The Wizard of West Penwith Part 22

"The smugglers are seeking your life;--fly if you would be saved. At the end of this pa.s.sage you will find an outlet. Run for your life! the smugglers are after you! Fly! fly!"

The truth now flashed on the mind of Josiah, and he saw exactly how matters stood. It was evident that someone, most probably his young master, was confined in that dungeon, and, fearing detection, she had been sent to convey the prisoner away, and, by frightening him, and pointing out a way of escape, induce him to run into the sea over the rocks, at the entrance to the cavern, which perhaps communicated with this dungeon, or, it might be, to jump over a precipice.

She had evidently mistaken Josiah, in the dark, for the prisoner, and he was determined to turn the tables on her; so, seizing her by the wrist in his powerful grasp, he exclaimed, in a stentorian voice which struck terror into the affrighted woman, and made her sink on the ground as if she had been struck by a thunderbolt,--

"You cold-blooded old hag! tell me who you ha' got here locked up in this gashly old place, or else I'll carr' you where you wanted me to run, an' throw 'ee into the sea, and hold your head under water till you're so dead as a herren'."

"Oh! sir," said she, gasping and writhing with the pain that Josiah's strong hand was inflicting; "it wasn't my doing,--'twas that boy; he put the gentleman here."

"Come, come," said Josiah; "no nonsense! Was it Mr. Frederick Morley or who was it?"

"Oh! sir," screamed the woman, "I b'lieve that was his name."

"Then where es he gone to?" said Josiah.

"Oh! sir," cried the woman; "I'm afraid he must be dead."

"Dead!" exclaimed Josiah; "ef so, I'll break every bone in your body, and your husband's too, and burn the house over your heads. We must have a light and sarch." So saying, he dragged the woman back towards the steps which led up to the dark pa.s.sage, while she continued to scream from the pain she was suffering; for he did not relax his grasp in the least.

When they had emerged on the main stairs again, Josiah flung the door wide open that there might be no difficulty in finding it again, and called out l.u.s.tily for a light.

The woman's screams and Josiah's vociferous calls for a light, reached the ears of the searchers upstairs, and they all ran down in great alarm to enquire what had caused such a terrible commotion.

"He is here!" exclaimed Josiah, when his friends appeared;--"bring a light quickly."

Captain Trenow had seen a lantern in the kitchen as they pa.s.sed, and, being accustomed to emergencies in his daily occupation as a miner, he went back, and, lighting the candle, appeared again with the lantern in his hand, before the others had recovered from their surprise.

Captain Cooper at first put a bold front on it, and denied all knowledge of the young gentleman, until he saw the cellar door wide open and knew there was now no escape. He then maintained a sullen silence, and preceded the party down the narrow steps into the cellar. It was deemed advisable to send him in first, coupled with Captain Trenow, fearing treachery. Josiah still kept his hold on the woman.

On they went in double file, slowly and cautiously, searching every nook and corner, looking behind old casks, and turning up old canva.s.s bags that lay about in corners; but no trace of their missing friend could be found.

Capt. Cooper now began to hold up his head again. It had evidently turned out better than he expected, and he called his wife a doating old fool, to tell such lies and deceive the gentlemen in that way. They had searched the whole of his house and premises,--and what more would they have? He might complain, but he wouldn't, he said. They naturally felt alarmed about the young gentleman,--who would not? He had no hesitation in telling them that Mr. Freeman and his daughter Alrina had lodged at his house for a few weeks, for change of air for the young lady, who was delicate; but they had left, and, he believed, had gone back to St.

Just.

What could they do, therefore, under the circ.u.mstances, but thank Capt.

Cooper for allowing them to search for their friend, and to bid him adieu? Josiah, however, still held his opinion that his young master had been confined in this dungeon, and had been got rid of somehow. He was not at all satisfied. He must have been starved to death there, he said, and the rats might have eaten him, and he believed they had. This idea, however, was not entertained by the others of the party, although they knew not what else to think.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

THE TWO SISTERS PIERCED THROUGH THE HEART.

Our story now takes us back to Pendrea-house, where we left several of its inmates ill at ease both in body and mind. For, as some mighty warrior, who has borne the burden and heat of the day on the battle-field, and received bravely many a thrust from the point of a lance without flinching, when he retires to his couch after his fatigues, is worried and tormented almost beyond endurance by the bite of a small mosquito,--so were the inmates of Pendrea-house--one and all--disturbed and thrown out of their natural course, by the sharp-pointed arrows of a certain little mischievous creature, who is generally represented as a little innocent-looking, chubby-faced boy, with tiny wings and a laughing eye. He had shot many an arrow at Miss Pendray before, which merely grazed the surface of her smooth delicate skin, and the wounds disappeared almost as quickly as they had been inflicted, leaving scarcely a trace behind. But now his arrow had pierced deeper, and caused a wound which disturbed the peace of mind of this haughty beauty. Mr. Morley had paid her great attention during the short time he had been in the neighbourhood, and had given unmistakeable proofs of his admiration of her, and she had been fascinated by his handsome person and agreeable manners and conversation, and had met him more than halfway, and displayed without disguise the interest she took in him and the pleasure she felt in his society. Yet he never once spoke to her on the subject nearest her heart, and had left the neighbourhood abruptly, without seeing her or bidding her farewell; and now he had returned with Lieut. Fowler, and left again without seeking an interview with her, or even calling at Pendrea-house. She felt that she had been deceived by his attentions, and that he was perhaps after all only trifling with her. This her proud haughty spirit would not brook, and she tried to drive his image from her thoughts, but she could not succeed; for the more she tried to pluck out the little barbed arrow that had already pierced her heart so surely and sharply, the deeper did it penetrate, and the wound was now becoming almost unbearable.

She tried to soothe her troubled mind, by taking her accustomed walks along the cliffs, and sitting in solitary meditation on the bold headlands, and watching the waves as they came surging and dashing against the rocks beneath her feet. His image haunted her still, and made her very miserable. She might now have sympathized with her poor suffering sister; for she well knew the cause of her illness, although her mother and her attendants attributed it to a different cause; but her proud haughty spirit would not stoop to condole or sympathize with one who had so boldly accused her of unseemly behaviour--even although that one was her only, and till now her darling, sister. So the poor little innocent Blanche continued to suffer in secret, having no one to whom she could confide her sad tale. There was one consolation, however, which she possessed unknown to anyone in her father's house except her favourite maid, who was, as she termed it, "keeping company" with one of Lieut. Fowler's men;--this was a letter which Lieut. Fowler had contrived to send her through this medium; wherein he explained to her the circ.u.mstances of his dismissal from the house, and the cause,--reiterating his protestations of unalterable attachment, and his determination to possess the object of his fond affection at all risks and against all opposition, if Blanche was as true and devoted to him as he believed her to be.

This letter distressed while it consoled her; for she now felt in its fullest force that it was owing to her own weakness and persuasion, that Lieut. Fowler had incurred her father's displeasure, and she felt also that she ought to sacrifice everything to exonerate her generous and fondly devoted lover from the disgraceful suspicion attached by her father to his conduct. She believed that her sister, who inherited all her father's pride and aristocratic notions, had set him against Lieut.

Fowler, by relating with considerable exaggeration their apparently clandestine meetings, which seemed no doubt, as she had represented them, very reprehensible, and sufficiently culpable to justify her father in acting as he had done.

Blanche, therefore, thought that, if she could find an opportunity of speaking to him alone, and explaining the nature of their meetings, which were not clandestine, as her sister very well knew,--for she generally knew when and where they met, and was frequently asked to join them,--and if she could at the same time explain to her father that it was by her own persuasion, and at her earnest request, that Lieut.

Fowler had refrained from naming his intentions to him earlier, he might at least be induced to alter the harsh opinion he had formed of his former friend. This she determined she would do;--she would take all the blame on herself, to exonerate him who was all in all to her, and who would, but for her, have boldly and honourably asked her father's consent to their happiness long ago.

Squire Pendray was very fond of his children, especially of his little pet, the gentle Blanche,--indeed, no one could help liking her. She possessed the good-natured simplicity and kindness of her mother, and was beloved by the poor as well as the rich; and many a little act of charity did this gentle, loving, girl do for the poor and needy, whose cottages she often visited in the course of her rambles.

Maud was kind and charitable to the poor also, and distributed her bounties as freely and largely as her sister, and perhaps more so; but her gifts were given with haughty pride, and the recipients were made to feel their dependent inferiority, by the manner in which they were bestowed. It was not so with Blanche;--she gave as if she were receiving a favour instead of bestowing one. She conversed with the poor recipients of her bounty, and freely entered into all their little troubles, and sympathized with them as if she were one of themselves; and yet they never presumed on her condescension, but looked upon her almost as a being from another world, come down to minister to their wants; and so her gifts were doubly valuable, and she was almost worshipped in the parish.

The squire was a shrewd man of the world, and was proud in the enjoyment of his wealth and position, and happy in the possession of two such lovely daughters; and it was with feelings of the deepest regret, that he saw them both pining away under the influence of some secret malady of which he knew not the cause. The best medical advice that could be procured was called in, but to no purpose,--the doctors could do them no good whatever. At last, when all their efforts had failed, Mrs. Pendray said to her husband one night, when they were sitting alone in the dining-room, taking their solitary supper,--

"I tell you what it is, squire,--those two girls are ill-wished, as sure as you are sitting in that chair."

"Ill-wished! nonsense!" replied the squire; "who can have ill-wished them, I should like to know? What harm have those two innocent girls done to anyone, to cause them to be ill-wished. No, no, I can't believe it."

"Well, whether you believe it or not," returned his wife, "I do,--in fact I'm sure of it. What has happened to one may happen to another, any time. There was Farmer Pollard's daughter, two years ago,--she pined away, just as Blanche is doing now, and nothing seemed to do her good until her father applied to the conjuror."

"Yes, I remember that case," said the squire; "and the conjuror discovered that she was ill-wished by another young woman, through jealousy. But that can't be the case with either of our daughters."

"There are many ways of ill-wishing, and many causes and reasons for doing so," replied Mrs. Pendray. "I was talking with Mrs. Pollard about it only yesterday, and she says that it may be that someone has a grudge against you; and so they may have ill-wished our dear children out of revenge, knowing how dear they are to us."

"If I thought that," said the squire, rising pa.s.sionately, and pacing the room, "I would horsewhip the fellow within an inch of his life, whoever he is;--he should have some cause for his ill-will, at any rate."

"You forget, my dear," replied his wife, "that you do not know who the party is; and I only know of one way by which you can find out your enemy."

"And that is by going to the conjuror, I suppose," said the squire, in a sarcastic tone. "I don't dispute his skill, for I have seen proofs of it among our neighbours; but I don't like the fellow,--and I believe there are many of the same opinion as myself respecting him, but they are afraid of him, and dare not speak their minds; for he has great power, and manages to know what is going on around him, and even what is said about him, in a most unaccountable manner; but I tell you I don't like the fellow, and I wouldn't go near him if all my family were dying."

"Oh! don't say that," said Mrs. Pendray, putting her handkerchief to her eyes to wipe away the tears which were trickling fast down her cheeks; "you would not see our poor children pine away, and do nothing to avert the calamity,--I'm sure you would not. Nothing seems to relieve them;--the doctors have given them up; and now, alas! we have but one sad prospect before us. After all the love and care we have bestowed upon them from their infancy, and the many happy years we have devoted to our darling children, and the pleasant future we looked forward to, it is very hard thus to be deprived of them, and to see their strength failing them, and the hand of death stealing over them in their prime, when one word from their father would restore them,--yes, one sentence spoken by their father, would restore them to their former health, and relieve their parents from present grief, and a future of unmingled misery and woe." And--overcome by her feelings, and the sad thoughts that arose in her mind at the melancholy picture she had drawn--the poor old lady gave way to a burst of grief, which touched the sterner heart of her proud husband, who averted his head and brushed away a tear with his hand, as he continued to pace the room in great agitation.

It may seem strange in these enlightened days, that persons in the position of Mr. and Mrs. Pendray should believe for one moment, that one person had the power to ill-wish another, or that it was in the power of any man, however skilful in the occult sciences, to counteract their evil imprecations. Yet such was the case. Superst.i.tion was rife in those days, as we have said before, even among the best educated; and many a poor old woman had suffered seriously, for exercising the power of witchcraft which she supposed she possessed.

The district of the Land's-End was rather too remote for this crime to be visited with severity by the authorities, and so the Land's-End conjuror was left undisturbed,--indeed, he was too cautious, generally, in his dealings with those who sought his aid, to give his enemies any handle that they could take hold of against him. Like the master of a puppet-show, he knew the mechanism of his figures, and knew what strings to pull to make them work according to his will;--the only difference was, that he exercised his skill on the minds of his figures instead of their limbs.

Squire Pendray was a man of good common sense, and a magistrate, and yet he had not escaped the common feeling of superst.i.tion which prevailed at that time--not only in Cornwall, but in every other part of the kingdom.

It was not, therefore, from any want of confidence in the skill of the conjuror, that he declined asking him to exercise it, but simply because, as he said, "he didn't like the fellow." Probably he would have been puzzled to have given a reason for this strong dislike to a man he scarcely knew; for Mr. Freeman avoided coming in contact with the squire, as much as he possibly could, and they had scarcely ever met. No doubt the conjuror had his reasons for this. It would not have been convenient for him at all times to have had the squire prying into his little secret doings.

Mrs. Pendray had appealed to her husband's feelings, and revived in his breast those chords of tender affection which she so well knew he possessed, but which had, in a measure, lain dormant since his children had grown into womanhood, and were able to take care of themselves. It seemed now, however, as if his daughters had returned to their childhood again, and required the tender care of their mother as much as ever they did.

"It is very hard," said Mrs. Pendray, still sobbing, and speaking more to herself than to her husband, "that, after all our care of the dear girls for so many years, they should be allowed to die now, because their father has some foolish scruples about asking the a.s.sistance of the only man that can relieve them from the spell that has been cast around them." And the poor old lady's grief burst forth afresh, while the squire continued to pace the room more slowly and thoughtfully; for conflicting pa.s.sions agitated his mind, and he was debating within himself between his hatred of the man of science and his love for his children. At length parental affection prevailed, and he determined to lay aside the hatred which he somehow entertained towards the conjuror, and be a supplicant at his door the next morning, for his aid in relieving his daughters from the spell by which he now felt convinced they were bound. It was a severe struggle; but he had made up his mind to go through with it, and no obstacle would now prevent him from carrying it out.

CHAPTER x.x.xI.

OUT OF SCYLLA AND INTO CHARYBDIS.

We left our hero, Frederick Morley, fast asleep in the inner cellar at Capt. Cooper's house. He slept soundly--for he was quite exhausted--and dreamed of Alrina, whom he fancied he saw bending over him, and watching him as he slept; but it seemed as if he had lost all power over himself,--he could not speak to her. At last she glided gently away, and beckoned him to follow her, but he could not move. He seemed spellbound; and she faded away in the darkness, leaving him to lament his fate on his cold, damp couch. He continued to sleep on for some time, until he was roused by a voice which seemed to come from the innermost recess of the dungeon. He started up--for he thought his hour was come--and prepared himself to yield to the cold-blooded a.s.sa.s.sination which he believed was now to put an end to his earthly career. He could not defend himself, for he could not see from what point the blow would come. It was, however, a gentle voice that called him,--a woman's voice, he thought; he could not hear it distinctly, but still it called to him in the distance. Could it be Alrina? Had she, whom he had followed so long, hoping to be her deliverer, come to rescue him? But how could she have discovered him, and how did she get there? He knew not what to think. He answered in the same low tone, and approached the spot from whence the sound appeared to come, and was taken by the hand by someone--not by Alrina, however, but by his little attendant, Bill!