CHAPTER XLV.
Gloster.—“I was a pack-horse in his great affairs.”
King Richard III
“Thou art in London—in that pleasant place
Where ev’ry kind of mischief’s daily brewing.”
Don’ Juan.
A quarter of an hour elapsed before the confusion my sudden entrance into the drawing-room of Bromley Park occasioned the inmates, had entirely subsided. I ran briefly over the narrative of my capture and escape—accounted for the non-appearance of the fosterer—was assured, notwithstanding wounds and “durance vile,” that I looked particularly healthy—and in due course returned, as in duty bound, a shower of compliment. The Colonel was particularly anxious to know why a lodgment was attempted on the breach, without battering down the defences; and in support of his opinion, made some extensive quotations from Vauban and Carnot. He also wished to inquire, why the false alarm upon the land-side, when the globe of compression was fired with such success, had not been turned, like the feint of the third division at Badajoz, into a real attack? Mr. Clifford asked the exact date to which my last advices from England had reached me, that he should take up his details therefrom. My mother was solicitous in ascertaining how often Mark Antony had attended mass; and was rather anxious to find out whether the fosterer had fasted upon Fridays, and figured frequently at confession. Poor Isadora’s were whispered queries, and more readily and willingly replied to:—“Had I really thought of her?” and “Were the ladies of the Peninsula so handsome as they had been represented?” The answer to the first was an ardent affirmation, and to the second I gave a faithful assent—for the finest features of Isadora’s beauty were decidedly Spanish.
The entrance of two former acquaintances, Dominique and my loving countryman, the ratcatcher, induced the ladies to withdraw, and retire to their respective apartments. From the faithful negro I received an ardent welcome; and the Captain was graciously pleased to express his satisfaction at my return. Indeed, the outer man of the latter was so changed for the better, that I might have passed him on the road and not recognised my former ally. The eccentric habiliments in which he had migrated from “the far-west,” had given place to the smart costume of an English game-keeper; and as the Captain was a stout, careless-looking fellow, no wonder he had found fwour in the widow’s sight, and had been pronounced by that experienced lady, “a nice man.”
After Dominique’s congratulations, and Shemas Rhua’s “ceade fealtagh” had been duly delivered, the latter, in sentences equally compounded of English and Irish, the ratcatcher announced himself to my uncle, as the bearer of important intelligence. He had been taking a turn round the park, he said, after night-fall, with the gun under his arm, on the look-out for poachers, and in the course of his rambles had dropped into “the George:” What occurred there he briefly detailed, with the omission of all love-passages between himself and the fair widow, and then he thus proceeded with his narrative:—
“I followed the sound of the horse’s feet. When the rider reached the second gate in the lane, he dismounted, joined the other villains, and all three walked forward towards the broken palings, while I slipped quietly through the wicket, and, knowing my path well, was at the opening in the fence before they reached it. Only two of them came in, for the little fellow remained outside with the horse. They went along, trampling on broken boughs as they groped their road, while I kept the grass under my foot, and dodged them without being overheard. They made directly for the house—and when they turned by the clump of ever-greens, I ran round by the other side and hid behind a holly. I saw them steal to the window of this room, and look in for at least five minutes. They then fell back close to the bush that sheltered me.
“‘You’re certain you know the man?’ says the dacent dressed fellow to the other thief.
“‘To be sure I do,’ was the answer—‘he has a pair of arms, and the other cove but one.’
“‘You see how easily it can be done. You can shoot him from the outside, and be safe on the high road before any body could give an alarm.’
“‘The job’s plain enough,’ said the other.
“‘And the moment it’s done, mind that you be off at once to London—and for your lives don’t stop to drink on the way. Attend to this—avoid public houses—and all trace of you is lost.’
“‘And you’ll be sure to meet us the day after?’
“‘Sure as the sun will rise.’
“‘And what time should we do the trick?’
“‘As soon after dusk as you can manage it. Earlier would not be safe. Can you conceal your arms?’
“‘Easily—I’ll borrow a poacher’s gun from an old pal of mine. It comes in pieces; the barrel unscrews in the middle, and you can carry it in the hare-pocket of a shooting jacket.’
“‘Come.—You know the man and the place. Let us be off. I’m too late from home.’
“They returned through the plantation. As they approached the paling—I still hanging on their heels—I was sorely tempted to give them a barrel a piece before we parted; but I thought, as I had found out all they were after, that it was better to let them pass this time—and inform your honour of what was in the wind.”
“You acted, gallant Captain,” replied Mr. Clifford, “with excellent tact and judgment. I see clearly through the business. My existence and return are discovered—and the wretch, who caused my exile, would now consummate his villany by murder. It will only expedite the denouement—and with the failure of to-morrow night, Morley’s career will close. Come, Hector, we must not forget that you require refreshment—and while you sup, I will acquaint you with events which have occurred during your absence from the country.”
While my uncle was detailing the progress of his secret operations, I was giving him ocular proof that my appetite had not deteriorated by campaigning. But even supper and a long story has an end. The clock had struck the first hour of morning—we parted for the night—the Colonel, by no means satisfied that the assault on San Sebastian should have failed—Mr. Clifford, to mature his plans, and avail himself of the ratcatcher’s information—and I, to seek my pillow with that blessed and heart-cheering assurance, that all I loved dearest on earth were slumbering beneath the same roof-tree.
From Bromley Park we will carry the reader for a brief interval away, and follow the fosterer and his companion to the native village of the latter. It was sunset on the succeeding evening, before the stage coach on whose roof the pair were seated, stopped at the cross roads at a mile’s distance from Rawlings’s home, and there deposited the trwellers. Never did a couple of wayfarers cross a pathway more expeditiously. They had light kits and light purses—but they had what was better than any thing wealth could produce, lighter hearts—for from a fellow-passenger, William, to the inquiry, “Doth my father still live?” had received an assurance that the old man was well, and happy, and without a care, save what arose from anxiety regarding the safety of his absent son. Nor was the fosterer less gratified by the further tidings of the stranger. His mistress was looking better than she had ever done—at least, such was the village, report—and but a week ago, it was whispered that she had declined the hand of the wealthiest farmer in the neighbourhood. The colour mounted to the lover’s cheek. To hear that his mistress was fairer than before, was flattering to his pride—but to find her constancy unchangeable, was incense to the heart.
The lights were sparkling in the village casements before the trwellers reached the termination of the pathway—and Rawlings with his companion passed through the garden by a private wicket, and unobserved, reached the rear of his father’s cottage. The security and confidence ever felt in dwellings “far from town,” were here apparent—for the window of the little parlour was neither protected by shutter or curtain from theft or curiosity; and while the retired soldier luxuriated with his pipe, his pretty daughter was engaged in plying her needle busily, in perfect unconsciousness that the eyes of a lover were gazing fondly on her from without.
“Heaven bless ye both!” ejaculated the warm-hearted sailor, “We must not appear too suddenly; come, we’ll step over to the Lion, and send the landlady across to tell father and sister that the wanderers are returned.”
William Rawlings was the pride of the village; every rustic coquette was flattered by his preference; and it was said that it was rather out of pique than love, that the miller’s pretty daughter had listened to the suit of the jolly landlord of “the Lion.” Certain it is, that her reception of the handsome sailor was much more ardent, than wliat he of the spigot would have approved, had he been a witness to the unexpected meeting.
“Why, William, art thee alive, man?”
“Alive, girl; ay, and likely to live. I need not ask thee for Julia and the old man—I had a peep at both through the parlour window. Step over, dear Betsey, and let them quietly know that here I am, sound as British oak, and an old comrade along with me.”
“Lord! they will be so overjoyed,” exclaimed the hostess, as she skipped across the street, and knocked at the old quarter-master’s hall-door.
“Ah! Betsey, is it thou?” said the veteran, as he knocked the ashes from his pipe, and held his hand out to the visitor. “What news, my girl?—girl—no, no—I must call thee dame now.”
“Look in my face,” returned the pretty hostess, “const thou not read good tidings there?”
“What mean ye, Betsey?” inquired the old man’s daughter.
“Mean?—nothing but what I say; I am the bearer of the best news you have listened to for the last six months.”
“Is it aught concerning my boy?” exclaimed the excited quartermaster.
“Yes—William is alive and well; and of that an old friend of his, who stopped just now at the Lion, will give you presently, a full assurance.”
“Heaven, I thank thee!” said the old man, as he reverently raised his eyes, and poured the brief offering of gratitude warmly from a surcharged heart.
“Don’t be surprised at—”
“His return!” exclaimed the other female. “Is he come home? Betsey—dear Betsey—end this suspense, and make us too, too happy.”
“Certainly,” said the fair hostess, “the sailor aeross the street is very like your brother.”
“Oh! I will fly to him,” exclaimed the old man’s daughter, as she rushed towards the door—but in the passage her farther progress was arrested—a man clasped her in his lusty embrace, and covered her lips with kisses.
“William, dear William—”
“Julia—my darling sister.”
“Said I not truly,” observed the pretty hostess, “that I brought you joyous news?”
Next moment the wanderer was kneeling at his father’s feet; and that night, had Britain been searched through, a happier family could not have been discovered.
“And now that I have a chance of getting a civil answer, may I ask who that handsome young soldier is? I hope he is going to stop at the Lion for awhile. It would be a pleasure to serve a good-looking fellow like your friend, after being plagued waiting on frumpy farmer?, and answering beer-drinking boors.”
“Why, Mistress Betsey, that same well-featured youth is a trusty comrade of my own, and a sworn friend of a wild Irishman my sister is slightly acquainted with,—a gentleman called Mark Antony O’Toole.”
The name seemed to have a magical effect. Julia’s cheeks, in a moment, were dyed with blushes—a heavy sigh involuntarily escaped—a tear trembled in her eye—and a looker-on would have been dull indeed, who could not have read the secret of her love.
“All!” said the landlady archly, “no wonder Frank Robinson was rejected. So, Mistress Julia, and you would not confide in your old schoolfellow, and tell her you were over head and ears in love.”
“He is to be our guest for a few days—longer, probably, if you will make yourself agreeable. Julia, are you not obliged to me, my fair sister, not only for bringing myself safely back, but also for coming home provided with a brother-in-law, if you will only let me recommend a husband to you.—Hay, dear Julia, no tears—I but jest, you know, and would not wound thy feelings for the world. I will go over for my friend—” He said, and left the room, accompanied by the pretty hostess. The old man resumed his pipe; and poor Julia ascended to her own apartment, to bless Heaven for the restoration of a brother—and weep, were the truth known, for the absence of one even still dearer to her heart.
Five minutes passed—the hall door opened—she heard the well-known voice of the wanderer inquire for her, and presently footsteps were heard upon the stairs.
“Julia—what moping here, and not down to offer a welcome to my friend! Well, I must fetch thee, girl!” and William Rawlings unclosed the door. She started—the stranger was beside him—and she turned a look of displeasure and surprise on the thoughtless mariner.
“Hay, don’t look marlin-spikes at me, Julia. Here is the real offender.”
One glance, and the secret was disclosed. With a face beaming with delight, and eyes more brilliant now, “For having lost their light awhile,” she sprang into the fosterer’s arms. The vows of simple but ardent love were mutually interchanged anew—and that night the happiest family in Sussex would have been found circling the quartermaster’s parlour fire.
The clock was striking two, when the steward, after leaving his horse in the stables of Clifford Park, walked hastily to the hall, and admitted himself by means of a private key, to the wing of the building occupied by the confessor and himself. On looking towards the chamber of the priest, as Morley approached the mansion, a thin stream of light escaped from an opening in the shutters, and told that the holy occupant had not yet retired to his pillow. The steward tapped gently at the churchman’s door, which was opened by the occupant himself. ‘Within, the room was in manifest confusion—several trunks and boxes were being packed—the grate was filled with the remains of burnt papers—and it was quite evident that the confessor was making such preparations as foreboded an immediate departure.
“How now, Morley,—What news? Has aught occurred since noon?” inquired the churchman.
“I have determined to run the risk, and nothing now can change this resolution. The arrangements are completed. To-morrow night—”
“Nay,” said the confessor—“I neither wish, nor will know any thing of what is to happen to-morrow. It is enough for me to know what has occurred this afternoon.”
“Has any thing important taken place?” asked the steward.
“Yes—two persons arrived this evening. They sleep to-night in the house. One I know to be Mr. Clifford’s legal adviser. The other I fancy is to be the successor to yourself.”
“To me?” exclaimed Morley in astonishment. “No, no! holy father! That will not be so hastily decided as you imagine.”
“Well—a short time will settle the question. After the strangers had been closeted with the old man for an hour, I framed an excuse, and requested to speak to Mr. Clifford for a minute. An answer was returned that he was engaged particularly, and orders issued that none should intrude upon him. There is a change indeed. I, refused admittance, who for years was constant at his side even as a shadow. I, who hitherto dictated who should be received and who rejected! Saints and angels! I can scarcely believe the thing myself.”
The steward had listened with an expression of countenance, which evinced a sort of stupid incredulity. “Father, are we both awake?” he inquired with a sickly smile, that betrayed the inward workings of a bosom racked with disappointment and despair.
“Mine, Morley,” returned the confessor coldly, “are the acts of a man fully awake to coming events. No papers shall rise in judgment against me;” and he pointed to the fire-place—“and, as you may perceive, I am preparing for a long journey on sudden notice. Have you been in your room since your return? I fancy you will find there a document laid upon your table.”
The steward instantly retired—his absence was short, and he entered the priest’s apartment with an open letter in his hand.
“Even so”—and his white lips quivered as he spoke—“‘Tis from the old man—brief, but to the purpose—I am rudely discharged, and—”
“Directed to give an account of your stewardship,” continued the priest; “which may not exactly be convenient. What do you purpose doing?”
“Avenge myself, holy father—leave Clifford Hall ‘a house of mourning’ and, through the son, strike the cold dotard to the heart. Yes, if ruin impends on me, I shall involve others in the vortex. This time to-morrow, the stern old man who turns me as contemptuously away as I would spurn a beggar from the gate, shall be, what through life, and by my agency, he has been—childless.—Farewell!”
He said, and left the apartment.
It is asserted that excessive joy, like agonizing sorrow, equally drives sleep away. When I retired to my conch, happiness and hope reigned in my bosom—and yet my dreams were light, my slumbers sound. I was early astir—but others were earlier still—and when I entered the parlour, I found the family party already collected.
Like all other breakfasts, ours ended in due course; the ladies retired; and Mr. Clifford, the Colonel, and myself, adjourned to the lawn, and there held a walking consultation. In fact, with his customary decision, my uncle had already made his dispositions. The intended bravos were denounced to the police; and at the very moment we were talking matters over on the lawn, Mr. Morley’s agents were in close custody in London.
It was necessary that another day should pass, before Mr. Clifford deemed it expedient to throw off his incognito. It wore away. At Bromley Park the inmates were variously employed:—my uncle, in carrying out his successful arrangements; my father, in ascertaining whether a false attack on the sea-face of San Sebastian might not have operated as an effective diversion; my mother, I suspect, in offering additional prayers to Heaven for my safe return; and Isidora and myself—but, pshaw! the communings of young hearts were never intended for revealment.—
Again the scene must change. At Clifford Hall the presence of two strangers was unusual; and, in that dull and sleepy establishment, that trifling event had occasioned some sensation. When morning advanced, the surprise of the household was considerably increased. The confessor had disappeared, having removed all his baggage, none knew where or how. The steward was also missing, but his apartments were in their customary state; and as he frequently left the hall for days together in course of duty, his absence occasioned no particular surprise. The churchman had departed for the continent two hours before the steward quitted Clifford Park, and, as it was fated, neither re-entered the domain gates after they had passed them.
It would appear, that when he found his former friend and counsellor had left him to his resources, all Morley’s self-possession vanished, and his future actions seemed rather the results of sudden impulse than of deliberate forethought. Without any fixed object, he took the road to London; and that, too, by circuitous routes, which rendered the journey unnecessarily tedious. Although his general habits were temperate, he made frequent halts at road-side houses, and drank freely where he stopped. It was late when he reached the metropolis—and on his arrival in the Borough, he put up his horse at an obscure inn, took some refreshment, ordered a bed he never occupied; for, as it afterwards appeared, he spent the night rambling through the streets, or drinking in low houses only frequented by the vicious and the destitute. God knows what the wretched man’s feelings were! He then believed that a foul act was doing, or had been done; and it is hard to say, whether remorse for having caused the deed, or a savage exultation at its fancied accomplishment, had fevered his guilty soul, and, like another Cain, “murdered sleep,” and when innocence reposes, made him a wretched wanderer.
Morning came, and at the appointed hour named to meet his myrmidons, the steward repaired to the place of rendezvous. He hastened on, as he believed, to learn the death of his victim; but it was only to hurry his own guilty career to its close. The wretched man, in thieves’ parlance, was “regularly planted.” The moment they found themselves in custody, the ruffians (both returned convicts) admitted their intended crime, and gave ample information by which their employer should be detected. It was arranged by the officers that Morley should be received by one of the ruffians, at the public-house where the meeting had been appointed—and, apparently blind to danger, the steward entered the tap and passed through into a back room, which had been notified to him as the place where his sanguinary associates would be found in waiting.
The room was squalid in appearance, ill-lighted, and in every respect a fitting place for villains to frequent. At a dark corner he perceived the larger ruffian at a table—and, what rather startled him at first, a stranger seated at his side. A brief conversation, however, explained the matter. “The other cove had shyed when it came to the point, and he had to call on a trusty pal, the gentleman wot sate beside him.” Thoroughly deceived, Morley fell into the trap laid for him, without harbouring a suspicion—listened with manifest satisfaction to a fabricated detail of the imaginary assassination—handed to the murderer the price of blood—and was about to leave the room, when the confederate ruffian struck a hewy blow upon the table with a pewter measure—announced that he was a Bow-street runner, and Morley his prisoner. Then turning to the door, he repeated the signal a second time. It was answered—three officers came in.
Although astounded at the occurrence, the steward came to a sudden and desperate determination. The ruffian, hardened as he was, turned his eyes away in another direction from his victim—and, taking advantage of the momentary absence of the officer at the door, when summoning his fellows from below, Morley unperceived, took a small phial from his pocket, and swallowed the contents. He was instantly secured and searched—a large sum in money taken from his person—the handcuffs were being put on, which were to bind him for a time to the returned convict—the wretch who had betrayed him,—when suddenly, his look became fixed and glassy—his face livid—he reeled into the arms of an officer, and next moment, sank on the floor a corpse.