The Wizard of West Penwith Part 32

"My dear brother," said Frederick, looking earnestly at Mr. Morley; "it grieves me to be obliged to refuse to accompany you to Pendrea-house to-night, for many reasons; for I have another duty to perform which I feel convinced is of vital importance to more than one, but the nature of which, as I said before, I cannot now explain to you. Believe me, as soon as I have accomplished the task I have solemnly promised to perform, you shall know all."

As Mr. Morley saw that his brother was in earnest, and seemed determined to have his own way, he did not press him further, but bade him G.o.d-speed, and returned to Pendrea-house, which he reached soon after the arrival of Miss Pendray and Lieutenant Fowler.

CHAPTER XLII.

THE POOR DUMB GIRL'S SUDDEN RESOLVE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

Mrs. Courland remained in her room, for a considerable time after their return from Pendrea-house, reflecting on the events of the day, and especially on the unaccountable and unusual conduct of her husband. What could be the meaning of that letter?--Who could have written it? While these distracting thoughts were racking her brain, Flora, her poor dumb protege, entered softly, unperceived by her protectress, and, leaning over the couch in which Mrs. Courland was reclining absorbed in thought, touched her cheek with her lips, and looked at her with a tender sympathizing expression, as if she knew that her protectress was unhappy, and was conscious that it was not in her power to comfort her, although she longed to be able to do so; but the events of the day, and the thoughts that had since pa.s.sed through the mind of Mrs. Courland, had made the sight of this poor girl hateful to her. She had wished, in her heart, within the last hour, that this source and evidence of her deception could be blotted out from the face of the earth. She wished, in her agony, that she could be in any way got rid of and her existence drowned in oblivion; for, even here, in this remote place, she seemed to be followed by her dread enemies, and she believed that her secret was about to be discovered; the thoughts of those who have committed an evil deed, of however trivial a nature, being always suspicious and uneasy.

Mrs. Courland seemed suddenly to have changed her nature: from a gentle, beautiful woman, the sight of her she now so much dreaded seemed to have turned her into a demon in human form. She rose from her reclining position, and, seizing the poor dumb girl by the hair, dragged her down on the couch. What she meant to do, in her frenzy, it is difficult to say; for the action and look of the lady, together with the pain she inflicted on the poor girl, and the terror she felt, brought back the remembrance of former days, and all her old ferocity and strength returned; and, seizing Mrs. Courland by the wrists, she made her let go her hold, and pressed her back on the couch with all her might, until she screamed for help, and the servants ran in and extricated her from her perilous position.

It was more from the fear of what might happen than from what had already occurred, that Mrs. Courland gave the alarm; for she felt that she was as nothing in the hands of her protege, when she chose to put forth her strength and her pa.s.sions were roused. She had conquered again; and again did she seem to regret the part she had taken, when she saw that poor delicate lady powerless in her grasp. She released her hold at once, and the servants, having seen no violence used, believed that their mistress had been seized with giddiness, as she had told them she had, and that Flora, in attempting to support her, had, from over anxiety pressed her arms more tightly than she intended.

Flora, however, felt that Mrs. Courland had, without any apparent cause, treated her as her former a.s.sociates had done: she saw and understood the look of determined hate and fury which was depicted in her countenance when she rose so suddenly from her couch and seized her by the hair. That look haunted her; she could not bear to think of it. She could not tell her thoughts to anyone, and she determined, in her own mind, that the lady, who had been so kind to her, should not have cause to look on her with hatred and scorn again. She would go away; she would die,--perhaps drown herself; she did not care what death it was; there was nothing worth living for now. All the world seemed to be possessed of the same evil pa.s.sions, she thought,--they only wanted to be brought out. She put on an old bonnet and a shawl and went out: the coast was clear, for all the household were in attendance on Mrs. Courland. She walked through the town, and beyond it,--far out into the country.

It was getting late, and yet she walked on, not knowing where and without having any fixed purpose. On, on, she walked, sometimes on the broad road and sometimes through bye-lanes, she did not care where: her only object was to get away as far as she could, and to avoid being overtaken. At last she felt weary and sick at heart, and now she wished to meet with some house where she could rest herself a little; but there was no house to be seen anywhere: she had pa.s.sed several at the commencement of her journey, but she did not feel so weary then, and had walked on. It was no use stopping in the lonely road, so on she walked again till her feet were sore; for she had come out in her thinnest indoor shoes. At length, when nearly exhausted, she saw a man coming towards her. She was frightened, and tried to hide herself behind a low hedge, but the man perceived her dress fluttering in the breeze, and he approached and spoke to her. She did not answer him but made signs to him, which he understood, for he had seen her before. It was Frederick Morley whom she had thus opportunely met. He had seen her before at his aunt's house, and he wondered to see her out alone at that hour, and in such a place, and made signs to go back; but she stamped the ground, and signified her intention of going on further away from her former protectress. Frederick saw that something had happened, but what it was he did not know, nor could she make him understand; she must be protected, however, for the night, until Captain Courland's family could be communicated with. He had just parted from his brother, and he at first thought of calling after him, and asking him to take her with him to Pendrea-house; but, on reflection, he thought this was a liberty that neither of them ought to take, as they were both comparative strangers to the Pendray family. He thought of the cottage he had just left, and that, perhaps, the old woman would not object to give the poor dumb girl shelter for the night; so he took her there, and the old woman received her with more warmth than Frederick expected, or than was at all necessary, he thought, under the circ.u.mstances.

Although Flora was very tired and hungry, and was glad to rest herself after her long walk, yet she did not appear at all comfortable. She seemed to look at the woman with dread and suspicion, but she was too tired to walk any further, so, after she had partaken of some refreshment, she followed the woman into an inner room, where there was a bed prepared for her. The old woman then gave Frederick some further instructions and enjoined haste and secrecy, and he again commenced his journey on the mysterious errand which had so puzzled his brother.

While her protege was wandering through the lanes alone and trying to get further and further away, and seeking some obscure place where she should hide herself for ever, Mrs. Courland was receiving the attentions of the whole household. Her kind husband was much grieved to find his beautiful wife in this excited, and yet apparently helpless, state. She seemed to be suffering great pain too, but she kept the cause of it from them as much as she could, and covered her arms and wrists that they might not see the full extent of the bruises which the strong hands of Flora had made on her soft delicate flesh. The kind attention of her husband rea.s.sured her of his continued love and esteem, and she began to think that the mysterious letter might have been a mere hoax after all, and that she had nothing to fear: and as these thoughts occupied her mind in rapid succession, she began to feel more tranquil, until at last she came to the conclusion, that, even if her secret was discovered her husband would forgive her; and then she began to feel ashamed of her conduct towards the poor innocent cause of all this, and she sent her maid in search of Flora that she might atone for the part she had taken as the first aggressor, and make her protege understand that she was forgiven also for the pain she had inflicted on her protectress.

The servants searched everywhere throughout the house, but Flora could nowhere be found. Her bonnet and shawl were gone, and so they supposed she had taken a stroll through the town, alone, as she was very fond of doing, and would return when her curiosity was satisfied.

Several hours pa.s.sed by, but Flora did not make her appearance, and the household became alarmed; they fancied a thousand things. She might have missed her way and gone too near the sea, and have fallen in; or she might have been entrapped by some lawless gang of sailors and taken to one of their haunts. Captain Courland and the man-servant searched the town all over; they were out nearly all night, and, as soon as it was light in the morning he and the man started for St. Michael's Mount, in the vain hope that they might find her there, for she had often expressed a wish to see the interior of the ancient castle which appeared to her to be built almost in the clouds. She had the most romantic fancies sometimes, and amused her friends very much by the manner in which she expressed her feelings by signs and pantomimic dumb-shew.

All who knew her, loved and pitied the poor dumb girl, and they all joined in the search right heartily. Julia begged to be allowed to accompany her uncle; and the women-servants, and even the landlady herself, went out into the town and explored every part they could think of, leaving Mrs. Courland in the house alone. She could not rest, so she got up very early; but she was not equal to the task of joining in the search. She was sitting alone in the drawing-room, when she heard a hasty step coming up the stairs. Her first thought was, that Flora was found, and that some one had been sent to inform her of the fact.

Without further reflection, she rushed towards the door in the greatest excitement, exclaiming--"Is she found? Is she found?"

"Yes, my dear aunt," cried Frederick Morley, catching Mrs. Courland in his arms as he hastily entered the room,--"the lost is found;" and, leading her to a seat, he explained to her that her daughter was found and was now with kind friends, and that all was about to be divulged; for the parties who possessed the secret, having already prepared Captain Courland for it, he said, had determined to publish everything: but they did not wish to do it to the injury of Mrs. Courland, and were willing to give her the opportunity of informing her husband herself if she preferred doing so. The parties had other secrets to communicate also of the greatest importance, and they wished Mrs. Courland to meet them at a certain house in the neighbourhood immediately. Frederick knew the house, he said, and had been commissioned to bring his aunt there without delay, as it was of the greatest importance. She hesitated at first, but, knowing what those people were, she thought, on reflection, that it would be wise for her to meet them and hear what they had to communicate, provided Frederick would go with her, and protect and a.s.sist and counsel her, which he promised he would do. He had engaged a conveyance; so, dressing herself in the commonest things she had, she accompanied her nephew to the outskirts of the town where the carriage was waiting, to avoid suspicion.

When they arrived within about a quarter of a mile of the cottage, they got out and walked the remainder of the distance, leaving the carriage in the road. Frederick could tell Mrs. Courland little more than he had already told her; and she was impatient to reach the place of meeting that she might know what those wicked people really intended to do, and what other secrets they had to communicate; for she felt that this suspense and uncertainty were worse than the reality, whatever that might be.

They found the old woman in the outer room of the cottage, anxiously expecting their arrival. She received Mrs. Courland with a curtsey, saying,--

"It is well, madam; you have been prompt in attending to my request. Had you delayed your coming but a few hours, you would have been too late."

"Too late!" said Mrs. Courland; "what do you mean? Has the poor afflicted girl met with an accident, or what has happened to her?"

Instead of replying, the old woman led the way into the interior of the house and beckoned her two visitors to follow her. They pa.s.sed through two or three rooms, some furnished as sitting-rooms and some as sleeping-apartments; at last they came to an empty, unfurnished room, where the old woman desired them to wait while she prepared the invalid for their reception. In a few minutes she opened the door, and asked them to walk in.

CHAPTER XLIII.

THE CONFESSION.

It was a comfortable and well-furnished bedroom; but instead of finding Flora there, as Mrs. Courland expected, the bed was occupied by an elderly woman, who appeared very ill, and was sitting up in the bed supported by pillows. She motioned her visitors to be seated, and then said in a feeble voice,--

"You do not recognise me, Mrs. Courland: illness makes great changes in the human frame. The name you first knew me by was Fisher; I then changed it more than once, for reasons you shall know presently."

"I remember you, now," said Mrs. Courland involuntarily, shrinking further from the bed, as if still afraid of the poor helpless creature before her.

"I am not long for this world," said the invalid; "and before I die I wish to make some amends for the misdeeds I have done during my life, and they have been many. I have requested Mr. Frederick Morley to attend with you, for a part of the revelations I am about to make concerns him also."

"Do you know anything," exclaimed Frederick, "of the wretches who----?"

"Don't interrupt me, if you can possibly help it," she said; "for I feel my strength failing me, and I don't know if I shall be spared even long enough to finish my recital. My father was not a poor fisherman, as you supposed when you and your mother came to lodge with us. He was pursuing a lawless employment,--sometimes bringing in great earnings, and sometimes nothing. He had seen better days. In his youth he was captain of a large trading vessel, and my brother and myself received a good education. My father ama.s.sed considerable property,--more than he could possibly have done by legitimate trading; and he was suspected, and watched, and found out. He had turned his vessel into a smuggler, and, under cover of fair trading, clandestinely carried on a lucrative trade in all sorts of contraband goods. He was convicted, and fined heavily, and, in fact, ruined.

"We then retired to the small fis.h.i.+ng-cove where your mother found us.

My brother had gone to France to reside some time before, and acted as my father's agent there. He was very shrewd and intelligent, but a determined character, and one who would never forget nor forgive an injury. He was naturally cunning and crafty; and his smuggling pursuits tended to sharpen his natural gifts in this respect.

"Our fortune was at a low ebb when we first became acquainted with you; and we were glad of the a.s.sistance of an aristocratic lodger. I saw your mother's weak points, and your love of gaiety and admiration; and I thought that, by residing with you in the confidential capacity of lady's-maid, I could benefit myself in many ways. Your clandestine marriage, and the birth of your daughter, which I persuaded you to keep secret from your parents, gave me a double hold upon you.

"After the death of your husband, and while you were with us on a visit to recruit your health, my brother returned. He fell desperately in love with you;--you refused to receive his addresses, and spurned him from you with scorn. He was desperate. He begged me to intercede for him, which I promised to do, but did not; for your marriage with my brother would not have suited my purpose at all. I knew your parents wished you to marry some rich man, and, as I was now the keeper of your secret, I knew that if you married according to your parents' wishes, I could make my own terms with you. You were summoned home, and eventually married according to their wishes and mine.

"My mother died. Your little daughter was left in my care, and I was well paid. I sent her to school, but I watched her most carefully;--I could not afford to lose her, for she was my nest-egg: and she grew a lovely girl, just like you when you were her age."

"How is it possible that she can ever have been even good-looking?"

exclaimed Mrs. Courland;--"but that dreadful spoiler of the human face--the small-pox--has done its work: it was that, no doubt, that altered her so much."

"She was a lovely girl," continued the invalid, without noticing Mrs.

Courland's interruption. "My brother would gaze on her countenance for hours without speaking, and then he would leave the room in a rage. He hated the name of Morley, because it was under that name that he first knew you, and was spurned by you. He seldom took much notice of the child, except to gaze on her until he had worked his mind up to a state of maddening jealousy.

"We never lost sight of you. Wherever you moved, we followed, and lived near you under feigned names, in order to worry you by continually draining your purse, and threatening to expose your duplicity and deceit to your husband by producing the child and telling him all, of which we had ample proof, and have still. My brother would not see you himself,--he could not bear it, he said. I was always your tormentor; and when I brought the dumb girl to you, I thought the sight of her hideous features, and her infirmity, would have so disgusted you, that you would have given us what we asked, rather than have her left on your hands as your acknowledged daughter. We were mistaken. You kept her, believing her to be your child; and you thought that, by doing this, and denying me an interview, you would be free from further worry, and there could be no danger of the girl telling anything of her former life or a.s.sociates; and if we tried to expose you to your husband, he would not believe us.

"Since that girl has been with you, we have had other things to think of; and our anxiety for my brother's safety prevented our taking the steps we intended with regard to your secret. _That poor dumb girl is not your daughter_, Mrs. Courland."

"Oh! thank G.o.d for that!" exclaimed Mrs. Courland, rising in the greatest excitement. "I hope you are not deceiving me again. If you can produce her, and I can be satisfied that she really is my daughter, I will acknowledge her in the face of all the world, and tell my husband all, and throw myself on his mercy. I have suffered years of torture, from having followed your advice in the beginning. Oh! had I but acted a straightforward part, and kept no secret from my husband, my life would have been much happier. I see my error now, and am determined to keep the secret no longer. Where is she? let me see her at once; don't keep me in suspense."

The invalid had exhausted her strength in the recital of her tale, and this outburst of Mrs. Courland's quite upset her. She could not speak again for several minutes, until Frederick Morley handed her the gla.s.s which she seemed to wish for, and which was standing on the table more than half full of brandy. This, which she drank off at once, seemed to give her new life and energy. Then, turning to Frederick, she said, in a gayer tone than before,--

"You will be glad to hear, Frederick Morley, that the lovely girl to whom you are so devotedly attached, is not the daughter of John Freeman, the Land's-End conjuror, but _the daughter of your aunt--Mrs.

Courland_."

"Alrina, of whom I have heard so much, my daughter!" exclaimed Mrs.

Courland; "impossible!"

"Oh! this is indeed too good to be true!" cried Frederick; "I cannot believe it. What proof is there of this?"

"Proof in abundance," replied the invalid; "I am ready to make an oath of the fact before a magistrate; and my brother----"

"Your brother!" said Frederick; "where is he? is he still alive?"