixty feet below, clear
down. But come and see it if you will, and you shall have some
refreshment after."

Carrying a large key which she had held in her hand from the beginning
of the conversation, she led the way to the end of the gallery in which
they stood. Then, passing through another handsome corridor, she
ascended a staircase in the older part of the building, which brought
them to an ante-room, opening into a large bed-chamber, with windows on
each side; whilst through the western window, and close to it, might be
seen projecting the heavy mass of the large square tower that we have
mentioned in describing the building. A small low door was exactly
opposite to them as they entered, and to the lock of this Mistress
Bertha applied the key. It turned heavily, and with difficulty, as if
not often used; and the door moving back, gave entrance into a lofty
and cheerful chamber, lighted by four small windows.

The strength of the door and the height of the windows showed at once
that escape from that chamber was impossible; and the magistrates,
holding in remembrance the refreshments which their somewhat ungracious
companion had promised them, expressed themselves perfectly satisfied
with the security of their prisoner. Langford was accordingly desired
to enter the place of his confinement, and did so at once, merely
turning to address the housekeeper as he passed. "Madam," he said, "I
am sure you will be good enough to give my compliments to Lord Danemore
whenever he returns, and to inform him, first that I assert my perfect
innocence of the charge which these two worthy persons have somewhat
too hastily brought against me; and, secondly, that I beg he will take
the most prompt and immediate means for investigating the whole affair,
as it will be unpleasant for me to submit to this treatment long; and
there are plenty of persons in the neighbourhood who will see that
justice is done me."

The housekeeper made no other reply than bowing her head; but when
Langford had entered, and she had shut and locked the door, she turned
sharply and contemptuously upon the magistrates, saying, "He did not do
it! he never did it! you will make yourselves a laughing-stock in the
country."

Sir Thomas Waller was about to reply, but she silenced him at once by
ordering one of the servants who followed her to have the cold meats
laid out in the little hall, and find the butler for a stoup of
Burgundy. A proposal made by Sir Matthew Scrope to leave two of the
constables behind in the ante-room, she cut short, less pleasantly,
telling him that she would have no constables in her master's house
except such as were intended to be thrown out of the window.

By this time both magistrates began to find out that it was to no
purpose to contest matters in Danemore Castle with this imperious dame;
and they accordingly followed her in silence back to the head of the
great stairs. There she made them over to the care of one of the men
servants, who in turn led them to the lesser hall, where a collation
was set before them, which well repaid them for all their patient
endurance.

In the meanwhile, Langford had remained in the solitary chamber which
had been assigned to him. As soon as the door was closed, he took nine
or ten turns up and down the room, in a state of much agitation, then
gazed out for a moment from each of the windows by which it was
lighted, and then sat down at the table, and placed his hands for
several minutes before his eyes. It is not needful to enter into any
detailed account of his feelings; his situation was particularly
painful in every respect; and though he was not one of those who give
way to each transient emotion, something might well be allowed for
discomfort, anxiety, and indignation. When he had thus paused for a few
minutes, thinking over his fate? he lifted his eyes and gazed round the
chamber which served as his place of confinement, seeming to take
accurate note of all it contained.

The room itself was a cheerful and a pleasant room, with a vaulted
ceiling richly ornamented; while the thick walls of the tower were
lined with oak, very deep in hue, and finely carved with Gothic
tracery. The form of the chamber was perfectly square, and its extent
might be four-and-twenty feet each way. The furniture, too, was good
though ancient, and of the same carved oak as the panelling. It
consisted of a large table, and a smaller one, eight or nine large
high-backed chairs, and several curious carved cabinets. But the
objects which most attracted the attention of Langford were two small
panels, distinct from the rest of the wainscotting, and ornamented in
such a way as to show that they were not all intended to be concealed,
with a small pointed ogee canopy above each, similar to that which
surmounted the door by which he had entered, but only smaller in size.
In each of these panels was a key-hole surrounded by an intricate steel
guard; and it was evident that each covered the entrance of one of
those cupboards in the wall, in which our remote ancestors took so much
delight.

Besides the door by which he had entered, there was a smaller one on
the opposite side of the room, leading, as Langford conceived, to a
staircase in one of the large buttresses; and as he had been a prisoner
before, and had found it useful to know all the outlets of his
temporary abode, his first action, after gazing round the room, was to
approach that second door and try whether it was or was not locked. It
was firmly closed, however; and he took his way back towards his seat,
pausing by the way to examine the two small closets, and murmuring to
himself, as he did so, "This is very strange!"

As he spoke, he drew forth from his breast the key which had been given
him on the preceding night by Franklin Gray, and put it in the lock,
but did not turn it, though it fitted exactly. He withdrew it again
almost instantly, and replaced it in his bosom, then folded his arms
upon his chest, and took one or two turns up and down the room, pausing
at every second step, and gazing thoughtfully upon the floor.

By the time he had been half-an-hour in this state of confinement, he
heard a key placed in the lock of the door by which he had entered. In
another moment it opened, and the tall, stately figure of Mistress
Bertha appeared. In one hand she carried several books, and in the
other some writing paper, with a small inkhorn suspended on her finger.
She shut the door after her, but did not attempt to lock it; and then
laying down the books and implements for writing on the table, she
turned round and gazed fixedly in Langford's face.

"Have we ever met before?" she said at length, "Your face is familiar
to me. It comes back like something seen in a dream. Have we ever met
before?"

"If we have," replied Langford, "it must have been many years ago, when
the face of the child was very different from the face of the man."

She still gazed at him, and after a considerable pause said, "I have
brought you some books that you may read, and wherewithal to write if
you like it. In return for this write me down your name."

Langford smiled, and, taking up the pen, wrote down his name in a bold
free hand. The woman gazed at him as he did so, then carried her eye
rapidly to the writing. A bright and intelligent smile shone for a
moment upon her thin pale lip; and she said, "Enough! enough! that is
quite enough. You have been taught to believe that I have wronged you
more than I really have; and although I have given you much good
counsel and much true information, you have doubted and have not fully
trusted me. I tell you now, and I tell you truly, that I have not
wronged you, at least as far as my knowledge of right and wrong goes,
and therefore I am still willing to do all that I can to serve you. The
history of the past I may tell you at some future time, and I will show
you that I wronged others less than they thought I did. But there is
one whom I will not name, who has wronged you and yours deeply; and I
know his nature--I know human nature too well not to be sure that
implacable hatred and constant persecution is the offspring of such
acts, rather than sorrow, remorse, and atonement. It was on that
account that I bade you never come here. It was on that account that I
bade you fly his presence. Fate, however, has brought you here at a
moment when the mortal agony at losing the only creature he really
loved may yet tame his fierce heart and bend his iron will. I can do
but little for you, for I am bound by an oath--an oath which has bound
me for many years; but fate, which has brought you here, and has
wrought an extraordinary thing in your behalf, may yet do much. I will
leave it to its course. But with regard to your own conduct, beware! I
warn you to beware. Choose well your moment, and of all things be not
hasty. But hark, what is that I hear below? There are his horses' feet,
and I must leave you. Thank God, those idiot justices are gone."

"Yet one moment," said Langford, as she turned to depart: "I may have
thought that you wronged me and mine, but I have not doubted--I have
not suspected you, as you suppose. On the contrary, in many things, as
you may have seen, I have followed your advice--in others, that of one
whom I was more strictly bound to confide in."

"Ay, and it was she who taught you to believe--it was she who was weak
enough to believe herself, that I had been guilty of that which I would
scorn."

"No!" exclaimed Langford--"No! You mistake: she never did believe you
guilty. She owned, that once, in a moment of anger, she implied so; but
she did you justice in that respect through the whole of her life. She
told me more than once, too, that she had herself seen you, and assured
you, that she did not doubt you, as you imagined--that anger, having
passed away, justice and right judgment had returned."

"But all her words were cold," said Bertha, "and all her letters had
something of restraint in them."

"Consider her situation," said Langford in return; "and remember that
she had some cause to blame, as yourself acknowledged; though, in
regard to other things, she might have done you injustice."

"She did bitter injustice to herself," replied the woman, "and drove me
to attach myself to others, though I would fain have attached myself to
her; and, having done so, would have served her with my heart's
blood;--but I must not linger; I will see you again, ere
long--farewell!" and thus saying, she left him, locking the door
behind her.




                             CHAPTER XII.


Langford had not been left five minutes alone ere the sound of voices
of persons rapidly approaching caught his ear. At first he imagined
that they proceeded from the side by which he himself had entered; but
the moment after he became convinced that they came from the direction
of the other door, which, as he justly supposed, communicated with a
staircase in one of the large buttresses. At first, of course, the
sounds were indistinct, but, a moment after, a key was placed in the
lock, and a loud, deep voice was heard exclaiming, "I will stop for
nothing till I have seen him face to face! Where is this murderer of my
son?"

The door was thrown violently open before these words were fully
spoken, and the Earl of Danemore himself stood before the prisoner.

He was a tall, handsome, powerful man, wide-chested, broad-shouldered,
and still very muscular, without being at all corpulent. He might be
sixty-three or sixty-four years of age, and his hair was snowy white.
His eyebrows, however, and his eyelashes, both of which were long and
full, were as black as night. There was many a long, deep furrow on his
brow, and a sort of scornful, but habitual wrinkle between the nostril
of the strong aquiline nose and the corner of his mouth. On his right
cheek appeared a deep scar, round, and of about the size of a
pistol-ball; and on the chin, was a longer scar, cutting nearly from
the lip down into the throat and neck. He was dressed in a suit of
plain black velvet, with the large riding boots and heavy sword, which
were common about fifteen or sixteen years before the period of which
we now speak, but which were beginning by this time to go out of
fashion.

On entering the room, his teeth were hard set together, his brow
contracted till the large thick eyebrows almost met, and his whole air
fierce and agitated. His quick eyes darted round the room in a moment,
and alighted upon Langford, who turned and faced him at once.

The moment, however, that their looks met, a strange and sudden change
came over the whole appearance of Lord Danemore. He paused abruptly,
and stood still in the middle of the room, gazing in Langford's face,
while the frown departed from his brow, and he raised his hand towards
his head, passing it twice before his eyes, as if he fancied that some
delusion had affected his sight. His lips opened as if he would have
spoken, but for a moment or two no sounds issued forth; and the calm,
quiet, steady gaze with which Langford regarded him seemed to trouble
and agitate him.

"What is your name? what is your name?" he exclaimed rapidly, when he
could speak. "Who brought you here?"

"My name is Henry Langford," replied the prisoner--"an officer, in the
service of his majesty; and if you seriously ask, my lord--for I
suppose, I have the honour of speaking to the Earl of Danemore--if you
seriously ask who brought me hither, I have only to reply two very
silly persons calling themselves magistrates, who have entertained or
rather manufactured, amongst themselves a charge against me for which
there is not the slightest foundation."

"Henry Langford! Henry Langford!" repeated the Earl, casting his eyes
on the ground, and then raising them again to Langford's face, every
line and feature of which he seemed to scan with anxious care. "Pray of
what family are you?"

"My father," replied Langford, "was a gentleman of some property in
England, of which property, however, I have been unjustly deprived;"
and as he spoke, he fixed his eyes steadfastly upon the Earl; but that
nobleman's countenance underwent no change, and he proceeded--"My
mother was also a lady of some property----"

"Where were you born?" demanded the Earl, quickly.

"Though your questions are rather unceremonious, my lord, for a perfect
stranger," Langford replied, "I will not scruple to answer them. I was
born in a small town in this country."

"Not in France?" demanded the Earl, quickly. "I do not ask without a
motive--not in France? Are you certain it was not in France?"

"Perfectly certain," replied Langford. "My mother's family, however,
were French--related to the illustrious family of Beaulieu."

"So," said the Earl, "so! How nearly are you related to that
family?--are you sure not in France?"

"Quite certain," replied Langford. "I have lived much in France, which
may have given me some slight foreign accent; and as to my relationship
to the Beaulieus, I can really hardly tell how near. I have only heard
my mother say that she was nearly related to them."

"It cannot be! It cannot be!" said the Earl, drooping his head, and
looking down upon the ground. "Is your mother living?"

A cloud came over Langford's brow: "She is not," he said.

The Earl again seemed interested. "How long has she been dead?" he
asked.

"About two years," Langford replied, and thereupon the Earl once more
shook his head, saying, "It cannot be. You are very like the late
Marquis of Beaulieu," he added--"extremely like; and though
circumstances have compelled me to discontinue my acquaintance with
that family, I knew the Marquis once, and loved him well. I could have
almost fancied that you were his son, and for his sake I cannot regard
you with any other eyes than those of kindness. But yet what do I say?"
he continued, while his brow again grew dark. "They tell me you have
murdered my son, my only son. How strange, if the son of the man who
had so nearly killed the father, should, five-and-twenty years after,
have slain the son!"

"You forget, my lord, and you mistake altogether," replied Langford.
"In the first place, I am not the son of the Marquis of Beaulieu; and,
in the next place, I assure you most solemnly by all I hold dear--I
pledge you my honour as a gentleman and a soldier, and my oath as a
Christian and a man--that I have had no more share in this unfortunate
event than you have."

"I would willingly believe you," answered the Earl, "most willingly,
for yours is a countenance from which I have been accustomed to expect
nothing but truth and honour. Yet why do these men accuse you? Why, if
there be not proof as strong as truth itself why do they dare to bring
an accusation against one of your high house? Oh, young man! young man!
if you have slain him by fraud or villany, I will take vengeance of you
by making you the public spectacle, and giving you up to the rope and
scaffold: chains shall hang about you even in your death, and your
bones shall whiten in the wind. But, if you have slain him foot to foot
and hand to hand, you shall meet a father's vengeance in another way.
Ay! old as I am, I will take your heart's blood, and you shall find
that this arm has lost nothing of its skill and but little of its
strength. You shall learn what a father's arm can do when heavy with
the sword of the avenger!"

"Once more, my lord," replied Langford, calmly, "I assure you that I am
perfectly innocent. I assure you that, neither fairly and openly, nor
covertly and treacherously, have I had aught to do with your son's
death. The sole ground for suspicion against me has been what I will
not conceal from you, my lord, that, upon a slight quarrel between us,
he drew his sword upon me, in the park of Sir Walter Herbert."

"Ay, Sir Walter Herbert!" exclaimed the peer, with a bitter sneer; "the
pitiful old fool! He and his fair dainty daughter, Mistress Alice, they
would none of my son, would they not? He shall pay for it in prison,
and she shall see him rot before her eyes. Ay, now I guess how it all
is. She has found a lover in fair Master Henry Langford, has she? and
he has murdered a rival who might have proved troublesome. They shall
answer for it, they shall answer for it! Ho! below there!" he
continued, approaching the door. "Bring me up the papers which those
two knights left!"

Langford suffered him to proceed with the wild and rapid starts to
which the vehemence of his passions led him; but when he paused, the
prisoner took up the conversation, saying, "I was about to tell you, my
lord, that your son did seek a quarrel with me; did draw his sword upon
me; did try to induce me to follow his example, but in vain."

"What!" interrupted the peer, "did you refuse to fight him? How was
that? a soldier, and a man of your race?"

"I did refuse to fight him, my lord," replied Langford, "for particular
reasons of my own. I have had many opportunities of showing that fear
forms no part of my nature, and I am not at all apprehensive of ever
being mistaken for a coward."

He spoke with a calm and easy dignity, slightly throwing back his head,
while the fine formed nostril expanded with a sense of honourable
pride. The Earl gazed upon him attentively, the angry fire that had
been in his eyes gradually subsiding as he did so, and he repeated more
than once, in a low voice, "So like! So strangely like!"

At that moment, with the rapidity of one accustomed to obey the orders
of a quick and imperious master, a servant appeared bringing in the
bundle of papers which contained the evidence collected against
Langford at Moorhurst. The Earl cast himself into a chair, spread the
papers out upon the table, and ran his eye rapidly over them, one after
another. Langford had also seated himself, and watched the proceedings
of the Earl attentively, though neither of them spoke for some minutes.

When the Earl had done, he looked up in the prisoner's face, and, after
pausing with a thoughtful air for several moments, he said, "This is a
case of suspicion against you, but nothing more. I, myself, the person
most interested, cannot make more of it; and from what I see of you,
from your face and from your family, I will add that I do not believe
you guilty."

"My lord, you do me justice," replied Langford, "and it makes me right
glad to see you so inclined. There was an old custom which was not
without its value, for human nature cannot be wholly mastered even by
the most consummate art; and I am now willing to recur to that old
custom, to give you further proof that you judge rightly of me. Let me
be taken to the room where your poor son lies. I will place my hand
upon his heart, and swear to my innocence. I do not suppose, my lord,
that the blood would flow again, if I were culpable; but I do believe,
that no man conscious of such a crime as murder, could perform that act
without betraying by his countenance the guilty secret within him. I am
ready to perform it before any persons that you choose to appoint."

"Are you not aware," demanded the Earl, sternly, "that the body has not
been found?"

"Good God:" exclaimed Langford, his whole face brightening in a moment,
"then, perhaps he is living yet. This is the most extraordinary tale
that ever yet was told--a man arrested--accused--well nigh condemned
for the murder of another who is probably alive. A thousand to one he
is still alive! Oh, my lord be comforted, be comforted!"

"You deceive yourself, young man," replied the Earl, with a melancholy
shake of the head, "you deceive yourself. His death is but too clearly
proved. His white horse returned last night alone, with his own neck
and the saddle stained with blood. The road by Upwater Mere was found
drenched with gore--with my child's gore! and his cloak was found
amongst the beeches hard by, pierced on the left side with a pistol
shot, which must have been fired close to his bosom, for the wadding
had burnt the silk. It, too, was stiff with blood. There were traces of
several horses' feet about, but no trace of where the body had been
carried, though I myself--I, his father--have spent several hours in
seeking the slightest vestige that might direct me. Doubtless it is
thrown into the mere," and as he spoke he covered his eyes with his
hands, and remained for several minutes evidently overpowered with deep
emotion, against which he struggled strongly but in vain.

Langford, too, was moved, and after having waited in silence for
several minutes, in the hope that the agitation which his companion
suffered would pass away, he ventured to address some words of comfort
to Lord Danemore; saying "I am deeply grieved, my lord, that you have
such cause for apprehension, but still I cannot help hoping that all
these causes for believing the worst may prove fallacious, and that
your son may yet be restored to you."

"No, no, sir, no!" replied the Earl, "I will not deceive myself, nor do
I wish to be deceived. Such evidence is too clear. I am not a child or
a woman, that I cannot bear any lot assigned to me. I can look my fate
in the face, however dark and frowning its brow may be, and say to it,
'Thou has but power to a certain degree, over my mind thou canst not
triumph, and even whilst thou wringest my heart and leavest my old age
desolate, I can defy thee still!'"

Langford bent down his eyes upon the ground, and did not reply for
several minutes. He did not approve the spirit in which those words
were spoken, but yet it was not his task to rebuke or to admonish, and
when he did reply, he again sought to instil hope.

"Your lordship says," he observed at length, "that the evidence is too
clear. It is certainly clear enough to justify great and serious
apprehensions, but not to take away hope, or to impede exertion. I
remember having heard of an instance which occurred in far distant
climates, where the causes for supposing a person dead were much more
conclusive than in the present instance. A sailor had left the ship to
which he belonged, and wandered on shore in a place infested with
pirates. He did not return. Boats were sent after him, and in tracing
the course of one of the rivers up which he was supposed to have taken
his way, his clothes were found bloody, torn, and cut with the blows of
a sword: a leathern purse, which he was known to have carried full of
money, was found further on, devoid of its contents; and further still,
a mangled and mutilated body, in which almost all his comrades declared
they recognised his corpse; and yet, three years after that, he
rejoined the ship to which he belonged, having made his escape from the
party of robbers by whom he had been taken. The body which had been
found was that of another man, though the clothes and the purse
undoubtedly were his own."

While he spoke, the Earl turned deadly pale, gazed upon him for a
moment or two with a straining eye, then suddenly started up, and
without a word of reply quitted the room.

Langford at first seemed surprised, but smiled slightly as he saw him
go: then calmly sat down at the table, took up the papers which the
Earl had left behind him, read over the evidence against himself, and
wrote in the margin a number of observations, wherever any strained or
unjust conclusion seemed to have been drawn by the magistrates. He had
been occupied in this manner about an hour, when the Earl again made
his appearance. His manner was very different from what it had been on
the previous occasion. There was a want of that fierce energy which had
before characterised it; there was a doubtfulness, a hesitation, and a
vagueness, quite opposed to the keen, sharp decision of his former
demeanour. He treated Langford more as an acquaintance, more even as a
friend, than as a prisoner. Two or three times he spoke of the chances
of his son being still alive, and referred vaguely to the story which
Langford had told him, but then darted off suddenly to something else.

At length, however, he took up the papers on which the other had
commented, and, without noticing the observations that he had written,
said it was unjust, upon a case where there was nothing made out
against him but suspicion, that he should be detained as a close
prisoner. "If, therefore," he said, "you will give me your word not to
attempt to make your escape, the doors shall be thrown open to you;
this chamber and the next shall be your abode for the time, though they
should have put you somewhere else, for this room is appropriated to
me. Here," he continued, in a thoughtful and abstracted tone, "when I
wish to think over all the crowded acts of a long, eventful, and
constantly changing life, I come and sit, where no sound interrupts me
but the twittering of the swallow, as it skims past my windows. Here I
can people the air with the things, and beings, and deeds of the past,
without the empty crowd of the insignificant living breaking in upon my
solitude, and sweeping away the thinner but more thrilling creations
called up by memory. I know not how it is, young gentleman, that there
is scarcely any one but you whom I could have borne patiently to see in
this chamber; but your countenance seems connected with those days to
which this room is dedicated. There is a resemblance, a strong and
touching resemblance, to several persons long dead; and that likeness
calls up again to my mind many a vision of my youthful days--days,
between which and the dark present, lies a gulf of fiery passions,
sorrows, and regrets. I know not wherefore they put you here, or who
dared to do it, but it is strange that, being here, you seem to my eyes
the only fit tenant of this chamber except myself. Here I sit and read
the letters of dead friends--here I sit and ponder over the affections
and the hatreds, the hopes, the fears, the wrath, the enjoyment, the
sorrow, the remorse of the past; here often do I sit and gaze upon the
pictures of those I loved in former times--of the dead, and the
changed, and the alienated; of persons who, when those pictures were
painted, never thought that there could come a change upon them, or
upon me, either in the bodily or the mental frame; never dreamed of the
mattock, and the grave, and the coffin, and the slow curling worm that
has long since revelled in their hearts; no, nor of fierce and fiery
contention, envy, jealousy, rivalry, hatred, the death of bright
affection, and the burial of every warm and once living hope. Here am I
still wont to gaze upon their pictures, and I know not how it is, but
it seems to me as if your face were amongst them."

"I fear me, my lord," said Langford, "that those endowed with strong
feelings and strong passions are most frequently like children with a
box of jewels, squandering precious things without knowing their value,
and gaining in exchange but gauds and baubles, the paint and tinsel of
which is soon brushed off, leaving us nothing but regret. There is no
time of life, however, I believe, at which we may not recover some of
the jewels which we have cast away, if we but seek for them rightly;
and I know no means likely to be more successful than that which you
take in tracing back your steps through the past."

"It is a painful contemplation," said Lord Danemore, "and I fear that
in the dim twilight of age, let me trace back my steps as closely as I
will, I am not likely to find again many of the jewels that I scattered
from me in the full daylight of youth."

"Perhaps, my lord," replied Langford, "you might, if you were to take a
light. However," he added, seeing a look of impatience coming upon the
Earl, "I am much obliged to you for your offer of a partial kind of
freedom. I never loved to have a door locked between me and the rest of
the world; and I willingly promise you to make no attempt to escape
during the whole of this day, for of course my promise must have a
limit. In the course of that day, you will most likely be able to
procure further information in regard to this sad affair; and I do
trust and hope that it may be such as may relieve your bosom from the
apprehensions which now oppress you."

"I must exact your promise for two days," said the Earl; "for I have
sent to tell those two foolish men who brought you here, that I cannot
deal with them to-day, and have bidden them, in consequence of what you
have said, though with but little hope, to cause search of every kind
to be made through the country round. There are one or two questions,
also, which I would fain ask you, but I will not do it now; yet I know
not why I should not; but no, not now! Have I your promise?"

"You have," replied Langford.

And the Earl, after pausing and hesitating a moment or two longer,
quitted him by the chief entrance, leaving the doors open behind him.
"There is but one thing I ask of you," added the Earl, as he turned to
depart; "should you leave these two rooms, lock the door of the one in
which you now are till you return, for I do not suffer the feet of
ordinary servants to profane it."

When Langford was alone, he paused for a moment or two to think over
his situation; and then, with a natural desire to use the freedom that
had been given him, opened the door of the chamber in which he had been
placed, and proceeded through the bed-room beyond, to the head of the
staircase. Remembering the Earl's request to lock the door, he turned
back to do so, and when he again approached the stairs, the voice of
some one singing below rose to his ear. The tone in which the singer
poured forth his ditty was low, but after listening for a moment,
Langford recognised the voice of the poor half-witted man, John Graves,
and a sudden hope of finding means of clearing himself by the aid of
that very person struck him. He descended the stairs slowly, and at the
bottom of the first flight found the wanderer sitting on the lower
step, with his head hanging down in an attitude of dejection; laying
his hand upon his shoulder, Langford caused him to start up suddenly
and turn round.

"Ah, Master Harry!" cried the man, in one of his saner moods, "is that
you? It is you I came to see. I heard they had taken you up, and locked
you up here, and I came to see if I could help you, for you have always
been kind and generous to me; and then, if I could not help you, I
could sing you a song, and that would do you good, you know; I always
said you ought to have your rights, you know; but I must not say so
here, or they will scold me, as they did before."

"Come up hither with me, John," said Langford; "I believe that you can
help me, if you will. But how came you here? Do they suffer you
knowingly to wander about the house in this manner?"

"Not as far as this," replied the man, laughing; "not as far as this.
They would soon drive me down if they saw me above the grand stairs.
But about the passages below they never mind me. Only I sometimes creep
up, and find my way about all the rooms, and if I hear a step, hide
behind a window-curtain. It is no later than last night that I and
another--but I must not speak of that. Never you mind, Master Harry,
you will have your rights still."

"Perhaps so, John," answered Langford, "though I do not think you well
know what my rights are. However, now follow me up here." Thus saying,
he led the way to the apartments which had been assigned to him,
followed quickly by the madman, whose step was as noiseless and
stealthy as if he had been going to murder the sleeping. When he saw
Langford approach the door of the inner room, he cast an anxious and
furtive glance towards the top of the stairs, and listened, and as soon
as the lock was turned and the entrance free, he ran in and closed it
after him, looking straight towards one of the small cupboards in the
wall, saying, "There! there! Be quick, for fear some one should come!"

Langford gazed on him with some surprise, and then replied, "You know
more of these matters than I thought you did. However, you mistake. I
want you merely to bear a letter and a message for me."

"But the papers! the papers!" exclaimed the other. "Are you not going
to take the papers?"

"No!" exclaimed Langford. "Certainly not by stealth, John."

"Then it is you that are mad," replied his companion; "and they have
mistaken me for you. I will go and make affidavit of it."

"I should not hold myself justified in taking them stealthily," replied
Langford. "Perhaps ere I quit this house I may claim them boldly; and
some time or another I must make you tell me how you know so much of
matters I thought secret; but time is wanting now, and we may be
interrupted. I have some reason to think that, if you will, you can
find out for me a person called Franklin Gray."

"Can I find him out?" said the madman. "Ay, that I can; in two hours I
can be with him."

"Will you bear a message from me to him?" demanded Langford, "without
forgetting a word of it, and without telling a word to any one else?"

"That I will joyfully," replied the other; "I never forget--I wish I
could--it is that turns me mad--I remember too well; and I will tell
nothing though they should put me to the torture. I always tell truth
if I tell anything; but I can hold my tongue."

"Well then," said Langford, "tell Franklin Gray for me, that I am kept
a prisoner here on a charge of shooting poor Lord Harold. If he be
shot, I entertain but few doubts in regard to who it was that did it:
and I ask Franklin Gray, in honour and in memory of our old
companionship, to give me the means of clearing and delivering myself."

"Franklin Gray shot him not," replied the madman; "that I know full
well. Franklin and I are friends; don't you know that, Master Harry?
For a fox, he is the best of foxes! But I'll do as you tell me,
however."

"I know he did not shoot him," answered Langford: "I am as sure of that
as you are. Nevertheless, carry him my message. But hold," he said,
seeing the man turning abruptly to depart, "I will write a few lines to
good Sir Walter Herbert, which I shall be glad if you will give into
his hands, or into the hands of his daughter."

The half-witted man signified his willingness to do anything that
Langford told him; and sitting down at the table, that gentleman wrote
a few lines to Sir Walter Herbert, briefly explaining to him his
situation, and begging him, in case of his being detained beyond the
close of the subsequent day, to take measures to ensure that justice
was done him. This epistle he had no means of sealing, and merely
folding it up in the form of a letter, he put it into the hands of his
hair-brained messenger, and suffered him to depart.




                            CHAPTER XIII.


The man who, as we have said, received in that part of the country the
name of Silly John, stole quietly down the stairs, and finding nobody
to impede his proceedings, had no sooner entered the corridor below
than he was seized with a determination of descending the great
staircase, thinking, as he expressed it in his commune with himself,
that it would make him feel like a lord for once in his life.

We all see and know that every step which we take in our onward path
through existence, whether directed by reason or prompted by caprice,
whether apparently of the most trifling nature or seemingly of the
utmost consequence, not only affects ourselves and the course of our
own fate, but more or less influences the state, the fortunes, and the
future of others, even to the most remote bounds of that vast space in
which cause and effect are constantly weaving the widespread web of
events. So philosophers teach us; and such was certainly the case in
the present instance; for the whim which led Silly John down the grand
staircase of Danemore Castle, was by no means without its effect upon
Henry Langford; and might, under many circumstances, have produced
consequences of very great importance. The whole house was silent, for
the servants of all classes and denominations were busy at their
afternoon meal; and the half-witted man, after looking round to see
that no one was near, put on an air of mock dignity, stuck the cock's
feather more smartly in his hat, threw out one leg and then the other
with a wide stride, and saying to himself in a low tone, "Now I'm a
lord!" began to descend the staircase. At that moment his eye fell upon
a sword, with its belt and sword-knot, hanging up in the corridor, and
in order to make his figure complete, he turned back and decorated his
person therewith.

When he had got to the bottom of the stairs, however, he looked at the
sword with a somewhat wistful eye, as if he would fain have retained it
to ornament his person; but then muttering to himself, "No, no, I must
not steal! Remember the eighth commandment, John Graves!" he unslung
the sword, and looked it all over. When he had done, he burst into a
laugh, exclaiming, "It is Master Harry's sword; the very sword with
which he slit that fox's neck when they attacked Mistress Alice. They
have taken it away from him, but I'll take it back again;" and so saying
he ran hastily up to the door of the chamber in which he had left
Langford, and after tapping loudly with his knuckles, laid the weapon
down upon the threshold, and tripped rapidly away.

While Langford opened the door, and with some surprise took up his own
sword, of which he had been deprived by the magistrates when he had
been brought to the Castle, Silly John made the best of his way down
the stairs, out of the front gates, across the esplanade, and into the
park. The feat that he had performed seemed to have given him a sort of
impetus which he could not resist; and he ran on across the park as
fast as his lameness would let him, scrambled over the park paling, and
never stopped till he had arrived at that point of the road where it
branched into two divisions. There, however, he paused, and entered
into one of those consultations with himself which were not unfrequent
with him, and which formed a peculiar feature in his madness.

He suddenly remembered that he had two commissions to perform, and that
he had no directions as to which was to be first executed. On all such
occasions of difficulty, Silly John argued with himself on both sides
of the question with the nicety of a special pleader, weighing every
motive on either part, starting difficulties and solving them, seeing
differences and shades of difference where none existed; and, in fact,
acting the part of Hudibras and Ralpho both in one.

On the present occasion he stood discussing the question of whether he
should first deliver the letter to Sir Walter Herbert, or the message
to Franklin Gray, for nearly an hour; and was seen by many persons who
passed, laying down to himself the reasons, _pro_ and _con_, with the
forefinger of his right hand tapping the forefinger of his left, at
every new argument on either side. As he found it utterly impossible to
settle the matter by dint of reasoning, he fell at length upon an
expedient which decided it as rationally as any other means he could
have brought to bear upon it. Fixing himself firmly upon the heel of
his uninjured foot, he extended the other leg and arm, and whirled
himself round as if on a pivot, determining to follow that road to
which his face was turned when he stopped.

It happened that the direction in which he at length found his face was
towards the Manor House; and he accordingly bent his steps thither with
all speed. The quantity of time which he had lost in his consultation
with himself, however, and that occupied in going, rendered it very
late in the day before he arrived; so that, although the servant to
whom he delivered the note asked him in a kindly tone to come in and
take some beer, he looked wistfully at the sky, from which the sun had
just gone down; and shaking his head, walked away, turning his steps
towards the moor. The distance, as we have before shown, was
considerable; and as he went, the long twilight of a summer's evening
grew dimmer and more dim, faded away entirely, and night succeeded.
Still, however, the poor fellow toiled on up the hill, followed the
road that led across the moor, and passed the very spot where Langford
had seen the pistol fired on the preceding night.

As he went by the beeches, he thought he heard a rustling sound beneath
them; and though accustomed to go at all hours through the wildest and
least frequented paths, either fatigue and want of food, or some other
cause, had unnerved him, and the sound made him start. He ran on upon
the road as fast as he could, and then turned to look behind him. There
was no moon--the night was sultry and dark, and it was difficult to
distinguish any object distinctly; but he saw, or believed he saw, two
men come out from the beeches as if to follow him, and he again ran on
with all speed, taking his way across the moor. After he had gone about
half a mile, he cast himself flat down amongst some fern and heath, and
lay there for ten minutes or a quarter of an hour; after which he arose
again, and hurried on towards the dwelling of Franklin Gray. Twice he
thought he heard steps behind him; and his heart rejoiced when he saw
the gate in the wall that surrounded the court. The gate was locked,
however; the whole house looked dark and untenanted; not a window in
the tower, or in the large building by the side, showed the slightest
ray of light; and as he stood and shook the gate, he distinctly heard
quick steps coming on the very path he had pursued.

A degree of terror which he had seldom before felt now took possession
of him; and he ran round the wall as fast as he could, seeking for some
entrance at the back. The first gate that he met with resisted like the
other; but a second, fifty or sixty yards further on, opened at once,
and he hurried on towards the part of the building before him. He still
seemed to hear the steps behind him: and with fear that amounted almost
to agony, he felt along the wall for a bell or some other means of
making himself heard. As he did so, his hand came against a door, which
gave way beneath his touch, and he had almost fallen headlong down some
steps. He caught, however, by the lintel in time, and glad of any
entrance, went down slowly, feeling his way with his foot and hands
till he reached a level pavement. The air was cooler than it had been
above; and a small square aperture at a considerable distance before
him, while it gave admission to the wind, also showed the sort of faint
dim light which yet lingered in the sky. Towards it he took his way,
after having listened for a moment with a beating heart, to ascertain
whether he was pursued, and made himself sure that he was not.

For a few paces, nothing interrupted his progress; but the next moment,
he stumbled over some object on the ground; and as he attempted to
raise himself, his hand came in contact with something that felt like
cloth. He instantly drew it back, but, after pausing a moment and
hesitating, he stretched it out slowly again, and it lighted upon the
cold clammy features of a dead man's face. Starting back, he again fell
over the object which had thrown him down before, and which he now
found to be a coffin.

Although all these circumstances were in themselves horrible, they
served in some degree to relieve the mind of poor John Graves, who now
remembered the ruins of the old church, which stood near, and naturally
concluded that he had got into the vaults. The confusion of his brain
prevented him from remembering that the place had been long unused for
its original and legitimate purposes, and he was not one of those who
feel any horror at the mere presence of the dead. On the contrary, the
sight of the clay after the spirit had departed, seemed to offer to his
madness a curious matter of speculation, and he was fond of visiting
the chamber of death amongst all the cottages in the neighbourhood.

After he had a little recovered himself, then, he muttered, "It's a
corpse! I wonder if it's a man or a woman;" and he put out his hand
again towards the face, and ran it over the jaw and lips, to feel for
the beard.

"It must be a gentleman, to be put in the vault," he continued; "his
hand will tell that! Poor men's hands are hard; and the rich keep their
palms soft. I wonder if it is gold makes men's palms soft? Yes, it is a
gentleman," he continued, as he slid his hand down the arm to the cold
palm of the dead man.

But at that moment a light began to stream through the door by which he
had entered, and his terror was once more renewed. "If they catch me
here," he muttered, "they will think I am come to steal the coffin
plates;" and as the increasing light showed him some of the objects
around, he perceived a broken part of the wall which separated that
vault from the next, and which lay in ruin amidst the remains of former
generations, with many a coffin, stripped of all its idle finery by the
hand of time, piled up against it, together with dust and rubbish, and
the crumbling vestiges of mortality.

Behind the screen thus formed the half-witted man crept, and lay
trembling with a vague dread of he did not well know what; while the
light, which by this time had approached close to the door, remained
stationary for a moment; and two or three voices were heard speaking in
a low tone. The next moment three men descended into the vault, one of
whom bore a flambeau in his hand; but for the first two or three
minutes after they entered, Silly John could only hear without seeing,
as his terror prevented him from making the slightest movement.

"You may as well wipe the blood from off his face before you put him
into the box," said one, as he and his companions seemed to stand by
the corpse and gaze upon it with curious and speculating eyes.

"That was a deadly shot," said the other. "Poor devil! he never spoke a
word after."

"He well deserved it," said a third voice, "that's my opinion; and when
that's the case, the deadlier the shot the better. But let us make
haste, Master Hardie; though I do not see why he should be buried with
that smart belt on. Come, let us toss up for it. Here is a crown-piece.
You toss, Hardie."

While this conversation had been going on, the poor half-witted man had
remained ensconced behind the coffins and broken wall, trembling in
every limb. This tremor assuredly proceeded from fear, and not from
cold, for the air, which had been sultry all day, had now grown
oppressively hot; and the heavy clouds, which had been rolling up
during the evening, like a vast curtain between earth and the free
breath of heaven, had by this time covered the whole sky; while a few
large drops of rain, pattering amongst the ruins of the church and the
broken stones and long grass without, formed no unmusical prelude to
the storm that was about soon to descend.

Scarcely had Doveton spoken (for he it was who took the lead upon the
present occasion) when a faint blue gleam suddenly lighted up the
inside of the vault, proceeding from the small square window, and
flashing round upon all the grim and sombre features of the place,
coffins, and sculls, and bones, and broken and disjointed stones, and
high piles of mouldy earth, consisting chiefly of the dust of the dead.
It came like the clear and searching glance of eternal truth, making
dark secrets bright, and bringing forth from their obscurity all the
dim hidden things of earth. That gleam flashed upon the countenances of
the three robbers, as they stood around the corpse, unmoved, unshaken
by the solemn aspect of death, by the awful picture of their own
mortality. The sudden glance of the lightning, however, made them each
start involuntarily. He who held the crown-piece in his hand let it
drop. No thunder followed the first flash, but another far more bright
and vivid succeeded, playing round the buckles and clasps of the very
sword-belt that one of them was in the act of removing from the corpse.
A crash, which could not have been louder had the fragments of a
mountain been poured upon their heads, came instantly after, shaking
the whole building as if it would have cast down the last stone of the
ruin.

"By ----," cried one of the robbers, uttering a horrid imprecation,
"what a peal!"

"Ay, and what a flash!" said another, "but come, take off the belt, for
fear he gets up off the trestles and stops us!"

"Ay, if we let him," said Doveton; "but may I never speak again, if I
did not think I saw his lips move! There! there!" he continued, as
another flash of lightning shone again upon the features of the dead
man, reversing all the lights which the flambeau had cast upon it, and
making the whole features, without any real change, assume an
expression entirely different. "There! there! I told you so! Look, he
is grinning at us!"

"Pooh, nonsense!" cried another; "the man's dead! he'll never grin
again. Yet, by my life, there is the blood running!" And so far he
spoke truth; for the jerk which had been given to the body in order to
detach the sword-belt, had caused a stream of dark gore to well slowly
down and drop upon the ground.

"Let the belt be! let the belt be!" cried Hardcastle. "Hold the torch
to his face and see if he does move! No, no; he is still enough! But,
after all, one does not like dragging him out in such a night as this,
to bury him upon the cold moor. It would not matter if he were alive;
but let us stay here till the storm is over, and you, Harvey, run and
get us some drink. It's neither a nice night, nor a nice place, nor a
nice business; so we may as well have something to cheer us."

"I have no objection to the flagon," said Doveton, as Harvey left them
to obtain the peculiar sort of liquid cheerfulness to which men engaged
in not the most legitimate callings generally have recourse; "I have no
objection to the flagon; but you know we must have done the job before
morning, Hardie, and the grave is not dug yet."

"Oh, we'll soon dig the grave," replied Hardcastle; "the ground is soft
upon the moor, and it need not be very deep. Do you think, Doveton,
that when folks are dead they can see us? I have often thought that
very likely they can see and hear just as well as ever, but can't move
or speak."

"I hope not! I hope not!" cried his companion; and at that moment came
another flash of lightning, gleaming round and round the vault,
followed by the tremendous roar of the thunder, and the rushing and the
pattering of the big rain.

The whole scene was so awful; the corpse, the robbers, the vault, the
thunder-storm, their speculations upon the dead, the mixture of
superstition and impious daring which they displayed, the revel that
they were preparing to hold by the side of a murdered body, and the
images of the flagon and the grave, formed altogether a whole so
terrible and so extraordinary, that the poor man who lay concealed and
witnessed the strange and dreadful proceeding, could endure it no
longer; but starting up in a fit of desperation, he darted forward,
overthrowing the pile of coffins before him, and rushing with the
countenance of a risen corpse towards the stone steps which led into
the vault. Surprised and terrified, the two robbers started back, the
flambeau fell and nearly extinguished itself upon the ground; the body
of the dead man was overthrown at their feet; and rushing on without
pause, John Graves had gained the stairs and effected his exit, before
they knew who or what it was that had so suddenly broken in upon their
conference.

Running as if a whole legion of fiends had been behind him, heeding not
the deluge of rain that was now falling from the sky, but staggering
and putting his hand to his eyes when the bright gleam of the lightning
flashed across his path, the half-witted man hurried back again with
all speed towards the moor, nor ceased for a moment the rapid steps
which carried him forward, till he had reached the beeches by
Upwater-mere. There sitting down and clasping his hands over his knees,
he remained with his whole thoughts cast into a state of greater
confusion than ever, watching the liquid fire as it glanced over the
water, and talking to himself whenever the thunder would let him hear
his own voice.

It seemed, however, as if the same ghastly objects were destined to
pursue him through that night; for the storm had scarcely in a slight
degree abated, and a faint grey streak just made its appearance through
the clouds, marking where the dim moon lay veiled behind them, when he
heard coming steps; and, as his only resource, he clambered into one of
the beech-trees, and sat watching what took place below. The only
objects that he could distinguish were the forms of three men carrying
a burthen between them. They laid it down under the trees; and for the
space of about half an hour there was the busy sound of the pickaxe and
the spade, the shovelfuls of earth cast forth, and the slow delving
noise when the heavy foot pressed the edge into the ground. At the end
of that time the burden was lifted up, deposited in the pit, and the
earth piled in again. It was done with haste, for the grey dawn was
beginning to appear; and John Graves could clearly distinguish the
forms of Doveton, Hardcastle, and Harvey, as, each taking up a part of
the tools they had employed, they hurried away to escape the clear eye
of day.

When they were gone, the half-witted man came down from the tree, and
stood gazing upon the spot where the fresh grey earth of the moor,
mingling with the thin green grass under the beech-trees, showed the
place where they had concealed the body.

"And liest thou there, Harold?" he said, speaking aloud, though there
was nobody to hear, as was very much his custom; "and liest thou there,
poor boy? with nothing around thee but the cold damp earth, and the
grey morning of a storm shining upon thy last bed? And did they nurse
thee so tenderly for this? Did thy father spend wealth, and care, and
thought--did he wrong others, and endanger his chance of Heaven, and
squander hope and fear, and passion and cunning, all for this? that
thou shouldest lie here, without his knowing where thou restest--that
thou shouldest lie here, like the daisy which his proud horse's feet
cut off as he galloped along, without his knowing that it was broken?
Alack and a-well-a-day! Alack and a-well-a-day! Poor boy, though thou
hadst something of thy father's fire, and something of thy mother's
weakness, thou wert good and generous, and tender and compassionate. I
know not how it is, Harold, but I am more sorry for thee than for
people that I have loved better, and I cannot bear to think that thou
shouldest lie here, on this gloomy moor. Nor shalt thou, if I should
dig thee out with my own hands! But then they'll say I killed thee," he
added, after a moment's thought, "as they have said already of one who
would as soon have killed himself. So I'll go and tell thy father, my
poor boy; but no, I forgot, I must first go back to that man, for I
promised, and I always keep my promise. It could not be Gray that
killed thee. No, no, I do not think that; he's not fond of blood. He
spared my life, so why should he take thine? I do not half like to go
to him; yet I must, because I promised."

Poor Silly John lingered for some time beside the grave after he had
finished this soliloquy, and then turned his steps back again with some
degree of confidence gained from the open daylight, towards the abode
of Franklin Gray. He still hesitated, however, and apprehensions of
some kind made him wander at a distance from the house for several
hours before he could make up his mind to approach it. He even went to
a small alehouse, and strengthened his resolution with beer, and bread
and cheese; but what, perhaps, afforded him more courage than anything,
was the act of paying for his morning's meal with part of the money
which Franklin Gray himself had given him.

As we have before seen, the conclusions at which the poor man arrived
were very often just, and his madness consisted rather in a kind of
wandering, an occasional want of the power of seizing and holding
anything firmly, than in folly. In the present instance, then, he
inferred from the sight of the money given him by Franklin Gray, that a
person who had treated him so kindly would not ill-use him or suffer
him to be ill-used; and, accordingly, he gained courage from the
contemplation, and set out for the tower. Although he had been twice
there before, since Franklin Gray had been the tenant thereof, yet, on
both those occasions his visits had been after dark; but, as he
approached at present the scenes of all the horrors of the preceding
night, he could scarcely believe his eyes, so different was the whole
when displayed in the broad sunshine from that which it appeared under
the shadow. In this instance, however, the face that it wore in the
open day was the deceptive one, and is but too common through the
world, and in life; and in the human heart. The tower, and the large
building by its side, and the court within its walls, were converted
into a farm-house, with its barns and its yard full of straw, and
ploughshares, and farming implements, while carts stood around bearing
the name of "Franklin Gray, Farmer," though the name of the place which
followed was that of a distant part of the country, where probably he
had exercised the same kind of farming which he now carried on. There
were two or three stout men in farming habiliments about the yard too,
whose faces were not unfamiliar to the eye of John Graves, and an
honest watch-dog stood chained near the stable-door, as if the good
farmer was in fear of nightly depredators. A flaxen-headed plough-boy
whistled gaily in the court; and at the moment that Silly John
approached, a very lovely creature, habited in plain white garments,
and carrying a beautiful child of little more than a year old in her
arms, was crossing on tiptoe the dirty yard, wet and muddy with the
storm of the preceding night.

"A dainty farmer's dame, indeed!" said the half-witted man to himself;
"but I'll speak to her rather than to any of the foxes. Women are
always kindest."

His singular appearance had already attracted the attention of the
person who was the subject of his contemplation, and she seemed at once
to comprehend his character, and the nature of the affliction under
which he laboured.

"He is one of the happy," she said, speaking low, and to herself. "What
would you, poor man?" she added, with her sweet-toned voice and foreign
accent. "Do you seek money or food?"

The half-witted man did not reply directly to her question, but, caught
by her appearance and by her accent, his mind seemed to wander far away
to other things, and he answered, "Ay, pretty lady, there have been
others such as you. Many a one quits her own land and marries a
stranger, and is soon taught to repent, as women always will repent,
when they have trusted those they knew not, and forgotten their own
friends, and cast their country behind them."

She whom he addressed answered first by a smile, and then said, "Not
always! My husband will never make me repent: he never has made me
repent, though long ago I did all you said, trusted a stranger, forgot
my own friends, and cast my country behind me. But what would you, poor
man? Can I help you?"

"Only tell Franklin Gray," replied the other, "that Henry Langford has
been taken up on the charge of killing Lord Harold, and that they keep
him a prisoner in Danemore Castle; so that now's the time to help him.
I want nothing more, lady, but God's blessing upon your beautiful
face;" and so saying, he hurried away and left her, while a slight
degree of colour came up into the cheek of Mona Gray, as much at the
earnestness of the look which he gave her, as at the allusion to her
beauty.




                             CHAPTER XIV.


The world we live in is full of beautiful sights and sweet sounds; it
is a treasure-house of loveliness and of melody. Whether the eye ranges
over the face of nature at large, and marks all the varied, the
magnificent, the sweet, the bright, the gentle, in wood, and mountain,
and valley, and stream; or rests, wondering and admiring, on the bright
delicate fabric of a flower, the rich hues of the butterfly, or the
lustrous plumage of the birds, beauty and brightness are everywhere.
The air we breathe, too, is full of sweet sounds; whether in the
singing of the birds, the murmuring music of the stream, or the hum of
all the insect world upon the wing, everything is replete with harmony.
But of all the lovely sights, and of all the touching sounds whereof
nature is full, there is nothing so beautiful, there is nothing so
sweet, as the sight and the words of natural affection.

Alice Herbert--for to her we must now turn--sat by the bedside of her
father on the morning of that day, the eventful passing of which we
have already commemorated in the chapter just concluded, as far as it
affects the greater part of the characters connected with this tale.
Joy and brightness were upon her countenance; and in the small and
beautiful hand that rested on her lap she held open the packet of
papers which had been left her by Langford. She gazed in the
countenance of her father with a look of eager and gratified affection,
which gave to her features a look of additional loveliness, and added
the crowning beauty to the whole. Her voice, too, sweet and melodious
as it always was, seemed, at least to her father's ears, to have a more
musical tone than ever, as she told him, with a heart thrilling with
joy and satisfaction at having such news to tell, that she held in her
hand the means of freeing him from the painful situation into which he
had been plunged by the events of the night before; and that those
means had been furnished to her by him whom she so deeply loved.

The feelings of Sir Walter himself were also very sweet; they were
sweet to receive such assistance from a daughter's hand; they were
sweet from perceiving the happiness which to give that assistance
afforded her; they were sweet from the very act of appreciating all her
sensations; from the power of understanding and estimating the ideas
and feelings of her whom he loved best on earth. They were sweet, but
not wholly sweet. There was a sensation mingled with them, as there
must almost always be with every enjoyment and delight of our mortal
being, which tempered, if it did not sadden--which took some little
part off the brightness of the joy. It may be, that such slight
deteriorations, that such partial alloys thrown into the gold of
happiness, do, like the real alloys which render the precious metals
more fitted for the hand of the workman, render our pleasures more
adapted to our state of being. At all events, the slight shade of
something less than happiness which mingled with Sir Walter Herbert's
feelings, was not sufficient to do more than give them a deeper
interest. It was the thrill of a fine mind on receiving a benefit.
Pride had nothing to do with it; and, yet, when Alice Herbert showed
him the various notes and bills of exchange which she held in her hand,
a slight flush appeared upon his cheek, a momentary feeling of
embarrassment came over him. He would not, however, have let Alice
perceive for the world that he felt the least embarrassment; he
struggled against it, and conquered it in a moment.

"This is indeed generous and noble of Langford." he said. "This is like
what I always supposed him; this is what I could desire and hope in him
who is to possess my Alice. But I must rise, Alice, my beloved. I must
rise and see him; and thank him myself. I long to tell him how I
appreciate his good and noble character, and to show him that I do so
by seeking his advice, assistance, and counsel in a situation to which
some carelessness and some want of wisdom, perhaps, have brought my
affairs; though I feel assured and am confident Alice, as you tell me
he himself said last night, that matters are by no means so bad as that
lawyer would unkindly have us believe. Go down, my love, and have the
breakfast prepared; I will join you speedily."

Alice did as he bade her, leaving the papers with him; but although her
heart was very happy, she could have much wished that Langford himself
had not been absent. She knew that a thousand causes, of the simplest
and most natural kind, might have taken him out at that early hour of
the morning; but yet there was a feeling of apprehensiveness in her
bosom that she did not attempt to account for, but which in reality
proceeded from the events of the preceding evening; agitation which had
taken from her heart that feeling of security in its own happiness
which seldom if ever returns when once scared away. The first great
misfortune is the breaking of a spell, the dissolving of that bright
and beautiful illusion in which our youth is enshrined, the confidence
of happiness; and there is no magic power in after-life sufficient to
give us back the charm. It may come in another world, but there it
shall be a reality, and not a dream.

Alice Herbert, then, felt apprehensive she knew not of what; but in the
silence of the old servants, and the solemn gloom that seemed to hang
over them as they laid out the morning meal, there was something which
increased her uneasiness. She asked herself, why Wilson walked so
slowly, why Halliday no longer bustled about as usual, forgetting for a
moment his reverence for the ears of his master, in directing and
scolding the other servants if they went wrong: and though she
ultimately concluded that they had all heard some report of the
difficulties into which, her father had fallen, and that such a report
had rendered their affectionate hearts sad, yet the conclusion did not
altogether satisfy her; and she longed both for Langford's return, and
for her father's appearance at the breakfast-table.

Sir Walter did at length appear, but his first question was for
Langford, to which the servant Halliday answered as he had been
directed. The good knight seemed perfectly satisfied, and, sitting down
to table, commenced his breakfast, talking to his daughter with an air
that showed that the slight embarrassment under which he at first
laboured was gone; that the despondency which had been produced by the
imperfect insight into his affairs, given by the events of the
preceding night, was passing away, and that hope and expectation were
beginning to brighten up and smile upon him once more.

Ere breakfast was over, however, the servant Halliday entered the room,
and approaching the end of the table where his master sat, informed him
that Gregory Myrtle, the landlord of the Talbot, desired instantly to
speak with him.

"What does he want, Halliday?" demanded the knight; "will not the good
man's business wait?"

"I believe not, your worship," replied Halliday; "he says it is a.
matter of much importance."

"Well then, send him in," said Sir Walter; "he is a good man and a
merry one, and I will discuss the matter with him while I finish my
breakfast."

Halliday looked at Alice, but he did not venture to say anything, and
retiring from the room, he soon after re-appeared, ushering in the
portly form of Gregory Myrtle.

The worthy host of the Talbot, however, for once in his life, had lost
that radiant jocundity of expression which his countenance usually
bore; and the first question of Sir Walter was, "Why, how now, Master
Gregory Myrtle, what is the matter with thee, mine host? Thou lookest
as solemn and as much surprised as if thou hadst seen a ghost on thy
way hither. I hope nothing has gone wrong with thee, good Gregory?"

"I have seen a sight your worship," replied the landlord, laying his
hand upon the white apron which covered his stomach, "I have seen a
sight which I never thought to see, and which has made me as sad as
anything can make Gregory Myrtle. I have seen Master Harry Langford
taken away from mine house by two magistrates on charge of murder!"

Sir Walter gazed on him for a single instant with astonishment, but
then immediately turned towards his daughter, forgetting all his own
feelings in hers. Alice, as pale as death, had sunk back in her chair,
and was covering her eyes with her hands, while she seemed to gasp for
breath under the agitation of the moment. Sir Walter started up, and
approached her tenderly, while Halliday ran from the other side of the
room with water. She put it away with her hand, however, saying, "I
shall be better in a moment! It was but the shock! Go on, Master
Myrtle!"

Sir Walter gazed tenderly on his child, but the colour soon came back
into Alice's cheek, and she begged her father not to attend to her, but
to go on with the sad business which had been so suddenly brought
before him. Sir Walter again sat down to the table, and as his mind
turned from his daughter to the charge against one whom she loved and
whom he esteemed, surprise and indignation superseded all other
feelings, and the blood mounted up into his check, while he demanded,
"Of whose murder, pray, have they had the folly to accuse him?"

"Folly, indeed, your worship," replied Gregory Myrtle; "but they accuse
him of having murdered Lord Harold last night upon the moor."

The blood again rushed rapidly through every vein back to Alice
Herbert's heart, and her fair hand clasped almost convulsively the arm
of the chair in which she sat. Her father's heart had instantly
directed his eye towards her, and, rising from his seat, he went gently
up to her, and took her by the hand, saying, "Let me help you to your
own room, dear child. I must make inquiries into this matter; but it is
not a subject for your ears, my Alice."

"Yes, indeed," she replied, making an effort for calmness. "I have now
heard the worst, my dear father, and shall be anxious to know all the
rest. If I were away, I should be still more uneasy than I am here;
pray go on."

"The charge is perfectly absurd!" replied Sir Walter, returning to his
chair. "No one that knows Langford can for a moment suspect him of
committing any crime. I will investigate the affair to the bottom, and
of course take care that he is not subject to the annoyance of
confinement any longer, my Alice. But go on, Master Myrtle!"

Alice listened eagerly to all the details which Gregory Myrtle now
gave, for her mind was not at all at ease in regard to the real state
of the case. Not that she ever suspected Langford of having murdered
the unhappy Lord Harold: of course such an idea never entered her mind;
but she remembered that Langford had been absent the greater part of
the preceding evening, and even a portion of the night. She knew that
he had left her for the purpose of returning to Lord Harold, whose
feelings, she doubted not, were irritated and excited by what he had
seen take place between her and his rival; and she did fear that
Langford, notwithstanding the promise he had given her, might have been
driven or tempted to draw his sword under some strong provocation. She
knew that he had great powers of commanding himself; and she believed
that, even had such an occurrence taken place, he would have been
perfectly capable of conversing with her over her father's affairs, as
he had done. At the same time she recollected that, although absorbed
by the situation of her father, and occupied by her own feelings and
sensations, she had remarked that Langford was pale, thoughtful, and
seemingly agitated by emotions different from those which might be
naturally called forth by the subjects on which they spoke.

On the other hand, he had assured her that no encounter had taken place
between him and Lord Harold, and she did not think that, even to spare
her feelings, Langford would say anything that was not true; but yet
she thought that their meeting might have taken place even after
Langford had left her. She accounted for his previous absence by
supposing that he had gone to seek some friend to act as his second
upon the occasion, and, in short, imagination found many a way of
justifying the apprehensions that love was prompt to force. Under any
ordinary circumstances, though she might bitterly have regretted
that one whom she loved had stained his hand with the blood of a
fellow-creature, yet she would have entertained no apprehensions for
his safety in a mere affair of honour. But Alice had known from her
infancy the Earl of Danemore, and had formed, almost without knowing it
herself, an estimate of his character, which was but too near the
reality. There was in it a remorselessness, a vehemence, a
determination, an unscrupulous pursuit of his own purposes, which had
been apparent to her, even as a child. She knew well, she felt
perfectly convinced, that he would halt at no step, that he would
hesitate at no means, in order to obtain vengeance upon any one who had
lifted a hand against his son; and she was well aware, too, that Lord
Danemore united to his unscrupulous determination of character, talents
and skill which gave him but too often the means of accomplishing his
purpose, however unjust.

Such knowledge and such feelings added deep apprehensions for
Langford's safety to the pain that she would at any time have felt at
the idea of one she loved taking the life of another human being; and
the whole was mingled with sincere grief to think that one who had been
her playmate in childhood, and had loved her truly in her more mature
years--one whom she esteemed and felt for deeply, though she could not
return his love, had been cut off in the spring of life, before many
blossoming virtues had yet borne fruit.

She listened eagerly, therefore, and anxiously to the words of the good
landlord of the Talbot, while he detailed all those facts connected
with the arrest of Langford which we have already dwelt upon. Her
father, indeed, felt and showed much more indignation and surprise that
the charge should be brought at all, than apprehension lest it should
prove just; and when, from some part of the conduct of the magistrates,
as detailed by the worthy landlord, it appeared that they accused
Langford of having slain Lord Harold in an unfair and secret manner,
Alice shared in the indignant feelings of her father, and raised high
her head at the very thought of her noble, her generous her gallant
lover, being suspected of an unworthy act for a moment.

By the showing of Gregory Myrtle, it very speedily appeared to Sir
Walter and his daughter, that the magistrates had not dealt quite
impartially in taking or seeking for evidence; and that they had shown
a strong inclination to find out that Langford was really guilty. From
what Sir Walter knew of the character of one, if not of both of those
worthy gentlemen, he easily conceived it to be possible that they
should be somewhat desirous of recommending themselves to Lord Danemore
by an overstrained and excessive zeal in discovering the murderer of
his son. But when he heard that the body of Lord Harold had not even
been found, his indignation grew still greater, and he sent back
Gregory Myrtle to the village, with directions to collect together
every one who could give any information on the subject, promising to
come over to the Talbot as soon as his horses could be saddled, and
investigate the matter to the bottom.

"As soon as this is done, Alice," he said, "I will ride over to the
castle, notwithstanding the painful event that has occurred, discharge
this long-standing debt to my good Lord Danemore, who has thought fit
to make so unhandsome a use of it; and then insist upon even justice
being shown towards our noble friend Langford, who, I doubt not, can
prove his innocence in five minutes."

The worthy Knight hastened all his proceedings; for when the cause of a
friend was in his hands, none of that easy and somewhat apathetic
indifference displayed itself with which he was but too apt to regard
his own affairs. His riding boots were drawn on with speed, and he
twice asked for his horses before the grooms could have had time to
saddle them; nor had he for many years before been known to ride so
fast as he did in going from the gates of his own park to the door of
the Talbot. Almost the whole population of the little town was gathered
about the inn, enjoying the satisfaction of a legitimate subject of
marvel and gossip: and the glad and reverential smiles, the bows of
unfeigned respect, and the homely but affectionate greeting with which
they received the good knight as he rode up, showed pleasingly how much
beloved the virtues and good qualities of all its members had rendered
the family of the Manor.

Sir Walter, however, was detained at Moorhurst much longer than he
expected, for everybody was anxious to give testimony before him, and
many more crowded forward than could afford any satisfactory
information, or throw the most trifling light upon the case; and yet,
as each and all of them had something to say in favour of Langford, Sir
Walter could not find it in his heart to refuse to listen to any. The
clerk of the parish was called upon to take down their depositions: and
certainly, if the fact of having established a good character in a
country town could have assisted any man in a similar predicament, it
might have done so with Langford in the present instance.

Sir Walter Herbert, however, did not lose sight of the great object,
though he suffered himself to be deluged by much irrelevant matter; and
he soon found that the only legitimate cause for supposing Langford at
all connected with the death or disappearance of Lord Harold was the
fact of the half-witted man, John Graves, having run down, during the
preceding evening, and besought several persons to come up and prevent
Langford and the young nobleman from killing each other. As he was
known to adhere invariably to the truth, two or three of the
town's-people had gone up with him into the park in order to keep the
peace, but on finding all quiet, and nobody there, had returned without
further search.

Sir Walter discovered also that the two magistrates who had preceded
him in the investigation had not even demanded to see John Graves
himself, though his testimony, taken second-hand, was that in fact on
which the whole case rested. This he determined immediately to remedy;
but the half-witted man was by that time nowhere to be found, and
though Sir Walter waited for many hours while persons were despatched
to seek for him in all directions, the good knight was at length
obliged to give the matter up for the day, and return to the Manor
House.

During his absence, Alice was left for several hours with no companion
but her own painful thoughts. She felt, as she might well feel, quite
sure that Langford was innocent of any base, or cowardly, or
treacherous action; she felt sure of his honour, his integrity, his
uprightness. But that certainty, that confidence, though it gave her
support, could not deliver her from apprehension. All her thoughts were
gloomy. The bright joy which Langford's acknowledgment of his love on
the preceding evening had afforded her, had been like one of those
sweet warm summer-like days in the unconfirmed infancy of the year,
which are succeeded immediately by storms and tempests. Her mind had
rested for a moment in a vision of perfect happiness; but now,
whichever way she turned her waking eyes, there was something painful
in the prospect. Although she was very willing to believe that her
father's pecuniary affairs were not in near so bad a state as Lord
Danemore's lawyer had made them appear, yet there could be no doubt
that they were greatly embarrassed, and that his income and resources
were so much smaller than those of his ancestors, that it would be a
duty to curtail his expenses, to diminish his establishment, and, in an
age when luxury and splendour were daily increasing, to forego many of
the conveniences and comforts which he had hitherto enjoyed, and all
that dignified but unostentatious state which his family had kept up
for many generations.

She knew, too, that to do so would be a bitter pang, well nigh to the
breaking of the heart that felt it; and although, for her own part,
there was scarcely a pretty cottage in the neighbourhood in which she
could not have made her home with cheerfulness and happiness, she
looked forward with painful apprehension to the time when her father
might have to quit the Manor House, and discharge the old servants who
had served him so long, and be no more what he had been amongst the
many who looked up to and reverenced him.

Such was one dark subject of contemplation; the death of Lord Harold
was another. She thought of him as she had seen him the evening before,
full of youth, and health, and energy; she thought of him as she had
seen him in other days, full of joy and gaiety, and that bright
exuberant life which it is difficult to imagine can ever be
extinguished, when we gaze upon it in all its activity and brightness;
and yet a single moment had ended it for ever.

Her mind then turned to the father of him who was gone; and she
pictured him sitting in his lonely halls, childless, solitary,
desolate, left without hope and without consolation to pass through the
chill winter of his age, till he reached the dark and cheerless
resting-place of the tomb. She pitied him from her very heart; she
could have wept for him; but then her thoughts turned to Langford, and
she asked herself, if it were possible that a man who had just suffered
so severely as Lord Danemore himself, could seek to bring misery and
sorrow upon others? Abstractedly, she would have thought such a thing
impossible; but when she reflected upon the character of the man, she
felt but too deeply convinced that his own misery would but make him
seek to render others as miserable; that his despair would be bitter
and turbulent, not calm and mild; and that to see the hearths of others
desolate, the hearts of others broken, would in all probability be the
consolation he would choose.

She was pondering sadly upon these gloomy subjects of contemplation, as
well upon that chief and still more absorbing one, the situation of him
whom she so dearly loved, when the servant Halliday appeared to
announce to her that Master Kinsight, Lord Danemore's attorney, was at
the gate, and would not go away. He had told him, the servant said,
that his worship was out, and that she herself was busy, and not to be
disturbed; "but he still hangs there, Mistress Alice," continued the
man, "and he is no way civil; so much so, indeed, that if I did not
know his worship is averse to having anybody cudgelled, I would drub
him for his pains."

"Do no such thing, Halliday," replied Alice, "but bring him in here; I
will speak to him myself."

In a few minutes the lawyer entered the room, and threw himself down
into a chair with very little ceremony. "So, Mistress Alice," he said,
in a tone, the natural insolence of which was increased by the
unconcealed hatred of Sir Walter's servants, "I find your father's out;
gone out, I suppose to avoid me, for he knew I was coming about this
time for his answer and yours, as to what we were speaking of last
night."

"My father has gone out, Master Kinsight," replied Alice, calmly, "upon
business of importance; but I can give you the answer that you require,
as well as if he were present. He is going over to Danemore Castle as
soon as possible, to pay the money and interest which you came to
claim, having found the means of doing so, without any further delay."

"Ay, indeed, madam!" exclaimed the lawyer, with evident surprise;
"indeed! Pray how?"

"That, I should conceive, sir," replied Alice, in the same tone in
which she had before spoken, "is no business of yours."

"Your pardon, madam, your pardon," cried the lawyer, "it is business of
mine. Your father must have borrowed the money, and to have borrowed
the money he must have given security, and we hold mortgages over his
whole property to its full value, and therefore--"

As he paused and hesitated, Alice replied, "I do not yet see, sir, how
that would make it any business of yours. However, to satisfy you, the
money was lent by my father's friend, Captain Langford, without any
security whatever."

"Do you mean to say that the money was lent," he exclaimed, rudely,
"actually lent, paid down? Come, come; I shall not go out of the house
till I hear more of the matter, for I do not want to be trifled with,
or to tell my lord that the money is ready when it is not."

"Sir," said Alice Herbert, raising her head with a look of indignation,
"you are insolent. The money is, as I have told you, now in the house,
ready to be paid to your master--as I suppose I must call Lord
Danemore--whenever my father is at leisure to do so. I expect him ere
long; and if you choose to remain till he returns, you may wait in the
servants' hall. At present I myself am busy, and wish to be alone."

The lawyer looked somewhat disconcerted; but he paused thoughtfully for
a moment, biting his lip, twirling his hat, and laying his finger on
his brow, as if uncertain what to do. At length, he exclaimed, "No, no,
I'll not wait; I'll go over to the Earl directly, and take
instructions."

So saying, he bade Alice a short and saucy adieu, and quitted her
presence and the house, not finding a servant who would even show him
the attention of holding his horse while he mounted.




                             CHAPTER XV.


For several weeks Henry Langford had enjoyed a degree of happiness
which he had never before known. From the night in which he was wounded
in defence of Alice Herbert, till the evening preceding the day on
which we last left him, had been a period full of sweet hopes and new
sensations, ending with the crowning joy of all, the knowledge of
loving and being beloved. That period of bright light, however, had now
been suddenly contrasted with as deep a shadow as had ever fallen on
any part of his existence, and yet in the course of that existence he
had known some sorrows and some cares. None, however, had touched him
so deeply as this; for now he was imprisoned, not in consequence of
having fallen into the power of a foreign enemy, taken in battle, and
esteemed even while restrained--but accused of a base and cowardly
crime, separated from those he loved best, placed in a situation from
which it might be difficult to extricate himself, and feeling more
deeply and painfully for the unhappy youth of whose murder he was
accused than any one knew.

Sitting in solitude and in silence, the remainder of Henry Langford's
day, after the half-witted man had left him, passed over in gloom and
anxious thought. It was not that he yielded to despondency; it was not
that he suffered hope to extinguish her torch, or even to shade its
light for a moment. Knowing himself innocent of the crime with which he
was charged, knowing that he possessed the love of Alice Herbert, and
feeling sure that that love would never after, there was always a balm
for grief and anxiety. But still, even when he thought of Alice Herbert
herself, when he remembered the situation of her father, and knew that
any false steps might plunge the worthy knight into irretrievable ruin,
he could not be without anxiety on that score either; and, whichever
way he turned his eyes, there were clouds upon the horizon that
threatened to gather into a storm.

The treatment which he received from the Earl of Danemore, indeed, was
in all respects consolatory. That nobleman, it was clear, hardly
entertained any suspicion of his having had a share in the murder of
his son. Several times in the course of the evening, servants were sent
to ascertain if he wanted anything. The ordinary meals of the day were
regularly set before him; and when night fell, lights were brought, and
various kinds of fine wine were left in the room, sufficient to satisfy
him if by chance he had addicted himself to the evil habit of deep
drinking, but too common in those days.

Some short time after the lights had been brought, he heard a step
approaching his room by the smaller staircase, and the Earl again
appeared. The expression of his countenance was agitated and anxious;
but he apologised courteously for intruding, and then added, "I thought
you might be pleased to learn that the whole of Upwater Mere has been
dragged with the greatest care, without anything having been found to
confirm my apprehensions in regard to its having been made the
receptacle of my poor son's body. It is very foolish, under such
circumstances, and with such proofs of his death as we have, to give
way to hope; but yet I cannot help yielding a little to your reasoning
of this morning."

"I hope and trust, my lord," replied Langford, "that reasoning may not
prove fallacious. Far be it from me to wish to instil false hopes, but
I would certainly, were I you, not give myself up to despair till the
truth of the calamity is better ascertained."

"I know," replied the Earl, "that coincidences very often happen,
giving much unnecessary alarm. Indeed, the story which you told this
morning is an extraordinary proof of the fact. I remember having heard
it before," he added, in a careless tone, "though I forget where it
was. Pray, where did the incident happen?"

Langford mused for a single moment, and then looked up with something
of a meaning smile. "It occurred, my lord," he replied, "in the Gulf of
Florida, many years ago. I therefore do not know it from my own
personal knowledge; but I have heard it from one who was present, and
who told me the whole particulars of that and many another adventure in
those seas."

It was now Lord Danemore's turn to muse, and he did so with a cloudy
brow, gnawing his nether lip, as if struggling with some powerful
emotions. "Pray, do you know the name of the captain of the ship?" he
asked, at length, affecting the same careless tone with which he had
before spoken.

"Yes, my lord," replied Langford; "I know his name and his whole
history from that time to the present hour."

Lord Danemore turned very pale, and then mused for several minutes in
silence. Nor was it unworthy of remark that he did not demand the name
of the captain of the vessel, though the moment before he had seemed so
much interested in the subject. He remained gloomy and silent, however,
as we have said, knitting his brow thoughtfully, and his first words
were--though in so low a tone that Langford did not hear them--"People
may know too much."

Perceiving his lips move, and seeing that he was evidently much
affected by what had passed, Langford, who had spoken with some degree
of emphasis, added, with apparent indifference, "Yes, oh yes; I know
his whole history well. He was an English gentleman of a brave, daring,
and enterprising disposition, who, having been driven from his own
country, and deprived for the time of his own possessions, pursued a
wild and fitful course of life; now serving with gallant distinction in
the armies of foreign countries, now becoming a rover on the high seas,
and acquiring for himself a fearful and redoubtable fame, till the
restoration of the king suddenly recalled him to fortunes and honours
in his own land."

Lord Danemore made no direct reply; but putting his hand to his head,
he said, "It is very hot; I have seldom known a more oppressive night."

As he spoke, the storm, which had been long coming up, burst forth with
a bright flash, which blazed with a blue and ghastly light round the
dark wainscotted chamber in which they sat, lighting up every cornice
and ornament in the carved oak, and seeming absolutely to play amidst
the papers on the table. At that very instant both Lord Danemore and
Langford raised their eyes each to the countenance of his companion,
and gazed upon each other with a firm and questioning glance.

"That was a bright flash," said the Earl, with a lip that
curled slightly as he spoke; "I do not know that I ever saw a
brighter--except in the Gulf of Florida!"

He added nothing more, nor waited for any reply, but rose as he spoke,
and abruptly quitted the room. He trod the stairs down to his own
private apartments with a heavy but irregular step, and paused at the
bottom for several moments ere he opened the door which gave entrance
to his own dressing-room, thinking, with a gloomy brow and eyes bent
steadfast, sightless, upon the ground. At length, he entered and cast
himself into a chair, clasping his strong bony hands firmly over each
other; and oh! what a wild chaos of mingled feelings, and strong
passions, and memories, and regrets, and dreads, and expectations, did
his bosom at that moment contain.

All those passions were now called up in his bosom: and the struggle
between them was the more tremendous, inasmuch as they were, in many
points, arrayed nearly equally against each other. Henry Langford had
in a few words laid before him the picture of his life, and had shown a
deep and intimate knowledge of that darker part of his history which he
had believed to be buried in profound oblivion. For more than twenty
years he had heard no allusion to those days of wild and roving
adventure, when, driven forth, as he fancied, for ever from his native
land, stripped of his rank and his possessions, he had given way to the
impulses of a rash, daring, and fierce spirit, had piled upon his own
head many a heavy remorse, and seared his own heart with many a deed of
evil. He had believed that all the companions of those days were either
gone or scattered far from the high and lordly path in which he now
trod; he had imagined that he had removed every trace of that bond of
fate which united the proud, cold, wealthy Earl of Danemore, the
domineering spirit of the country round, to the wild rover of the
western seas, whose deeds of daring and of blood were still remembered
with awe and fear in a land fertile of strong passions and great
crimes.

There were many who remembered him in exile, indeed, but in that part
of his exile when his daring courage and great powers had been employed
in noble warfare and in an honourable cause; but he thought that the
very fact of being so remembered would be an additional safeguard
against all suspicion in regard to another period. There was, indeed, a
lapse of several years in which his history was unknown to all such
companions of his brighter days; and he had more than once been asked
where he was when some great event had happened on which the
conversation at the moment turned. But Lord Danemore was not a man to
be interrogated closely by any one; and, as we have said, he firmly
believed that all those who could have answered such questions by
pointing to the dark and evil events which had been crowded into a few
short years of his life, were far removed, plunged beneath the rolling
waves of the ocean, buried upon the sandy beach of distant lands, or
with their bones whitening--a public spectacle--in the sun.

Now, however, suddenly, after a long and sunshiny lapse of peaceful
years, the memories of former acts were recalled when he least expected
them--recalled by one who seemed to have a perfect knowledge of every
fact he could have desired to hide; and the dark train of images
conjured up from the past: the regret, the remorse, the shame, which he
had banished long and carefully, were now linked hand in hand with
apprehensions for the future, with the fear of exposure, if not the
dread of punishment. His mind, however, was in no unfit state for
receiving gloomy impressions, his heart was already excited for the
entertainment of fierce and angry passions. Through the whole of that
day, from a very early hour in the morning, he had been torn with grief
and anger, now mourning over the loss of his son with the deep anguish
of wounded affection, now vowing vengeance against that son's murderer,
while his heart felt scorched and seared by the burning thirst for
revenge.

Disappointment, too, deep and bitter disappointment, had had its
share--the disappointment of a proud and ambitious heart. On the son
now lost he had fixed all his hopes and all his aspirations, in him had
he trusted to see his life prolonged, through him had he expected that
future generations would carry on his name with increasing wealth and
greatness. Now all was over; the son on whom he had relied was gone; he
was childless, lonely, cut off from hope and expectations, to live in
darkness and solitude through the chill autumnal twilight of his age,
and then to die, leaving all the vast possessions which he had obtained
to a distant kinsman, whom he hated and despised.

Such had been, in some degree, the state of his feelings, so shaken, so
agitated, when he suddenly found that shame was likely to be added to
the other burdens cast upon him, and that the vice and crimes of other
years were rising up in judgment against him even at the latest hour.
The drop thus cast in was sufficient to make the cup overflow. Never
through life had he been accustomed to put any restraint upon the
fierce passions of his heart, and now what was there that could act as
any check upon them? what was there to prevent him from seeking their
gratification? what was there to oppose the desire which instantly
sprang up within his heart, of silencing for ever the voice which might
tell the dark secrets of other years?

Nevertheless, there was a check, there was something that opposed him
in the fiery course he might otherwise have pursued: ay, and opposed
him strongly, though it was but a feeling connected with other years,
though it was but one of those strange associations between the present
and the past which often have a firmer hold upon us than more immediate
interests or affections. There was something in Langford's face, there
was something in his manner and whole appearance, there was something
in the very tone of his voice, rich, and musical, and harmonious, which
called up as forcibly to his mind a period of sweet, and early, and
happy days, as the tale he had told brought over the glass of memory
the dark and awful features of another epoch.

At the sound of that voice, at the glance of that eye, the forms of
many bright, and dear, and beloved, many who had been known and
esteemed in times of innocence and of happiness, rose up as clearly
before him, as if some magic wand had waved over the dark past, and
brought out of the dim masses of things irrecoverably gone the images
of the dead clothed in all the semblance of life and reality. The
associations thus raised were all sweet; and in regard to him who
called them up, there was a strange feeling of tenderness, of
affection, and of interest, which at the very first sight had made him
feel confident that he could never have been the murderer of his son,
that he who seemed connected with the brightest portion of his early
life could never be one to render the latter part of his existence all
dark and desolate.

Then again, when he remembered that the same man held in his possession
the great, the terrible secret of his former deeds, all his feelings
and his thoughts were changed, and sensations almost approaching to
despair came over him--a stern, dark, eager resolution, akin to those
fierce determinations and sensations which had filled up that portion
of his being to which his thoughts were so suddenly directed.

He sat, then, and gazed upon the ground, with his hands clasped over
each other; and twice he murmured to himself, "People may know too
much." He pondered upon every word that had been spoken, and for nearly
half an hour his thoughts wandered, with a vague uncertain rambling,
over the various epochs of the past, connecting them with the present,
and then turning again and again towards the past, while anguish and
pleasure were still strangely mingled in the retrospect. Still,
however, when he remembered the words of Langford, and felt himself to
a certain degree in his power, the same dark but ill-defined purpose
returned of removing for ever from his path one who held so dangerous a
tie upon him. He felt, indeed, a reluctance, a hesitation, a doubt,
which he somewhat scorned himself for feeling; and he nerved his mind
more and more every moment to execute his determination calmly and
deliberately. "I will never live in the fear of any mortal man," he
thought. "Were he ten times as like, he should not bear my fate about
with him! How! shall he be my only consideration? Surely I am not
become either a child or a woman, to waver in such a case as this!"

As he thus thought, he rose from his seat, and strode up and down the
room with his arms folded on his chest. Over the large and massy
mantelpiece of many- marbles, hung a number of weapons of
different kinds; pistols, and swords, and firelocks, and daggers, some
of foreign, and some of British, manufacture. There appeared the long
Toledo blade, the broad Turkish dagger, the Italian stiletto, the no
longer used matchlock, and many another weapon, arranged in fanciful
devices; and each time, as the Earl turned up and down the room, he
paused and gazed upon them, then bit his lips, and recommenced his
course across the chamber. When this had proceeded for about a quarter
of an hour, some one knocked at the door, and he started sharply, as if
caught in some evil act. The next moment, however, he called to the
person without to come in, speaking in an angry tone; and a servant,
who, from his dress and appearance, seemed to be his own particular
valet, appeared, announcing that Mr. Kinsight, the lawyer, had just
arrived on important business.

"I am glad of it," said the Earl; "take him to the library: I will come
directly." And as soon as the servant was gone, he added, "This man may
be of some use."

He then carefully locked the door which led from his dressing-room to
the room which had been assigned to Langford, and descended to the
library, to confer with an agent worthy of his purposes.




                             CHAPTER XVI.


The prisoner, in the meantime, was not left in solitude; for scarcely
had Lord Danemore quitted his chamber, bearing with him a world of dark
thoughts and excited passions, when Langford was visited by the person
who, more than any one in that house or neighbourhood, seemed to know
his history and understand his situation. Mistress Bertha, as she was
called, came, ostensibly in her character of housekeeper, to ask if
there were anything to be done for the promotion of his comfort:
saying, that she had been so commanded in the morning by the Earl. She
lingered, however, after she had received his answer, though for some
minutes she scarcely spoke; and when she did, she merely uttered a
comment on the storm that was raging without. Langford seemed to
understand her character well, and he too kept silence, leaving her to
say anything that she might desire to say, in her own manner and at her
own time.

"It is an awful night," she said; "an awful night, indeed. It is such a
night as the spirits of bad men should depart in. I never pass such a
night without thinking that there is a likeness between it and the dark
stormy heart of the wicked. But it matters not," she added, after a
long thoughtful pause. "I have linked myself to his fate, and I must
not sever the bond. He is my master, and has been good to me, though he
may have wronged others. I will remain by his side."

She paused again, and Langford merely replied, "It were too late now to
think of it."

"I understand your meaning," she said, "and it is too late. You would
say that in former times I ought to have adhered to the wronged and the
oppressed, and so I would, but I was driven from them. It is needless
now, however," she continued--"it is needless to say one word more on
that score; let us talk of other things. Has he been with you again?"

"He has scarcely left me a moment," replied Langford; "and I fear with
less friendly feelings towards me than when we met before. I showed him
that I knew much of his former life; for, in truth, good Bertha, the
blow must be struck now or never."

"It must, it must!" she replied; "but not too rapidly. Be cautious, be
careful. After he left you this morning, I was with him long, and his
feelings were all such as you could have hoped for. What had passed
between you I know not; but there was a softness, a tenderness had come
over him: a light as from other days seemed to shine into his heart,
and to flash upon affections and feelings long buried in darkness. He
spoke to me of things he has not spoken of for many a year; he used
words and he named names that I never thought to hear him utter again.
The sight of you seemed to form an eddy in the current of time which
carried him back to a happier and brighter part of its course. Be
careful, however. Be careful how you deal with him. If you act well and
wisely, ere the drops are dried up which are now falling from the
clouds, you may tell him all; you may ask him all. But I know him well;
and one rash word, one hasty act, may undo your fortunes at the very
moment they are well nigh built up."

"I will be careful," replied Langford; "I will be careful, because I am
bound by every tie to use all gentle means, rather than harsh ones. But
still it is hard completely to restrain one's self, and to seek with
softness and concession that which is wrongly withheld, and which I
have every right to demand with the loud voice of justice."

"To demand, and not obtain," replied Bertha; "for there is no means by
which you can gain your purpose except by gentleness."

Langford smiled. "Be not quite sure of that," he said. "I have at this
moment my fate in my own power."

"Indeed!" she exclaimed; "indeed! how so?"

"It matters not," Langford replied; "be assured I have; but, as I have
said, I am bound by every consideration to use gentle means. If I find
that they will succeed, I will employ none other; but should they fail,
I will boldly and openly assert my own rights, and both claim and take
that which is my own."

Bertha's eye, while he spoke, fixed upon one of those small doors in
the wainscotting, which we have more than once mentioned, and she shook
her head, with an incredulous smile. "Because," she said, answering his
thoughts more than his words, "because I have placed you here, and
because there is between you and what you desire but one small
partition. That partition is of iron, which, had you a thousandfold the
strength you possess, you could never break through."

"I know it," replied Langford, "I know it well; but yet I tell you,
that in those respects my fate is in my own power. However, I will use
all gentle means, though no subtlety; but in the end I will do myself
right."

"Be it as you say," she answered; "but of one thing beware. It seems
that you have rekindled in his bosom a hope of his son Harold being
still living. Avoid that; the boy is dead, beyond all doubt: struck
down, poor fellow! in his pride of life--broken off in his dearest
dream of happiness and love. But let it be so; it is well it should. He
would have lived but to deeper grief; he would have remained but for
greater anguish. Give the father no hope! For your own sake, give him
no hope that the boy is still alive!"

"But I entertained hope myself," replied Langford; "and it was not in
my nature, Bertha, to see a father grieving for the death of his son.
and not try to afford him what consolation I could."

She shook her head mournfully, adding--"He is dead. I feel that his
fate is accomplished. He could not live. He had no right to live. The
date is out. He is taken away. But I must stay with you no longer; yet
in leaving you, remember my words: use none but gentle means. Urge him
alone by the kinder feelings of his nature, for if ever there was a man
in whom there dwelt at once two strong spirits, powerful for good and
powerful for evil, it is he."

"I will remember your advice," replied Langford, "and thank you for it.
I will use gentle means; but by one means or another right shall be
done."

She lingered for another moment or two, as if desirous of saying more,
but then turned and left him; and proceeding down the staircase into
the hall, she encountered the lawyer, just alighted from his horse.

The man of law bowed low and reverentially to one whom he knew to
possess great influence over his patron; and, more for something to say
than on any other account, added to the usual salutation of good
evening, "It is a terrible night, Mistress Bertha; a good soaked posset
now were not amiss to warm one."

She looked upon him, however, with cold and motionless features, merely
replying in an under voice, as he passed on, "The time will come, I
rather think, when you will be glad of something to cool instead of to
warm you."

The lawyer must have caught the meaning of what she said, as well as
the servant who was conducting him; for a well satisfied smile came
upon the face of the latter, while the attorney shrugged his shoulders,
and said aloud, "She is a rare virago."

He was conducted by the servant into the library of the castle, where,
against the wide and lofty walls, and round the massive pillars that
supported the roof, were ranged in due order a vast number of dusty
volumes, containing the wisdom and the learning, and the folly and the
dulness, of many preceding ages. Lights were placed upon the table; and
after waiting for a few minutes, gazing upon the ponderous tomes around
him, without, however, venturing to disturb any of them by taking them
from their places of long repose, he was joined by the Earl, on whose
strongly-marked countenance the keen and practised eye of the lawyer
recognised at once the traces of strong emotion.

Deep and reverential was the bow with which the Earl was greeted by the
same man who had so lately treated Alice Herbert and her father with
contempt and indignity. He remained standing though the Earl had seated
himself, and even then did not sit down till he had been twice told to
do so. The Earl at the same time would gladly have had the lawyer abate
so much of his respect as to commence the conversation himself, for the
nobleman's mind was full of dark purposes and stormy passions, and he
wished them to be led forth by degrees, lest the fierce crowd, in
rushing out too hastily, should throw open the innermost secrets of his
heart to a stranger. The lawyer, however, did not venture to do so,
being rather overawed than otherwise by the state of agitation in which
he beheld his noble client; and the Earl, putting a restraint upon his
words, to prevent himself from hurrying forward to the subject of his
thoughts at once, began the conversation by saying, "This is a stormy
night, sir. What business, may I ask, has brought you hither at such an
hour and in this weather?"

The lawyer, though he had gained no small knowledge of the world by
long dealings with every different class of men, and by seeing them
under every different circumstance and affection, was, nevertheless,
embarrassed in regard to his demeanour towards Lord Danemore, situated
as he knew him to be at that moment. He had expected to find him, as he
did find him, deeply agitated; but the agitation which he had imagined
he should behold was bitter grief for the death of his son. Now there
was something in the aspect of the peer which made him see at once that
many other feelings were mingled with his sorrow, and as he did not
know what those feelings were, and desired solely so to shape his whole
conduct as to make it agreeable to his patron, he was excessively
anxious to discover, by some means, what was going on in the Earl's
breast, in order to direct his course accordingly.

Finding, however, that he was not able to make such discoveries,
he judged it the best plan to throw before the Earl the subject
furthest removed from the death of his son; and to counterbalance
grief by exciting anger. He replied, therefore, after a moment's
thought--"Nothing but important business, my lord, would have induced
me to intrude upon you at such a moment. Your lordship, however, will
recollect that you gave me your commands how to proceed in regard to
the old Knight at Moorhurst, in which, I am sorry to say, I have been
frustrated by a most unexpected incident."

"Frustrated, sir!" exclaimed the Earl, the whole of whose passions were
in too excited a state not to take fire at every new obstacle cast in
his way. "Frustrated. By all the powers of Heaven, I will not be
frustrated! What? do you mean to tell me there is any flaw in the bond,
any error in the transaction, which will debar me of my right? If so,
look to yourself, sir, for you drew up the whole. Or would you have me
believe that he has money to discharge the debt? I tell you, sir, he is
a beggar; he is ruined--undone--as you well know. What is the meaning
of all this? Frustrated! Shall he frustrate me?" and he ended with a
scoff of angry derision.

"It is for the purpose of preventing it, my lord," replied the lawyer,
meekly, "that I came hither to-night. I wish to lay the case before
you, and take your lordship's commands."

"Well, sir, well," rejoined the Earl, recovering from the first burst
of passion, "tell me the facts, that I may judge."

From not knowing the new matter which had been cast into the fiery
furnace of the Earl's bosom, the lawyer was more and more puzzled at
his demeanour every moment. He saw that there was an undercurrent of
feelings running more rapidly than the natural course of those excited
by the matter on which they spoke. And in order to fathom his mind, and
ascertain of what feelings that undercurrent was really composed, he
resolved to throw in, even unnecessarily, the name of Lord Harold, and
he answered--"The facts are these, my lord. After seeing you yesterday,
and taking precise instructions from you as to the course I was to
pursue, I went over to Moorhurst, where I found your lordship's
lamented son."

As he spoke a dark cloud came over the countenance of the Earl, but it
was of a different kind and character from that which had hung upon his
brow before; and the lawyer, at once perceiving that he had not found
the right road, instantly turned to the straightforward path, finding
that he must take his chance of going right or wrong in a country where
there was no finger-post to direct him. "I was apprehensive," he
continued, "lest his generosity might step in to interfere with your
lordship's just views and purposes."

"Speak not of my son, sir," said the Earl, sternly; "speak not of my
son; for although now that the first anguish is past, I have conquered
the quivering of my wounded heart, and the flesh is still, yet I love
not that any one should lay his finger on the spot, unless it be a
surgeon to heal the injury. Go on with the matter in hand. What said
Sir Walter Herbert?"

"Why, he said, my lord, that he could not pay the money," replied the
lawyer; "and he fell into a great state of agitation, and would not
believe that his affairs were so bad, till I showed him that they could
hardly be worse; and then Mistress Alice was sent for, and I must say,
never were such airs as the young woman gave herself."

"The young lady, sir!" said the Earl, sternly; "you forget yourself.
The person whom I considered meet to be the bride of my son, may well
merit her proper name from a low person like yourself."

The attorney was not without the natural feelings of humanity, and he
did not fail to experience all those sensations which, under different
circumstances induce one man to knock another down. But the effect of
our feelings when they are prevented from operating in their natural
direction, is often, by their recoil, to drive us in a way directly
contrary. Though the lawyer then would have given a great deal to have
repelled the insulting language of Lord Danemore, yet he would not have
given for that purpose the hundredth part of the advantage which he
derived from his patronage and employment; and this being the case, it
always happened that the more rude and overbearing the peer showed
himself in his demeanour towards the lawyer, the more servile and
humble became the lawyer towards the peer.

In the present instance, he begged his lordship's pardon a thousand
times, but excused himself on the plea that the conduct of Mistress
Alice--her expressions regarding his lordship himself--had been so bold
and haughty, that his indignation got the better of his manners.

"However, my lord," he continued, "she agreed at once to give up the
pittance that she possesses, for the relief of her father; but still
the plate and the jewels, and all the rest, would have to be sold to
make up the sum required. I doubt if even that would do, and he would
certainly be obliged to go out of the house, and be reduced nearly to a
state of beggary."

There was a degree of satisfaction apparent in the countenance of the
Earl which made the lawyer stop to let it work, and he watched every
shade of expression that passed over the face of Lord Danemore, as he
gazed with a curling lip upon the ground. With a sudden start, however,
the peer raised his eyes to the countenance of the lawyer, and beheld
there--reading it in a moment as a familiar book--all that was passing
within his agent's mind.

"You are right, sir," he said, going boldly and at once to the subject
of the lawyer's thoughts; "I do hate that man, and if you think that
you have made a discovery, you deceive yourself, for there is nothing
to conceal. Other men hate their neighbours as well as I, and I see not
wherefore I should not have my own private enmities, and gratify them
like others. He is one of those good honest people whom the world
delights to praise, and the vulgar love and honour. He sets himself up
for modest simplicity, and yet affects a state and station which he has
not the means to maintain. He is one of your positive lovers of right,
too, yielding but formal respect to his superiors, but denying them all
authority in matters of importance. In times long gone, when first I
returned after the Restoration, I met with more difficulty and
opposition in establishing my just rights and influence over
the tenantry and people in the neighbourhood, from that mild
justice-fancying, learning-loving Sir Walter Herbert, than from all the
other petty squires and magistrates in the county. If it had not been
for the love my poor boy entertained for him and for his daughter, I
would have swept him from my path long ago; but go on, go on with your
tale. What obstacle has since arisen?"

"Why, last night, my lord," replied the lawyer, "I left all matters in
as fair a train as well might be. The old man had become as pale as
ashes, and the young lady, notwithstanding all her pride, had more than
once wept bitterly. I gave them till this morning to make up their
minds as to how they would act; but when I went thither about two or
three hours ago, I found the old knight from home, and my young
mistress with, her pride and haughtiness all in fresh bloom again. The
end of the matter is, my lord, that it seems a friend has been found
foolish enough to advance the money without any security whatsoever--a
Captain Langford, whom I never before heard of."

"Who? who?" demanded the Earl.

The lawyer repeated the name; and his noble companion, starting up,
struck the table a blow with his clenched hand which made the lights
dance and flicker as they stood. "This is too much!" he said; "This is
too much! I know now where I must aim."

The lawyer had risen at the same time as the peer, and Lord Danemore,
striding across towards him, grasped him firmly by the arm, saying, in
a low voice. "That very man--that very Langford, is now in this house,
having been brought hither by those two foolish justices, Sir Thomas
Waller and Sir Matthew Scrope, on charge of being the murderer of my
son."

The lawyer, forgetting one half of the awful circumstances of the
moment, rubbed his hands with a look of satisfaction. "That will just
do, my lord! That will just do!" he exclaimed. "If we can get any proof
whatsoever that the money is furnished by this Langford, we will, when
it is tendered, which will doubtless be the case to-morrow, seize upon
it as the property of a felon, and then proceed against Sir Walter as
if he had never had it. Long ere this Langford comes to be tried, by
one means or another we can lay the old man by the heels in gaol, and
then, by one process or another, mount up such an expense at law as
will leave him scarcely a coat to his back."

The Earl smiled, partly with satisfaction at the ready means of
gratification which had been found for him in one instance, and partly
with contemptuous insight into the workings of the lawyer's mind,
feeling that degree of pleasant scorn with which the more powerful but
not less evil minds regard the minor operations of the tools they work
with in the accomplishment of wicked purposes. The lawyer remarked the
expression, and fancied that it was well-pleased admiration of his
skill and readiness; and again he rubbed his hands, and chuckled with
conceit and pleasure.

The Earl, however, waved his hand somewhat sternly. "Cease, cease," he
said: "I can have no laughter here! This house is a house of mourning
and of vengeance. We will have no laughter! Your idea is a good one,
and you shall be rewarded if the execution answers to the conception.
But there is more to be done; there are still greater things to be
accomplished--things that are painful to me, but which yet I must do;
things I shall remember and regret but which yet I will not shrink
from."

As he spoke there came over the strong stern features of the old man's
face a dark and awful expression which made even the lawyer shrink and
draw back, accustomed as he was to see human passions in all their
direst forms. It was the expression, the irrepressible expression of a
powerful mind deliberately summoning all its energies to the commission
of a crime known, appreciated, and abhorred. The evident effect
produced upon the lawyer seemed in some degree to affect his patron,
who, ere he spoke further, took two or three gloomy turns up and down
the room, and then again drawing near him, said, "But this Langford;
what is to be done with Langford? He remains to be dealt with."

The lawyer gazed in the Earl's countenance, doubting in his own mind
what he meant; and imagining that the very fact of having aided Sir
Walter Herbert was so great a crime in the eyes of the Earl as to call
down his vengeance as remorselessly upon the one as upon the other. It
was a pitch of vindictiveness at which even his mind was staggered, and
he said with some embarrassment, "But, my lord, from what your lordship
said just now of those two justices, I fancied you thought the
gentleman not guilty."

The Earl gazed upon him steadfastly for so long that the lawyer shrunk
beneath his eyes. He then answered deliberately, "I do not think him
guilty, but yet I would prove him so."

"But, my lord," stammered the lawyer, "my lord, if the man be innocent!
I dare say he did not know he would offend your lordship by helping Sir
Walter, otherwise----"

"Hush!" exclaimed the Earl. "It is no such pitiful motive as that which
moves me. I have other reasons for my actions, other causes for my
determination. Whether the man murdered my son or not is of little
import in this question. Hearken to me, my good friend; he must be
swept from my path. I have strong and sufficient causes for wishing him
hence. He must be removed. He and I cannot live long in the same world
together!"

"Good God! my lord," replied the lawyer, this is very terrible. "I
really know not how to act, or what to think."

"Think," said the peer, "that if by your means I succeed in this
business--if, by your zeal for myself and my family you convict this
man of the murder of my son, wealth and distinction shall be yours for
the rest of your life, but if you do not----"

"But, my lord," said the lawyer, presuming upon the situation in which
they were placed so far as to interrupt the Earl, "these are great and
terrible things; and if I undertake to accomplish that which your
lordship wishes, I must have my reward made sure to me. We do not do
such things without reward, nor with any uncertainty."

Lord Danemore now felt, by the bold tone assumed by his subservient
tool, a part of the bitterness of wrong action; but he was prepared for
that also, and he replied at once, "You are bold, sir, to speak to me
in such a manner; but I understand your meaning, and I have a hold upon
you yet. We are here alone, with no one to witness our conversation;
you therefore judge that I may promise and not perform. But that same
exclusion of all witnesses is my security, if not yours; and I now tell
you, that if you do not accomplish that which I command, I will
withdraw from your hands all those sources of emolument you now enjoy
from me; and I will keep this promise in the one case, as surely as I
will keep the other in the other case. Make me no reply now: I give you
half an hour to determine, and will return to you at the end of that
time."

The Earl turned, and walked towards the door; but before he had reached
it, the lawyer raised his voice, saying, "My lord, my lord! Do not go!
I have determined! What you wish shall be done at all risks, and I will
trust to your lordship's promise fully. Only name what is to be my
reward!"

The Earl smiled with a dark and bitter smile while he replied,
deliberately, "The sum which shall be tendered me to-morrow by Sir
Walter Herbert."

"Enough, enough, my lord," said the lawyer; "it shall be done."

The Earl turned and came back to the table. "You understand," he said,
"the money shall be yours--when he is dead."

The lawyer was very pale, as well as his patron, but he answered,
distinctly. "I do understand, my lord!"

As he spoke, a sudden flash of the lightning glared upon the
countenance of each. That of the peer was stern, calm, and determined;
that of the lawyer was quivering under a fearful degree of emotion: but
what is singular, though the storm had been proceeding during the whole
time they were together, so fierce had been the struggle in the bosom
of each that neither had noticed the strife of the elements without.
The moment, however, that the fearful words had passed, that the dark
determination was taken, both remarked the flash and heard the peal of
thunder that followed. They were neither of them men to shrink at
portents; and though the thunder made the lawyer start, it seemed to
both but a confirmation of their compact.

"It is a tremendous night," said the Earl; "you must sleep here, my
good friend."

The lawyer muttered forth some few words of thanks, and withdrew; but
sleep visited not that night the soft pillow on which he laid his head.




                            CHAPTER XVII.


The storm of the preceding night had ceased, and left the earth all
glittering with golden drops, when the sun rose up and poured the full
tide of his glorious light upon that world where, during his absence,
so many dark and fearful scenes had been enacted. About nine o'clock,
and along a tortuous and unscientific road, which seemed to have been
cut solely with a view of mingling the bright sunshine and the cool
green shades amidst the pleasant woods through which it wandered, rode
along Alice Herbert and her father. Their thoughts were full of matter
of deep moment: cares, fears, anxieties, were busy in their bosoms; but
yet it were false to say that the sweet scenes through which their way
was laid, the cheerful aspect of the summer world, the voice of the
blackbird and the lark, the soft calm air of the bright morning, did
not soften and soothe all their feelings. It is not alone that in the
breast of almost every one there goes on a sort of silent superstition,
drawing auguries almost unknown to ourselves from every varying feature
of the scenes through which we are led, finding the frowning look of
boding fate upon the sky, when the dark clouds roll over it, or the
bright smile of hope when it spreads out clear and bright above us; but
it is that there are mysterious links of harmony between all our
feelings and the universal creations of our God; and that the fine
electric chain along which so many strange and thrilling vibrations
run, is carried from the heart of man to the uttermost verge of heaven.

The brightness of the morning sunk into Alice's soul, and soothed the
painful memories within her; the easy motion, too, of her light jennet,
as he cantered untiringly forward through the fresh early air, had
something in it inspiring and gladsome. He went along with her as if
there were no such things as obstacles or barriers in all life's road,
as if all things were smooth and easy as his own soft pace. Sir Walter,
too, felt the same; he was peculiarly susceptible to the impressions of
external nature, and readily yielded his whole heart to the bright
influence of everything fine and beautiful throughout the range of
creation. Though in early life he had mingled in many scenes of active
strife and endeavour, his heart was all unused and fresh, and retained
all the capabilities of enjoyment which bless our early years. He too,
therefore, felt his heart lighter, and the fountain of hope welling up
anew within him from the gladsome aspect of the morning; and as he rode
on with his daughter, followed by two or three servants on horseback,
he conversed cheerfully and happily over coming events, and spoke of
Langford being immediately set free, of his own affairs restored to
order and abundance, and of the happiness of all parties being secured,
as if he had held in his hands the keys of fate, and could open the
storehouse of fortune, to bring forth what pleasure he pleased for
after years.

He spoke, too, without any animosity, of the Earl of Danemore and of
his proceedings towards him; and Alice, on her part, was enchanted to
hear him do so; for she had feared, from the tone of her father's
feelings on the day before, that, either in regard to his own affairs
or to those of Henry Langford, some sharp collision would take place
between him and the Earl on the first occasion of their meeting. It was
partly on that account, when Sir Walter had announced his intention of
going over in person to the Castle, both to discharge the debt to Lord
Danemore, to lay before him the evidence which he had procured
concerning Langford, and to request him to set the latter at liberty,
that she had besought him, in terms which her father could not resist,
to take her with him.

"The proceeding will seem strange," she said; "but I do not think Lord
Danemore is a man who will think it so. He has shown me much kindness,
and I should wish to see him, and condole with him under his present
grief, both because I do sincerely feel for him, and because I wish him
to know that any grief or disappointment I may have occasioned his poor
son was not mingled with any unkindness of feeling on my part, any
lightness of conduct, or any wish to inflict a wound. He has no one
near him to console him or to comfort him; we are the only people he
has at all associated with, and I used to think that he was fond of my
society, and would hear things from me which he would listen to from no
one else."

His daughter's arguments were almost always good to the mind of Sir
Walter Herbert; and even if he did understand that she was afraid he
might become somewhat over-vehement with the proud and passionate man
he was about to see, his was one of those kindly natures free from that
irritable vanity which is jealous of all interference; and he suffered
his daughter to have her way, because he knew that her motive was good,
and felt that he as well as another might fall into error.

Thus they rode on: and, as they went, Sir Walter himself found a
thousand excuses for the conduct of the Earl; showed Alice how, in that
nobleman's seeming want of liberality towards himself, fatherly pride,
wounded by the rejection of his son, might have the greatest share; and
how, in the detention of Langford, the magistrates who had arrested him
were most to blame; while it was natural that a father's heart, torn
and wrung as his must be, should make him regard mere suspicion as
direct proof, and suffer his eager desire for vengeance to blind his
eyes to the real object.

Judging from such expressions, Alice now felt little doubt that her
father's first interview with the Earl would pass over tranquilly; and
having no longer the strong motive which had, at first, induced her to
cast off a certain feeling of timid shyness which she experienced in
regard to seeing Lord Danemore for the first time after all that had
taken place between herself and his son, she proposed to remain for a
time with Mistress Bertha, the housekeeper, and not to see the Earl
till after the business on which Sir Walter went was concluded.

"Perhaps it may be better, my love," replied Sir Walter; "although I
never liked that woman, who is as stern and harsh a being, I think, as
ever was created. Yet she was always fond of you, Alice: and in regard
to my conversation with the Earl, put your mind at rest; I feel too
much sorrow for him, at the present moment, to let any degree of anger
rest in my bosom, or to suffer anything that he can say, knowing as I
do the violence of his nature, to make me forget for one moment that he
is a father, mourning for the unexpected loss of his only son."

Their plans being thus arranged, Sir Walter announced to the porter of
Danemore Castle that his daughter would remain with Mistress Bertha,
while he craved audience with the Earl, on important business.

There was something in the demeanour of Sir Walter Herbert which even
the insolent servants of Lord Danemore could not resist; there was the
mingling of courtesy and dignity, the conscious right to command, but
that right waved for kindness' sake, which is sure to win respect even
from those the most unwilling to pay it. The worthy Knight and his
daughter, then, were shown, with some degree of ceremony, into one of
the large, cold, stately saloons of the Castle, while the servant
proceeded to announce their coming to his master. He returned in a few
minutes, saying, that the Earl would join Sir Walter there ere long,
and that, in the meantime, he would conduct the young lady to Mistress
Bertha's room.

She had not been long gone when Sir Walter was joined by the Earl, who
was followed into the room by the lawyer, hanging his head and bending
his back, like a sulky dog trudging at its master's heels. Lord
Danemore received Sir Walter with stately coldness, begged him to be
seated, and, as if totally unconscious of anything that had passed
before, requested to know what was the cause of his being honoured with
Sir Walter Herbert's presence.

"I should not have intruded upon you, my lord, especially at such a
moment," said Sir Walter, "but that I am desirous both of offering you
any assistance and co-operation in my power in the very painful
inquiries which must fall to your lot to make; of laying before you a
considerable mass of information which I have already obtained, and at
the same time of discharging an obligation which I only deeply regret
that it has not been in my power to liquidate long ago."

"Thanking you for your offers of assistance, sir," said the Earl, "we
will, if you please, turn to the latter point you have mentioned,
first. Although I ordered my views upon the subject to be notified to
you before the loss I have sustained, yet I shall not suffer that loss
to interfere with the progress of a business which it must be as
agreeable to Sir Walter Herbert as to myself to bring to a conclusion."

The Earl spoke in a cold and cutting tone, which brought the warm blood
into Sir Walter's cheek. He replied, calmly, however, saying, "Of
course, my lord, it is as agreeable to me as to you to conclude a
business of this nature, which has produced, I am sorry to say,
feelings between us which I hoped would never have existed."

"It seems to me, sir," said the Earl, "that we are entering upon
irrelevant matter. I can accuse myself of having done nothing that I
was not justified in doing; nor do I perceive that any persons have a
right to accuse me of being wanting in feelings of friendship, when
they were themselves the first to reject advances by which, considering
all things, I believe they might think themselves both honoured and
favoured."

"We might view that fact in a different light, my lord," replied Sir
Walter, who was becoming somewhat irritated; "however, not to touch any
further upon subjects of an unpleasant nature, I am here to tender you
payment of the bond which you hold of mine, although, as you are well
aware, my lord, the debt was in reality none of mine, but incurred
through the villany of another."

"With that, sir, I have nothing to do," said the Earl; "but what are
these papers that you offer me?"

"They are, my lord," replied Sir Walter, "as you may see, bills of
exchange from houses of undoubted respectability in the capital; of
course it is hardly possible to carry in safety such a sum in gold.
Should your lordship, however, as by your countenance I am led to
suppose, object to receive the amount in this manner, I will, of
course, cause the bills to be immediately turned into money."

"I am far from objecting to receive the amount in this manner," replied
the Earl; "indeed, it might be, in many respects, more convenient; but
there is something peculiar here; more than one of these bills is
endorsed with the name of Henry Langford."

"Such is the case, my lord." replied Sir Walter. "Of that gentleman I
shall have to speak to you in a few moments; but it was your lordship's
wish that we should adhere in the first instance to this business, and,
such being the case, we will conclude it, if you please. Are you
willing to receive those bills in payment? or shall I cause them to be
turned into money, as may be done immediately?"

A dark and fiend-like smile of satisfaction had been gradually coming
over the countenance of the Earl; and there was a struggle in his mind
between the natural quickness and impatience of his disposition, and
the desire which he felt to protract the actual execution of his
purpose, in order to enjoy every step he took therein. Impatience,
however, at length predominated; and he replied, taking the whole
packet of bills of exchange from the table--

"There will be no occasion, I am afraid, to cause these bills to be
turned into money, for some time at least; although, Sir Walter
Herbert, I cannot receive them as payment of your debt. They are, as I
am informed--and the name upon the back of some of them bears out that
information--they are the property of a person now under charge of
felony; and I therefore find myself called upon, in my capacity of
magistrate, to take possession of them, till the accusation against him
is proved or disproved."

Sir Walter, for a moment, sat before him thunderstruck, without making
any reply, while the Earl continued to fix upon him the full gaze of
his stern dark eyes, enjoying the surprise and pain he had occasioned.
The instant after, however, Sir Walter recovered himself, and replying
to the look of the Earl with one as stern and resolute, he said, "I
conclude that your lordship is jesting, though the moment for so doing
is strangely chosen; but I cannot believe that the Earl of Danemore
wishes to prove himself a villain more detestable than the needy
sharper who fleeces a confiding dupe. Concluding that there was
something in noble blood which implied honour and integrity; trusting
that a long line of generous ancestors afforded some tie to honesty and
upright conduct, if nothing more--believing the person who calls
himself the Earl of Danemore not to be the bastard of a noble house,
but one who had some cause to hold its honour high--thus thinking and
believing, I placed in his hands those papers, which he is bound either
to receive as payment of his debt, or to restore to me in the same
manner as he received them."

The Earl was too well satisfied to yield to anger; and he replied, with
the same cold and bitter calmness which he had displayed throughout,
"You are right, sir, in all your conclusions, except the last. Noble
birth should be coupled with integrity: high ancestors are a tie to
honour; the Earl of Danemore has every reason to believe himself the
legitimate son of his father; but, nevertheless, he may take a
different view of his duty from Sir Walter Herbert, in a matter where
Sir Walter Herbert is an interested party--too much so, indeed, to
judge with his usual clearness. These papers, which it is now my
purpose to seal up and deliver into the hands of my worthy friend here
present, Master Kinsight, are evidently the property of this same Henry
Langford, who stands accused of the murder of my son."

"My lord, my lord," interrupted Sir Walter, "if you have taken any
pains to investigate this matter, you must be well aware that the case
made out against that upright and honourable man, Captain Langford, is
not even a case of suspicion, far less one which justifies his
detention for a moment. It is not even proved that your son is dead;
and I pray to God that it may not be so."

"Prove that, sir, prove that," exclaimed the Earl, "and none will be
more glad than I shall be; but even then, I very much fear these papers
would remain to be dealt with according to law, as there can be no
doubt whatever that this same Henry Langford, if not a principal, is an
accessary to all those acts of pillage and robbery which have lately
disgraced this neighbourhood. You are not aware, Sir Walter, of all the
facts; you are not aware of all that has been discovered this very
morning, Master Kinsight here having, with all his own shrewdness,
obtained proof, almost incontestable, that this same Henry Langford is
one of a band of plunderers who have established themselves in this
county, and whose acts speak for themselves."

Again Sir Walter Herbert was struck dumb. "My lord," he said, at
length, after a considerable pause, "I am a magistrate of the county,
and, consequently, may be permitted to demand the nature of the
evidence against Captain Langford, especially as I have both taken a
very active part in putting down the system of violence and outrage
which has, as you observed, disgraced this neighbourhood, and have
investigated the matter thoroughly since the attack upon my daughter,
of which you most probably have heard, and from which she was delivered
by the courage of Captain Langford alone. I, therefore, must beg to see
the evidence against him, as I have with me the depositions of various
witnesses which clear him of all suspicion in regard to the
disappearance of your son."

"I do not feel myself called upon," replied the Earl, "nor, indeed, do
I think it would be right and just, to make any one acquainted with the
discoveries we have already made, before the whole train of evidence is
mature. There are two learned, wise, and most respectable magistrates,
Sir Thomas Waller and Sir Matthew Scrope, who are even now engaged in
collecting information on the subject, and it would be not only an
insult to them, but an effectual means of frustrating the ends of
justice, were any other person permitted to interfere, especially when
that person is avowedly a supporter of the culprit."

"All this is very specious, my lord," replied Sir Walter; "but it may
be doubted--and I am one of those who do doubt--whether personal
motives on your lordship's part may not mingle with the view you take
of the case, and whether your known power and influence in this
neighbourhood may not have more to do with the decision of the
magistrates you mention than the considerations of right and justice."

"Your language, Sir Walter Herbert, is growing insulting," replied the
Earl, "and, indeed, so has been your whole conduct. I have passed it
over as yet, out of consideration for the foolish fondness which my
poor son entertained towards a member of your family. It must go no
further, however, or you shall find that I am not to be insulted with
impunity. The imputations, too, which you cast upon two respectable men
are altogether unworthy; and I beg to say that I shall hear no more
upon this or any other subject from you. My lawyer shall have my
directions to deal with you, in regard to your debt to me, with
moderate determination; and any evidence that you may have collected in
reference to the prisoner had better be communicated to the two
magistrates who have the case before them. I must beg now to be excused
any further conversation on the subject."

"Then I am to understand, my lord," said Sir Walter, "that you
positively and distinctly refuse to return to me the bills of exchange
which I have, with foolish confidence, placed in your hands."

The Earl bowed his head in token of assent, and Sir Walter proceeded,
"You will permit me, if you please," he said, "to call in one of my own
servants to witness my demand, and your refusal."

"That is unnecessary, sir," replied the Earl; "I will give you an
acknowledgment under my own hand, that I have taken possession of
certain bills of exchange belonging to Henry Langford, accused of
felony. Draw it up, sir," he continued, turning to the lawyer.

The lawyer did as he was directed, employing all the most cautious
expressions, and the Earl, after having read the paper over, signed it,
and delivered it to Sir Walter Herbert.

"Your lordship's conduct is certainly most extraordinary," replied Sir
Walter; "but this business shall soon be cleared up, for I have
determined that I will not rest one moment till the best legal
assistance has been procured for the noble gentleman you seem disposed
to persecute, and who has been deprived of his liberty upon the
accusation of having murdered a person who is by no means proved to be
really dead."

He was turning to quit the apartment, and the Earl was in the act of
directing his lawyer in a low voice to have him arrested at once for
the debt, when two or three hard blows upon the door, as if struck with
a heavy stick, called the attention of the whole party, and caused the
good Knight to stop, expecting to see the door open, and some one
enter. The door, indeed, did open, but it was only pushed forward a
small space, just giving room sufficient to admit the head of the
half-witted man John Graves.

As soon as he beheld him, Sir Walter exclaimed, "Here is one who
probably can tell us more of the matter than any one else; for, if I am
rightly informed, it was upon his testimony, received second-hand, that
these magistrates acted."

"That I can, indeed." said the half-witted man, still standing in the
doorway; "I can tell you more about it than any one else, for I saw him
buried last night with my own eyes under the beech trees."

"Who? who?" demanded several voices at once; while the Earl, with the
feelings of a father breaking forth, and overpowering all others,
strode forward and gazed in the man's face.

"Why, the boy," replied the other; "the boy Harold; and I came to tell
you where he lies."

The Earl covered his eyes with his hands, and for a few minutes an
awful silence spread through the room. Sir Walter Herbert could not
have found in his heart to break in upon the first moment of parental
grief for any consideration; and he suffered the bitter agony to have
its way without attempting by one word of consolation to soothe that
deep wound which he himself believed to be incurable, and only likely
to be aggravated by any earthly appliance. The lawyer, though feeling
very differently, was yet afraid to speak; and Silly John, as he was
called, stood gazing upon them, infected by the feelings expressed in
the countenance of the Earl and Sir Walter, when he announced the sad
confirmation of their worst fears.

It was the Earl himself who first broke silence. "Sir," he said,
turning abruptly to Sir Walter, "I desire to be alone. This is no time
for any other business than that either of mourning for my son, or
punishing his murderers; with regard to other matters, you shall hear
from me hereafter. Your fair scornful daughter, I understand,
accompanied you hither, and now waits for you. Pray tell her that,
though bound by courtesy to receive the visits of a lady at all
seasons, yet at present the heart of the father is not very well
attuned to hear consolatory speeches on the death of his only son, from
the lips of one who first encouraged and then rejected that son's
addresses, and who, it would appear, by such conduct brought about his
death."

"My lord," replied Sir Walter, mildly, "so deeply am I sorry for you,
that I will concede to your sorrow even the privilege of being unjust,
and will not defend my child, though she be altogether innocent of that
with which you charge her. She is now in Mistress Bertha's room,
waiting my coming; and, taking leave of you with deep sympathy for your
loss, I will seek her there and return with her to my own dwelling."

"Seek where you may find, Sir Walter," said Silly John, turning with a
lacklustre smile upon the Knight; "seek where you may find: for you
will not find Mistress Alice nor Mistress Bertha either where you think
they are; for I saw them stepping quietly up stairs towards the old
north tower; and the lady and her lover are by this time looking into
each other's eyes."

"This is somewhat too much!" exclaimed the Earl, with an angry frown;
"I did not know that the young lady was so great a proficient in
policy: but by your leave, Sir Walter, I must interrupt their
conference;" and striding towards the door with flashing eyes, he threw
it, open and advanced towards the great staircase.

Sir Walter followed quickly, and at the foot of the stairs touched the
Earl's arm slightly, with a meaning look, saying at the same time, "I
trust, my lord, that in your present excited state you will not forget
who Alice Herbert is, and that her father is present."

The Earl turned, and gazed at him from head to foot. "I shall not
forget myself, sir," he replied; "the Earl of Danemore is not
accustomed to injure or insult a woman!" and thus saying, he strode up
the stairs with the same quick pace.




                            CHAPTER XVIII.


There was a thrill in the heart of Alice Herbert as she followed the
servant through the long passages of Danemore Castle, which sprang
neither from old associations nor from the solemn silence which reigned
through the whole building. Since she had last trod those long
corridors new feelings had taken possession of her bosom; new thoughts,
new hopes, new happiness, had arisen in her heart; and every pulse that
throbbed in that heart had some reference to the earnest affection
which now dwelt within her. As she passed along, then, following the
servant, who with slow and solemn steps led the way, she could not but
remember that she was probably in the same house with Henry Langford,
and a vague fancy that by some means she might see him, if it were but
for a moment, made her heart beat and her whole frame tremble.

The room to which she was led was vacant, and she sat down to meditate
over the past and the future, both of which had a world of absorbing
thoughts and feelings to engage her attention. But yet her eyes
wandered round the small chamber, which she had not visited for many
years, and she remarked that to the crucifix and missal which usually
lay upon a table near the window, marking the faith of the occupier of
that apartment, were now added the grinning skull and mouldy bones,
which may well serve as mementos of our mortality.

She had not been there long, however, when the slow stately step of
Mistress Bertha was heard near the door, and the next moment she
entered the room, gazing upon Alice with a calm, but somewhat sad,
expression of countenance, as she answered her salutation.

"Good morrow, Mistress Bertha," said the young lady; "I hope you have
been well since we last met, which is now a long time ago."

"Well, quite well, lady," replied Mistress Bertha; "it is a long time
ago; and many things have happened in the space between, which should
not have happened. Fate, however, has had its way. We must all fulfil
our destiny; and you and I, as well as others, are but working out what
is to come to pass."

"If you mean, Mistress Bertha," said Alice, "that I have not been here
of late so frequently as I used to be, I think, when you remember all
that has happened, you will not judge that I acted wrongly in making my
visits scarce at Danemore, where my father's reception has long been
cold."

"I blame you not, Mistress Alice: I blame you not," replied the
housekeeper. "What right have I to blame you? You liked him not; you
loved him not. That was not your fault, nor the poor boy's either. You
were fated for another, and that other fated to snatch from _him_ that
which he held dearest. We cannot control our liking and dislikings;
they are the work of destiny. There have been those who loved me that I
could never love, those who have treated me well and kindly, who
through long years befriended me, and with tenderness and affection did
all to win regard; and yet when they had done all, they failed; and,
seizing gladly on some rash word, some hasty burst of passion, I have
cast their benefits behind me, and left them, because I could not love
them. What right, then, should I have to blame others for feeling as I
have felt, and doing even less than I have done?"

"I am sure, Mistress Bertha," replied Alice, gently, "I am quite sure,
from what I know of you, that, though you might act sharply, you would
never act unjustly, and never be guilty of any degree of ingratitude,
though you almost accuse yourself of being so."

"You do not know, you do not know," replied the other; "I have been
guilty of ingratitude. I know, and acknowledge, and feel, that to her
who was kind to me from her youth, whose fathers had protected my
fathers, and whose generosity had raised me from low estate, I know and
feel that I was ungrateful; that I could not, that I did not, return
her love for love, and that I quitted her at the first rash and
thoughtless word. So far I did wrong, and felt evil: but I did no more;
my heart was not made, as many another is made, to hate because I knew
that I had wronged. I went upon my way and she upon hers, but I sought
for no opportunity of doing her ill. On the contrary, I would willingly
have atoned for what I had done by serving her in those matters where
she felt most deeply. I did serve her as far as I could; but there are
things which I must not do--no, not even now."

"I know not to what your words allude," replied Alice, speaking to her
gently and kindly, wishing to soothe rather than in any degree to
irritate one towards whom she had always experienced feelings of great
kindness, and even respect; for although Mistress Bertha, on many
occasions, had given way in her presence to the sharp and unruly temper
which evidently existed within her heart, yet the occasions on which it
had been exercised, Alice had always remarked, were those where there
was either an open and apparent, or a concealed but no less certain
cause, for the contempt or anger to which she yielded such unbridled
sway. "I know not to what your words allude, but I doubt not that you
judge of yourself harshly--too harshly. Mistress Bertha, as I have
often seen you do in regard to yourself before."

Bertha gave a melancholy smile, and shook her head, as she replied,
"Young lady, clear your mind of that great error; the greatest, the
most pernicious of the poisonous dainties with which human vanity feeds
itself in all this world of vain things! We never judge of ourselves
too harshly. The brightest and the best, the noblest and the most
generous, if they could but look into their own bosoms with eyes as
clear and righteous as those that gaze upon them from the sky, would
find therein a thousand dark forms and hideous errors, of which their
hearts accuse them now but little. Ay; and if in the whole course of
human actions we could see the current of our various motives separated
from each other, how much that is vile and impure should we find
mingling with all that we fancy bright and clear! No, no! man never
judges himself too harshly, let him judge as harshly as he will. God
sees and judges, not harshly, we hope, but in mercy; and yet, what sins
does not his eye discover, what punishments will he not have to
inflict!"

Alice was silent; but after a momentary pause Bertha resumed the
conversation nearly where she had first begun it. "I blame not you,"
she said, "young lady, for not loving one who loved you. It was not
destined so to be, though there may have been a feeling of pride, too,
in your dealings with him. The poor boy who is gone had not the eagle
eye and ruling look of this one--an eagle eye and ruling look gained
from a noble race in other lands; and well do I know how, with young
happy things like you, the eyes lead captive the imagination; ay, and
fix chains of iron upon the heart. Yet you judged well and nobly, too,
if I see aright. That face and form are but an image of a mind as
bright, and he has every right to have such a mind now that all that
was dark, and fierce, and harsh in the proud streams that mingle in his
veins has been purified, and tempered, and softened by long adversity."

"Of Of whom do you speak, Mistress Bertha?" demanded Alice, with a
conscious blush mantling in her cheek as she asked the question.

"Of whom do I speak!" echoed Bertha, gazing on her; "would you have me
think that you do not know of whom I speak?"

"No," answered Alice, blushing still more deeply; "no, Mistress Bertha,
I do not wish to deceive you. I know, at least I guess, you speak of
Captain Langford; but--but--"

Bertha gazed thoughtfully down upon the ground for a few moments; "I
had forgot," she said at length, "yet he did wisely--he always does
wisely! But I had not believed that there was a man who, in the
unchained moments of the heart's openness, would act so wisely and so
well! I understand you, sweet lady. You were not aware that I knew
rightly the story of your heart; and I knew it only by having divined
it. Yet to show you how well I have divined it, I will tell you the
motive that brought you hither with your father. You came with the view
of seeing him you love!"

The ingenuous colour once more rose warm in Alice's cheek; but she
replied, with that sparkling of truth and sincerity in her pure eyes
that there was no doubting one single word, "No, Mistress Bertha," she
said, "you are wrong. I come hither with no such motive, with no such
view. My father had business with the Earl, so painful, so irritating,
that I sought to accompany him, solely with the wish to soothe and calm
both; but I found as we rode along that Sir Walter's mind was already
prepared to treat all things gently and kindly, in consideration of
Lord Danemore's sad loss; and, therefore, I thought it better to come
to this room than to intrude upon the Earl's grief till I was quite
sure he would be well pleased to see me. But, on my word, the thought
of seeing Captain Langford never entered my mind till I was crossing
the hall to come hither. Then, indeed, remembering that he had been
brought hither, and having learned that he had been most wrongly
detained--at least all yesterday--I thought he might still be here, and
that, perhaps, I might see him. Nor will I deny, Mistress Bertha," she
added, "that I much wish to do so, if it be possible."

"I believe your whole tale, Alice Herbert," replied Bertha "I believe
it all and every word; for I have seen and watched you from your
childhood, and I know that you are truth itself. You shall see your
lover, Alice. You shall taste those few bright moments of stolen
happiness which are dear, all too dear, to every young heart like
thine."

"Nay, nay, Bertha," said Alice, in reply, "though I will not deny that
his society is happiness to me, I have a greater object in view; I have
to learn how I--I, his promised wife, may aid him at the present
painful moment. Nor, Bertha," she added, while at the very repetition
of the words her cheeks again grew red, "nor do I wish that the moments
spent with him should be stolen moments. I ask you openly, if it be
possible to let me see him and speak with him. I wish no concealment. I
seek not to hide either my regard for him, nor my interview with him.
Sure I am that my father would approve it, and I have none but him to
consider, in framing my actions."

Bertha gazed upon her glowing countenance and sparkling eyes, as she
raised them, full of timid eagerness, to her face, with a look of
pleasure not unmixed with surprise. "You are, indeed, a noble creature
and a lovely one," she said; "yours may well be called generous blood.
But it shall be as you wish; and yet be under no fear for your lover.
They cannot injure him! It is not his destiny. He is born for a very
different fate, and the fools who took him were only tools in Fortune's
hands, to cut a pathway for him to the point where he is now arrived.
Fear not. Alice, but come with me, and you shall see and speak with
him; alone, if you will."

"No, not alone!" said Alice, again colouring; "not alone! That were
needless--useless."

"Come with me, then." said Bertha, "come with me, then; though it is
little needful that you should see him, to take council with him for
his liberation. Ere to-morrow morning he will be free. They cannot hold
him there long. To think of holding him there at all is idle and empty;
and there is one of them, at least, that feels it to be so, though he
knows not well why."

As she spoke, she led the way out of the room in which they were, and
along the corridor towards the great hall. Alice made no reply, for her
heart beat so fast, and her limbs trembled so much, that she was glad
to take refuge in silence in order to hide her agitation. She knew that
she was going to do nothing but what was right. She felt that every
sensation of her heart, every purpose of her mind, was pure, and noble,
and good; and yet--why or wherefore she could not tell--there was
something in the act of thus going privately to see her lover in the
house of another, which made her tremble like a guilty creature, though
conscious of innocence in thought and deed. She looked anxiously at
each door as she passed, lest it should be opened, and some one issue
forth to interrupt her. She hurried her pace up the great staircase,
gazing round with feelings of apprehension she could not comprehend;
and when at length they reach the extremity of the building, and stood
before the last door upon that side, she was obliged to lay her hand on
Bertha's arm, and beg her to stop for a moment, in order to recover
breath, and gain some degree of command over herself.

At length she said, "Now, now I am ready," and Bertha opened the door
of the outer chamber. It was tenanted by a single servant, apparently
busy in the ordinary occupations of the day, putting this article of
furniture in one place, and that article in another, with that sort of
tardy diligence remarkable in houses where there are many servants and
but little to do.

He started, however, and turned round when he heard the door open; and
then advancing towards Bertha, he said, "My lord ordered me, Mistress
Bertha, not to give any one admission here;" he then added, in a low
sort of confidential tone, "The orders came early this morning for me
to hang about here, and when I had done with the rooms, to remain upon
the staircase, so as to make sure that the prisoner does not escape,
without locking the doors, however--though I don't see why my lord
should take such a round-about way, when by doing nothing but just
turning the key he could keep the young man in as long as he liked."

"The Earl has his reasons for all that he does," replied Bertha,
walking on. "You will do very right to stop every one; but of course
your lord's orders do not apply to me. Come with me, young lady; you
may be admitted, as I told you."

The man looked surprised and bewildered; for Mistress Bertha, as he
well knew, was not a person to be contradicted with impunity, and yet
he feared that he would be doing wrong in letting the two visitors
pass.

Half the advantages, however, which are gained in this world, either
over our adversaries or rivals, are obtained by taking advantage of
their astonishment; and before the man had time to make up his mind as
to what he ought rightly to do, Mistress Bertha and Alice had passed
him, and the door of the inner chamber was open.

Langford was sitting at the table, writing, and the sound of the
opening door made him raise his eyes. For a moment it seemed as if he
could scarcely believe that what he saw was real; but then a look of
joy and satisfaction, which would have repaid Alice well, had she had
to encounter a thousand dangers and difficulties in making her way to
visit him, spread over his countenance, and, rising up, he advanced to
meet her.

Without doubt or hesitation, he cast his arm around her, and pressed
his lip upon her cheek. "Thank you, dearest Alice, thank you," he said,
"this is, indeed, most kind and most good; how can I ever show myself
grateful enough for such a token of affection?"

Alice burst into tears. To see him sitting there--him whom she loved,
and honoured, and esteemed--a prisoner, and accused of dark crimes, had
wrung her heart almost to agony; but his words and his look, and the
tone of his voice, and the touch of his hand, and the pressure of his
lips, seemed to sever the bonds which held the varied emotions
struggling together in her breast, and they all burst forth together in
that profuse flood of tears.

"It is _we_ that must be grateful to you." she said, as soon as she
could speak; "it is we that must be grateful to you. I cannot help
suspecting, nay believing, that you are suffering in some degree on our
account; but for fear we should not have time to speak fully, let me
tell you, Langford, the principal object of my coming here. I was
afraid that you might not have means allowed you of communicating with
any of your friends, and, therefore, I was anxious to see you, to ask
what can be done for you, what lawyer can be sent for to you, or what
means can be taken to prove your innocence?"

"My Alice has never doubted my innocence, then?" said Langford, gazing
tenderly upon her. "I knew, I felt sure, she would not."

"Of anything like crime, Langford," she said, "I knew you were
innocent, perfectly innocent! I might imagine, indeed--for we women can
hardly judge or tell to what lengths you men may think the point of
honour should carry them--I might imagine, indeed, that you had taken
this unhappy young man's life in honourable quarrel: but even that I
did not believe."

"Oh, no!" replied Langford; "I should never have dreamt of such a
thing. Nothing could have provoked me to do so. Besides, Alice, did I
not give you my word? and believe me, dear Alice, believe me, now and
ever, that I look upon my word given to a woman as binding as my word
given to a man. Nay, if it were possible, I should say more binding.
because she has fewer means of enforcing its execution. No, no! dear
Alice, I parted with him in the park, within ten minutes after I left
you. It is true, he did try to provoke me to a quarrel, but I was not
to be provoked."

"I am ashamed of having doubted you, even in that, and for a moment,"
replied Alice; "but that doubt sprang solely from a belief that men
often think it a point of honour to conceal their intentions from women
in such matters as these, and believe themselves justified in using any
means to do so. But now, Langford, tell me quickly, what can be done to
prove you innocent? What is there that my father or myself can do to
free you from a situation so painful?"

"I know little," replied Langford, "that can be done under present
circumstances. It is their task to prove that I am guilty, more than
mine to show that I am innocent: but I hear steps upon the stairs. Who
have we here, I wonder?"

As he spoke, he opened the door into the other room, which Bertha had
closed behind her; and nearly at the same moment, as the reader may
have anticipated, the outer door at the top of the stairs was thrown
open, and the Earl of Danemore, with a countenance on which hung the
thunder-cloud of deep but suppressed wrath, strode in, followed closely
by Sir Walter Herbert.

The colour came and went rapidly in Alice's cheek, and her heart beat
very quick. The servant in the outer room looked tremblingly towards
Mistress Bertha; but Bertha herself remained totally unmoved, with her
long sinewy hands, clad in their white mittens, resting calmly upon
each other, and her dark eyes raised full upon the Earl, while not a
quiver of the lip nor a movement of the eyelids betrayed that she was
affected by any emotion whatsoever. Langford drew a little closer to
the side of Alice, while the Earl turned his first wrath upon the
servant.

His words were few and low, but they were fully indicative of what was
passing in his heart. "I commanded," he said, "that no one should be
admitted here! You have disobeyed my commands. Answer me not a word.
You have disobeyed my commands, and you shall have cause to remember it
to the last day of your life. Silence, I say! Get you gone, and send
hither Wilton and the other groom of the chambers. Madam." he
continued, advancing towards Alice, with a bitter and sarcastic sneer
curling his lip, "Madam, long as I have had the honour of your
acquaintance, I did not know that you were so skilful a tactician till
to-day. To engage me with your serviceable and convenient father, while
you came hither to lay your plans with a personage accused of the
murder of my son, is a stroke, indeed, worthy of a great
politician----"

Alice had turned pale when he first approached her; but at the words,
"your serviceable and convenient father," the blood rushed up into her
cheek; and though, while turning to look at Sir Walter, whose eyes were
beginning to flash with indignation, she suffered the Earl to finish
his sentence, she stopped him at the word "politician," by raising her
hand suddenly, and then replied at once, with her sweet musical voice
sounding strangely melodious after the harsh tone in which Lord
Danemore had been speaking--

"Forbear, my lord," she said, "forbear! Let me prevent you from using
any more words that you will be ashamed of and grieve for hereafter. My
motive in coming to this house to-day was anything but that which you
imply. I came, my lord, because I feared that my father, justly
irritated at some unworthy treatment, might act towards Lord Danemore
as Lord Danemore is now acting towards me: that is to say, might speak
angry words which he would soon be sorry for. I found, however, my
lord, that the kind gentleness of that father's heart was already
sufficient to make him forget the injuries which Lord Danemore sought
to inflict, in the sorrow which Lord Danemore now experiences; and,
though there was a time, my lord, when I believed that the voice of
Alice Herbert had some power to soothe, to tranquillize, and to console
you, I did not flatter myself that such was the case now, and I
remained in consequence without."

The Earl seemed somewhat moved. He had listened in silence, and drew
himself up to his full height, with an air of attention and thought.
When she paused, however, he demanded, but in a softer tone, "And your
coming here, madam--here, into this room--was, doubtless, perfectly
accidental; a singular coincidence brought you into the apartments of
this worthy gentleman."

"No, my lord," replied Alice, with a degree of calm dignity that set
his sneers at defiance, "quite on the contrary; as soon as I found that
Captain Langford was still here, I asked Mistress Bertha to conduct me
to see him, which, your lordship will perceive, was very natural," she
added, with the colour becoming deeper and deeper in her cheek, "if you
consider, first, that he was severely injured in my defence; next, that
I have promised him my hand; and, lastly, that I knew him to be both
unjustly charged with a great crime, and in the power of one who
sometimes suffers a nature, originally most noble, to be influenced too
much by strong passions; and a judgment, originally clear and right, to
be darkened and obscured by his own desires and prejudices. My lord,"
she added, "the tone which you are pleased to assume towards me obliges
me to speak candidly; I thought it very possible that, circumstanced as
he is, and in your power, this gentleman might meet with obstacles in
establishing his innocence, and in communicating with those who would
defend and advise him. Under these circumstances, I acted as I have
acted, in order to bear any communication from him, either to my
father, or to any other person with whom he might think fit to take
counsel."

"Madam," replied the Earl, with far less acerbity of manner than
before, "I find that you can judge severely, too. This gentleman shall
have every opportunity of proving his innocence."

"That, my lord, I will take care of," interrupted Sir Walter Herbert;
"for I certainly will not trust, in the case of my friend, to the
justice of those who, without a shadow of reason, first charged him
with a crime of which he is innocent, and then acted towards him as if
they had nearly proved him guilty."

"He shall have every opportunity of proving his innocence," reiterated
the Earl, sternly; "but Sir Walter Herbert is the man who judges too
hastily. But yesterday, I said to this same gentleman, this Captain
Langford, as he is pleased to call himself, that his bare word not to
quit these apartments was sufficient. To-day, I say that those bolts
and bars, strong as they are, are not too strong to guard him withal:
for I have not only received, as you well know, the confirmation of my
poor son's death, but I have it proved, beyond all doubt, by the
testimony of those who saw him, that the man who stands before us,
after separating from that son in the park, was seen by four different
people galloping up towards the very moor and at the very time at which
the unhappy boy was murdered. He shall have the full opportunity of
explaining or disproving this hereafter; at present he is a close
prisoner here, till he can be removed to-morrow to the county gaol."

Alice's cheek grew very pale as the Earl spoke; not that she for a
moment suffered her confidence in Langford's innocence to be shaken;
not that one doubt or one suspicion ever crossed her mind; but that the
words used by the Earl were such as to call up before the eye of
imagination every dark and painful object which could by any chance
connect itself with her lover's situation. The image of Langford, in
the county gaol, immured in a close, noisome cell, as a common felon,
together with all that she knew and all that she had heard of the
prisons of England--then a disgrace to the land--presented itself to
her mind, and made her heart sink within her.

The eyes of her lover, however, were upon her. He saw the colour fade
away in her cheek; he saw the anxious quivering of that beautiful lip
which had so lately spoken boldly in his defence; but Langford knew and
understood the heart whose treasured affection he had obtained, and
taking her hand in his, he pressed it to his lips, saying, "Fear not,
dear Alice! Let them do their worst. So confident am I in my own
innocence, and in the just laws of a free land, that not the slightest
apprehension crosses my mind, though I may see a disposition to deny me
justice. Strange, too, as it may seem to you, I am well contented to
remain in this house for some time longer; and perhaps," he added, "I
could, even by a single word, change entirely the feelings and views of
its noble owner."

"I may understand you better than you think, sir," replied the Earl,
gazing upon him with the same knitted brow; "I may know you better than
you believe; but you would find it difficult to change my views and
purposes. At present I have but to say that I cannot suffer Mistress
Alice Herbert to remain here any longer. Bertha," he continued, turning
to the housekeeper, you have done bitterly wrong in bringing her
hither. "I am willing to believe that you knew not how wrong; but I will
deal with you hereafter upon this matter."

"Earl of Danemore, I did right!" replied the woman, "and I tell you
that it is you who know not what you are doing; but the time will come
when you will repent."

The Earl's brow grew very dark, but he evidently made a great effort to
command his passions, and he only replied, "You have served me too
faithfully and too long for my anger to have way. But provoke me no
further, I am not in a mood to bear with your bold temper. Now, madam,"
he continued, turning to Alice, "we wait your pleasure."

Langford pressed her hand in his, and grasped that which Sir Walter
extended towards him; "Farewell," he said, "farewell, for the present.
It is useless to stay longer now. All that you can do for me is to
engage some person learned in the law to watch the proceedings against
me, in case I should not be liberated before to-morrow evening. I fear
nothing in the straightforward course of justice; but there are
circumstances in my situation and in my fate," and as he spoke he fixed
his eyes upon the Earl, "which may bring persecution upon me, though
they ought to have the most opposite effect."

The Earl returned his look stedfastly and sternly, then turned upon his
heel, and waving his hand ceremoniously towards the door, followed Sir
Walter and Alice out of the room. He found the servants that he had
sent for at the head of the stairs, and gave them charge to guard the
prisoner better than he had been previously guarded, to keep the door
constantly locked, and to remain, the one at watch on the outside of
the door, while the other kept guard at the foot of the stairs. He then
walked slowly down into the vestibule, and, in cold silence on all
parts, saw Sir Walter and his daughter mount their horses and depart.




                             CHAPTER XIX.


Could we but have the heart of the wicked laid open before us; could we
but see how it is torn and wrung by the evil passions that harbour
within it; could we but mark how, even in the strongest and most
determined breast, when bent upon evil purposes, or engaged in wicked
acts, fear and apprehension go hand in hand with every deed of evil,
while repentance, remorse, and punishment follow more slowly, though
not less surely, in the distance; what an instructive, what an awful
lesson it would be, and how fearfully we should shrink back from the
commission of the first crime, as from the brink of a precipice which,
once overleapt, dashes us down over a thousand pointed rocks, even into
the gulf of hell itself!

When Sir Walter and Alice Herbert had left him, the Earl of Danemore
pressed his hand upon his burning brow for a few moments, while wild
and thrilling thoughts, all painful, all angry, all evil, crossed and
re-crossed each other through his brain. He then turned with a rapid
step, and entered the room where the lawyer had lingered, fearing to
follow to a scene where the violent passions which he knew existed in
his patron's breast were likely to be excited into fury. The Earl
closed the door, and casting himself down into a chair, covered his
eyes with his hands.

He was roused, however, in a moment, by a voice saying, "Do not grieve
so, Danemore; do not grieve so. It's a sad thing, truly, to have one's
fine boy killed, and never see him again; but we must all die once, and
you'll die too, and very likely not long first, for you are an old man
now. Then we shall be all comfortable again, when we get on the other
side of the mole's habitation. Let me speak to him, Master Kinsight;
why should I not comfort him? We should all comfort each other."

"I have been trying, my lord," said the lawyer, in an apologetic tone,
as the Earl raised his eyes towards the half-witted man, "I have been
trying to get out of this foolish fellow who were the people that he
saw bury your lordship's noble son. He admits that he knows them all.
but declares that he will never mention the names of any of them."

The Earl passed his hand once or twice before his eyes, as if to clear
away other images from before his mental vision, ere he returned to the
subject which was again suddenly presented to him.

"He shall be made to tell," he said, at length, in a stern tone,
knitting his dark brows as he spoke; "he shall be made to tell, after
he has pointed out the spot where the poor boy lies."

"Why, my lord," answered the lawyer, "we do not need his help for that,
as he himself says that it was under the beech trees by the Mere; but I
am sure I do not know how your lordship will make him speak, for I have
been trying for this half hour, threatening him with your lordship's
displeasure, and to have him put in the cage, and everything I could
think of, but without effect."

"There are ways would make the dumb speak," replied the Earl. "I have
seen,"--he continued; but then, suddenly breaking off, he changed his
form of speech, and added, "I have heard, I mean to say, of old
Spaniards in the new world, who loved their gold better than their
life, and would have died sooner than reveal the spot where their
treasures were hidden; and yet there have been found ways to make them
speak; there have been found means to make them scream forth the name
of every treasure-cave they had."

"But, my lord," replied the lawyer, with a somewhat apprehensive look,
"but, my lord, you know in this country we dare not make use of any
such means."

The Earl gazed at him sternly, and yet somewhat contemptuously. "We
will do everything lawfully, Master Lawyer," he said; "we will do
everything lawfully. First, we are justified, I think, in keeping this
good man in strict confinement till he has declared the names of the
murderers or their accomplices. Next, I believe there is no law which
can compel us, till he is fully committed, to give him either meat or
drink; neither are we told that light must be admitted to the place
where he is held. Dost thou hear, Sir Fool? If thou tellest not
immediately the names of all those who were engaged in this hellish
act, thou shalt be shut up without a crust of bread, or a drop of
water, or a ray of light; and hunger, and thirst, and darkness, shall
be your companions till you do tell."

The unhappy man gazed in his face for a moment with a wandering and
haggard look, as if he scarcely understood or believed the menaces held
out to him. He replied, at length, however, in a low sad tone, "I have
vowed a vow, and it can't be broken. They call me mad, but I never
broke a promise nor told a falsehood. Let the wise ones say as much if
they can. No! you may quench the light of these eyes for ever; you may
deny me food, or make me perish of thirst; but you shall never make me
tell one word more than I have told."

"We shall see." replied the Earl, "we shall see;" and he added a few
indistinct words to the lawyer, who withdrew, and almost immediately
returned, accompanied by two or three of the lower grade of serving
men, who instantly laid hands upon the object of the Earl's
indignation, and dragged him out of the room to fulfil the orders which
they had previously received by the mouth of the attorney.

After they were gone, Lord Danemore paused for a moment thoughtfully,
and the shadows of dark passions might be seen traversing his high and
haughty brow. Ere he spoke he recovered his calmness, and there was
even a degree of melancholy in his tone as he said, "Men drive me to
things that I would not willingly do. It is not the fault of the lion
that he is a beast of prey, nor would he, except when pressed by need,
destroy or devour any being, if the hunters did not torment him by
pursuit. There is a weakness in my heart towards this youth which must
be conquered. I cannot view him as the murderer of my son, although the
tidings we have this day received would in some degree prove this to be
the case. Nevertheless, I will conquer such feelings. I will overcome
such folly, for these very papers prove that it is necessary he should
be removed from my path."

As he spoke, he laid his hand on the packet of bills of exchange, which
had been sealed up, and remained upon the table.

The lawyer gazed in his face with a look of some wonder and inquiry;
but the Earl proceeded without explanation.

"You will act as we before determined," he said; "the evidence that we
have got is now strong, you will take means still further to strengthen
it. There wants but one link in the chain. Amongst all those that you
know in the country round, cannot some one be found, think you, to
supply that link? Some poacher, some deer-stealer, who may have seen
the shot fired or the blow struck, while lurking about on his unlawful
avocations? Some one who might merit forgiveness for his other offences
by bearing testimony in this matter?"

The lawyer looked down, and hesitated. Although his nature was no ways
scrupulous, yet the bold, straightforward, uncompromising decision of
his patron alarmed rather than encouraged him.

"I will do my best, my lord," he said, in a low tone; "nothing shall be
wanting that I can do; but at the same time if we can let the matter
prove itself, it would be much better than risking anything by
manufacturing testimony."

"See that he escape me not," said the Earl, sternly; "see that he
escape me not. Woe be unto you should he do so. Trifle not with petty
means, sir. Timidity in such matters is ruin. Boldly, fearlessly, but
skilfully and carefully, pursue your plan. You have already the
strongest of all foundations to build upon. See that you build well, or
you shall answer to me for it. And now to other matters, though
connected, as you will see, with that of which we have spoken. This Sir
Walter Herbert must be dealt with immediately. If we do not at once
engage him so deeply in his own affairs that he shall have neither
time, nor wish, nor opportunity to meddle with others, he will find
means to mar our schemes, and disappoint all our expectations. Besides,
you know my feelings on the subject; with him the matter must be
brought to a speedy conclusion."

"That may well be done, my lord," replied the lawyer; "now that he has
tendered you, in payment of his debt, that which you cannot accept, it
is very natural that you should immediately take measures against him.
I myself am not much skilled in such matters, and might make some
mistake; but I saw yesterday at the town-house a person who is now down
here upon some special business, whom I can well trust, and who will, I
know, so manage the matter, that, once having fixed his hands upon this
knight, no turn, no shift, no evasion, scarcely even the power of the
law itself, will make him let go his hold."

"Indeed!" said the Earl; "indeed! Pray, who is this tenacious
personage?"

"His name, my lord, is Bolland," replied the lawyer; "he is a man who,
in the good city of London, has made himself a reputation little
inferior to that of a great general. His origin, indeed, was somewhat
low, having been a butcher in the city, a bankrupt, with some suspicion
of fraud in his transactions, and for a certain period, we are told, a
gambler, in a small way of trade."

"A goodly commencement for a future lawyer!" said the Earl, with a
bitter sneer curling his lip. "Of course he has prospered in the
world?"

"Your lordship's pardon," replied the other, somewhat sharply, "he is
no lawyer, nor has aught to do with the law but in following its
mandates. He is now a sheriff's officer of the county of Middlesex, but
he is not one to scruple at where he exercises his calling. I have
heard that he is amassing great wealth by the skill with which he deals
with his poor victims; sometimes suffering them to go at large on
payment of a weekly sum, sometimes even furnishing them with money
when, by putting them in this or that calling, he can ensure to himself
cent. per cent. repayment; but never does he suffer any one to slip
through his fingers; and if your lordship will permit me, I will mount
my horse directly, seek out Master Bolland, and charge him to execute a
writ against this Sir Walter."

"Do, do," said the Earl; "but yet," he continued, "I fear that all we
can do will hardly be in time to prevent this meddling old man--fool I
will not call him, for fool he is not--from taking such steps as may
embarrass our proceedings."

"I do not know, my lord," replied the lawyer; "I do not know; but one
thing I can answer for, that if you but trust the matter to me and
Bolland, and pay him well for his trouble, Sir Walter Herbert shall be
in the county gaol ere the sun goes down to-night."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the Earl, "that were quick, indeed. Promise him
this night a hundred pounds if he contrive to execute the writ as you
mention. Now go; no time must be lost."

But as he saw the lawyer rise to obey his directions, a look of doubt
and hesitation came over his countenance for a moment. "My poor boy
loved the girl," he said, "and therein there is a tie between those
Herberts and myself which I feel to be a weakness; and yet it comes
upon me even now when I think I am destroying the father of one for
whom he felt so tenderly. Stay, Master Attorney, stay. My poor boy
loved the girl!"

Accursed be all those, doubly accursed, who, when better feelings are
coming over our hearts--when the well of sweet waters is gushing up,
which is found somewhere in almost every desert--when a touch of human
affection is softening the harsh asperity of anger, blunting the sting
of hatred, or relaxing the iron grasp of revenge!--accursed be all
those, I say, who at such moments come in, and rouse up again within us
the evil passions that have been lulled to sleep, and might, perchance,
be strangled in their slumber, if some fiendish voice from without did
not waken them into fresh activity!

The lawyer saw, with pain, the shade of unwonted gentleness that passed
over his patron's countenance, for his own mind was made up altogether
of the considerations of petty interest, and he foresaw loss in any
relaxation of the other's harsh determinations.

With the skill of a demon, he instantly perceived how he might turn the
rare drop of honey into gall and bitterness; and he replied, "Yes, my
lord, he did love her dearly, but she did not love him as he deserved
to be loved; and the last most painful feelings of all his life were
brought about by her conduct to him."

"It is true!" said the Earl, frowning; "it is true! Go, and lose no
time. I have a sad task before me in the meantime, and I would fain
have intrusted you with it, Master Kinsight; but it cannot be. You
would not have time and opportunity to accomplish both."

"Pray what may it be, my lord?" demanded the lawyer, eagerly, fearful
of losing some other lucrative occupation. "My business with Bolland
will be over in a minute. I give him but directions, and trust the rest
to him. Pray what may it be?"

"Can you not divine, man?" demanded the Earl, fixing his large stern
eyes upon him; "can you not divine, that it is to seek and bring home
the dead body of my unhappy son from the spot where this idiot says
they have laid him."

"Oh, my lord!" exclaimed the lawyer, with some touch of human feeling
breaking even through his sordid nature, like a misty ray of sunshine
streaming through a dark cloud; "Oh, my lord! such is no task for you.
It would wring your heart sadly to be present yourself. Besides, the
magistrates ought to be there. Now, after I have spoken with Bolland,
and left the business in his hands, I shall have plenty of time to see
Sir Matthew Scrope and Sir Thomas Waller, and go with them to the spot.
Leave it to me, my lord, leave it to me; and if I bring those two
worthy justices over here with me, we may, perhaps, find some means of
making this half-witted man give us further information regarding the
murderers."

"Bring them not! bring them not!" replied the Earl, vehemently. "Mark
me, my good friend! In this matter I am moved by many very opposite
feelings. You know--you must feel, for you are a father yourself, how I
thirst to discover, and to drink the heart's blood of my son's
murderer! and yet I doubt that this fool, if forced to speak to any
other ear but my own, might reveal matter which might tend to exculpate
him whom we have there shut up above, and who must be swept from my
path, if I would have any peace during my remaining years. I am not a
man to live in doubt or hesitation; and as soon as any man gives me
cause to fear him, the matter between us must be brought to an issue at
once, and he or I must fall! No," he added, "no! bring not those men
hither! I am sick of them. We must use them as tools, but not let them
use us. Take them, then, with you to search under the beech trees, but
bring them not hither. When all is done, return yourself, and let me
know. I shall have occupation enough in the meantime to busy my
thoughts with things less sad, though not less painful, perhaps, than
the task which I make over to you--and now go quickly."

"Shall I take these papers with me?" demanded the lawyer, laying his
hand upon the packet of bills of exchange which had been sealed up
before Sir Walter Herbert.

"No!" answered the Earl, sternly; "leave them where they are."

"I thought they were to be deposited with me?" rejoined the agent, with
a lingering affection for the money which he could not restrain, even
though he feared to offend his patron.

"I say, sir, leave them where they are, and go upon your errand,"
rejoined the Earl, in a tone not to be misunderstood; and without
uttering another word, he pointed towards the door, and drove the
lawyer out of the room by the fierce sternness of his gaze.

As soon as he was gone and the door closed, the Earl took up the packet
and deliberately broke the seals; then examined each of the papers
minutely, muttering as he did it, "I thought so--I thought so. They
have watched all that I have done; they have tracked me from land to
land, and they have gained that knowledge of my past deeds which they
think will give them power over me, and force me to do that which they
know I would never do without. But they shall find themselves mistaken.
Yet when I think upon all the past, the memory of friendship and of
love is stronger even than hatred and apprehension; and I find that the
lines graven on the soft heart of youth in early days may be crossed
and traversed by many others in after life, but can never wholly be
erased. Would to God that they had not driven me to it; would to God
that they did not thrust themselves in the path of one who is forced to
go forward on his way; who cannot, who must not, go back; who must
trample on all that oppose him! But I am weak again; I am weak, to
think of such things. He has sought his fate, and he must find it. Yet
I will see him once more; I will make myself sure of myself and of him
before I do that which can never be recalled; but not now--not in the
broad day. He is too like the dead; and the dark glimmer of the lamp,
or the blue gleam of the lightning, gives the only light by which we
should meet. I doubt that woman Bertha, too--I doubt her much, but yet
I love not to question her about such things; for she will come harshly
upon the bitter subject of the past, and will turn once more those
memories, which time is softening and rendering more gentle, into all
that is dark, and bitter, and fearful."

Such were some of the words that broke from the bosom of a man torn by
contending passions. They were spoken also; they were words as well as
thoughts; for he was one with whom the struggles of the impatient
spirit within, especially in his solitary moments, often mastered the
guard set habitually upon the lips, and gave voice to thoughts and
feelings, when alone, which he most anxiously concealed when the
watchful and oppressive world was around him.

Again and again he looked over these papers, and again and again some
new comment sprang to his lips; but his thoughts evidently became more
and more painful as his mind was drawn forcibly back to dwell upon the
past; and at length, covering his eyes with his hands, he gave way to
many a bitter and mingled feeling, and groaned aloud in agony of heart,
as he recollected the deeds he had done--the flowers he had trampled
on--the treasures he had scattered from his path, never to be found
again.




                             CHAPTER XX.


About four hours after the period at which we closed the last chapter,
a number of persons were to be seen collected between the grove of
beech trees on the moor and the long sheet of shallow water called
Upwater Mere. They were of a varied and a motley character; for there
might be seen the worshipful and the honourable of the county on
horseback; and thence downward, going in progression through the
ownership of many a four-footed beast, appeared all classes of the
community, till you came to the poorest of poor labourers, who had not
even a cur to follow him.

At the head of the group, and leading its operations with pompous
dignity, appeared the portly persons of Sir Matthew Scrope and Sir
Thomas Waller; and behind them again, prompting their motions, though
appearing to submit to their will, were four other personages on
horseback; that is to say, their own joint clerk as justices of the
peace; Master Nicolas, clerk of the receiver of the county, whose
narrow escape from the hands of the Philistines we have recorded in
another place; Master Kinsight, attorney-at-law, agent and lawyer to
the Earl of Danemore; and a certain black-bearded, round-faced,
keen-eyed gentleman, strong, though not long, in limb, mounted upon a
spirited blood nag, with a certain knowing look both about master and
beast which betokened in each great acquaintance with the ways of the
world.

The lawyer Kinsight called him Master Bolland, and often commented to
him in a whisper upon the proceedings of the party they accompanied.
Bolland rarely made any verbal reply, but he looked volumes; and the
wink of his black eye was made, by its different characters, to express
almost as many things as Lord Burleigh's shake of the head.

The greater part of the body had come thither in procession from the
neighbouring county town. Some had joined it on the way, and some had
been found already waiting on the heath; but as soon as the whole party
was assembled by the side of the beech trees, a perquisition was
commenced in order to discover any ground which might seem to have been
recently moved; and, ere any very long search had been made, a part of
the thin green turf showed, amidst the rank blades of grass which
covered the ground beneath the trees, a quantity of scattered mould,
clearly indicating the spot they sought.

As soon as this discovery was made, a new difficulty presented itself.
It was found that, with a degree of foresight common to county
magistrates in those days, the worthy and worshipful knights who came
to exhume the body reported to be interred there, had forgotten to
order any spades, shovels, or pickaxes to be brought with them; and
there they were, in the midst of a wide moor, where no implement of the
kind was to be found within a mile or two. On the first mention of this
want, one of the more active of the lads who had accompanied the party,
set off as hard as his legs could carry him in the direction of the
little town of Moorhurst; but as that town was at several miles
distance, some of the other person present suggested that it would be
better to send up to the farm which had lately been taken by Farmer
Gray, just upon the edge of the moor; and while this suggestion was
actually being followed, a discussion naturally arose in regard to
Farmer Gray, his character, habits, appearance, station, fortune, and
farm.

"Ay, he has got a bad bargain of it," said a sturdy farmer in a white
smock frock, which concealed the greater part of a strong short-backed
pony that he bestrode; "ay, he has got a bad bargain of it; and if he
do not mind what he's about, he'll do for himself. I might have had the
farm for an old song if I had liked, but I'd have nothing to do with
such poor swampy stuff. Why, the place has been out of lease for two
years!"

"He'll do very well," grunted another of the same class. "I'm sorry I
did not take the place myself. He'll do very well; he comes from
Lincolnshire, and knows that sort of land. At least, I saw 'Franklin
Gray, Squash-lane, Lincolnshire,' upon one of his carts. He'll do very
well. He has the finest horses in the country, too."

"I wonder you call those fine horses, Master Brown," said a respectable
labourer, who overheard the conversation; "they are no more fitted for
hard work than my sick wife Jane; and as for the matter of that, Farmer
Gray will never be much liked hereabouts, for he's brought all his own
labourers with him, and that's a hard case upon the people of the
place. They say he has been a soldier, too; and I'm sure he don't look
like a farmer, or anything half as honest. Why, he goes about in a
laced jacket, like a gentleman; and I never saw him at market, not I."

"I'll tell you what," cried a sturdy drover who had joined the group,
"he's as good a judge of cattle, for all that, as any man in this
country. He knows a beast when he sees it, doesn't he! Why, he bought
half a score of me the other day, and paid me down, drink-money and
all, without a word."

Such were the comments that took place upon Franklin Gray, in one of
the groups into which the party had divided itself. Something similar,
with a very slight variation from the different class and character of
the speakers, was taking place amongst the rest; and all the little
investigating spirit which is excited by the arrival of a stranger in a
country place, especially if that stranger be somewhat reserved in his
habits, was exercising itself in regard to Franklin Gray, amongst the
whole of the assembly on the moor.

Lawyer Kinsight ventured to hint that he suspected Farmer Gray had been
a bankrupt in Lincolnshire before he came into their county; but this
was instantly contradicted by several others who had had dealings with
him, and who represented him as possessing all those excellent
qualities which gold invariably bestows upon its owner. Two or three of
the young men talked of Farmer Gray's beautiful wife, but declared she
was as coy and backward as if she had been old and ugly. Some had only
caught a sight of her; some had heard her speak; and some had never
even seen her, but were in raptures with her beauty on the mere report
of others. What between the rumours of the wife's beauty, the husband's
wealth, and the report of his wearing a laced jacket like a gentleman,
Sir Matthew Scrope and Sir Thomas Waller found the two organs of
curiosity and reverence in their respective brains considerably excited
regarding Franklin Gray, and they entered into slow and solemn
discussion as to whether, under existing circumstances, they should or
should not pay him a formal visit.

At the end of about half an hour, however, some one was seen coming
slowly across the moor on horseback, accompanied by two or three
others; and in due time appeared the person who had been sent for the
spades and shovels, accompanied by Franklin Gray himself, with two or
three men furnished with implements for digging. Gray was mounted on a
fine powerful horse, full of fire and activity, which he sat in a very
different manner from that in which the personages around him bestrode
their beasts; and there was something in his whole appearance and
demeanour which made the greater part of the men assembled take off
their hats as he rode up.

There was only one person present, with the exception of the drover,
who showed the slightest sign of recognition, and that was Master
Bolland, who gave a sudden start, and then turned pale, as the stern
fierce eye of Franklin Gray fixed, for a moment, full upon him, with a
meaning, perhaps a menacing, look. He ventured upon no other token of
acquaintanceship, however; and Gray, riding up at once to the
magistrates, bowed to them somewhat haughtily, and said, "I am happy to
hear, from this good man, that your worships have discovered the place
where the poor young nobleman's body has been concealed; indeed, I
expected no less from your known wisdom, as soon as I heard that you
had taken the matter in hand. I have now come down at once to offer you
every assistance in my power, and to say that I hope some means will be
immediately taken for putting a stop to all these terrible things that
are daily occurring in the county. Indeed, no one is so much interested
as I am; for, having taken this lone farm here, I am obliged to cross
the moor constantly, often with large sums about me, and it is but fit
that we should have protection under such circumstances."

"That it is, indeed, Master Gray," said Master Nicolas, the clerk, "I
am just in the same condition as yourself; and I hope at the very next
meeting of the magistrates something will be done."

"Depend upon it, depend upon it!" said Sir Matthew Scrope, "something
shall be done, Master Nicolas; something shall be done, Master Franklin
Gray! I should be very glad to confer with you on the subject, sir," he
added, addressing the latter, for whom his reverence was getting very
high; "and we will taste together my last year's cider, which is now
just in its prime. But now let us fall to work;" and he and the rest
accordingly dismounted from their horses, and directed the labourers to
dig up that part of the ground which bore marks of having been lately
moved.

Shovelful after shovelful of earth was thrown out, and the work had
proceeded some way, when, cantering quickly along the road, appeared
two or three persons, who proved to be Sir Walter Herbert and his
servants. The countenances of Sir Matthew Scrope and Sir Thomas Waller
immediately fell; and the first impulse of the former was to bid the
workmen suspend their proceedings; after which he turned to his
comrade, beckoned up the clerk and the Earl of Danemore's lawyer, and
held with them a quick whispering conference apart.

In the meanwhile, Sir Walter came up and dismounted from his horse,
while every head was uncovered around, and every face beamed with a
smile of pleasure and satisfaction to see him there.

"I have come," he said, "gentlemen, to be a witness of the execution of
that painful task which you have undertaken, and to see, perhaps for
the last time, the body of my poor young friend, Lord Harold, whose
death has unfortunately been made the pretext for accusing another
friend, not less noble and excellent, of a foul and horrible crime."

"Pretext, sir, pretext!" exclaimed Sir Thomas Waller; "I do not know
what you mean by pretext. Do you mean to charge me, sir? Do you mean to
insinuate, sir?--should such imputations as these go on, I shall
certainly order the work to be suspended, for we are not going to
proceed with this matter to be insulted."

"Sir Thomas," replied the other, "I have no intention of insulting you;
and the only effect of your ordering the work to be suspended will be,
that I shall order it to go on. You forget, sir, that I am not only a
magistrate, as well as yourself, but Lord of the Manor on which you
stand. Go on my good fellows, and make good speed!"

The men required no other authority, but with redoubled activity plied
their work, and in a few moments a long deal case was discovered,
rudely put together. The labourers tried to take the top off at once,
but they could not accomplish it, and after digging round it on all
sides, they lifted the heavy burden carefully out and laid it upon the
edge of the pit. The whole crowd gathered round, pressing somewhat
roughly upon the principal personages, who occupied the front stations
about the grave. Sir Matthew Scrope put on his spectacles, and rubbed
his hands, as if arriving near some long-desired consummation. Sir
Walter Herbert stood near the foot of the coffin, if it could be so
called, and gazed upon it with a brow of sorrow and something bright
glistening in his eye. Franklin Gray looked on sternly, with his arms
crossed upon his broad bull-like chest, and his brow gathered into a
heavy frown.

There was some difficulty in wrenching up the top. But at length one of
the labourers, forcing the spade between it and the sides, tore it
open, and exposed to view the ghastly spectacle of death within.

Those who were without saw nothing but the form of a dead man; but
amongst those who immediately surrounded the chest, there were
exclamations of surprise, which made the rest press forward to get a
nearer view, and it was then perceived by all who had known Lord Harold
that the body was that of a stranger. In the centre of the forehead was
a small round wound, spreading from which on every side was a dark
discoloured bruise, and a considerable quantity of blood had run down
and disfigured the face, on which it had been suffered to remain. Still
the features were sufficiently distinct to show every one that this was
not the corpse that they expected to find; and though each countenance
around was pale with agitation and awe, yet on the lip of Sir Walter
Herbert and of many others there appeared a smile of hope renewed.

That smile was almost immediately done away, however, when they could
look further, for across the breast of the dead man lay a paper, on
which was written, in a large bold hand "The punishment of him who shot
Edward Lord Harold."

The first who read the paper was the magistrate's clerk, and the words
were circulated in a low murmur from one to another around. But at the
same time Master Nicolas, the clerk to the receiver of the county,
pressed forward, as if moved by some sudden impulse, and getting as
near the head of the corpse as he could, he gazed eagerly in its face,
exclaiming, "It is! yes, I declare it is! It is the very same man whom
I saw lying on the road that night when the robbers laid hold of
Mistress Alice Herbert, and he was one of them, too, beyond all doubt."

"Doubtless it must be the same," said Franklin Gray, gravely. "I think
I never saw a more rascally countenance in my life, or one that seemed
more likely to deserve the fate that he has met with."

"His clothes are very good, however," said Sir Matthew Scrope; "they
don't look like those of a robber. Why, I declare there is as much lace
as would cost two or three marks any day."

"It's the same man, however," reiterated Master Nicolas; "that I will
swear to; and that he was a robber, there can be little doubt, from
what happened to Mistress Alice Herbert. Is it not so, Sir Walter?"

"Undoubtedly," replied Sir Walter. "There is no doubt--there can be no
doubt that robbery was their purpose. Nor is it improbable that this is
one of them. One man was wounded and disarmed by my excellent friend,
Captain Langford. The other was beaten down and stunned by the poor
innocent John Graves, and he it was, Master Nicolas, whom you saw upon
the road. Let all these matters be taken down," he continued, looking
round him for some one who was capable of the task.

"Where is the coroner?" Sir Walter demanded, abruptly, when he could
not discover that officer amidst those around. "He should have been
here. Why was he not summoned? When a body supposed to be murdered is
discovered buried in a lonely common like this, it is natural to ask,
where is the coroner? and to deprecate excessively his not being on the
spot. May I ask, Sir Matthew, whether, in all the informal and somewhat
extraordinary steps which you have thought fit to take, you have
remembered the simple one of calling to your aid the coroner of the
county?"

"Why, sir," replied Sir Matthew Scrope, in some confusion, "we were so
hurried to decide, we were so pressed onward for time, that I do not
know how it was, the coroner was forgotten."

"In short, sir," replied Sir Walter Herbert, "you forgot all except
that which might serve your own purpose: you forgot all except that
which might condemn an innocent man; and the regular course of justice
in the land was in no degree attended to! This must be remedied. I, as
a magistrate, must demand that the coroner be instantly sent for. He
should have witnessed the exhumation. He should have been present at
every step through all this business; and you, my good friends, the
yeomen of this county, will witness that in taking cognizance of all
these transactions, the proper officer of the crown has not been upon
the spot--has not received any summons to attend, and that, from the
very beginning to the close, two magistrates alone have conducted the
whole investigation, showing a great disinclination to any open inquiry
into their conduct or purposes."

"That we will!--that we will!" cried several voices; and one or two
persons from the little town of Moorhurst gave point to Sir Walter's
charge, by mentioning the name of Langford, and declaring that he had
won the love of all around him, instead of injuring anybody.

At the same time, however, the attorney was seen whispering eagerly to
Master Bolland, who on his part seemed to show some slight degree of
hesitation, listening silently to the promptings of the lawyer, eyeing
from time to time Sir Walter Herbert, and then scanning the crowd
around.

Sir Matthew Scrope by this time was at the end of his eloquence, and
though he swelled and  like an offended turkey-cock, he made no
reply to Sir Walter Herbert. The other magistrate, however, bristled up
in his own defence, vowed that what they had done in regard to Langford
was perfectly justifiable, and ended by striking his clenched fist upon
his thigh, and swearing, with not a very worshipful oath, that the
prisoner should be fully committed to the county gaol the very next
day, in spite of all the Walter Herberts in the land.

The old knight was about to reply, and probably in the heat of the
moment might have said things that he would afterwards have regretted;
but, during Sir Thomas Waller's angry declaration, Master Holland had
walked round; and now, with a thin slip of parchment in his hand, he
laid his finger on Sir Walter Herbert's shoulder, saying, "Sir Walter
Herbert, knight, I arrest you in the name of the sheriff of the county
of ----, at the suit of the Earl of Danemore."

The old man turned very pale, and put his hand to his head, saying,
"This is most strange, and most unhandsome!"

The people who stood around were all taken by surprise, and all felt
more or less a sensation of grief, compassion, and indignation, so that
there came a profound silence for the space of about a minute over the
whole multitude. Even Sir Matthew Scrope and Sir Thomas Waller gazed as
well as the rest with painful emotions in the pale but noble
countenance of the old Knight of Moorhurst, as, standing by the side of
the dead body which they had so lately disinterred, he felt a momentary
regret that he himself was not cold, and silent, and feelingless, like
it.

The silence lasted for about a minute, but then it was suddenly broken
by an unexpected event. One of the young farmers, who had been standing
by Bolland and the lawyer while they conversed, glanced from the
honoured countenance of Sir Walter Herbert to the shrewd, mean face of
Master Kinsight. He seemed to struggle during that temporary silence
with strong emotions; but then, giving way to a burst of unconquerable
indignation, he struck the lawyer a violent blow in the face, with his
clenched fist, exclaiming, "D--n thee! it is thou hast done all this
mischief!"

The lawyer was stretched by that one blow at his feet, with the blood
starting from his mouth and nostrils. A general commotion took place
amongst the people; violent hands were laid instantly upon Bolland.
They declared that "Sir Walter, good Sir Walter, should not be taken
from among them." The magistrates in vain endeavoured to interpose; and
the peasantry, trampling the lawyer under their feet, dragged the
sheriff's officer forward to the side of the Mere, declaring they would
half drown him for his pains, and do the same to Sir Matthew Scrope and
Sir Thomas Waller, if they did not get upon their horses and ride away
with all speed.

The warning was not lost upon them; but each, scrambling upon his
beast, and followed by their clerk and Master Nicolas, got out of the
affray as fast as they could, and made the best of their way back to
the county town, where they arrived as the evening was just closing in.

In the meanwhile, Bolland was saved from the fate prepared for him by
the voice of Sir Walter Herbert, who with much difficulty made himself
heard, and induced the peasantry to release the bailiff.

"Master officer," he added, as soon as he saw that the people had taken
their unwilling hands off Bolland, who, with his under-jaw stuck out
and his hat knocked off his head, remained standing with an air of
dogged determination by the side of the water, "Master officer, having
been appointed to see the law executed, I am not one to resist it, and
am ready to submit to your arrest this moment!"

"Hang me if thou shalt!" cried one of the farmers. "If that man put a
finger on thee again, I'll beat the soul out of him; so look to it,
bailiff! and with your leave, Sir Walter, we'll see you safe down to
your own house; for go with him you shan't, whether you like it or
not!"

Sir Walter looked with some degree of hesitation in the face of the
officer, who nodded as if to signify that he understood him, and then
replied aloud, "It's no use, sir, it's no use! The writ's gone to the
devil amidst these mad people, so you had better do what they would
have you."

"So be it then," replied Sir Walter Herbert; "and I doubt not ere
to-morrow to be able to raise funds to discharge this claim of Lord
Danemore's. But now let us look after that unworthy but unfortunate
man, Kinsight, whom I saw knocked down and trampled upon. My good
friends, you have been violent, much too violent, in this business. No
one has a right to interrupt the course of the law; far less to injure
those who, however ungenerously they may demean themselves, are not
overstepping its authority."

While Bolland slunk away, and, joining a group of people from the
county town who had held aloof from the affray, mounted his horse, and
made his way across the moor, Sir Walter returned to the spot where the
attorney had been knocked down, and beheld, with feelings of great pain
and anxiety, that though he still breathed, he was quite insensible,
and had evidently received various severe injuries. It was in vain that
he endeavoured to impress upon the peasantry about him that a great
wrong and a great crime had been committed.

The only answer he could obtain was, "It serves him right!" and with
difficulty he prevailed upon some of the labourers to place the hurt
man upon the cover of the large wooden case they had dug up, and to
carry him down to the small town of Moorhurst, in order to obtain
medical assistance. The body of the dead man which they had
disinterred, and which has been already recognised by the reader as
that of the robber, Wiley, was also carried down to Moorhurst; and,
before he even returned to the Manor House, Sir Walter despatched a
messenger to the coroner, briefly narrating the events that had
occurred.

While the rescue of Sir Walter Herbert was taking place, Franklin Gray
had remained looking on, with his arms folded on his chest, and an
expression of no slight satisfaction curling his lip. As soon as
Bolland, however, was set free and rode away, Gray threw himself upon
his horse again, and galloped after him over the moor. He overtook him
at the distance of about four miles from the county town, and called to
him by his name. It was evident from the countenance of Bolland, as he
turned round to see who it was that followed him, that he had no great
taste for Franklin Gray's society. The other, however, pushed on his
horse till he came upon a line with him; and then, just touching him
with the cane he carried in his hand, he said, "Stop a moment, Master
Bolland; I want a word with you."

"Do you mean really to say _stop?_" demanded Bolland, with a grim
smile. "How am I to take you, Captain?"

"Why, not in the sense you're afraid of," answered Gray. "I only want
to ask you a question. Are you fully aware, Master Bolland, that I
could hang you to-morrow, if I liked it?"

Bolland hesitated, but then replied, "Why, perhaps I could do the same
good turn for you, Captain."

"That would be difficult," answered Gray. "I know my own fate, Master
Bolland: and though there is no fear of my ever dying in my bed, like a
consumptive school-girl, there is as little chance of my dying on a
scaffold. As to you, you are as sure of being hanged as if the rope
were now round your neck;[1] but I, for my part, have no wish to put it
there, and I want a plain answer to my simple question. Are you fully
aware that I could hang you to-morrow, if I liked it?"


---------------

[Footnote 1: He was, indeed, tried some years afterwards for forgery
and made a very brilliant defence on his trial, which however availed
him nothing. He was hanged for the offence, which was one of the least
crimes he had committed, and at his death were disclosed a thousand
acts of infamy which had been perpetrated by him under the mantle of
our dreadful law of imprisonment for debt.]

---------------


"To be candid with you. Master Gray," replied Bolland, "I believe you
might, if you have still got a certain awkward piece of paper in your
hands; but I think it would be a dangerous matter for you to undertake,
for I might give the beaks a clue----"

"That has nothing to do with the question," rejoined Gray; "all I
wanted to be sure of was that you knew how we stood towards each other.
I like to have some hold upon gentlemen of your cloth, who think fit to
look as if they had seen me before."

"Oh, I am a man of honour, Captain," replied Bolland; "you know I would
not do an unhandsome thing by a gentleman for the world."

"I am now quite sure that you would not do so by me," replied Gray; "so
good night, Master Bolland." And thus speaking, he turned his horse and
galloped off over the moor, upon which the shades of night were now
rapidly descending.




                             CHAPTER XXI.


With a sad heart, Sir Walter Herbert turned towards his own dwelling,
after having taken all the proper steps to secure medical assistance
for the lawyer of the Earl of Danemore, and to have a proper
investigation instituted regarding the death of the man whose body had
been found buried in the moor. Every circumstance combined to sadden
and pain him; the imprisonment of Langford and the uncertainty of his
fate, the strange and somewhat fearful event attending the finding of
the dead body, the scene of violence and outrage which had occurred on
the attempt to arrest him, the dangerous condition of the lawyer, and
the severe punishment likely to be inflicted, if he should die, upon
the warm-hearted people who had taken part in the affray, might well
have rendered the good knight melancholy and desponding, even if care
had not pressed heavily upon him in regard to his own affairs.

He went home, however, under the full impression that the writ against
him would be renewed on the morrow, and that twelve or fourteen hours
was the whole space of time which would be allowed him to prepare for
the payment of the debt. He had to tell his sweet daughter all these
painful facts; he had to require of her to give up for the sake of his
liberty the small fortune which she called her own; he had himself to
take means as rapidly as possible to sell the old family plate, which
he had seen standing on his sideboard for fifty years; and bitterer
than all, he had to sell those jewels which had been worn by the wife
he had always truly loved; many a sweet token of early affection; the
gems that she had received on her wedding morning, and many a trinket
and ornament which marked in the calendar of past time some bright
days, some happy hours, that could return no more.

Even then, perhaps, all would not be sufficient, and he thought of what
more could be sacrificed to satisfy the claim against him. His horses,
his carriages, they could indeed be sold, but this would not go far;
his library, if disposed of in haste, would not bring half its value;
his pictures, though chosen with much knowledge and fine taste, would
be thrown away in that remote part of the country; and he pondered, and
calculated, and doubted till he reached his own doorway.

"Halliday," he said to the servant whom he met, "I wish you would mount
Whitefoot as soon as possible, and ride over to the county town. There
tell honest Master Antony Evelyn, attorney-at-law, to come over here
without a moment's delay, bringing his clerk with him; and also if you
can find Brooks the jeweller, make him come too."

The man bowed without reply, and Sir Walter went into the room where
his daughter sat expecting him. Her arms were round his neck in a
moment; and the expression of her countenance, which had become very
pale under the grief and agitation of the last few days, told him,
without her speaking, how anxiously she had watched for him, and how
apprehensive she had been of some new evil.

"I have been detained very long from you, my sweet Alice," he said,
trying to look as cheerful as he could; "but several extraordinary
things have occurred to detain me. Nay, look not alarmed, dear Alice;
some of those things are to a certain extent satisfactory. The body of
poor Lord Harold has not been found, but in the place where it was
supposed to be laid, was discovered another body, that of a man who had
evidently met with a violent death; and on the breast was placed a
paper, intimating that it was the corpse of him who had murdered Lord
Harold, or something to that effect. This must tend, my dear girl," he
continued, taking his child's hand between both of his, as he saw that
the very mention of such circumstances affected her very much--"this
must tend greatly to hasten our dear friend Langford's exculpation, as
he could have no hand in the burial of this unknown person, having been
at that very time in confinement on this false charge, when poor Silly
John Graves saw the corpse interred. It must, therefore, I say, greatly
tend to hasten his exculpation."

"Thank God for that, my dear father!--thank God for that!" replied
Alice; not with the usual levity with which such an exclamation is
often uttered, but with true thankfulness, deep and sincere. "If
Langford were but free, I think--at least I hope--that you and he, by
consulting together, might soon find means of removing all the other
terrible things that now seem to be hanging over us."

"His liberation would at once remove one great difficulty," replied Sir
Walter; "for the Earl would no longer have a pretext for detaining the
money which I tendered him, as he most unhandsomely and ungenerously
did this morning; but I see that it is the Earl's object to pain and
injure me."

"But tell me what more has happened, my dear father," said Alice,
seating herself beside him; "I see by your face that the rest of your
tidings are not so agreeable as the first part. Indeed, I know that you
always tell me the pleasant news first, and then would fain not let me
hear the rest at all. But, indeed, dear father, I am prepared--I am
fully prepared; and wherefore am I your child, if not to share and
lighten your cares and anxieties?"

"Thou dost lighten them, my Alice," answered her father; "thou dost
lighten them by thy very looks; but still, my dear child, I have much
that is painful to tell, and if it were possible, would fain keep it to
my own breast. But it must be told, Alice, for your father must at
length come to his child for aid."

"Oh that his child's powers to grant it were as great as her will, my
father. Do you know, I do not look upon a little adversity, my dear
father, with so evil an eye as you do. I could almost wish for it, if
it did not go too far, and make you unhappy; to show you how easily I
could bear it, and to have the means of paying you back all the
kindness, and tenderness, and care you have shown me."

She spoke with a smile, but there was nothing harsh to the feelings of
Sir Walter in her playfulness even at that moment, for it was mixed
with sadness, like the gleam of the blue sky through a stormy cloud. He
pressed her to his bosom, and he told her all that had occurred; and
she felt more bitterly than even he had, the insult and the degradation
which had been offered to him. She thought of her father's years and of
his character; she thought of him, not only as her own parent, but as
the benevolent master, the kind friend, the liberal landlord, the
benefactor of all that came near him; and when she heard that an
attempt had been made, unannounced, to arrest him for debt, in the
midst of the tenantry that reverenced him, in the face of the country
where he had lived and done good through a long life, indignation was
strong in her heart; and, as she would not give it words, it broke
through the silken lashes of her eyes in tears.

"There are many painful points in this business, dear Alice," continued
her father; "should this lawyer die, which seems to me but too likely,
from his state, poor young Rapson, who struck him the first blow, is
likely to fall under severe punishment."

"Oh, heaven forbid that he should die!" exclaimed Alice, eagerly;
"though he is a bad man, and an unkind one, I trust that so severe a
fate may not overtake him, especially under such circumstances as
these."

"I trust not, also, my sweet Alice," replied her father; "the man
doubtless acted but as he was told to act; and, indeed, the whole
demeanour of Lord Danemore this morning shows that these ungenerous
actions are his, not those of the mere tools that he employs. But I am
grieved for the dangerous situation in which this rash young man has
placed himself; for though the first blow is all that is to be
attributed to him, and the more severe injuries the man has received
proceeded from his being trodden under foot by the people----"

Alice covered her eyes with her hands, and gave a slight shudder at the
image thus presented to her sight; and her father seeing the effect his
words had produced, turned to the more immediate matter of which he had
to speak. In fact he had but dwelt upon the collateral part of the
business, from an unwillingness to approach things that he thought
would be more personally painful to his daughter. Feeling that it must
be done, however, he now went on.

"Well, well, Alice," he continued, "I will not speak of these horrible
things any more, though what I have to say may be equally painful. I am
afraid, my dear child, that in the course of to-morrow we shall have a
new visit from this sheriff's officer. He knows, from all that has
passed, that I will not resist the law, and that my doors will never be
shut in order to avoid its execution. Under these circumstances he is
sure to pursue his object, and consequently I must in some way be
prepared to meet him. The sacrifice of the small fortune you possess
independent of me, which that rascally lawyer proposed to you some
nights ago, your father must now propose himself, however painful it
may be to him."

"Thank you, thank you, my dear father," exclaimed Alice, throwing her
arms around his neck, "you cannot think how happy you make me."

"But, alas, my dear child," continued Sir Walter, "this is not all.
What you can supply will be but a part; I must instantly be prepared
with a much larger sum; the house must be stripped of its paintings,
all our old favourite horses must know other masters, the plate must be
sold; even the carriages and the furniture, except merely that of those
rooms which we inhabit, must fetch what they may. The shelves of my
library must be emptied; ay, Alice, and even more, for even this will
not be enough. Your mother's jewels, my sweet girl, those jewels which
were always destined for yourself, which are, indeed, yours by right,
they too must go to adorn strangers."

Alice's heart was very full, and the tears would fain have rushed up
into her eyes; but the resolute determination of a woman's mind, when
roused by noble motives to a great effort, will triumph over mental as
well as over bodily pangs, and bear them as if they existed not. By a
sharp struggle, Alice repressed the fountain of her tears, for she knew
that the slightest sign of reluctance would add to the anguish of her
father's heart: that to give way to her own sorrow would more than
double his. Not a tear then stained her cheek, and she only replied,
"What better use could they be put to, my father, than to avert such a
painful event as that which you expect. As jewels, of course, I care
not for them, and only think of them as my mother's; but I know how
willingly that dear mother would have sacrificed them to buy one
moment's comfort, and I will only ask for one ring as a remembrance, if
it makes no difference--the ring which she always wore."

She spoke calmly, though not cheerfully; but Sir Walter knew all that
was passing in his daughter's heart, as well as if he could have seen
its movements, and the gentle restraint she put upon herself affected
him, perhaps, more than her tears would have done. He pressed her hands
in his, and then turned to the window to conceal his emotion.

The sun had just set, and the sky was still full of light, though,
halfway between the horizon--where the deep blue distance cut upon the
bright golden expanse of the heavens--and the zenith--where the orange
hues melted into rich purple--there hung a dark heavy cloud.

Alice had followed her father to the window, and both, as they gazed
upon the expanse before them, suffered imagination to find an image in
the scene. Sir Walter thought that the warm golden space below
resembled the past years of his existence, that the dark cloud looked
like his present fate, and that the purple sky above was that far land
beyond the grave to which his footsteps were rapidly hastening. His
daughter's was a more hopeful vision, and with her, fancy reversed the
objects. The calm purple sky over their heads was the sweet tranquil
past; the dark cloud was, indeed, the present; but in the golden light
beyond, she saw a future of warm happy days. There was an indistinct
feeling, however, that her father read the sight less cheerfully, and
she told him how she read the heavens before her.

Sir Walter sighed, but he would not check her by giving the more
melancholy picture; and even as she spoke, the wind moved the heavy
cloud slightly to the east, and in the midst of the bright and intense
light below burst forth a clear brilliant star, outshining all the
splendour that surrounded it.

"There, there!" cried Alice, with all the enthusiasm of a young and
ardent heart, finding in that sight fresh auguries of hope. "There,
there!"

Her father turned and pressed her to his heart, only replying, "May it
be so, beloved; may it be so."

The rest of the evening passed, till about ten o'clock at night, in
making various painful arrangements for effecting what Sir Walter had
proposed. He had calculated that between ten and eleven o'clock his
servant Halliday would return with the lawyer and the jeweller whom he
had sent for, and when about half-past ten the bell at the great gates
was rung, he doubted not that it gave notice of their arrival. One of
the other servants, however, appeared a few minutes afterwards, and
with a grave face, and a manner that seemed to court interrogation, he
announced that two strange men demanded to see Sir Walter.

"I suppose Master Evelyn has not been able to come himself," said the
knight, "and has sent some of his clerks. Show them in."

The man proceeded to obey, but when the door opened, with grief and
astonishment Sir Walter beheld the face of John Bolland, who was
followed by another person of the same stamp.

"How is this, sir," exclaimed the Knight, "how is this? you know very
well that it is not legal to execute an arrest for debt after sunset,
and I am even now making preparations for paying this sum to-morrow
morning."

"Ay, you see, Sir Walter," replied Bolland, with an air of cool
insolence, "that may suit your purpose very well, but it won't suit
mine; for I'm to have a hundred guineas, you see, if I arrest you
before twelve o'clock to-night."

Alice clung to her father with a pale cheek, and a heart through which
the blood seemed to force itself with pain; but Sir Walter pressed her
hand, saying, "Do not be alarmed, Alice; this act is illegal, and I
shall certainly resist it. You are, sir," he continued, turning to
Bolland with a frowning brow, "you are engaged at this moment, as you
very well know, in an illegal attempt, and you may consider it as more
owing to my respect for myself than to your situation, that I do not
order the servants to throw you out of the window."

"Not quite so illegal as you may think, Sir Walter," replied Bolland,
"the caption was made this morning, be so good as to recollect. I then
had my right hand upon your shoulder and the writ in my left. That was
at a legal hour, I take it, Sir Walter; and your being rescued by a mob
has nothing to do with the matter. I am responsible for you to the
sheriff; I came here not to arrest you, but to claim my prisoner, and
if you resist, it is at your peril."

Sir Walter pressed his daughter to his bosom, and bent down his head.
"I am afraid, my child," he said, "that what this man alleges is but
too true."

Alice replied nothing for a moment or two; but then, gently disengaging
herself from her father's arms, she took two or three steps towards the
officer; and, gazing earnestly in his face, she demanded, "You are not
surely going to take my father out of his own house at this time of
night?"

"Why, I must do my duty, young mistress," replied the man; "and as I
shan't get paid unless I have him in quod to-night, I'm afraid he must
budge."

"Oh! my dear father, my dear father!" exclaimed Alice, turning to Sir
Walter, "all this man wants is money. What is a hundred pounds to your
comfort? We have more than that in the house, a good deal more, I know.
Give him the hundred pounds he wants, and he will come back to-morrow
for the rest, when you have settled everything and are ready to pay
it."

"No, Alice, never," replied Sir Walter; "I will never so countenance
extortion and villany. I should be unworthy of the respect and esteem
of any one were I to do it; as unworthy as he who has already offered
him that sum for worse purposes. No, my child, no; I will go, however
bitter it may be. I will not sink myself in my own esteem. All I ask,
sir, is time to write a letter to my lawyer, in case he does not arrive
to-night before I go, and to put some papers of importance in order."

"Well," answered Bolland, "I've no objection to that. I suppose you'd
like to travel in your own coach; so while the horses are putting to,
you can give me and my friend here a bit of supper, and do what you
like, provided you give us your word of honour that you'll come back
here within the hour. I always like to deal gentlemanly with a
gentleman, and am not so hard as many would make me out."

Sir Walter pledged himself as was required, and taking his daughter by
the hand he left the room, up and down which Bolland continued to walk,
whistling the air of an indecent song, and commenting with some taste
upon the pictures, till two or three servants brought in the supper he
had demanded, eyeing him while they laid it out as if they would much
rather have beaten him to a mummy than provided him with food. He sat
down, however, with perfect carelessness, helped himself liberally to
beef and ale, and encouraged his companion to partake. Shortly after,
the sound of a horse's feet was heard passing by, and Halliday ere long
thrust his head into the room, gazing upon the two officers with a very
menacing countenance. He said nothing, however, but retired and shut
the door.

When about three quarters of an hour had passed, and Bolland was
beginning to get somewhat impatient, the door again opened, and Alice
glided in, clad in a travelling dress. "You have of course no
objection, sir," she said, approaching the officer, "to my accompanying
my father?"

"Why, I never object to anything in reason, my young mistress," replied
the man. "You see, for all such things we have a regulation, which is,
that when civility is shown, civility money should be given."

"Only tell me what you demand," she said; "and if it be in my power you
shall have it."

The man gazed in her face for a moment, as if calculating how much he
should ask, and then replied, "Why, five guineas is about the fee; but
I should think a young lady like you would find a prison a poor place
to be in."

"So will my father find it," replied Alice, sadly; "and I should find a
palace a poor place if I were away from him at such a moment of care
and anxiety; but I intend to take a woman servant with me, of course."

"Oh, that will be a guinea more, then," answered the hard-hearted man,
with a shrewd wink to his follower; "if you will do it like
gentlefolks, you must pay for it."

Alice made no reply, for she well knew that she was imposed upon, but
was yet determined to submit to the imposition; and, drawing forth her
purse, she paid the money demanded at once, to have it over before her
father entered the room.

It was scarcely done when he appeared, but she had already obtained his
unwilling consent to her going, and he only said, "I wish you could be
dissuaded, my Alice; you do not know what you undertake."

Several of the servants had followed him into the room, as well as the
maid who was to accompany her mistress; and Sir Walter placed a letter
in the hand of Halliday, saying calmly, "Let that go to Master Evelyn
by day-break to-morrow. He might perhaps have saved me much pain if he
had come over to-night. My good friends," he added, addressing the
servants with that calm fatherly suavity of manner which, though it had
deserted him two or three days before, when the principal facts of his
pecuniary situation were first brought to his notice, was now
completely restored. "My good friends, keep all together in your
master's absence, for I trust I shall soon return to you again. I think
I need not bid you, who have been such good and faithful servants to me
for many years, keep an orderly and economical household till I return.
I believe there is not one of you who would feel at any time disposed
to riot or intemperance, but certainly not during your master's
absence, under such circumstances as those in which you now see me."

One or two of them murmured something in a low voice, but there were
tears in the eyes of all, and, amidst kind but ineffectual wishes, Sir
Walter and his daughter descended to the court-yard, and entered the
carriage, which was already prepared. There was something in the old
knight's demeanour which did not suffer the impudence even of a
Bolland to go too far; and when Sir Walter and his daughter, and the
maid-servant had entered the coach, the officer approached the side,
saying, "I'll tell you what, Sir Walter, it's customary with us to go
in the carriage with our prisoners, if they have a carriage; but as I
dare say you'd like better to go by yourselves, we'll mount our horses
and return as we came."

Sir Walter bowed his head without reply. The door was shut, and with
slow and solemn pace, as if unwilling to perform their task, the four
strong horses which had been harnessed to the ponderous vehicle dragged
it forth from the court-yard, and taking the lower road through the
park, bent their way towards the county town. When they had gone about
half a mile, the clock of Moorhurst church, which they were leaving
behind them, was heard clear and distinctly, striking twelve.

"Bear witness, John!" cried Bolland to the man who followed with him on
horseback behind the carriage--"bear witness that I had him out of his
own house before twelve o'clock: so that I've fairly won the money.
Take care, master coachman, how you drive," he shouted, "for the night
is as dark as pitch."

"I drove this road before your father was hanged," growled the
coachman, "and I trust to drive it after you're hanged a foot higher
than he was."

In the meanwhile, of all the party in the carriage, perhaps Sir Walter
was the least sad. His spirits had rallied wonderfully now that the
worst was over, and, sitting with his daughter's hand in his, he talked
even cheerfully of the means of extricating himself from his present
difficulties. All the little legal knowledge that he possessed was
called up, and he said that he doubted not to be able easily to obtain
good bail at the county town, which would give him plenty of time to
effect the sale that he proposed without the great loss attendant upon
more hurried proceedings, even if Langford should not be set at liberty
before that time, and the money which the Earl had detained restored.

Of Langford's situation, too, he spoke cheerfully, in order to cheer
his daughter; and as her hand lay in his, she also made a great effort
to appear tranquil, though more than once, under cover of the darkness,
she suffered the silent tears to stream down her cheeks, and found
therein substantial relief.

Their journey was necessarily very slow, and though the distance from
Moorhurst to the town was not more than fourteen miles, and a full hour
had elapsed since their departure, they had not proceeded one-third of
the way when a red light began to spread over the sky above them,
increasing every moment in intensity till every part of the sandy lane
through which they were dragged slowly along became plainly visible to
the eyes.

In vain they wasted conjectures as to what this could mean; they had no
means of discovering; and the strong light still continued for nearly
an hour. It was beginning slightly to abate when they traversed the
further end of the moor, about two miles beyond the spot where the
affray had taken place in the morning. They then entered a road between
high banks, where the blaze, though dimmed, suffered them to see their
way very plainly, when suddenly the horses' heads were seized, and a
loud voice cried, "Stop!"

Sir Walter smiled as he heard it, saying to two men who had presented
themselves, pistol in hand, at the side of the vehicle, "You will get
little here, my good friends, for I am now, alas! a prisoner for debt."

"We know that," replied one of the men, much to the Knight's surprise,
"and we don't want your money, but we want the carriage. You must get
out as fast as possible. Quick, master coachman, down from your box! If
you don't get the horses off faster, we shall cut the traces! Take
those two fellows behind," added the same voice, "and tie them where I
told you."

According to the peremptory orders they had received, Sir Walter, his
daughter, and the maid, issued forth, and found themselves surrounded
by a number of men who were all well armed, while some horses stood
near, in a field on the top of the bank, with a group of other persons
beside them. The gentry who had stopped the carriage seemed to take
very little heed of those it had contained, and to be in urgent haste.
The only further words that were addressed to the group from Moorhurst
were by the man who had first spoken, and who, like the rest, had
something drawn over his face so as completely to conceal his features.

"Move further off," he said. "Take up your position under that bank,
and do not stir from it till we are gone."

The same personage immediately aided with his own hands in unharnessing
the horses which had brought them; this done, he turned the beasts
loose, much to the dismay of the coachman. Four others were immediately
attached to the carriage with the speed of lightning, and the same
voice then exclaimed, "Now, come down."

Two women, one of whom bore a child in her arms, instantly descended by
a path down the bank, and, without speaking, entered the carriage.
"Now, two of you," said the voice again, "carry him down. Put your
hands under his arms, to prevent hurting him."

No sooner were these words spoken, than another part of the group at
the top of the bank began to move slowly down; but no sooner had it
reached the bottom of the bank, than a new voice said, in a weak but
somewhat haughty tone, "I can walk very well now; take away your hands;
I can walk quite well." With a sudden movement, Alice took two steps
forward, and saw a man advancing to the carriage between two others,
who seemed to wish to give him assistance and support against his will.
Without uttering a word, she grasped the arm of the maid, and drew her
a step forward, pointing with her finger.

"Good God!" exclaimed the woman. But a quick gesture from her mistress
stopped her from saying more. Two or three other persons got into the
carriage. All the rest mounted their horses, except one, who sprang
upon the box. The vehicle drove rapidly off, and Sir Walter, his
daughter, and the two servants, were left alone in the road, for on
looking round for Bolland and his follower, they could see them
nowhere.




                            CHAPTER XXII.


It was night again, nearly approaching to midnight, and the Earl of
Danemore sat alone in the small dark wainscotted room immediately
beneath the chamber which had been assigned to the prisoner. More than
once he had called his attendants to ask impatiently if the lawyer had
returned, and as the clock in the great hall struck eleven without his
appearance, he ordered several of the servants to go out in different
directions to seek him, forbidding them to return without bringing word
of where he was, and what had been the result of his proceedings during
the day.

Solitude, a quick imagination, violent passions, and dangerous designs,
all combined to produce a state of anxiety and impatience bordering
upon phrensy. Now he sat with his head leaning on his hand, gazing
expectantly at the door; now he strode up and down with his arms
crossed upon his chest, and his bosom full of deep but rapid thoughts;
now he paused and listened either to the footsteps of the prisoner
above, as with a calmer and less irregular stride, Langford paced up
and down in the room above, or to the sighing of the strong wind as it
whistled round and round the high tower in which both chambers were
situated.

At length, after having listened to the steps for some time, and then
gazed intently on the ground in deep meditation, he seemed to be seized
by a sudden resolution, and advanced at once to the door which opened
on the stairs leading to the apartments above.

"I will go up to him!" he said: "I will confront him boldly! I will
speak over the whole theme! I will dare every painful subject! He shall
not say that I feared to encounter anything, or to grapple with any
enemy, amongst the living or the dead. He shall never say that I was a
coward in thought, or word, or deed, or that I feared boldly to meet
aught that could be urged against me. I will go, and brow to brow, tell
him what he has brought upon his head."

His first steps up the stairs were rapid and vehement; those that
followed were more slow; and at the door of Langford's room he paused
once more and thought. As he did so pause, he could distinctly hear the
prisoner cast himself somewhat heavily into a chair, hum a few words of
an old ballad, and, as it were, seduced by the music, go on with the
song in a louder tone, and with a clear, mellow, and not uncultivated
voice. He sang one of the sweet and simple airs of Lulli, which had a
touch of melancholy, mingling, one scarcely knew how or where, with the
general cheerfulness of the strain; but the English words which were
adapted to it were even more gay than the music.

Strange to say, however, Langford thought not at all of the words that
he was singing; nay, nor of the music itself. While he did sing his
thoughts were busy, deeply busy, upon other things; and the music was
but a mechanical application of the animal part of his nature to the
sweetest of all arts, in order to obtain some soothing and
tranquillizing power to calm his spirit ere he lay down to rest.


                                SONG.

     The dew is on each leaf and flower,
       The sky is full of light;
     Beauty and brightness mark the hour
       That parts the day and night.
              Wake up! wake up! my own sweet love!
                Raise up those beaming eyes,
              To find an answering look above--
                An image in the skies.

     The lark! the lark! thine own sweet lark.
       Pours forth his thrilling lay;
     And all that's cold, and all that's dark,
       Fly from the porch of day.
              Wake up! wake up! my own sweet love;
                Raise up those beaming eyes,
              To find an answering look above--
                An image in the skies.

     There's music ready for thine ear,
       There's perfume on the breeze;
     Wake up and add to all that's dear,
       What's dearer than all these.
              Wake up! wake up! my own sweet love!
                Raise up those beaming eyes,
              To find an answering look above--
                An image in the skies.


According to the differences of our natures, there is for each man's
heart a key, as it were, to be found in some one of the senses. With
one man it is the grosser sense of the palate, and the things that he
has tasted--the cup that he has drunk in particular lands and scenes,
will, when again met with, carry back the mind to earlier days, and the
feelings thereof, the affections, the hopes, the fears, will crowd upon
him like phantoms from the grave, conjured up by objects that seem to
have no apparent connexion with them.

To some, again, certain sweet odours, the perfume of a flower, or the
mingled sweetness of the morning's breath, will have the same effect.
While to a few, the sight of some peculiar effect of light and shade,
and to others a strain of music, a tone of voice, the carol of a bird,
or the living hum of morning, will call up scenes long past, reawaken
memories and affections that have slumbered for years, and give us back
the gentleness of our youth. But when the chord of association is
thus struck, let the sensations produced be joyful or melancholy,
there is something in the first bursting forth of the past upon the
present--there is something in the rapid drawing back of the dim
curtain of years from between our actual feelings and the feelings long
lost, too thrilling to be experienced without deep emotion; and our
natural impulse is to melt in tears.

The Earl stood and listened while Langford sang; and the deep mellow
tone of his voice, the well-remembered air of Lulli--the words which,
though he heard them not distinctly, he knew by heart--all served to
unchain the long-fettered feelings of his better days; the stern heart
was bent, the proud, impetuous, revengeful spirit was softened for the
moment, and the old man's eyes glistened with unwonted dew. It lasted
but for a moment. Habit and circumstance re-assumed their sway; and,
with a slight stamp of the foot, he drew up his head, which had been
bent down under the influence of manifold emotions, and entered the
room in which the prisoner sat.

Langford turned in some surprise to discover who it was that came to
visit him at so late an hour, and his astonishment was not diminished
on perceiving the Earl, who advanced into the room with a brow
contracted even more than usual, by the angry effort he had made to
conquer what he believed to be the weakness of his own heart. He paused
for a moment on the side of the table opposite to Langford, gazing at
him sternly but silently, as if scarcely prepared to begin the
explanation he had sought.

Langford returned his glance calmly and gently, flinching not the least
beneath his eye, but gazing in return with a look expressive rather of
inquiry than of any other feeling. At length, as the Earl still
continued silent, he spoke, saying, "Your lordship, I conclude, has
something to communicate to me, and I fear from your countenance that
it is not of a pleasant nature. I am very glad, however, that you have
come, as there is one subject on which it is necessary that I should
speak to you, and I am led to believe that the moments in which I can
do so are drawing to a close."

"You do well to believe so, sir," replied the Earl; "the moments in
which any communication can take place between us are, as you say,
drawing to a close; they are few and short. You are right also in
supposing that I have something to tell you, otherwise I should not
have sought you. What I have to tell, however, requires but few words;
it is, _that I know you_."

"I am glad to hear it, my lord," replied Langford, with perfect
calmness, "as, if you really do know me, you will know, as I believe
you do know, that the charge brought against me is false, if not
absurd. But in the first instance it will be better to show me that you
really do know me."

The Earl gazed upon him with his keen large eyes full of meaning, and
then demanded, "Before you ever entered these gates, have you not twice
written to me?"

"I have," replied Langford.

"Twice," continued the Earl, "you have demanded that to which you have
no right; and now the object of your coming hither is not less clearly
known to me than all your former proceedings. But in a word, I ask you,
is not your name of Langford a false one? Are you not he whom men call
the Chevalier of Beaulieu?"

"I am," replied Langford; "but as your lordship has accused me of
demanding that to which I have no right, let me reply at once that I
have a right, the strongest and the greatest! Has not every member of a
noble family a right, to demand that any unjust stain cast thereon
should be removed? Have not I, especially, charged as I was by the
dying breath of my noble relation, the Marquis of Beaulieu, never to
cease my exertions to recover the means of taking a stain from our
honour--have not I, especially, a right, I say, to demand those papers
at your hands, which afford the only possible method of doing so?"

"I say no!" replied the Earl, sternly: "I say, no! Even if the papers
whereof you speak existed, I say--"

But Langford interrupted him more vehemently than he had ever before
spoken, "My lord," he said, "those papers do exist, or you have not
only broken your most solemn vow, but your plighted word of honour as a
gentleman. Your vow, my lord, you perhaps might break, for in one
instance at least you did break it, and a noble heart along with it;
but I would not believe you to be the being who would forfeit your
plighted honour--no, not to gain a kingdom! Unsay those words which
cast so foul a doubt, if not an imputation upon you! and let me know,
that though in the current of your fiery passions you may not have
scrupled to wring the hearts and destroy the hopes of others, do not
leave me to believe that you have deliberately pledged your word and
then have broken it. No, no! my lord, I know that those papers are not
destroyed!"

The traces of contending passions came over the countenance of Lord
Danemore like the shadows of dark clouds carried over the landscape by
a rapid wind; and while Langford spoke, it seemed sometimes as if he
felt inclined to strike him to the earth--sometimes as if a strange and
unwilling admiration took possession of him, and restrained his anger.
"You are a bold and daring man," he said, in reply; "but you have
spoken the truth. The papers are not destroyed, though I do not admit
their contents to be such as you may imagine."

"Thank you, my lord; thank you," replied Langford, earnestly; "thank
you for clearing yourself from the painful doubt in which you involved
your character. Though you may have bitterly wronged my family, still I
take a deeper interest than you know in seeing your honour pure, in
this respect at least. In regard to the papers," he continued, with a
slight change of tone, "if they were not such as I believe, you could
have no reasonable objection to give them to me. If they are such as I
believe, they are necessary to the honour of my family; and, deputed as
I am by every member of that family to claim them at your hands, I
demand them--not as a concession, but as a right. But, at the same
time, I offer now, as I offered before, to pledge myself, in order to
remove all evil and dangerous consequences to yourself, that those
papers shall never be made public in England--shall only be so far
recorded in France as to clear the honour of our race, and then utterly
destroyed."

A scornful and bitter smile came upon the lip of the Earl, as he whom
we shall still call Langford, uttered these words. "You are mistaken,"
he replied, sternly; "you are altogether mistaken. I trust myself in
the power of no one; and even the very words that you uttered yesterday
have put between you and me a barrier which can never be passed."

"I know not to what words your lordship alludes," replied Langford.
"Nothing that I have said, nothing that I have done, ought to put any
such barrier between us. Most careful have I been, in no respect,
either in conversation with yourself or others, to cast an imputation
upon you."

"It may be so," replied the Earl; "it may be so; but nevertheless,
clearly and distinctly, I refuse you those papers. Now, sir," he
continued, with the same bitter smile; "now, sir, use your threats.
Now, sir, let me know what tale you will tell if I do not accede to
your demands. Now, sir, let me know whether you and yours will travel
to Florida to seek for matter against me!"

"Your lordship is altogether wrong," replied Langford. "That I know
your history well in every particular and in every point is true, but
that I will divulge any part of it that might do you injury, except
that part which it is necessary to the honour of our race should be
divulged, is not only far from my intention, but never should take
place, even if your lordship should continue your refusal to give up
those papers, and to do the act of justice that is demanded at your
hands."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the Earl, pondering; "indeed! then why did you
refer to matters which should be buried in the deep silence of
long-gone years?"

"Accident had some share in my so doing," replied Langford, "and a wish
to lead your mind back to the past had also a part therein. But at once
to show you, my lord, that I am inclined to take no advantage, and to
pursue my course as uprightly and honourably as possible, let me now
tell you that I not only know of the existence of those papers, but
know also well where they are preserved, and could while here have made
myself master of them at once, had I been inclined to take that by
private means which I demand openly!"

As he spoke he pointed to the small carved door in the oak panelling,
and the Earl's eyes followed the direction of his hand, but with no
expression of surprise.

His lip, at the same time, curled with a bitter sneer, and he replied
at once: "I am not inclined to believe in the communication of
miraculous knowledge to any of us poor mortals now-a-days, and
therefore doubt not that your information has been derived from some
source less than supernatural. There is in this house, sir, a woman
called Bertha, brought up by the family of Beaulieu from her youth, and
retaining for them still a deep veneration and regard, although a
quarrel with one of that race induced her to quit them and enter into
my service. The attachment that she showed to myself and my family
through many years have taught me to trust her deeply; but when I found
that she placed, on the idle pretext of greater security, a stranger
accused of dark crimes in a chamber reserved entirely for myself, I
began to doubt her;--when, added to that, I found that she held
frequent private conferences with him, my doubts increased: and when I
found that she brought others to communicate with him contrary to my
expressed will, my doubts grew into certainties."

"Under such circumstances," replied Langford, fixing his eyes
inquiringly upon the Earl's countenance--"under such circumstances you
have of course discharged that woman from your service?"

"Not so, sir," replied the Earl; "not so. It may be my purpose to
punish as well as to dismiss; but ere I do either, I shall take care to
learn in what degree she has betrayed me. But to turn, sir, from your
idle affectation of insight into my secrets to your equally empty boast
of power, let me tell you, that though you may have been placed in a
room reserved for years to myself, and though in that room all my most
private papers may be preserved, you are as impotent to get possession
of them as a blind man to tell the hour by the sun-dial."

"My lord, you are mistaken," replied Langford, calmly; "I am not so
powerless in that respect as you imagine. I have had them now for two
days at my will and pleasure to take or to leave. I have them now at my
disposal; but I had determined to use all gentle and reasonable means
first, to urge you by every persuasion to do justice, and only in the
end to do myself right in your presence, and before your face. You have
come now most opportunely, and I will not suffer the occasion to pass;
but in the first instance let me once more entreat you to do a tardy
act of justice, ere you force me to things most unpleasant to me."

The Earl had gazed upon him as he spoke with an expression of some
surprise and doubt; so tranquilly confident was the tone and manner of
one whom he had believed to be entirely in his power. At the last
words, however, his brow gathered again into a frown; and he replied,
"I am not to be menaced sir; I tell you, you shall never have them; and
such menace puts them further from your reach than ever."

"My lord, I use no menaces," replied Langford; "my wish, my only wish,
is to persuade. Oh, consider, sir! Here you now stand at the verge of
age, touching upon that cold season when the only consolation for
declining years, the wintry sunshine of our being's close, is a clear
conscience and the memory of good deeds. If, alas! you are deprived of
the power of looking back upon many such actions--nay, hear me out. If
there be in the past much that is painful, much that you would fain
forget, much that can never be repaired, remember, oh remember! that
what cannot be repaired may often be atoned. Thus, in one instance at
least, the means of atonement are in your own power, and to seize upon
them in every instance is the only way to bring back even a portion of
that calm serenity of heart which once you knew in days of innocence,
but which I feel too sure has long departed from your bosom."

"Sir, I never knew it," burst forth the Earl; "my life has been made up
of passions and regrets; and as it began, so shall it close."

"Oh no, my lord! oh no!" cried Langford; "let it not be so! I must
wring your heart, but I trust it may be in some degree to heal it. You
lately had a son whom you loved deeply; for his sake, I believe you
have persisted for years in a course of injustice which the nobler part
of your nature, I am sure, disavowed. My lord, he has been taken from
you. The inducement to remain in wrong has been removed by the will of
God, who therein has at once punished and opened the way to atonement.
Let me beseech you, let me entreat of you, not to suffer this
opportunity to pass by unnoticed. Do tardy justice, and instead of
hardening yourself to crush and to injure one who could love you well,
and against whom you can never succeed, think of what a satisfaction it
will be to you, when from your own death-bed you look back and see that
you have done all to repair a great wrong that you committed."

"And do you make the assassination of my son," demanded the Earl, "a
plea for my gratifying one who is accused of murdering him?"

"My lord, I have taken it for granted throughout," replied Langford,
"that you know me to be perfectly innocent of that deed. What I demand
of you also, I have a right to demand. I ask you not to gratify me, but
to do an act of justice; I ask of you to do honour to yourself, by
taking away a stain from an honourable house that you have wronged."

"Right!" exclaimed the Earl, with one of his dark sneers, as if the
recollection of something he had before intended to say came suddenly
back upon him; "in what consists your right? and how have you any
connexion with the honour of the family of Beaulieu? Do you suppose
that I am blind or stupid? Answer me! If you are so near and honourably
akin to the dead Marquis of Beaulieu, how are you not the heir of his
title and estates? What right has his bastard to prate of the honour of
his family?"

The blood rushed rapidly into Langford's cheek; his eye flashed, and
his brow contracted; but it was only for a moment. With what was
evidently a great effort, he mastered his own passions immediately, and
replied, "The coarse term you have used is inapplicable to me, Lord
Danemore. Your other question, as to why I have not succeeded, I could
answer by a single word if I so pleased; and, did I feel as much
assured of your son's death as you do, I would so answer it."

"Doubtless, doubtless!" exclaimed the Earl, impatiently; "everything
can doubtless be explained if certain _ifs_ and _buts_ be removed. But
I tell you, sir, till they are removed, I shall listen to you no
further, nor shall I detain you long, for I came to tell you what may
be told in but few words. Mark me, young man! There are certain
memories called up by your looks and by your voice which might have
moved me to the weakness of sparing you, had you not been foolish
enough to show me, that, like a winged insect which we are forced to
crush, you can sting as well as buzz. You have yet to learn that I live
in the fear of no man, and that when once any one has shown me that he
may be dangerous to me, the struggle commences between us, which ends
but with the life of the one or the other. There is already sufficient
proof against you to bring you to the gibbet; more will not be wanting,
or I am mistaken; but I would have you know that your fate is of your
own seeking, and that when you and yours spied out and investigated the
actions of my early life, you raised up the scaffold for yourself.
To-morrow you will be taken hence; a gaol will then receive you. A
public trial and public execution will be the end which you have
obtained by measuring yourself against one who never yet failed in the
accomplishment of that for which he strove."

As the Earl spoke he turned, as if to quit the apartment, but Langford,
who had listened calmly and attentively, exclaimed, ere he laid his
hand upon the door, "Stay yet one moment, my lord; our conference is
not finished yet. With regard to your urging against me an accusation
which you know to be false, either from motives of hatred, revenge, or
fear, you will reconcile that to your own conscience as you can. You
will fail in your attempt: but if you did succeed, you would pile upon
your head coals of fire which would consume your very heart to ashes!
The matter on which I now detain you is _these papers!_ I am not
accustomed to say I will do what I cannot do; therefore when I told you
that if you did not do justice I would with my own hand right myself
and my family, I made no vain boast."

The Earl turned and gazed upon him, both in surprise and anger, but his
rage and his astonishment were doubled when the prisoner took from His
pocket the key, the easily-recognised key, which had been given to him
by Franklin Gray upon the moor. Prompt, however, and decided in all his
determinations, the Earl instantly raised his voice, and shouted in a
tone of thunder to the servants whom he had that morning ordered to
remain without.

"My lord," said Langford, "you raise your voice in vain. I have every
reason to believe that the persons you placed there have been gone for
more than an hour; and even if they were there still, those bolts and
that lock would prevent them from entering. Of that I have taken care."

Even while he spoke, the Earl had strode across the room towards the
outer door, muttering, "They will soon return;" but the key of the door
between the two rooms, which had been left in the inside, was now gone,
and after gazing upon lock and bolt with impotent rage for a moment, he
turned fiercely towards the other door which led by the stairs in the
turret down to his apartments below. Langford, however, had seized the
moment, and casting himself in the way, was in the act of locking that
door also, when the Earl turned towards it.

Lord Danemore instantly drew his sword; but Langford was not unarmed,
as he had supposed. His own blade, which had been restored to him by
the half-witted man, John Graves, was in his hand in a moment; but it
was only to show himself prepared that he used it, for, waving the Earl
back with his hand, he exclaimed, "My lord, do nothing rashly!
Remember, you have to deal with a younger, stronger, more active man
than yourself, and with one long accustomed to perils and dangers.
Stand back, and answer me. Will you or will you not give up those
papers by fair means, or must I take them myself?"

"I will never give them," replied the Earl; "I will never give them;
though that vile and treacherous woman has not only betrayed my trust,
but stolen from my private cabinet the key that you now hold; I will
never give them; and if you take them, you shall take my blood first,
and die for spilling it."

As he spoke, he placed himself, with his drawn sword still in his hand,
between Langford and the small door in the wainscot.

Langford advanced upon him, but with the same degree of calm
determination which, except during one brief moment, he had displayed
throughout their whole conference. "My lord," he said, "you do the
woman, Bertha, wrong. This key was not obtained from her. I beseech you
to give way, for I am determined to use it."

"Not while you and I both live'" replied the Earl; and as he spoke, he
made a sharp quick lunge at Langford's bosom. The other was prepared,
however; his sword met that of the Earl in a moment, and parrying the
lunge, he grappled with his adversary, and at the same moment wrenched
the weapon from his grasp, and by an exertion of his great strength
removed him from between himself and the door.

He had cast the sword he had mastered to the other side of the room,
and the Earl seemed to hesitate for an instant as to whether he should
spring forward to recover his weapon, or struggle with the prisoner to
prevent him from obtaining the papers. He felt while he hesitated that
the very hesitation was undignified. He felt too, perhaps, that either
attempt would be vain; that he was in the presence of one superior to
himself in bodily power, in activity, in energy; one equal to himself
in courage, determination, promptitude; one who was what he had been
when a youth, but with the grand superiority of mental dignity and
conscious rectitude. He felt himself reproved and degraded but not
humbled; and the natural movement proceeding from such sensations was
to cross his arms on his broad chest, and stand with a look of dark
defiance gleaming from beneath his long grey eyebrows; while Langford,
taking the key in his right hand, and changing the sword into his left,
stood, about to open the door which covered all those mysterious points
of his history which he had so long concealed.

But, even then, his young companion paused. "Oh! my lord," he said, "I
would fain have these papers with your own will and consent. Again,
again, I ask you, now that you see I have the power to take them, will
you give them to me? will you grant me that which is my right to
demand? Oh! Lord Danemore, if you ever loved the race from which I
spring--if ever human affection and natural tenderness affected your
bosom--if ever you had sympathy with others--if ever the strongest
passion of our nature touched your heart--I adjure you now, by the
memory of the past, by the dark and awful circumstances of the present,
by the frowning future, by the inevitable, interminable hereafter of
weal or woe, to do that which you know to be right!--at this last, this
fatal moment between you and me, to render justice to those whom you
have wronged; to cast from your soul the burden of old guilt, and to
make atonement for one out of the many dark deeds of the past!"

He gazed upon him sternly, fixedly, earnestly; and strong passion
called up in the face of each a strange likeness of expression; but the
whirlwind of their emotions was too strong for either to mark the
clouds and shadows, the light, or the lightning, that passed over the
countenance of the other. Urged into fury, thwarted, disappointed,
foiled, the Earl had no longer any command over himself, and the only
dignity that he could assume was that of disappointed scorn.

"Never, bastard!" he replied; "never! Take that which you can; secure
that which is in your power! Fly, if you can fly! Use your advantage to
the utmost, if it can be used; but I swear by Heaven and by Hell, by
all that is sacred and by all that is accursed, to follow you
henceforth and for ever, unto the gates of death; to devote life, and
soul, and being, mind, and thought, and energy, corporeal power and
worldly wealth and temporal influence, to your destruction; and never,
never to cease, till the dark, dread, interminable gulf have swallowed
up one or both."

Langford gazed at him with deep and intense earnestness; and while he
did so, a thousand varied emotions, each painful but each different,
flitted in expression across his countenance, and caused wavering
irresolution to take the place of high and strong determination. As the
Earl ended, however, the other looked at him for a moment fixedly,
while the peer stood with his arms still crossed upon his chest, and a
look of resolute, unchangeable purpose marked in every line of that
dark but splendid countenance.

Emotions strong, but new and strange, overpowered his youthful
adversary; and casting from him the sword which had successfully
opposed him, and the key of all the treasured secrets of his opponent's
eventful life, he sprang forward, as if with a sudden impulse which he
could not resist, cast himself at the Earl's feet, and, looking up in
his face, embraced his knees. The stern determination of the old man
was shaken. Feelings equally new and strange took possession of his
bosom also, and he strained his eyes upon the noble form of him who
knelt before him, with sensations different from any that he had ever
known in life.

At that moment, however, strange and unusual sounds made themselves
heard from without. There were cries and screams, and the noise of many
feet. Still kneeling, Langford gazed upon the Earl, and the Earl upon
him; but ere one could ask the other what this meant, there was a
violent rush against the outer door, as if by people propelled by
terror. The bolts, the bars, the fastenings gave way, and half torn
from the hinges, it burst into the room.




                            CHAPTER XXIII.


We must go back for a few hours. The sky was without a star, and a dull
heavy darkness brooded over the face of the earth, as a strong party of
horsemen--whose numbers and appearance might well banish all fears, and
laugh to scorn all the tales of highwaymen and footpads with which the
county of ---- then rang, took its way down the road which first led
from the county town towards Danemore Castle, and thence passing under
the walls of the park, proceeded to the little borough of Moorhurst.

The part of the road on which they were at the moment when we must
first speak of them, passed between two high banks of sand rock,
overtopped with trees and shrubs, so that if there had been any light
in the sky it would have been shut out from that spot; and the person
who rode at their head, and seemed to act as their leader, chose the
gloomiest point for the purpose of causing the line to halt, and
speaking a few words in a low tone to each of his companions. They
answered in a whisper, as if the deep darkness and silence around had
its usual effect in producing awe; and when each had listened and
replied, their leader once more advanced to the front, and they
recommenced their journey two and two. Descending slowly from the
moors, they emerged into a more open country; and any one who had been
by the side of the road might have counted their number as eleven,
notwithstanding the darkness of the night, and might also have observed
that, generally speaking, they were tall and powerful men, and sat
their horses with a degree of ease and composure only to be acquired by
long acquaintance with the saddle.

We have remarked before, that the country in that district is famous
for little greens of an acre or two in extent, generally shaded by some
tall elms, and often adorned by a bright gleaming pond. To one of these
the party that we speak of had advanced; and though there was a cottage
at the further side of the green, all was silent and still, when the
word to halt was suddenly given, and the voice of the leader was heard
in a low tone, saying, "Spread out to the right and left, under the
trees. I hear a horse's feet!"

The evolution that he commanded was executed in a moment, with the most
profound silence, each horseman separating from his neighbour and
taking ground some yards to the right and left, without any of that
pawing and prancing which give pomp and circumstance to many a military
man[oe]uvre. The proceedings of the leader himself, however, were even
more remarkable; for, advancing perhaps twenty yards before the rest,
he also quitted the road for the green turf, and then his dim figure
was seen to dismount. The next moment, horse and man seemed to sink
slowly down into the earth, and nothing but what appeared to be a small
rise in the ground was seen through the darkness, marking the spot
where they had stood.

While all this was taking place, the sound of a horse's feet beating
the road with a quick trot was heard advancing from that side towards
which the party had been going, and after a pause of about two minutes,
a white horse, bearing his rider at a rapid rate, could be discerned
entering upon the green. The horseman advanced some way, unconscious of
the neighbourhood of so many others, but apparently not quite
insensible to fear, as from time to time his head was turned to either
side; and at length it would seem that he caught a glance of something
unusual beneath the elm trees, for he suddenly pulled up his horse, and
gazed anxiously into the gloom before him.

His eyes were keen, having been for some time habituated to the
darkness; and becoming convinced that there was a considerable party
assembled on either side, he was turning his bridle to gallop off on
the same road by which he came, when suddenly what he had passed as a
mere mound of earth and bushes started up into life, and his retreat
was cut off by a man springing upon a horse which rose as if magically
from the ground, and darting into the road before him.

"Stop!" cried a stern voice, while the gleam of something like a pistol
in the hand of his opponent made the rider of the white horse recoil.
He looked round, however, to see if there were no means of evading
obedience to the command he had received; but by this time he found
that he was surrounded, and that the way even to the low cottage by the
side of the common was cut off. At the same time the command was
repeated, "Stop, and give an account of yourself!"

The additional injunction, however, of "Give an account of yourself!"
was rather satisfactory to the rider, who perceived therein a sort of
police tone, rather than that generally employed by the worthies whom
he most apprehended, and who to the word "stop!" usually added,
"deliver!"

He replied, then, with a greater degree of confidence, saying, "I am a
servant of the noble Earl of Danemore, and I am riding to the town
of ----, by his orders, on particular business."

"Show me the badge upon your arm!" said the person who had first
spoken; but the servant was obliged to acknowledge that he had come
away in haste, and had not his livery coat on.

"You have some cords," said the same voice, addressing one of the other
horsemen. "Tie him, and bring him along."

In a moment the unfortunate groom found himself seized, and his arms
pinioned behind his back, while a still more disagreeable operation,
that of tying his feet and legs tight to the stirrups, was performed by
another of his captors, who dismounted for the purpose.

Not a word was spoken by any one but the leader of the party, and when
he saw that the commands he had given were obeyed, he added, "Bring him
up abreast with me?" and then riding on at the same glow pace in which
they had been proceeding previous to the little episode which had taken
place, he asked several questions of his captive in a low voice.

"We shall soon see," said he, "whether your account of yourself is true
or not, for we are going to the Castle. Now tell me, how long do you
say you have left it?"

"About half an hour, sir," replied the man, resuming a certain degree
of courage on finding that he was not injured; "about half an hour,
sir; and I can tell you that my lord will be mighty angry when he finds
you have stopped me, and brought me back. He will make the house too
hot to hold you, and the county too, that I'll warrant. You don't know
whom you have got to deal with. He suffers no one to do anything but
what he likes."

"Is the Earl of Danemore still up?" demanded the stranger, calmly,
taking not the slightest heed of the other's intimation.

"Yes, that he is, and will not be in bed for these two hours, as you
will find to your cost, perhaps, when he hears you have stopped me,"
answered the groom, firmly believing that what was awful to him must be
equally so to every one else.

"Does he not usually go to rest sooner?" asked the stranger again. "I
understood that the whole household were required to be in bed by
eleven, and I was afraid that we might have to rouse the porter to give
us admittance."

"Ay, he generally does go to bed at eleven," answered the groom, "but
he has not done so to-night. You will have to rouse the porter,
however, and most of the other servants too; for old John came out,
growling and swearing at me, in his shirt, when I made him open the
gates."

"He must not swear at us, though," replied the other quietly, but in a
tone which moved the groom's astonishment even more than anything which
had passed before, so little reverence did his captors show either for
the awful name of the Earl of Danemore or any of his dependants. As the
other ceased, however, and did not resume the conversation, he had no
choice but to accompany him in silence; and, followed by the rest of
the party, they proceeded slowly on the road, which was evidently well
known to the leader, now winding in and out amongst the high banks and
woods, now crossing scattered pieces of the heath and moor-land, till
at length they arrived at that spot under the walls of the park where,
as we have mentioned in describing the forced journey of Langford,
Danemore Castle, with its wide extent of park and woods, became first
visible to the eye of any one travelling on the road from Moorhurst to
the county town.

There the leader of the party halted, and suffering his hands to drop
thoughtfully upon the saddle-bow, he gazed up towards the spot where
the Castle stood. At that dark hour, however, nothing was to be
perceived but the masses of tall trees with which the building itself
was confounded in undistinguished shade, except, indeed where a single
spot of light was seen gleaming like a beacon, marking that there was
the habitation of some human beings amongst the dark and awful-looking
blackness which the scene otherwise presented.

After thus gazing for a few minutes, the leader of the party turned
towards the groom, and while he reined back his horse to the other side
of the road, said, with something of a sneer, "We will save old John
the porter the trouble of opening the gate for us." At the same moment,
the well-trained horse which he rode, feeling a touch of the spur,
started forward towards the wall, cleared it with ease, and horse and
rider stood within the boundaries of the park.

"I can't leap with my hands and legs tied!" cried the groom, whose
first feelings were those of an equestrian; "that's impossible; I shall
break my own neck and the horse's knees."

"You shan't be required to leap," was the reply of the leader, from the
other side of the wall; and then, turning towards one of his
companions, he added, "You must manage to pull it down, Harvey."

"I will leap it first, however!" replied his companion, and away went a
second horse and man over the wall. No sooner was this done than
several of the other horsemen dismounted, and with short bars of iron,
which each of them appeared to have slung at their saddle-bow, they set
to work upon the wall of the park, and in less than a quarter of an
hour the space of three yards was laid level between the road and the
park.

The whole of the troop then passed in, taking the groom along with
them; and, riding slowly up to a clump of old chestnuts at the distance
of about three hundred yards from the terrace on which the mansion
stood, they gathered themselves together in a group under the boughs,
and their leader, advancing a few steps, again gazed steadfastly upon
the Castle, whose towers and pinnacles were now to be more clearly
distinguished rising here and there above the trees, and marking, with
the straight lines of the older architecture, or the light tracery of
the more modern and ornamental parts, the sky beyond, over which a pale
gleam cast by the rising moon was just beginning to spread itself.

Gradually, as he sat there on horseback, the beautiful orb of night
rose up from behind the trees, and with her peculiar power of
dispersing the clouds and shadows that obstruct her way, she was seen
struggling with and overcoming the vapours of the night; sometimes,
like a veiled but still lovely countenance, beaming through a thin film
of white mist which grew radiant with her radiance; sometimes hidden
for a single instant behind a dark mass which swept over her with
gilded edges; sometimes bursting forth from a dark cloud, with pure
effulgence, like sudden joy succeeding despair.

As he sat there, with the varying light of the moon falling upon him,
now casting his long shadow upon the soft green turf of the park, now
leaving him distinct, and as it were magnified by the dim misty light,
the powerful form of that horseman was scanned eagerly and
apprehensively by the groom, on whose mind but little doubt remained in
regard to the character and propensities of the party whose unwilling
companion he had become, he thought he had never seen a more powerful
frame, and in so thinking he was right; but the imagination of terror
had had a great deal to do with the business, when he called him in his
heart "the most ruffian-like fellow that his eyes had ever rested on."

After about ten minutes' contemplation, during which not a word was
spoken by any one, and not a sound was heard but the low sighing of the
wind through the neighbouring trees, and the scream of the screech owls
which nested themselves in the old ivy of the Castle, the leader
returned to his party, saying, "I would fain have that light put out
first; but, however, we cannot stay wasting all our time here. Now, my
good fellow," he continued, turning to the groom, "I want one or two
pieces of information from you; but before you answer, you had better
take into consideration that you are speaking to a person not willing
to be trifled with; that if you do not answer straightforwardly and at
once, your life is not worth five minutes' purchase; and that if you
give me false information you will be as surely a dead man within two
hours as you are now a living one. In the first place, then, inform me,
in what part of the house do the servants sleep?"

"Why, up at the top, to the westward," replied the man; "that is where
the serving men sleep; but there are others, such as the sewers, and
the grooms of the chambers, who sleep at the top of Hubert's Tower.
Then there's my lord's own man sleeps in his ante-room; but to-night
there are two or three who were ordered to stay in the outer room where
the prisoner is, in the old tower; that is to say, in what they used to
call the haunted rooms, for they were always shut up, and nobody went
in but my lord and Mistress Bertha, so that folks said that the ghost
of the Countess used to walk there."

"So there are three men appointed to sleep there, are there?" demanded
the other; "you are sure of the fact?"

"Why, no," replied the groom; "if you mean whether I am sure they were
ordered to sleep there, I'm sure enough of that; but I am quite as sure
that not one of them will do it; for I heard Will Hudson say that the
Earl might skin him alive first. No, no; they'll none of them stay
there after twelve o'clock at night, I'll answer for it."

"That is sufficient on that score," said the interrogator; "now tell me
further, now many men in all may there be in the Castle?"

The groom paused for a moment, as if in thought, but then answered,
"Some fifteen or sixteen that sleep within doors; but then there are
all the grooms and horse-boys, and my lord's three coachmen, and the
running footmen, who sleep at the stables, which you know lie out
by----"

"I know, I know," interrupted the other. "Not more than fifteen or
sixteen; fifteen or sixteen lackeys!" he continued, turning with a sort
of contemptuous laugh to his companions; "it is scarcely worth while
priming our pistols. Are there none of them sleep below?"

"Why, no; not by rights," replied the man, "except the porter and his
boy, but to-night there will be Willy Hudson and the rest, who, I dare
say, will come down into the corridor and sleep in the armchairs; and
then, too, there is Fat Frank, who has got Silly John in charge, shut
up in the dark room at the bottom of Hubert's Tower."

"Silly John!" exclaimed the other; "what does he do there?"

"Why, he would not tell, I hear," answered the groom, "who were the
people whom he had seen bury my young lord under the beech trees by
Upwater Mere, so my lord ordered him to be shut up in the dark room,
without either meat or drink, till he did; and if he don't tell, hang
me if he don't starve to death, for my lord's not one to go back from
what he has once said."

As the man spoke, the person who had been thus questioning him moved
his hand with a rapid and impatient gesture to the holster at his
saddle-bow, plunged it in, and pulling out a pistol, thrust it into his
belt. He muttered also a few words in a hurried tone, which could only
be heard by himself; but then again, appearing to recover from some
impatient feelings, he continued, "One word more, my good fellow. Is
not the small wicket door, at the back of the western wing, very often,
if not always, left open all night?"

The man hesitated, and showed evident signs of a disinclination to
reply.

"It is, sometimes," he said at length, "but not always."

"I ask you," continued the other, "did you ever know it shut?"

"Yes, I think so. I don't know. I can't tell," replied the groom, with
manifest hesitation, at what he felt to be betraying the way into his
lord's mansion.

"He prevaricates," said one of the men behind; "he prevaricates; shall
I blow his brains out, Captain?"

"Not yet," replied their leader, calmly. "Do you intend to answer, or
not? Did you ever in your life know that door shut?"

"No. I didn't; no, I didn't," answered the groom. "It's always open;
that's the truth."

"Very well, then," continued the other. "If I remember right, when one
goes straight forward from that door, and then turns along the first
passage to the left, it leads to the little hall, out of which a
passage takes to the foot of the great stairs. Now, there are two other
doors, one of which leads to the private staircase going to the Earl's
apartments. Which of those two doors is it; the right or the left; for
I forget? Your life is at stake," he added, in a warning tone.

There was a sound like the clicking of a pistol-lock behind him, and
the man replied without the loss of a single moment, "It is the door to
the left. I tell you true, upon my word."

"I dare say you do," replied the other; "if you don't, so much the
worse for you. You will remain here till I come back; and you know what
will happen to you if you have made any mistake in this business.
Harvey, learn from him exactly the way to the room where the poor silly
man has been put. You and Hardcastle must undertake to set him free;
then join me with all speed at the point you know. You, Williams and
Erith, stay with this man and the horses; and if you should have such
reason to believe that he has told me a falsehood as to induce you to
leave the spot, give him a couple of ounces of lead in his head before
you go. You understand me. I know a word is sufficient with you."

"But, Captain," exclaimed the man whom he called Erith, "why should I
not go with you? Curse me if I like to be left here, holding the horses
like a groom. Why must not I go?"

"Because I appoint you to a post of trust and danger," answered his
leader; "there is more to be apprehended from without than from within;
judgment of what intelligence it may be necessary to give me, too, is
wanted, and, therefore, I choose you. But to end all in one word,
Erith," he added, seeing the other about to reply, "you must stay here,
because I direct you to do so; I, who never yet found you unwilling to
obey at once, in moments of action and peril!"

"That's the way you always come over me, Captain," replied his
companion; "however, I suppose I must do as you bid me, having stood by
your side in many a moment of life and death work."

"And always acted like a lion, where it was needful," answered his
leader, holding out to him his hand, which the other grasped eagerly.
"God bless you, Erith!" he added; "there is something tells me we shall
not be long together. If we part for the last time to-night, remember
that I love you, and that I think even now of the watch-fire of
Kaiser-lautern, when, wounded yourself, you brought cup after cup of
cold water to your wounded Captain's lips."

Thus saying he dismounted from his horse, and eight of his comrades
followed his example. The well-trained beasts were then ranged in a
line, and a single rope run through the bridles seemed all that was
necessary to keep them together till their riders' return. One end of
the rope was tied to a tree, the other to the last horse's bit; and
after gazing for one moment more at the light in the window of the
tower, across which a dark figure was seen to pass twice, the leader
gave a signal with his hand. The whole party then began silently to
descend the hill, with the exception of the two who had been appointed
to remain with the horses and the unhappy groom, whose terror had now
grown to such a pitch, that, had it not been for the lashings with
which he was attached to his horse, he could not have sat the animal,
although it remained as quiet and passive as if it had never known any
other stable than that of a farmer's mule.

With eager eyes and a beating heart the man marked the party descend
the hill, emerge from the shadow of the trees, cross the dewy grass,
which glistened like frost-work in the full beams of the moon, ascend
the opposite rise, and then take their way amongst the trees behind,
towards the back of the building where they proposed to effect their
entrance. It was certain that the property of his lordly master was at
stake at that moment, and perhaps also the lives of several of his
comrades; but yet the worthy domestic felt little or no agitation upon
that score. All that affected him, all he thought of, as would too
naturally be the case with most of the human worms which crawl about in
this state of being, was his own situation, his own danger. He knew, he
felt, that any misunderstanding of the directions he had given, or that
anything going wrong in the arrangements of those who had compelled him
to afford them intelligence, might be attributed to intentional
falsehood or mis-statement on his part, and that a life which he valued
just in proportion to its worthlessness, its inactivity, and its want
of fine perceptions, might be taken from him on the slightest notice.

He regarded the party of nine, then, as they descended the hill, with
feelings most strangely mingled and apparently contradictory; there was
a hope for their success, which he trusted would free him from the
painful situation in which they had placed him; there were sensations
of dislike and enmity towards those who had stopped and made him a
prisoner; there were feelings of anger in regard to the degradation of
the Earl of Danemore, who had so long ruled paramount throughout the
country round; and there was that longing desire which brutes as well
as man feel, to witness everything of importance that is passing around
them, especially when they are prevented by any cause from so doing.

His feelings, I say, were so mingled, that his whole capability of
wishing was concentrated in one earnest desire to know the result, and
to have, if we may use such a colloquial expression, "the matter out at
once." There are times and seasons, indeed, when ten minutes of the
past, ten minutes of anything that is absolutely certain, are worth
whole ages of doubt, even though that doubt may not be mingled with any
degree of apprehension; but in the present instance, personal terror
added immensely to all that the unhappy man felt; and his thoughts of
every dear relation of life which might be sacrificed, had ample room
to torture his heart, while, silent and inactive, he remained upon the
hill, watching the progress of those on whom depended his whole
afterfate.

When they approached the side of the wood that swept round the
esplanade, the straining eye of the captive could no longer distinguish
them; and he waited eagerly, with his eyes fixed upon the building, as
if he could gather all that was passing within those walls from the
dull unmeaning face of the stone. For some time, however, neither sight
nor sound gave him the slightest indications of what he longed to
learn. It was like the cold outside, which we too frequently see in the
world, covering a heart all agitation, anxiety, bitterness, and pain.

At length his feelings became insurmountable. There are degrees of
terror which give courage: he felt that it would be a thousand times
preferable to be amongst his comrades at the Castle, sharing their fate
and mingling in their danger, than sitting there in perfect inactivity,
waiting a result which he had no power to change; and he writhed with
the bonds that confined him. As he did so, he felt that the knot upon
the cords which tied his arms gave way in a slight degree--that he
could loosen it still further by a great but silent exertion of his
strength; and as he made that exertion, it slipped down to his wrists,
over which it was easily passed.

The two men who guarded him were gazing as eagerly upon the Castle as
he had been; and their minds were too full of the progress of their
comrades to allow them to take any note of the slight movement he had
made, so that, before they were at all aware of what he was doing, his
arms were free. As silently as he could, he slipped one hand into his
pocket for a knife to cut the cords which tied his legs, and he had
almost accomplished that purpose also, while they still continued
gazing at the Castle, along the windows of which more than one light
was now gleaming. He felt that he could do no more without calling
attention; but he perceived that what remained to do would be speedily
done, if he could get away, and would not impede his progress as he
went; and he gazed round upon the two who remained beside him, with a
beating heart, longing to gallop down to the Castle as fast as he
could, yet terrified at the idea of making the attempt. His hesitation
was soon brought to an end, however, for, giving way to the impulse of
habit, he put forward his hand, without thinking of what he was doing,
and patted his horse's neck. The gesture instantly drew the attention
of those beside him.

"What are you about there?" cried Erith. "He has got his hands free!"

The groom stayed to hear no more, but snatching up the bridle, he
struck his horse hard and galloped down the hill. The report of a
pistol rang in his ear the next moment, and at the same time a feeling
as if some one had run a hot iron along his right cheek, followed by
the trickling of blood, showed him that the robber's aim had not been
far amiss. The slight wound only added wings to his flight, however,
and the sound of a horse's feet following, urged him on still faster.
It was--and he knew it--a ride for life or death; but fortunately for
him his beast felt that it was speeding to its longed-for stable, and
though the hoofs of the pursuer sounded close behind, the groom rather
gained than lost ground in that headlong race.




                            CHAPTER XXIV.


Franklin Gray uttered scarcely a word as he led his men down the hill,
through the deep plantations to the left of the castle, and to the
small door which he was aware stood generally unlocked throughout the
whole night. Not a human being seemed to be stirring in the mansion or
its proximity; darkness, silence, and solitude, reigned in all the
offices and courts; and the Robber laid his hand upon the heavy iron
latch which was to give him admission into the interior of the
building, without his approach having been perceived by any one.

He paused there for a moment, however, and spoke in a low tone to his
band, saying, "Remember! to free this young gentleman is the first
object. After that, take what may fall in the way, money and jewels;
nothing heavy; nothing cumbersome. All the rest that is light in weight
and valuable in quality, sweep off at once. What right has he to such
wealth more than we have?" he added, in the tone of one who sought to
justify, to himself and others, acts the justice of which he doubted.
"He took many a thing from others with a strong hand, and he shall now
feel the strong hand in turn. Your weapons, I know, are never unready;
but use them not, unless we are compelled. As little bloodshed as
possible! Remember, Harvey, the silly man, poor fellow!--then by the
Earl's dressing-room up to the old tower! You may clear the
dressing-room as you come, if you like. There are many jewels there."

Those he addressed heard his directions without reply, though swords
were loosened in their sheaths, and the priming of some of the pistols
examined or increased. Harvey, and one or two others, indeed, of the
more experienced, seemed too sure of their preparations to need any
investigation thereof, and, without touching their weapons, prepared to
accompany their leader, with as much easy nonchalance as if he had been
leading them to a ball-room.

Franklin Gray himself neither touched sword nor pistol, but there was
no affected carelessness in his air. It was grave and stern, and full
of thought, as it well might be when bent upon an errand in the course
of which human blood might be spilt like water, without any of the
exciting and animating spirit of martial enterprise which, under other
circumstances, might have led him to tread gaily the path to tenfold
dangers. He looked round at his companions, however, while the short
and fluttered preparation was made; then laid his hand upon the latch,
and the door opened easily to his hand.

All was dark within, and the hollow echo of Franklin Gray's foot, as he
crossed the threshold, and strode on into the vaulted passage, was the
only sound to be heard in the mansion. One by one the others followed,
and leading them on through the dark corridors, without either
hesitation or mistake, the Robber proceeded straight towards what was
called the Little Hall, and pushed open a swinging door which lay
between it and the passages communicating with the offices. As he did
so, a bright light burst upon him, and dazzled his eyes, so long
habituated to the darkness. He strode on, however, into the midst of
the hall with a pistol in his hand; but the place was tenantless; and
he found that the light proceeded from a large sconce over the chimney,
and from a lamp standing on the table.

"This will light us on our way," he said, taking up the lamp. "That is
the door, Harvey, which leads to the Earl's rooms above; when you have
set the poor man free, come that way at once. In the end room of the
suite you will find a door leading to a staircase between that room and
the top rooms of the tower above. Follow the stairs and join me; but,
remember, do not hurt the old man. Tie him, if he resists, but do not
take his life, unless he tries to take yours."

Thus saying, he turned, and took his way through the passage that led
towards the foot of the great stairs, which he found dark and solitary.
There Harvey and his companion left him; and with the rest of his
followers, now reduced to six in number, Franklin Gray ascended the
steps, and entered the long corridor.

"Hark!" he whispered, after pausing for a moment; "hark! There are
voices speaking beyond, and I think I see a light through the door.
That chamber lies close at the foot of the stairs which we have to go
up, and we must see what it contains, ere we proceed further. Follow
me," he continued; and, advancing with a noiseless step, he pushed open
the door, which was only ajar, and strode into the room.

There, seated round a table furnished with a large black jack full of
strong ale, were, not only the three men who had been ordered to keep
guard over Langford, but two or three of the women servants of the
house, whom their male companions had prevailed upon to come and cheer
the solitary hours of night with their presence, and to banish all
fears of the ghost by numbers and merriment.

The sudden apparition of Franklin Gray and his followers, however, at
once put an end to all glee. The men sat for a moment as if turned into
marble with terror and astonishment, but the women, without waiting to
see whether the object of their apprehensions was corporeal or
incorporeal, fled with loud and piercing screams by the opposite door;
and, as their retreat towards the great staircase was cut off, they had
no resource but to rush up towards the chambers inhabited by Langford.
No sooner was the example of flight set them, than the men hastened to
follow it, with loud and terrified vociferations; and though Franklin
Gray, irritated by the noise, vowed he would fire upon them if they
were not silent, they continued their outcry as they rushed on before
him up the stairs and through the outer chamber.

Without calculation or concert, it struck each of the terrified
servants that they might make their way through the prisoner's room
down into Lord Danemore's apartments, where they hoped to find new
courage, or at least protection, from one to whom they had been.
accustomed to see all things yield in his vicinity. Each, then, rushed
towards the door, and, when they found it locked, pushed against it
with frantic vehemence. It shook--it yielded--the steps of the pursuers
were heard at the top of the stairs--another great effort was made; and
so sudden and violent was the rush, that the door gave way at once, and
darting in, the terrified servants found themselves in the presence not
only of Langford, but of the Earl himself.

"What is the meaning of all this?" exclaimed the Earl. But scarcely had
the words issued from his lips, and before he could receive any reply,
when the figures of several strange men, armed, and for the most part
disguised, appeared at the doorway and gave him some intimation of the
truth. No sooner did he behold this sight, than he sprang towards the
door which led to his apartments below, unlocked it, and calling to his
servants, "Follow me!" he darted down the stairs, leaving Langford to
act as he thought fit.

Franklin Gray paused but for a single instant for the purpose of
speaking a few hurried words to the prisoner, or rather spoke them as
he passed; "Quick!" he cried; "take possession of the papers if you
have not got them, and fly across the park down to Moorhurst, and
thence to London, where use your advantage, and hire the most knavish,
which means the best, of that great herd of knaves, called lawyers. I
must after yonder old man, or he will get to the alarum bell, and have
the whole county upon us."

"Stop, Gray, stop!" exclaimed Langford; "remember ----"

"I cannot stop! I cannot remember!" shouted Gray, sharply, in return,
and, darting towards the door, he rushed after the Earl, followed by
his band.

Langford, left alone, paused for a moment, as if to consider, and then
took the same path that the rest had done. The stairs were all in
darkness, but the lights from the rooms below, the noise of many
voices, of trampling feet, and of evident contention, guided him; and,
rushing on through the dressing-room, he came to the Earl's bed-room,
where the old man, having snatched up what weapons he could find, with
the terrified women clinging to his knees, and the three men armed in
haste around him, now stood like an ancient lion brought to bay. With
his white hair floating back from his face, and the fire of
unquenchable courage flashing from his eyes, with a pistol presented
towards Gray in one hand, and a drawn sword in the other, he leaned
forward ready and eager for the unequal strife; while the Robber, with
his band behind him, and his arms crossed upon his his broad chest,
stood gazing upon the old peer with a look, stern indeed, but not
devoid of admiration.

At the same time, in a detached group to the right, were Harvey and
Hardcastle, the first of whom had his foot planted firmly on the chest
of the Earl's Italian valet, who lay prostrate before him, while with
his right hand the Robber pointed a pistol at the servant's head.
Hardcastle from behind, with a short carbine raised to his shoulder,
took aim at the Earl, exclaiming, as he looked towards Franklin Gray,
"Shall I fire?"

Like lightning Langford sprang forward, grappled with Hardcastle, and
threw up the muzzle of the carbine, which instantly going off, struck
the fine gilded ceiling, and brought down a considerable part upon
their heads.

"Hold! hold!" shouted Gray. "If any one stirs he shall die!"

"I know you, mutinous traitor! I know you," exclaimed the Earl, gazing
fiercely upon the Robber; "I have not forgotten you!"

"Nor I you, buccaneer!" replied the Robber. "But this is no time to
call such memories to mind. Make no resistance, and you are safe."

But, even as he spoke, there came the rushing sound of many feet from
the direction of the little hall below. The door to the left of the
Earl was thrown open, and in poured a crowd of men, grooms, horse-boys,
running footmen, all armed in haste with whatever weapons they could
snatch up, and led on by the very groom who had been left upon the
hill.

Many of them were pale with terror, but the determination and courage
of a few amongst them served to inspire the whole, and they poured on
into the room to the number of twelve or thirteen men, jostling each
other through the door, and gazing wildly round a chamber in which few,
if any of them, had ever been before, and which now presented so
strange and fearful a scene.

The eyes of Franklin Gray flashed as he beheld them, and Hardcastle,
suddenly bursting from the grasp of Langford---for all this had passed
in a single moment--sprang to the side of his leader, while Harvey,
coolly firing the pistol at the Italian's head, followed his companion,
and ranged himself with the rest. The unhappy valet started partly up
from the ground, but ere he could gain his feet, fell back again, and
writhed for an instant in convulsive agony, while the spirit quitted
its frail tenement. Then all was still.

But matters of deeper interest to Henry Langford were going on at the
other side of the room. Fury had evidently taken place of calmness in
the breast of Franklin Gray, and the Earl's eyes were blazing with
triumph and wrath as he found himself unexpectedly supported by so
large a body of men.

"Now, villain! will you surrender and meet your fate?" the old man
exclaimed. "Now surrender, or die where you stand, like a man! Out of
the way, woman! why cling you there?" he continued, spurning one of the
women servants with his foot, and striding over her, to approach nearer
to the Robber. But at that moment Franklin Gray's arms were unfolded
from his breast, the pistol in his right hand was raised in an
instant--there was a flash--a report, and the Earl fell back.
Consternation for a moment seized upon his attendants, and Langford's
voice was heard aloud exclaiming, "If you have killed him, you shall
answer for it with your life!"

But the Earl sprang up again instantly, crying, "'Tis nothing--'tis
nothing but a slight hurt! Take that, villain!" and, in the very act of
rising, he fired the pistol, which he had never let fall, into the
midst of the group of robbers. He probably intended the shot for
Franklin Gray, and there had been a time when no aim of his would have
failed in reaching its object; but he was wounded and old, and the ball
hit the man Hardcastle a few inches below the collar bone, and brought
him to the ground with a loud unnatural scream.

All was now confusion; a number of shots were fired on both sides, till
the pistols and carbines which had been loaded were discharged, and,
betaking themselves to other weapons, the two parties mingled, and
bloodshed, slaughter, and determined strife spread throughout the whole
apartments. Some were driven back into the rooms beyond, and prolonged
the struggle there; some died where they stood; and some were seen to
steal away wounded, or to fly as fast as they could with terror. Skill,
however, and discipline were on the part of the robbers; and though
they were inferior in number, the advantage was evidently on their
side. Franklin Gray, with all the worst parts of his nature roused and
fierce within him, commanded, directed, and fought, as if he had been
in the field. His eye was on every part of the chamber in turn, and his
voice was heard shouting orders to his different men, which, promptly
obeyed, almost always brought success along with them. Two of the
Earl's grooms, who thrust themselves between him and their master, fell
by his hand, either killed or wounded, even while he was directing
others. But while he still strode on towards the old peer, who
struggled fiercely forward to meet him, he was encountered by one at
least equal to himself.

With difficulty Langford had forced himself forward through the scene
of strife and confusion that was going on. He spoke to no one, he
assailed no one, though he parried more than one blow aimed at random
at his head, for, though the lamp above their heads gave abundant
light, the struggle and the obscurity caused by the smoke had got to
that pitch that men scarcely knew who were adversaries or who were
friends; but, with his drawn sword in his hand, he hurried on to the
part of the room where he had seen the Earl, and now seemed to devote
himself to his defence.

At the very moment when Franklin Gray was within another stride of the
old peer, Langford thrust himself between them. But the Robber's blood
was all on fire. "Out of my way!" he cried; "out of my way, or take the
consequences!"

"Stand back!" cried Langford, in return, while his eyes too flashed
with living lightning; "Stand back, or I forget all, and you die!"

"Out of my way!" again repeated Franklin Gray, and their swords
crossed.

At that moment, however, the loud long peal of the alarum bell made
itself heard throughout the whole Castle--rung with such violence and
determination as speedily to rouse all the villages and hamlets in the
neighbourhood. Franklin Gray heard the sound; and never in the moment
of the strongest passion forgetting the judgment and the skill which
had distinguished him in the army, even in the most unjustifiable
enterprises, he glared for a moment upon Langford, unwilling to yield
his victim, or to give up the strife; but then, as the knell sounded
louder and more loud upon his ear, he turned to his nearest companion,
saying, in a low voice, "Wilson, we must make our retreat. Tell Harvey
to get the men together. We go by the same way that we came. Get hold
of yonder casket, and see what is in that cabinet, while I and these
good fellows screen you; and be quick, for we shall have the whole
peasantry upon us! There is a tremendous smell of fire! Be quick--be
quick!"

He spoke rapidly but calmly, glancing with his eye from time to time
towards his antagonist. Although he felt very sure that Langford would
not attempt to injure him, unless he pressed him, still he kept his
blade playing round that of his opponent; and when he had done, he made
a lunge or two to fill up the time, but evidently without any intention
of wounding his adversary. Langford parried them with ease, and as
rapid in his conclusions as Franklin Gray, he perceived at once that
the ringing of the alarum bell, which struck his ear also, had rendered
the robbers apprehensive of their retreat being cut off, and now made
them prepare to retire.

The Earl, however, fierce and implacable, rushed forward the more
eagerly from the sounds he heard, and from the hope of taking or
destroying those who had dared to assail him. With word and gesture he
cheered on the men who still stood around him, and pressed forward upon
the robbers, who were now ranging themselves in regular line, and
slowly retreating to the doorway behind them. His men, however, were in
general of the opinion that it is wise to make a bridge for a flying
enemy, and they seconded his efforts but feebly, notwithstanding his
reiterated commands and the fearful execrations which he poured forth
upon their cowardice. Two or three, indeed, rushed forward with him,
but they were driven back in a moment by the line of their adversaries,
bearing with them some severe wounds to teach them more caution for the
future.

They dragged back in their flight their more impetuous lord, and under
cover of the smoke, which was now so dense as to render every object in
the room indistinct, the Robber and his men reached the door by which
they had entered, and began to pass it two at a time. As they did so,
the eye of Franklin Gray ran over their numbers, and he suddenly
exclaimed, "Halt! Hardcastle is down and dead; but where are Harvey and
Doveton?"

"I am here," cried a faint voice, which proceeded from a man who was
seen staggering towards them through the clouds of smoke. "Go on,
Captain; never mind me. I will come after."

"We must leave none in the hands of the enemy." cried the Robber,
starting forward, and taking the wounded man by the arm. At that
moment, however, one of the grooms darted upon Doveton, and seized him
by the collar, but as instantly fell back on the floor cleft nearly to
the jaws by the heavy blade of Franklin Gray, who, while he was thus
remorselessly sending the spirit of an adversary to its eternal
account, was shouting out with anxious care for his companions--"Where
is Harvey? I don't see Harvey!"

Such is human nature.

"I am here; I am here, Captain," cried Harvey, bursting into the room
from the opposite door, and throwing down a man who stood in his way.

"Come quickly, then; come quickly!" cried his leader; "we shall scarce
have time to retreat!"

"No, by ----, we shall not!" replied Harvey, rushing up to Franklin
Gray, and speaking in a low tone. "We shall not for the house is on
fire in every part. I ran through there to see if we could get out by
that staircase and the little hall, but the fire seems to have begun
there; some of the men must have knocked over the sconce. Our only way
will be up these stairs, down the others from the tower, and through
the great gallery. But we must be quick, for the fire is running that
way rapidly." He spoke quickly, but by this time there was no chance of
his being interrupted, for the same tidings had just been communicated
to the Earl and those who surrounded him, but not with the same
clearness; and, horrified at the thought of the new kind of death
presented to their eyes, the whole body of grooms and attendants had
made a rush towards the ante-chamber and vestibule, hoping to escape by
the same way that Harvey had attempted, but found impracticable.

The Earl followed them more slowly, and he might be seen once or twice
to raise his hand toward his head, as if either faint from loss of
blood, or giddy with the smoke and the fatigue.

Langford gazed after him eagerly, and when he saw him reach the door,
and take hold of the lintel as if for support, he darted forward to aid
him; but he was suddenly detained by a strong and powerful hand which
grasped his arm, and turning, he beheld Franklin Gray and two of his
men by his side.

"This way! this way!" cried the Robber, eagerly; "this way, if you
would save your life and regain your liberty! This way, if you would
recover the papers you have so long eagerly sought! The house is on
fire, and everything will quickly be consumed!"

Langford hesitated; but when he turned again towards the Earl, the old
peer had passed through the door, and was no longer visible.

"Quick--quick!" cried Franklin Gray. "Come you must and shall! Drag him
along whether he will or not;" and, seized by both arms, he was hurried
to the foot of the staircase leading to the tower. Some sudden emotion,
however, seemed there to take possession of him, and make him throw
aside all hesitation at once.

"My duty first," he cried, "and God's will for the rest;" and shaking
off the hold of those who were hurrying him forward, he exclaimed, "Go
on, Gray, and if I perish, forget that we have drawn our swords upon
each other;--go on." As he spoke he turned with a rapid step, and
retrod his way into the Earl's bed-room.

Gray gazed after him for a moment, with a look of stern sorrow and then
said, "On, my men! He must perish if he will."

A number of voices assailed Langford as he entered the Earl's bed-room,
exclaiming, "Not that way--not that way! the vestibule is all on fire!
the stairs are down!" and men and women, rushing rapidly towards the
other staircase by which the robbers had fled, passed him as he
advanced, while the heat was becoming more and more intense, and the
smoke almost suffocating.

"Where is the Earl?" he demanded of one of the grooms as he darted by
him.

"I don't know," replied the man, with all the bitter selfishness of
terror. "Gone to the devil, I dare say," and on he rushed.

But Langford, undismayed, strode forward--passed through the bed-room,
and entered the ante-room beyond. It was now clear of all the crowd of
attendants who had supported the Earl in his struggle with the robbers,
but had fled in different directions from the still more appalling fate
that now menaced every one within those walls. The fire was running
round the cornices; the smoke was tremendously thick--the heat and
smell of burning wood intolerable, and the rushing and roaring of the
flames, as they seemed to revel with demoniac triumph in the passages
beyond, was almost deafening to the ear.

Immediately under the lamp that hung from the ceiling, however, and
leaning on a table of splendid mosaic work, which was soon destined to
crumble into nothing under the jaws of the devouring elements, stood
the Earl of Danemore, with the blood dropping rapidly from a wound in
the shoulder and from another in the arm. Them was a sort of fixed,
stern, cold determination in his countenance, which had something awful
in it, as, in that scene of terror and coming destruction, he stood
without making one effort to save himself.

"Fly, my lord, fly!" exclaimed Langford, hurrying towards him; "this
way is still clear."

"Sir," replied the Earl, calmly and coldly, "I cannot fly; I am old,
and weak, and wounded, and I cannot fly. I have exerted myself somewhat
too much in this little affray; my strength is expended, and I cannot
fly. I may as well die here, as in the next room or the room beyond."

"God forbid that it should be so!" replied Langford, eagerly. "My lord,
I can bear you forth; I am young and strong, unhurt and unfatigued. Let
me--let me save you!"

"Touch me not, sir!" exclaimed the Earl; "touch me not! You have
brought this thing upon my head. From the sight of that man's face, I
know where you gained your information of my former life. He came to
set you free. Touch me not! but go to join your fellows while you may.
Here, with death hanging over me, and perhaps over you, I tell you I
hate and abhor you, and will not have your support, even to save my
life!"

"Say not so, my lord; say not so," replied Langford, casting himself on
his knee before him; "let me entreat you--let me adjure you to accept
my aid! Did you not see my sword drawn against him in your defence?
Hate me, my lord, you may; injure me, you have; but you know not yet
that I love you with a love that may change your hate into affection;
and to show you what I feel, I swear that if you come not to safety
with me, I will remain and die with you!"

The old man was moved. "This is strange--this is very strange!" he
said; "but no!" he added, "save yourself, Monsieur de Beaulieu, save
yourself; and, in gratitude for what you say, let us mutually forgive
one another. For me, my hour is come; I know it--I feel it. My plans
are frustrated and thwarted; the secrets of my early life displayed;
the mansion of my fathers burnt to the ground! my son, my only son,
dead by the hand of a murderer!--I am old, houseless--hopeless; why
should I linger? I am companionless, childless; why should I live?"

"Not childless, my lord," replied Langford; "not companionless, if you
will have it so. Your son, Lord Danemore, is dead, but not your only
son. Your son is lost--but your eldest son is at your feet!"

"God of heaven!" exclaimed the Earl; "what do you mean? You are so
like; yes, you are so like--"

"Yes, my lord--yes!" exclaimed Langford, "I know I am. I am like
Eugenie de Beaulieu, your first, your only wife. I am her son! I am
your child! But now let me save my father;" and he threw his vigorous
arms around him.

The old man bent down his head upon his shoulder, and wept; but he
resisted him no longer; and Langford, with a great effort, raising that
still powerful form in his arms, bore him strongly onward through the
bed-room, and the dressing-room behind it, to the stairs. It is true he
felt that he carried a great and unusual weight; but there were those
feelings within his bosom which made every muscle as strong as a band
of iron, and he bore the old peer up the stairs into the chamber where
he had been so long confined.

Until that moment, the Earl uttered not a word, and the tears rained
heavy from his eyes; but then he raised his head, exclaiming, "Stop!
stop: The papers, my boy! The papers!"

"Not for a world:" exclaimed Langford; "if we have time, it is all that
we shall have;" and on he hurried through the ante-chamber and down the
stairs to the long gallery.

There was an awful sight before him. The rich carved oak wainscotting
was all in flames. The invaluable pictures which covered the walls
shrivelling and crackling with the fire. The armour and weapons, either
of the chase or war, which had been piled up in the form of trophies
between the panels, fallen from brackets that supported them, cumbered
the floor in many places. The ceiling from above was dropping down with
the heat, and in two places the flame might be seen forcing its way
through the flooring from below, and curling up the wooden pillars
which supported the roof. It was evident that the whole of the
corridors underneath were on fire; and as Henry, bearing his heavy
burden, strode on along the gallery, he knew not but that each step
might precipitate both himself and his father into the gulf of death.
His heart, however, was proud of its doing, and fearless; and if there
was one feeling in his breast which was painful, it arose there only
when the thought of Alice Herbert crossed his mind--when deep love and
the memory of her affection came tender and unnerving upon him. For a
single instant all the painful particulars of her situation, if he were
lost to her, flashed across his mind, but he banished them in a moment,
and summoned high resolution to his aid, knowing that he was acting as
she would have him act--knowing that she would be proud and satisfied
if she could see him at that moment.

Onward he went, rapidly but carefully. Twice he felt the flooring
giving way beneath him, and twice by a longer stride he reached a spot
where the beams were firm and unconsumed. The vast size of the gallery
enabled him to breathe with greater freedom, but still he could not see
clearly to the top of the great staircase, not only on account of the
smoke, but on account of a shower of sparks which came down from a spot
where the ceiling had fallen in.

The dust and mortar, even when he reached that place, prevented him
from discovering what was the state of the flooring below; only two
steps, however, lay between him and the head of the great staircase. If
he reached it, he knew that he was safe, for it was of stone, and he
strode on. The flooring gave way, however, at the first step, but he
perceived it yielding before it was too late, and with a violent
exertion sprang across the chasm. The effort was so great as nearly to
have cast him headlong down the steps, but he caught the iron
balustrade, and with a beating heart felt that he and his father both
were saved.

"Thank God!" he exclaimed.

"Thank God!" rejoined the Earl; "I can walk now! I can walk well!"

But Langford still bore him on till they had reached the doorway, and
passed out under the arch which projected beyond the building. There,
relaxing his hold, he suffered the Earl to regain his feet; but, still
supporting him by the arm, led him onward, after giving a moment to
recover breath, towards a spot on the terrace where all those who had
escaped from the fire, were assembled, and, as too usual on such
occasions, were standing with inactive wonder and selfish thankfulness
for their own deliverance.

Further on, indeed, there were two or three people engaged in raising
with difficulty a long ladder towards the high tower where Langford had
been confined. But a cry of "The Earl! the Earl!" which burst from the
nearest group as the two approached, caused them to pause, and the
woman Bertha, who had been directing their movements, ran up in haste.
The Earl, leaning on the arm of him who had saved him, gazed up for an
instant upon the splendid mansion of his ancestors, while in some parts
wide black vacuities, fringed with fire, and in others a mass of flame
and a blaze of light, crowned by a pyramid of red sparks and smoke,
showed him the state of that building from the midst of which he had
been borne.

The sight thus presented to his eyes, the memory of all that night's
events, the sudden wakening up of old, and dear, but painful,
associations, the renewal of feelings that had been extinct, and the
struggle of wonder and uncertainty with joy and conviction, were
overpowering to a frame weakened as his had been. He turned from the
burning mansion to his recovered son; he gazed for a moment, earnestly,
intensely, on his countenance, and then, casting his arms around his
neck, he exclaimed, "It is--it is--my son! my child! my deliverer! But
my eyes grow dizzy; my heart feels sick." And as he spoke, he fainted
with the loss of blood and the manifold emotions which thronged into
his heart.




                            CHAPTER XXIV.


"He acknowledges him! he acknowledges him as his own child!" exclaimed
the voice of Bertha, who had run up in haste from the other group.
"Bear witness all! bear witness every one! you Henry, you Jones, you
Moreton; he acknowledges him as his son even at the moment of his
death!"

"Hush! hush! he is not dead!" exclaimed the deep full voice of
Langford; "he is but fainting from loss of blood. Some one seek a
surgeon speedily. Give me something to bind up his wounds. Cannot some
one fetch a cup of water?"

"He acknowledged him!" repeated the woman Bertha, whose whole mind
seemed taken up with one idea; "he has acknowledged him; let every one
bear witness. I knew it would be so; I knew it must be so. I knew that
fate and inscrutable justice would work out their own way, though it
were in darkness and in shadow. I knew that it wanted no mortal skill
to direct, no mortal hand to help. Oh, thou," she continued, turning
towards Langford, "thou who hast undergone the severe trial in thine
infancy of evil fortune and adversity, thou who hast drunk the bitter
cup in youth, now--now that the sweeter cup is presented to
thee--forget not the lessons thou hast learnt, and show that thy heart
has been softened, not hardened, by struggles early endured, and
sorrows tasted in the brightest days of life; now show that thy bosom
is as free, even when loaded with riches, as when lowliest fortune
oppressed thee."

"I trust it may be so," replied Langford, quickly; "I trust it may be
so; but nevertheless you mark not the Earl's condition. Quick, Mistress
Bertha, quick! Surely some simples can be found to recall him from this
state of insensibility. Seek them, I beseech you; seek them quickly,
for it is terrible to think of losing a parent when one has so lately
regained one."

"Fear not! fear not!" answered the woman, gazing upon the Earl; "he
only faints. There is many a year's life yet within those old limbs. He
was not saved from destruction to die at the moment when his dearest
tie to the world was restored to him. But look not impatient, Master
Henry; I will speed quickly to the rooms which are not yet on fire,
although my keys have been stolen from me, and I know not where to find
anything that I seek. Nevertheless, so be it; I go but to obey."

She turned as if to quit them; but Henry, and one or two of those who
stood near, exclaimed, "Hold! hold! he is better; he opens his eyes.
Bring us some water; that will restore him fully."

As they spoke the Earl did indeed open his eyes, and looked around him
feebly. A few long strips of linen were procured, and made into
bandages for his wounds. Langford, as we shall still call him, applied
them skilfully and well; and some water was obtained, of which the Earl
drank eagerly, for he was parched and thirsty with exertion and loss of
blood. The deep draught seemed to refresh him much, and he raised
himself up on his arm from the turf whereon they had laid him, making a
sign for Langford and others to help him to rise entirely.

"You are better now," said Langford, eagerly; "you are better now. Let
us bear you to some cottage in the neighbourhood, where the aid of a
surgeon may be procured."

"I am better," replied the Earl, in a voice wonderfully firm; "I am
better, my son; but there is much yet to be done. Raise me up. Stay;
give me your hand, I can raise myself. How goes the fire? is the
building all down?"

"Oh, mind not the building, my lord," replied his son; "mind not the
building. Let us attend to your safety first. There will not be wanting
means to raise Danemore Castle from its ashes again. No, my lord, no,"
he continued, seeing the Earl make an impatient sign with his hand;
"the building is not all down; the whole of the right wing is free, and
the people are bringing out everything valuable that it contains."

"But the tower, the tower," exclaimed the Earl. "Those papers, my boy,
they must be preserved at all risks, otherwise your destiny will still
be clouded. Lift me up, lift me up, I say."

With very little assistance he raised himself from the ground and gazed
over the building, fixing his eyes eagerly on the old tower in which
Langford had been confined. The fire, running along the corridors, had
reached the first and second stories, and round the frameworks of the
lower windows might be seen the long lambent flames curling like fiery
serpents. But up above appeared the windows of the two chambers which
contained matter of such interest to both the Earl and his son, through
which shone forth nothing but the calm steady light of the lamps that
had been left burning there--pouring forth a mild and tranquil lustre,
high above all the fierce and eager flames below, like a gentle and
virtuous spirit shining on in peaceful brightness amidst the fire, and
flame, and smoke of the angry passions, and consuming strifes, and foul
ambitions of the world.

"There is yet time," exclaimed the Earl; "there is yet time! Raise up
that ladder," he continued, turning to those who had been, placing it
against the tower as a means for his own escape, but had now let it
sink back again to the ground; "raise up that ladder. Why have you let
it drop? There! Be quick! Place it against the furthest window to the
east. Why do you not aid them?" he continued, turning to some of the
servants who stood inactive. "By Heaven, I will have your ears slit, if
you stand idly there!"

The men, reminded by the tone, of the fiery rule under which they had
so long lived, sprang to obey; but notwithstanding all the eager haste
with which he urged then on, to raise that tall ladder was a work
requiring some labour and time, and, while they did it, the anxious eye
of the Earl marked with apprehension the flames appearing, one after
another, at the small loop-hole windows which lighted the staircase
that led from the great gallery to the chambers above.

"Now, now," he said, in the loudest voice he could command, as soon as
the ladder was fixed, "a thousand guineas to the man who will mount
into that room, and with a pickaxe break open the cabinet door in the
wall on the left hand, and bring me down safely the small iron case
that is contained therein. A thousand guineas to that man, I say!"

"I will do it, my lord," cried a stout peasant, starting forth; "I'd go
through fire, or water either, for a thousand guineas, for then I could
marry Jenny Barker, and take old Hudson's farm. There's no pickaxe
here, but here's a crowbar, which will do as well."

"Up, up then," cried the Earl; "a thousand guineas if you bring it
down!"

The young man sprang up the ladder at once; but ere he had reached the
top, the flames were seen bursting through the windows of the adjoining
room, and every eye below watched his ascent with fearful interest. He
went on boldly, however, and, reaching the top, contrived to open the
window. He was seen kneeling for a moment upon the sill, and then
sprang into the room.

A moment of anxious suspense followed, but then the small flickering
point of the flame was seen curling round the wood-work of the casement
through which he had just passed, and in another instant it burst forth
in a volume. As it did so, a wild scream burst from the crowd behind
the Earl, and a pretty country girl ran forward, wringing her hands.
But at that moment the form of him she loved was seen emerging from the
very midst of the fire. He planted his foot firmly on the ladder, and
descended rapidly, holding a small case in his arms.

"He has got them!" cried the Earl; "he has got them!" and he turned
towards Langford with a smile full of joy.

"He is safe!" murmured the girl; "he is safe!" and she burst into
tears.

With haste so great as almost to be dangerous, the young man descended
the ladder; but it soon became apparent why he did so, for the flames
were seen curling about the upper rounds thereof, and just as he
reached the bottom, the upper part, consumed by the intense heat, gave
way, and the ladder fell, first against another point of the tower, and
then with a crash to the ground. The young man, however, was safe; and,
giving one pressure of the hand to the girl, who ran forward to meet
him as he passed, he advanced directly to the Earl, and placed the
small iron case that he carried in his hands.

It opened with a spring lock, and the Earl pressed it back eagerly.

Langford gazed, not without much agitation, for there before him, he
thought, lay all that he had so long desired and striven to possess,
the proofs of his mother's honour and purity, his title to great
wealth, a noble name, and high rank, (not only in his own country, but
in that which had in some degree adopted him,) and the means of
showing, of proving, to Alice Herbert, that he had loved her, and
sought her, with the high, pure, disinterested love of which she was
worthy. He gazed anxiously, then, while the Earl pressed back the lock;
but the old man's hands were still feeble, and it was with difficulty
that he accomplished that object. He did so at length; the lock gave
way, and the top flew open; but, to the surprise and consternation of
both, the casket was void. Not a paper, not a trace of anything of the
kind did it contain.

The Earl let it drop from his hands, and turned a glance of fierce
inquiry upon the young peasant, exclaiming, "Have you opened it?"

"As I hope for salvation, my lord," exclaimed the young man, "I neither
tried nor knew how to open it, but brought it to you just as I found
it."

His anxious and terrified look, the sudden rush of blood to his
countenance, his frank and ingenuous bearing, all confirmed his words,
and left no doubt that he spoke the truth. The Earl then turned to his
son, and gazed in his face with a look of deep and painful interest.
Langford's brow was grave, but calm, and taking both the Earl's hands
in his, he said, "Never mind, my lord; it cannot be helped; let us be
satisfied with the good which has befallen us. This day I have gained a
father, and you a son! It is enough! Let us not mind the rest."

The Earl cast himself upon his bosom. "You are my son, you are my son!"
he said; "I know and feel it, though there is much that I do not
comprehend, there is much still to be explained. You are like your
mother! Oh! too like your mother! Hating myself for having wronged her,
I hated her because she was wronged; and yet, though it seem madness
and folly to say it, I loved her still. But I knew not that she had had
a son, or I would never have acted as I did act; I would never have
wronged her as I did wrong her. A vague suspicion of the truth, a wild
whirling phantom of the imagination, did cross my mind once in years
long gone; and once, too, within these few days, when first I saw you
in that tower. But why, why did she conceal it?"

"Because, my lord," replied Langford, "you had left her; you had taken
from her the proofs of your marriage with her; you were upon the eve of
marriage with another, a proud and princely dame of another land; and
because her brother, my uncle, once your friend and companion, though
he doubted not the tale that his sister told of her private marriage
with yourself, and of your having obtained from her all the proofs of
that marriage, upon the most solemn vow never to destroy them; though
he doubted it not, I say, no, not a word of the whole tale, yet he
insisted upon her concealing her situation and the birth of her child,
for the sake of the honour of his family, at least till he could obtain
from you the proofs of his sister's virtue. Nay more; when he found
that, notwithstanding all his precautions, scandal had got abroad and
was busy with her name, he forced her to quit her own land, to dwell in
other countries, to assume another name, and to countenance the report
of her own death. In every matter of fortune he treated her with noble
and princely generosity; and in all points he was kind, except in one,
where he was stern and inflexible. But I agitate you. You are not able
to hear this tale now."

"Go on! go on!" exclaimed the Earl; "let me hear it all at once. Keep
me not a moment in suspense."

"Well," continued Langford, "he educated me as if I had been his own
child; but, as I was born in England--born within but a few miles of
this spot--he caused me to be placed in the English regiments serving
at that time with the troops of France. When of an age to judge for
myself, he told me, with her consent, the sad story of my mother, which
she had never told me----"

"What! then she lived!" exclaimed the Earl; "she did not die when I was
told she died!"

"Oh no, my lord," replied Langford; "she bore deep grief for many a
long and bitter year. Hers was a heart of much endurance, and though
the disappointment of her first affection, the destruction of all
confidence in----"

"Hush! hush!" exclaimed the Earl, covering his eyes with his hands.
"Hush, hush; I did her bitter wrong!"

There was a silent pause of several minutes, and then the old man asked
again, "How long has she been dead?"

"Scarcely two years, my lord," replied his son; "and let me say, that
even to the last, there was within her heart a lingering spark of
affection toward him whom she had loved in early youth--whom she had
loved alone."

"Bless her!" exclaimed the Earl; "bless her! Oh, could she but know
that I weep for her even now!" and he did weep.

"But that, too," he added sadly, "is amongst the dark things of the
irrevocable past. Oh! could but man remember that, though each act that
he performs, each fiery passion gratified, each rash word spoken, each
selfish wrong committed, may be blotted from his memory the next hour,
like words written by the finger of a child upon the sea-shore sand;
that, though his remembrance thereof may be but as a waxen tablet, on
which each new impression effaces the last; could he but remember, I
say, that there is a stern and adamantine record kept by fate, on which
the lightest line, once traced, can never be effaced, which whole
oceans of tears can never clear of one spot, nor the fiery longings of
the repentant heart ever purify of one dark act done, human things
would surely never give themselves cause to feel what I feel now,
longing to pour out my blood like water, so that it could but recall
the past."

There was another pause, and then the Earl continued, "Tell me more, my
son; tell me more. You spoke of your uncle. He was a noble man, and
generous. Though there have been harsh words and fierce acts pass
between us, I loved him well: I love him even now."

"I was about to say, my lord," continued Langford, "that when I was of
an age to hear and judge, he told me my mother's history, and my own
condition. He told me that you had wedded another, and had a son on
whom you doted fondly; and he showed me that there was no chance of
your ever doing myself or my mother justice, if by so doing you were to
wring your earldom and your rich estates from him, the child of your
affection. He then proposed to me to make a sacrifice, and once more to
apply to you for the proofs of my mother's marriage, entering into a
solemn compact with you never to produce those proofs in England.
Possessing them in France would not only have at once restored the
honour of my mother, but would have rendered me heir to the Marquisate
of Beaulieu, and to all the estates thereunto attached. But there arose
a question as to whether my birth should be made known to you. My
mother longed for it eagerly; for with a mother's fond affection she
thought that there was something in your breast which would prevent you
from utterly wronging your child."

The Earl stretched forth his hand and turned away his head, exclaiming,
"She did me more than justice. My heart might have been torn with agony
and shame, but I should have found no means to escape but in fresh
crime, and might not have had the courage even to do partial right."

"So my uncle judged," replied Langford, "and he refused his consent to
your being made acquainted either with my birth, or with my mother's
existence. He offered you his solemn pledge, however, never to use the
proofs, if you once yielded them, for any other purpose than to
establish the fact of his sister's marriage, in France."

"And I refused him," said the Earl; "I refused him what he had every
right to claim. But it is vain regretting; and he, too, is dead,
bearing with him to the cold tomb a load of injuries, from him whom he
once called his friend--from him whom he succoured in adversity, nursed
in sickness. He, too, is dead, and with him likewise the past is beyond
recall. But with thee, my boy, with thee it is not too late; and yet,"
he added, sadly, "those papers are lost which I promised never to
destroy--which I guarded so carefully--the only proofs of that
marriage--they are lost at the very moment that I find my son. Does it
not seem as if fate were resolved to punish all my past deeds by
stamping them with its irrevocable signet at the moment I first longed
to recall them? What shall we do? How shall we act to prove the facts?
Bertha you were present; you are the only one now left."

"Is it not enough that you acknowledge him?" demanded the woman; "are
your laws in this land so hard that a man cannot do tardy justice when
he longs to do it?"

"What is justice to one, might be injustice to another," replied
Langford; "and if I am rightly informed, the title and estates must
pass away to some far relative."

"A man I hate!" exclaimed the Earl, with a touch of his old fierceness.

But Langford interposed. "Oh, hate no one now!" he said; "but let us
talk no more of these things; at least not now. You are faint, my lord,
and I fear, much hurt; lean on my arm, and take this good youth's too,
who, though he brought us but the empty casket, with the treasure gone,
must not be unrewarded."

"The stables are not touched, my lord," said one of the grooms,
advancing, and bowing low; "we can bring a carriage in a moment."

"Do so! do so, speedily!" replied Langford, and he endeavoured to lead
the peer to some place of repose. But the old man seemed still inclined
to linger and to inquire into the past, in the presence of the awful
scene which was yet proceeding before his eyes. All that had been said,
both by father and son, had been witnessed by a crowd of persons; but
at first, the overpowering feelings of their hearts had withdrawn all
attention from external objects, and neither had remarked nor
remembered that there was any living soul present but themselves. Henry
had awakened to their situation first, and he now strove to prevent the
Earl entering further into the history of his past life, grieved and
angry with himself for not having stopped him ere any ears had heard
him charge himself with so many dark offences.

"We are surrounded by listeners, my lord," he said, in a low tone,
seeing that the Earl was proceeding with the theme then paramount in
his thoughts; "we had better pause till we are in private. There is
many a keen ear around us."

"I mind them not!" replied the Earl, aloud, drawing himself up to his
full height, but still leaning upon his son's arm; "I mind them not! I
would have them know it! Who can say that I shall ever see to-morrow's
sun? Hear every one, and bear witness, that I acknowledge this
gentleman as my son; that I was fully and lawfully married to his
mother, before his birth, in the church of Uppington; that by my hand
the leaf was torn from the register which recorded that marriage; that
the certificate thereof was taken by me from his mother; and that it,
with the torn leaf and other papers, was kept by me, from that time to
this, in the case which now lies empty there. Some one has stolen them
in the horrors of this night; but for their recovery, I will double the
reward I offered for the casket itself. Let every one remember the
words that I have spoken. This is my legitimate son!"

The people around answered by a shout; but the heavy pressure of the
Earl's hand upon his son's arm showed Henry that the exertion of
speaking in so loud a tone had been too much for his exhausted powers;
and he eagerly led him away towards a spot where he could sit down till
the vehicle came to carry him to the neighbouring village. The old man
seemed satisfied, however, with what he had accomplished, and gazing in
his son's face with a smile, he said, "I have done my best towards one
act of reparation. Oh, my boy, would that I could repair all!"

Langford said little in reply, but what he did say was kind and tender;
and as soon as the carriage appeared; the Earl was placed in it, and
conveyed to the house of the clergyman of the village, who gladly
received his noble patron. Messengers were instantly sent off for
surgeons, but ere they arrived, Langford, who sat by his father's
bedside, saw with pain a bright red spot deepening every moment in the
Earl's cheek, announcing, as well as his burning thirst, that strong
fever was taking possession of him.




                            CHAPTER XXVI.


It is an awful thing to sit by the bed of sickness at any time; to see
that strange and inexplicable thing, animal life, oppressed and beaten
down like a crushed butterfly, waving its faint wings with the energy
of suffering, but not the freedom of health; to mark the quick
breathing, to gaze upon the anxious eye, to see the cheek, once florid,
grown pale and ashy, the lip parched and dry, the thin nostril
expanding for the insufficient breath, the hand suddenly blanched and
grown meagre, the uneasy frame tossing with the dire combination of
lassitude and restlessness; and to know that all these are signs of a
spirit approaching that dread portal, which, if once passed, can never
be passed again till the gates of life are thrown open for eternity!

It is an awful thing at any time! but when the being whom we see so
situated is dear to our heart by the ties of kindred or of love, it is
still more awful; and awful, trebly awful, is the scene, when the
creature that lies weighed down by sickness before our eyes is both
closely linked to our deepest feelings and tenderest natural
affections, and yet loaded, even more than by the weight of malady,
with faults and errors, and sins and crimes, which may render the dark
passing of that fearful porch of death, the eternal separation from all
who loved him on the earth.

The fire in Danemore Castle had burnt itself out. Part of the building
had been saved, and remained uninjured. The servants had taken
possession of it, and were using all means to prevent the fire from
breaking out again. The greater part of the peasantry had returned to
their homes, and few persons were seen in the park or on the terraces,
but here and there a straggling group of idlers gathered together from
the neighbouring country to gaze upon the scene of ruin and
destruction.

He whom we have called throughout this book Henry Langford, had twice
gone forth, at his father's desire, to see what was taking place
without, and he now sat, in the cool grey of the dawn, beside the couch
of the Earl, as he lay obtaining snatches of brief and troubled
slumber. As Langford so sat, and gazed upon him, the natural feelings
of a son's heart towards a father would have way. The blood of kindred
stirred within him, and he felt that he was his son. But still as he
gazed, the image of his dead mother rose up before his sight, and all
the bitter wrongs that she had suffered made his heart sad, and brought
the tears into his eyes.

He thought of her as he had known her in his youth, still exquisitely
lovely, though touched by the withering hand of sorrow. He thought of
her as he had known her in later days, fading rapidly away, like a
flower broken and trampled under foot by some heedless passer-by. He
thought of her as he had seen her on the bed of death, with every
worldly hope at an end, and with no thought nor care but of the heaven
to which her steps were bent, and of his own future fate and happiness
on earth. Her words, almost the last which she ever spoke, still rang
in his ears; the promise she had exacted from him, never to give up the
endeavour to establish her honour and purity, and the injunction which
she had likewise laid upon him, if his father ever did him injustice,
to forgive and love him for her sake.

Henry felt that he did forgive him; but he felt, too, that there was
another and a greater Judge whose forgiveness was needed; a judge not
less merciful, indeed, but one not moved by human passions and
affections; and as he thought of all that had been done by him to whom
he owed his being--of all the dark deeds of other years--the fierce
unruly passions which had remained unextinguished even to that very
night, the scene of his father's suffering, the prospect of big death
became awful, trebly awful to the eyes of his son.

The surgeon from the county town had been with Lord Danemore, had
examined his wounds, and had pronounced that there was no immediate
danger; but he had not in any degree assured the Earl's son that there
was a prospect of his illness terminating favourably. He spoke as men
are too apt to speak, with cautious consideration of his own
reputation, more than with any regard for the feelings and anxieties of
him to whom he spoke. Langford had gathered, however, that he judged
unfavourably of his father's state. He dwelt upon the facts of the Earl
being an old man--of his constitution, though strong, having been
apparently severely tried in former years--of the event of all such
wounds being uncertain--and of a great deal of fever having rapidly
come on. He said nothing to mitigate these unfavourable circumstances,
and Langford judged the worst. His feelings, then, when after the
surgeon had left the Earl for a short time, and he sat beside him
watching his fitful slumbers, were most painful; but they were destined
to be more so ere long.

Scarcely had the sky grown yellow with the bright coming on of morning,
when the trampling of many horses' feet below, and then the sound of
persons ascending the stairs, called his attention. It had been the
surgeon's express injunction that the Earl should be kept perfectly
quiet; and as the sounds approached the chamber in which he lay,
Langford started up and moved towards the door, in order to caution the
new comers to make less noise. Before he reached it, however, that door
opened, and five or six persons unceremoniously entered the chamber.
The noise at once awoke the Earl, and, starting up on his arm, he
exclaimed, "Who is there?"

"It is I, my lord; your lordship's very humble servant, Sir Thomas
Waller," replied the first person who entered. "No sooner did I hear
that your lordship's house had been attacked and set on fire, than I
got on horseback with as many constables as I could gather together to
come to your aid; and as my learned and worshipful friend and cousin,
Justice Whistler, from London, the chief magistrate of police, happened
to be lodging in my poor house at the time, I besought him to come over
with me too."

"Whether in regard to the fire or in regard to the robbery," replied
the Earl, cynically, "your coming is somewhat late; and as I am both
wounded and in pain, and have the express orders of my surgeon to
remain in perfect quiet, you will perhaps favour me by leaving me to
repose; and another time, before you bring strangers into my room, do
me the honour to inquire whether it is my pleasure to receive you;" so
saying, he laid himself down again, and turned his back upon his
unwished-for guests.

"This is a very extraordinary reception, indeed," said a portly,
keen-faced personage, who had followed Sir Thomas into the room; "but,
at all events, Sir Thomas, we must do our duty. My lord, I am sorry to
trouble your repose."

"You must trouble it no longer, sir," said Langford, advancing towards
him, "but have the goodness at once to quit the room."

The worshipful Justice Whistler--for he it was who had been speaking,
calmly took a pair of spectacles out of his pocket, placed them on his
nose, and gazed at Langford from head to foot.

"This is the young man, I take it, Sir Thomas," he said, turning to his
companion; and, on a significant nod from Sir Thomas Waller, he
proceeded, "You are the personage calling yourself Henry Langford, and
stand charged, I find, with the wilful murder of Edward Lord Harold. On
consulting with my good friend here on the subject last night, aided by
the wisdom of Sir Matthew Scrope, I gave it as my decided opinion that
you should be immediately committed to the county gaol, having been
left too long already in circumstances which rendered it probable that
the ends of justice might be defeated."

"What is this? what is this?" exclaimed the Earl, starting up.

"Nothing, my lord," replied the magistrate, "but that this young man
stands committed upon a due warrant to that effect, placed in the hands
of these officers behind me for execution."

"Do you know, sir," demanded the Earl, sternly--"do you know that he is
my son?"

"We have heard something to that effect this night," rejoined the
justice, in a sharp dry tone--he evidently having taken offence at the
Earl's first salutation, and not having that reverence for his wealth
and power which was felt by his neighbours in the country--"we have
heard something to that effect this night; but as I observed to my good
friend here, that only renders the matter more probable. That your
lordship's illegitimate son----"

"He is not my illegitimate son, sir," replied the Earl; "he is my
legitimate child, by my first wife."

"It is very awkward, certainly," answered the imperturbable Justice
Whistler; "but, nevertheless, my lord, we cannot help it. The law must
have its course; and, as I said before, the charge is but rendered the
more probable by the fact of his being your unacknowledged son. To get
an obtrusive heir out of the way is no slight inducement; but besides
all that, there is quite proof sufficient to justify his committal long
ago. Here they are seen to draw their swords upon each other. The one
rides away slowly up to the moor; the other gets his horse and follows
him at full speed, just as night is closing in. The one is killed upon
the moor, and his horse returns all bloody. The other does not get back
till late that night, and then is in an evident state of agitation. A
pistol shot is heard in that direction at the very time he is there,
and at the very spot to which he is seen riding. My lord, the matter is
quite conclusive; and though doubtless unpleasant, the young gentleman
must to prison!"

The Earl gazed wildly but earnestly in the face of his son, with
feelings which those who have read the steps he had taken to bring
about the very result that now fell upon him like a thunderbolt may
well conceive.

"I have done this!" he exclaimed; "I have done this! Oh, my son, I am
your murderer!" and he turned away his head with an aguish shudder
passing all over his frame.

Langford, however, hastened to console him. "Oh, no!" he said, grasping
the old man's hand--"Oh, no! While you thought me guilty, you justly
used all means to punish the supposed murderer of your son, but----"

"You do not know," replied the Earl, with that withering expression of
heartfelt anguish that nothing but remorse can give; "You do not know.
I have pursued you like a fiend! Your blood will be Upon my head--my
own child's blood!"

"Not so, my lord; not so." replied Langford, again. "The worst will be
but a few days' imprisonment. You know my innocence; I know it too, and
know that it can be proved with ease. That which gives me the greatest
pain at this moment, is to be deprived of the opportunity of watching
by and attending you till you shall have recovered from your wounds. It
grieves me--it is dreadful to me--to leave you to the hands of menials.
My lord, there will be one comfort to me--one consolation in prison,
which, as the first favour I have ever asked you, you must grant me.
There is a lady in this vicinity, kind, and gentle, and tender; your
son's promised bride: Mistress Alice Herbert, I mean. Will you let me
sit down and write her a few lines, beseeching her, during my enforced
absence from my father's sick bed, to attend him as if she were his
daughter? I know that it will be an office which she will love to
fulfil, not more for my sake than for yours. Pray let me do so."

The Earl's eyes had been cast down, and the thick eyebrows had gathered
heavily over them; but he did not speak, for the knowledge of all he
had done lay weighty on his heart, and took away all utterance. Sir
Thomas Waller, however, took upon himself to reply. "Your writing,
young gentleman, would be useless," he said; "for I am sorry to tell
you that Sir Walter--who, though a hasty and passionate man, and
sometimes very disrespectful to persons fully equal to himself, is a
very good man, and much liked in the country--was arrested yesterday
evening at the suit of the noble Earl here. Indeed, he would have been
arrested in the earlier part of the day, but the country people rose
and rescued him."

"This, too!" exclaimed the Earl, setting his teeth; "I have done this!
I have done this!"

"Your worthy lawyer, my lord," continued Sir Thomas, whose mind was one
of those shallow ones that cannot comprehend any deep and powerful
emotion, even when they see its workings before their eyes; "your
worthy lawyer, my lord, Master Kinsight, was very roughly handled by
the people, and is likely to die."

"Curse him!" said the Earl, in a low, deep voice; "curse him! He is one
of the vile instruments, the ready tools of wrong."

"May I ask you, sir," interposed Langford, with no slight anxiety now
thrilling in his bosom--"may I ask you, who seem to know the
particulars of the whole affair, what has become of Mistress Alice
Herbert, under these distressing circumstances?"

"She chose to go with her father, I was informed," replied the Knight;
"I dare say Master Bolland made her pay dear for permission to do so.
He is not a man to grant anything without a consideration."

"And has worthy, kind-hearted, noble Sir Walter Herbert," exclaimed
Langford, with the anguish of his heart making itself apparent in every
feature--"has he fallen into the hands of that well-known, that
infamous knave and peculator, whose very existence as an officer of the
law, even though in the lowest grade of degraded offices, is a disgrace
to this free country, whose acts make the capital of England notorious
for monstrous injustice, and for the daily infraction of every social
law, of every moral feeling, and of every sacred right? Has he--has
he--simple, unguarded, plain, and true! fallen into the hands of one
whose whole soul is fraud, corruption, perjury, and baseness? Yet how
can this be?" he continued, after a moment's pause; "I myself furnished
the money to pay this debt. I do not comprehend it."

"I have done this, too. I have done this, too," replied the Earl, in a
tone of profound despondency. "I refused to receive the money! I seized
upon it as the property of a felon. Bitterly, bitterly do these things
fall upon my head; bitterly, oh, how bitterly, is the punishment of all
coming upon me!"

There was a deep silence, for Langford's heart was wrung, and he could
give him no consolation. After a moment or two, however, the Earl
started up in bed, exclaiming, "This--this at least can be amended.
This--this at least can be repaired. Give me the pen and ink; quick!"

He was obeyed immediately, and with a trembling hand he wrote a full
acquittal of all debt from Sir Walter Herbert to himself, principal and
interest--costs and charges; nothing was omitted.

"There," he said, putting it in Langford's hands--"there is the first
act of atonement which I have been able to accomplish. Take it, my son;
take it. The writing those lines has given me the first happy moment I
have known for years. Oh, misery of violent passions indulged! thou
fiery curse that makest even gratification a torment! Had I but
known--had I but known what it is to refrain! Stay," he continued, as
Langford was taking the paper, "stay. These wounds and this weakness
have made my hand shake, and such men as now stand by us, cunning
lawyers and wise justices as they are, may hereafter swear that the
writing is not mine. Here, Sir Thomas Waller; here, worthy Justice
Whistler, favour me by placing to this act the testimony of your
hands."

"But, my lord--" exclaimed Mr. Justice Whistler.

"But me no buts, sir," replied the Earl, fixing his keen feverish eyes
upon him; "I know what you would say; I know what your lawyer-like
seeking for a flaw would suggest: that no consideration has been given,
and that therefore the deed will not be legal. But I tell you, sir,
that a consideration has been given; that the money in full was paid
into my hand this morning, and will be found in my library, if that
library has escaped the flames. Sign, sir, sign! that is all you have
to do. Witness that this is my act and deed!"

The two justices put their hands to the paper; and, to render Sir
Thomas Waller but simple justice, he did so freely and willingly
enough; not so exactly, worthy Mr. Justice Whistler, who showed no
slight disinclination and hesitation in even witnessing an act which
might take a fellow creature from out of the clutches of the law.
Twice, when he had got his hand to the paper, he withdrew it, and
paused for a moment in thought, longing apparently to find some excuse
or some motive for refusal. At length, however, he signed it; and the
Earl gave it to Langford, saying, "There, my son; take it, and use it
for your friend's deliverance."

"I beg your pardon, my lord," said the justice, again interposing; "but
this gentleman will have no opportunity of acting in the matter. You
had better trust it to me."

"Wonderful impudence!" cried the Earl. "What! give meat to the harpies!
Out upon it, man! do you think I would trust you with any feasible
means of hurting your fellow creatures?"

"My lord," answered the justice, sharply, "if I am to judge by your own
words lately used, your sarcasm is as much applicable to your lordship
as myself."

"You say true, man; you say true," replied the Earl. "But though I be a
wolf, I will not trust a wolf; I know you all too well. My son," he
continued, turning to Langford, "are they really going to take thee
from me at this painful hour?"

"I fear, my lord, that such is really their purpose," replied Langford.
"I will not insult these gentlemen by saying that they know me to be
innocent, though I must say that they seem very willingly blind to
innocence. But they are resolved to carry the matter through to the
last, and, therefore, it may be well to bring this scene, painful and
terrible as it must be to you, to an end as soon as possible."

"Stay yet awhile--stay yet awhile," cried the Earl, grasping the hand
that he held out to him; "I feel that it is terrible to see you go,
for, perhaps, my son, we may never meet again. We may never meet in
this world. We may never meet in the world to come, that dark and awful
world towards which I am speeding quickly--quickly!"

"Oh, say not so," replied Langford; "I trust--nay, I hope--I am
sure--that my innocence will so speedily be made manifest by one means
or another, that in a very few days, perhaps a few hours, I shall again
sit beside you, and I trust then to find you better."

The Earl shook his head. "Too late found," he said; "too early lost. I
now feel how I could love you. I see your mother's spirit shining out
of your eyes. I see that spirit, which pardoned and gave way but too
much, looking mildly upon me, who wronged both her and you so deeply;
but it is all in vain." And as he spoke, he pressed his hands over his
eyes; and Langford, willing to spare him any further agitation, took
that moment to make a sign to Justice Whistler, signifying that he was
ready, and turned towards the door.

The Earl heard his step, however, and exclaimed, "Oh, not yet--not
yet!" but Langford opened the door, and called Bertha with a loud
voice.

The Frenchwoman came immediately, for she was sitting watching in the
neighbouring chamber.

"Look to my father," said Langford; "you who were a witness of my
mother's marriage--you, who owe my race so much--you----"

"You," she interrupted, "you would say, you who have repaid their
kindness so ill----"

"No," answered Langford, "such was not my thought. You, who have had a
share in all the turns of my wayward fate, look to my father, now on
his couch of illness; look to him, tend him well, and if you feel that
you have injured me or mine, make up for it now by keeping his mind as
free from all anxiety as may be, by shutting out all that can agitate
or alarm him, by speaking cheerfully and hopefully of my fate, and by
teaching him that there is much yet to be done on earth, much yet to be
gained from heaven. Take this paper also. You will see its value at
once. Find somebody--if there be such a being on earth--in whom you can
place implicit trust. Send him to seek out Sir Walter Herbert, who is
in the hands of the notorious, infamous John Bolland. Let him give the
paper to Sir Walter himself, requesting him, from me, to send for some
lawyer of high repute in London, and not to act himself in the matter.
Tell him--tell Alice--not to fear for me, for, being innocent, my
innocence must appear. They may aid me if they find means; but, at all
events, I am safe in my integrity. But above all things, be careful to
whom you trust the paper."

"I will," she answered, "I will; but you will soon be able to follow
out these things yourself. I know it; I feel sure of it."

"So do I," replied Langford; "but Alice and Sir Walter must not
languish till then. Now, gentlemen, there but remains to crave a
father's blessing, and then I am ready. I mean to use no threat towards
you, Mr. Justice Whistler, but the time may come when the share you
have had in this matter will be fully inquired into, and the legality
of your proceedings investigated and ascertained."

"I will look to that, sir," replied the justice, with a calm and
sneering nod; "I have taken care of myself in more difficult
circumstances than these, and, doubtless, shall be able to do so
still."

Langford made no reply, but re-entered the room where the Earl sat
gazing upon the door, and listening to the sound of his voice.

The young gentleman advanced direct towards him, and knelt by the side
of his bed. "My father," he said, "give me your blessing!"

The Earl turned away his head. "What, oh! what is my blessing worth?"
he said; "but be it so. My blessing, the blessing of a father's fondest
affection, be upon you. I have none now but you!"

"If you would render that blessing of effect," replied Langford,
"remember that on your life and health my fate may greatly depend. Be
careful, then; cast away from you every thought and every feeling that
may injure or agitate you, and strive for life and health, if not for
your own sake, for your son's. Now, gentlemen, I am ready."

The two justices and the constables accompanied him out of the room.
"What think you of it?" asked Sir Thomas Waller, addressing his
companion in a whisper as they went.

The London magistrate replied by a peculiar contortion of countenance,
and then added, "We must make as good a case of it as we can, if it be
but to bear ourselves harmless."




                            CHAPTER XXVII.


We must now leave that part of the country to which we have so
constantly adhered during the preceding portion of this true history,
and lead the gentle reader with us along a road which, perhaps, he may
never have travelled before, but which, if he ever have, he will
doubtless remember at once, from the description we are about to give.

Setting off in a line lying north-west from the little village of
Moorhurst, and proceeding over the wild heath to which we have so often
turned our steps, one road leads, after various turnings and
meanderings, of which our ancestors were undoubtedly more fond than
ourselves, as the reader already knows, to the county town. But in one
of these turnings the road effects an object very different from the
usual one, of merely going out of its way, and branches off into a
country road, taking the direction of various small and remote towns.

Now, from the want of care and neatness with which this branch road was
kept at that time, it would in all probability have presented a very
much larger proportion of ruts and sand than the larger road from which
it was derived, and would have required double the time to travel each
individual mile along its course which was required upon its parent
road, had it not been for one circumstance. That circumstance was an
extraordinary development of a stratum of very-hard stone in that part
of the country, which, taking the place of the sand, just a quarter of
a mile from the spot where the two roads separated, afforded--or,
rather, might have afforded--equal pleasure and admiration to Mr.
M'Adam, the geologists, and all the members of the stonoclastic race,
if the period we speak of had not been before geologists were
discovered, and when Mr. M'Adam was yet unborn.

On it, if horses had been in the habit of going as fast as they do now,
a carriage might have been drawn at any given rate of velocity, till
after the road had passed through two or three small villages and
towns, and a space of about twenty miles, when it again got into the
sand, and then plunged like an eel--which it very much resembled in
some other respects--into a deep mud.

This state, however, lasted not long; but, issuing like a bittern from
the morass, the road took its flight over the hills, which were low
wooded and well cultivated for about twenty miles further, and then
began to assume a wilder and more barren aspect, till at length, when
their summits were crossed, and at the distance of about sixty miles
from Moorhurst, they presented on their northern side a wide range of
rough, chill, rocky country, covered only by short brown turf from
which the sheep had much ado to nibble a scanty subsistence, and
decorated alone by fine hawthorns and hanging birches, except where, in
the deeper dells, the oak and elm had sought and found a friendly
shelter.

Forges and foundries, and manufactories of various kinds, have since
blackened and enlivened that part of the country; but at the period
which I speak of, the great demon of civilization had not gone forth,
with a smoky chimney in one hand, and a steaming kettle in the other,
equalizing and vulgarizing the whole earth; and a tract of about forty
miles in length, and from ten to fifteen in breadth, was left upon the
side of those hills, if not without any sign of man's habitation, at
least without any sign of his arts, except, indeed, the patriarchal one
of sheep-feeding. Here and there, in the nooks and dells, indeed, an
old farm-house, which perhaps might boast a few acres of corn land
around it, showed the dwelling-place of the great sheep farmer, who,
riding over the hills adjacent, might generally say, "I am monarch of
all I survey." But these had never been many; and the loneliness of the
situation, an increasing taste for towns and luxuries, and various
changes in the state of society, on which it is not worth while to
dwell, had diminished the amount of inhabitants to even a smaller
number than it had once contained. Two farms had often been joined in
one; some of them were untenanted, and encroached upon by their
neighbours; some of the few-houses that did exist were vacant, and some
were tumbling down.

It is to a house in this district, about five miles from the spot where
the road we have mentioned crossed it, that we must now bring the
reader, begging him diligently to mark the outside of it, in the first
place, seated as it is in a deep gap in the hills, sheltered on three
sides by a grove of fine old elms, in the topmost branches of which
innumerable rooks make the air musical with their sweet country-sounds:
the house itself placed upon a high bank, its small windows overlooking
a little stream below; and the other side turning towards its
farm-yard, with a cart-road, indeed, leading up to it, but requiring
both very strong horses and very strong carts to undertake the rough
and perilous ascent.

This house was not one amongst the uninhabited ones which we have
mentioned, for at the period whereof we speak--namely, but a few days
after the events had taken place which we recorded in our last
chapter--the farm-yard might be heard ringing with several voices, and
more than one horse stamped in the stables. Leaving the house, however,
let us speak of one of its inhabitants. About mid-day a solitary
personage issued forth from the gates, took his way into the deepest
part of the grove, and with his arms crossed upon his broad chest,
walked slowly up and down, bending the bitter brow, and gnawing the
dissatisfied lip, while his eyes were bent on the dry leaves of the
past year, in which his feet left deep marks as he strode along. After
thus wandering in the shade for some time, as if the gloomy shadow was
congenial to his feelings, he raised his brow, and looked up, seeming
to seek higher associations in the sky above. Whether the feelings
within his breast did become more free and clear or not, he then turned
his steps to the hill-side, and climbed high up, gazing over the wild,
waste prospect below, and pausing every two or three minutes, as if
endeavouring to fix more distinctly some particular spot. Yet his
thoughts were neither of the scene on which his eyes rested, nor of the
cultivated country beyond, nor of the towns and villages, the haunts
and resting-places of busy man, but, on the contrary, they were fixed
upon the deep, dark recesses of an erring human heart--on the troubled
world of his own bosom--where, as in the world covered by the deluge,
the dove of peace found no resting-place, so overwhelmed was the whole
by the waves of sin and sorrow and remorse. Upon that turbulent ocean,
too, floated the wrecks of many bright things past--high feelings,
noble aspirations, manly generosity, steady friendship, warm
affections--and over it spread dark clouds of doubt and suspicion, and
morose discontent, springing from self-dissatisfaction and
disappointment, and internal reproach.

Such was the state of mind of Franklin Gray as he strode along the
hill-side, pondering the events of the last few weeks, and finding in
all, matter of bitterness and regret. His feelings suffered some
alteration, and turned to more material objects when he gained the
summit of the hill. They did not exactly make themselves audible, but
nevertheless to his own mind they clothed themselves in words, and the
tenor of those words was somewhat to the following effect:--

"This is wild enough, and solitary enough, but nevertheless they will
doubtless try to hunt me out here. So great an enterprise as this
cannot, in this pitiful and servile land, pass without stirring up all
the great tyrants of the soil to put down him who has dared to strip
them of their ill-gotten wealth. Doubtless they will hunt me out even
here; and by heaven I have a thousand minds to stay and dare them, and
defend my mountains to the last. But then these fellows," he added,
after some thought, "though brave and true in the moment of danger, now
that we have divided the money, are all anxious to leave me, and hasten
up to the great city, to spend it in rioting and luxury. Well, I must
not blame them! I felt so once myself. But this land then must be no
more for me; I must quit it, and take myself back again to those more
ardent and free countries where I can roam at large, and where, with a
strong hand and a stout heart, I can make the miser, and the
extortioner, and the slave-master pay for his pitiful life at the price
of gold. Yet this, indeed," he continued, "has been a glorious booty;
what between gold and jewels, we have swept off a mighty sum, and my
own share might well content me for the rest of my days. Why should I
not cross the seas, and in some of those sweet valleys by the higher
Rhine, pass through the calm close of a busy life in bright
tranquillity."

And, as he thus thought, a vision of sweet and peaceful things, such as
his heart had sometimes longed for but had never known, rose up before
his eyes; and he pictured to himself sweet wanderings through fair
scenes, with his beautiful Mona by his side, and his lovely boy growing
up into proud manhood under his eye. But as he thought of Mona a sudden
shadow came across him; it was a mood he struggled with, and would fain
have conquered, but it was one unconquerable, for it was a part of his
dark fierce nature; and after pausing gloomily for several minutes,
and, casting his eyes down upon the ground, with his whole feelings
changed in a moment by one gloomy thought, he burst forth aloud, "I
love it not! She would not wrong me--I know she would not wrong me; but
still she is too tender of him. If she give her heart's affections to
another, if she even take from me the smallest portion of those
feelings that once were mine alone, she leaves a gap, a vacancy, a
break in that deep intense love which is enough, but not too much for
love like mine. Shall I speak to her thereon? shall I tell her what I
feel? Ay, and make her think me jealous," he answered, with a bitter
sneer even at himself. "I jealous! jealous too of such a weak, pitiful,
effeminate thing as that! No; she shall go on in her own way. She must
have seen that I loved it not; she must have felt that it displeased
me; and see it and feel it she shall still, but speak of it I will
never. Doubtless she is there now, soothing him, tending his wounds,
speaking to him sweet kindly words, and listening to his soft
gratitude. I will go back and mar the sunshine;" and as he spoke, with
a cloudy, moody air, he strode back again towards the house, passed
through the farm-yard, and entered the door, which stood open.

Proceeding up a tall narrow stone staircase, he passed one of his men
seated on one of the landing-places, at the last story but one, so as
to prevent any one from ascending or descending without being seen.
Franklin Gray was not one, even when the dark and debasing passions of
jealousy and suspicion were roused within him, to commit a mean or a
pitiful act; and he spoke loud to the man upon the stairs, and trod
heavily up, so that his voice and his footsteps might give notice of
his coming to those above.

When he reached the upper story, he opened a door before him, and
entered a room, poorly and scantily furnished, where were two persons
with whom the reader is already acquainted. The first--who sat near the
door, with her small beautiful foot resting upon a rude stool, and her
knee supporting an instrument of music, in shape much resembling a
guitar--was that lovely being whom we have twice before had occasion to
mention under the name of Mona, the wife of Franklin Gray. She was
finishing a song when he entered--a sweet plaintive song, in the tongue
of some distant land; and as he came into the room, her dark lustrous
eyes grew still brighter, and were raised to his with a smiling and a
happy look, as if she thought she was doing what would please him best,
and that the well-known music would awaken some sweet thoughts in her
husband's bosom. The stern unmoved gloom of his countenance pained but
did not surprise her, for she was accustomed to his moody temper; and
loving him at all times and in all states, attributed his ill-humour to
things which had gone wrong in matters with which she had no concern.

The other person who tenanted that room was one whom we have lost sight
of for some time. It was Edward, called Lord Harold, who now, very
pale, and evidently but just recovering from severe sickness, leaned
back upon his chair with his head resting on his arm, and the right
side of the loose vest which he wore cut open and tied, so as to give
greater ease and space to some wounded part beneath. So intently had he
been listening to the music, that he scarcely heard the entrance of
Franklin Gray, and a faint but expressive smile hung upon his pale lip,
while the vacant gazing of his eye told that the melody had borne
imagination on its wings afar, and that he was enjoying sweet fancies
removed from all that surrounded him.

"I see," said Franklin Gray, looking earnestly at Mona, "that you have
become his musician as well as nurse."

Mona started, and gazed inquiringly in her husband's face. "Did you not
wish me to do so?" she said, with her sweet-toned voice and foreign
accent; "did you not tell me to do everything I could to soothe him and
restore him to health?"

"I did so," replied her husband; "and I see you do it willingly."

Mona gazed in his face with a bewildered look, as if she did not
comprehend his meaning; for though his words were not ungentle, they
were spoken in that tone which showed the feelings that prompted them
to be bitterer than the expression. There succeeded a pause for one or
two minutes; and Franklin Gray, moving across the room, cast himself
into a chair near the window, and gazed out gloomily over the wide
prospect that stretched afar beneath his eyes, diversified only by the
<DW72>s of the hills, without town or village, or hedgerow to mark
man's habitation or his cultivating hand. As he sat there, he spoke not
to any one, and the silence grew painful, till at length it was broken
by Lord Harold, as we shall continue to call him.

"I am glad of an opportunity of speaking with you," he said, "for I
want to know more precisely how I am situated. I have to thank you, I
find--"

"For nothing, sir!" replied Franklin Gray; "I have done what I have
done for my own pleasure and convenience, and you have to thank me for
nothing."

"Such is perhaps the case, sir," replied Lord Harold, coolly; "at all
events, you saved my life when I should otherwise undoubtedly have bled
to death upon the moor. You have since treated me kindly and skilfully,
have nearly cured a wound which might have proved fatal, and have
tended me with much attention. At the same time, from various events
which have occurred, from my being brought forth across the downs and
placed in a coach which carried me hither, as well as from having seen
at all times an ill-looking fellow with a pistol in his hand sitting at
the foot of the next flight of steps, when I crossed from one room to
the other, I am inclined to believe that you view me in some sort as a
prisoner."

"Doubtless the ill-looking fellow, as you call him," replied Franklin
Gray, with a bitter smile, "may find many of the fair and the gay, in
his own rank of life, who would think him fully as good-looking as
Edward, Lord Harold. However, sir, I gather from your discourse, that
you wish to learn whether you are to consider yourself as a prisoner or
not. Now, as you acknowledge that you owe me your life, I do not think
you can consider it a hard case, even should I, for my own convenience,
keep you a prisoner for a certain time."

"Yes, I have, sir," replied Lord Harold; "for I suppose there is
scarcely any Englishman who does not feel that liberty is preferable to
life."

"Then perhaps the best way of settling it," answered Franklin Gray,
sternly, "would be to shoot you through the head, and thus leave the
account between you and me as it stood before."

But as he spoke, Mona had advanced gently to his side, and laid her
hand upon his arm. "Oh, set him free!" she said; "set him free as soon
as he is able to depart."

"What is it to you, Mona?" demanded Franklin Gray, turning sharply upon
her; "Why should you wish him to depart?"

"It is much to me, Franklin," she answered; "very much to me; and I do
wish him to depart, for you have twice looked cold upon me since he has
been here, which you never in your life did before, and anything which
causes such a change I wish instantly away; for you know, Franklin,
that your kind looks to me are like the sunshine of my own happy
land--sunshine that I have left far behind."

Franklin Gray was somewhat moved, and seeing that he was so, she went
on, saying, "Oh, set him free, my husband! and if it be needful, make
him swear that he will never betray your abode. I will be answerable
for it, he will keep his word."

Franklin Gray had been moved for a moment, and he had also thought of
setting Lord Harold free, or of only detaining him till all was
prepared for executing his own purpose of crossing the sea and seeking
other lands; but the last few words which his wife uttered hardened his
heart in a moment.

"You will be answerable!" he exclaimed. "What have you to do with being
answerable for him? No; I will not set him free? If you choose to
betray your husband, woman, and open the doors to him whom it is
needful to detain, you can do it when you like. I shall neither watch
nor stop you; but the consequence be upon your own head."

Thus saying, he turned upon his heel with a frowning brow, and hastily
quitted the room, after which his steps might be heard slowly
descending the stairs. Mona sunk down into the chair beside her,
clasping her hands together, and fixing her eyes upon the ground with a
look of despair; for they were the first harsh words, the first unkind
and ungenerous expressions, which had ever dropped from the lips of him
she loved, from the day on which she had sacrificed kindred, and home,
and fortune, and her native land, to follow his uncertain footsteps
through the world. As she sat there, with that look of deep
despondency, Lord Harold could not but feel admiration of her exquisite
beauty mingling even with the compassion which he felt; and there was
something of that admiration apparent in his look and manner, as he
slowly rose from his chair and crossing the room, took her hand in his,
saying, "He treats you harshly, lady."

But Mona, suddenly recalled to recollection by that action and those
words, started up, and drew her hand quickly from him, gazing upon him
with a look of anger and indignation. "Treats me harshly:" she said;
"It is false! He is kindness itself; and he is right too! What had I to
do meddling with his purposes or his will? I have been sorry for you,
young gentleman, and compassion has led me to do a foolish thing, but I
will take care so to offend no more;" and thus speaking, she left him,
and hurriedly sought her husband below.

She found him in a lower room, gazing forth as he had done above, but
the expression of his countenance was more sad and less fierce than
before. Mona advanced towards him, but he heeded her not; she laid her
hand upon his arm, but he did not turn his head. She was a creature of
noble impulses, however, and where her heart prompted she would not be
repelled. The tears, indeed, sprang to her eyes and ran over her
cheeks, but still she cast herself on her husband's bosom, saying, "I
have done wrong, Franklin; I should not have interfered where you
thought fit to act. I was sorry for the young man, and I thought that
he might have friends and relations, and perhaps a wife, that loved him
as I love you, and I wished you to send him back to his happy home on
that account. But I was wrong to speak of it at all, and still more
wrong to speak of it before him. Forgive me, Franklin; I will not
offend again."

Franklin Gray pressed her to his heart, and kissed the tears off her
cheek; and--although the seed of suspicion and doubt, once sown in a
soil so congenial to it as his mind, can never, perhaps, be wholly
eradicated, take what pains we will--yet he was anxious to feel as he
had felt, somewhat ashamed of having given way to such bitterness
towards her who was associated with all the better spirits of his
heart's dark tabernacle, and grieved to see the grief of one who had
brought the only real sweet sunshine on his path that he had known
through life. He pressed her then to his bosom, he treated her gently
and kindly, and once more, to her powerful gentleness, the fierce and
lion-like spirit of her husband was softened and bowed down.

She had not said one word of the dark shade of jealousy which had shown
itself in Franklin Gray's first words to her. She was far too wise to
comment on it, or to attempt to do it away by any eloquence but those
of acts. She saw it plainly, however; she felt that what in her breast
was but pity, had been misunderstood by her husband; and from a certain
vague expression on Lord Harold's face when last he spoke to her, she
feared that, with him, man's vanity had once more misjudged woman's
best feelings. She blamed herself, however, more than either: "I should
have known," she thought, "that man cannot see into the heart;" and
from that hour she went near the prisoner no more. She gave no cause
for so abstaining, and she took care that the woman who accompanied her
should provide for his comfort as far as might be. It is the meed of
such conduct, however, almost always to pass unremarked; the
recompense, the success is in our own hearts. Franklin Gray saw that
she was less with the prisoner than before, but he did not see that she
was never with him at all.




                           CHAPTER XXVIII.


Having now exposed to view the state of mind of Franklin Gray, we must
turn once more to Lord Harold, and display, in some degree at least,
the feelings by which he was affected. His heart was one naturally
kind; his impulses were in general noble and generous; but he had
derived from his mother a strong degree of that quality which, more
than any other of the human heart, lays our hearts open to evil
passions, unless it be very early enlisted on the side of the good
ones; I mean pride.

From his father, too, had descended to him various faults and
peculiarities, which, if everything had gone smooth with him though
life, might perhaps have remained dormant, or, under particular
circumstances, might have assumed the aspect of virtues, when in fact
they were much more nearly allied to vices. There was, when roused by
anger or stimulated by hatred, a degree of remorseless determination
about his character, very much resembling that of Lord Danemore. This
had shown itself in a degree in his conduct towards Langford; but since
that period all the bad points in his nature, which had been originally
brought forth by his disappointment in regard to Alice, had been called
into still greater activity by the wounds he had received, by the
irritation of sickness, and by pondering in solitude and in a state of
confinement, not only over the disappointment of his first and early
love, but over the mortification which his vanity had received, and
over the annoyance of having to remain at a distance from the scene of
action, where he knew, from the few words which Langford had spoken to
him, that great and important events were likely to be transacted.

Under these circumstances, a degree of angry irritation had taken
possession of his mind; and even on the day when he was removed from
the neighbourhood of Moorhurst he would have resisted, had his strength
been sufficient to render opposition at all effectual. Besides his own
weakness, however, there was about Franklin Gray a tone of command and
authority, a decision, a breaking forth of powerful intellect, which
had the effect of producing, as the first impulse, an inclination to
obey in all that surrounded him; and Lord Harold felt that power, and
was angry with himself for feeling it.

He had determined, then, even before the period of the interview which
we have just described, to seek his liberty by any means; and had the
Robber at once granted him what he sought, had he either soothed or
reasoned with him, the whole current of the young nobleman's feelings
might have been changed, and he might have learned to admire those very
qualities which now, arrayed as they were in opposition to his wishes
and obnoxious to his pride, not only excited hatred, but created a
stern and bitter determination both of taking vengeance, which he
called "inflicting punishment," and of triumphing over the pride of one
whose mental powers overawed him, which he called again "doing
justice."

As he sat and listened to the brief discussion between Franklin Gray
and the beautiful creature that pleaded for his liberty, his
determination became more strong, his purpose more decided; and though,
to do him but justice, vanity did not speak, and he entertained no
definite thought of striving to raise into warmer feelings the
compassion which he had excited in Mona's breast, and of thus striking
the Robber in the most vulnerable point, he could not, as we have
before said, help feeling a sensation of admiration mingling with his
gratitude, and sentiments rising up in his bosom which might easily
have become dangerous and evil.

The degree of scorn also which mingled in Franklin Gray's tone in
speaking of and to himself had neither escaped his attention nor passed
without producing its natural effect; nor did the sudden coldness which
came over Mona diminish at all the strength of his determination to
seek for vengeance in the shape of justice.

His first purpose, then, was to obtain his liberty as soon as possible.
The wound he had received was not otherwise dangerous than from the
great loss of blood it had occasioned; and he felt that he was every
day and every hour recovering strength, which would soon enable him to
use any means he thought fit for regaining his freedom. In order to do
so, however, it would be necessary, he saw, to engage the co-operation
of some one; and as the compassion of Mona Gray was already enlisted on
his side, he determined, in the first place, to induce her, if
possible, to aid him in escaping. Nor did the consideration that by so
doing, he would render her a party to the execution of his second
purpose, at all deter him, though that second purpose was, instantly to
take measures for apprehending her husband and bringing him to the
scaffold, having seen enough during his confinement to remove all
doubts from his mind as to the real occupation and pursuits of him into
whose hands he had fallen.

During the whole of that day and the next, the absence of Mona Gray
rendered his design abortive. He looked for her coming in vain, though
he often heard the sounds of her voice speaking to her husband, or
singing to her child. She never approached the rooms to which he was
confined; and though the woman who attended on her, came frequently to
see that everything was done which could ensure his comfort, Lord
Harold feared to trust a menial, and consequently still remained in
expectation of the other at length appearing. When, towards the close
of the second day, however, he found that his anticipations were not
fulfilled, he ventured to ask of the woman, "Why does not your mistress
ever come to see me now? Will her husband not let her?"

"Oh no," replied the servant; "for he is out the greater part of the
day; but she is going out with him just now herself, and will be out
all night, I hear."

Lord Harold took two or three turns up and down the room with a
sufficient degree of agitation to attract the attention of the woman,
who asked in a peculiar tone, if she could do anything to serve him?

"If you could go down," said Lord Harold, "and ask your mistress to
speak with me for a few moments before she goes, you would very greatly
serve me. Do it privately!" he added.

The woman nodded her head, and left him. She returned in a few minutes,
however, alone, seeming to have met with a different reception from her
mistress to that which she expected. "She says she cannot come,"
replied she, to Lord Harold's eager questions. "If you want anything,
she bade me tell you to speak with Captain Gray himself, who will do
anything you may desire that is reasonable."

"Pray go down to her again," said Lord Harold; "tell her it is with her
I must speak. That I beg, that I entreat of her, by all the kindness
that she has shown me, to come and speak to me, if it be but for one
minute."

"I don't like to go any more," replied the woman; "she answered me
quite crossly, and the Captain himself is there, sitting at the further
end of the room reading, with his brow as dark as that great black
hill, which looks as if it never saw the sun."

Lord Harold pulled a ring from his finger, which was the only thing of
value on his person that had escaped the hands of Wiley and Hardcastle.
and held it out towards the woman. "Will you do what I ask you," he
said, "and have this for your reward?" She was not proof against the
temptation; and murmuring, "He cannot eat me, if I do whisper again to
his wife," she left the room and descended the staircase.

In a shorter time than before, she returned, however, and with a still
less satisfied countenance, saying, "She says she will not come. She
bids me tell you she will not come; and I'm to bring her no more such
messages, which I'm sure I would not do for twenty rings; for there he
sat while I whispered to her, and though he was so far off that he
could not hear a word, he looked up from his book and stared at me as
if his eyes had been swords to run me through."

Lord Harold turned away, mortified. "It may be the worse for all of
us," he said to himself; "it may be the worse for all of us. There,
woman, there is the ring I promised you; take it."

With a brightening countenance she received the gift, which was perhaps
more than she expected, as she had failed in her errand; and then,
descending the stairs, Lord Harold heard her stop a moment, and
apparently speak with the man who kept watch below.

"That must be my next resource," he said to himself; "that must be my
next resource. Perhaps I shall succeed better there."

He then gazed for some time from the window, laying out his plans in
his own mind, and feeling that, though still somewhat weaker than he
had hoped and expected to have been, he must take advantage of the
temporary absence of Franklin Gray, lest such another opportunity
should not occur again speedily. The windows of the room in which he
was, looked out over the high bank which we have mentioned in
describing the house, so that, in addition to the three stories below
him in the building itself, there was at least a perpendicular descent
of forty feet between him and the road. To let himself down from the
windows, therefore, was utterly hopeless; and nothing remained but to
bribe the man who guarded him, if such a thing were possible. How that
object was to be effected, was the great difficulty, for he had been
stripped of everything upon him when he was stopped upon the moor,
except the ring which he had given to the woman; and a man of the class
to which he who kept watch below pertained, was not likely to take
promises for payment.

While he still gazed and revolved all these matters in his mind, he saw
Franklin Gray and his wife habited, like two of the higher class of
peasantry, and mounted on two strong horses, ride slowly down the road,
and take their way across a track which lay between the upper hills and
the flatter country below. He watched them for some time as they rode
along, and shortly after, he saw two other persons issue forth and take
a different direction. During a few moments their departure was
succeeded by some loud talking and laughing in the house itself, which
soon ceased, however; and shortly after, the voice of the man at the
foot of the stairs was heard calling aloud, as if to the female
servant, "Come up here, Harriet; come up here, and chat to us a bit.
Curse me if I'm not lonely. Bring the child with you, if you don't like
to leave it."

"Now is my time," thought Lord Harold; "doubtless they are all out but
these two, and I may deal with them without interruption." He
accordingly advanced to the door, and, opening it, walked out to the
head of the stairs. The sound of his step, however, instantly attracted
the attention of the man below, and he started up with the pistol in
his hand, exclaiming, "What do you want?"

"I want to speak with you, my good sir," replied Lord Harold.

"Well, what is it?" rejoined the man, in a surly tone; "speak! I can
hear!"

"That will scarcely do," said the young man; "if you like to come up
here, I can speak to you at my ease, for I have a good deal to say, and
much that may be to your advantage."

The man hesitated, but then replied, "I can't come now, for I've called
to Harriet to come and talk to me, but I will come by-and-by."

"Come now," replied Lord Harold, "and bring the woman with you."

"Oh, oh! is that it?" said the man; "well, go in; I will come."

Lord Harold felt that he was treated with scanty ceremony; that he, the
eldest son of a proud and haughty peer, in the midst of a free land,
without any imputed guilt, or any liability in the eye of the law, was
held as a prisoner, and treated with degrading familiarity by a low and
probably guilty being. Nevertheless, he had an important object before
him, and a moment's reflection taught him to master all feelings of
irritation, and, according to the somewhat sordid view of our great
philosopher, submit to indignities that he might rise above them.

He strode up and down the room once or twice, and then listened for the
steps that he hoped to hear coming. For some time, however, nothing
struck his ear but the low murmur of voices from the story below, in
which he could distinguish the treble tones of the woman and the deeper
ones of the man, and he judged, and judged rightly, that they were in
earnest consultation in regard to himself. Nearly a quarter of an hour
elapsed before the discussion ended, and they then entered together;
the woman with a bolder and freer air, as one who had already taken two
or three steps in the course which they both saw was about to be laid
before them; the man with a look half sullen, half shy, as if he still
doubted and hesitated at a leap which he felt morally convinced he
should ultimately take.

Lord Harold paused, and gazed upon them both for a moment, calculating
what should be the tone and manner which he ought to employ towards the
persons before him; and after a moment's consideration he determined to
act that part which was most congenial to his own nature, not alone
because he felt that he should act it better than any other, but also
because he gathered from the man's countenance in an instant that he
was one of those low and grovelling animals who would take advantage of
the least condescension--who might be overawed, who might be bribed, by
those he felt to be above himself, but who would harden himself in
opposition or raise the price of his services extravagantly to any one
who descended to his own level, or who seemed to need his assistance so
much as to court it at the expense of degradation.

Lord Harold accordingly threw himself into a chair, and gazed full in
the man's countenance with that look of haughty consciousness which was
in some degree natural to him; and when he saw that he had beaten down
his gaze, he demanded, in a very different tone from that which he had
used before, "I suppose, sir, you know who I am?"

"Why, yes," replied the man; "I have heard that you are the son of that
old Lord ----"

"That is enough!" interrupted Lord Harold; "knowing then who I am, you
must at once see that being kept here in this state is disagreeable to
me. Besides which, important business requires my presence at home."

"Ay, that it does, if you knew all," muttered the man between his
teeth.

Lord Harold continued, without taking any notice of what he said: "You
must very well know, also, that anything which I promise, I will
execute fully."

"Ay, that's what I don't know," replied the man; "that's just what I
was talking to Harriet here about; for I know nothing of you; and it's
just as likely as not, that if I were to let you out this very night,
instead of doing anything that you said you would, you might take and
hang me for my pains. No, no; a bird in the hand is worth two in the
bush."

Lord Harold again felt angry and indignant; but he would not give way
to feelings which might in any way interfere with his plans; and,
though his nostrils expanded and his lips quivered, he mastered himself
in a moment, replying, "So you and Harriet have been settling the whole
business for me, and have doubtless saved me a world of trouble, for
you have most likely made up your minds as to whether you will do what
I require or not."

"Why, I think not," replied the man, somewhat staggered by the cool and
decided tone in which the prisoner treated the question; "I think not;
but that depends upon circumstances."

"On what circumstances?" demanded Lord Harold, shortly.

"Why, you see the matter is this," answered the man; "as far as I can
judge, we shall all separate in ten days or a fortnight, for every one
is wanting to go his own way. Now, you see, if the Captain--that is
Captain Gray--were going to remain in England, I would as soon try to
let you go as I would to jump out of that window, being as sure of
getting an ounce of lead in my brains before the month was out if I did
the one thing, as I should be of breaking my neck if I did the other.
But then, I've a pretty rare inkling that the Captain and his lady are
going across the seas; so that if you can make it worth my while in
ready money to hide myself away for a fortnight till they are off, we
may very likely come to terms."

"Ready money I have none," replied Lord Harold.

"Ay, that's what I was saying," interrupted the man; "I knew very well
that Hardy and Wiley left no more money in your purse than there is in
a dog's side-pocket. So I don't see----"

"But I do," replied Lord Harold. "As far as I can judge, from the
direction which the carriage took that brought me hither, from the time
occupied in the journey, and from the aspect of the scenery round, we
are now somewhere in the Chalden hills, and the town of ---- cannot be
far distant."

"Some fifteen miles," replied the man; "at least, so Harvey told me the
other day; I have not been there myself."

"It cannot be much more," said Lord Harold; "for I have hunted over all
these wastes many a time, and I know the town well; for therein,
as it is a seaport, lives a rich merchant and banker of the name
of Drury, whom I have often employed in buying fine objects of the
arts--pictures, and statues, and such things, from Italy. He has even
now in his hand a sum of near three hundred pounds belonging to me,
sent him to make such purchases; and, if you will engage this night to
set me free, I, putting full confidence in your word, will write an
order upon him for the money. You can send it by a messenger on
horseback, who may easily be back before nightfall; and then, dividing
the amount between you and your friend here, you can open the doors for
my escape."

"It's a pretty sum," replied the man; "but let us have a little talk
together, Harriet," and, drawing her to the further corner of the room,
he consulted with the woman in a low voice for several minutes.

Lord Harold watched them eagerly, and, as they conversed, he could see
the deep colours and shadows of strange and bad passions rise in the
countenance of each, but especially of the female servant. At length,
however, they grew calmer; their course seemed determined, and they
returned, the man taking upon him to speak, as before.

"What you offer, my lord," he said, "does not exactly suit us. We could
not send to the town, as you mention, without being discovered; for it
is a small place, and Captain Gray has gone there himself to-day, to
see about a ship, I fancy. His wife too, pretty Mistress Mona, would go
with him; and altogether he is in a fine humour, and when that is the
case, he has more eyes and hands than other people. However, as you
showed you would trust us, we will trust you. Of course, you have got
some banker in London, and if you have a mind to double the sum
mentioned, and give us an order upon London, Harriet and I will be off
together, and let you out, too, this very night. But you must swear to
us that the money shall be paid, and that when we go to get it, we
shall not be dogged, and that you will not appear against us in any
way, and that if ever we are in trouble, you'll lend us a helping hand,
bearing witness that we let you out."

"I pledge you my honour," replied Lord Harold, "most solemnly and most
distinctly, not only never to injure you in any way, but to bear
witness, should need be, that you both served me faithfully in my need.
The sum you demand you shall have; and now nothing remains but to get
me pen, ink, and paper, that I may write my order upon the banker in
London."

"That will soon be done," replied the man: "for there is nobody in the
house but ourselves, and we can do what we like. Come along, Harriet; I
hear the child crying. I will be back again in a minute."

"Now," thought Lord Harold, when they had both left the room, "this man
will betray the master who trusted him, disobey his commands, and, by
letting me out of his hands, put his life at my disposal, without even
binding me by any promise not to bring him to justice; and this woman,
trusted by a kind and gentle mistress with the care of her sweet child,
will leave that child helpless, while she schemes things that may
destroy the happiness of father, mother, and child for ever. Such is
fidelity in this world! Whom shall we trust?"

As he thus thought, he might feel a momentary touch of shame at using
such tools and yet so critically examining their actions; but he felt
no shame in owing his life to Franklin Gray, and then, because the
Robber detained him for a few days longer than it suited his pleasure,
deliberately resolving to bring him to the scaffold, veiling the darker
features of such an act under the shining guise of justice. So human
passions contrive ever to conceal their real nature from the eyes of
those who entertain them.

In a few minutes the man returned with pen and ink, and paper; but
before Lord Harold's hand could draw the order, the woman followed into
the room, carrying the child in her arms, and saying, "Be pleased to
make it half for him and half for me, for though he promises to marry
me, I like to have something in my own hands."

The woman was young and pretty, and the man only laughed, replying,
"You're right, Harriet, you are right. If every woman was as careful as
you, there would be fewer faithless lovers in the world." The matter
was arranged as she proposed; and as soon as it was concluded, Lord
Harold demanded, "What is to prevent us executing our scheme now? Why
should we not set off at once?"

"Only because we should be caught and brought back again in five
minutes," replied the man; "and while you might risk a bullet or two, I
should certainly get my brains blown out. Why, there is Harvey and
little Bill, and all the rest of them, gone out with their carbines
turned into birding pieces, for the purpose of seeing what game they
can get upon the hills. They are scattered about all over the place,
and we could not go half a mile without the risk of meeting some of
them. Besides, there's that young devil, Jocelyn, lurking about in some
of the dells, trapping wheatears and such things, and we must take care
to blind him, for he's all eyes and ears together. No, no; one of them
has promised to come back to take my place in a couple of hours; then
I'll go out as if to sport, and mark out our way across the country. I
shall come on again to watch about ten o'clock at night, and then,
depend upon it, they'll all be drinking as hard as they can drink, till
they go to bed. Most of them will be drunk; and, when they are all fast
asleep, we can do what we will, for Franklin Gray won't be back till
noon to-morrow, so you and I, and Harriet here, can take horses and be
off."

"And what will you do with the infant?" demanded Lord Harold, looking
to the woman.

"Oh, it sleeps all night," she replied, "when once it's put off;
they'll find it in the morning, and feed it till its mother comes
back."

Lord Harold shut his teeth tight, but there was no remedy for it, and
he made no comment. He could not help doubting, however, whether the
order he had given upon a London banker would be very safe in the hands
of this faithful couple, who might or might not make use of the paper,
and yet leave him as much a prisoner as before. As he had given them
the drafts, however, he felt that it would be impolitic to demand them
back again, and consequently, after arranging all the minor particulars
of their plan, he suffered them to depart, carrying with them the
unconscious child whom they had brought to witness the betrayal of its
parents' trust.

The rest of the day passed over to Lord Harold with no slight
impatience and anxiety. In somewhat more than the two hours, which the
man had mentioned, several of the gang were heard to return and relieve
the guard, who was found sitting at his post below. The voice of the
woman, too, could be distinguished, caroling at her work, as gaily and
lightly as if there had been neither vice, nor guilt, nor folly at her
heart; and from time to time, the young nobleman could hear her talking
to the child as tenderly as if she had been its mother. "Strange and
contradictory human nature," he thought, "which can reconcile all these
most opposite things;" and, as do most people who comment upon the
actions of others, he forgot to look into the contradictions of his own
bosom.

Seldom had Lord Harold seen the sun go down, with such anxious feelings
as he then experienced. The voice of the boy Jocelyn was heard below,
but the few sounds to be distinguished in the house showed that the
greater part of the gang were still absent. Speedily, however, others
were heard, and then came several more, laughing, talking, and singing;
and the woman, when she brought him in lights, said, "They are all come
back, and are soon going to supper."

The noise, after a short interval, increased rapidly, and it was
evident that wine began to do its work. The rattling of dice was heard;
then many a merry song--some appropriate enough to the calling of those
who poured them forth, some as opposite as it was possible to imagine.
Hour after hour passed by, and Lord Harold fancied that the revel would
never end; but gradually the sounds became fewer as one after another
of the party fell asleep under the influence of wine, or retired to
rest, from weariness. At length, after one more general burst of
merriment, the whole of the band seemed to betake themselves to repose.
Steps were heard in different directions, a voice here and there
speaking to a companion, the dull end of some drowsy ditty hummed
amidst hiccups, as the half drunken reveller stripped off his clothing.
and then all was silent throughout the mansion.

"Now," thought Lord Harold, "I shall soon see whether they will keep
their word with me;" for he could not shake off from his mind an
impression that they would prove as faithless to him as they had done
to Franklin Gray; and, as nearly an hour elapsed after all was quiet,
without his seeing anything of any one, he became more and more
convinced that it was as he had suspected. He was mistaken, however;
for at length the door of his room slowly opened, and the man, putting
in his head, beckoned to him to come out.

Lord Harold had been long prepared, and he instantly followed the
footsteps of his guide, who led him silently down the stairs to a wide,
deep, porch doorway, where the woman Harriet was in waiting. Not a word
was spoken by any of the party, and the man then took his way across
the court-yard towards a long range of stabling and outhouses, which in
former times had sheltered many an honest and modest farmer's gelding,
but which now contained not a few of those animals which have
established for themselves an impudent reputation under the title of "a
highwayman's horse." The man raised the latch, and pushed the door, but
it resisted his efforts, and, with a voice full of dismay and
bewilderment, he exclaimed, "Hang me if Harvey hasn't locked the
stables!"

Lord Harold made no reply, but waited to see what expedient he would
propose, and very soon found that it was one to which he was not at all
inclined to submit, namely, that of returning to the house and taking
their chance of another day.

"No," he said, in a low tone; "no, my good friend! I have determined to
make my escape to-night, or not at all. I am out here with you and this
good lady, and nothing shall make me go in again. If there are no
horses to be found, we must go on foot."

"But suppose I say you shall go in again," replied the man; "what
then?"

"Why then," replied Lord Harold, "I shall take care to make my refusal
in so loud a tone that some of the good people who are asleep there
shall hear it, and come down to find you and this fair lady so far upon
your way, with an order upon my banker in your pockets."

The man stood and glared at him for a moment, as if he would have shot
him where he stood; but at length he said, with a slight stamp upon the
ground, "Well, it's no use; I suppose we had best take our way off on
our own feet, if we cannot get four legs to carry us. One must risk
something in this world; and perhaps, after all, the clatter of those
horses' feet might have roused some of the fellows above. Come,
Harriet, my lass; you must try what you can do for a forced march."

Thus saying, he led the way out of the court-yard, and bent his steps
straight against the side of the hill. He seemed to bear no malice
towards Lord Harold for having forced him to the decided step he had
taken; and when they were at a sufficient distance from the house to
permit of his speaking aloud without risking anything, he said, "I
found out this morning, while I was exploring, that if we take this way
over the hill, between those two high knolls, we shall get into a
little lane on the other side which leads down to a village some ten
miles off. Now, we shall get there, I dare say, before daylight, though
it is tough work walking up this hill, and there, I don't doubt, we may
get horses to take us on. If so, we part there, my young lord; for it
won't suit me to travel with lordship any longer. I and Harriet will go
on to London as fast as we can, and I dare say you will be able to make
your way without us."

"That I shall, easily," replied Lord Harold, "even if I go as far as
that with you; but most likely I shall stop before that."

The truth was, that Lord Harold began now to feel that he was much
feebler than he had supposed; and although they had not gone at this
time above half a mile since they first set out, it was with difficulty
that he kept up with his two companions. They showed him some degree of
kindness and consideration, however, slackening their pace for his
convenience, when they found, on looking back towards the house they
had left, that no light nor any other sign whatever announced that
their flight had been discovered. A strong effort of his determined
nature enabled the young nobleman to do more than many persons would
have effected in his situation, and he succeeded in crossing the summit
of the hill, and descending so far on the other side as to arrive at
the end of the wooded lane of which his guide had spoken. There,
however, he was obliged to declare that he could go no further; and the
reply of the man was, "Well, then, we must leave you; for of course we
can't stop here; for, to say the truth, I would rather meet the devil
himself than Franklin Gray after what has happened."

"Go on; go on!" replied Lord Harold; "go on, and take care of
yourselves. I will rest here for an hour or two by these trees, and
then doubtless shall be able to go forward very well by myself."

"Mayhap you would like a pistol, however," said the man, putting one
into Lord Harold's hand; "I always find them convenient;" and, without
further adieu, he left the young nobleman, who seated himself under one
of the trees, with the darkness of the night around him. The other two
went on; and in a moment after the woman's voice was heard in a loud
laugh, which Lord Harold doubted not was in some way at his expense.




                            CHAPTER XXIX.


"Let us do everything formally," said Sir Matthew Scrope to Sir Thomas
Waller, when the latter returned from the expedition which we have
already recorded to Danemore Castle, at about eleven o'clock in the
day. "Pray, let us do everything formally, or we may get into a scrape.
Indeed, what you tell me about this young man being the Earl's son
makes me afraid we have got into a scrape already. Ha! Mister Justice
Whistler; is it not so? ha!"

"What is life, my dear sir," said Justice Whistler, who was somewhat of
a wag, and generally displayed his talent for raillery upon any one he
saw in mortal terror or great anguish of mind--such as young prisoners
brought before him for capital offences, and their friends or
relations; "what is life, my dear sir, but a succession of scrapes? We
get into a terrible scrape when we enter it, surely, and an awful
scrape in going out of it. Then, between, there is love and matrimony,
two other sad scrapes; beside all the others, such as the present,
which we fall into between infancy and dotage. The great art of life is
to get out of our scrapes cleverly. Now, let us see how you will manage
to get out of this; ha! ha! ha!" and he laughed most uncomfortably
close to the ear of his two fellow justices.

Sir Matthew Scrope was evidently in great anxiety respecting the
result, and bitterly regretted that a rooted disinclination to rise by
candlelight had prevented him from going over to Danemore with his
colleague Sir Thomas Waller, whom he looked upon as a rash young man,
though he was at least fifty-eight years of age. He had been in very
great apprehension before, lest it should ultimately prove that the
personage whom he at first determined to be undoubtedly guilty, should
prove entirely innocent; and the extraordinary consequences of hearing
that the Earl acknowledged him, not only as his son, but as his
legitimate son, were, that he speedily not only began to doubt whether
the prisoner was guilty or not, but whether he, Sir Matthew Scrope, had
ever thought him guilty; and he might very soon have worked himself up
into the belief that he had always maintained his innocence, but had
been overruled by Sir Thomas Waller.

The latter worthy knight was a man of courage of a certain kind, that
is to say a sort of chameleon courage, which took its colour from
whatever was next to it. As long as he had remained by Mr. Justice
Whistler, the cool, self-possessed resolution of the London justice,
who knew better than any man living how to carry through what is called
an unpleasant piece of business, had kept him up, and bold measures
were all that he thought of; but the timid apprehensions of Sir Matthew
Scrope damped his fire most amazingly, and when he found the London
justice admit calmly that they were in a scrape, the fire went out
altogether.

Both the country justices, being men of vivid imaginations, instantly
set to work to picture to themselves all the evil consequences which
might ensue from the _faux pas_ they had committed; and a sort of
nervous twitching came over Sir Matthew Scrope's whole person, which
afforded Mr. Justice Whistler much internal satisfaction.

"Nay, nay, my good friend," exclaimed Sir Matthew; "these are no joking
matters; and the only thing that it seems needful to do now is, to see
how we may best retreat from this business quietly."

"Retreat from it!" exclaimed the London magistrate; "nonsense. Face it
out boldly. The man is just as innocent of the murder as you or I; but
what matters that? Do your best to prove that he is guilty; then there
will be always so fair a case against him that you will be justified in
all you have done; and the more vigorously you act against the Earl's
own son, the more credit you will get for the impartial administration
of justice."

But such bold counsels were not for Sir Matthew Scrope; and Sir Thomas
Waller, whose courage was just now lukewarm, was more inclined to
timidity than anything else. "Let us discharge him at once," he
exclaimed, "and be civil to him."

"Nonsense, I say again," replied Mr. Justice Whistler. "What! discharge
him without cause, after having dragged him away from his dying
father's bedside this very morning. Would you make fools of us all!"

"No, no; that will never do," said Sir Matthew Scrope; "but,
nevertheless, let us do things formally. Let us have the young
gentleman up for examination; let us be civil to him, as Sir Thomas
says. Perhaps something may come out in his re-examination which may
show his innocence."

"If it do not come out, you will squeeze it out, that is clear,"
rejoined Justice Whistler; "but the man stands committed, the warrant
is made out, and there is nothing to be done but to send him to the
gaol. I am sorry I did not send the constables on with him at once."

"I am very glad you did not," said Sir Matthew. "As to the warrant, it
is but a bit of parchment, which will shrivel up in my kitchen fire in
a minute; and so we will have him up into the justice-room to
re-examine him before we send him--"

"Back to his father," said Justice Whistler, supplying the words, and
shrugging his shoulders. "Well if you will act in such a way, I suppose
I must help you to do it gracefully. Let us go to the justice-room.
Call the clerk. Leave the whole business to me, and do not be afraid.
Whatever you may hear or see, I will get you out of the business--and
in your own way," he added, seeing his fellow justices hesitate.

"Well, well," replied Sir Matthew Scrope; "if in our own way that will
do; but let me beg of you, Mr. Justice Whistler, not to plunge us
further in the mire than we are at present."

"A capital simile," muttered the London justice between his teeth, as
he led the way to the justice-room, which communicated by a long
passage with the mansion of Sir Matthew Scrope.

The clerk was then called, the magistrates took their stations in
formal array, the table was diligently strewed with papers, and an
order was given to bring in the prisoner.

"Ahem!" cried Sir Matthew Scrope, as Langford appeared between two
constables. "Ahem! ahem!" said his fellow justices; and Sir Thomas
Waller, who now--like a tennis ball, which, having been struck in one
way by the hand of a strong player, is met by his opponent's racket,
and is driven further back in the opposite direction--was inclined to
go further than any of his colleagues, according to the new impulse
which he had received, added, with a simpering smile, "Pray, be seated,
sir. Ahem! You rascal, why don't you give the gentleman a chair?" and
he bent his brows as frowningly on the constable as if he had committed
petty larceny at least.

Langford was pale, and his features somewhat worn and haggard, with all
the anxiety, agitation, and distress of mind which he had gone through,
within the last week; neither was his heart well at ease when he
regarded either his father's situation or his own at that moment, and
felt that his recovered parent might remain in sickness and in anguish,
and even pass the gates of death, without the consolation of his son's
presence; while he, perhaps, manacled and treated like a common felon,
was detained in the solitary wretchedness of a prison upon the charge
of murdering his own brother. Nevertheless, a faint smile came over his
lip at the somewhat burlesque exhibition of Sir Matthew Waller, and it
instantly flashed across his mind that something must have occasioned a
change in the worthy justice's feelings towards him, both from the
sudden alteration and great embarrassment of his manner. He threw
himself into the chair, however, that was placed for him, and leaning
his elbow on the table, gazed upon the magistrates, thinking, "What
next?"

"You stand before us, sir," said Mr. Justice Whistler, in a pompous
tone, "accused of the murder of Edward Lord Harold. Ahem!"

There was something in the man's whole manner that roused Langford's
indignation and contempt at the same time; and he replied, with his lip
curling and his nostril expanding, "I _sit_ before you, sir, committed
on that charge; at least, if I believe what you told me not above three
hours ago."

"Circumstances may have occurred since, sir," said the justice, with a
mysterious look, "to make us take a more favourable view of the case,
and we have consequently determined to re-examine you."

"Sir, I am tired of re-examinations," replied Langford. "You informed
me that I was committed: under such circumstances, I am not disposed to
answer any further questions, or to be re-examined at all."

Mr. Justice Whistler looked at his two companions, and both the knights
looked at Mr. Justice Whistler, for Langford's renitency threatened to
keep them exactly in the disagreeable position in which they had placed
themselves; but after a moment's pause he added a few words, which,
like the sound of parley, gave hope of entering into some capitulation.
"Pray, sir," said the prisoner, "what are the circumstances which
induce you to take a more favourable view of the case?"

"Nay, young gentleman," said Mr. Justice Whistler, with a benign and
yet dignified look, "you cannot expect us to give you such information.
That would be defeating the ends of justice; but if you think fit to
answer the interrogatories which shall be addressed to you, and if your
replies coincide with the information which we have received, the
result may be very much in your favour."

Langford paused for a moment ere he replied. He was naturally extremely
anxious to free himself as soon as possible, but yet he felt a degree
of indignation at the conduct that was pursued towards him which
overcame every other feeling; and at the same time he began to perceive
that the worthy justices were very doubtful as to their own
proceedings, so that he was not without some expectation of their
setting him free at once if he avoided any further reference to that
journey to the moor, which he could neither explain nor account for,
without inconvenience and danger to himself and others; he, therefore,
once more refused to submit to any interrogation.

"All I shall say," he continued, "is, that I am, as you well know,
perfectly innocent; that I never saw the unfortunate young gentleman of
whose death I am accused, after I parted with him in the Manor park at
Moorhurst; and that there is not the slightest evidence to show, that
though he drew his sword upon me, I ever drew mine upon him. I shall
reply to nothing more."

Mr. Justice Whistler whispered eagerly to Sir Matthew Scrope. "There is
nothing for it, I tell you," he said, "but to send him to prison, and
make out the best case against him you can. You see he will give us no
opportunity of letting him go. Your risk will be much greater in the
one case than in the other."

Sir Matthew Scrope turned very pale, for the alternative was certainly
somewhat disagreeable; and his eyes wandered with an anxious vacancy
from the countenance of the London justice to that of the prisoner, and
then again stole round to the face of Sir Thomas Waller, without
finding any resource in the expression of either of the three. Sir
Thomas Waller, on his part, being of a more irritable and less
lamblike disposition than his worthy colleague, was getting somewhat
excited, or rather into a state of irritable despair, which inclined
him to side with Mr. Justice Whistler, and take the leap before him,
even at the risk of breaking his neck.

At that moment, however, while the justices were in this state of
anxiety and embarrassment, a constable made his appearance at the
doorway, closed the door gently behind him, and, walking slowly up the
room, communicated something to Sir Matthew Scrope, which was instantly
transmitted to the other two magistrates, in the same low tone in which
he had received it.

"Oh, send him away; send him away," said Mr. Justice Whistler. "Bid him
come another time."

"He's a most respectable man," said Sir Thomas Waller; "perhaps he
might help us in this business."

"Why, your worship," said the constable, in a low tone, "I understood
him to say that it was something about this very business he wanted to
tell you."

"Show him in, then; show him in!" said the large round voice of Mr.
Justice Whistler; and in a few minutes a small neat dapper man was
ushered into the presence of the three magistrates, dressed in a plain
suit of black silk, who was greeted by the two country magistrates as
Master Evelyn.

With a quick, short step he advanced to Sir Matthew Scrope, took him by
the button, led him into the recess of a window at some distance behind
the other magistrates, and spoke to him for a few moments with rapid
utterance, but in a low voice. Most men have seen the sun come from
behind a cloud; but the glorious visage even of the great orb of day,
when it bursts forth from that vapoury veil, is scarcely more radiant
than became the countenance of Sir Matthew Scrope while listening to
the words of Mr. Evelyn, the attorney.

"Hist! hist:--Sir Thomas!" he exclaimed; "Your worship. Master
Whistler!" and with dignified grace he beckoned them up to the place of
conference. Mr. Justice Whistler, as he listened, laid his finger
solemnly upon the side of his nose, and then, making a sign to his
colleagues to be silent, returned to his seat, and said in a full round
voice, "Mr. Evelyn, be so good as to introduce the witnesses."

"What is coming now?" thought Langford, as he heard the direction
given, and he turned to look towards the door, while the London
justice, with an air of perfect self-composure, took up some of the
papers from the table, and seemed to study them attentively, as if
perfectly indifferent to the next act of the drama.

Langford still kept his eyes upon the door, however, not a little
anxious to see who were to be the witnesses for or against him; and
certainly his surprise was not slight when he saw Sir Walter Herbert
enter the room, with Alice, pale and evidently much agitated, leaning
on his arm; and a woman servant, whom he had often seen at the Manor
House, following close behind.

He started up with an impulse that he could not resist, and sprang
forward to meet her. Had he kept his seat. Alice might have gone
through the scene very well, for, though agitated in a very great
degree, she had taken much pains to nerve her mind, in order calmly to
perform the part assigned to her; but the sudden start, the joyful
smile, the radiant look of happiness with which Langford sprang forward
to meet her, quite overthrew her equanimity, carried her away
altogether, and she suffered herself to sink forward in the arms he
held out to her, bursting into a violent flood of tears.

Sir Matthew Scrope, who was naturally not without a feeling heart, was
affected at what he saw, and Mr. Justice Whistler amused. "No private
communications between the witness and the prisoner," said the latter,
with a broad grin; and though Langford turned round towards him with a
heavy frown gathering on his high forehead, he went on in the same
strain. "Pray, separate them, Mr. Evelyn. Pray, separate them, Sir
Walter Herbert, else we shall have evident collusion, and be obliged to
refuse the evidence!"

Langford removed the arms which he had at first clasped warmly round
the beautiful form of his promised bride; and Alice, while she wiped
away the tears with one hand, placed the other in that of her father,
and advanced towards the table.

"Well, madam," continued the justice, "what is it that you have to say
upon this subject? I understand it is something of great importance."

"I trust it may prove so," replied Alice; "and indeed I should think it
would prove of the greatest importance. What I have to say is this,
that in the course of last night I myself distinctly saw Edward Lord
Harold alive."

"And are you ready to swear to this, madam?" asked the justice.

"Quite ready," replied Alice.

"Then be so good, madam," he said, "as to detail all the
circumstances."

Alice immediately complied; and with distinctness and precision, which
called a compliment from the lips even of Mr. Justice Whistler, she
narrated every event of the preceding night which related to the matter
in question. She told, glancing timidly at the cause of their journey
at that late hour, how the carriage which contained herself and her
father had been stopped, they themselves obliged to alight, their own
horses turned loose, and others put to; and she went on to say, that
when the party which had dispossessed them took possession of the
carriage, she had distinctly seen Lord Harold, whom she had known from
her childhood, assisted to the carriage by two men, and placed therein,
together with other persons. She further said, that she had called her
maid to witness what was going on, and she had consequently seen the
whole, of which she would give her own account. The maid was then
called forward, and corroborated in every respect her mistress's
statement. She knew Lord Harold perfectly well by sight; had known him
from the time he was a boy, and could not be mistaken. She had seen him
distinctly by the bright light which was then in the sky, and which she
had since heard proceeded from the burning of Danemore Castle. She had
heard his voice, and recognised it, as well as his person, so that
there remained do earthly doubt upon her mind that he was still alive.

"Well, then," exclaimed Mr. Justice Whistler, "such being the case, of
course, where nobody has been killed, nobody can be the murderer. We
have therefore nothing further to do but to discharge the warrant
against this gentleman, and set him at liberty. We have heard in
romances, and such trash, of gentlemen being liberated by fair ladies,
but I must confess I never saw it before till this day. However, we
must, as I said, discharge the warrant; though, if I am rightly
informed," he added, with what he intended to be a pleasant and meaning
smile to Langford--"though, if I am rightly informed, almost as many
aliases should have been put into the description of this honourable
gentleman as into that of any person brought to the Old Bailey."

Langford looked grave, for his feelings were very much mingled. He was
rejoiced, undoubtedly, at his liberation; he was rejoiced to hear that
the man of whose safety he had himself given up all hope, was still
living; he was rejoiced that Alice Herbert should have been the means
of restoring him to freedom; but still he saw many a difficulty and
many a pang before him; and with a generous heart and mind, he grieved
for the sake of his younger brother, as well as for himself, that he
had not known of Edward's safety before, when he might have taken means
to soften everything that was now likely to be harsh and painful both
to the Earl and to himself, as well as to him who had so long looked
forward with a feeling of perfect certainty to the enjoyment of high
rank, commanding station, and one of the most splendid fortunes in the
country.

He could now do nothing; the Earl had so loudly proclaimed the secret
of his birth, had acknowledged him before so many persons, that no
means of breaking or softening the matter to him who had hitherto been
called Lord Harold now remained; and even with regard to the Earl
himself, all that Langford could hope for was, to have the opportunity
of communicating the facts to him in the first instance, and of
concerting some means with him for taking the sting out of his offence.
Such were the feelings which were busily crossing his bosom while the
magistrate spoke, and for the moment, they produced a look of serious
thought, almost of sadness, which surprised even Alice Herbert. The
next moment, however, his countenance was all clear; and taking her
hand in his, he thanked her a thousand times, feeling, with true love's
sweet deception, as if his liberation were entirely owing to her
exertions.

"Oh, dear Langford!" she said, "indeed, you owe me nothing. I wish it
had been in my power to do anything to free you sooner, not only from
imprisonment, but from a horrid accusation, which was even worse. But
this has been all accident; and though it has made me very happy, I
have had no merit therein."

Langford thanked her still, however, and thanked her eagerly; and then
turning to good Sir Walter Herbert, he shook him warmly by the hand,
thanking him too, and asking him if he had yet received the paper which
the Earl of Danemore had sent that very morning. He found, however,
that such was not the case; and that Sir Walter Herbert was then
waiting with Alice to tender bail for his appearance; Bolland and his
follower never yet having reached the county town to which the good
knight and his daughter had bent their steps after having been left
without their carriage.

The tale of their adventures instantly roused the peculiar genius of
Mr. Justice Whistler, who had that very morning, on his way back with
Langford, investigated accurately the whole history of the attack upon
Danemore Castle, and who now, furnished with a clue by the account of
Sir Walter Herbert, resolved to remain in the county, and to pursue the
robbers till he had brought them to justice, though he vowed that his
presence was daily needed in London. On this sage determination he
proceeded to act, and as soon as Bolland appeared--which he did in
somewhat rueful plight about the middle of the day, having remained
tied to a tree during the whole night--Mr. Justice Whistler sought to
engage him in the scheme, well knowing that never ferret traced the
windings of a warren with more supple ingenuity than the sheriff's
officer would trace the track of a fugitive.

It was with difficulty, however, that Bolland was persuaded to
undertake the task, for the warning voice of Franklin Gray rang in his
ears; and though he longed to be revenged for the cold night he had
passed upon the moor, yet he had a great reverence for the Robber's
threats, having remarked that they seldom went unexecuted. He was at
length, however, persuaded; and as soon as Sir Walter and his daughter,
accompanied by Langford, now at liberty, had taken their way back, with
hearts greatly relieved, towards the scenes where first they appeared
before the reader's eyes, the London magistrate and his new ally, with
the two country justices, as slow hounds behind them, proceeded to hunt
out tidings of Franklin Gray and his party. They were soon at fault,
however; for though the marks of wheels and horses' hoofs could be
traced from the spot where the carriage had been taken from Sir Walter
Herbert as far as the road continued sandy, the nature of the soil soon
changed; hard rock succeeded, and all such marks were lost. At the same
time, it was found in vain to question the cottagers and townspeople,
for all declared that if such a party had passed at all they had passed
in the night, when heavy sleep had closed each ear and shut up every
eye.




                             CHAPTER XXX.


It is probable that very few persons in the world, were the choice left
to them, would prefer that any mixture whatsoever of pain should
chequer the happiness which they covet. But yet have we not all felt,
have we not all at some time owned, that the mingling of a slight drop
of acid in the sweet cup of enjoyment gave it a zest which prevented it
from palling on the taste.

Seated beside Alice Herbert, in a vehicle which had been hired at the
county town to convey them back to their own dwelling, a vehicle the
external appearance of which none of those it contained even saw,
Langford gave way to joy, not unmixed, indeed, but only so far touched
with care and anxiety as to bring out the brighter points in the more
striking relief. As far as he could, he cast from his mind every memory
of evil: he thought of that which was pleasant and gladdening in his
fate alone, and suffered the memory of past discomforts and pangs, or
the apprehension of difficulties and dangers in the future, to come
across his mind but as vague shadows, like distant clouds upon the edge
of the horizon, which the wind might or might not bear away, but which
at all events did not serve to obscure the sun that shone in the
zenith.

He had, indeed, infinite cause for satisfaction. He had a thousand
motives for joy, and even for triumph. That which had been for many
years the first, the great object of his existence, was now
accomplished, and accomplished, though not without pain, and
difficulty, and danger, still without one action which he could look
back upon with sorrow or with regret. He felt that, though he had been
tempted to do things which he would afterwards have repented, he had
resisted the temptation, and had struggled nobly as well against
himself as against the injustice of others.

Whatever might result from the circumstances in which he was placed, he
had succeeded in that great object of clearing his mother's memory from
a stain. The Earl, in the presence of many witnesses, had more than
once acknowledged the marriage which for eight-and-twenty years he had
concealed and denied; and Langford doubted not that the same good
providence which had led him so far through such tortuous paths to
success, would accomplish the rest in good time, nor leave unfinished
the work begun. It was a blessing, too, when he gazed on Alice Herbert,
the beautiful and the beloved! to feel that the only stigma upon his
name, which even the eye of prejudice could have seen, was removed, and
that her father's views of illegitimate birth would not in his case
mingle any degree of pain with that approbation which in other respects
he had given so joyfully.

He sat beside her, then, giving way to the extreme of happiness; and,
strange to say, the love which in their last meeting had been new and
timid in the hearts of both, had now, by the events of deep interest,
by the dangers, by the sorrows, by the anxieties which they had passed
through together--by all the various circumstances, thoughts, and
feelings in which the fate of each had been associated with that of the
other, been taught to feel like old and tried affection, had lost much
of the shyness of novelty; and Alice allowed the hand which he had
taken, to rest in his, while on their onward journey he told as much of
the strange tale of his past life as he could do without embarrassing
the story with the names of others whose fate was yet uncertain, but
might be affected by the very share they had taken in all that had
passed regarding him.

He mentioned not the name of Franklin Gray, but he took his own history
far back, and told her and her father that long ago, in the days of the
civil wars, many an Englishman, driven forth from his native land, had
sought refuge in France; that many of them, broken in fortunes, and
bankrupt even of hope, had become mere adventurers, and had established
for their countrymen the reputation of bad and reckless men.

He went on to tell her that one of these exiles from their native land
had been kindly received and nobly entertained by a family which had
long been more or less connected with England and English people. He
was of a daring and adventurous nature, and had sought his fortune,
before he came to France, in still more distant countries; but there
was something in his whole demeanour, in the high education which he
displayed, in the noble feelings which often burst from him, even in
the very faults and untamed wildness of a nature spoilt by indulgence,
which confirmed his account of his own high rank, and the large
possessions of his dead father in the island of his birth.

That man, he said, was now the Earl of Danemore; and then, in the
graces of youth, he found no great difficulty in winning the heart of
Eugenie de Beaulieu, whose feelings in his favour were first excited by
compassion, and ended in admiration and in love. They parted, but it
was soon to meet again. Her brother had been forced to join the army
then warring in the Low Countries. Her uncle had been sent to England
on one of the brief embassies which from time to time marked the broken
intercourse between the great usurper Cromwell and the legitimate
monarch of France. The aunt of Eugenie de Beaulieu, having accompanied
her husband, had sent over people in whom she could confide, to bring
her niece, who had been left almost unprotected in France during her
brother's absence, to the British capital; but the death of Cromwell,
and the uncertain policy of his weak successor, had thrown the whole
country into confusion ere she arrived. Eugenie was followed by her
lover, and never reached the dwelling of her uncle in London. Ere she
arrived at that city she had consented to become a wife; and her
husband, having been discovered as an adherent of the house of Stuart,
was soon after obliged to fly and leave her. What he meditated, what he
purposed by such an act, his son now touched upon but slightly; but he
was obliged to tell how, by threats as well as by entreaties, the Earl
had forced her, who had been his bride but a few weeks, to give into
his hands all the proofs of their private marriage, promising by
everything he held sacred never to destroy them.

The next part of the story was a painful one, and was also passed over
lightly: how his mother returned to France, and did not find her
husband where she expected to meet him; how she was forced to
communicate her situation to her brother; how her brother doubted and
feared, but at length believed her tale; how he cast all thoughts aside
but that of doing justice to his sister; how he traced out her husband,
and eagerly, perhaps fiercely, demanded that he should do her right.
How, in short, two high tempers went on to words which could not be
forgiven; how they fought, and how both had nearly died where they
stood. So went the tale.

The husband, carried from the field, was not heard of more for nearly
two years, when he suddenly re-appeared in England, claimed and
received his honours, titles, and estates, and wedded into a rich and
noble house. His first and deserted wife, forced by her brother to
countenance a report of her own death, brought forth a son in secret;
and the rest of the tale, as it was told to Alice Herbert, the reader
must have already gathered. There was a part of it, however, which was
not told then, and which will be noticed, perhaps, hereafter; but it
was a part which involved the whole history of those steps which had
been taken for several years to regain from the Earl the proofs of his
first marriage; and it touched upon so much that was painful, and so
much which might be imprudent to speak, that Langford was not sorry
when he found that the many questions of Alice and Sir Walter, their
many exclamations of pity for his mother's sorrows, and interest in her
fate, the long explanations and minute details which he had to give,
and the various episodes and collateral anecdotes which were required
in such a history, told to such listeners, had occupied the time till
they had nearly reached the spot where he had left his father, and he
was compelled to leave his tale for the time incomplete.

Anxious in every respect to return to the side of his sick parent,
Langford gazed up at the windows of the house where he lay, as the
carriage rolled heavily into the court before the old parsonage. All
was still, however; and a careless horse-boy whistled in the yard while
he thrust the straw on one side. Langford questioned him regarding his
father's health; but the lad knew nothing on the subject, but that
"there had been a rare coming and going, and seeking for the doctor,
who had gone to see Betty Hinton, who had been scorched while seeking
to pilfer something from the fire at the Castle."

Sir Walter Herbert and the Earl's son, however, both felt that the
boy's account gave a bad augury; and the Knight and his daughter
remained in a vacant room below, while Langford ascended the stairs. He
found some of the Earl's attendants in the outer room, and from them he
learned a confirmation of his fears. His lordship, they said, was much
worse, and had become so about an hour before. The doctor, they added,
was then with him, as well as Mistress Bertha and the rector; but they
could say nothing further as to his condition.

Langford hurried on, with a sweet hope that his presence might soothe
and cheer, he opened the door cautiously; but the face of the old peer
was towards it, and the bright, fevered eye was fixed upon him
instantly. With much pain, however, Langford saw that his appearance
seemed to agitate rather than to calm; the lip quivered, the brow knit,
and tossing round upon his other side, he turned his face to the wall.
His son, however, divined at once the cause of this change, and shaped
his course accordingly. Moving gently forward, he advanced to the
bedside of his hurt father, and sat down, while Bertha gave place, and
the rector bowed low to his patron's son.

"How fare you now, sir?" demanded the young gentleman, "I hope better,
for I bring you good news."

The Earl, however, occupied with his own thoughts, did not seem to
attend to his words; "No!" he cried, casting himself round again in the
bed, and grasping Langford's hands; "No, I will not disown thee--my
gallant, my noble boy! No; I will not recall my words, be the
consequences what they may! Your voice sounds in my ear like your poor
mother's, when first I heard it in youth and generous-hearted
innocence; it sounds soothing, and not reproachful; and I say it again,
you are my son! She was my wife! Let them do what they will--let them
say what they will--so it is, and shall be denied no longer; and yet,
poor Edward!--think of poor Edward! He is living, you have heard? he is
living! The joy of those sudden tidings had well nigh killed me; but
the pangs that came after have gone further still. Think of poor
Edward!"

"I have thought of him, my dear sir; I have thought of him much and
deeply," replied Langford; "but indeed there is no cause for your
present agitation--"

"No cause!" exclaimed the Earl, with his old vehemence breaking forth
even then; "no cause, do you say! Why, do I not, by the very act of
acknowledging you, bastardize the boy that has lain in my bosom, that
has dwelt with me through years which would otherwise have been
solitary? Do I not take the wrong from your mother to put it upon his?
Do I not deprive him, by a word, of station, rank, and noble name? Do I
not proclaim myself false--a breaker of all vows? Oh! young man, young
man, you know not how this proud hard heart is wrung and torn at this
moment! Say not a word; say not a word! I know that it is by my own
follies; my own crimes, if you will. I know what you can say; I know
all that you can say; that your mother, as noble and as virtuous as
his, bore her sorrows through a long life, raised no loud murmur
against him who had injured her, and died forgiving him who had
embittered her existence; that hers is the just right; that hers was
the first claim; that the real wife lived in sorrow and under reproach,
and died in misery and despair; that the false wife lived in honour and
in high esteem, and died in the arms of her son, and of him she thought
her husband; that it is time now, even now, to make the atonement! I
know it all, and the atonement shall be made; but neither tell me that
there is no cause for agitation, nor utter one reproach in the voice of
her who never reproached me."

"Far from it, my lord," replied Langford, as soon as the Earl would let
him speak; "far from it! I seek not in the slightest degree to utter a
word that comes near a reproach; and though I know you must be pained
and grieved by much that has occurred, there is still, I trust, cause
for nothing but joy in the tidings we have heard of my poor brother's
safety. In the first place, my lord, the papers which are necessary to
establish my claim as heir to your estates and title in England have
not yet been found, and may never be so; nor do I at all seek to
deprive my brother of that to which he has through life looked forward.
Were they found to-morrow, as long as he lived I should conceive myself
bound by the engagement which I and my uncle both entered into
formerly, never to make use of those papers in England, but to employ
them solely for the establishment of my legitimacy in France. No one in
this country, but myself, knows, or should ever obtain proof from me,
of the period of my mother's death; and consequently, as that event
might have taken place before your marriage with another, that second
marriage will remain valid in England, to all intents and purposes. I
say, that such shall be the case, even should the papers be found.
Should they not be found, your own solemn declaration, upon oath,
together with the testimony of Bertha here, a born subject of France,
will be sufficient fully to establish my legitimacy in that country,
and to restore to me my uncle's title and estates, which have passed
away to others. Such being the case, I say again, there is no cause for
anything but joy in the tidings of my brother's safety. If you desire
it should be so, he even need never know that you were united to his
mother while mine was still living. I pledge myself, upon my honour,
never to tell him, and in no respect to seek to wrest from him the
estates or honours he would have derived from you. Shall it be so?"

The Earl gazed at him for several moments, with a countenance over
which the shades of many passions came flitting like figures across a
glass. He hesitated; he doubted; he admired. But his was not a nature
to remain long in uncertainty. Keen, eager, fiery in all his
determinations, he strode at once to his object, and when his
resolution was once taken, he could trample upon his own heart when it
lay in the way, as well as upon the hearts of others.

"No!" he exclaimed, at length, in answer to Langford's question; "no;
it shall not be so! I will do justice, even at the last hour. I
will do justice, let it cost me what it may. No! noble, and generous,
kind-hearted, and true as you have shown yourself, worthy child of her
that I wronged, true descendant of a noble race, upon whose fame and
honour I brought the first imputation, I will not take advantage of
your too generous kindness; I will not screen myself from the
consequences of what I have done, by withholding from him who saved his
father's life, at the very moment that father was doing him the
grossest injustice, the rank that he will honour nobly, the wealth that
he will rightly employ. No; though I break my own heart by what I
inflict upon his, Edward, when he returns, shall know all; shall know
how well and nobly you have acted; how ill I have acted towards both;
and then if, while you forgive and soothe, he in the bitterness of his
heart should curse the father that has wronged him, let him do it; I
say, let him do it."

Langford was about to reply, but the surgeon interposed, saying,
"Indeed, sir, though it may be very necessary that such important
matters as those on which you have been speaking should be settled in
some manner, it is absolutely necessary to make all discussion upon the
subject as short as possible; for, if prolonged, the consequences must
necessarily be of the worst and most serious nature."

"Far be it from me to prolong them," replied Langford; "let the matter
rest as it is, my dear father. Let us take no steps whatsoever, nor
discuss the matter in any shape, till your health is returned, and
then--"

"Do not deceive yourself," said the Earl; "do not deceive yourself, my
son. From this bed I shall never rise again! The day is past, the night
is coming. The fire is burnt out, and there lingers but a spark behind.
The oil in the lamp is exhausted, and though the flame may flicker up
yet once or twice, it soon must sink and be extinguished. Henry, I feel
that I am dying! It is not these wounds that have killed me, but the
long intense struggles of a fiery and uncontrollable spirit have at
length beaten down the bars of the fleshly prison that once strongly
confined it, and it is now ready to take wing and fly to other lands.
We will discuss the matter, as you say, no more; but my hours are
numbered, and ere I die I must act. Where is that man Kinsight, the
lawyer? Why did he not return to me last night? Let him be sent for
instantly, for I must take those measures, both to place your birth
beyond all doubt, as far as yet lies in my power, and to provide amply
and nobly for the son I have wronged. But alas, alas! have I not
wronged you both? you first, and him last, both deeply, terribly,
equally! Where, I wonder is that lawyer? I wonder why he came not last
night?"

"I fear, my lord," replied the surgeon, "that he will not be able to
attend you, for I find that he was very severely handled by the people
yesterday evening, in an attempt to execute a writ upon Sir Walter
Herbert, so that he has been in a state of insensibility since
yesterday about five o'clock, till this morning, and is not likely, it
would seem, to recover."

"Retribution!" said the Earl; "retribution! Though it sometimes comes
slowly, it is sure to come at last, and then comes altogether. This was
my doing too, though by his prompting. However, be it as it may,
retribution has fallen upon us both. But somebody told me that Sir
Walter was arrested last night nevertheless, and I sent a release, that
he might be set free."

"I have found no one," said Bertha, who had remained standing
behind--"I have found no one to whom I would trust so important a
document. You told me," she continued, turning to Langford, "to give it
to nobody but one on whom I could implicitly rely, and I have thought
over all the persons I know--over all the persons I have ever known,
and cannot remember one who deserves such a name."

"You are bitter," said Langford, "but not just, Bertha. However, set
your mind at ease, my dear father; Sir Walter Herbert is at liberty,
and in this house, waiting anxiously to hear tidings of your health.
His daughter is with him, too; and she thinks that, if you would permit
her, she could, by that care, and kindness, and tenderness, which are
parts of her nature, greatly soothe and comfort you."

The Earl shook his head; and a smile, faint indeed, but still the first
that had crossed his countenance for a long time, hung upon his lip
during a single instant. "You are a lover," he said; "but nothing can
soothe or comfort me more in life, Henry. Yet I would fain see Sir
Walter Herbert. I am in the course of atonement, and I must atone to
him, too, in words as well as deeds."

"Indeed, my lord," said the surgeon, "the fewer that you see--"

"Sir, I will have it so!" exclaimed the Earl, turning upon him with a
frowning brow. "Let me not be tormented by opposition even at my last
hour!" And with a firm and imperious voice he directed Bertha to invite
Sir Walter and his daughter to his chamber.

They came speedily, and no trace of any feeling but that of kind and
generous compassion was to be seen upon the countenance of Sir Walter
Herbert, when he entered the presence of the man who had inflicted so
much pain and anxiety upon him.

The Earl gazed for a moment in his face, as if to see what expression
it bore, in order to form his own demeanour by it; and then held out
his hand to him frankly. "Sir Walter," he said, as the old knight
advanced and took it, "I have done you wrong; I have acted ungenerously
towards you, as well as towards many others. Do you forgive me?"

"From my heart," replied Sir Walter Herbert; "but let us not think of
anything that is painful, my good lord. I trust that you have not been
seriously injured in the course of this sad business, the details of
which I know but imperfectly."

The Earl shook his head at the expression of such a hope, but he made
no reply; and merely demanded, turning to Bertha, "Where is the paper?"
When it was put into his hand, he continued, "I intended this to have
reached you early in the morning, Sir Walter. Take it now. It is but an
act of justice; and anything that might be considered wanting by your
lawyer to put it into due form, had better be mentioned to me soon; for
I am going a long journey, Sir Walter, and would fain leave nothing
incomplete that I can set to rights. Mistress Alice," he continued,
turning to the fair creature who stood timidly a step behind, in a
scene so painful and so unusual--"Mistress Alice, sweet lady, come
hither, and speak to an old man ere he dies."

Alice approached quickly to his bedside, and taking her hand, he gazed
up in her face, saying, "Lady, to you I have acted doubly ill, for in
my demeanour towards you lately I not only forgot what was just and
right, but what was courteous also; and yet I am going to ask a great
and extraordinary favour of you. When you are the wife of this my
son--which God grant you may be, and soon--try, if it be possible, by
kindness and affection during the whole of the rest of his life, to
make up to him for the want of a father's love, and a father's care,
during the adverse period of his youth."

Alice blushed deeply, but she replied, "Indeed, my lord, I will; and I
also have a favour to ask of you. I see that you are ill. I know that
you must be suffering. My father, thank God, needs not my care nor
help. Let me stay with you, I beseech you, and be to you as a daughter
until you are better, which I hope and trust will be sooner than you
expect."

"Hope nothing, young lady," replied the old nobleman; "I do not deceive
myself. Nevertheless, you shall stay, if you so will, because I know
that it may be a satisfaction to you hereafter, and to him, my son,
even now. Yet it is cruel to inflict upon you, so young, so tender, and
so well assorted to sights of hope, and joy, and life, and expectation,
scenes of sickness, and suffering, and of death. Yet if you will, it
shall be so."

Alice turned a little pale, but still she firmly pressed her request;
while her father and her promised husband gazed upon her with looks of
love, and tenderness, and approbation. "Mistress Bertha," she said,
after again repeating her wish to remain, "you will let me share your
cares, and with a little instruction from you I doubt not to prove
skilful in my new employment."

"More skilful than I am, lady," replied Bertha; "for I was never made
for soothing or for tenderness. I seek it not myself when sickness or
when pain seizes on me, and I am not fitted to give it to others.
Nevertheless," she added, in a lower voice, "you may perhaps find a
moment to teach that dying man to prepare for the world to which he is
speeding. I have lived long enough in this land, which I once thought
given over to perdition, to believe that salvation may be found by even
those who do not believe all that the Church of Rome would have them.
Seek a moment to speak to him, young lady; seek a moment to point out
to him that all the earthly compensation he can now make is nothing
when compared with the faults he has committed. Tell him he must find
an atonement, that he must seek for an intercessor; and show him that
that intercessor cannot be gained but by full faith and trust in Him."

"I will," replied Alice. "Indeed, I will lose no opportunity;" and she
kept her word. At the reiterated request of the surgeon, the chamber
was soon after cleared, while a lawyer was sent for from the county
town to supply the place of the Earl's own attorney. No person was left
in it but one; and the task of sitting by the sick man's side was
fulfilled by Alice at her own choice.

Sir Walter went on to the Manor House, promising to return ere night;
and Langford sat in a chamber below, consulting with the rector and
others concerning the best means of tracing out his lost brother. But
in the meanwhile Alice, watching by the Earl, while he strove
ineffectually to gain even a brief interval of sleep, pondered in her
own mind how she might accomplish the great object she had promised to
attempt; how she might even touch upon a subject from which, but a few
moments before, when mentioned by the rector, she had seen the sick man
start away with impetuous vehemence, apparently judging that all appeal
to Heaven's mercy was too late, and determined not only to brave
fearlessly once more death which he had so often tempted, but to
encounter unshrinkingly the "something after death" which he believed
his own acts to have loaded with all the wrath of Omnipotence.

After tossing for a long time, with great restlessness and apparent
pain, sleep fell for a few minutes upon the Earl's eyes; and, when it
was over, though it had lasted so short a time, he turned to Alice with
a smile, saying, "Oh, how blessed a thing is sleep! Could heaven itself
be sweeter than slumber after restlessness and agony?"

"Oh, yes," replied Alice, "I think so; for here, rest requires labour,
or fatigue, or pain, to make it sweet: there, the enjoyment must be
pure and self-existing, requiring no contrast. However, we know little
of such subjects. God grant that we may all know such a state
hereafter."

The Earl gazed thoughtfully in her face for a few minutes, and then
said, "Alice, do you think that those who meet in the same place
hereafter, will each know the other?"

"Oh, doubt it not!" cried Alice, eagerly; "doubt it not! It were sin to
doubt it. Heaven could not be heaven without those we love."

"Then, Alice," cried the Earl, with his brow darkening and his eye
straining upon her--"then, Alice, what would it be to meet, with all
one's crimes laid bare, a long, long train of those we have injured or
oppressed--the slighted, the broken-hearted, the wronged, the insulted,
the slain! Could hell itself be worse than that?"

"But," said Alice, eagerly--"but to those whom God has pardoned, who
shall impute wrong?"

The Earl started up, and leaning on his elbow, grasped her hand. "Is
there, Alice," he cried--"is there pardon for such as me?"

"There is pardon," she replied, "for every sinner that repents and puts
his trust in Him who alone can save. Such were His own words; and, oh!
let me beseech you," she cried, and she cast herself upon her knees
beside his bed--"let me entreat you to hear them. I am young,
unlearned, inexperienced, but yet His words need no learning to
expound; His doctrine is clear; His promises are addressed to the
spirits of every one. Oh, hear them, my lord: hear them, for my sake,
for Henry's sake, hear them."

"I will," answered the Earl, sinking back upon the pillows. "From your
lips, Alice, I will; but not from his who gives them forth by rote.
Speak, Alice; speak, my child, and I will listen. There is one thing
that I now know, and to know that much, I feel, is something already
done. It is, that never man yet lived who had greater need of
intercession than myself. Speak to me, then; read to me; and though I
promise nothing further, though I say not that I will have faith,
though I say not that I will hope, yet I will listen to every word." He
did listen to her when he would have listened to no one else, while
she, with a beating heart and timid earnestness, went on in her new
task. How she fulfilled it we need not dwell upon. What was the effect
cannot be told, for the Earl made neither comment nor reply; but when
the door opened, and they announced that the lawyer Evelyn had arrived,
he pressed Alice's hand affectionately in his own, and said, "I thank
you, Alice; from my heart and soul, I thank you."




                            CHAPTER XXXI.


"Good news, Master Justice; good news!" said John Bolland, entering the
room of the small inn, where Mr. Justice Whistler sat sipping a bowl of
fragrant punch with his two brother magistrates, about two days after
we last left him; "I have found out our man, and nothing is wanting but
good courage and plenty of people to take him and the greater part of
his gang."

"Sit down, Master Bolland; sit down, and take a ladleful," replied
Justice Whistler. "By your leave, Sir Matthew; by your leave. Now,
Master Bolland, now tell us all the facts. To speak truth, I am in no
condition to move far to-night, though I have courage enough to take
the great prince of thieves himself, were it needful; but there is a
certain feeling about my knees which speaks a too great pliancy. This
punch is potent, Sir Matthew; very potent; but the upper story is quite
clear. So pray, Master Bolland, sip, and recite."

"Why, I have but little to say, Worshipful," said Bolland, who saw that
the punch evidently had produced a not infrequent effect upon all
three. "The only matter is, I have found out where this worthy Captain
Gray and his band have housed themselves; that is all."

"And where may that be?" demanded Mr. Whistler. "Pray, where may that
be, my dear Bolland?"

"Why, over the hills, beyond Badeley," replied the officer; "but the
further particulars I will keep till to-morrow, as you cannot set out
to-night; though, to say the truth, every moment lost is likely to lose
us our man. He'll not stay there long, depend on it. They'll be just
like a covey of partridges at sunset, flitting about from place to
place before any one can come near them."

"But tell me all the particulars," cried Justice Whistler; "for if need
be, I will go this minute."

"And so will I," shouted Sir Matthew Scrope, who in his cups grew
mighty valiant. "And so will I, I swear!"

Sir Thomas Waller had proceeded a step beyond the other two, and he
could only stare. But even the proposal of Sir Matthew was more than
suited the purposes of John Bolland and his friend Mister Justice
Whistler, who had agreed long before to share the profits of the
matter, which were likely to be considerable, between them. Each hoped,
also, to gain a certain share of honour and credit by the joint
management of the affair, which honour and credit were somewhat
necessary to both to lacker over certain flaws in their reputation that
were becoming rather too apparent.

It may seem a strange paradox, perhaps, to say that Mr. Justice
Whistler was as sober when he was tipsy as when he was not, but such
was the case with all the upper man; the drunkenness began at the knees
with him, and went downwards, leaving the brain quite as clear and
shrewd as usual, with the only difference that his manner was a little
more jocular--his pomposity somewhat higher flavoured. On the present
occasion, one glance from the eye of Bolland towards Sir Matthew Scrope
reminded the London justice of their arrangements, and he instantly
changed his tone.

"No, no, Sir Matthew; we cannot go to-night," he said. "We will hear
what Bolland has to say; we will ponder on it on our pillows, and act
to-morrow. Let me help you, Sir Matthew. Generous punch never yet
harmed any man but a flincher. Sir Thomas, your glass is empty. Master
Bolland, join us. You see I do not spare myself;" and he filled himself
out a ladleful, nodding to Sir Matthew Scrope, and drinking to the
health of his fair niece.

The additional burden thus poured upon the mental faculties of Sir
Thomas Waller was quite sufficient to send him quietly under the table;
and Sir Matthew Scrope, who likewise did justice to his glass, was
reduced to that state at which eloquence, however unruly, finds
utterance difficult. Mr. Justice Whistler, perceiving the effect which
the last cup had produced, nodded to Bolland, and said in a hall
whisper, "Now for his nightcap! Perhaps, Sir Matthew," he added looking
at the knight with a compassionating air, "perhaps we had better not
drink any more, though the bowl is not yet empty. I am not at all drunk
myself, though I fear for your head to-morrow, Sir Matthew. I thought
you had been stronger men in these parts. Why, with the help of Master
Bolland, we have not finished the--"

"Sir, sir," hiccupped Sir Matthew Scrope, "I am no more drunk than you
are. I can take another glass very well. Ay, two. We will never leave
the bowl unfinished."

Mr. Justice Whistler might, perhaps, upon another occasion, have found
some degree of pleasure in prolonging the yearnings of Sir Matthew
Scrope for the liquor of his heart, for all the minor sorts of
tormenting were generally sweet pastime to him, but at present he was
too deeply interested, to pursue anything but the straightforward
course; and when he saw that opposition had sufficiently roused the
drunken energies of his fellow magistrate, he suffered him to drink his
punch in peace, and fall back into his chair in the soft embraces of
the son of Lethe. No sooner was this accomplished than he looked upon
Bolland with a triumphant smile. He had himself, indeed, in no
degree, flinched from the potations he had inflicted upon his two
fellow-magistrates, but he was very well aware of his own calibre,
foresaw the result, and knew the remedy. A slight additional weakness
of the knees was all that he had to anticipate; and though he felt
morally certain that, if he rose from the table and attempted to make
his exit by the door, it would cost him five or six efforts before he
could shoot the arch, he knew at the same time that there were
restorative means to give back vigour to the sinews of his lower man,
and to enable his whole body to recover that just equilibrium of which
the potent punch had deprived it.

"Bolland," he said; "Bolland, I'm in no condition for riding just yet,
but half an hour will set the whole matter to rights. Have these two
clods carried home, and make pretty Sally, the black-eyed barmaid,
bring me a large basin and a ewer of water. Then quietly steal into the
kitchen, and tell the cook to do me a good rump-steak, and bring it up
piping hot, with some sliced onions. I dar'n't move from the table; for
unless I were cautious, cautious--cautious, Master Bolland, I should be
at my full length on the floor in a minute."

Bolland did as he was bid; and as, in those days, there were
attached, as indispensable appendages to the inn of every county
town--especially, if a club of magistrates held its meetings
thereat--certain sturdy fellows, both ready and willing to carry away
the bodies of such as fell in their contest with good liquor, three or
four personages were soon found to bear off Sir Matthew Scrope and Sir
Thomas Waller to their respective homes. Betty also soon appeared with
the basin and ewer, as the magistrate had directed, and Mr. Justice
Whistler, taking off his wig, caused a deluge of the pure cold element
to be poured over his naked head, which bent humbly before the hand of
the practised barmaid.

When his face was well dried, and the wig replaced, he looked up in the
face of Bolland, who had just returned from his errand, with a smile of
satisfaction, saying, "I think I could do it now, Bolland; I think I
could do it now. But I won't try till I have put the beefsteak upon the
top of the punch. In the meantime, give me the whole particulars of
this grand discovery you have made. Where is this man to be found, and
how have you found him out? for we must be sure of what we are about,
before we stir an inch."

"Oh, for that matter, I am quite sure," answered Bolland; "for I had it
this very morning from a sheep-drover whom I met just under the hills
on this side, and who gave me a long account of this strange gentleman
coming with half a dozen or more men, and taking the sheep-farm that he
described, without inquiring into anything, as another man would have
done. I asked him if he had seen this strange gentleman. He said, 'Oh,
dear, yes; twice, walking about the hills in a melancholy kind of way,
with his arms crossed upon his chest.' And then the fellow went on, and
painted him like a picture. I got the whole account of the place
exactly, too, so that when we get to the little town of Badeley, I can
lead you at once to the spot."

"How far is it, Bolland?" demanded Mr. Justice Whistler.

"Some fifty-five miles, I hear," replied the officer; and, thereupon,
the justice shook his head, exclaiming, "Too far for one night's ride.
Too far; too far. It would make my old bones ache."

"I did not know your worship had any bones," was the quaint reply.
"However, it is too far for me, also, for I have ridden nearly forty
miles this morning, and I am neither a post, nor a post-boy."

While they were yet discussing the matter, a savoury odour was smelt
even through the double doors of the club-room, and Mr. Justice
Whistler interrupted Bolland's eloquence by exclaiming, "Ha! here comes
the rump-steak. It will set all things to rights presently; and in the
meanwhile you go and get two strong horses ready. Find out what
constables you can rely upon for a long journey, and have everything
prepared for our departure."

To the few questions which Bolland now asked, he gave the clearest and
most precise answers; and when the worthy officer returned, after
fulfilling his mission, he found the dish which had contained the
beef-steaks void of its contents, and Mr. Justice Whistler walking up
and down the room as steadily as ever.

"I have only got two constables," he said, "who were willing to go; all
the rest were either drunk, or in bed, or did not like the job, and
would have run away and left us at the bounds of the county."

"Two are quite enough," replied Mr. Justice Whistler. "We can get
plenty more at the nearest town. These people here are all in a fit of
fright at the strange doings that have been taking place near them.
Better have some folks that are ignorant of the whole business. Now I'm
your man, Master Bolland. Are the horses ready?"

Bolland answered in the affirmative; but, before he followed the
justice into the court-yard of the inn, he swallowed what remained of
the bowl of punch, thinking that such encouragement was well adapted to
a long cold ride and a dangerous enterprise.

Mr. Justice Whistler now consulted gravely with Bolland in regard to
the road; and, taking one of the constables for their guide, they
determined to proceed about thirty miles that night, and accomplish the
rest upon the following day. They were, however, deceived in regard to
the distance. At the end of thirty miles, they found no town, nor place
of repose of any kind, and they were, consequently, obliged to ride on
till they got on the first soft <DW72>s of those wild hills which we
have elsewhere described.

Mr. Justice Whistler began to grumble seriously at the length of way;
Bolland declared that he was nearly knocked up; and one of the
constables avowed that he saw the grey streaks of the morning resting
on the tops of the hills, which would serve at least to show them their
way, for they were at this time immured in the darkness of high hedges
and narrow wooded lanes. At that moment, however, a loud voice before
them called, "Stop!" and Bolland, at once recognizing the voice of
Franklin Gray, turned his horse's head, and galloped off as hard as he
could go.

The rest would most likely have followed his example, had not the same
voice vociferated, "Stop them there, Harvey! Do not let them go!" and
four or five men, leaping their horses over the hedge, cut off the
retreat of Mr. Justice Whistler and the constables, while one of them
fired a pistol down the lane after the retreating figure of Bolland,
which was followed by a sharp, sudden cry. But the horse's steps were
still heard galloping onward. The flash of the pistol had afforded
sufficient light, however, to show Mr. Justice Whistler that resistance
was vain, though he was a courageous and determined man, and would have
made it gallantly if there had been even a hope of success. Such not
being the case, however, he determined rapidly what to do, but
determined, unfortunately for himself, upon wrong grounds.

Remembering nothing but the awe with which his name and presence
inspired the petty plunderers of the metropolis, he resolved to
announce himself and all his terrors in good set form, and to endeavour
to frighten from their purpose those who stopped him. In the meanwhile,
however, the leader of the party threw back the shade of a dark
lantern, and poured the light thereof full upon the justice and his
followers, and he demanded, "What are you doing here at this hour? What
is your name, and what is your errand?"

"Let me pass, in the King's name, I command you," said the justice. "My
name is Whistler, and I am one of his Majesty's justices of the peace
for ----."

"Oh, you are Mr. Justice Whistler, are you?" replied the other. "Worthy
Mr. Justice, who are those two men behind you? They seem not of your
own condition."

"We are only two poor constables from the town of ----," replied the
men, choosing to speak for themselves, and in a humbler tone than that
which the justice had thought fit to use. "We are two hard-working men,
with small families, and are forced to do our duty."

"These are not any of those we sought," said Franklin Gray to one of
his followers. "Let these two poor fellows go; but strip me this
justice here to his skin. Take every sous he has in his pocket, and
then tie him to a tree and give him a hundred lashes with the stirrup
leather, as hard as you can lay it on. I will not take his life, though
I should like to give him one lash for every false and villanous act he
has committed, for every innocent man he has sent to prison, to the
stocks, the pillory, or the parish beadle. One lash for each, however,
would cut him to pieces; so give him a hundred, and let him go."

The commands thus issued were punctually obeyed; and while the justice
shouted loudly under the infliction, which was administered in the
neighbouring field, Franklin Gray went on addressing the man Harvey,
sometimes commenting upon what was going on near, sometimes speaking of
other subjects.

"They know we are on the look-out," he said; "and they will not stir so
long as that is the case. How the beast roars! Yet you say they must be
in this neighbourhood, for you traced their footsteps clearly. Those
fellows love flaying a justice in their hearts; I can hear the lashes
they give him even here. But we had better ride home now, and change
our quarters soon. There, there, that will do. There, my men, stop. You
will kill him, if you don't mind. Put his vest upon his fat back, turn
his face to the horse's tail, and send him cantering down the lane."

Every tittle of Franklin Gray's commands was executed to the letter;
and Mr. Justice Whistler, still writhing with the pain of the stripes
he had received, was partly clothed once more, and set upon his beast
again. His face, however, was turned in the contrary direction to that
which it usually assumed in relation to the animal that bore him, and
his feet being thrust through the stirrups, a few smart blows were
added to send the charger off. Happily for the preservation of the
justice's equilibrium, the horse was weary, and, even in its most
frisky moods, was a quiet, good sort of beast; so that, after having
jolted him in a hard trot for about three hundred yards, it began to
slacken its pace, gradually dropped into a walk, and finally stopped to
crop a scanty breakfast from the herbage by the side of the road.

Mr. Justice Whistler did not neglect to seize such an opportunity, and
carefully descending, for in his bruised condition every step was
painful, he remounted according to the usual mode, and, with a somewhat
splenetic jerk of the bridle, made his beast abandon its poor meal, and
proceed on the road before it. That road, indeed, was as unpromising to
a man in his condition as any road could be; for his first necessity
was now repose and food, and as it was the very way by which he had
come, no one could be more certain than himself that there was no
house, village, or anything in its course for at least ten miles. When
he had gone about one, however, a small country road was seen leading
to the left, away over a low hill; and Mr. Justice Whistler paused, and
gazed, and pondered.

The darkness of the night had now fled, the dull streaks over the
eastern hills had changed into gold and crimson, and the clear, cool
fresh light of morning was spreading over the whole prospect. The hills
rose up and shone in the coming beams; but a faint grey mist lay over
the lower grounds, marking out each wooded <DW72>, each wave in the
fields, and each hedgerow, in long-defined lines across the view. The
hill over which the country road that now attracted the errant
justice's attention ran, was, as he sagely judged, fully high enough to
conceal a farm, a village, a town--nay, a city itself, should need
be--on the other side; and along the sandy road itself were to be
traced various marks of cart wheels of no very remote date, and the
prints of horses' hoofs more recent still.

Such a sight was wonderfully cheering to the justice, who instantly
turned his horse's head up the lane, and pursued it perseveringly,
though the high and manifold trees in which it embowered itself, soon
cut off all further prospect. A quarter of an hour's riding had not yet
brought him to anything like a house; but the joyful sound of some one
whistling broken snatches of a favourite village song set his heart at
rest. The crack of a whip, too, and the rattle and clatter of harness,
were soon heard; when lo! the road suddenly turned to the left round a
steep bank; and a little village green, with its pond affording much
matutinal enjoyment to a party of ducks, and its clump of tall elms,
ready to give shade when the sun rose high, presented itself to the
eyes of Mr. Justice Whistler as one of the pleasantest sights he had
ever seen.

To the right was a small farm-house, from which probably proceeded
those sounds of early labour which had given the scourged magistrate
encouragement on his way; but exactly before him, on the other side of
the green, appeared the grey village church, with its yews and its
little enclosure, where rested the dead of many a gone year; and, what
was more to the purpose of the justice, a neat and rather large white
house, in a pretty garden enclosed by low walls, which were chequered
with flints, and guarded by broken bottles from the predatory feet of
apple-loving boys. The justice at first thought it was too good a house
for the parsonage; but seeing no other abode of the kind near the
church, and looking at the air of comfort and wealth about the village
itself, he judged that it must indeed be the dwelling of some rector
well to do, and therefore straightway rode up to the gate to make his
piteous case known. Those were hospitable days, and such circumstances
as his, he well knew, would find instant compassion and relief; but, as
the occasion was urgent, it was no slight satisfaction to him to see
the gates into a stable-yard already open, horses in the court bearing
signs of having come from far, and one regular domestic, with one
personage, half groom half plough-boy, busily engaged in the duties of
the stable.

"Why, here's another, Bill!" cried the rustic as the justice
approached. "I think it rains strays just now."

To the inquiries of Mr. Justice Whistler, the servant replied that the
house was the rectory of the Reverend Mr. Sandon--that the rector was
up, and talking in the parlour with two gentlemen just arrived. A
second glance at the horses confirmed Mr. Justice Whistler in the
opinion which he had at first entertained, that they had been his
companions on the road during the greater part of the night; and on
being ushered into the presence of the owner of the house, he found him
listening to the two constables' tale of woe.

The rector was a quick, sharp-nosed, reddish-faced gentleman, extremely
well to do in the world, yet active, vigilant, shrewd, inquiring: the
good things of life having had no effect in producing sloth or
indulgence. He was a worthy man in the main, more charitable both in
thought and deed than he suffered himself to appear, and not by many
degrees so avaricious as some of his refractory parishioners wished to
prove. He was up early, to bed late; took great care of his farm and of
his flock; spared no one's vices or follies in the pulpit, and required
that his dues should be paid, if not rigorously, at least exactly,
dispensing that money for the benefit of one deserving part of his
flock which he derived from another.

On seeing the apparition of Mr. Justice Whistler clad simply in his
vest, and that not very well buttoned over his protuberant stomach, the
rector stared for a single instant in silence; but the next moment,
though he could not repress a slight smile which came upon his lip at
such a strange apparition, he resumed his courtesy, and, advancing
towards the stranger, said, "I presume I have the honour of seeing
Justice Whistler; at least, so the account of these good men leads me
to imagine; and most happy am I to see him alive and well, for, knowing
the desperate character of the men into whose hands he had fallen, I
was apprehensive of the result."

"Alive, sir, alive," said the magistrate, impatiently, "but not well,
by no means well: half-flayed, scarified, basted with stirrup leathers
till there is not an inch of the skin on my back without a wound, nor a
bone in my body that does not ache. I have come, sir, to claim your
hospitality--to seek a few hours' repose--to obtain some refreshment,
and to get some soft appliances to my back; after which, God willing. I
will raise the hue and cry through the country, and tuck that fellow up
as high as Haman, or my name's not Whistler."

"You shall have all that my poor house affords, to make you
comfortable," replied the rector; "and after you are refreshed, perhaps
I may be able and ready, more so than you expect, to aid in your very
laudable design of ridding the country of the band of ruffians who have
lately taken up their quarters upon the verge of these two counties."

"I am pleased to hear it; I am pleased to hear it!" exclaimed Mr.
Justice Whistler; "but just now my back aches so portentously, I am so
wearied and so hungry, that I can think of little but a flagon of
mulled ale and a toast, a soft bed, and four or five hand-breadths of
old linen to my back."

"All that you shall have, sir," replied the rector; and, though there
was just that degree of pain in the countenance and the whole movements
of the justice which excites one almost as much to merriment as to
compassion, the worthy clergyman kept his countenance very well, and
with kindness and alacrity ordered everything that was necessary for
making the suffering man more comfortable. The mulled ale and the toast
were brought, and a small cup of metheglin was superadded to give the
whole consistency, as the magistrate observed. After that, the broad
magisterial back was dressed by a staid but not unskilful housekeeper;
and, tucked up in a comfortable bed, Mr. Justice Whistler soon forgot
in the arms of slumber the woes and the adventures of the preceding
night.




                            CHAPTER XXXII.


While Mr. Justice Whistler and his colleagues had been proceeding in
their examinations, and the events we have just narrated had been
taking place in a distant part of the country, the days and nights in
the little village of Danemore had been spent in the slow and wearing
anxieties of watching the progress of sickness towards death. Alice
Herbert remained almost constantly with the Earl, at his own earnest
wish, and Sir Walter Herbert coming over from the Manor House early
every day, spent the greater part of his time with Langford, in all
those various occupations of which the circumstances in which they both
stood furnished an abundance to fill up the time.

The Earl of Danemore lay upon his bed of sickness, and hour by hour
showed as it went by, that it would be the bed of death also. It was
not, indeed, that his wounds were mortal, for no vital part in all his
frame had been touched; but he received those wounds, not only as an
old man in whom the loss even of a portion of that strange red current
that flows within our veins, dispensing life and vigour, is not easily
restored; he received them also as one on whom strong and ungovernable
passions had already wrought most powerfully, and on whom also the same
intensity of feeling was still destined to work, though excited by
better causes, and a better purpose. Weakened by great loss of blood,
exhausted by fatigue and excitement, but little was wanting to bring
fever in the train of corporeal injury; and the energetic eagerness
with which he applied his mind to everything connected with Henry
Langford, only served to increase his irritability, rather than to lead
his mind to calmer and more tranquillizing subjects. He felt that his
days on earth were numbered: and that feeling begat in him an anxiety
to make up for the evils he had inflicted, which tended to shorten
those few hours that remained to him.

The difficult and painful situation in which he was placed also; the
necessity of sacrificing one child to another; the struggle to do
justice to one for whom he felt deep gratitude and esteem, when opposed
by the claims of old affection and long-nourished tenderness; the
knowledge that disgrace would fall upon his name, and, like the yellow
lichen on a tombstone, would live and flourish, and render indistinct
every record of his life, when all below had mouldered away into dust;
all joined together to make him feel most poignantly and bitterly that
the last dark hour of life, when the bright sun that has lighted us
through the morning of our youth and the mid-day of our manhood, and
even shone warmly on the evening of our decline, has gone down behind
the horizon, leaving but a few faint rays in the sky behind, is not the
time to seek our way back into the light path which we have abandoned
in the splendid noon of our existence; and that even if we do regain it
at last, it must be by plunging into the thorns and briars of grief,
regret, and remorse, without hesitation, though with difficulty and
agony itself.

It was not that even in those last hours of his life the Earl of
Danemore looked upon death with any feeling of terror. Such sensations
were not within the grasp of his nature; he knew not what fear meant.
He might see and know that there was danger in this thing or in that;
he might fix his eyes even upon death itself, and the retributive
future after death; but still while gazing on the frowning brow of
fate, and comprehending all which that dark inevitable countenance
menaced, he strode on undaunted, and said, even to Omnipotence,
"Strike!"

No! it was not that anything like fear affected him; but weakened in
body and wearied in mind with a long struggle against many internal
adversaries, he listened to the voice of conscience and of equity,
making itself heard through the medium of a judgment naturally strong
and acute--making itself heard not the less distinctly in the silence
of exhausted passions, because in former times the small still voice
had been drowned amidst their contending fury.

He felt what it was right to do, and he strove now to do it, however
difficult, however painful his own acts might have rendered the
task--however fatal to his corporeal frame might be the efforts that he
made, and the anxieties he suffered. For the greater part of one whole
night he remained eagerly dictating his will to the lawyer Evelyn;
providing for his younger son, but endeavouring to strengthen in every
way the claim of the elder to his title and estates. He made a solemn
declaration of his marriage too; named the day, the spot, the clergyman
who had performed it, with scrupulous accuracy, pointed to the woman
Bertha as the only surviving witness, and related how the leaf on which
the marriage had been inscribed had been cut from the register and how
he had forced his young and unhappy wife to give up to him the
certificates she had received of their union. He spared himself, in
short, in nothing; and again and again he asked eagerly if that
declaration and the woman Bertha's testimony would not be sufficient.

The lawyer shook his head doubtingly. The marriage, he said, had been
denied for so many years; the woman, too, was an alien and a Roman
Catholic, against whom prejudices then ran high. The question involved
an ancient peerage and immense property; and, in short, there was every
reason to doubt whether the young gentleman's title could be sustained,
unless the papers were recovered. If the register itself were not in
existence, and the marriage had never been denied, the case might
easily have been made good; but, with no trace of such an act in the
existing register, and no absolute publication of the marriage, he had
many doubts.

"But there is a trace!" exclaimed the Earl vehemently; "there is a
trace; there is the leaf cut out. Send for the register! Let it be
brought here immediately!"

"We can do that to-morrow, my lord," replied the lawyer.

But the Earl would not be satisfied till a servant was despatched for
the record on which so much depended. It was brought to him by the
clerk of the parish of Uppington, during the grey daylight of the next
morning, for the very vehemence of his nature had taught every one
through the country round to yield instant, and now habitual deference
to his wishes. On examining the book, however, he found nothing but
disappointment. When by large bribes he had induced the low-minded but
cunning priest, who then held the living, to cut out the leaf, he had
enjoined him strictly to leave no trace whatever of the transaction;
and so nicely had the removal been accomplished, that no eye could
detect the place where the vacancy existed.

Again his own acts fell upon his own head; and the Earl felt as if it
were ordained by retributive justice that he should go down to the
grave leaving the fate of both his children still entirely in doubt.
The idea took possession of him, and it weighed him down. Often he
asked if any news had been heard of his son Edward; and when the reply
was made that none had been received, he exclaimed, "Of course--of
course! Nothing will be known of him till I am dead."

As the third and fourth days went by, his mind began to wander, and
that most painful of all states to see, delirium, came rapidly upon
him. He raved of his first wife, his Eugenie, the only one whom he had
ever loved, and yet the one whom he had most deeply wronged. He called
upon her to return to him, to bring her boy to his father's arms; and
then again he went over some bitter quarrels, where it was evident that
her firm sweetness had but served to aggravate his fiery wrath. It was
a scene most painful to behold, and yet Alice Herbert, tending him as
if she had been his own child, beheld it all, and with sweet and
thoughtful tenderness did much to soften and tranquillize the mind of
him who suffered, as well as the feelings of him who stood by with a
wrung heart, witnessing a father's agony and a father's remorse.

To the eyes of Langford never did Alice Herbert, in all the bright
flush of health and happiness, as he had at first beheld her, look so
lovely; never did she seem to his heart--even when she acknowledged the
love that made him happy--so dear as now; while somewhat pale with
cares and anxieties lately suffered, and fatigues daily undergone, she
stood, by the pale light of the shaded lamp, with calm sorrow and
apprehension in every line of that fair face, watching the death-bed of
his father, and soothing the last hours of him who had caused her so
much pain. He felt from his heart that a common exaggeration of
affection was, to her at least, well applied, though he would not
himself apply it; and he listened well pleased, when Bertha, after
watching Alice long, with the usual dark and stern expression, at
length exclaimed, "Thou art certainly an angel!"

Towards the evening of the fifth day there seemed a slight improvement
in the condition of the Earl. He slept for an hour or two in the course
of the evening. His mind was more collected: he recognised his son, and
Alice Herbert, and her father, at all times; and although his words
occasionally wandered and his eyes looked wild, yet there were evident
promises of returning judgment and returning strength; and both Alice
and Langford hoped--and in a degree trusted because they hoped--that
the Earl might yet regain his corporeal health, and that his mind, like
the air when purified by a thunder-storm, might rise freed from all the
vehement passions which had worked up the tempest that had hung around
the last few days.

Nevertheless, the vital powers were evidently diminished in a terrible
degree; and the eye of the surgeon at once perceived that the sleep he
enjoyed was the sleep of exhaustion; that feebleness, and not returning
health, brought repose; and that, although that repose might perhaps
produce the only favourable change which his situation admitted, there
were a thousand chances to one against its restoring him to health.

It was on that very night that a messenger arrived from a village at a
considerable distance, eagerly asking to speak with the Earl of
Danemore, and on being questioned by Langford, he at once informed him
that he came to bear the Earl tidings of his son Lord Harold's safety,
as well as a note under the young nobleman's own hand, with which he
had been entrusted. Some discussions ensued between the rector, Sir
Walter, and Langford, as to whether it would be expedient, in the
Earl's state at that moment, to communicate the intelligence which had
just been received.

Sir Walter, who had seen less of the world than his young friend, and
had examined much less deeply that which he had seen, eagerly entreated
Langford to communicate the tidings to the Earl directly, declaring
that the news of his son's safety must necessarily act as the best
remedy which could be applied to his case. The good knight spoke from
the impulse of a fine and generous mind, practically unacquainted with
evil, and with all the complicated and even opposite impulses which the
existence of evil in the human mind must necessarily produce. The
rector urged the same course through mere ignorance, for he was a man
of no strong sensations himself, and those which he did possess were
merely the animal ones. To hear of a son's welfare, he felt in himself,
must--separate from all other things--be a joyful event; and he was
incapable of weighing or judging, or even comprehending the various
circumstances which might render that which was in itself joyful, most
painful and agitating.

Langford, however, knew better. He had discovered before this time,
many of the deep, peculiar points in the Earl's character, and he knew
all the particular details of his situation which might make the
certainty of his brother's life and speedy return a matter of
apprehension, care, and emotion. Both his companions, however, so
strongly urged him to communicate at once the tidings to his father,
that he felt he could not and he ought not to withhold them.

He cared not, it is true, what others would think of his conduct; but
it might, perhaps, be a weakness in Langford, that--knowing well, by
early experience of the world and all the world's baseness, the many
turns, the subtle disguises, the strange masquerading tricks which
selfishness will take to deceive, not only the natural and habitual
egotist, but the kindest and the most liberal of men, where any dear
interest, or prejudice, or affection is at stake--he was as much upon
his guard against himself as if he had known himself to be ungenerous;
and was always more willing to take the opinions of others in a matter
where his own interest might be risked, than on subjects where self was
totally out of the question.

In the present instance, it was clear that the life or death of his
brother might make the greatest difference in the Earl's views and
feelings; and although he knew himself too well not to be sure that the
consideration of such a difference would not influence him in the
slightest degree in withholding or communicating the news he had
received, yet he yielded to the opinion of others against his own
judgment, when he would not have done so had his own interests been in
no degree implicated. He only demanded that Sir Walter himself should
communicate the tidings; and he warned him, when he agreed to do so,
that the effect might be more powerful than he expected.

Sir Walter, though he totally misunderstood the view that Langford
took, and the fears which he entertained, acted, from natural goodness
of heart and sensibility of feeling, exactly as his young friend could
have desired, only apprehending that the joy would be so great as to
perform the part of grief itself.

Although he had resolved at first not to do so--lest his very presence
might excite in the mind of his dying father those painful combinations
on which his thoughts had evidently been wandering during his
delirium--Langford followed Sir Walter into the room, and stood at a
little distance behind, listening, with a heart whose accelerated
beatings told even to himself how deeply he was interested by the words
in which the worthy knight clothed his communication.

"I have got what I trust may be pleasant news for you, my good lord,"
said Sir Walter, as he seated himself deliberately in the chair by the
Earl's bedside, affecting the greatest possible degree of composure
and tranquillity as he did so, and banishing every appearance of haste
or excitement from his manner.

"What is it?" demanded the Earl, turning round towards him as quickly
as he could; for he no longer started up with that vehemence which he
had displayed but a few days before. "What is it? Are the papers found?
For ever since Eugenie--but I wander--I wander. I feel that I wander;
that I have been wandering for many days. But go on, go on. I am more
collected now. What of the papers? It was about them you were talking,
was it not?"

"No, my lord," replied Sir Walter; "we are not talking about the
papers, but of something which, if I judge rightly, may prove of as
great interest as even their recovery--I mean that of your son. We have
heard some tidings of him, my lord."

"What are they?" demanded the Earl. "Speak! What are they?"

"They are all as favourable as you could desire," replied Sir Walter,
in the same calm manner. "We have heard that he is rapidly recovering,
and has escaped from the hands of the people who detained him." And
seeing that the Earl listened without reply, he added, "We may, I
trust, soon expect him here."

Lord Danemore pressed his thin white hand--through the blanched and
shrivelled skin of which might be seen protruding the large bones and
joints which had once marked his extraordinary strength--upon his eyes,
and remained for several minutes in deep thought. He then withdrew his
hand, and turning to Sir Walter Herbert, he said in a low voice, "It is
a terrible thing, Sir Walter; it is a terrible thing not to be able to
thank God for the recovery of a son that we love--not to know whether
we desire to see him before we die, or not."

"It is, indeed, a terrible thing, my lord," replied Sir Walter; "but I
trust that such is not your case, and that your son's coming will give
you unmixed pleasure."

"Far from it," replied the Earl, gloomily. "He will have to hear sad
truths; to undergo mortifications the most bitter to a proud nature
like his. He will have to hear of his father's faults and crimes, he
will have to learn that, instead of vast wealth, a noble name, and a
high rank, he has no inheritance but that of an illegitimate son; that
he has no name; that he has no station; that he has no rank; and all
this the consequence of his father's faults. I know him, Sir Walter
Herbert; I know him: and there is too much of my own blood in his veins
for me to expect that he should do anything, in the bitter
disappointment of a proud spirit, but curse him who, for his own
gratification, and in the indulgence of mad and headlong passions,
brought shame and sorrow and disgrace upon him. My own blood, I say,
will cry out against me in his heart. He will curse me, as I would have
cursed my father had he so acted. He will look down upon me as I lie
here like a writhing worm, and he will think that it is only because my
corporeal vigour is at an end, and my strong heart weakened by abasing
sickness, that I do those acts of justice which I had determined on
long ere I knew these wounds to be fatal: which I had determined on as
soon as I found that he whom I had wronged, that he who had borne with
me so patiently, that he who had defended me, and rescued me from
death, was my own child, the son of her I early loved. He will
misconceive, he will misunderstand it all. I know his heart, from my
own; and I know that in my meeting with him under these circumstances
all will be dark, and stormy, and terrible. I feel not even sure that
it will be better for him to live rather than to die, as we supposed he
had. I feel not sure that death would not be preferable to the feelings
he will have to endure. He will not bear the crossing of his high
fortune meekly. He will strive against it; he will strive to prove the
words false that take from him his high station, even though they are
spoken by his father. He will contend for the rank and fortune and
place which he has so long expected, even with his brother. Through
life he will go on in bitterness and disappointment. His heart will
henceforth be full of gall, and his lip breathing curses. It would have
been so with me, and why should it not be so with him? He is my own
child, the inheritor of my nature, if not of my name."

It was evident that he was exciting himself to a dangerous degree by
the exaggerated picture which his imagination drew; and Langford could
not restrain from advancing, and trying to soothe him.

"My dear father," he said, "if such be really Edward's
character--though I think you judge of him and of yourself too
harshly--how much better it will be to take the middle course that I
have proposed; to conceal from him the period of my mother's death; and
never to let him know that the marriage to which he owes his birth was
an unlawful one. Willingly I offered, and willingly I repeat the offer
to do more, and abandon to him altogether the rank and station which he
has held in England, the estates which are attached to the title of our
ancestors, and content myself with justifying my mother's fair fame to
her kindred in another land, and with claiming there the fortune to
which I have a right through my noble uncle."

"You are all your mother!" exclaimed the Earl, gazing upon him. But
then other feelings seemed to rush across his mind; the expression of
his countenance changed, and he exclaimed, "What! would you have me
afraid of my own son? Would you have me dastardly conceal the truth
from him, for fear of his anger? No, no; he must hear it. It may be
bitter, but he must hear it. Bitter things are good for us sometimes.
But from whose lips shall he hear it?" he added after a moment's pause.
"Not from mine, Henry; not from mine, for I feel that the hour is
drawing nigh! I shall never see him more in life. I feel that there is
a chill hand upon me: surely it must be the hand of death!"

It was so, for from that moment the Earl rapidly sunk. His senses did
not leave him again, however, and from time to time he spoke to those
around him. He expressed neither hope nor fear in regard to the future.
The only words, in fact, which he uttered at all, referring to the
awful consideration of a future life, were spoken about an hour after
the conversation had taken place which we have just detailed. He then
beckoned Alice to draw nearer, took her hand affectionately in his, and
as she bent down to listen, he said, "I owe you much, sweet lady--much
for all that you have done for me; but more than all for the endeavour
to give me such hopes and expectations as may best soothe and cheer
this last dark hour. Whether such hopes are to be realised I soon shall
see, and as far as bitterly repenting everything I have done amiss, I
have followed the injunction to the letter. But alas! Alice, if it be
necessary to the repentance you speak of, to bow down in terror as well
as remorse, that--struggle for it as I may--I cannot accomplish. I can
repent, but I cannot fear. I am ready to meet my doom, whatever it may
be, and to endure it to the utmost. Nevertheless, to you I owe deep
thanks, and you have them. Now leave me, sweet lady. Farewell, for the
last time! I would not have you see me die."

His words had turned Alice deadly pale, and Langford, taking her hand,
led her from the room. She found relief, however, in tears. She then
strove to read, but she could not; and she sat waiting in the rector's
parlour, with a heavy heart, till she heard footsteps moving down the
stairs. Her father and Langford then entered the room. The latter was
pale and grave, but calm and firm; and sitting down by Alice's side, he
laid his hand upon hers, saying, "Thank you, my beloved Alice, for all
that you have done to soothe the death-bed of my father."

It was enough, and Alice again burst into tears; but the next moment a
servant entered the room, asking the two gentlemen if they knew where
he could find the rector.

"He is up stairs, in the chamber of death," said Sir Walter; "but you
had better not disturb him at present."

"Why, sir, I must disturb him," said the man; "for there is a gentleman
waiting, who came down two or three days ago, in a coach with only two
horses, and who has been hanging about here and up at the Castle ever
since, though nobody knows who he is. He desires to speak with my
master immediately. He has inquired every day if the Earl were still
living, but would not give his name nor tell his business. So I must
disturb my master."

"Do so, then," replied Sir Walter; and the man quitted the room.




                           CHAPTER XXXIII.


The words which the servant had spoken, in announcing to Sir Walter
Herbert the arrival of a stranger, had made but little impression
either upon the worthy knight or on the son of the deceased nobleman;
and, after a broken conversation, in which pauses of deep and solemn
thought constantly interrupted their discourse, Langford was begging
Sir Walter to convey his daughter from that melancholy house to her own
happy home, when the rector entered the room, bringing with him a
person unknown to any one present.

"I am forced to intrude upon you, sir," said the clergyman, addressing
Langford, "as this gentleman who has just presented himself has come on
business in which you are deeply interested."

"It is an unpleasant moment, sir," replied Langford, "for me to enter
upon any business at all. I am occupied with very gloomy thoughts and
very painful feelings, and I could wish that the business, whatever it
is, might be postponed till to-morrow."

"I am very sorry, sir, both for your sake and my own, that cannot be,"
replied the stranger, advancing.

He was a man about the middle age, tall and well made, though meagre,
courtly in his personal appearance, and bearing in his whole demeanour
the stamp of gentleman. Nevertheless, there was something repulsive in
his aspect--something cold, and cynical, and dry, which was smoothed
down, indeed, by courtesy of manner and personal grace, but which,
nevertheless, tended to make Langford the less inclined to enter into
any conversation with him at that moment. The stranger, however, went
on, and the next few words he uttered were sufficient to show him to
whom they were addressed that he must meet the subject at once.

"It will, perhaps, sir," the stranger said, "be satisfactory to you to
know, in the first instance, who it is that is forced to intrude upon
you, which our worthy and reverend friend here has forgotten to
mention. My name is Sir Henry Heywood; I have the honour of being
second cousin to the late Earl of Danemore, and in default of his son
Lord Harold, who, there is good reason to believe, I find, is dead, am
heir to the title and estates of the late peer."

There was something in the manner of his announcing himself--the tone,
the demeanour, the look--that galled Langford not a little, and made Mm
assume a cold dryness of manner which was not natural to him. To the
stranger's announcement, then, he only replied by drawing up his head
and demanding, "Well, sir, what then?"

The shortness of this reply seemed to puzzle Sir Henry Heywood a good
deal, for he paused a moment or two before he answered, and then begun
with some degree of hesitation: "Why, sir, under these circumstances,"
he said at length, "during the absence and probable death of Lord
Harold, I am the only fit person to take possession of the late Earl's
papers and effects."

"I do not feel quite sure of that," replied Langford, in the same tone.

"Pray, then, sir," demanded Sir Henry; "if you consider yourself a
fitter person than I am, and the question be not an impertinent one.
will you inform me who it is I have the honour of addressing, for this
excellent divine has given me but vague information upon the subject?"

The question somewhat embarrassed Langford, for he had determined to
wait for his brother's return ere he took any step whatsoever in regard
to asserting his rights as the eldest son of the late Earl, and to be
guided entirely by the frame of mind in which he found that brother at
the time. He determined, therefore, to evade it as far as possible for
the moment, and consequently replied, "The character in which, sir, I
should oppose your taking possession of the papers of the late Earl, is
that of one of his lordship's executors; and in order to satisfy
yourself that I am justified in assuming that character, as well as my
friend here, Sir Walter Herbert, and the worthy rector himself, who are
the only persons named, you have nothing to do but consult with Mr.
Evelyn, the lawyer, who drew up the Earl's will four or five days ago,
and will inform you that such is the case. He is now, I think, in the
next room, writing. Let him be called in."

"That is unnecessary; that is unnecessary," said Sir Henry Heywood. "Of
his lordship's will, at the present moment we are supposed to know
nothing; and I must contend that I, as the next heir, in default of
Edward Lord Harold, am entitled to take possession of the papers,
especially as there is every reason to believe that I am at this moment
Earl of Danemore."

"There is every reason to believe the contrary," replied Langford,
growing provoked; "and great reason to believe also, that you never
will be so. If you are at all acquainted with the handwriting of the
gentleman you call Lord Harold, you will recognise it in that note,
which was received from him not three hours ago, informing his father
that he was not only alive but at liberty, and rapidly recovering from
the injuries he had received."

Thus saying, he threw down the note on the table before him, and after
eyeing it with a cursory glance, the countenance of Sir Henry Heywood
fell amazingly; nevertheless, he replied in the same bold tone, "I am
extremely happy, sir, to hear that such is the case, but this does not
in the least prevent me from insisting on my right till Lord Harold
appears."

Langford was about to reply, perhaps angrily, but Sir Walter Herbert
interposed, saying, "It seems to me, sir, that you are pressing forward
a very painful discussion at a very painful moment, and I really do not
understand what is your object in so doing."

"Why, I will explain my object in a few words, sir," replied the other.
"There is a gentleman, I understand, who has of late set up some
chimerical claim as eldest son of the late Earl of Danemore, in which
it seems that he has persuaded the Earl to concur--"

Langford's check grew very red, and his lip quivered; but Alice, who
was sitting by him, laid her hand upon his arm, and looked imploringly
up in his face.

Langford bowed his head with a smile, saying, in a low tone, "Do not be
afraid, sweetest; these matters are not decided by the sword."

In the meanwhile Sir Henry went on, saying, "Under these circumstances,
sir, I think it absolutely necessary that the papers of the Earl should
be placed in safe keeping, for we have seen too much lately, in the
various plots and contrivances of the last reign but one, of how papers
may be manufactured or altered to suit certain purposes."

It was Sir Walter Herbert's cheek that now turned red, and he replied
somewhat sharply, "Sir, your imputations are of a character--But it
matters not," he added, interrupting himself. "I will not be provoked
to forget my age or my station. The late Earl of Danemore has appointed
three respectable persons, of whom I perhaps am the least worthy, to
act as his executors, and take possession of all his papers after his
death. The testimony of Mr. Evelyn to that effect will be sufficient,
till we have an opportunity of reading the will, which was given by the
late Earl into that gentleman's keeping.--Do not interrupt me, sir! But
in order to satisfy you completely till the will is read, I am
perfectly willing, and doubtless the two other executors are so also,
to permit of your putting your seal in conjunction with ours upon all
the effects of the late Earl. Does this satisfy you?"

"Why, I suppose it must," replied Sir Henry; "although," he added,
giving a bitter and angry glance towards Langford, "I am sorry that I
cannot get this gentleman to put forth his claims and acknowledge his
purposes boldly and straightforwardly."

"My not doing so, sir," replied Langford, "proceeds, I beg to inform
you, from sources and considerations which have no reference to you
whatsoever. If there were not such a worshipful person as Sir Henry
Heywood in existence I should behave exactly as I do now. The matter
remains to be settled, not between me and you, but between myself and
another."

"It may do so," replied Sir Henry Heywood, "or it may not."

"But I say, sir, it _does_," replied Langford, frowning.

"You misunderstand me, sir," replied the other, with the same dry
courtesy. "I do not mean to impugn your word in the least. I have no
doubt that you are perfectly a man of honour and integrity. All I meant
to say was, that, after all, Lord Harold may never appear. However, I
am bound to take care of my own rights, and from those rights neither
frowns nor high words will move me. In the meantime, I accept the terms
proposed. We will both put our seals upon all cabinets and private
receptacles of the Earl's papers, either till his son Edward appears,
or till the will is opened, and persons lawfully in power take
possession thereof. I seek nothing but what is straightforward and
right, but I am firm in pursuing that which I do seek."

"After all, the man is right," thought Langford to himself, for he was
one of those marvels that can acknowledge an adversary right; "he does
it in a disagreeable and harsh way, it is true, when a few sweet words
would have honeyed the thing over, and made it palatable instead of
bitter. Nevertheless, he is right, and we must not quarrel with the
manner."

"Well, sir," he continued, aloud, "I am ready to proceed with you in
the matter you propose. We will, if you please, take the lawyer with
us, and my worthy and reverend co-executor will probably do me the
favour to accompany us. Sir Walter, I think, will trust to my accuracy;
for, if I am right, he ordered his coach to convey himself and his
daughter home, and we need not detain him."

"Alice will go home with her maid," said Sir Walter; "I have much to
speak to you about to-night, Henry, and many things to settle here;
therefore, if the good doctor will give me lodging for one night more,
I will remain."

The rector expressed his satisfaction; but Langford looked out of the
window upon the sky to mark how far the sun had declined, for, after
all that had happened during the last few weeks, he could not part with
the only being that he loved deeply upon earth, even upon a short but
unprotected journey like that before Alice Herbert, without feeling
something like the apprehensiveness of strong affection steal over his
heart. The plan proposed by Sir Walter, however, was followed. Alice
took her departure, and, to save the reader any unnecessary doubt, we
may say she arrived in safety.

The four gentlemen then called in Mr. Evelyn, the attorney, to whom Sir
Henry Heywood thought fit to be very condescending; but he found Mr.
Evelyn as short and dry as even he himself could have desired, in one
of his own shortest and dryest moods. The lawyer said, when he was
informed of their object, that there was not the slightest necessity
for any one to seal up the papers, except the executors, as he had the
will in his pocket, and their names were endorsed upon it, so that the
persons appointed could be ascertained at once, without the indecency
of opening the paper within an hour of the testator's death. Langford,
however, to save any further discussion, informed him that it had been
so arranged; and, in the first place, notwithstanding all the many
painful feelings that were busy at his heart, he accompanied the others
with a firm step into the room where his father's body lay.

Sir Walter Herbert cast down his eyes, and would not look upon him as
he entered. The rector, on the contrary, took a quick glance to see how
he bore it; but all was firm and calm--sad, but self-possessed; and
while the others proceeded to their task of sealing up several cabinets
which had been brought from Danemore Castle after the fire, Langford
advanced to the side of the bed of death, by which, as was then
customary, stood a light on either side, and gazed in upon the
countenance of him who had just departed.

All was calm and still on that face where so many fierce and violent
passions had displayed themselves through life. All was peaceful,
tranquil--even happy in the expression. The muscles which had
habitually contracted the brow were now relaxed, and the deep wrinkle
between the thick eyebrows was obliterated. The closed eyelids veiled
the quick, keen, flashing eyes which had now lost not only the blaze of
passion but the lustre of life; and the lip which had quivered with a
thousand emotions in a moment--which had now curled with bitter
scorn--now been raised with hasty indignation--now been shut with
suppressed passion--and now been drawn down with stern determination,
was motionless, meaningless. The only expression that it bore, if it
bore any, was that of gentle and quiet repose--an expression which is
so consonant to the features of a child, that in infants we trace it
alike in sleeping, in waking, and in death; but which is seldom, if
ever, seen in sleep upon the countenance of the aged; though it is
sometimes assumed by them in waking life, when a natural placidity of
disposition overcomes cares, infirmities, anxieties, regrets, and all
the heavy burden of years; and is often, very often seen when the hand
of the eternal tranquillizer, death, has stilled the fiery passions
into his deep, unbroken repose.

Langford gazed long and wistfully; and, at length, the finger of Sir
Walter Herbert, laid gently on his sleeve, made him start; and, turning
round, he left the apartment, with a deep sigh that thus should have
ended a life full of mighty energies and noble capabilities, which
might have been devoted to the accomplishment of a thousand great and
magnificent things. The whole party thence proceeded to Danemore
Castle, and went through the same process of sealing up all the private
cabinets and chests which could be found. Few, indeed, were there still
in existence, for the greater portion had been kept in that part of the
building which was burnt; and, though Sir Henry Heywood showed an
inclination at first to make himself sure that all had been consumed
beyond the line marked out as that of the fire, he was very soon
satisfied by nearly breaking his neck down a flight of stairs that
seemed tolerably steadfast till he set his unlucky foot upon them.

This being done, and Sir Henry quite assured that the other parts of
the Castle were not practicable for human feet, a low and formal bow
separated the two parties, and the expectant heir of the earldom
retired to the small village public-house, where he had put up on his
arrival, and immediately sent off for shrewd lawyers to advise with him
in the circumstances in which he stood.

As the others returned on foot towards the Rectory, Sir Walter took the
arm of Langford in one hand, while he gently grasped that of the
lawyer, Master Evelyn, with the other, saying, in a low and kindly
tone, "We must lose no time!"

"Certainly not, Sir Walter," said the lawyer; "we must lose no time,
indeed; for opponents, you see, are in the field quickly."

"But," said Langford, "perhaps--"

"There is no 'perhaps,' my lord," replied Master Evelyn, interrupting
him, but with a civil and courteous tone, and a deprecatory bow; "I
know quite well what you would say: that perhaps your mind is not made
up how to act; but all which I mean to urge is, that it is necessary to
be fully prepared to act in any way that you may think fit at a
moment's notice. Here is your father's declaration in regard to his
marriage, drawn up and sworn to. It is now expedient to take the
declaration of Mistress Bertha, and swear her thereunto before the
magistrates, as well as to employ every means of obtaining further
proof and information. You may act afterwards as you think fit."

Langford readily agreed that the lawyer was in the right, although he
felt a repugnance at that moment to follow, with even apparent
eagerness, his claim to the heritage of him who was just dead. He
returned, however, to the Rectory, where Bertha had still remained, and
she soon appeared in answer to his summons.

There were traces of tears upon her cheeks; and when Langford, speaking
some soothing and consoling words, explained to her his object in
sending for her, she replied, "You have done well, sir. You have done
well; for I feel that I shall not live long; and what I have to say had
better be rightly taken down. I feel that I shall not live long, I say,
because, for the first time for thirty years, I have shed tears. It is
a weakness that I did not expect to fall upon me again; but now that
the last of those who have been connected with my fate is gone into the
tomb, I feel that the time is come for me to take my departure also;
and these tears, I suppose, are a few drops of rain ere the dark night
sets in."

"I trust not. Bertha," said Langford, kindly. "I trust not, indeed. The
last being connected with your fate has not departed; for surely my
fate has been strongly and strangely connected with yours, and I have
so much to thank you for, that I would fain show my gratitude, and make
the last days of your life pass happily away."

"You have, perhaps, something to thank me for," replied Bertha, "but
more to blame and hate me for. But you know I am not a person of many
words; and if I am to tell all that I know of you and yours, let me do
it now, and as shortly as may be."

"In the first place," said Mr. Evelyn, "we had better send for another
magistrate; the lady can make her declaration in the meanwhile and
swear to it afterwards."

"Do not call me the lady, Master Lawyer," said Bertha, with her usual
cold sharpness; "I am no lady. I am Bertha, the housekeeper. But send
for what magistrate you like. I will say nothing that I will not swear
to."

A messenger was accordingly sent off for Sir Matthew Scrope, and in the
meanwhile Bertha went on with her tale.

"I was born on the beautiful coast of Brittany;" she said; "my father
was a small holder under the Lords of Beaulieu, his mother's
ancestors," and she pointed to Langford. "The chateau stood upon a high
rock, crowned with thick woods above the sea; for in those sweet shores
the green leaves dip themselves in the green waters. At fifteen years
of age, I went to attend upon the Lady Eugenie--his mother--who was
some two years older than myself. The Lords of Beaulieu were fathers to
all beneath them, and she was as a sister to me. She found out that
even at that early age I loved, and that there was little hope of him I
loved ever being able to win my father's consent, for my father was
wealthy for a peasant. She told her father and her brother, and prayed
their help; they gave it; and so well did they do for my happiness,
that ere two summers were over, Henri Kerouet was the prosperous owner
of a small trading ship. My father's consent was given, the day was
appointed, and two days before, I saw from the windows of the castle my
father, my two brothers, and my lover, put out to sea in a fine boat,
to buy things at Quimperle for the wedding. I watched them from the
windows of my young mistress's room with the eyes of love, and saw them
skim for half a mile over the waters, as if it had been a thing of
their own; but then, I know not how or why, the sail flapped upon the
water, the boat upset, and all that were in it disappeared. One of them
rose again for a moment, and clung to the side of the boat. I think it
was Henri; but ere my screams called attention, and other boats could
put off, his hold had given way, and he too was beneath the waters.

"There is in every woman's breast a history; and this is mine. I had
but one brother left; every other relation was gone, and he I loved
also. My heart was shut up from that hour, never to open again. My
young mistress was all kindness, and tenderness, and benevolence; she
kept me with her, she strove to soothe and to console; but she had soon
need of consolation and soothing herself, for her father died suddenly
as he sat at breakfast beside her, and she remained an orphan in the
castle of her ancestors for several weeks, till her brother, who was
with the army, could obtain permission to return to his estates. When
he did come, he brought with him one whom I remember well, as he then
crossed the threshold, in all the graces, the powers, and the fiery
passions of youth; one whom you have all seen bent and worn by age and
care, and by the punishment of those passions indulged; one who lies
within a few steps of us even now, in the cold and marble stiffness of
death, with all the stormy impulses of his nature passed away. He was
then like a fiery war-horse, full of beauty, and strength, and danger,
for there was nothing on earth that he dared not do; there were but too
few things, also, which, with such a mind and such a body, he could not
accomplish. He loved my mistress, and my mistress loved him, ere many
weeks of his sojourn with us passed away.

"He brought with him a boy of some twelve or fourteen years old; a gay,
wild, fearless creature like himself; the son, as I understood, of a
poor but noble gentleman, who had placed him as a page, to learn from
infancy the art of war, with the young lord. This boy would often sit
and tell me of wild scenes which had taken place in the civil strifes
of England, and sometimes would glance at stranger and still more
terrible things in western lands, where they both had sojourned long.
This Franklin Gray it was who first called my notice to the love that
was growing up between the two; and I saw how strong it was, though
there was nothing avowed as yet between them.

"The time came for the young Marquis to return to the wars. The English
Lord was to return with him, and still nothing was spoken of their
love, at least so far as I could learn; but on the day when they were
about to depart, the young foreigner turned to my mistress, in her
brother's presence, and said, 'Lady, I have a parting present to make
you. You have applauded and admired my gay young page. In the present
beggary of my fortunes, I can do but little for him; I pray you to take
him to your service, and when he is old enough, let your noble brother
do what he can to promote him in the career of arms. Till then, as he
is of gentle blood, he may well serve a gentle lady.' He spoke gaily,
and as it seemed freely; but I could observe a peculiar expression on
his face which gave the words more meaning; and there came at the same
time the blood, like a rising rebel, into my mistress's cheek, telling
that she comprehended him well.

"It had been arranged that while the Marquis was absent, she should
proceed to England, to join her uncle, then on a political mission in
London, rather than remain in solitude in France. A vessel was engaged,
and in a few days, after she had parted with her brother and her lover,
she embarked, with myself, the boy Franklin Gray as a servant, and the
priest. We met with foul weather, and the ship with difficulty reached
a port upon the coast of Cornwall, where we landed; but there, upon the
pretext of fatigue and illness, she determined to remain some days; and
on the first night of our arrival she despatched the boy Franklin Gray
to London, both to announce her safety to her uncle, and, as it proved,
to communicate with one who in disguise had returned to his native
land, at the risk of life, for the purpose of meeting her.

"As soon as the boy was gone, she told me all; how they loved, and how
their love had been told, and of the impossibility of his asking her
hand at that time, while in exile and in poverty, having nothing but
his sword to depend upon. When the boy returned, she seemed a good deal
agitated; and, as when once she had given her confidence it was
extreme, she told me that she had received messages from the Earl
begging her to follow a particular course in her journey, in order that
he might see her, if but for a moment, by the way. She shaped her
course accordingly, and passed through the very scenes where now we
are; and at the little town of Uppington, not ten miles hence, she was
met by the Earl. He had obtained--Heaven know how! for I do not--a
considerable sum of money, which raised high his hopes and
expectations. He pressed her to be united to him immediately in
private. Love was strong and eloquent in her breast, and she consented.
She exacted, however, that their marriage should be solemnized
according to the rites of his faith and the laws of his country, as
well as according to her own.

"The good weak priest who accompanied her was easily induced to perform
the ceremony of our church, and the Earl had now wealth sufficient
fully to bribe the priest of that village; but as it was determined
that in a very few days she should go on to join her uncle, and double
the quickness of her journey to make up for the lost time, I only, and
one of the servants, were admitted to be present as witnesses to a
marriage which was to be held strictly secret. I saw them married by
the rites of both churches; and my mistress, for her honour's sake,
demanded and received from both priests, certificates of the marriage.
The day before that on which she was to have set out, news arrived of
the death of Cromwell, and the rumour that all was in confusion through
the country across which we had to pass. The tidings did not make them
very sad, for they were in their first happiness; but the boy Franklin
Gray was again sent to London, in company with our good weak priest, to
see her uncle, and ask whether she should come on. At the end of a
week, the boy returned alone. Her uncle had quitted London in haste,
and the poor priest had been involved in a tumult in the streets, had
been recognised as belonging to the Catholic Church, and had been
murdered by the brutal populace. For him she grieved sincerely; but it
seemed to me that she was not very sorry that a fair excuse was given
her for remaining with her husband, and sharing his fate, whatever that
fate might be.

"She soon experienced, however, the sad lot of those who cast
themselves upon the mercy of man. He was violent--rash--hasty. There
were matters grieved him deeply. The sum that he possessed was drawing
near to a close, and he wished much it was evident, ere two months were
over--I do not say to annul his marriage, for I believe, nay, I am
sure, he loved her still--but to have it concealed for the time. He
urged her then to return to her brother, showing her that he could with
difficulty support her, even if he were not himself by chance
discovered by lingering in England; and he framed for her a plausible
story to account for the period of her absence, which in times of such
danger and confusion might easily be done.

"She refused, however, firmly, though mildly. She said, that though, so
long as it merely referred to concealing her marriage, she was willing
to do all he wished; nevertheless, when it could no longer be concealed
but by a falsehood, she would yield no further; and nothing should ever
induce her to tell her noble brother a lie. Anger and fury on his part
succeeded. I and the boy Franklin were in the room; and the Earl, when
he found that passion could effect nothing, turned to me, thinking that
I might persuade my mistress to consent. She had that morning given me
some offence; for I had ever been idle and vain, and my terrible fate
had not cured my follies, though it had embittered my heart. I did not
try to persuade her, but I said maliciously and falsely--for I knew
better--that I thought she was very wrong not to do as her husband told
her.

"She gazed upon me with surprise and indignation; but the boy Franklin
burst forth, exclaiming, 'She does very right not to tell a lie for any
one:' and the Earl in his passion struck him to the ground.

"The boy instantly drew his dagger and sprang upon the Earl, but he
wrenched it from his hand in a moment, and putting him forth from the
door, returned laughing, moved to merriment, even in the midst of his
anger, by the youth's daring. With him the storm for a time passed
away; but from that moment my mistress seemed to look upon me with
contempt. I felt that I merited it, and hated her the more. All her
good deeds, all her kindness towards me, were forgotten; and a few
hasty words which she spoke the next morning, in her indignation at my
conduct, became like poison, and rankled in my heart. Thus passed two
or three more days; and I laid a scheme which succeeded but too well. I
looked at the Earl often as I passed him, seeking to draw his
attention, and make him speak to me upon the matter of his dispute with
my lady. At length, one day he did so, and I hurriedly and basely
advised him to obtain from her by any means the proofs of her marriage,
and then let her refuse to go back to her brother for a time if she
dared. My mistress came in as we were speaking, and looked surprised,
but said nothing; and the Earl followed my advice. He tried many
methods to arrive at his purpose; but it was in a moment of love and
affection that he induced her to give him up the certificates, the
attestations of myself and the other servant, and all the proofs of her
marriage, upon the pretence that he would keep them more securely. A
doubt, however, seemed to cross her mind, even when she was placing
them in his hands, for she asked him to swear most solemnly that he
would never destroy them; and I remember particularly, that when he
said he would swear by everything he held sacred, she insisted upon his
adding that he swore upon his honour as an English gentleman.

"When he had got the papers, however, and he knew that he could compel
her to do whatsoever he liked, his love and his tenderness seemed to
return in full force, and the idea of parting with her at all was
evidently hateful to him. At length, however, necessity compelled
him to propose it again; and once more, high words and angry
discussion ensued; and then it was that all the smothered feelings
which she had been long nourishing towards myself burst forth.
She accused me of alienating her husband's affection. She called me
base--ungrateful--criminal. She told me to quit her presence, and never
re-appear in it again; and I did quit her, determined to return to
France, and obey her to the letter.

"How the matter would have ended between herself and her husband, I
know not, had not other circumstances intervened; for, with
all his violent passions, he certainly loved her still,
deeply--tenderly--devotedly. But news was suddenly brought him that
his real name and character, which he had concealed, had been
discovered, and that warrants were out for his apprehension, as what
they called a Malignant. He returned to the house for a few minutes
after receiving these tidings, informed his wife what had taken place,
took a tender and affectionate leave of her, and besought her to hasten
to France with all speed, where he would join her ere ten days were
over. The spot was named, the time fixed, and I saw him press her
warmly to his heart as they parted.

"He then spoke to me for a moment, and, bidding me forget all that had
passed, enjoined me to remain with and console my mistress. I refused
at once, sternly and bitterly, to do so; and as he had no time to lose,
and found my determination fixed, he only further asked me to let him
know without fail where I established my abode, that he might show his
gratitude for my services in brighter days, and do away the evil
feelings between my mistress and myself. I told him that he would
always hear of me at the house of my brother, and he departed. He was
scarcely gone when I too left the house, and found my way back to
France alone, but took care not to revisit the place of my birth,
believing that a bad name had gone there before me. What happened to my
mistress then I do not know; but I heard that, keeping only the boy
Franklin Gray to attend upon her, she had sold all her jewels--"

"We had better not admit anything into the declaration," said Mr.
Evelyn, "except what you personally saw or knew, my good lady. Indeed,
as it is, only parts of the declaration can be used."

"I am neither good nor a lady, Master Lawyer," replied Bertha. "But to
go on with what I personally know--about a year and a half after, or
perhaps two years, a letter reached me by a circuitous route from the
Earl of Danemore, telling me that the restoration of the Stuart family
to the throne of England had restored him to his native land and all
his honours, and that if I chose to come to England, and occupy that
post in his household which I lately filled, I should spend the rest of
my days in comfort and peace and honour. I agreed to do so, for where I
then was, I was very miserable; and I set out for England. When I came
into his presence, however, he scarcely knew me; for when he had last
seen me I had been a blooming--perhaps a handsome girl; and in that
short space, grief, anxiety, and self-reproach had made me, with very
little difference, what I now am. To my surprise, however, I found that
his house was occupied by a noble and beautiful bride; and when he told
me, I gazed in his face with wonder and apprehension. He understood my
looks, and with that stern, determined air which was so natural to his
countenance, he told me, in a few short words, that when he had
returned to France, being hopeless and nearly destitute, he had not
sought out his wife as he had promised, trusting that she would go back
to her brother and conceal her marriage, as he from the first had
wished. The Marquis de Beaulieu had sought him out, however, and
covered him with reproaches: they had fought, and both had been
severely wounded. 'I then,' he added, 'went into other lands; but
suddenly found that the king had been restored. I returned to my native
country, but speedily perceived, that though I had sacrificed
everything for my sovereign, I could regain my honours, but could not
regain one half of my estates without using the influence of another
peer, all-powerful with the king. To him I applied, and he proposed to
me a marriage with his daughter. I might have resisted the temptation
if I had never seen her; but she is young, beautiful, fascinating. I
married her, and regained all.'

"'And the Lady Eugenie,' I cried; 'the Lady Eugenie?'

"'She is dead,' replied the Earl; 'I have now obtained certain
information that she is dead; but I cannot say,' he added; and he
grasped my arm tightly while he spoke--'I cannot say I am sure that she
was dead before this second marriage was contracted; and now, Bertha,'
he continued, 'now, swear to me, by everything you hold sacred, never,
till I permit you, to reveal to any one the fact of my former marriage;
and if you do swear, you bind me to you for ever!' I did swear, for we
both thought that she was dead; and I kept that promise inviolably. But
I asked him, before I took any vow, if he had kept his, and preserved
the proofs of his first marriage; for, at first, I thought he wished to
entangle me by an oath, when his real wife was still living; and I had
repented enough already what I had done against her. He told me that he
had, and showed them to me in the chamber where they were preserved:
and again he swore never to destroy them, though her death, he said,
might well free him from that promise. But I saw then, and I have seen
through his life, that he felt, as well as I did--that there was a fate
attached to those papers which would one day change everything.

"He then brought me to the presence of his lady, to whom he had
announced my coming. When the door opened for me to enter, and she knew
who it was, she turned towards me, as I thought, coldly and somewhat
sullenly; but the moment after, she looked surprised. She had expected
to see a young and handsome girl; but she saw a lean and sallow woman,
and all doubts of me and of her husband, if she had entertained such,
vanished. She became as kind to me as the first day of spring, though
she was often haughty and cold to others. She trusted me in everything,
and I learned to love her well. I loved her better, far better, than
the mistress I had at first served; but there was still something
wanting in the latter attachment. I believe it was the freshness of
early feelings; the freshness that never comes again. However, after I
had been in England for some ten years, and one son of the Earl and his
Countess had been born and died, and the second supplied his place,
being then but a sickly child himself, I remained behind for a short
time in London after they had quitted the court to come down into the
country. In about ten days I followed, and travelling slowly, stopped
one night at a little inn in the town of Stockbridge.

"It was night; and, after having supped, I went along the passage
towards my bed-room, when, as I passed a door that was open, I heard a
voice that almost made me sink into the earth. It was that of the Lady
Eugenie; and, as I passed by the door, I looked in without wishing to
look, and I saw her there, sitting speaking to a servant, pale and
worn, but scarcely less beautiful than ever. I was fool enough to
faint; and when I revived, I found myself in her chamber, with herself
and her woman bending over me. At first I thought she did not know me,
so terribly was I changed, and so little did she seem moved by the
sight of one who had injured her; but when I was quite well, and
thanked her in the English tongue, and was about to leave her, she
said. 'No; stay a moment. Leave us, Marguerite;' and I trembled so that
I could not move. The girl went away: and then she said, 'You are
terribly altered, Bertha; but I have kept you to say, that if sorrow
for anything you ever did against me be the cause of that sad change,
console yourself. I have long ago forgiven you. Nay, more; I have often
thought I did you some injustice.'"

"Then you positively saw the same lady with your own eyes," said Mr.
Evelyn, "whom you had seen united to the late Earl before the death of
Cromwell, ten years after he had married another person?"

"I did," replied Bertha. "But it is useless now to detail all that
passed between us. I found that her brother had compelled her to assume
another name, and to spread a report of her own death. That after her
return to France she had borne a son; this gentleman present, the true
Earl of Danemore--"

"You mistake," said Langford; "I was born in England, in the very town
where my father's marriage was celebrated with my mother; for she was
resolved, she has often told me, that I should lose none of the
privileges of an Englishman by being born in a foreign country, and she
crossed the seas to England a month before my birth, in order that her
child might first see light in the native land of his father. I have
the certificate of my birth duly attested."

"All that, she told me," answered Bertha; "and I meant but to say that
the child was born some months after her husband had left her. The boy
was with her then, and I saw him; and I am ready to swear, though
changed now from a youth to a man, that this is the same person. She
strove eagerly to persuade me to give her an attestation of her
marriage, under my hand; but I would not do it, for I had vowed not.
She asked anxiously after the papers, too, and if I knew whether they
had been destroyed; but I assured her that her husband had kept his
word. I told her even where they were placed; and I assured her that if
ever fate so willed it that the obstacles which then existed to the
open establishment of her marriage should be removed--and I felt that
they would be--I assured her, I say, that I would then aid her to the
very best of my power in obtaining the result she wished. I promised
her even then to do all that I could, without breaking my oath, to
console and comfort her; and I told her, without, however, telling her
the whole truth, that her husband fully believed her to be dead.

"We women derive comfort from strange sources often; and that thought
that her husband believed her to be dead, and had acted as he had acted
under that belief, seemed to console her more than anything that I had
said. She wept bitterly; but the tears were evidently sweet ones; and
when we parted, she made me promise to write to her frequently, and
give her news of him whom she still dearly loved. I did write to her
frequently, and she to me; and I told her everything that passed, which
could give her any pleasure to hear. After her death her son wrote to
me; and though for some time past he has not told me his movements, yet
when I heard from accidental report that for two or three summers a
gentleman had been wandering about the neighbourhood, attracting the
attention of many by his gracious manners and his kindly heart, I felt
sure that it was the son of Eugenie de Beaulieu, led on by the hand of
fate towards the destiny that awaited him."

Thus Bertha ended her history, which had occupied some time in the
narration; and when it was done, both Langford and Sir Walter pondered
for several minutes over the tale just told. The first who broke
silence was Mr. Evelyn, who though but a country attorney of those
days, was superior both in knowledge and in mind to the generality of
his class.

"Though, undoubtedly," he said, "there is sufficient matter to bear us
out in making a vigorous struggle to recover your rights, my lord, yet
I very much fear that, without the documents which afford the only real
legal evidence of the marriage, we should be defeated. The leaf has
been taken so nicely out of the register that we can draw no conclusive
inference from that fact. And yet," he continued, as if a sudden
thought struck him--"and yet there may be means of proving that a leaf
is really wanting. Of that, however, more hereafter, for we cannot be
at all secure without the papers."

"Should I make up my mind," said Langford, "to enter into the struggle
at all, I think that I shall be able ultimately to obtain them; but in
the meantime--"

He was interrupted, however, by the entrance of the rector's servant,
who announced that a gentleman had just arrived, demanding to speak
with the Earl of Danemore, and on being told that he was dead, had
appeared in what the man called a great taking.

"Is he gone?" demanded the rector.

"No, sir," replied the servant. "When I told him the Earl was dead, but
that a number of gentlemen were in the parlour talking the matter over,
he said that he should like to speak with them, as he had news of great
importance to communicate from Lord Harold."

"Pray let us see him," said Langford; and the rector, bowing his head,
told the servant to give the stranger admittance.




                            CHAPTER XXXIV.


Before we follow any further the proceedings, however important they
might be, which were taking place at the village of Danemore, we must
return to several of the personages concerned in this history, whom we
have now quitted for somewhat too long a period. In the first place, we
must give due consideration to Mr. Justice Whistler, whom we last left
fast asleep. Whether he dreamed at all or not is difficult to say, but
if he did, it is certain that his dreams must have been of prisons and
the gallows, for such were the very first thoughts that presented
themselves to his mind when he awoke after a nap of between five and
six hours.

It is probable, indeed, that he would not have roused himself near so
soon, but for an extraordinary trampling of horses and the sound of
manifold voices, which, ascending from the court-yard below, caused
Morpheus to flap away upon his soft wings, and leave the worthy
magistrate with his eyes and ears wide open, wondering what could be
the matter. He started from his bed instantly, and advanced to the
window, the curtains of which had been drawn to keep out the sun; and
putting forth his head above the court-yard, he perceived a number of
persons collected together, habited principally like sturdy yeomen and
farmers. Each had his horse with him, and all seemed to be well armed;
while the two constables who had followed the worthy magistrate in his
nocturnal expedition were seen in the midst of the crowd, bustling
about with a look of importance. Now Justice Whistler was a man of
rapid combinations, and he instantly divined what was the occasion of
the meeting; but he was a cautious man too, and he loved to have his
own conclusions confirmed by the testimony of others. He consequently
protruded his head still further from the window, and, catching the
attention of one of the constables, demanded, in somewhat of an
impatient tone, "What is all this about, sirrah? What are you going to
do?"

"We are going to catch the thief, your worship," replied the constable;
"and all these good gentlemen are going to help us."

"On no account! on no account!" exclaimed the justice from the window.
"What! without me? I tell you if that fellow were hanged without my
help, I would hang myself."

"Why, we thought as how," replied the man, "that your worship had been
so well basted already, that you might likely not wish for any more of
it."

"Out upon you, fellow!" said the justice, "I'll baste you, if you do
not mind. Go, and beg Mr. Rector directly, to stop but for ten minutes;
and I'll be ready to go with him. If any man were to lay a hand upon
that fellow Gray before me, I should hold myself but half a man and no
gentleman. Go, and tell him so, sirrah!"

While the man proceeded to obey the commands he had received, Mr.
Justice Whistler hurried on his garments, wincing desperately, every
now and then, as a sudden turn made him aware of the deficiency of skin
on some part or another of his back. At length, however, his toilet was
accomplished as far as it could be; that is to say, his vest was put
on, for neither coat nor cloak had been left to him; and with a rueful
face he was obliged to descend with his sturdy arms only decorated by
the wide white sleeves of his shirt.

Guided by the sound of voices he found his way to the rector's parlour,
and, opening the door, presented himself to the eyes of the more select
party therein assembled. It consisted of three or four of the principal
farmers or small landed proprietors in the neighbourhood, together with
the rector himself, and a young gentleman, who instantly, by the entire
difference of his mien and demeanour from those of the persons by whom
he was surrounded, attracted the attention of the worthy magistrate. He
was tall and well proportioned, though somewhat slightly made; but he
was extremely pale, so much so, indeed, as to have the appearance of
ill-health. He was only armed with an ordinary sword, which might
perhaps have befitted a country gentleman in those days, but did not
harmonize with the striking and distinguished appearance of the
personage who bore it. But while there was something about the corners
of the mouth which implied a certain degree of indecision of character,
there was a quick dash in the eye, and lines and furrows upon the brow,
that seemed to contradict the other expression, and gave a look of
stern determination even approaching to fierceness. The appearance of
the justice in his shirt sleeves, joined with the account which had
been previously given of his adventures of the night before, for a
moment relaxed the countenance of the young gentleman we have
mentioned, and, sitting by a table on which various refreshments were
laid out, he gazed upon Justice Whistler with a smile.

"My dear sir," exclaimed the magistrate, addressing his host--"My dear
sir, how could you think of going against this scoundrel without me? I
would not have had it done for a thousand pounds."

"Why," replied the rector, "we judged that your worship was so tired
and injured that it would have been cruel to disturb your repose; and
as I had yesterday morning gone round the country, and appointed all
these worthy people to meet here, for the purpose of taking as many as
we can of this gang of villains, I could not very well delay."

"What! then you had determined to go against them before I came?" cried
the justice, hewing himself off a large slice from a cold sirloin that
graced the table. "How was that? How was that? I understood they had
only been in this country some few days, and they cannot have committed
many depredations."

"Yes; but my noble young guest here, the Lord Harold," replied the
rector, "only escaped from their hands the night before, and arrived at
my house yesterday morning. We consulted together what was to be done,
and determined on the steps we have taken."

"My Lord Harold!" cried the justice; "my Lord Harold, I give your
lordship good morning, and very happy I am to see you alive, for we
have had many doubts on the subject; and I have had more to do with
your concerns of late than perhaps you are aware of."

"I am afraid my father must have suffered much anxiety on my account,"
said Lord Harold, with a somewhat cold and stately air; "but I sent off
a letter yesterday morning, the very first moment that I had the means
of doing so, to inform him of my safety. Had the messenger not arrived
when you left that part of the country?"

"Not that I heard of, not that I heard of, my lord," replied the
justice. "My good lord, your father, indeed, had much anxiety; and, for
the matter of that, other people too; for there was a certain young
gentleman taken up, and accused of having murdered you. He remained for
several days in confinement, which seemed to chafe his proud spirit
very much."

"Pray who was that, sir?" demanded Lord Harold. "Why, he calls himself
Captain Henry Langford," replied the justice; "but you may doubtless
know more of him by some other name."

Lord Harold's brow grew as dark as night, and bright red spots came
into his cheek as he replied, "I have heard of him, and seen him, and
have also been informed that he takes the name of the Chevalier de
Beaulieu. But perhaps you have had an opportunity of investigating more
fully who he really is?"

The justice, however, saw that Lord Harold was utterly unacquainted
with all that had taken place during his absence; and, as there was a
great deal that he himself could not explain clearly, while everything
that he could explain was anything but agreeable, he determined to
leave the task to others, and was meditating how to evade giving any
reply, when the rector came unexpectedly to his aid, by saying, "I beg
pardon for interrupting you, gentlemen; but allow me to remind you that
time wears. It is now near one o'clock. We have fully fifteen miles or
more to go, and it may be necessary not to fatigue our horses before we
arrive at the point of our destination. By your leave, therefore, I
think we had better postpone all explanations."

"One more cup of this excellent ale," exclaimed the justice, "and then
I am ready. I hope the rascals have got my horse saddled. Pray, your
reverence, make inquiry."

"But, my dear sir," said the rector, "how can you manage to go without
a coat? I am afraid, too, that none of mine would fit you--not even one
of my loose riding coats, for I am a spare man, and you are----"

"Fat! you would say," added the justice. "Yes, I am fat, sir; that is
to say, fattish; and how to do without a coat I know not; but go I
will. Is there not a fat person in the neighbourhood that would lend me
a jerkin?"

"Why, your reverence," said one of the farmers, who had hitherto stood
aloof, but who now advanced towards the rector, "there's Farmer Balls,
down at the Pond Gate; his coat would just do. He weighs full one and
twenty stone. His coat would surely just fit his worship."

"I could get into it, at least," said the magistrate, "for I only weigh
nineteen, so there are two stone to spare, which makes more difference
in a coat than in a load of hay. So run, my good sir, or send some one,
and beg Farmer Balls to lend Justice Whistler a coat for a few hours.
Hark ye! hark ye! not his Sunday's best, for we have dirty work to do,
and there is no need to spoil it."

The coat was soon procured; and Mr. Justice Whistler, having mounted
with the rest, set out at the head of the procession, which consisted
of nearly thirty persons, having Lord Harold on one side of him, and
the reverend rector on the other. The justice took the place of leader
as a sort of right, which was tacitly conceded to him by all the rest,
more out of respect for his portly person than from anything that they
knew of his character or abilities.

Lord Harold, however, soon began to appreciate his ready shrewdness,
for as they moved onward at a slow trot, he put several questions to
him with regard to their future proceedings, resolved, if he found any
occasion to be dissatisfied with the other's arrangements, to take the
matter into his own hands; for the stern and harsh determination which
he had formed in regard to Franklin Gray had not at all given way since
the period of his escape.

The plans which the justice proposed however, the shrewdness with which
he put all his questions regarding the exact situation of the house,
and the rapidity with which he received and comprehended every
explanation given, soon convinced his young companion that they could
not be in better hands. It was accordingly determined that, as soon as
they reached the top of the hills at the point where they could first
see the house, the party should divide, and one body, under the
direction of the rector, should sweep round through a hollow in the
hills, while the other pursued the road by which Lord Harold had made
his escape, so as to approach the abode of Franklin Gray on both sides
at once. By this means no one could quit the house without being seen
by one or other of the parties, and the possibility of the robbers
effecting their escape by one side of the building while the assailants
forced their way on the other was guarded against. In making these
arrangements, and in giving directions to all the various personages of
which the troop was composed, the time was passed, till they emerged
from the woods, lanes, and cultivated grounds on the first <DW72>s of
the upland, and began to take their way over the soft short turf, which
was only varied by the innumerable scattered stones that covered the
higher ground on that side.

Lord Harold--though it must be acknowledged that he thought, and with
bitter pleasure, more of the capture of Franklin Gray than of any other
thing on earth--had determined to pass the rest of their march, after
every arrangement had been fully made, in learning from Mr. Justice
Whistler all that had taken place during his absence from Danemore
Castle, some vague reports of extraordinary events having reached him
even there, though the news which now travels by a steam carriage then
went by the waggon.

On putting his very first question, however, he perceived that the
keen, hawk-like eye of the justice was fixed upon a particular spot on
the hills, over whose soft green bosoms the sunshine and the shade were
chasing each other quickly, as the wind blew the light clouds over the
sky. The effect was beautiful but dazzling; yet still the justice kept
his eye fixed on that particular spot at the distance of about two
miles before them, and made no reply whatsoever to the young lord's
interrogation.

Lord Harold, who was in no very placable frame of mind, repeated his
question in a sharper tone; but the magistrate instantly exclaimed,
without taking any notice of him, "Yes, yes; I see it move! Do not you,
parson? Look ye there, up in that hollow which the shadow is just
leaving. I have been for this ten minutes trying to determine whether
that is a man on horseback or a hawthorn tree. It is a man, I'm sure! I
saw it move this minute, a bit to the left, so as to get a better sight
of us."

"There is a hawthorn tree there," said the rector; "I know it of old.
But you are right, you are right! There is something moving from behind
it. It is a horseman indeed, evidently watching us. See, he is
cantering up the hill. I am afraid this bodes disappointment."

"There is another on the top of the highest mound," cried Justice
Whistler; "they have a terrible start of us; but never mind. We must
not fear breaking our horses' wind. We must gallop as hard as we can
go; and now there must be no thought of going round by the hollow as we
proposed. The only plan is to make for the house as fast as possible.
Don't you say so, my lord?"

"Most assuredly," replied Lord Harold; "there are women and children
also to be moved, which must take them some time. It cost them nearly
an hour and a half to get ready when they came hither, for I was with
them, and saw all their proceedings."

"Set spurs to your horses, then, gentlemen!" cried the magistrate,
aloud. "Master Constable, ask some of these good yeomen to lend me a
pistol. They can muster a brace for me amongst them, I dare say. Some
of them seem to have three or four."

But leaving the constable to bring him the weapons afterwards, he
himself spurred on without any delay, while Lord Harold and the rector
accompanied him at full speed, and the officers and farmers followed
quickly, gaining, by the rapidity of motion and the excitement of the
sort of race they ran with each other, a good deal more courage and
enthusiasm than they had probably set out with. At this eager pace they
reached the top of the hill, but were obliged to ride some little way
to the right before they could get a sight of the house. When they did
so, however, though nothing was seen of it but the chimneys towering up
above the tall trees, every one instinctively pulled in his bridle
rein, with somewhat of an awful feeling at his heart.

The house lay at the distance of about two miles and a half, but the
air was clear and pure, and every curl of the thin blue smoke, as it
rose peacefully over the trees, might be traced by the eye till it
mingled with the atmosphere around. After a moment's silence, the
constable rode up, and put the pistols into Justice Whistler's hands;
but at that very instant a body of horsemen was seen passing over the
<DW72> beyond the house, and then giving rein to their horses, and
galloping away as hard as ever they could, over the open downs beyond.

Man is undoubtedly a beast of prey; and, in the present instance, no
sooner did the posse who followed the justice, the rector, and the
young nobleman, see a body in flight before them, than those who had
been most timid and fearful of leading the way, were all setting off at
full gallop in pursuit of fugitives whom there was little or no chance
of overtaking. It was with the utmost difficulty that the fat but
powerful voice of Mr. Justice Whistler, the shriller tones of the
rector, and the deeper but feebler sounds of Lord Harold's voice, each
exerted with the utmost force, could induce these hot pursuers to halt
and receive orders ere they departed.

When they were at length brought to pull up their horses, however, a
few words between their three leaders seemed to settle their
arrangements, and Mr. Justice Whistler raised his voice, exclaiming,
"Constable Jones!"

But no one came forward, he having pronounced the name at random, and
there being no Constable Jones amongst them, "The youngest constable,"
he cried again; but thereat his own two followers, with three or four
others, spurred forward from the crowd; and fixing upon the one who
appeared the most intelligent of those who had come with him, he said,
"Take that man, and that man, and that man, and that, and gallop after
those fellows as hard as ever you can go. Remember, your business is
not to come up with them till you have got a sufficient force, but to
raise the whole country as you go along by the hue and cry, commanding
all men, in the king's name, to follow and assist you. Keep them in
sight as far as possible, but at all events keep above them on the
hills, and drive them into the populous country. There you may follow
them by the tongue as well as here by the eye. Now off with ye, quick!
We will come soon after, when we have run through the house."

The men obeyed, though their worthy leader twice showed an inclination
to doubt whether this person or that was the man whom the judge had
appointed to follow him. But Mr. Justice Whistler cut him short
sharply, and having seen him depart, turned to Lord Harold, saying,
"Now, my lord, I think with you that we had a great deal better go down
to the house, and examine what it contains, before we pursue these men,
having set our hounds upon the track. But as this reverend gentleman
says nothing, and seems to think otherwise, pray satisfy him in regard
to your reasons, to which I will add mine."

"Why," added Lord Harold, hesitating, "why, I think--that is to say, I
saw nothing but men in the party that went away. Now there is a woman
and a child, and if you take them, depend upon it, the chief bird of
the mew will hover near, and be caught at last."

As he spoke there was a deep and burning spot came up into his cheek,
which showed that there were feelings of shame and remorse, glowing
like coals of fire at his heart, even at the moment that the baser
spirit triumphed, and bowed his words and actions to its will.

Mr. Justice Whistler, however, did all that he could to make the matter
smooth to him. "Spoken like a true falconer," he cried; "my lord, you
take my trade out of my hands. We are fully justified in bringing our
bird back to the lure. However, there is no time to spare. Let us ride
on as fast as possible;" and so saying, he put his horse into a quick
pace, and, followed by the others, dashed down the hill at a rate which
scared many of the younger and more active of the party.

We must now, however, leave all the busy actors we have brought upon
the scene, and, quitting hounds and huntsmen, and the gay and merry
chase, turn to the dark and solitary lair where the quarry lay, fully
conscious of pursuit, in order to explain the motives of that sudden
flight which had been observed by the pursuers from the hills above.




                            CHAPTER XXXV.


The escape of Lord Harold, and the flight of one of their companions
with the woman-servant, had thrown the little band of Franklin Gray
into consternation and terror when it was discovered on the following
morning. Harvey, however, who assumed the command during the absence of
their leader, instantly took measures for tracking the fugitives, and,
by no other guide than the footmarks upon the sandy parts of the road,
traced the course of all three exactly to the spot where Lord Harold
had been left sitting under a tree by his two companions. From that
point all traces of those two were lost; but a shepherd, who had seen
the young nobleman, weary and exhausted, in the morning, and had
conducted him to a small village, hidden amongst the beeches to the
left of the spot, gave still further information; and leaving men to
keep a strict watch upon the place to which the fugitive had been
brought by the peasant, Harvey returned, with very unpleasant
sensations, to meet Franklin Gray, and gave him an account of the
evasion of the prisoner. He doubted not, indeed, that having thus
tracked him to his place of repose, they might be able to lay hands on
him again, for he never calculated upon the young nobleman doing what
in fact he already had done--taking a single hour's repose, and then
speeding on as fast as possible to the house of the nearest magistrate,
which was that of the gentleman with whom he was found by Justice
Whistler.

As Harvey returned, he perceived Franklin Gray and Mona riding
leisurely up the hill towards the house, and spurring forward at once,
he told the whole of his disagreeable tidings without any concealment.
The robber instantly turned his eyes upon his wife, and bit his lip
hard; while she, innocent of all share in what had occurred, but
feeling herself an object of suspicion and jealousy, turned very red,
and then very pale, and trembled violently.

"So, I am betrayed!" said Franklin Gray, "betrayed by those I trusted!
Harvey, I think you are faithful to me!"

"Indeed I am, Captain," replied the other; "and so are all the rest,
except that fellow who is gone, and whom I always thought was a low
scoundrel, unfit for the company of gentlemen. They are all faithful to
you, Captain, depend upon it."

"On what can we depend in life?" asked Franklin Gray, bitterly
"Friendship turns to hate; love betrays us always; gratitude was never
anything but a name; and honour is now a shadow! On what can we depend?
Let us come in, however, and consult what may be done. Action has been
through life the principle of my being; and I will not yield to
circumstances even now."

So saying, he led the way to the house; but he said not one word to his
wife, either as they went or when they arrived. The boy Jocelyn,
however, was in the court-yard, holding the infant in his arms, who
seemed well pleased with his new nurse. But Mona, the moment she had
set her foot to the ground, sprang forward and caught the baby to her
heart, exclaiming, "and did she leave you, my sweet babe? Cruel, cruel
woman! She never had one, or she could not have left you;" and dewing
its smiling face with tears, she ran away with it into the house to
hide the emotions she could not restrain.

Had Franklin Gray witnessed that meeting between mother and child, the
dark suspicions that had fully taken possession of his mind might have
been banished at once; but he was talking with Harvey at the moment,
and remembered nothing but the many whispered messages which he had
seen brought by the maid from the prisoner above on the preceding day;
and keen and bitter were the feelings at his heart. He went on speaking
with Harvey, however, as if occupied with ordinary business.

"If he have not quitted the village before this time," he said, "he
will most likely not quit it till night, knowing that we shall be
waiting for him. But at all events the horses must have some rest and
food. I rather think that, as far as insuring our own safety goes,
Harvey, we might as well let him journey on his way, for depend upon it
by this time he has given full information of everything concerning us
to the people where he has stopped. However, I am determined, if
possible, to have him in my hands again. In the first place, to punish
him for what he has done; in the next place, to find out the truth of
some matters in regard to which I am not at ease."

He spoke calmly; there was no heat, nor haste, nor agitation in his
tone. On the contrary, it was unusually slow and distinct; but there
was a knitting of the dark heavy brow, a setting together of the white
teeth between every two or three words, which made Harvey, bold man and
daring as he was, shrink, as it were, within himself, at signs of deep
and terrible passions, the effects of which he knew too well.

"Perhaps," continued Franklin Gray, in an easier tone, "the possession
of this young lord's person might be made, too, a sort of surety for
the safety of the band. There is a ship, I find, sails for the port of
St. Malo in four days; and I have made such arrangements that I can
have what space in her I like. I should wish our brave fellows to keep
around me till that time; when those who like to go with me can; those
who love this cold land can remain. But if we get hold of this pitiful
boy, I shall deal with him as a hostage, and make his life the price of
no step whatsoever being taken against me and mine."

With such objects in view, and believing that Lord Harold still
remained at the village to which Harvey had traced him, the
arrangements of Franklin Gray were soon made for proceeding in a few
hours to the spot in person. In the meanwhile he entered the house, and
held his infant child for several minutes in his arms, gazing on its
face in silence. He gazed, too, for an instant upon his beautiful wife,
with a cold meditative look, and without proffering a word; then gave
her back the child, and walked out across the hill, marking with a
soldier's eye every peculiarity of the country, when he did look upon
it, but in general bending his eyes down upon the ground, and communing
with his own sad heart, and muttering to himself as he strode along.

When the appointed hour was come, he was in the court-yard and his foot
in the stirrup; but his after proceedings on that night require no long
detail. Some information which he gathered, both from the men whom
Harvey had left to observe all the movements in the village, and from
some persons who passed, led him not only to believe that Lord Harold
was undoubtedly there, but that the young nobleman had gained tidings
of the close watch that was kept upon the place. The night was spent in
watching, and in vague councils held with Harvey and others, in the
course of which Franklin Gray did not display that firm decision which
had ever previously characterized his actions. He now thought of taking
the rashest and the boldest steps, of attacking the village itself, and
carrying off Lord Harold by force; then, again, he seemed inclined
still to watch, though the night had so far waned that it was
improbable any movement would take place; and again he was for giving
up the pursuit altogether.

In such infirm purposes passed the night, till the sound of horses'
feet revived expectation; and the appearance and flagellation of Mr.
Justice Whistler afforded a pleasant episode for the robbers to break
the tedium of their dull night's work. As soon as that was over,
Franklin Gray turned his steps homeward again; but feeling a conviction
that the peasantry of the neighbouring districts would soon be moved
against him, he took the precaution of placing two of his band, whose
horses were in the freshest condition, on two points, where they could
communicate by signs with each other, and see over the whole country
below.

He then returned straight to his dwelling; but there had come a
recklessness over him, a sort of moody and splenetic demeanour, which
was remarked by Harvey and all his companions. He who usually laughed
so seldom, now recalled the affair of Justice Whistler more than once
with somewhat wild and fitful merriment; but then the moment after he
would fall into deep stern thought, answer any question that was put to
him in an absent if not in an incoherent manner, and would frequently
break forth at once upon topics totally distinct from those which might
naturally have occupied his mind.

When he arrived at home--at least that temporary kind of home which was
all that his wandering life ever allowed him to know--he was met at the
door by his fair wife Mona, who gazed timidly up in his face, to see
whether his feelings were softer or happier than they had been. It was
an agreeable surprise to her to find that he took her by the hand, and
gazed on her with a look of admiration and love. The only words he
spoke, however, were, "You are fair, my Mona; fairer, I think, than
ever, to look upon. Where is the babe?"

She led him to see the child sleeping; and as Franklin Gray bent over
it, and gazed upon the calm and placid face of infant slumber, a bright
drop fell from his eyes on the cheek of the child, and woke it from its
rest. It held out its little arms to him at once, however; and taking
it up, and pressing it to his bosom, he carried it to the window, and
gazed forth upon the wide world beyond. Mona had seen the drops which
fell from her husband's eyes, and she saw, too, his action towards the
child, but she would not interrupt the course of such feelings for the
world, and only saying in her heart, "He is softened," she hastened to
seek some apparent occupation, while her soul was busy with the joy of
renewed hopes.

That joy was soon clouded, for again over Franklin Gray came that same
fitful mood, which tenderness for his child had for a moment
interrupted. He said nothing harsh, indeed; he showed no sign of
unkindness; and no word announced that the dark suspicions and
jealousies which he had before entertained still remained as tenants of
his bosom. Often, indeed, he fell into deep stern fits of thought, and
would rest for more than half an hour in the same position, with his
head bent forward, and his eyes fixed on one particular spot of the
ground. Then, again, he would start up, and, especially if he found
Mona's eye resting upon him, would break forth in gaiety and merriment,
tell some wild tale of laughable adventure, or sing a broken part of
some cheerful song.

Mona, however, was not to be deceived by such signs; and they were all
painful to her. That he whom she had never known to be merry, even in
his brightest days, should so suddenly, after deep gloom, break forth
into gaiety, was quite enough to show her that all was not well within;
and watching him with the anxious eyes of deep affection, she strove to
do and say all that could soothe and calm, and console and cheer him.
Sometimes her efforts would seem successful, sometimes not. Sometimes
he would gaze upon her with looks of deep and earnest love; sometimes
would start away when her hand touched his, as if it had been a
serpent. All and everything she saw was matter of deep pain and anxious
thought to Mona Gray.

When the hour of dinner came, she strove to tempt him to his food, but
he would scarce taste anything except wine, and of that drank more than
usual. It seemed not to excite, however, but rather to calm him. His
manner grew more consistent; sadder, but more tranquil; and leaving his
companions still at the table, he led his wife away to the chambers
they usually inhabited, and sat down and spoke with her rationally on
many things. There was an occasional abruptness, indeed, in his speech,
and a rapid transition from one thing to another, which still alarmed
her, but she consoled herself with the hope that the fit was passing
away, and that all would be better soon.

At length he said, "Come, Mona, come! While I take the child upon my
knee, you sing me a song. Who knows if I shall ever hear another?"

Though her heart was sad, she made no reply, but hastened to obey; and
she chose such words and such an air as she thought most likely to
soothe him. Both were sad, but through both there ran the bright
glimmering of hope; a cheerful note every now and then mingled with the
more melancholy ones, and promises of future happiness blended with the
sadder words of the lay.

The music still trembled in the air, when Harvey suddenly entered the
room, and approaching his captain, whispered a word or two in his ear.
Franklin Gray instantly started up, with the dark cloud upon his brow
which usually gathered there in moments of determined action.

"The time is come!" he exclaimed. "Harvey, I will speak with you and
the rest. Mona, take the child. I will be back in a few minutes."

He then followed Harvey out of the room; and from that moment his whole
demeanour was calm, collected, and firm. "Have all the horses saddled
quickly," he said; "each man collect everything valuable that he has.
Each man, too, have his arms all ready for action at a moment's notice!
Did you say, Harvey, that they had both come over the hill?"

"No; only one," replied Harvey; "but he came at such speed that there
can be no doubt the other will soon follow. We shall doubtless have to
stand to our arms soon, Captain, I suppose?" And as he spoke his cheek
was a little paler than ordinary; but there is such a thing as the
emotion of strong resolution, and it may blanch the cheek, though in a
slighter degree than fear.

"Perhaps so, Harvey," answered Franklin Gray; "but we shall hear;" and
as he spoke he advanced to the window, and having satisfied himself by
one glance, he turned back to Harvey, saying, "The other is coming too.
We shall know more anon."

The first of his watchers, who had been left on the other side of the
hills, had by this time nearly reached the house, and in a minute or
two after he entered the room where Franklin Gray and Harvey, with the
rest of the band who were not occupied in preparations, waited his
report. "Well," said the Captain, "what news, Miles?"

"Why, I am afraid they are coming up in great force, Captain," he
answered. "I could only see them draw out from the end of the lane upon
the hill side, but there seemed a good many of them. I did not move a
step, however, till I saw Doveton begin to canter away, then I thought
it right to come on and give you the first tidings. He will be here
soon, and render you a clearer account."

"You did quite right," replied his leader. "If we had all to deal with
such as you, my man, we should do very well." The man looked gratified;
but Franklin Gray went on; "Come, Harvey; we will go out into the
court. We shall be nearer the scene of action," and he walked
deliberately out into the court-yard, where the horses were now all
brought out and ranged in line.

"Mount, my men!" he cried; "mount! We shall soon have Doveton here.
Miles, that pistol will fall out of your holster. Don't you see the
lock has caught on the leather? You hold my horse, Jocelyn! Harvey," he
continued, speaking to the man apart, and pointing to the boy; "do you
think if we were obliged to make the best of our way off, and this
youth were left behind--this mere child, as you see he is--they would
injure him?"

"Oh, no," replied Harvey, "certainly not. They might take him away, but
we could soon find means to get him out of their hands again."

"So," replied Franklin Gray, "so. But I hear Doveton's horse's feet
clattering down the road as hard as he can come;" and in a minute or
two the man he spoke of rode into the court-yard, with his horse
foaming from the speed at which he had come.

"I am glad to see you are ready, Captain," he exclaimed; "for depend
upon it we shall have sharp work of it. There must be at the lowest
count forty of them coming up the hill, and all seemingly well mounted
and armed, for I looked at them through the spy-glass you gave me, and
I could see them all as plainly as if they were at the other end of the
table."

Franklin Gray mused for a moment, and then demanded, "Could you see who
it was that led them on?"

"Why, there were three rode abreast," said the man, "and I could see
them all plainly enough. The one on the left was a man in a black
cassock; but I don't think I ever saw him before. The middle one was a
fat heavy man, who, I rather think is the justice whom we flogged last
night--only in the darkness then I didn't well remark his face. But the
third one, on the right hand, is certainly that lord you had up here
for so long: that Lord Harold."

The cloud grew doubly dark upon Franklin Gray's brow, and putting his
hand to his throat, he loosened the laced collar of his shirt. "Fully
forty men, you say?" he demanded, thoughtfully. But then added, without
waiting for reply, "Harvey, you are not mounted! Quick, quick, into the
saddle! Miles and Doveton, put yourselves upon the left. Now, Harvey,
mark well what I have to tell you! Lead those men out, and take at full
gallop across the hill to the right. If you keep Elsland Peak always a
little to the left, you will come to a hollow; and if you ride up it as
fast as you can go, long before any one can overtake you, for their
horses are not used to this work like ours, you will have reached a
spot where the <DW72> divides the hollow into four, and all four lead
away to the beech wood, where you may disperse, and set chase at
defiance. Arrange your plans amongst yourselves as you go; and now lose
not a moment, for they must be over the hills by this time."

"But yourself, Captain," asked Harvey, anxiously; "yourself, and the
lady, and the little child? I will never leave you here alone."

"Do not be afraid Harvey," replied Franklin Gray, with a stern smile;
"I will take care of them and myself, depend upon it!"

"But I do not like this plan at all," cried the man. "What! to run away
and leave my captain behind me, at the mercy of these fellows that are
coming up! I do not like it at all, Captain Gray. This will never do."

"You surely would not disobey me in a moment of danger and difficulty
like this!" said Franklin Gray. "No, no, Harvey, you are too good a
soldier for that! But to satisfy you, you shall see that I provide in
some degree for my own safety. Jocelyn, take my horse down into the
narrow part between those two sheds, and hold him there, whatever you
see or hear, till I come to you. In the first place, open those two
other gates at the bottom of the court, and when you are holding the
horse, keep as far back as possible, that nobody may see you! Now,
Harvey," he added, "you see and are satisfied. Lead the men out as I
have commanded. I trust their safety to you!"

Harvey looked down and bit his lip, hesitating evidently for a moment
as to whether he should obey or not. At length he looked steadfastly in
Franklin Gray's face, and held out his hand to him, with a melancholy
shake of the head.

"God bless you, Captain Gray," he said; "I obey you even in this; but I
am very much afraid that you are not quite right in your plans. I am
afraid, I say, that you are acting under a wrong view; and I wish to
God you would think of it before it is too late. Well, well; I will
go--God bless you, I say. Come, my men, let us march;" and so saying he
led them all out of the court-yard.

Franklin Gray saw them depart with stern, unmoved composure; then
advanced to the gate himself, and while their horses were heard at the
full gallop proceeding in the direction which he had pointed out, he
himself gazed up towards the other part of the hills, and saw a strong
party of horsemen crowning some of the summits. He then spoke another
word or two to the boy Jocelyn, returned into the room where he had
conferred with Harvey, and paused with his arms folded on his chest,
pondering gloomily for about a minute.

His next act was to cast himself into a chair, and cover his eyes with
his hands, while his lip might be seen quivering with agonizing
emotion. It lasted scarcely a minute more, however, and rising up, he
struck his hand upon the table, saying, "Yes, yes; it shall be so!"

He then took a brace of pistols from the shelf, loaded them carefully,
and placed them in his belt; after which he proceeded to a closet
wherein were deposited several other weapons of the same kind; chose
out two with much deliberation, looked at them closely with a bitter
and ghastly smile; and having loaded them also, he locked the door of
the house, and returned to the room where he had left his wife.

The same dark smile was upon his countenance still, but he said as he
entered, "I have been away from you long, fair lady, but it was
business of importance called me. Now we will have another song, but it
shall be a gayer one than the last."

Mona sang, but it was still a sad strain that she chose; and Franklin
Gray, with his head bent down, and his ear inclined towards her,
listened attentively to every note. When it was done, he caught her to
his breast, and kissed her repeatedly, saying, "They are very sweet. Is
there no poison in them, Mona?"

"None! None! Franklin," she replied. "If any poison has reached your
heart, it has not been from Mona's lips."

Franklin Gray turned away, and muttered something to himself but Mona
did not hear that the words were, "Would it were so!"

"Play upon the lute," he continued sharply; "let us have the sound of
that too;" and again she did as he bade her, though by this time there
was a sound of heavy blows, as if given by a hammer below; together
with the trampling of horses' feet, and voices speaking.

"Those men are making so much noise I can scarcely play," at length,
she said, "and the poor baby is frightened by it. See, he is going to
cry!"

"Play, play!" said Franklin Gray, soothing the child with his hand, as
it sat close to his feet; and Mona again, though with a trembling hand
and anxious heart, struck the chords of the instrument. At that moment,
however, there was the rush of many feet along the passage; and the
next, the door of the chamber flew open, and seven or eight persons
rushed in.

Though Mona had not remarked it. Franklin had drawn some of the benches
and tables across the room when he first entered, in such a manner as
to form a sort of barricade; and the moment the door burst open he
started upon his feet, and levelled a pistol towards it, exclaiming,
"Stand!" in a voice that shook the room.

The first face that presented itself was that of Lord Harold, and
though his nerves were not easily shaken, yet the tone and gesture of
Franklin Gray caused him to pause for an instant, of which the Robber
at once took advantage.

"Lord Harold," he exclaimed, "you have come to see your handy-work, and
to receive its punishment. I saved your life. You taught my wife to
betray me!"

"Never, never!" shrieked Mona, falling on her knees before him.
"Never?" exclaimed Franklin Gray. "False woman! did you think I could
not see? Lo! pitiful boy, here is your handy work, and here your
punishment!" and turning the pistol at once towards her, he discharged
the contents into her bosom. She fell back with a loud shriek, and Lord
Harold in an instant sprang across the barrier; but ere he could take a
step beyond it, a second pistol was aimed at his head, and fired by
that unerring hand which seemed only to gain additional steadiness in
moments of agitation or of agony. Bounding up like a deer from the
ground, the young nobleman was cast back by the force of the shot at
once upon the table over which he had leaped; he never moved again:
there was an aguish quivering of the limbs, and a convulsive
contraction of the hand; but, as in the case of Wiley, the shot had
gone straight into the brain, and consciousness, and thought, and
sensation, were instantly at an end for ever.

The rest of the Robber's assailants shrunk back with terror; and
Franklin Gray, with a fierce triumphant smile, gazed at them for an
instant, while, casting the weapons he had used to such fatal purpose
on the ground, he drew a third from his belt, and exclaimed aloud, "Who
will be the next?"

Borne back by the fears and pressure of his companions, with great
difficulty Justice Whistler struggled through the doorway into the room
again, but he did so with a bold and undismayed countenance, and,
pistol in hand, advanced towards the Robber. But an object had
attracted the attention of Franklin Gray, and he was bending down
towards the floor.

The infant--the poor infant--had crawled towards its mother, and the
fair small hands were dabbled in her blood. The Robber snatched the
child up to his bosom, and giving one fierce glance towards the only
one who remained to assail him, he exclaimed, "Fool! you are not worth
the shot;" and thrusting the pistol into his belt again, he sprang
towards the window, which was wide open.

Though embarrassed with the child, he had passed through in a moment,
but not before Justice Whistler, shouting loudly, "He will escape! he
will escape!" had pulled the trigger of his pistol at him with a steady
aim. Loaded, however, by hands unused to such occupations, it merely
flashed in the pan; and though he instantly drew forth the second, and
fired, it was too late; Franklin Gray had passed, and was dropping down
to the ground below.

"Stop him! Stop him:" exclaimed the justice, springing to the window,
and overturning chairs and tables in his way. "He will escape! He will
escape! Stop him below there! Run down, you cowardly rascals! Run down,
and pursue him in every direction! By ----! the fellow will escape
after all!" And after gazing for a single instant from the window he
rushed out of the room.

On the side where Franklin Gray sprang to the ground there was not one
of the party who had come to take him, all, except those who had
entered the house and learned the contrary, believing that he had fled
with the rest whom they had seen traversing the hills, and all being
busy in examining the Robber's abode, the courts, the stabling, the
harness that had been left behind, with open-mouthed curiosity.

The voice of the justice, indeed, called one stout farmer round, and he
instantly attempted to seize the stranger whom he saw hurrying forwards
towards some sheds at the other end of the building, but, though a
burly and a powerful yeoman, one quick blow from the Robber's hand laid
him prostrate on the earth, and springing past him, Franklin Gray
reached the spot where his horse was held.

The boy Jocelyn had managed skilfully, constantly avoiding the side
from which a sound of voices came. But now the quick and well-known
step called him forth in a moment; the fiery horse was held tight with
one hand, the stirrup with the other; and by the time Justice Whistler,
with the troop that followed him, came rushing forth from the door,
Franklin Gray was in the saddle; and still bearing the child in his
arms, he struck his spurs into the horse's sides, and galloped through
the gates.

Two of the farmers who had remained on horseback without, had seen him
mount, but not knowing who he was, had not attempted to interrupt him.
The appearance of their companions in pursuit, however, instantly
undeceived them, and they spurred after at full speed. On went the
gallant charger of Franklin Gray, however, faster than they could
follow; and when they had kept up the race, at about twenty yards
behind him, for nearly a quarter of a mile, the one nearest exclaimed
aloud, "I will shoot his horse."

The words must have reached the Robber's ear; for instantly his charger
slackened its pace, and the pursuer gained upon him a little; but then
Franklin Gray turned in the saddle, and with the bridle in his teeth
stretched out his right hand towards him. Next came a flash, a report,
and the farmer tumbled headlong from the saddle severely wounded, while
Franklin Gray pursued his course with redoubled speed.

Almost all the rest of the party who had come to take him were now
mounted and in full pursuit; but his greatest danger was not from them.
A little above him, on the hill, and nearly at the same distance from
the house where he had dwelt, were seen, when he had gone about a mile,
several of the party who had been sent to follow his band. The sight of
a horseman in full flight, and many others pursuing, as well as the
gestures and shouts of those below, made them instantly turn and
endeavour to cut him off. On that side, as he was obliged to turn to
avoid both the parties, the pursuers gained upon him, and, as if by
mutual consent, they now strained every nerve to hem him in.

There was, about half a mile further on, a chasm caused by a deep
narrow lane, between banks of twenty or thirty feet deep, descending
from the top of the hills; and those above him on the <DW72>, having
already passed it once that morning, strove to drive him towards it,
their only fear being lest those below should not act on the same plan.
Franklin Gray, himself, however, took exactly the course they wished,
and as, bearing down from above, they came nearer and nearer to him,
they laughed to see him approach at full speed a barrier which must
inevitably stop him. They urged their horses rapidly on, lest he should
find some path down the bank into the lane; and nearer and nearer they
came to him as he bore up towards them. They were within fifty yards of
him when he reached the bank, and so furious was his speed that all
expected to see him go over headlong.

But no! The bridle was thrown loose, the spur touched the horse's
flank, and with one eager bound the gallant beast cleared the space
between; and though his hind feet, in reaching the other side, broke
down the top of the bank, and cast the sand and gravel furiously into
the lane below, he stumbled not, he paused not, but bounded on, while
the rashest horseman of the party pulled in his rein, and gazed with
fear at the awful leap that had just been taken. A part is still
pointed out on those hills where the top of the bank above the lane
exhibits a large gap; and the spot is still called the Robber's Leap to
the present day.

Every one, as we have said, drew in their horses, and some rode to and
fro, seeking for a passage down into the lane; but, in the meanwhile,
Franklin Gray was every moment getting further and further out of reach
of pursuit.

When Justice Whistler, who came up as fast as his horse would bear him,
arrived upon the spot, he saw at once it was too late to pursue the
fugitive any further, and he exclaimed, "Give it up my masters; give it
up; he has escaped us for the present, but we shall get hold of him
by-and-bye. A man who gets into a scrape like this never gets out of it
without a rope round his neck. Let us return to the house and conclude
our examinations there; though a terrible day's work it has been, for,
if my eyes served me right in the hurry, there is that poor young
gentleman as dead as a stone, and the woman, who seemed a beautiful
creature, too, no better."

Thus saying, he turned round, and rode back towards the house, while
those who followed, and who had not been present at the events which
had taken place within the building, eagerly questioned such as had
witnessed the fearful scene. While they listened to the details,
magnified as they might be, perhaps, by fear and the love of the
marvellous, a gloomy feeling of awe fell over the whole party; and they
gazed up towards the house as they approached it with sensations which
made the blood creep slowly through their hearts.

Such feelings were not diminished by the sight of their wounded
companion, who had received Franklin Gray's fire in the pursuit, and
who was still lying on the ground, supported by one of his friends who
had remained behind, and bleeding profusely from the right breast.
Several alighted, and aided to carry him towards the house, while
Justice Whistler and one or two others rode on, and proceeded at once
to the room where they had first found the Robber.

There were sounds of many voices within, for six or seven of the party
had remained behind, together with the good village rector, Dr. Sandon;
and when the justice entered the room he found it occupied by three
groups, the nearest of which consisted of two or three farmers,
gathered round the head of the table, and gazing curiously at the
object which it supported. A little further on was one of the
constables, holding firmly by the collar the fair curly-headed boy
called Jocelyn; while still further on was the rector, kneeling on the
ground, and surrounded by the rest of the farmers and yeoman.

The magistrate advanced direct to the table, and saw that the object of
the farmers' contemplation was the dead body of the unhappy Lord
Harold, which was now stretched out, with the limbs composed, and
stiffening into the rigidity of death. Too much accustomed to such
sights to be strongly affected by them, the justice passed on, shaking
his finger at the boy Jocelyn, and saying, "Ah, you little varlet, I
shall deal with you by-and-bye."

"He's a funny little rascal, your worship," said the constable. "He ran
up the hill so fast that nobody could catch him, till he got to a place
where he could see the whole chase, and there he stood, and let himself
be taken as quietly as a lamb, though I told him he would be hanged to
a certainty."

The justice looked in the boy's face, and saw the tears streaming down
from his eyes. One of the redeeming qualities of Mr. Justice Whistler
was his love for children; and the boy's affliction touched him. "Poh!
Poh! you foolish lad," he cried; "they'll not hang such a child as you.
Whip the devil out of you, perhaps; but don't cry for that."

"I'm crying for my poor mistress," said the boy; and the justice then
advanced in the direction towards which Jocelyn's eyes were turned,
pushing two of the farmers out of his way who obstructed his view of
what was taking place. He found that Mr. Sandon was kneeling by the
side of Mona Gray, and supporting her lovely head upon his arm. Her
face was deadly pale, her lips blanched, her eyes closed, and the long
black lashes resting upon that fair cheek: while the dark hair, broken
from the bands that had confined it, hung in glossy confusion to the
ground. The blood which had been flowing from a wound in her bosom was
now stanched; and the clergyman, sprinkling cold water in her face, was
at that moment endeavouring to bring her back to life; but the
countenance was so like that of a corpse, that the magistrate
immediately demanded--"Is she not dead?"

"No, no," said the clergyman, in a low voice. "Don't you see she
breathes: she has twice opened her eyes."

In a moment or two after she unclosed them again; but those bright and
lustrous eyes were dimmed with the grey shadows of approaching
dissolution. She feebly lifted her hand, and putting it to her bosom,
drew forth a small crucifix of gold, which she pressed earnestly to her
lips. New strength seemed to be acquired by the very effort; and gazing
wildly round her on the strange faces that filled the room, she made an
effort to speak. At first no sound was heard; but the next moment she
distinctly uttered the words--"Is he safe? Has he escaped?"

The boy Jocelyn caught the sounds--burst away from the constable who
held him--broke through those that stood around, and cast himself down
on his knees beside her. "Yes, Mona, yes!" he cried; "he is safe! He
has escaped! I saw him leap the gap myself, and none was brave enough
to follow him. He is safe, and the baby too!"

Mona Gray raised her eyes, as if seeking the heaven to pour out her
thankfulness; but the next moment, by another great effort, she said,
"Jocelyn, if ever you see him again, tell him that Mona did not
betray him in deed, or word, or thought. Tell him it was her last
asseveration."

As she spoke, she pressed the crucifix again to her lips, and then
murmured forth some sounds in a language that was not understood by any
one present. She then closed her eyes, but still from time to time
uttered a few words in the same tongue and in a low tone.

At length they ceased. The hand that held the crucifix to her lips sunk
a little lower on her bosom--the other dropped motionless by her
side--there was a slight gasp, and a shudder, but neither groan nor
cry, and the breath stopped for ever.

Several moments elapsed before any voice broke the deep silence which
that sight had produced; and the first words that were spoken were by
the clergyman, who said, "God have mercy upon her."

She was then carried into the room beyond, and laid upon her own bed;
and Justice Whistler returning, despatched messengers to the next town
to summon the coroner with all speed.

His design, however, of apprehending Franklin Gray was by no means
abandoned; and he endeavoured, skilfully enough, to make use of the
simplicity of the boy Jocelyn for that purpose. After talking with him
for some time in rather a kindly tone, yet asking him a great many
questions in regard to his connection with the robbers, and attempting
apparently to ascertain whether the boy had taken any share in their
exploits, he said at length, "Well, my good boy, since such is the
case, and you had nothing to do with them, but merely minding your
master's horse, and the commands of the lady, you are pretty clear of
the business; and, indeed, I do not know what to do with you, so you
had better go home to your friends, if you've got any."

"I would rather go with you, sir," said the boy, "if you would take me
with you. You seem good-natured, and I should like to serve such a
gentleman as you; and if you did not choose to keep me on, I could
serve you along the road."

The suspicions of the justice were excited, and he asked, "Why, which
way do you suppose I am going, my man?" And then added, keeping his
eyes fixed upon the boy's face, "I am not going back over the hills; I
am going on to the town of ----, to seek out this master of yours."

The boy's countenance appeared to fall; and Mr. Justice Whistler
convinced by what he saw, that Franklin Gray had most likely taken his
way back over the hills, and that the boy knew it, left him in the
hands of the farmers, and took the constable aside.

"Keep an eye upon that youth," he said. "Don't seem to restrain him at
all; and if he says he will go back to his friends, let him go, but
watch every step that he takes. If he says, however, that he will go
with me, look to him well every step of the way; for I judge by his
manner that he knows his master has gone over the hills, and wishes to
be carried back with us for the purpose of rejoining him."

The man promised to obey punctually; and the justice, returning to the
boy, spoke to him once more, as if in passing, saying, "Well, my good
boy, you shall do just as you like. Upon second thoughts, I am going
back to Moorhurst and Uppington; and you can either go away by
yourself, and find out your friends, or you can come with me, and I'll
feed you well by the way. Think about it, and let Master Constable
know."

The boy's face brightened in a moment, and he said at once, "Oh, I will
go with you."

There was much to be done, however, before the justice could set out,
and it was nearly dark ere, leaving the scene of so many sad and
horrible events in the hands of the officers of the county, he took his
way back over the hills with the reverend gentleman, who once more
invited him kindly to his house.

All the farmers accompanied them. No one choosing to separate from the
rest at that hour, with the knowledge that Franklin Gray and his band
were free, and in the vicinity. The boy Jocelyn, mounted behind the
constable, was carefully watched, but he showed not the slightest
inclination to escape, and when he arrived at the parsonage, ate a
hearty supper in the kitchen, and fell asleep by the fire-side.

He was roused about eleven o'clock to accompany the constable to a
garret chamber which had been prepared for them, and in five minutes he
was asleep again; but when his companion woke an hour or two after
daylight on the following morning, no Jocelyn was to be found, though
the door was still locked, and the room was in the third story. There
were found, indeed, the window partly open, the traces of small feet
along a leaden gutter, the branch of a tall elm, which rested against
one corner of the house, cracked through, but not completely broken,
and the fragments of glass at the top of the wall neatly and carefully
pounded into powder with a large stone.

These were the only traces of the boy's flight that could be
discovered; but these were quite sufficient for Mr. Justice Whistler;
and after chiding the constable severely for sleeping so soundly, he
turned to the clergyman, saying, "It is very evident that this man is
still in the neighbourhood, and is on this side of the hills. Let me
beg you, my good sir, to keep a good watch in every direction till I
come back, which will be to-morrow evening. I think it better, now, to
go on myself, in order to see old Lord Danemore, who lies dangerously
ill, and to break to him the news of his son's death, which, if I judge
rightly, may, at the present moment, be a matter of the greatest
importance to him and many others."

The justice breakfasted, and then proceeded on his journey.




                            CHAPTER XXXVI.


We must now return to the conversation which was going on at the
Rectory of Danemore between Mr. Evelyn, Sir Walter Herbert, and him
whom we shall still call Henry Langford--in the fear that he should
never establish his claim to any higher title; and the reader need
scarcely be told that the interruption which took place therein was
occasioned by the arrival of Mr. Justice Whistler, bearing with him the
sad account of all that had occurred in consequence of the expedition
which he himself led against Franklin Gray.

Putting down his hat upon the table, the feather band of which was
dripping with some rain which had now begun to fall, he declared that
he believed such events had never happened before in any civilized
country; and he related with no inconsiderable degree of real feeling
the death of poor Mona Gray. For a time, sensations of awe, and grief,
and astonishment, suspended every other feeling in the bosoms of his
hearers; but he himself, who had cast off the first impression under
the influence of a good night's rest and a long heavy ride, recalled
the rest of the party to other thoughts, by making Langford a low bow,
and saying, "Under existing circumstances, I suppose I may congratulate
you, Sir, upon your undisputed succession to the title of the Earl of
Danemore."

Langford replied that he certainly intended at once to assume that
title, though, he believed, it would not be undisputed; and Mr. Evelyn,
who had a great inclination for doing business under all circumstances,
immediately proceeded to take into consideration the change which the
news that they had just received might produce in Langford's position.
Judging that it might be as well to engage the acuteness of Mr. Justice
Whistler in their service, at least as far as seeking for the lost
papers was concerned, he opened the matter to that respectable
magistrate, and held out to him such cogent inducements for exerting
himself to the utmost in the business in hand, that the justice, though
he represented the importance and necessity of his presence in London,
agreed to leave all business there to his colleagues, and devote
himself to the object in view.

Langford heard this arrangement without saying anything, and without
giving any encouragement to Mr. Justice Whistler to remain; for, in
truth, he had his own views upon the subject, and had already
determined what course to pursue, feeling perfectly sure that the lost
papers were in the possession of Franklin Gray, and that any efforts of
Mr. Justice Whistler for the recovery of those papers would <DW44> if
not utterly prevent the attainment of their object.

He took care, therefore, to give no hint, either of his own purposes,
or his suspicions as to the hands into which the papers had fallen, but
at once turned to another part of the subject, saying, "In the first
place, Mr. Evelyn, as it is my full intention to deal openly and
straightforwardly in this business altogether, I think it may be
necessary immediately to send a note to Sir Henry Heywood, informing
him of the terrible fate which has befallen my unhappy brother, and
begging to meet him here, to confer more fully on the subject to-morrow
morning."

The note was accordingly written, and sent; and Sir Henry, who fancied
himself considerably nearer to his object in consequence of the death
of Lord Harold, returned a gracious answer, and appointed ten o'clock
on the following day for the conference. Sir Walter Herbert then
proceeded to Moorhurst; but although Langford felt a longing desire to
pass one more evening of tranquillity with her he loved best, in the
library of the calm old Manor House, he would not quit the sad dwelling
where the body of his father lay, but remained there during the night.

By ten o'clock the next morning Sir Walter had returned, and the
arrival of Sir Henry Heywood soon followed. He was now, however,
accompanied by a lawyer, and on his entering the room, Langford
immediately, in plain and courteous language, and few words, announced
to him the situation in which he stood, as son of the late Earl of
Danemore, by his private marriage with Eugenie de Beaulieu.

Sir Henry Heywood had not lost his time since his arrival in the
neighbourhood of Danemore Castle, and by one means or another had
collected a very accurate knowledge of Langford's situation, and the
points in which his claim was strong or defective.

"Sir," he said, in reply, "what you have just asserted may be, and,
indeed, very probably is correct. You are a likely young gentleman;
bear a strong resemblance to the late Earl, and so forth. I have
nothing to say against the fact of the Earl being your father, or of
your mother being a very virtuous lady; but all I have to say is, that
such assertions are good for nothing in law without proofs of the fact.
If you will do me the honour to show me the registry of your father's
and mother's marriage, a certificate to that effect from the hands of
the clergyman who married them, the attestation of the proper
witnesses, or, in short, satisfactory legal proofs, I shall make you a
very low bow, and congratulate you on your accession to the title of
Earl of Danemore. Till then, however, by your leave, I shall assume
that title myself, and acting as heir to the late peer, take possession
of everything to which the law gives me a claim."

"In regard to taking possession of anything, sir," replied Langford,
"be my claim what it will, I think you will find yourself barred by my
father's will."

"Then let it be produced, sir--let it be produced," said Sir Henry
Heywood, with some degree of irritable sharpness. "We have heard a
great deal about this will: let it be produced."

"Certainly, sir," replied Mr. Evelyn; "here it is. But before it is
opened, we will call in, if you please, the witnesses who heard every
word of it read over to the Earl, and who saw him sign it. I think that
his chief servants should be present."

What he suggested was agreed to. The small room of the Rectory was
nearly filled; and while Langford, with feelings of deep grief, perhaps
we might even say despondency, sat at the table shading his eyes with
his hand, and Sir Henry Heywood, seated on the other side, shut his
lips close, and looked full in Mr. Evelyn's face, the lawyer, after all
due formalities, proceeded to read the will aloud.

In the first place, it ordained as private and speedy a burial of his
body as possible. In the next, it provided liberally for all the
servants. It then went on to leave to his son Edward, heretofore
erroneously called Lord Harold, a large independent fortune, which was
to revert, in case of his death without issue, to the person whom next
he named; that person was his eldest son, Henry, by his first wife,
Eugenie de Beaulieu, whom he had married privately the year before the
Restoration.

Under the skilful management of Mr. Evelyn, nothing had been left
undone to show that Langford was the person to whom he alluded, and to
render the wording of the Earl's will the most solemn acknowledgment of
his marriage and declaration of his son's legitimacy. With all these
precautions, the Earl went on to leave to him every part of his vast
fortune not otherwise disposed of; noticing the estates attached to the
title of Earl of Danemore only as coming to him of necessity. The three
executors were then appointed, as had been before announced, and the
will terminated with the signature.

The reading of this document called forth a burst of angry vehemence
from Sir Henry Heywood, which might have proceeded further had it not
been repressed instantly by a murmur of indignation which ran through
all present.

Langford, however, himself, was the coolest of the party, and as soon
as the reading of the will was concluded, he said, "Sir Henry Heywood,
in the present state of feeling experienced by all parties, the less
discussion that takes place, of course the better. You are now
satisfied as to who are the executors; but I think it will be better,
till after the funeral is over, to remove none of the seals which have
been placed; and I doubt not that this reverend gentleman, and Sir
Walter Herbert, will agree with me in that view. You will, of course,
be present at the funeral; and I doubt not that on that sad occasion we
shall all meet more calmly. For the present, I wish you good morning;"
and so saying, he bowed and quitted the room.

Sir Henry Heywood remained, and would fain have entered into the
discussion of many points, both with Sir Walter and Mr. Evelyn, but
neither were at all inclined to gratify him in that respect; and he
retired, declaring that he would certainly attend the funeral; but that
before that time he would have such legal authority from London as
would enable him to maintain his just rights against any conspiracy
which might be formed to oppose them. Sir Walter Herbert , and
raised his head at the word conspiracy, with signs of ill-repressed
indignation; but Mr. Evelyn laid his hand upon his arm, saying, "He is
a disappointed man, Sir Walter, and has privilege of angry words."

On the measures that were taken by Sir Henry Heywood we will not dwell;
nor will we pause, even for a moment, on the melancholy ceremony of
committing to dust the bodies of the Earl of Danemore and his younger
son. Langford, although between him and the dead there existed none of
those endearing ties which gather round the heart in the tender
intercourse of early years, though his affection towards them was not,
like the rich shells which we find embedded in the coral rock, joined
to the things it clung to by the accumulated love and associations of
years, still could not help feeling deeply and painfully as he laid the
father and the brother in the grave, and took the dark farewell of his
last earthly kindred.

Sir Henry Heywood had by this time learned so far to restrain himself
that nothing disagreeable occurred; and from the vault the whole party
turned their steps, not to the Rectory, but to one of the large saloons
which had remained unconsumed in Danemore Castle. The two noted lawyers
were found waiting for the baronet, who immediately addressed himself
to Langford, demanding if he distinctly understood him to lay claim to
the earldom of Danemore.

"Distinctly, sir," replied Langford.

"Very well, sir. Then--" interrupted Sir Henry.

But the other waved his hand, and went on, "I do most distinctly lay
claim to that earldom, sir; but as I wish to do nothing whatsoever that
can be considered unfair towards you, and shall in a few days be able
to produce the only papers which seem necessary to convince you of my
right--having at this moment a certain knowledge of the person who has
taken them--I shall leave the executorial duties under my father's will
entirely to my excellent friends, who, well advised, will deal with you
in all justice and kindness, I am sure. I myself am bound upon
important business, and therefore you will excuse my presence any
further. I trust in two honourable men, all whose actions I know will
bear the closest inspection; and I shall feel satisfied with and ratify
everything that they shall do."

A word whispered in the ear of Sir Henry Heywood by one of his lawyers,
made him start a step forward ere Langford departed, and say,
"Doubtless, sir, we are to expect on your return the production of the
papers; and of course you will be willing to submit them, as you do the
conduct of your friends, to the closest inspection?"

"Quite," replied Langford, with a calm smile, so slightly  by
contempt that none but an eager and well-qualified appetite could have
detected the admixture. "Whether I bring back the papers or not, Sir
Henry, depends upon fortune; or, rather, I should say, upon God's will.
You judge rightly when you think I go to seek them; and that I go to
seek them where they are to be found, I am quite certain. My chance may
be to find them, or not. I give you good-day."

Leaving Sir Henry Heywood to follow what course he thought fit, and Sir
Walter Herbert with the rector, guided by Mr. Evelyn, and an old, calm,
thoughtful, experienced, little-speaking lawyer from London, to deal
with him as they judged advisable, we shall trace the course of Henry
Langford, who now, followed by two servants, one attached to Sir Walter
Herbert, and the other an old and faithful domestic of his father, the
late earl, took his way abruptly from Danemore Castle, but not in the
direction which the reader may imagine. He rode at once across the
country to the little village of Moorhurst; and passing over the
bridge--because the shortest way, though the park, under lately
existing circumstances, had been closed--he approached the Manor House;
and leaving his horse, with orders not to unsaddle him, in the
court-yard, he hurried through the house in search of Alice Herbert.

He found her without much difficulty; and sweet and tender were her
feelings on that first meeting, alone, and altogether to each other,
after a long period of distress and anxiety, and the obtrusiveness of a
thousand anxious and busy cares. He told her that he could not go away
upon a journey of some distance and of much importance without seeing
her--without bidding her farewell for the time. He told her again and
again how deeply and how passionately he loved her. He pressed her
again and again to his heart, in gratitude for past kindness, in the
ardour of present affection, in the longing apprehension of parting. He
took, and she granted, all that a noble heart could wish or a pure
heart could yield; and then, springing upon his horse, he once more
pursued his way towards the spot which the tale of Justice Whistler had
pointed out as that where Franklin Gray was likely to be met with.

He left the village, with the Rectory of Mr. Sandon, far to the left,
about an hour before sunset; and then inquiring his way to the nearest
farm-house--for there were neither railroads over deserts, nor hotels
upon mountains in those days--he prepared to repose for the night ere
he pursued his inquiries on the following morning. The people of the
farm were kind and civil: and, though it put them somewhat out of their
way to receive a guest with two servants and three horses, when they
expected no such thing, the matter was readily arranged, and Langford
soon found himself sitting at a pleasant country table, whereat ten or
twelve people were enjoying themselves after the fatigues of the day.

Langford made himself friends wherever he came, by the urbanity of his
manners: generally ruling as much as he wished in all circumstances, by
appearing, like the ancient Greek, to yield and to respect. In the
present instance he was received with great gladness, and was enabled
to gain information of everything that was passing throughout the
country round, by the very fact of his making himself at once at home
amongst the people, as we have said he did, and by seeming to share
their feelings, which soon proved the means of sharing their thoughts.
The whole tittle-tattle of the neighbourhood was now detailed to him,
and he heard every particular of the death of his brother. The stopping
of Mr. Justice Whistler, and his scourging with the saddle-girths and
stirrup-leathers, were also told him, with many other interesting
details, which seemed to have made a deep impression upon the
laughter-loving hearts of the honest villagers.

Langford himself was, in comparison with his ordinary moods, sad and
gloomy, as he well might be, not so much from anticipation of the
future as in reflecting upon the past, and upon all the deeds, wrongs,
and sorrows whereon that inevitable past had set its seal for ever; and
as he approached the spot where his brother had fallen, the despondency
that he felt was of course not diminished. Without asking any direct
questions concerning Franklin Gray, Langford obtained tidings which
made him hesitate in regard to his further conduct; for in answer to
his inquiries as to whether any of the robbers had been captured, the
honest farmer--who had been one of those that went out against them,
and therefore took a personal interest in the whole affair--informed
him that the band had certainly dispersed, each man, it was supposed,
taking his separate way back to London. Such was the opinion pronounced
by Mr. Justice Whistler, the farmer said; and Langford now learned, for
the first time, that the worthy justice had returned to the scene of
his former adventures, and was eagerly aiding the local magistrate in
the pursuit of the robbers.

He feared, then, that Franklin Gray might thus have been driven from
the neighbourhood; but after some reflection, an impression took hold
of his mind--probably springing from traits of the Robber's character
which he had seen and marked in better days--that Gray would linger,
for a time at least, round the spot where his unhappy wife was
interred; and Langford consequently proceeded at once to the little
solitary burial ground in which she lay. To it was attached a small
church, situated at a great distance from any other building, high upon
the side of the hill, and offering once in the week some means of
religious instruction to the inhabitants of that wild tract. He easily
found the grave of poor Mona Gray, for no one had been buried there for
many months but herself, and every other grave was green.

The sight of that grave, however, confirmed him in the hope of soon
finding Franklin Gray, for at the head were strewed, here and there,
some wild flowers, evidently lately gathered. Justice Whistler, with a
heart hardened by intercourse with evil things, did not comprehend the
character of the Robber as Langford did, and never dreamed that he
would linger near the spot where the wife whom he had himself slain
with such determined premeditation, slept her last sleep.

Leaving his two servants to watch in the churchyard, Henry Langford
rode up to the top of the hills, and continued his course along the
ridge towards the sea; but ere he had gone half a mile, he saw
something move in one of the deep, shadowy indentations of the ground,
and riding quickly down, he pursued the object as it fled before him,
taking advantage of everything which could conceal it in its flight,
doubling round every tree and bush, and plunging into each deep dell.
But Langford caught sight of it sufficiently often to feel sure that it
was a human being, and he gained upon it also as it led him back in its
flight towards the churchyard.

There, however, he lost sight of it again; but the moment after, a
faint cry met his ear, and a shout; and riding on fast, he found the
boy Jocelyn in the hands of his two servants. The boy was evidently in
great terror; and the sound of another voice behind him, when Langford
spoke as he came up, made him start almost out of the hands of the men
who held him. The sight of Langford's well-known face, however,
instantly made his countenance brighten; and when that gentleman spoke
kindly to him, and bade the men let him go, the boy came up towards
him, bending his head, and looking gladly in his face, as a favourite
dog that has been lost for several days, runs up, fawning, but yet half
frightened, towards its master, when it returns.

"Well, Jocelyn," said Langford, gazing at him, and marking his soiled
clothes and pale and haggard appearance, "you seem not to have fared
very richly, my poor boy, since you got away from Justice Whistler. Did
you find out your master?"

The boy looked timidly at the two men who stood near, then hung down
his head, and made no reply. Langford bent over him, and said in a low
voice, "Do not be frightened, Jocelyn. I am seeking no ill, either to
yourself or your master. Come with me on the hill side, and tell me
more. We will leave the men here."

"You must leave your horse behind, then, also," said the boy, in the
same low tone, "if you want to see the Captain as you used to do; for
he will never let us find him if he sees any one coming on horseback."

"That I will do willingly," replied Langford; and throwing the bridle
to one of the men, he bade them remain there till he returned.

Holding the boy Jocelyn by the hand, he then went out upon the hill
side, questioning him as they walked along, with regard to Franklin
Gray; but before he would answer anything, the boy made him again and
again promise that he would not betray his master. When he was
satisfied on that point, he gazed up in Langford's face, with a look of
deep and anxious sadness, saying, "Oh, you don't know all, Captain
Langford! You don't know all!"

"Yes, my good boy, I do," replied Langford; "I have heard all the sad
story of the people going to attack your master in his house, and his
fancying that his wife had betrayed him, and shooting the person he
loved best on earth."

"Ay, poor thing, she is happy!" said the boy; "I am sure she is in
heaven, for every day since they laid her in the churchyard, I have
strewed what flowers I could get, upon her grave, and they do not
wither there half so soon as they do anywhere else. But I am sure it is
better for her to be there than to see her husband in such a state as
he is now."

"What do you mean, Jocelyn?" demanded Langford. "Grief and remorse for
what he has done must, I dare say, have had a terrible effect upon your
master; but you seem to imply something more. What is it that you
mean?"

"Alas," replied the boy, "he is mad; quite mad. That is what made
Harvey and the rest leave him, for they found him out after he got away
and joined him again; but, both for his sake and their own, they were
obliged to separate, when they found what state he was in. But I am
sure he had been mad some time before, for the day after that wicked
man made his escape, who brought all the people upon us, I saw him on
the hill fire one of his pistols in the air, as if he had been shooting
at something, though there was nothing to be seen: and when he had done
he looked at the pistol and said, 'You are not so dangerous now.' But
now he is quite wild, and you must take care how you go near him, for
it is a thousand to one that he fires at you, and you know he never
misses his mark."

"Whereabouts is he?" demanded Langford. "I wonder he has not been
discovered."

"Oh, he is two or three miles off, at least," replied the boy; "in the
rocky part of the hills near the sea. He comes here about night, when
he goes to the grave in the churchyard, and moans over it; but then
before daylight he is away again."

Langford and the boy walked on, but the two or three miles he spoke of
proved to be fully five, and during the last mile the scenery became
wild and rugged in the extreme. The turf, which had covered the hills
further inland with a smooth though undulating surface, was here
constantly broken by immense masses of rock, sometimes taking the form
of high banks and promontories, with the tops still soft and grassy;
sometimes starting abruptly up in fantastic groups out of the ground,
like the rugged and misshapen columns of some druidical temple. Here
and there a few scattered birch trees varied the scene, and near a spot
where a spring of clear water broke from the ground, and wandered down
in a stream into the valley, some fine oaks had planted themselves,
sheltered by a higher ridge of the hill from the sharp winds of the
sea.

As they came near this spot, the boy Jocelyn gave a long low whistle,
more like the cry of some wild bird than any sound from human lips,
saying, after he had done so, "He is often about here at this hour."

No answer was returned, however, and they went on for nearly another
mile, which brought them to the high rocks that encircled a bay of the
sea. "I should not wonder if he were here," said the boy; "for I
sometimes catch fish for him there, and there are more berries upon the
shrubs that grow half way down than anywhere else."

"Good God! Is that the only food that he obtains?" demanded Langford.

"He has had nothing else," said the boy, sadly, "since Harvey and the
rest went away. Look! There he is!--just below us. Hush! Do not let us
go quick!"

Langford laid his hand upon the boy's arm, and detained him, while he
gazed down for two or three moments on the unhappy man who had once
been his companion and friend in the stirring days of military
adventure.

It was a terrible sight! The sun was shining brightly, though over the
deep blue sky some large detached masses of cloud were borne by a soft
and equable but rapid wind, throwing upon the green bosom of the water
below, and the rocks and hills round about, deep clear shadows, which,
as they floated on, left the objects that they touched brighter than
ever in the sunshine, like the shadows which doubt or suspicion, or
gloom, or the waywardness of the human heart, will cast upon things in
themselves beautiful, and which, when the mood is gone or the doubt
removed, resume at once all their splendour. Part of the steep close by
Franklin Gray was covered with bushes, mingled with some taller trees,
and over these the shadow of a cloud was flying, while he himself sat
in the full light upon a small projecting piece of the rock.

Tenderly folded to his bosom, he held his infant with both his arms;
and, swaying backwards and forwards, while his eyes wandered wildly
over the waters, he seemed endeavouring to rock it to sleep. A little
further up, his horse, his beautiful grey, of which he had been so
fond, cropped the scanty herbage, with the bridle cast upon his neck;
and hearing the approach of strangers even before his master, he raised
high his proud head, and gazed eagerly around.

"How does he feed the child?" demanded Langford, in a whisper.

"With berries, and anything he can get," replied the boy; "he never
lets it be out of his arms but to crawl round him for a few moments on
the turf."

"This is very terrible, indeed," said Langford; "but he sits there on
such a fearful point of the rock that you had better go forward
yourself, in the first instance, and tell him that I am here. The least
thing might make him plunge over."

"It would not surprise me at all," replied the boy, "for where he goes
I am sure I would not go, and yet I can climb as well as any one."

Langford then withdrew for a few yards, and the boy again uttered his
low whistle, which was immediately answered. After pausing for a moment
or two to give him time to reach his master, Langford again advanced,
and saw the boy in eager conversation with Franklin Gray, whose eyes
were now bent upon the spot where he stood. Satisfied that he was
prepared for his coming, Langford descended with difficulty the
precipitous path which led to the shelf of rock on which he stood; and
Franklin Gray himself took a step or two back from the edge, and came
forward to meet him. Holding the child still to his bosom with one arm,
he at first held out the other to his old companion; but the next
moment, as they came near, he drew it suddenly back, gazing upon him
with his bright flashing eyes, and exclaiming, "No, no! This hand
killed your father and your brother, and you must pursue me to the
death!"

"No, Franklin," replied Langford, in a calm and quiet tone; "I pursue
you not with any evil intent towards you. What you say is true; that
hand did slay my brother, and aided, perhaps, in taking my father's
life; but that hand too aided and supported my mother; and my father,
not many days before his death, made me promise that I would not seek
for vengeance upon you. He said that he had wronged you in early years,
and that it was fitting your own hand should punish him."

"He did--he did wrong me!" cried Franklin Gray. "To him I owe all that
is evil in my nature. He had me kidnapped when I was a boy, and would
have fain followed the sweet lady he had deserted. He had me kidnapped,
and carried me away into the south, and made me familiar with blood;
and when I fled from him, he pursued me as if I had been his slave; but
I escaped. And now, Henry, tell me what you seek with me! If you come
not for vengeance, what is it you come for?"

"I came," replied Langford, "from a personal motive; but I did not
expect, Franklin, to find you in this state, and the thoughts of myself
are swallowed up in pain to find you thus."

"What! you mean I am mad!" burst forth Franklin Gray. "It is true, I am
mad, madder than any that we used to see nursed by the Brothers of
Charity at Charenton. But what matters that? Every one else is as mad
as myself. Was not she mad to let me think that she had betrayed me?
Was she not madder still to send me word when she was dying that she
had not betrayed me, and to pile coals of fire upon my head? Was she
not mad to die at all, and leave me with this infant?" and sitting upon
the ground, he looked earnestly upon the face of the child, which his
vehemence had awakened up from its sleep.

After pausing for a few minutes, and pressing his hand tightly upon his
brow, he turned to Langford more collectedly, saying, "You told me you
came here from a personal motive. What was it? Speak quickly, while my
mind will go straight, for my brain is like a horse that has just gone
blind, and wavers from one side of the road to the other." And he
laughed wildly at his own simile.

"The motive that brought me, Franklin," replied Langford, "was to
obtain from you the papers which you know I have been so long seeking
to possess. My mother's marriage, it seems, cannot be proved without
them."

Franklin Gray started upon his feet, and gazed with wild surprise in
Langford's face. "I have them not," he exclaimed; "I never touched
them. Did you not take them? It was your own fault, then; and they were
burnt with the house. We rushed out as fast as we could go. I know
nothing further."

That he spoke truth was so evident, that Langford instantly determined
to say nothing more on the subject, though the disappointment caused
him a bitter pang. But it was useless to enter into any explanations
with the unhappy man before him; and with the usual calm decision of
his character he determined at once to apply himself, as far as
possible, to see what might be done to relieve and comfort him. If he
remained in England, his life would inevitably be sacrificed to the
law, notwithstanding his manifest insanity. He himself, under such
circumstances, could not even intercede in his favour, and the only
hope of saving him from public execution was to induce him to fly to
France, and by giving notice of his condition to some persons of
influence there, to obtain admission for him into the institution which
he himself had mentioned--namely, that of the Brothers of Charity at
Charenton, who devoted themselves to the care of persons in his unhappy
situation. All this passed through his mind in a moment, and he replied
to Franklin Gray at once, "Well, if it be so, it cannot be helped; but
now, Gray, to speak of yourself. You must be aware that you are here in
a very dangerous situation, surrounded by people who are pursuing you
for the express purpose of bringing you to the scaffold. Would it not
be much better for you to fly to France?"

Franklin Gray gazed in his face for a moment or two, then looked up to
the sky with a sort of half smile. "It would be better," he answered,
at length; "it would be better, and my passage is even taken in a ship
which is to sail, I think, in two days. But what am I to do with the
child?"

"Oh, I will provide means for its joining you," replied Langford: "it
shall be well taken care of."

"I have got a little boat, too, down there," said Gray, in a rambling
manner, "which would carry me to the ship in no time."

Langford looked at the boy Jocelyn with an inquiring glance; but the
youth shook his head, murmuring, in a scarcely audible tone, "There is
no boat."

Franklin Gray was evidently occupied with other thoughts. He put his
hand again to his head, and then, turning to Henry Langford, he said,
"Henry, we are old companions, and I will take you at your word.
Promise me, as a man and a soldier, that this babe shall be well taken
care of till he joins me. It is a sweet creature, and seldom, if ever,
cries. You will use it as your own, Henry, in every respect as your
own?"

"I will, indeed," replied Langford; "I will, indeed; but let us think
now how you can best be got off to the vessel."

But Franklin Gray went on thus:--"And poor Jocelyn, too," he said,
laying his hand upon the boy's head; "you will be kind to him, and
breed him as a soldier?"

"He had better go with you, Franklin," replied Langford.

"No," answered Franklin Gray, "No; I shall be better alone;" and at the
same time the boy whispered to Langford, "Humour him; humour him. I
will find means to follow him closely."

"Will you promise that, too?" demanded Franklin Gray, but instantly
went on without waiting a reply--"Then the baby, too, Henry; you will
be very kind to it, and tender, and love it very much? See, it smiles
at you. Take it in your arms."

Langford took the child as he held it out to him. Franklin Gray bent
down his head and kissed it; then laid his two muscular hands upon
Langford's shoulders, and gazed gravely and solemnly into his eyes.

"Henry," he said, "your vow is registered in heaven!" and before
Langford could answer him, he shouted exultingly, "Now I am free! Now I
am free!"

With a sudden spring forward he reached the ledge on which he had
lately stood, and without pause, or thought, or hesitation, plunged at
once over into empty air.

The depth below might be near two hundred feet, and the water of the
sea washed the base of the rock. It was in vain that Langford himself
sought, and, with the aid of his servants and some people that they
brought to his assistance, spent the whole of that evening in
endeavouring to find the body of Franklin Gray. It was not till nearly
ten days after that some fishermen found a corpse, with marks of much
violence about it, showing that it must have struck upon the rocks at
the bottom of the water, lying on a sandy spit that ran out from one of
the points of the bay. The clothes proved it to be that of Franklin
Gray; but nobody took any pains to identify it as such. A verdict of
found drowned was returned by the coroner's jury; and it was buried, at
Langford's expense, close to the side of Mona Gray, in the churchyard
on the hills.

The road which Langford pursued, on his way back, was that which passed
over the moor, as we have before mentioned, near the spot called
Upwater Meer, and thence descending the hill, separated into two
branches, at a point where, on the one hand, the remains of Danemore
Castle, with its wide park and deep woods, were to be seen at the
distance of about four miles, and on the other appeared the graceful
little spire of Moorhurst Church, with the manifold roofs and chimneys
of the Manor House, peeping out of the trees some way in advance.

When Langford reached that spot, which was at the period of the evening
when the shadows begin to grow long, but before the sun had lost any of
its power, he paused and gazed for several minutes upon the mansion of
his ancestors; saying to it in his own heart, "Farewell for ever. The
things which were to have given you back to me, with all the honours
and pride of high birth and long ancestry, are lost beyond recall. But
never mind. It may be better as it is. I shall escape the temptations
of high estate. Alice will not love me less; and though it may cost Sir
Walter's heart a pang that the legitimacy of my birth is not clear to
the eyes of all men, he himself will not doubt it. It may cause mine a
pang, too, that even a shade should rest upon my mother's name; but I
have done all that could be done."

Such were his thoughts, though not, perhaps, his words, as, after
gazing for some time upon the castle, he turned, and directed his
horse's head towards Moorhurst. On arriving at the old Manor House, he
looked up with pleasure to see the smoke curling above the trees, the
lattice windows wide open to give admission to the sweet fresh air, and
all bearing that air of comfort and cheerfulness which it used to do.

There were several persons, not servants, lingering about in the
court-yard, however. There was a look of some vexation in honest
Halliday's face as he gave Langford admission, and some strangers were
in the hall. The events of the last few weeks had brought an
apprehensiveness upon Langford's heart which sorrow can do even to
those who are steeled against danger; and he asked at once if anything
were the matter.

"Oh, no. His worship and Mistress Alice are both quite well, sir,"
replied Halliday, divining Langford's feelings at once. "It is only
that they have brought a poor fellow up before Sir Walter, charged with
stealing, who I am sure never stole; and that Sir Henry Heywood, or
Lord Danemore, as he calls himself--I hope he'll have to uncall himself
soon--is pressing to have him sent to prison at once. Mistress Alice
is up in the village. I am glad she is away, poor thing."

Langford went on into the library, and, passing without much notice a
group of persons around the prisoner at the end of the long table, he
advanced to Sir Walter, who was sitting with Sir Henry Heywood at some
distance, with a table before them, and some books. The Knight and the
Baronet both rose on seeing Langford; the one to grasp his hand: the
other to make him a more cordial bow than hitherto.

"Pray, sir, may I ask," he said, immediately, with a certain anxious
quivering of the lip, but with perfect civility, "if you have been
successful in your search?"

"I have not, sir," replied Langford, honestly; "I have not found what I
sought."

"Then I presume, sir, that you are not disposed to pursue further your
claims in this matter?" rejoined the other, in a hesitating manner.

"You are wrong, sir," replied Langford; "I shall pursue it upon such
proofs as are in my possession. If it were but for the purpose of
clearing my mother's fame, I would do so, even if there existed no
chance of my recovering my right."

"It is a noble feeling, sir," said Sir Henry, with an urbane smile;
"but perhaps there may be a method of compromising this affair. Allow
me one word with you," and so saying, he drew Langford aside into the
recess of one of the windows. "For my own part," he continued, "I am
not ambitious. I am a widower, and shall certainly never marry again. I
have but two daughters--you are a single man--"

"But one engaged to be married very shortly," replied his auditor,
making him a low bow; and Sir Henry went back to Sir Walter Herbert,
saying, in a fierce and impatient tone, "Let us proceed with the
business before us at once, Sir Waller. I say the man must be
committed, and I call upon you as a magistrate to do so."

"I do not see the case as you do," answered the good Knight of
Moorhurst; and as he spoke, Langford approached the table also, and,
raising his eyes to the prisoner, at once recognised the poor
half-witted man, Silly John Graves. Though surprised and grieved, he
said nothing, having learned in a hard and difficult school to govern
his first emotions. Standing beside Sir Walter Herbert, however, and
feeling that internal conviction of the man's honesty and truth which
is gained, not alone from great and significant notions, but from small
signs and casual traits, which betray rather than display the heart, he
determined to interpose in the poor man's defence, and not to suffer
the overbearing vehemence of Sir Henry Heywood to crush the calm
simplicity of truth, as overbearing vehemence so generally does in this
world.

"Why, Sir Waller Herbert," exclaimed Sir Henry Heywood, in the same
sharp tone, "has not the man been found carrying out of Danemore Castle
a valuable cup and silver cover? Has he not been taken in the very
act?"

"I took nothing but what was my own," said Silly John, gazing upon Sir
Henry Heywood with a shy look, which mingled in strange harmony terror,
and contempt, and hatred; "I took nothing but what was my own, or what
ought never to have been there, or what no one there had a right to."

"What, then," exclaimed Sir Henry Heywood, "you took more beside the
cup?"

"Ay, that I did," replied Silly John; "I took the cup because Mistress
Bertha brought it to me full of wine on the night I was shut up there,
in the dark hole under the tower; and she gave me the cup and all, and
said I might keep it; and then the fire came, and I lost the cup; and
so, whenever I was well enough of the burns and the bruises, I went
back again to seek it, and to take my own."

"Send for Mistress Bertha," said Sir Waller, speaking to one of the
attendants at the lower side of the room; "She is now in the house,
which is fortunate."

Sir Henry Heywood gnawed his lip, but, as if to fill up the time, he
asked the prisoner, looking keenly at him, "You acknowledge you took
other things out of the Castle before you were caught. What were they,
and what right had you to them? You will see, Sir Walter," he
continued, "that whether Danemore Castle belongs to me, or to this
other gentleman who claims it, it is absolutely necessary that we who
dispute the property, and you who are executor to the will, should
investigate accurately, and prosecute vigorously, every one who
abstracts anything from that building. I ask you again," he added,
addressing the half-witted man, "what it was you admit taking, and what
claim you had thereunto."

"More claim than you can show," answered Silly John; "for I had some
right, and you have none. And worse than a fox you are, for a fox only
seeks a young bird out of the nest; you seek nest and all. Every one
knows I never told a lie in my life!"

"Ay, that we do!" cried some voices at the end of the library; but at
that instant Sir Henry Heywood exclaimed, "Silence there! how dare you
disturb the court?"

"By your leave, Sir Henry," said Sir Walter Herbert.

But at that moment the woman Bertha entered the room, with the same
cold, calm, and dignified air which had become second nature with her,
and gazing round with a look of inquiry, she demanded, "What is wanted
with me? Who sent for me?"

The next moment, however, her eves fell upon the half-witted man, as he
stood at the bottom of the table, and clasping her hands together with
emotion, such as no one present had ever beheld her display on any
previous occasion, she exclaimed, "Good God! is it possible? Art thou
living? or art thou risen from the dead? I thought thou hadst been
burnt to ashes in Hubert's tower, which fell amongst the first that
went down. I dared not even mention thy name, for thy confinement
there, and the dreadful fate that I thought had befallen thee, were too
terrible, were too awful for thought even, to rest upon! But now thou
art come to life again to bear witness of the truth and yet," she added
sorrowfully, "they will not hear his testimony, for they will say he is
mad--that he has been mad for years!"

"Never you fear that, Mistress Bertha," said the half-witted man. "The
foxes let me out before they set fire to the house; and I never forget
anything; so, while they were fighting and tearing each other to
pieces, I went and fingered what do you think?"

"The papers! the papers!" exclaimed Bertha, almost screaming with joy.

"Ay, even so," said the half-witted man, thrusting his hand into his
breast. "I found the key upon the door of the room, and I opened the
hole in the wall, and took them out."

"What right had you with them!" thundered Sir Henry Heywood, who had
sat by, no unconcerned spectator of the scene. "What right had you with
anything in that place! You confess robbery!"

"What right had I with them?" exclaimed Silly John, with a wild laugh.
"Why, you are as foolish as if you had been born before Noah's flood!
Wasn't there the leaf of the register which they cut out of my own
register-book just about the time I first went mad, when I was usher of
Uppington Grammar School, and clerk of the parish! and did not that
make me madder than before? Who had any right to the leaf but I? and
there it is!" and he spread out upon the table an old yellow leaf of
paper, written over both sides with pale ink, and bearing the traces of
many foldings.

"If is a falsehood! a forgery!" exclaimed Sir Henry Heywood. "It is got
up for the occasion! It is a conspiracy! Let me see the sheet!" and he
started forward to snatch it up from the table; but at that moment Mr.
Evelyn, the lawyer, stepped in before him, and laid his hand firmly
upon it.

"By your leave, sir," he said, "this valuable document is fingered by
nobody. Do not, bend your brows on me, sir. I am firm! Clerk, take up
the document, and be you responsible for it. If Sir Henry chooses to
bring this business into court, he may; but if he will take my advice
he will listen to a few quiet words. While thinking that my noble
client and patron, the young Earl of Danemore, here present," and he
pointed to Langford, "would certainly obtain this same document from
another source, I busied myself eagerly to obtain every collateral
testimony which could prove the identity of the leaf that had been so
nicely extracted from the register; and I have here, under my hand, the
certificates of five marriages which took place in that same year in
the parish of Uppington, which are not now to be found in the volume of
the register, but which will be found, I will answer for it, in the
leaf that is now produced. This will be confirmation, beyond all doubt,
if it be so. Clerk, compare the papers!"

"Oh, but that is all nonsense, Master Turney," cried Silly John;
"there's no need of comparing anything. Was not I clerk of the parish
myself, and witness of the marriage? And besides, here's the
certificate of the marriage in the Rev. Jonathan Whattle's own hand.
Anybody in the place will swear to the drunken parson's handwriting.
The only difference was, that it was more crooked and shaky when he was
sober than when he was drunk; and here's my own handwriting to it, as I
used to write in those days. God help me! I've nearly forgotten how to
write now. And then there's Mistress Bertha's there; her hand is to it
too, and a Frenchman's hand that was with them at the time. I remember
very well. And here's another paper besides, written in a tongue I
don't understand, which is all the more likely to prove a matter of
moment. God help us all! we're as blind as kittens of time days old,
and can tell nothing of what will happen at the end of the nine."

"Sir," said the clerk, who had been busily looking over the papers, "I
find all these extracts placed at intervals in the leaf of the register
before me. There are nine or ten others, too, which could doubtless
easily be traced. Shall I send for the register of Uppington to compare
the book and the leaf?"

"It is unnecessary, sir; it is unnecessary," said Sir Henry Heywood,
making a virtue of necessity. "My Lord the Earl of Danemore, I
congratulate you on your unexpected accession to such honours and so
much wealth. That you have cast me out from them I forgive you.
Disappointed I must feel; but that disappointment, believe me, proceeds
more from affection for my two poor girls, whose inheritance will be
but their father's sword, useless in their hands, and their mother's
virtues, which God grant may adorn them always, than from the loss of
rank and wealth to myself. Sir, I give you good morning, and leave
you."

"Stop a moment, Sir Henry Heywood," said Langford; "a word in your ear
before you go." That word was spoken in a moment, but Sir Henry
Heywood's face was in that moment lighted up with joy, and grasping
Langford's hand in both his own, he exclaimed, "Indeed! indeed, my
Lord, you are too generous!"

"Not so, Sir Henry," replied Langford; "for the present, adieu. We will
meet to-morrow at Danemore Castle, and all shall be settled entirely.
Sir Walter," he added, in a lower tone, "there is some one whom I would
fain see, in this moment of joy and agitation, before I say a word more
to any one."

"She must have returned by this time," said Sir Walter. "Let us go!"

They went out, and proceeded to the ladies' withdrawing-room, where
they found Alice, with her beautiful eyes raised anxiously towards the
door. As soon as she saw Langford, she sprang up to meet him, with the
whole pure unrestrained joy of her heart beaming forth upon that lovely
face.

"Alice," said Sir Walter, with a touch of his kindly stateliness, "this
is the Earl of Danemore!"

"Your own Henry, ever dearest Alice," said Langford, casting his arms
round her; and then, while he held her to his bosom with one hand, he
extended the other to Sir Walter. "Most excellent and generous friend,
I have never yet asked your consent with my own lips. Do you give her
to me? Will you part with this great--this inestimable treasure?"

"I will give her to you, Henry," replied Sir Walter, "with all my heart
and soul. I will give her to you, but I will not part with her. I must
have a garret in the Castle, my dear boy! There, there; I give her to
you. She is yours. God's blessing and her father's be upon your heads!"

So saying, he clasped their hands in each other's, and they were happy.



                               THE END.



                    ------------------------------
   Woodfall and Kinder, Printers, Milford Lane, Strand, London, W.C.








End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Robber, A Tale., by 
G. P. R. (George Payne Rainsford) James

*** 