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

"Dash my buttons! why they're gone, to be sure."

This expression, which was said in an excited tone, recalled Morley from his reverie, and, looking up, he saw that the house they were standing opposite, seemed to be deserted and shut up. The window-shutters were all closed, and the garden-gate was locked.

"That's unlucky, if this is the house," said Morley; "but they may not be gone far. Let us enquire somewhere."

"Zackly like that," replied Josiah, in a sort of bewildered manner, while he led the way to a cottage at a little distance off, which he entered very unceremoniously, bidding his master to follow him.

"Where's 'The Maister' gone?" said he, addressing an elderly woman, who was up to her elbows in soapsuds, washing at a small washtub.

"Your sarvant, sar," said Mrs. Trenow, wiping the soapsuds from her hands and arms, without noticing her son's question.

"Set down, sar, ef you plaise," said Josiah, placing a chair for his master; for he saw that he was fatigued. "Mother es like somethen' that's very good to eat when 'tes boiled sometimes," continued Josiah; "she don't always go foreright when she's wanted to."

"Areah, then," said his mother; "the world es come to a purty pass, when cheldern do begin for to taich their mothers manners."

"Hush, mother," said Josiah, laughing, and slapping the old lady on the back. "How are 'ee, thon? I ha'n't seed 'ee for a bra' bit."

"No fie, you ha'n't," replied Mrs. Trenow. "He's gone, cheeld vean, an' joy go weth 'n, says I."

"You are speaking of Mr. Freeman, I presume," said Mr. Morley. "I came here almost on purpose to see him, and we found the house shut up. Can you give us any information respecting his movements?"

"No, sar, I caen't," replied Mrs. Trenow. "About a week ago, or so – I caen't tell to a day – Miss Freeman (that's 'The Maister's' sister, sar) told Alice Ann (that's the maid, sar) that she might have a holiday in the afternoon; an' glad enough the maid wor to have her holiday, I can assure 'ee, sar. Well, she went out and stayed away till brave an' late in the evenin', an' she went home thinkin' she shud have a bra' scold for stayin' out so long; but when she came to the gate, she found it all fastened up, an' the winder-shutters up, an' the house looking quite whisht like."

"That's very strange," said Morley; "but where are they gone?"

"That's the very thing, sar," replied Mrs. Trenow. "'Where are they gone?' says you; and 'where are they gone?' says everybody, 'ceps Mrs. Brown, – she don't say nothin'. The maid's clothes wor left there for har, an' that's all she'll tell."

"Thank you, Mrs. Trenow," said Morley; "I think we must ask Mrs. Brown, Josiah."

"I b'lieve we must, sar," replied Josiah, thoughtfully. "Where's Alice Ann, thon, mother; she esn't gone after them, I s'pose?"

"No, no; she's up to har aunt's stopping a bit. Har fe-a-ther an' mother do live a bra' way off, you knaw."

"Now, I'll tell 'ee, sar," said Josiah; "you go up to Mrs. Brown's an' knaw all you can, an' I'll go down an' see what Alice Ann have got to say, – an', between es, we may find out somethen'."

"Quite right, Josiah," returned his master, "that is a very good plan." And each of them went his way on a voyage of discovery.

Mrs. Brown was laying the cloth for the midday meal when Morley entered, and her husband was sitting in the chimney-corner. The old lady was overjoyed to see her visitor, and, running towards him, she took his hand in both hers, and kissed it, saying, —

"I am glad to see you once more, Mr. Morley. It was a miraculous escape; an' I hope it will be a warnin' to you, not to risk your life agen at the biddin' of a rogue an' a fool."

"My dear Mrs. Brown," replied Morley, "it was a narrow escape; but the beautiful mare is gone! What does Mr. Brown do, without his Jessie mare?"

"The name of the mare roused Mr. Brown from his lethargy, and, coming out of his corner, he said, —

"Where's my hat, Peggy? I'm goin' to get Jessie mare out, for the gentleman to try her a bit before to-morrow. Come, sir. Wo! ho! Jessie; wo! ho. Come, Polly! Poll! Poll! Polly! Where's that maid gone, Peggy. Billy, boy, come an' saddle the mare."

His hat, which was on his head, shone as brightly as ever, but his internal brightness was gone. He never recovered the shock of seeing his mare fall over the cliff, and the narrow escape of its rider. It was very true he hadn't much to lose, poor man, intellectually. His one idea was centred in the mare, and they both went together. He wandered in and out of the house continually, and, as he didn't interfere with others, no one interfered with him.

"Poor man," said Mr. Morley, looking after him.

"It's a blessin', Mr. Morley," said Mrs. Brown, "that the mare es gone. She was no use here; and she was eatin' her head off, as the sayin' is. What is, is best, I b'lieve."

"My errand to St. Just," said Morley, "was principally to see Mr. Freeman, and I find he's gone away."

"Iss, he's gone, an' joy go weth 'n," replied Mrs. Brown.

"Where is he gone," said Morley; "do you know?"

"All I do knaw es this," replied Mrs. Brown. "He came here about ten days ago, an' said he wor goin' to take his daughter for a little trip, as she dedn't seem well, – she was so low-spirited, he said, – and he asked me to take care of the maid Alice Ann's clothes for har, untel she came back; for p'raps she wud be back before they wud. I thought they wor goin' to Scilly, p'raps, or to Truro. And away they went, and Alice Ann came for har clothes the next day. She dedn't go. Where they're gone, I can no more tell than you can."

"That's very strange; I wish I knew where they were gone," replied Morley, thoughtfully.

"You may wish agen, I b'lieve," returned Mrs. Brown; "he'll turn up again one day, like a poor penny. Come, sir, have a snack weth us; we're just going to dinner."

So poor Mr. Brown was called in, and the three sat down to a nicely seasoned beef-steak pie, which Morley enjoyed very much after his walk, notwithstanding his disappointment.

Josiah gained very little more information than his master. Alice Ann told him that, for several days before they left, her young mistress, Alrina, was confined to her room. She seemed drowsy, like, the girl said, and didn't care to move nor to speak.

"I do b'lieve, Siah," said she, speaking in a half whisper, "that she had some doctor's trade gov to har for to put har to slaip, – I do, sure nuf; and they took har away in a post-chaise while she wor slaipen'."

Morley thought that if he could find where the post-chaise came from, he might, by bribing and questioning the postboy, gain some clue to their probable destination; – for, in addition to his anxiety to see Mr. Freeman, which was now confirmed more than ever, he was doubly anxious for the safety of Alrina, whom he was convinced her father and aunt were persecuting – perhaps on his account, but why, he could not imagine; for he was not aware that Alrina's relatives knew of his attachment to her, or that he had ever met her. He little knew the resources of the "man of cunning" for obtaining information of what took place in that neighbourhood. He left a hasty note for his friend Fowler, stating that he was unexpectedly called away on important business; and, taking Josiah with him in the combined capacity of companion, assistant, and valet, he proceeded on his travels in search of the fugitives.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE MYSTERIOUS ENCOUNTER

We left Lieut. Fowler on the road between Lamorna Cove and the signal-station, at Tol-pedn-Penwith. Various were the conjectures that passed through his mind during his walk, as to who the stranger could be, but to no purpose. He could not think of any of his relatives or acquaintances, who would be likely to be in that neighbourhood, without apprising him of their intended visit. If it should turn out to be a good companionable fellow, he wouldn't mind, but then, he was an old grey-headed man, as he construed Miss Pendray's description of the stranger. His friend, Frederick Morley, had gone off in rather an unceremonious manner, and had left him again to the resources of the Land's-End for amusement and companionship; and he had therefore been more frequent in his visits to Pendrea-house, and more attentive to the young ladies, than during his friend's visit.

It was not often that Miss Pendray favoured Fowler and her sister with her company; for, as the reader already knows, she had more attractions elsewhere; and so accustomed were her friends to her romantic wanderings over the bold cliffs alone, that the innocent Blanche was continually Lieut. Fowler's only companion, and the time generally passed so pleasantly that neither of them regretted the absence of a third party.

When Miss Pendray came upon them so suddenly and unexpectedly on that eventful morning, they were in the midst of a very interesting, but, to Blanche, rather an embarrassing, tête-à-tête. The gentleman was trying to make himself understood, without saying what he meant, in so many words; and the lady, although – sly little creature – she knew quite well what he meant to say, and wished from her heart he would say it out boldly, and not be hammering and stammering about it so – making her every moment feel more nervous and embarrassed, and himself too; yet she would not help him, even by a look, but kept turning a pebble round and round with her foot, and looking as steadily on the sand as if she was endeavouring to look underneath it, for some rich treasure supposed to be buried there.

In the midst of all this, came the majestic Maud, with the tale of her adventure with the remarkable stranger with the white hair. Wasn't it provoking to be interrupted just at that critical time? Fowler felt that it was downright – we won't say what. He wished the white-headed stranger was at the bottom of the sea, and Maud on the top of the cliffs, or anywhere, rather than there, at that moment. However, the spell was broken; there was no help for it now; and he had nothing to do but just walk home to see who this confounded fellow was, and what he wanted.

With all these reflections passing through his mind, as he neared his little cabin, he was not prepared to receive the stranger very cordially, nor to give him a very hearty welcome. He was told by the men, as he came up, that the gentleman was inside; and, as he passed the window of his sitting-room to reach the front door, he looked in, thinking he might catch a glimpse of the fellow before he went in. He caught more than a glimpse of him; for the stranger was standing at a little distance from the window, looking out over the bold headland at the sea in the distance, apparently absorbed in thought.

Fowler started, and turned pale, as if he had seen a ghost, and was obliged to hold by the railing of the little porch for a minute, before he could recover himself sufficiently to enter.

Sailors are not easily alarmed at trifles; so he soon got over the effects of his shock, or whatever it was, and, entering the room, in his usual boisterous, sailor-like style, exclaimed, louder than there was perhaps any occasion for, —

"Mr. Morley! how are you? I'm glad to see you once more."

This stentorian reception made the stranger start, and, turning round, he said, bowing to his host, —

"Lieut. Fowler, I presume. But how you should know that my name is Morley, I am at a loss to conceive, as I am pretty sure we have never seen one another before, and am quite sure you did not expect me."

Fowler passed his hand across his eyes, as if trying to recall something; and then he said abstractedly, as he placed a seat for his guest, —

"Not seen you before? surely, yes! – and yet, no! that cannot be." And he seemed so bewildered, that the stranger proceeded to explain; for he now began to see that the lieutenant was labouring under a mistake.

"You see the likeness to my poor father," said he.

"Ah!" exclaimed Fowler, starting up; "I see it all now. When I last saw your father, fifteen or sixteen years ago, he was the exact image of what you are now. He was older, of course, but there was the same remarkable white hair. Yours no doubt became white prematurely, causing you to look older than you really are. When I saw you standing at the window, I thought I saw your father standing before me. The likeness is most remarkable; and, almost before I had recovered myself, and without reflecting for a moment, I rushed into the room to welcome my old friend."

"I have heard my father mention the name of Fowler often," replied Mr. Morley, "with expressions of gratitude for kindnesses bestowed by your family – both on himself, and on my brother and sister, who were left here after that terrible catastrophe, of which I believe you are fully aware."

"It is true," returned Fowler, "that, in your father's younger days, he was intimate with my father, who also resided in India, but returned to England on account of his health, some time before yours came over with his two children. Your father often came to see him before that dreadful catastrophe, but never came after. He said he would never see his old friend again, until that foul stain was wiped from his name. My father did not, of course, believe that he was guilty, although the circumstantial evidence was so strong. It preyed on his mind, however, and, in his weak state, he could not bear up against the feeling that his friend was wrongfully accused; and he, like your father, pined under it, and passed away from among us in a very short time; but his death we were prepared for. Your father was a strong man then. But how did you find me out, Mr. Morley?"

"By the merest accident," replied Mr. Morley; "indeed, when I came here, I had no idea that you were at all connected with my father's old friend, although the name was familiar to me, – very familiar, I may say; for I knew your eldest brother in India intimately. He remained there long after your father left, and married a native, by whom he had one child – a daughter, I think. I shall never forget his kindness. He was the only friend whom I could depend upon, when my poor father died. He remained with me, day and night, until the last. His wife I never saw much of: she died in giving birth to her second child which was still-born. Your brother then made up his mind to come to England. He would not do so while his wife lived; for he did not like introducing a native as his wife, to his English relatives and friends. He was in good spirits when I took leave of him, and we both looked forward to meeting in England ere long; but, alas! he never reached his native shore alive. The ship was wrecked somewhere on this dangerous coast, and he and his little daughter perished. His body was found afterwards, but the child's was never heard of again. It makes passengers, and even sailors themselves, almost dread to approach this rock-bound coast. It is to be hoped that, ere long, warning-lights or beacons will be erected all round the coast. They are beginning to do so, I see; but there are more wanted yet."

"True," replied Fowler; "there are few families residing along the Cornish coast who have not had to lament the loss of some relative or friend in the merciless waves. But I am curious to know to what lucky accident I am indebted for this visit?"

"You have had another of those dreadful disasters on the coast," said Morley. "Another East-Indiaman has lately been wrecked here. I was a passenger on board that vessel. The weather was rough for several days before, and we touched in at the Scilly Islands, where I landed, taking a trunk with some clothes and a few valuables with me; and, meeting with an old friend of my father's there, Mr. Samuel Lemon, the collector, whom you know well, he pressed me so heartily to remain at his house, that I determined to spend a few days there, and partake of his kind hospitality, and I permitted the ship to proceed to her destination without me; and a miraculous escape I have had, for I find that all on board perished."

"Not all," replied Fowler; "there was one sailor saved. It was a miraculous escape, indeed. But you must have had some property on board?"

"I had a large chest containing some valuable clothes, and silks and jewellery, and a considerable sum in hard cash," replied Mr. Morley, "and, what I valued more than anything else, a small box, which belonged to my poor father, into which he had placed, with his own hands, some thousands of gold coins, and a written injunction to his two sons, to use their utmost exertions to find out the wretches who committed that foul murder of which my poor father was accused; and he directed that those gold coins should be expended in the search. My object, therefore, in coming to the Land's-End first, instead of going on direct to my relatives, was, with the hope that this property might have been washed ashore somewhere on the coast, and my good friend Mr. Lemon told me that Mr. Fowler, the lieutenant at this station, would be the most proper person to apply to for assistance and information."

"You may rely on my doing all I can for you," replied Fowler; "but I have not heard of any boxes answering the description of yours being picked up anywhere, and I fear there is little chance of their being washed on shore now; for their weight would sink them deeper and deeper in the sand, and the calm weather we have now would not throw them up. You have not lost all your property, I hope!"

"Oh! no," said Mr. Morley; "I had sent home the bulk of my fortune, and my father's, through agents, some months ago. That, I am happy to say, is safe enough. All I regret now is the loss of that little box."

"Your brother was a true prophet, after all," said Fowler, thoughtfully.

"My brother!" exclaimed Mr. Morley; "where is he?"

"Oh! I forgot to tell you," replied the lieutenant; "I was so interested in the history of your miraculous escape. Your brother was my guest for several weeks, until he met with an accident at the Land's-End." And he proceeded to relate to his visitor the exciting tale of the fall of the horse over the cliffs, with his brother's narrow escape, and the belief that Frederick still entertained, that his brother was one of the passengers on board that ill-fated vessel.

After dinner, the two gentlemen walked up to Sennen, and enquired at "The First and Last Inn" whether anything had been heard of Frederick Morley. Nothing had been heard of him, the landlord said; but a letter had been brought there for him that day, by a boy who said he was going on to St. Just, and would call again for an answer should the gentleman return in time. The letter was addressed, in a neat female hand, to "Frederick Morley, Esq., 'First and Last Inn,' Sennen, Cornwall."

"Who was the boy?" enquired the lieutenant of the landlord.

"I don't know," replied he; "but my wife do say that she es sure 'tes the same boy she ha' seen riding the mare that went over cliff."

"I thought as much," said Fowler. "We must see that boy, and I have no doubt we shall find him in his old quarters at St. Just."

So the two gentlemen extended their walk to St. Just in search of the boy.

Neither of them had the slightest idea from whom the letter could have come, unless it was from Morley's aunt or his sister; and in that case there would most probably have been a postmark.

CHAPTER XX.

ARISTOCRATIC CONNECTIONS

Mrs. Courland, Frederick Morley's aunt, had been a celebrated beauty in her youth. Her father, the Rev. Octavius Morley, was a scion of a high family, with a small preferment; and his wife was also of aristocratic birth. Too poor to put their only son, Alexander, into a leading branch of one of the learned professions, and too proud to allow him to work his way on as a merchant in England, they wisely sent him to India with a friend, who soon put him into the way of making a rapid fortune; for he possessed business talents of no ordinary kind, and steady and persevering habits of industry. Having thus provided for their son, their only care now was the education and marriage of their daughter, who at nineteen was one of the loveliest girls that can possibly be imagined. Rather above the middle height, elegant in form, and graceful in all her movements, she attracted admirers wherever she went – very much to the annoyance of her parents, who destined her either for one of the aristocracy or for some rich Indian merchant. High birth, or riches, were indispensable in the aspirant to Isabella Morley's hand; her heart was left out of the question entirely by her honoured and honourable parents. Not so by the young lady herself; – she had already fixed her affections on a young officer, whom she had met at a ball to which she had been taken by a lady friend with whom she had been staying in a neighbouring town. He was the younger son of a country squire in an adjoining county; but as he was neither rich nor noble, his alliance was not deemed eligible by the aristocratic parents of Miss Morley, and they therefore discouraged the intimacy, when they became aware of it, although they did not positively forbid it; for they did not really believe that a young man in his position – a lieutenant in a light infantry regiment only, and the younger son of an obscure country squire – would presume to approach the only daughter of such high-born parents, except in the way of common politeness and courtesy. And, besides, they placed implicit confidence in the lessons of ambition they had taught their daughter; and therefore, having heard the rumour of this flirtation in a casual way, and not knowing to what extent it had already gone during her visit at Middleton, the young officer was received with politeness when he called to enquire for the young lady, after her return from her visit.

These calls were repeated again and again, and têtes-à-têtes were observed in the garden and shrubbery, and Mrs. Morley began to open her eyes to the true state of things, when it was too late. Cupid had by this time planted his arrow too deeply to be easily eradicated. The gentleman was forbidden the house, and the young lady was kept in strict seclusion for some time; but, "Love laughs at locksmiths," – and the two lovers managed to meet, notwithstanding the locks and bars.

Mrs. Morley's aristocratic notions could not be properly satisfied without a lady's-maid, such as she had been accustomed to in her father's house. But she soon found that a grand, high-and-mighty lady's-maid, such as she and her sisters had been accustomed to at home, would not put up with the inconvenience of a small vicarage-house in the country, where a suitable number of servants could not be kept, and, consequently, she was continually changing. This was both annoying and expensive; so when her daughter left school, at seventeen, Mrs. Morley hired a young woman whom they met with at a watering-place where they happened to be rusticating that summer. She was the daughter of a sailor, with whom they lodged; and Mrs. Morley found her so shrewd and useful in most respects, that she pressed her mother to allow her to go back with them in the capacity of double lady's-maid – to attend on herself and daughter.

Miss Fisher was apparently bold enough, and certainly old enough, to have decided for herself, – for she was upwards of thirty years of age; but she had cunning enough to read Mrs. Morley's character, through and through, and she knew that a seeming deference to her mother's opinion would have great weight with her new mistress. The old woman did not like to part with her, but she knew it would be useless to oppose it, as she saw that her daughter had set her mind on accepting the situation, and so she consented; and Mrs. Morley returned to the vicarage with a lady's-maid to her mind, as she thought. Miss Fisher proved all she could wish, yielding to her in everything, as she supposed; instead of which, the new lady's-maid, while seeming to yield, and, indeed, yielding sometimes, in smaller things, very soon gained such an ascendancy over her mistress, that, by a little clever manœuvring, she could turn her any way she liked. Miss Morley was not so easily ruled; nor did Miss Fisher seem to wish it, – she appeared to have taken a great fancy to her young mistress, and would do almost anything to please her; and many a scold and reprimand did she prevent by her tact and cunning.

Two years rolled over their heads, and Miss Fisher still acted in the capacity of lady's-maid to both mother and daughter; and when the latter received the invitation to pay a visit to her friend at Middleton, for the express purpose of attending the ball which was about to take place there, Mrs. Morley, in order that her daughter might be properly dressed and taken care of, and also to display the aristocratic style of her establishment, dispensed with the services of Miss Fisher for a time, and allowed her to accompany Miss Morley to her friend's house. They were more like companions than mistress and maid; for Miss Morley confided all her little secrets to Miss Fisher, and she was therefore, of course, made acquainted with the attentions of the young officer; and as Miss Fisher highly approved of his person and manners, and the pretty presents he occasionally gave her, she determined on favouring the lovers, and doing all in her power to assist them, – so that clandestine meetings were easy, although the young officer was forbidden the house, and the young lady was under close confinement indoors. She was beginning to exhibit signs of ill health, from the close confinement and anxiety to which she was subject, and Miss Fisher suggested change of air and scene. She was in the confidence of Mrs. Morley, who relied on her, and believed all she told her. The young officer's regiment was ordered abroad, she said, and therefore there could be no danger in that quarter. This Mrs. Morley knew to be true, for her husband had been making enquiries. Miss Fisher, however, managed to deceive her mistress as to the time, telling her he was to sail immediately, and begging to be allowed to take Miss Morley home to her father's house for a short time, as she wanted to see the old people, and she thought the sea-air would quite restore her young mistress's health, and the change of scene might cause her to forget this foolish love-affair. So said the designing Miss Fisher; and the pair went to old Mr. Fisher's house, there to reside in strict seclusion, and luxuriate in country-walks and sea-breezes. But, strange to say, they had not been there many hours, before the young officer made his appearance there also, and the bloom of health soon returned to the cheeks of the young lady, without the aid of the sea-breezes – although they were often felt, as the two lovers took their delightful walks over the rocks and along the cliffs. Lieut. Marshall's time was nearly up; but a few more days remained before he would be obliged to leave her he loved so much. He could not bear the thought; – he was going to the battle-field, and might never see her more; or, if he lived to return, he might find her the bride of another.