The Wizard of West Penwith: A Tale of the Land's-End

Frederick lost no time in despatching the carriage, and waited impatiently its return to the hotel, where Alrina would remain until after Mrs. Courland's interview with her husband, the result of which Frederick still seriously feared and doubted. For although he could scarcely believe that the captain would refuse to take in this poor wanderer as one of his household, yet he knew his temper was sometimes hasty and impetuous, and he might say things in the first burst of passion, which he might be sorry for after, but which would decide his aunt in her course; for she possessed the haughty pride of her aristocratic ancestors, and would never bend to ask, as a favour, that which, in a hasty moment, might be denied, – even though the denial were made madly, in the heat of passion. Frederick, therefore, although he had urged the confession, and painted its reception by his uncle in as mild colours as he could, still dreaded the meeting of two such spirits, for such a purpose. But it must be done: and he thought "If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly."

Captain Courland returned soon after Frederick left, disappointed and out of spirits: they had not succeeded in discovering the slightest trace of the fugitive.

Julia was not satisfied with the search that had been made the night before, and she was gone to some houses a little way out of the town, which she knew Flora was fond of visiting sometimes; so the captain returned alone. He observed that his wife's spirits were unusually depressed. She had been weeping, evidently; but he imputed it to her anxiety for their poor afflicted protegè. She was sitting on the couch, resting her arm on a table, and supporting her throbbing brow with her hand.

Her husband seated himself by her side, and, taking her other hand in his, affectionately, tried to comfort her by saying that he had no doubt Flora had wandered out into the country and missed her way, and, from her infirmity, she could not, perhaps, make anyone understand who she was nor where she came from. "So cheer up my dear," said he, "all will turn up well in the end, no doubt."

"My dear husband," said she, withdrawing her hand, "I am not worthy that you should treat me so kindly: I have a dreadful secret to unfold to you, which I feel I have kept from you too long."

"A secret!" exclaimed her husband, rising hastily, "I tell you I don't like secrets: everything right and straight and above-board – that's my plan! I don't want to hear any secrets! Who says that my wife has been keeping a secret from me? I don't believe a word of it! Who says it, I should like to know? I'll have him strung up to the yard-arm!"

He seemed in such agitation, as he hurriedly paced the room, that his poor wife trembled for the result. She saw that a crisis was close at hand, and probably her happiness was gone for ever: but she had made up her mind to tell her secret, and she was determined to go through with it, let the consequences be what they would. So she asked her husband, in as calm a tone as she could command, to sit and listen for a few minutes to what she had to say, and then she should throw herself on his mercy, and would submit to any punishment he might think she deserved; but she begged him to hear her tale to the end before he judged her.

This serious appeal took the captain quite by surprise. He didn't know what to do or say, so he took a chair, and prepared for the worst.

With averted eyes, his guilty, trembling wife commenced her tale and told all: her former marriage, the birth of her daughter, and the concealment of the child by Miss Fisher: her treachery and heartless importunities for money, and threats: and, above all, her own weakness and guilt in keeping the secret from her good, kind husband.

When she had finished, she leaned her head on her hands, and burst into a torrent of tears. She had been keeping her feelings under control during the recital, that she might not interrupt the narrative which she had to relate. She could not restrain them any longer; and now she expected a terrible outburst of passion from her husband. The crisis was at hand. She waited the awful doom which she felt she deserved; but it did not come. She dared not look at her husband.

He had sat perfectly still and silent all the time she had been speaking, and after she had finished he was silent still. At length he rose, and approaching the couch seated himself by the side of his poor weeping, trembling wife; and, taking her hand as he had done before, he said, – "I knew my darling wife had no secrets that her husband was not cognizant of."

"No secrets!" she exclaimed, looking up in astonishment, – "I have been confessing the knowledge of a secret that I have been keeping from you for years and years, to my sorrow and shame!"

"I heard what you have been telling me," replied her husband, "but you have told me nothing that I didn't know before. Why I have known all that for years."

"You have known it!" exclaimed Mrs. Courland, in amazement. "How is it possible! Who can have told you!"

"Well, now 'tis my turn to spin a yarn, as we sailors say," replied the captain. "Your first husband's name was Marshall, he had a brother in the Indian army. After your poor husband was killed, his brother came to England. He had been informed of the secret marriage; and he had been enjoined by his brother, in his last letter, after he received the wound of which he died, that when he came to England, he would see his wife, and do all he could for her. He came to England in my ship, and he saw you."

"He did," replied Mrs. Courland. – "It was soon after the birth of my little girl. He came to Fisher's cottage. Miss Fisher told him a plausible tale, saying his brother wished that the marriage should never be known until he came home to claim me as his wife. As the marriage had been kept secret so long, it was thought best to keep it so entirely. I was sent for to come home to my father's house, where I found you waiting my arrival. You paid the most devoted attention to me. – You were rich. – My parents and all my friends urged it, and we were married. I was persuaded by Miss Fisher not to tell my secret, and so it was kept; and it has been a burden on my mind from that time to this."

"My beautiful wife," said the captain, kissing her affectionately, "Marshall returned with me to India, after our marriage, and he told me the secret, so that you see I have known it almost as long as you have known it yourself; but I never mentioned it, fearing to distress you, well-knowing that you had been imposed upon by a designing avaricious woman."

"My good, kind indulgent husband!" exclaimed his wife, caressing the bluff old sailor, as if he had been a little spoiled child.

"And now that we have had all these explanations," said the captain, "and might be happy with our daughter, she is lost!"

"She is found!" exclaimed Mrs. Courland: "our nephews have found her, and by this time she is in Penzance; we will send for them."

A servant was despatched to the hotel, which was very near, and in a few minutes, Mr. Morley appeared with a beautiful girl leaning on his arm.

Both the captain and Mrs. Courland were struck with her extreme beauty, and the captain at once exclaimed, – "Isabella Morley the second, by all that's beautiful!"

"No, sir!" replied Mr. Morley, – "not Isabella Morley, but Alrina Marshall!"

"My long lost child!" exclaimed Mrs. Courland, rushing towards Alrina, and embracing her tenderly, "I see the likeness myself!"

"Good heavens!" cried the captain, "is this our daughter? Then what has become of the other?"

"What other?" exclaimed Mr. Morley and Mrs. Courland in a breath.

"Why, the poor girl we have been in search of all night," replied the captain: "I concluded she was the lost child!"

"Alas!" said Mr. Morley, – "she is indeed lost!" And he briefly related the dreadful catastrophe which he had witnessed so recently, which threw a gloom over the whole party. They soon recovered their spirits, however, and, leaving the newly-formed family group to enjoy their unexpected happiness in quietude, Mr. Morley accompanied by Frederick, who had remained at the hotel while his brother took Alrina to her newly found parents, hastened, as fast as possible, back to Pendrea-house, to assist in unravelling the mysteries connected with that ill-fated cottage and its unfortunate inmates.

CHAPTER XLVII.

MYSTERIES EXPLAINED

Josiah did not let go his hold of the boy until they were safely seated in a room at Pendrea-house. And, even then, he would not let him go until the door was bolted, and he had seen that all the windows were fastened, and had even looked up the chimney.

"He ha' ben in queer places in his time I reckon," said he, "and seed a bra' many things: he ha' gov'd us the slip oftener then he will again."

Refreshments were ordered in and done justice to by all; and, when Mr. Morley and his brother arrived, the squire requested all the party to attend him in his library or Justice-room, as the domestics persisted in calling it.

Josiah still kept the boy in custody, and when all were assembled, Squire Pendray said, addressing the boy, – "It appears that you can enlighten us on all we want to know respecting the inmates of this house, and we wish you to relate all particulars respecting them. You can gain nothing, now, by keeping anything back; but may benefit yourself a good deal by confessing everything, and informing us who were there, and how they got there, and the origin of the fire, if you know. Fear nothing: I tell you, in the presence of these gentlemen, that you shall not suffer, in any way, for what you may reveal to us. If you do not tell us the truth, and we think you are concealing anything that you ought to reveal, you must suffer the consequences."

The boy looked from one to the other, and seemed to hesitate for several minutes before he spoke. His eyes were directed more than once towards the door, as if he expected to see someone enter to relieve him of his perplexity; no one came, however, and he seemed to feel that he was standing alone in the world. His old friends (if friends they were) could help him no longer, and his shrewdness told him he had better make a virtue of necessity; so after a short pause, as if collecting his scattered thoughts, he began his confession. He had been too much mixed up with the conjuror to have imbibed very much of the Cornish dialect, although he sometimes used it. Thus he began in very intelligible English, – "'The Maister' saved my life, gentlemen, by his knowledge in medicine, and I was grateful for it. He took a liking to me, and I helped him in his business: call it what you will, – conjuring if you like. I never grew after he took me into his service at eight years old: perhaps I don't look more than that now, but I am eight-and-twenty. I was useful to 'The Maister' on account of my size: I could worm out a little secret by hiding in odd corners, and I never forgot what I heard; I liked the post, and gloried in seeing the astonishment of some of the people to whom 'The Maister' told some secrets he had heard through me, which they thought no one else knew but themselves. Our adventures were varied and frequent; the last was an awful one, when we came on shore under St. Just in a vessel bottom uppermost. 'The Maister' persuaded me, when I went to see him at his house afterwards, that he had been the means of saving my life again, in return for which he wanted my services. He expected the officers of justice. He was not so ill as he pretended; but it would not have been safe for him to be taken away by his friends then, nor to be supposed to have escaped in the ordinary way; he would have been traced at once. I had the means of getting into his room at anytime from the back premises, through a passage that no one knew but ourselves. He had some drug by him which would cause the party taking it to appear dead for a short time. I was in the room when the constable and some of you gentlemen were below entreating Miss Reeney to take you up into his room. We heard you coming: I gave the mixture to 'The Maister,' and crept under the bed, and when you entered you pronounced him dead, and left almost immediately. Another mixture, which he had previously prepared, and which I had ready to give him, restored him at once; and that night, with the assistance of our friends, whose names I need not now mention, whom I had communicated with by means of the poor fellow commonly called 'Mazed Dick,' whose swiftness of foot is well known, we got 'The Maister' away, and the report that he had been taken away by the spirits favoured us. We brought him to the cottage that was burned down to-day, where we knew Miss Freeman had been for some weeks confined through illness, brought on by exposure to the cold; she fell and fractured a limb, in walking from Penzance to Lieut. Fowler's station, where she was going on some errand in connexion with that dumb girl – what it was I don't know. She slipped her foot and fell and broke her leg, and there she lay, on the cold ground, all night, until she was discovered by 'Mazed Dick' in one of his rambles, and was taken to his brother's cottage. I could not desert my master; I believed in his power, and do still. He was recovering fast: he could get up and walk about his room, and intended being off in a few days; I was to have gone with him. This morning, to my surprise, I saw the dumb girl come out of a room at the further end of the house; the mistress of the house, and her son, 'Mazed Dick,' were gone away, and the outer door was locked: I watched her, but was not seen by her. She peeped into several rooms, and tried the door of the one in which 'The Maister' was; but that was always kept locked and bolted on the inside. She then went on to the room in which Miss Freeman lay in bed. She seemed to know her at once; for she darted into the room, and drew something from her bosom; it seemed like an ear-ring, as well as I could see it; and she pointed and made signs, which Miss Freeman seemed to understand, and which seemed to irritate her very much. Miss Freeman had a lighted candle, on a small table, by her bedside, for the purpose of reading some papers. The room was very dark, although it was early in the morning, but the windows were small, and half-hid by the thatch of the roof, which hung down over them. She tried to snatch at what the girl held in her hand; and, in doing so, she overturned the candle on the bed, when a bottle of something inflammable fell with it, and the bed in an instant, was in a blaze. She seized the girl by her hair, and dragged her on to the bed, when they both caught fire, and the poor girl seized the woman by the arms to make her let go her hair, and so she pulled her out of bed, and they both fell together on the floor, a mass of flames. I could not assist them, so I ran out through a side-door which I knew how to open, in order to call assistance, when I met Josiah, and he sent me on to Lieut. Fowler, but I believe Josiah didn't know who I was, he seemed so frightened at what I told him. When I met him again, it was at the door of 'The Maister's' room. He had followed me when I ran through on my return from Lieut. Fowler's. The door was locked and bolted on the inside. I told Josiah whose room it was, and he forced the door open; for the wood in which the bolts were fixed was still burning, and easily gave way: the fire had reached this room and blazed in all its fury; and I suppose, from the burning of the roof and the wood all round, the bolts of the door soon became too hot for 'The Maister' to touch them, and so he was burnt to death. That is my tale, gentlemen, and all I have spoken is the truth."

So saying, the boy or man which ever he might be called, placed his hands before his eyes and awaited the result of his communication: whether the thought of the awful death of "The Maister," whom he seemed to have looked up to with fear and gratitude, drew a tear from his eyes or not, was not known. His tale was believed; and, after a consultation among the gentlemen present, it was agreed that something should be done for the poor fellow, on his promising to lead a new life and give up all evil practices in future. This he very readily and sincerely promised, – and the party separated for the present, as Mr. Morley said he must return to Penzance to see his uncle and aunt previous to his commencing, in company with his brother, the search after the wretches at whose hands his poor father had suffered such grievous wrong, and which had been retarded by the occurrence of recent events. Now they would have nothing to retard their search, he said, – and he would not rest until he had found them and brought them to justice or confession.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

A BRILLIANT CORNISH DIAMOND DISCOVERED AND PLACED IN A GOLDEN CASKET

Julia was very glad, when she returned, to find her old schoolfellow Alrina with her uncle and aunt; and astonished beyond measure, when she learned that she was also her cousin. The story, altogether, was so romantic, she said, that it reminded her of something she had read a long time ago in one of the old Romances at Ashley Hall; and she was so interested in it, that, when her aunt had finished her recital, she begged her to repeat it over again; but this she was prevented from doing, even had she intended it, by the arrival of Mr. Morley and Frederick.

Julia had not seen much of her brothers lately; she received them, therefore, with warmth, especially Frederick, whom, being nearer her own age, and better known to her from their having been thrown together in their childhood, she loved with the tenderest affection. She saw that the meeting between him and Alrina was not what it ought to have been, – nor did the coolness wear off: so she took Alrina out of the room, on some pretence, and asked her the reason; for she knew that two fonder hearts never pledged their troth to one another than those two. Alrina hesitated, at first, and seemed at a loss what answer to give, until Julia reminded her that they were now not only old friends and schoolfellows, but were near relatives, and, unless there was some secret that could not be revealed, she should feel very grieved if her newly-found cousin could not place sufficient confidence in her as a friend, to tell her what had caused the coolness between two, who, but a short time ago, seemed so devoted to each other. "If Frederick has said or done anything to annoy or displease you," she said, "I am sure it was unintentional on his part; and, if you will tell me, in confidence, I will do my best to set all things right."

Still Alrina hesitated, and Julia began to suspect that the coolness she had observed was caused by something more serious than she had at first imagined; but, whatever it was, she thought it had better be explained, and, as Alrina did not seem inclined to speak, she went on with her persuasive arguments. "Consider, Alrina dear, what years of pain and mental suffering my poor aunt endured on account of her reticence. Had she revealed her secret in the beginning, she would have been much happier, and your life would not have been subject to so many changes and vicissitudes as you have experienced. If your secret is not one that you cannot reveal, pray unburden your mind to me, as your near relative and dearest friend."

Thus importuned, Alrina felt that she could not any longer refuse her confidence to her friend, and, putting her arm round Julia's waist, she led her into her own little room, which had already been prepared for her, and there she told her all, as they sat folding one another in a fond sisterly embrace.

"You noble girl!" exclaimed Julia, when her cousin had finished the recital of her troubles, and had told with what bitter pain and anguish she had done violence to her feelings, by telling Frederick that she could not love him, in order to save him and his family from marrying one whose father's evil deeds must throw disgrace and shame upon all connected with him.

"I would rather have died than brought this disgrace on Frederick and his family," cried Alrina; "and, having thus discarded him who is dearer to me than my life, how can I think that he will ever look upon me again in any other light than as a fickle wayward girl: he can have no further confidence in me; – indeed, I will not ask it; I do not deserve his love or confidence after my cruel treatment of him."

"We shall see," – replied Julia, smiling and kissing her friend fondly, – "We shall see, my sweet cousin."

While the two cousins were having their confidential chat, Captain and Mrs. Courland and their two nephews were talking over the events of the past few days, and Mr. Morley related to his uncle and aunt the boy's confession.

"Before you leave us to prosecute the search you are so anxious about," said Mrs. Courland, addressing the two young men, "I should like to open the packet entrusted to me by Miss Freeman (or Miss Fisher as I always called her): she is dead now, poor woman; so that my promise is at an end."

"Yes!" said the captain, "let it be opened, now, – we won't keep any more secrets or mysteries here."

The packet was therefore produced and opened. It contained a long manuscript, written in a neat hand, and was headed, —

"The Confession of Maria Fisher, alias Freeman": —

and Mr. Morley, being requested to read it, read as follows: —

"I, Maria Fisher, alias Freeman, being on my death-bed, make this confession as the only atonement and reparation I can make for the evil deeds I have done during my life: I have injured almost beyond reparation, the whole of the Morley family.

"First Isabella Morley was the victim of my avarice. I kept her little daughter, to serve my own ends, and palmed off the poor dumb girl (of whom more anon) on her as her child. Alrina, whom I called my niece, is Isabella Morley's daughter. Proofs sufficient can be found. – The Coopers know all: and my sinful brother knows all. – Sift it out. That poor dumb girl was found by Cooper, washed on shore from a wreck: he picked her up and carried her to his house. She had a peculiar pair of ear-rings in her ears, very handsome and costly: I have one in my possession now – the other I have missed. Her linen was marked 'Fowler.' We have since learned that Lieut. Fowler's brother and his little daughter were wrecked on this coast on their voyage from India. He was drowned; the child was saved. The Coopers know more; – my brother knows all. This child's infirmity was useful to us: she was kept at the Coopers'. Sift this out to the bottom to: here is the clue: " —

"Oh, miserable woman!" exclaimed Mrs. Courland, – "what a life of sin and wickedness she must have led!"

"Yes!" replied Mr. Morley. – "but that is not all: let me go on. The remainder of the manuscript is not quite so legible: it seems to have been written under the influence of stimulants: it is blotted, and some words are erased with the pen and written over again: I will read it as well as I can, but you must give me time." And, having smoothed out the manuscript, and turned his chair, so as to let the light fall full on the paper, he resumed his task. There were many stoppages in the course of the reading, and many exclamations of surprise and horror, which we will not notice here, but let the confession go on smoothly, to avoid confusion and tediousness.

"If the first part of my confession has startled the reader (whoever he may be)" it went on, "let him close the MS. – What has been told, is as nothing to what remains. How to approach this part of my confession I know not. Brandy will assist me. Brandy! Brandy! That will drown my better thoughts, and bring me back to that dread night, and help me to tell my tale as fearlessly and heartlessly as the deed was committed.

"Now I can go on again. Mrs. Courland, the once beautiful Isabella Morley, had returned to Ashley Hall. My brother and myself followed, and took a lone cottage near the sea-coast. – Our father lived with us. He was a rover, though an old man: unsteady and intemperate in his habits: he was useful to the smugglers, and they paid him well for his assistance. My brother took a higher walk in the smuggling line. He got connected with some of the Cornish smugglers, – Cooper among the rest; and they bought a little vessel of which Cooper was the captain; and my brother, living at a distance, and being connected with merchants, sold the goods. One night! – I shall never forget that night! – a gentleman was driven to seek shelter in our cottage from the snow: he had missed his way. – My father and brother were both out. My father's bedroom on the ground-floor, was vacant: I did not expect him home that night, so I put the gentleman there to sleep. – To sleep! Yes! – It might indeed have been a long sleep!