"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-coloured 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