“Morley,” returned the confessor slowly—“I cannot see how my remaining here could serve you. You wish to delay events—to avert them would now be idle as to war against the elements. But how can breathing-time be gained? Mine own interests would make a short interval before discovery shall take place, as desirable as is respite to the criminal; but, by mine order—I cannot devise any plan that could promise even probable success. We stand upon a loaded mine—and who can say the moment when the engineer will fire the train?”
“Still, reverend sir,” continued the steward, “have we not days to count upon—and what might not hours, were they but well-employed, accomplish?”
“Yes,” returned the priest—“days certainly may be reckoned on—and, under ordinary circumstances, much might be effected in the mean-while. But in this case—one so hopeless and so desperate—when the very grave would seem to have given up its dead—and when—”
“The grave must receive the living in return. Ay, father, there is but one chance left,—Clifford dies—no alternative remains but death for him—or disgrace, and poverty, and banishment for me.”
“No more of that,” exclaimed the cautious churchman. “Pause ere you act—and weigh well the consequences. England, for such experiments, is a dangerous country. Remember your former attempt on young O’Halloran. What a disastrous failure! Four lives were sacrificed—while he, the destined victim, passed through the trial unharmed! ‘Twere better, possibly, my friend, to yield to circumstances, and—”
“See myself impoverished and insulted. I am no favourite with the country,—they view me as an upstart—and often has that cutting truth been told me to my face. The tenants on these estates secretly dislike me. As matters stand, their bad feelings are not exhibited—but let the change come that we anticipate—then, like a cry of hounds, every voice will be united against me, and I must either skulk cowardly away, or be hunted to the death, while the man I hate, have hated, and will while life remains detest, he will be received with acclamation, and trample on a fallen enemy whose neck is already in the very dust. No—no—though life be lost in the attempt, near as he fancies himself to this, his long estreated inheritance—he never shall be nearer. Father, I start instantly for London. We must act—ay, and act immediately.”
“Of these things I remain in ignorance,” returned the confessor. “But if you risk this perilous attempt—safety and success in every mortal venture, depend upon two simple qualities—prudence and promptness. These two, in human actions, are worth every cardinal virtue beside. Farewell—I too have cares which, for hours to come, will keep me watching.”
The confederates separated—each to carry out his own particular object. The confessor had only the future to regret—the past he had secured—and consequently, he had neither a necessity or a wish to join in Morley’s dangerous experiments. With the steward, matters were altogether different. In rash confidence, all that he had cared for hitherto, was to accumulate—and hence, his ill-acquired wealth had been so clumsily invested, that time was absolutely necessary to enable him to regain possession of his property. That time could only be obtained by a fearful and perilous attempt. But no course besides remained—and Morley started that night for London.
The evening was wild and blustering—doors creaked—windows were unusually noisy for that season of the year—and those who had a fire-side, were too happy to find themselves at home. “The George” was entirely deserted; for the stragglers who had dropped in after sunset, alarmed at the threatening appearance of the weather, took a hurried refreshment, and pushed forward to gain their abiding places before the fury of the night should break. Three trwellers, however, still remained. They had required and obtained an apartment for their especial use—and a fire hwing been lighted in the parlour of the hostlerie, the wayfarers there bestowed themselves.