Bred in the Bone by James Payn (page 7)

drawing-room, engaged in needle-work, was alarmed by a shrill shriek, followed by a heavy fall on the floor beneath, in Mrs. Basil’s parlor. She had heard the front-door closed but a minute before, and the thought that was never wholly absent from her mind now flashed upon it with terrible distinctness–the Avenger had come at last! Her next hurried reflection was one of thankfulness that neither Charley nor Solomon was at home. Then, pale and trembling, she stole out on the landing of the stairs, and listened intently. Not a sound was to be heard save the throbs of her own fluttering breast. The cook and the waiting-maid, who alone composed the domestic staff, had apparently not heard the noise; for the former was singing loudly in the kitchen, as was her wont when she had been “put out,” as happened some half dozen times per diem. It was frightful to think that in yonder parlor her once-loved Richard might even then be closeted with his mother, deaf to her appeals for mercy, resolute for revenge, and only demanding where his enemies might be found: it was better to face him than to picture him thus. That his sudden appearance had terrified Mrs. Basil into a fit she had little doubt from that shriek and fall; and, indeed, all was now so still within there that she might be dead. The fear for her offspring, however, made Harry almost bold. Indeed, as has been said, she did not entertain any apprehension of personal violence at Richard’s hands; and, perhaps, in spite of Mrs. Basil’s assurance to the contrary, she had some hope of moving him from his set purpose by her prayers and tears. Step by step, and clinging to the hand-rail for support, for her limbs scarcely obeyed her will, she descended the stairs, stood a moment in the passage, listening like a frightened hare, and then opened the parlor door. There was no one within it: yes, upon the hearth-rug lay the motionless form of Mrs. Basil; she was lying on her face; and, rushing forward, Harry knelt down beside her, and strove to lift her in her arms. Some instinct seemed to forbid her to call for assistance.

“What is it? what is it?” gasped the old woman, looking vacantly up in the other’s face.

“You have been unwell, dear madam. I am afraid you have had a fainting fit; but, thank Heaven, you are better now.”

Harry was truly grateful; first, that her original suspicion had proved to be unfounded; secondly, that Mrs. Basil was alive. She had contrived to place her in a sitting posture, with her back against the heavy arm-chair; and now she brought a carafe of water from the side-board, and sprinkled her face and hands.

“Let me call Mary, and we will get you up to your own room as soon as you feel equal to the effort.”

Mrs. Basil’s eyes had closed again. Her face was white and stiff as that of a corpse; but she shook her head with vehemence. “The door–lock the door!” she murmured.

Not without some hesitation, for she began to fear that her companion was wandering in her mind, Harry obeyed her. “Get me into my chair. Oh, why did I ever wake to weary life again!”

“What has troubled you? Can any new misfortune have happened to us?” inquired Harry, woefully.

“To _you_–no,” answered the old woman, with sudden fierceness; “to me–yes. Do you see that letter?” She pointed to one lying beneath the table. “Twenty years ago that would have been my death-warrant; but now I am so used to suffer that, like the man who lived on poisons, nothing kills. Read it–read it.”

The letter was an official one; the envelope immense, with “On her Majesty’s Service” stamped upon it, and out of all proportion to the scanty contents, which ran as follows:

“LINGMOOR PRISON, _December 22._

“MADAM,–I am instructed by the Governor of this Jail to acquaint you with the sad news that your son, Richard Yorke, is no more. Four weeks ago he escaped from prison by night, and took refuge in an adjoining wood. His body was discovered only four days ago, and an inquest held upon it, when a verdict was returned in accordance with the facts. I am, Madam, yours obediently,

“THOMAS SPARKES (_for the Governor_).

“I am instructed to inclose a locket with miniature, which was found upon your son on his arrival here. The rest of his property will be forwarded by rail.”

This locket contained the little picture of Harry painted by Richard himself, and which, though he had contrived to secrete while at Cross Key, had been taken from him at Lingmoor.

Harry’s breast was agitated by conflicting emotions. To know that her boy was safe–that there could be no murder done–gave her a sense of intense relief, which could scarcely be called selfish. But that reflection was but transient, and a passionate burst of sorrow succeeded it. The only man she had ever loved–around whom, centred her most precious memories–had died, then, thus miserably, after miserable years of bondage endured on her account. She saw him with her mind’s eye once more as when he had clasped her in his arms for the first time upon the ruined tower–as when he had rained his kisses on her lips beside the Wishing Well–in his youth and beauty and passion. Her nineteen years of loveless wedlock were swept away, and left her as she saw herself in the little portrait he himself had painted, and which was now his legacy. His menaces and vows of vengeance against her and hers were all forgotten; her woman’s heart was loyal to him whom she had owned its lord, and once more did him fealty.

“Oh, Richard, Richard, my dear love,” cried she; “God knows I would have died to save you!”

“Come here, Harry–come here,” whispered Mrs. Basil, “and let me kiss you. I would that I could weep like you; but the fountain of my tears has long been dry. I thought you would have been glad to feel that you and yours were safe–that retribution was averted from the man, your husband; but I now see I did you wrong. Your heart is touched–you remember him as he was before the taint of crime was on him.”

“It never was!” cried Harry, passionately. “He never meant to wrong my father of a shilling.”

“Well said, dear Harry; well said. He was himself a wronged–a murdered man. Imprisoned for nineteen years, and then to perish thus! And yet men talk of Heaven’s justice! My boy! my boy!”

The two women were silent for a while–the one gazing with dry eyes but tender yearning face upon the other, as she rocked herself to and fro, and shook with stifled sobs.

“Dear Harry, you must not desert me now,” pleaded the former, pitifully; “I am very old, and this has broken me. He was my all–my only one on earth–and he is dead. I shall not trouble you long. We two, child, were the only ones that loved him, and we love him still. Let me cling to you, Harry, since it is but for a little while; and let us talk of him together, when we are alone, and think of what he was. So bright, so gay, so–Oh, my boy! my boy!”

The tears rushed to the mother’s eyes at last. Hard Fate was softened for a while toward it’s life-long victim; and side by side sat the two bereaved women, each striving to comfort the other, after woman’s fashion, by painting in its brightest colors that dead Past which both deplored. Begotten of their common sorrow, Love sprang up between them, and on one side confidence; and into Mrs. Basil’s hungry ears Harry, for the first time, poured the story of her courtship. Richard’s death had cemented between them the bond which it would seem to have destroyed. The fatal letter lay open on Harry’s lap, but the envelope had fallen on the floor. Stooping to pick it up, she found something still within it–some folded slips from a local newspaper, with an account of the inquest, the details of which the governor’s clerk had, perhaps humanely, preferred to communicate in that form, to be read or not as the mother’s feelings might dictate to her. The two women read it together, not aloud, for neither had the voice for that. With most of the evidence there recounted we are already familiar. It was proved that No. 421 had long been in a desponding, brooding state; but, as only a year intervened between the expiration of his term of punishment, his attempt to escape was almost unaccountable, and certainly unparalleled. No punishment was impending over him. The opinion of the authorities was expressed that the convict’s reason was unhinged. The method of obtaining his freedom showed indeed considerable cunning, but also an audacity that was scarcely consistent with sanity. The height of the prisoner was known, and his proportionate reach of arm; and it seemed incredible how he could have succeeded in reaching the parapet above his cell window; in that attempt he must have risked certain death. His descent from the roof was explained by the presence of the rope. The immediate means by which he surmounted the external wall were, of course, evident enough, since the rope was there also; but the question was, how did it come there? The prisoner must have been assisted by some one outside the wall. The warder who fired the shot which subsequently proved fatal had seen but one man; but the night was dark, and the whole affair had passed very rapidly. Indeed, the convict had only fully shown himself when at the top of the wall, and the musket had been fired almost at a venture. On the alarm being given, pursuit was at once attempted; but, under cover of the night, the fugitive had gained Bergen Wood. The next morning his footsteps were traced so far, and it was proved that he was unaccompanied. A cordon was placed round the wood, and the place itself thoroughly searched for many days. It was deemed certain, from the report of the scouts who were made use of on such occasions, that the convict had not left that covert to seek shelter in any hamlet in the neighborhood; the quest was therefore still continued. Not, however, until three weeks afterward was No. 421 discovered. It was supposed that the unhappy fugitive had died of his wounds upon the very night of his escape, for the body was so decomposed that it could never have been identified but for its convict clothes; the nights had been wet and tempestuous, and it lay in an unsheltered part of the wood, a mere sodden heap of what had been once humanity. The bullet that had been the cause of death was, however, detected in the remains.

What an end to the high-spirited, handsome lad that had been the pride of his mother, the joy of his betrothed! What wonder that they sat over the bald record of it with bowed-down faces, and filled up the gaps with only too easily imagined horrors! Each kept hold of the other’s hand, as though in sign of the dread bond between them, and sat close to one another in silence. Presently Harry started up, at the sound of a latch-key in the house door.

“That is Solomon,” cried she.

“Impossible,” said Mrs. Basil. “He told me himself that he should stop for the last day’s sale, and to-day is but the fifth.”

“Hush! it is.”

Yes, it was certainly Solomon’s voice in the passage; and apparently, by the answering tone, he had a male companion with him.

Harry seized the letter, with its inclosures, and thrust them into her bosom, which, full of grief for his victim, seemed to spurn her husband’s approach. Then she heard him calling her impatiently, as was his wont, from the foot of the stairs.

“Harry, come down; I have brought a gentleman home with me. Let’s have something to eat at once, will you?”

“Answer him–answer him!” gasped Harry. She could not speak; her tongue seemed paralyzed.

Mrs. Basil rose at once, walked with steady step to the door, and opened it. “Your wife is here, Mr. Coe. I am glad you are come home, for she is far from well, and I was getting quite nervous about her.”

“She _must_ be ill,” grumbled Solomon, “not to be able to say ‘Here,’ when I am breaking a blood-vessel with holloing to her in the attics. Come in here, Sir.” This to his companion–a man considerably his senior, thin and spare, who stood peering curiously at the landlady. “I am sorry to see you unwell, wife. I have brought a friend to stay with us for a day or two. Mr. Robert Balfour–Mrs. Coe.”

CHAPTER XL.

A PROJECTED PARTNERSHIP.

Though by no means in either the mental or physical condition in which a lady should be who is called upon to play the part of hostess, Harry was not displeased that Solomon had not returned alone. The presence of this stranger, whom she greeted mechanically, and almost without a glance at his features, was welcome to her, because it was likely to distract from herself her husband’s regards. What she would like to have done would have been to shut herself up alone in her chamber, to weep and pray. As it was, she had to be cheerful, to affect an interest in her husband’s late expedition, and pleasure at his unexpected return. Mrs. Basil was here invaluable; you would never have imagined that it was the same woman–so stricken and full of anguish but a few minutes before, and now so self-possessed and cheerful. But she had been used to playing parts throughout her life, and acting was easy to her. She dreaded silence, lest with it should come observation and remark upon the agitation and distress only too visible in Harry’s countenance; and yet it was difficult, even for her, to keep up the ball of small-talk, for Solomon was always slow and scant of speech, and the new-comer rarely opened his mouth, and then only to utter a monosyllable. His manner, too, was embarrassing; he turned his white and stony face from one woman to the other, like an automaton, but with a weird and searching gaze.

They had never so much as heard his name before, for Richard had been cautious never to mention Balfour in his letters, since they were, of course, perused by the authorities, and friendships were not encouraged at Lingmoor; but, on the other hand, it was evident that these ladies had an interest for the visitor. Presently, while they were yet all below stairs, arrived Charles and Agnes, which effected, indeed, diversion enough, but also a great disturbance and alteration for the worse in Mr. Coe’s temper. No sooner, as it seemed to him, had his back been turned, then, than the intimacy between this girl and his son, which he had strictly forbidden, had been recommenced, and with the connivance and encouragement of his wife too, or else how should the lad dare thus to bring her home? For the first time Solomon was openly rude to Agnes; and the latter, being a girl of spirit, resented it by quietly rising to depart. Charley, rash and impetuous, rose to accompany her. Solomon stormed displeasure; and it seemed that the presence of the visitor would have been wholly inadequate to prevent a family scene, when Agnes herself interposed with dignity. “No, Charles; I would rather go alone. If your father objects to my presence here, it shall not be intruded; and if he considers your company a condescension, I can not accept it upon such terms.”

Charles would have taken her arm, in defiance of all consequences, and led her off under Solomon’s nose; but this opposition on her part offended him. He was almost as angry with her for thwarting him as he was with his father. It was a triangular duel, the combatants in which were narrowly watched by the disregarded stranger. When Agnes got her way and departed, “That’s a girl of character,” observed he, with a cynical smile.

“She is a girl without a penny,” answered Solomon, gloomily, with a scowl at his son, “upon whom this young fool wishes to throw himself away.”

“What! so early?” observed Mr. Balfour, good-humoredly addressing Charles. “When I was your age, I thought of enjoying life, and not of marriage. I don’t wonder, however, that any girl should strive to enslave so handsome a young fellow as your son, Sir. It is quite natural, and there is no need to blame her, and far less _him_.”

Ashamed, perhaps, of having exhibited such violence of temper before his guest, Solomon was very willing to be mollified, and grimly smiled approval of these sentiments; Charles, too, though fully resolved to set himself right with Agnes on the morrow, was not displeased with the visitor’s remark; but the two women justly resented it as an impertinent freedom. If Charles’s thoughts had not been so preoccupied with his own wrongs–the deprivation of his Agnes’s society, which he had promised himself for the rest of the day, and the snub which he conceived she had administered to him–he would have noticed too, for he was by no means wanting in observation, that the new-comer’s manner to his hostess and Mrs. Basil was not what it should have been. It was not absolutely rude, but it was studiously careless of their presence. He no longer stared at them as at first, but, on the contrary, seemed to ignore the fact of their existence–never addressed them; and if either spoke to him, replied as briefly as possible, and then turned at once to Solomon or his son. Mrs. Basil concluded that he was a vulgar fellow, who, having penetration enough to discover that the males had the upper hand in the establishment, did not give himself the trouble to conciliate the less important members of it; but Harry, always timid and suspicious, was alarmed at him; his air had, in her eyes, something hostile in it as well as contemptuous. She could not understand, and therefore mistrusted, the influence he had evidently obtained over her husband, and which already had superseded that of Mrs. Basil.

That Solomon should no longer take pains to make himself agreeable to the latter, now that he had obtained from her his object, was, to any one who knew his character, explicable enough; but why should this stranger have taken her place as his counselor and friend? The idea of some personal advantage was, of course, at the bottom of it; but it was clear, not only to sage Mrs. Basil, but even to Harry–since even a moderately skillful looker-on sees more of the game than the best player–that in any contest of wits Solomon would have small chance with his new friend. The opinion of Mrs. Basil was, that some new speculation, in some manner connected with the Crompton sale, had been entered into by the two men, and that Mr. Balfour would in the end secure the oyster, while Mr. Coe was left with the shell. But Harry had darker forebodings still; she was instinctively confident that there was enmity at work in the new-comer, as well as the readiness common to all speculators to overreach a friend. There was a look in his pallid face, when it glanced, as he thought unheeded, on either Charles or Solomon, which, to her mind, boded ill. If it did so, it was certainly unsuspected by those on whom it fell. Mr. Coe had apparently never found a companion so agreeable to him; and, curiously enough, this idea seemed to be shared by Charles. According to his own account, Mr. Balfour had been abroad in Western America for many years, and had there retrieved a fortune which, originally inherited, had been speedily dissipated in the pleasures of the town. His long absence from such scenes had by no means dulled his taste for them, and his conversation ran on little else. He had a light rattling way with him–that, to Harry’s view, resembled youthful spirit no more than galvanism in a corpse resembles life, and which was certainly not in harmony with his age and appearance–and very graphic powers of description; he expressed himself curious about the changes in public amusements since he left town, near twenty years ago, and seriously placed himself under Charles’s guidance on the expeditions of pleasure for which the latter was always ready. To this, strangely enough, Solomon made no objection, notwithstanding that his own purse-strings had to be drawn pretty wide to supply these extravagances. His new friend had only to suggest that he should give the lad a five-pound note to enjoy himself with, and the thing was done at once.

As for himself, Mr. Balfour seemed to be made of money, so freely did he spend it; and if he did not offer the use of his purse to his young companion, it was only, as he told him, because he feared to offend his pride. “Besides,” said he, when they were alone together on one of these expeditions of amusement, from which Solomon, whose notions of enjoyment were mainly confined to money-making, always excused himself upon pretense of having business to do, “it is only right your father should be made to fork out; he is as rich as Croesus. It is quite unreasonable that he should stint you in enjoyment when, one day or another, you will have all the pleasures of life to pick and choose from.”

It would have tested Solomon’s new-born friendship severely if he could have heard Mr. Balfour dilate upon this topic, which he did with such earnestness and fervor that the lad was soon convinced of those great expectations which the cautious reticence of his parents had so long concealed from him. On the other hand, Charley’s companion deduced an argument from this fair prospect which was not so welcome to the lad; he maintained that, under the circumstances, it would be madness to risk his father’s displeasure by uniting himself irretrievably to Agnes, or to any other young woman. “My good offices will be always at your disposal, my lad,” urged he, gravely, “and I don’t deny that, at present, I have considerable influence with Mr. Coe; but it would not be proof against so flagrant an act of disobedience as that which you contemplate. The great bulk of his property is at his own disposal; and his nature, if I may speak plainly to you in so important a matter, is obstinate and implacable. At all events, there is no hurry, since you and this charming young lady are but boy and girl at present. Life is uncertain, and you may be your own master any day; wait till you are so, or wait for a little, at all events, to see what may turn up; and in the mean time, lad, enjoy yourself.” The last part of Mr. Balfour’s advice, at all events, was palatable enough, and that much of it Charles accepted; in doing which, as was anticipated, the whole intention of his Mentor became fulfilled. Plunged in dissipation, the young man thought less and less of his love; gave himself little trouble, though he still avowed his unalterable attachment, to set himself right with her; grew more and more dissatisfied with his own home, at the same time that that of Agnes became less and less attractive; and, in short, he drifted away daily farther and farther from the safe moorings of love and duty.

Harry perceived all this with a dread so deep that it even drove her to invoke her husband’s aid against this man, who, inexplicable as his hostility might be, was bent, she firmly believed, upon the ruin of her darling boy. With Solomon, as she well knew, the fact of his son’s dissipation was not likely to move him to interfere; he saw that the companionship of Balfour was gradually producing an estrangement between Charles and the portionless artist’s daughter, and so far he cordially approved of it, nor cared to question by what means this new friend made himself agreeable. She had no argument available except that of expense, and, to her astonishment and dismay, this failed to affect her prudent spouse.

“Just let things be a while,” was Solomon’s reply, “and mind your own business. It is quite true the lad’s throwing my money in the gutter at a fine rate; but in the end I shall get it all back again, and more with it. This Balfour takes me for a foolish doting father, but he shall pay for all himself before I’ve done with him. I throw a sprat to catch a whale; and neither you nor any other fool shall interfere with my fishing.”

Harry dared not say more; her husband had been in the worst of humors ever since he had returned from Crompton, and was all the more brutal and tyrannical to her that he had to be civil and conciliatory to his new friend, and involuntarily indulgent, upon his account, to Charles. The unhappy mother was powerless to check the evil the growth of which was so patent to her loving instinct, and there was none to whom she could look for help. Mrs. Basil had no longer any influence with Solomon, and, besides, she was seriously ill, and had now been confined to her own room for weeks. In her extremity, Harry had even resolved to make a personal appeal to this man Balfour; to ask him in what her husband had injured him, to adjure him to forgive the wrong, or at least not to visit it upon her Charley’s innocent head. But she shrank with an inexplicable terror from putting this design into effect; she felt she should humiliate herself to no purpose; he would deny, in his cold, cynical way, that he entertained any thing but friendship for her astute husband and affection for her bright and impulsive son. Besides, to say truth, she was afraid to speak with the man; and she had a suspicion that this weird and shadowy fear was in some degree shared by Mrs. Basil; at times she even imagined that it was not so much indisposition as a desire to avoid his presence that caused the landlady to absent herself from the family circle.

Mr. Coe, at all events, entertained no such prejudice against his guest; day by day he grew more communicative with him, and more solicitous to hear his opinions, with which he seldom failed to agree. The two men were in reality, as it was easy to see, as opposite in character as the poles. Mr. Balfour was, and apparently always had been, a man of pleasure; but he had seen men and cities, and his remarks were shrewd, and selfish, and worldly-wise enough. It was rarely that his talk ever strayed to matters of business, so that Solomon was perforce a listener; but that unambitious part he played to admiration.

Upon one occasion, however, their after-dinner converse happened to turn upon partnerships; Solomon urged their great convenience, how one man brought money and the other brains, and how pleasant it must be for the former to live at ease while the latter gathered honey for him, both for present use and for the wintry store. He rose with the familiar subject to quite a flight of poetry.

Mr. Balfour, with half-shut eves and a mocking smile, dilated upon the sentiment involved in such communities of enterprise, the sympathy engendered by them, and the happy social effects that were produced by them. His host either did not, or would not, perceive that these remarks were ironical, and pursued the subject to its details, proportions of profits, balance-sheets, etc., until Charles rose with a yawn, and left his two elders together.

“Well, Balfour,” said Solomon, frankly, as soon as they were alone, “this talk reminds me of the matter that first introduced us to one another–your purchase of that outlying bit of the Crompton property, Wheal Danes.”

[Illustration: “I WILL GIVE YOU A THOUSAND POUNDS FOR THAT CROMPTON LOT.”]

“Ay,” replied the other, carelessly lighting another cigar. It was quite wonderful to see how many cigars Mr. Balfour got through daily; you might have almost thought that he had been denied tobacco for years by his physician, and had only just been permitted to resume the habit.

“Yes; you disappointed me there immensely, I must confess. I went down to the sale on purpose to secure it.”

“So you told me, or, at least, so I guessed from your manner; and yet I don’t know why you should have been so sweet upon it. It’s only a bare bit of ground with a round hole in it, close by the sea.”

“That’s all,” said Solomon, puffing at his clay pipe. “What on earth could have made you buy it?”

“Well, I told you once. I lost my yacht off Turlock, when coming to England last autumn, and very nearly my life with it. When one escapes with a whole skin from such a storm as wrecked me there, the first piece of dry land one comes to seems very attractive. I happened to be cast ashore beneath that very spot, and so I took a fancy to it. If I had been a good Papist I should have built a chapel there to my patron saint in gratitude for my preservation; as it was, I resolved to erect a villa for myself there. It will have an excellent view, and the situation is healthy. If you seek for any other reason for the purchase, I have none to give you; it was a whim, if you like, but then I can afford to indulge my whims.”

“This one cost you a good deal, however; you gave five hundred pounds for it, did you not?”

Balfour nodded assent.

“A great sum for a few barren acres,” said Solomon, thoughtfully.

“Yes; and so the trustees of the estate thought, Mr. Coe. They closed with my offer sharp enough, and withdrew the lot from public competition; else, perhaps, I should have got it cheaper.”

“Not if I had been bidding against you,” observed the host, significantly.

“You don’t say so! You were never shipwrecked thereabouts, were you? Oh, I remember: you were brought up in the neighborhood. You had some tender recollection of the spot, perhaps, with relation to madame up stairs. What creatures of sentiment you men of business sometimes are–dear me!”

“I did live near the spot,” said Solomon, slowly, “though I should deceive you if I pretended that that had any thing to do with my wish to possess it.”

“You would not deceive me, my good friend,” answered Balfour, coolly; “but, as you were about to say, it would not be frank. Let us be frank and open, above all things.”

“I wish to be so, I assure you,” was Solomon’s meek reply. “When I offered you a hundred pounds for your bargain, I think I showed you that deception was no part of my nature. In all matters of business I always go straight to the point at once.”

“As in the present instance, for example,” remarked the guest, with an imperturbable smile.

“I am coming to the point, Mr. Balfour–once for all. I will give you a thousand pounds down for that Crompton lot–twice the money that you gave for it within a month; that’s twelve hundred per cent, per annum.”

Balfour shook his head. “I am not a religious man, my dear Sir–far from it. But I believe, like Miss Joanna yonder, in inspirations: all my whims are inspirations, and therefore sacred. It was an inspiration that made me buy Wheal Danes, and I mean to keep it. If you offered me ten thousand pounds, I’d keep it.”

Solomon was silent for a while, his heavy brows knit in thought; then once again he advanced to the attack. “You may keep it, and yet share the profit, Mr. Balfour.”

“The profit?”

“Ay, the profit. I told you I was going to be frank with you, but you would never guess _how_ frank. I am about to put thousands a year into your pocket, on condition that you will let me fill my own at the same rate. We were talking of partnerships just now; let us be partners in Wheal Danes.”

“Balfour and Coe sounds natural enough,” returned the other, coolly. “But I must hear your plan.”

“My plan is a secret–invaluable, indeed, as such–but which, once told, will be worth nothing–that is, to _me_.”

“You may do as you like, my friend, about revealing it,” yawned Mr. Balfour. “I care nothing for your plan; only, until I hear it I stick to my plot, my lot, my acreage. Tell me the whole story without reservation–don’t attempt to deceive me on the slightest point–and then you shall have your way. We will divide this land of gold between us, or, as seems to me much more likely, browse like twin donkeys on its crop of thistles.”

“I have nothing but your bare word to trust to,” said Solomon, doubtfully; “but still, I must risk it. Come, it’s a bargain. Then, here’s my hand upon it.”

“Never mind my hand, my good friend,” returned the other, coolly. “In the part of the world from which I hailed last, folks didn’t shake hands, and I’ve fallen out of the habit. Come, give us this story of Wheal Danes.”

“It’s a very old one, Mr. Balfour. The plot of ground you purchased gets its strange name from an ancient tin mine that is comprised in it, once worked by the Romans, but disused since their time. There are many such in Cornwall.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Balfour, while the other sipped his glass. It was curious to contrast the grave and earnest manner of the host with the careless and uninterested air of his guest, who presently, as the narrative proceeded, leaned his face upon his hand and gazed into the fire, an occasional glance sideways at his companion through his fingers alone testifying that his attention was still preserved. He never stirred a limb nor winked an eyelid when Solomon came out with his great secret.

“This mine that is said to be worked out, Mr. Balfour, and which you have purchased by mere accident, as being in the same lot with your proposed building-ground, will, I have reason to believe, turn out a gold mine.”

“You don’t say so! I did not know that there _was_ gold in Cornwall.”

“There is as good, or at least there are metals that bring gold–tin and copper; and Wheal Danes is full of the latter. The old Romans worked it for tin only, and left their prize just as it was getting to be worth having. There’s a copper vein in the lowest level of that mine that may be worth all the old Carew estate.”

“And you have seen this vein?”

“No; but my wife’s father, John Trevethick, as good a judge as any man on earth, or under it, saw it, and told me of its existence on his death-bed–“

“When did he die, and how? Was it a lingering, painful death, or was he struck down suddenly?” interposed Balfour. “I ask,” added he, hastily, for Solomon looked up in wonder at his companion’s vehemence, “because the credibility of such a story as you tell me would depend upon the state of the man’s brain.”

“He did die a painful and a lingering death, but his wits were clear enough,” answered Solomon. “It was ten years ago, and more, but I mind it as well as though it was but yesterday–indeed, I’ve thought of little else since. ‘The best legacy I have to leave you, Sol, lies in these last words of mine,’ said he; ‘so do you listen, and lay them to heart.’ Then he told me how, as a boy, he had once explored Wheal Danes in play with other boys, and found the copper lode in a certain spot. He was not so young even then but that he knew the value of such a find, and he had held his tongue; and though he visited the place pretty often–for he couldn’t help that–he kept the secret close from that time until his death.”

“He had never told any other person but yourself, you think?” inquired Balfour, curiously.

“No one to speak of. There was one fellow who had an inkling of the thing, it seems, but he is dead now. I read of it in the newspaper quite lately. He died in jail, or rather in escaping from it, and had never been in a position to profit by his suspicion. You may say, in fact, that not a living soul besides John Trevethick ever knew this secret. For fifty years he strove to possess himself of this mine; he even offered for it, valueless as it was thought to be, four times the money you did; only Carew was mad and obstinate; and now, for ten years, I have had my own eyes fixed upon it, and got the earliest news of when it was in the market, as I thought, when, here, without a hint to guide you, a whiff of fortune blows it to your hand. It’s a hard case _I_ call it–devilish hard.”

“Well, it _is_ hard,” said Balfour; “that is, supposing all you say is true. But frankly, my good Sir, I don’t believe you. I mean no offense; but, since you have not seen the lode with your own eyes, you must pardon me for doubting its existence.”

“Well, then, Sir, I _have_ seen it, and that’s the long and short of it. I would not take such a thing on trust from an angel.”

“So I suspected,” observed Balfour, coolly. “But as you have told me one lie you may tell me another. What am I to believe now?”

“The mine is yours, Sir,” answered Solomon, gruffly. “Let us go down together and look at it. If Trevethick and I were mistaken–and I’ll bet you a thousand pounds that we were not–it is but coming back again, and–“

“And being made the laughing-stock of all the folks among whom I mean to spend my days,” interrupted Balfour. “No, no. If we go, I’ll not have a soul to know of it. And mind you, if this turns out to be a mare’s nest, I sha’n’t be pleased, my friend.”

“It will not do that, Sir, you may take my word for it,” answered Solomon, earnestly; “and as for going _incog._, that matter’s easy. I can start for Gethin, which is my home, and but a stone’s-throw from the very place, on pretense of business; and you, a day or two after, may come down to the inn at Turlock, just to see your purchase. We need not be so much as seen together, if you so prefer it.”

“I would much prefer it,” observed Balfour, sententiously.

“Very good. Then here’s my plan: my father-in-law used to visit Wheal Danes at night; from his doing so, instead of its drawing dangerous attention to the place, as one would think, the rumor arose that the old mine was haunted; corpse-candles, with no hand to carry them, were seen there going up and down the levels, and so the poor fools shunned it after dark. Well, let _us_ take torch and ladder, and play at corpse-candle. What say you?”

“Well, I’ll come,” said Balfour, reluctantly, “though I don’t much like the chance of being made a fool of. What day will suit you best to start? All’s one to me.”

“I’ll start to-morrow,” said Solomon, with excitement. “Do you come down, as if into Midlandshire, on Friday: that’s an unlucky day with Turlock folk, but not with you, I reckon?”

“You’re right there, man,” answered Balfour, slowly. “Well?”

“On Saturday, at midnight, I will meet you at the old pit’s mouth. Come, there’s my hand upon it.”

This time Balfour took his companion’s hand, and griped it firmly.

“Then, that’s a bargain, partner,” cried Solomon, gayly. “Fill up your glass. Here’s luck to the old mine!”

“Here’s luck,” echoed Balfour, looking steadily at his host, “and to our next merry midnight meeting!”

“Ay, good! Here’s luck!” quoth Solomon.

CHAPTER XLI.

IN THE TOILS.

Solomon started for Gethin on the ensuing morning; but his wife did not, as usual, find his departure a relief, since Balfour remained behind. Her last instructions from her husband were to treat this unwelcome guest with marked consideration, and to let him have his way in every thing. He also hinted, though it was scarcely necessary to insure her obedience, at certain brilliant prospects which were about to present themselves, through Balfour’s means, if he were only kept in good-humor. Harry would have much preferred to relinquish his favor at the price of his absence; but not so her son. Notwithstanding the disparity in their ages, he and this new acquaintance were already fast friends. The latter had laid himself out to please the lad, and had succeeded; partly, perhaps, from the very novelty of companionship, for Charley knew no one in town, and was tired of taking his pleasure therein alone, but chiefly through his store of agreeable anecdotes, all illustrative of the enjoyments which wealth conferred, with which Balfour tickled his ears.

“In a few years–perhaps sooner, who knows?–all these things of which I speak will be within your own means. You will be rich; and he who is so can please himself in almost every thing. You can then marry your Agnes, if you will, without fear of being disinherited; or, what is better and more likely, you may choose from a score of Agneses, or even take them all.”

He had a light amusing way with him, this Balfour, that hid the cynicism which would otherwise have jarred upon his young companion; for Charles, though selfish and fond of pleasure, was good-natured, and had not reached that period of life when our sherry must needs not only be dry, but have bitters in it. He was genuinely fond of his mother; yet even in this short time Balfour, as she well knew, had taught him to disobey her; not setting her at open defiance, indeed, but regarding her advice and remonstrances with a sort of tender contempt. She meant all for his good, his Mentor admitted, but women had not much knowledge of the world; and if a young man was not to be his own master at eighteen, he must look to be in leading-strings all his life. Harry perceived her darling’s plastic nature changing daily for the worse in the hands of this crafty potter; and though it was an admission humiliating to her, as a mother, to make, she made it to Mrs. Basil in her sick-room.

“Mr. Balfour is doing my Charley harm,” she said. “He is an altered boy already, and yet my husband talks as though we are never to be rid of the man. What money, what gain, can ever compensate for the demoralization of our child?”

“Nothing, indeed,” said Mrs. Basil, quietly. “But have a little patience. Is not this gentleman going on Friday?”

“Yes; but he will come back again. It is only some business that calls him into Midlandshire. He does not even take all his luggage away. I have a great mind to tell him point-blank that his presence in this house–at all events in Mr. Coe’s absence–is unwelcome; but I dare not do it; I am afraid.”

“Yes, your husband would be very angry, without doubt,” said Mrs. Basil, thoughtfully.

“That is not it. I am afraid of the man himself. He reminds me of that hateful creature–what is he?–in the opera, for which Mr. Aird gave us the tickets, and which Agnes went with us to see–Mephistopheles.”

“What a strange fancy! He is only a sour, pleasure-jaded man. If I was not so ill I would speak to him myself; but you are right not to do so; that is your husband’s place, who has brought him here. Let things be as they are till Friday.”

Harry sighed, but perforce assented. Friday came, and Mr. Balfour went as he had designed, but not without stating at breakfast his intention of returning on the ensuing Monday or Tuesday at latest, and even making an engagement with Charley to spend the latter evening with him at the theatre.

“Do you happen to know when my husband will be home?” inquired Harry, timidly.

“No, madam. He was good enough to say, however, that his absence was to make no difference as to my remaining here as his guest.”

This reply, which might easily have been made offensive, was delivered with the most studied courtesy: it cut the hostess’s ground from under her; for it had answered the very objection which she had intended to imply. She felt herself not only defeated, but reproved.

“Let us hope you will both return together,” said she.

“I do not think that very probable,” answered Mr. Balfour, slowly.

An hour later and he had departed, his hostess, under pretense of being engaged with her sick friend up stairs, not having so much as shaken his hand. Charles, indignant at this slight, would have accompanied him to the railway station, but Balfour would not hear of it. For this he had two reasons: in the first place, he was anxious to keep his route secret; and secondly, it was a part of his system to give the young man no sort of trouble or inconvenience on his account. He wished every association that linked them together to be one of pleasure.

Mrs. Basil, as we have said, had not made her appearance that morning below stairs; she was, in fact, no better, but rather worse: that news from Lingmoor, outwardly borne so well, had shaken her to the core. Still, no sooner had Balfour left than she made shift to rise, and even came down to dinner. She discussed with Charley, who had a considerable regard for her, the character of their late guest–not with hostility, as his mother was wont to do, but with the air of one who asks for information, and has confidence in the verdict which she seeks. The lad, flattered by this implied compliment to his sagacity, answered her questions readily enough. He praised his friend, of course, and thought he praised him even when he spoke ill of him. He repeated his pungent sayings, and served up his anecdotes–such of them as were adapted, at least, for the ears of the ladies–anew. By this means he hoped to bring his hearers to a better opinion of so capital a fellow; and in Mrs. Basil’s case he apparently succeeded. His mother still reiterated her opinion that Mr. Balfour was a dangerous personage, and not a fit companion for any young man. Charles smiled at this, for it was the almost literal fulfillment of a prophecy which Balfour had made to him, and believed in that gentleman’s sagacity, accordingly, more than ever. Women were so ludicrously prejudiced; the fact of Mrs. Basil’s–“the white witch”–not being so was an exception that proved the rule. She had been evidently interested in his anecdotes, of one of which she had even requested to hear the particulars twice over; not that, in his own judgment, it was the best, but, being of a weird sort, it had probably struck her fancy. It had lost in the telling, too–for he did not pretend to have the gift of narrative, as Mr. Balfour had–and his mother had seen in the story in question nothing at all.

Mrs. Basil came down stairs no more after that evening. She grew worse and worse, and was not only confined to her room, but to her bed. Harry was not much with her; she seized with avidity this opportunity of being alone with Charley to undo, as far as she could, Mr. Balfour’s work with him. This was not hard, for the boy was a creature of impulse, and swayed for good or ill with equal ease. But she discovered that it would be useless to attempt henceforth to conceal from him the nature of his future prospects. He was now firmly convinced that he was the heir to a large fortune, and she regretted too late that she had left the disclosure to a stranger. What grieved her much more, and with reason, was that an attempt which she now made to bring the influence of Agnes to hear upon him proved unsuccessful; the girl resolutely refused to come to the house in the absence of its master, and contrary, as she knew, to his express commandment. Charley himself, too, whose visits to Mr. Aird’s studio had been intermitted for some time, was received in Soho with coldness. It was not in Harry’s nature to understand this independence of spirit, and she deeply deplored it on her son’s account. She had looked to this young girl to be his guardian angel, and had never anticipated that she could possibly decline to watch over a charge so precious. She would not allow, even to herself, that her son’s own conduct was as much the cause of this as her husband’s ill favor; but she saw in it, clearly enough, the mark of the cloven hoof, the work of Balfour.

Sick Mrs. Basil could give her small comfort, though she did not attempt to defend their late visitor, as she had so unwarrantably appeared to do when discussing him with Charley.

“The man is gone, my dear,” said she, wearily; “perhaps he may never come back: let us not meet troubles half-way. Charley has a kind, good heart”–for “the white witch” showed great favor to the lad at all times–“and all will come right at last.”

She seemed too ill and weary to argue the matter, and Harry left her, as she thought, to repose. No sooner was she gone, however, than the closed lids of Mrs. Basil were opened wide, and revealed a sleepless and unutterable woe. Her sharp, pinched face showed pain and fear. Her parched lips muttered unceasingly words like these, which were, perhaps, the ravings of her fevered brain: “I am sure of it now, quite sure; those stags, those stags! There is no room for hope. His heart has become a stone, which no power can soften. It is no use to speak, or rather I am like one in a dream who watches murder done, and can not cry out.”

CHAPTER XLII.

THE MINE AT MIDNIGHT.

Mr. Balfour–for so we must call him now, since he is attired respectably, travels first-class, and, moreover, even looks like a gentleman–did not go to the Midlands, as he had given out was his purpose, but took his ticket to Plymouth, to which place the railway had just extended in those days. He bought neither book nor newspaper, but sat in the corner, with his hat drawn over his eyes, for the whole nine hours, thinking. From Plymouth he posted to Turlock, where he arrived late at night, and without having broken fast since morning. He took no pains either to divulge or conceal his name; he asked no questions, nor was asked any except “whether he preferred to sleep between sheets or blankets”–for Turlock was still an out-of-the-way region, and the little inn about three-quarters of a century behind our modern caravansaries, with their “daily fly-bills” and “electric bells.”

After dinner, which he scarcely touched, he wandered out–it was his habit to do so, as he told the hostler, who was also the night-chamberlain–and did not return till long after midnight. He observed, as he gave the man half a crown for sitting up for him to so late an hour, that the moon looked very fine upon the sea.

“You must be a painter, I guess, Sir,” said the hostler, with a grin of intelligence.

“Why?” asked Balfour, sharply. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, Sir,” returned the man, apologetically, “I mean no offense; but it is always the gentlemen-painters–or, at least, so they say at Gethin, and I wish more of ’em came here–as is so free with their money, and so fond of the moon.”

“Lunatics, eh?” said the new arrival, with a loud, quick laugh. “Well, I’m no painter, my friend.”

Then he took his candle and retired to his room, but not to bed. He disarranged the bed-clothes and rumpled the pillow; then walked softly to and fro in his slippers until morning. On the following day he made no attempt to visit his newly acquired property, but strolled about the harbor, or stood, in sheltered and, therefore, secluded places in the rocks, watching the winter sea. His meals at the inn were sent down almost as they were served up, yet he showed no sign of weakness or fatigue, but in the evening sallied forth as before. The night was very cloudy, with driving showers, and the landlady good-naturedly warned him of the danger of venturing on the cliff-path, which was narrow, and had been broken in places by a late storm.

“I will take care,” said he, mechanically.

“Perhaps you would like supper–some cold meat, or something–since you have eaten so little, placed in your sitting-room against your return?”

“Yes, yes,” said he, approvingly; “you are right; I shall doubtless be hungry to-night.” Then he went out into the bleak, black night.

He hung about the harbor as before until near eleven, when all the lights of the little town had faded away, save that at the inn, which was burning for him alone; then he climbed the cliff, and pushed southward along the very path against the dangers of which he had been cautioned. He walked fast, too, with his gaze fixed before him, like one who has an appointment of importance for which there is a fear of being late. Presently he struck inland over the down, when he began to move less quickly, and to peer cautiously before him. All was dark: the grass on which he trod seemed to be black, until he suddenly arrived at a large circular patch of it which _was_ black, and made the surrounding soil less sombre by contrast. This was the mouth of a great pit; and he sat on the brink of it, with his face to seaward, and his ear in his hollowed hand, listening. Nothing was to be heard, however, but the occasional scud of the rain, and the ceaseless roar of the now distant waves. Far out to sea there was a round red light, which fell upon him at regular intervals, its absence making the place which it had filled more dark than elsewhere. It had a weird effect, as though some evil spirit was keeping watch upon him, but he knew it for what it was–the revolving lamp of a light-house. Presently, in the same direction as the red light, he perceived a white one, which, though moving slowly, was certainly advancing toward him; nor did it, like the other, become obscure.

“He is coming,” said Balfour to himself, with a great sigh. He had begun to have doubts of the other’s keeping his appointment; though, indeed, it was not yet the time that he had himself fixed for it. The light came on, quite close to the ground, and with two motions–across as well as along. It was that of a lantern, which guided thus the footsteps of a tall, stout man, who bore upon his shoulders a ladder so long that it both projected above his head and trailed behind him. Balfour rose up, and stood motionless in the path of the new-comer till this light fell full upon him. “Hollo!” cried the man, a little startled by the white, worn face that so suddenly confronted him, although he had been looking for it. “Is that you, Mr. Balfour?”

“Yes. Hush! There is no need to mention names.”

“Quite true, Sir; but you gave me quite a turn,” remonstrated the other, “coming out of the darkness like a ghost. This Wheal Danes, at midnight, puts queer thoughts into one’s head.”

“John Trevethick was not afraid of coming here,” observed Balfour.

“Well, so he always said. He told me at the last that he only pretended to believe in any of the foolish stories that folks talk about, and in favor of which he used to argue. But he’s dead and gone, and _that_ don’t make this place less uncanny. Nobody since his time has been a-near it; they think he haunts the pit, it seems, so every body gives it a wide berth, both night and day. We shall see, however, and pretty soon, I hope, whether that notion can not be got over. Why, in six months’ time we ought to have a hundred men at work here.”

“Let us hope so. But in the mean time you say nobody comes here even in the daytime, eh?”

“Never. The place lies out of the way, you see: about midway between the cliff-path and the road.”

“That’s well,” said Balfour, mechanically. “And you have not been babbling to any one of our prospects, Mr. Coe–nor of me, I hope?”

“Certainly not, Sir; that was the first article of our partnership, as I understood. Not a soul at Gethin has heard a whisper of Wheal Danes, or of your coming; they think I’m fast asleep at my own house, this instant. But it’s been hard work lugging this cursed ladder up here in such a breakneck night as this, _I_ can tell you, and I am glad enough to rest a bit.”

“Well, it’s all over now, Mr. Coe.”

“Except that I have got to take it back again,” grumbled Solomon.

“True, I had forgotten that. We must not leave it here, must we?”

“Of course not. I do not complain of the trouble, however, only you must admit I’ve kept my tryst under some little difficulties, eh, partner?” and Solomon chuckled self-approval.

“You will be paid in full for all, my good Sir,” answered Balfour, gravely; “that is,” he added, hastily, “if the mine should turn out as you predict. How deep is it? That ladder of yours will surely never reach the bottom.”

“No, indeed. Did I not tell you that there are three levels, each about the same depth? The copper lode lies at the bottom of the last, in the northeastern corner. You will find I have concealed nothing from you. Well, I have got my breath again now. Are you ready, Mr. Balfour?”

“Quite; but walk slowly, I beg, for your lantern is very dim.”

“Yes, yes. But wait a minute; I came here yesterday and hid something.” Solomon seated himself upon the edge of the pit, with his legs hanging over, and began to peer and feel about him.

“Take care what you are at,” cried Balfour, eagerly; “you may slip down and kill yourself, sliding along like that.”

Solomon laughed contemptuously. “Never fear, Sir; I have had too many mischances with mines to fear them. I have fallen down worse places, and been shut up in others far deeper and darker than Wheal Danes, without food or candle, for a week, and yet lived through it. The shaft has not yet been dug, I reckon, as will prove–Oh, here’s the torch.”

He dragged from under the overhanging rim of the pit a piece of wood like a bludgeon, one end of which was smeared with pitch; and placing the lantern with its back to the wind, pushed the stick inside, which came out a torch, flaming and dropping flame.

“There’s our corpse-candle!” cried Coe, triumphantly; “that would keep us without witnesses, even if any one were so bold as, in a night like this, to venture near Wheal Danes, to trespass on Tom Tiddler’s ground, where we shall pick up the gold and the silver.” There was a wild excitement, quite foreign to his habit, about this man, and he whirled the torch about his head in flaring circles.

“Keep your wits steady, if you please,” observed Balfour, sternly.

“It is over now, Sir, and I am in the counting-house again,” answered Solomon, submissively. “I felt a little exhilarated at the prospect of plucking a fruit that has been ripening for fifty years, that’s all. This Wheal Danes is the very aloe of mines, and it is about to blossom for us only. You had better take the torch yourself; the lantern will serve for me; but just show a light here while I place the ladder.”

Balfour held the blazing pine aloft, and disclosed the gaping mouth of the old pit, its margin wet with the rain, and its sheer sides slippery with the damps of ages.

“It would be easy enough to get down without this contrivance,” observed Solomon, grimly, as he carefully adjusted the ladder, the foot of which was lost in gloom; “but it would take us some trouble to find our way back again without wings.”

“In daylight, however, I dare say it looks easier,” said Balfour, carelessly.

“It may look so, but it ain’t. Nothing but a sea-gull ever goes in and out of Wheal Danes; even the bats keep there, where indeed they are snug and warm enough.”

“It doesn’t feel very warm at present,” replied the other, who did not seem to be in a hurry to explore this unpromising territory.

“Ay, but you wait till we get to the lower level; you might live there, if the rats would let you, for a whole winter, and never need a fire.”

“Oh, there are rats, are there? Why, what do _they_ live upon?”

“Well, that’s _their_ look-out,” laughed Solomon; “they would be very glad to have _us_, no doubt. It would be only just in my case, for I have lived on them before now; with rats and water a man may do very well for a week or two.”

“What! there is water laid on in this establishment, is there?”

“No; the low levels are quite dry. But come, let us see for ourselves. We are losing time. I will start first, and do you follow close upon me, but without treading on my fingers;” and Solomon placed his heavy foot upon the first rung.

“No, no,” said Balfour, drawing back; “I will not trust myself on the same ladder with a man of your weight. When you are at the bottom give me a call, and then I’ll join you.”

“As you like, Sir,” responded Solomon, civilly; but his thick lips curled contemptuously, and he muttered, “So this man is lily-livered after all; so much the better: it is well to have a coward for a partner.”

The next moment his descending form was lost in the gloom.

Balfour waited, torch in hand, until an “All right,” that sounded like a voice from the tomb, assured him that his companion had reached terra firma. Then he descended very carefully, and joined him.

“Stand close to the wall, Sir, while I move the ladder,” said Coe; “your head don’t seem made for these deep places. Ah, here’s the spot. This is a drop of twenty feet.”

“And what is the depth of the last level?”

“Five-and-twenty. But don’t you be afraid; the ladder will just reach it, only you won’t have so much to hold on by at the top. It’s only the getting down that’s unpleasant; you’ll find going back quite easy work. And then, just think of the lode!”

Solomon began to be anxious lest his companion’s fears should induce him to give up the expedition altogether. It had never entered into his mind that what was so easy to himself could prove so formidable to another; and, besides, he had somehow concluded that Balfour was a man of strong nerves.

“Make haste,” said the latter, in the tone of one who has achieved some mental victory: “let us go through with it.”

In the second level it was perceptibly warmer. Dark, noiseless objects began to flit about the torch, and once something soft struck against Balfour’s foot, and then scampered away.

He looked behind him, and not a trace of light was to be discerned, while before him was impenetrable gloom, except for the feeble gleam of his companion’s lantern. Above him the roof was just discernible, from which long strings of fungi, white and clammy, hung down and brushed against his face as he moved slowly forward.

“Come on!” said Solomon, impatiently, whose spirits seemed to rise in this familiar scene. “We are only a few score yards from Golconda.”

Balfour stopped short. “I thought you said there was another level?” There was a strange look of disappointment in his face, and even of rage.

“Yes, yes, and here it is,” cried the other, putting down the ladder, which he had carried from place to place. “It is only depth that separates us from it. They dug well, those Romans, but left off, as you shall see, upon the very threshold of fortune. You have only to be a little careful, because the ladder does not quite reach.”

He descended, as before, in advance, while Balfour followed slowly and cautiously. “How steep and smooth the rock is!” observed he, examining its surface.

“Yes, indeed; it is like a wall of marble. But what matters that? It baffles the rats, but not us. Here is the land of gold, here is–What the devil are you at?”

Solomon, in his impatience, had stridden on to the object of his desires; and Balfour, halting midway in his descent, suddenly retraced his footsteps, and having reached the top, was dragging the ladder up after him.

Solomon heard this noise, with which his ear was familiar, and his tone had some alarm in it as he cried out, “I say, no tricks, Mr. Balfour.”

There was no reply. He hastened back to the spot he had just left, and from thence could dimly perceive his late companion sitting on the verge of the steep wall, peering down upon him.

“Come, come, a joke is a joke,” remonstrated Coe. “What a fellow you are to be at such games when an important matter is at stake! Why, here is the lode, man.”

“It is very valuable, I dare say, Mr. Coe, but it is worth more to one man than to two.”

“Great Heaven! what do you mean?” cried Solomon, while a sudden sweat bedewed his forehead. “You would not murder a man to dissolve a partnership?”

“Certainly not. I shall leave him to die, that’s all. He and the rats will have to settle it together. Six months hence, perhaps, we may have a picnic here, and explore the place. Then we shall find, where you are now standing, some well-picked bones and the metal part of your lantern. That will cause quite an excitement; and we shall search further, and in the northeast corner there will be found a copper lode. I will take your word for that.”

“Mr. Balfour, I am sure you will not do this,” pleaded the wretched man. “It is not in man’s nature to treat a fellow-creature with such barbarity. You are trying to frighten me, I know, and I own you have succeeded. I know what it is to be shut up in desolate, dark places alone, out of reach of succor; and even for eight-and-forty hours or so it is terrible.”

“_What must it be, then, to suffer so for twenty years?_”

It was a third voice that seemed to wake the echoes of that lonesome cavern. Solomon looked up in terror, and beheld a third face, that of Robert Balfour, but transfigured. He held the glowing brand above him, so that his deep-lined features could be distinctly seen, and they were all instinct with a deadly rage and malice. There was a fire in his eyes that might well have been taken for that of madness, and Solomon’s heart sank within him as he looked.

“Mr. Balfour,” said he, in a coaxing voice, “come and look at your treasure. It sparkles in the light of my lantern like gold, and you shall have it all if you please; I do not wish to share it with you.”

“So you take me for a madman, do you? Look again; look fixedly upon me, Solomon Coe. You do not recognize me even yet? I do not wonder. It is not you that are dull, but I that am so changed by wrong and misery. My own mother does not know me, nor the woman of whom you robbed me nineteen years ago. Yes, you know me now. I am Richard Yorke!”

“Mercy, mercy!” gasped Solomon, dropping on his knees.

Richard laughed long and loud. The echoes of his ghastly mirth died slowly away, and when his voice was heard again it was stern and solemn. “It is my turn at last, man; I am the judge to-day, as you were the witness nineteen years ago who doomed me wrongfully to shame and misery. Night and day I have had this hour in my mind; the thought of it has been my only joy–in chains and darkness, in toil and torment, fasting and wakeful on my prison pillow, I have thought of nothing else. I did not know how it would come about, but I was sure that it would come. You swore falsely once that I was a thief; I am now about to be a murderer, and your whitening bones will not be able to witness against me.”

“I never swore it, Mr. Yorke,” pleaded Solomon, passionately.

“Your memory is defective,” answered Richard, gloomily; “you forget that I was in court myself on that occasion. You did your very worst to blacken me before judge and jury, and you succeeded.”

“But it was Trevethick–it was father-in-law who urged me to do it; it was indeed.”

“I know it,” replied the other, coldly; “he was a greater villain than yourself, but unhappily an older one. Death has robbed me of him, and made my vengeance incomplete. Still there is something left for me. While you die slowly here–But no; I shall wait at Turlock for that to happen. A strong man like you, who have rats to live upon, may last ten days, perhaps. Well, when you are dead, I shall return to your London house, and lead your son to ruin. You permitted me to begin the work in hopes of getting half this mine; I shall finish it while you are in sole possession of the whole of it.”

“Devil!” cried Solomon, furiously.

“The appellation is a true one, my good Sir; but I was a man once. Evil is now my good, thanks to your teaching. Look at me–look at me, and see what you have brought me to at eight-and-thirty! You almost drove me mad, and it was easy, for I had the Carew blood in my veins; but I contrived to keep my wits for the enjoyment of this hour. I feel very old, and have few pleasures left, you see. It is impossible, unfortunately, to return here and see you rot; there would be danger in it; just the least risk in the world of somebody coming here to look for us. I must be off now, too, for there is a worthy man sitting up for me at the inn, and I have got to take this ladder back to Gethin.”

A cry of mingled rage and despair burst forth from Richard’s foe.

“What! you had calculated upon the absence of that ladder producing suspicion? It is curious how great wits jump together: that had also struck me. I shall take it back, for I well know where it ought to be; I am quite familiar with your house at Gethin, as you may remember, perhaps. You may keep the lantern, which will not be missed; but, if you will take my advice, you will put out the light, to preserve the candle–as an article of food. Put it somewhere where the rats can not eat it, and it may prolong your torments half a day. You can also eat the horn of the lantern, but you will doubtless preserve that for a _bonne bouche_. You are not superstitious, else I would suggest that your father-in-law’s spirit is exceedingly likely to haunt that northeastern corner down yonder.”

Here there was a dull scrambling noise, a violent struggle as of feet and hands against a wall, and then a heavy thud.

“Now that is very foolish of you, Solomon, to attempt to get out of a place which you yourself informed me could never be escaped from without wings. I sincerely hope you have not hurt yourself much. I hear you moving slowly about again, so I may leave you without anxiety. Good-by, Solomon.” Richard waited a moment, a frightful figure of hate and triumph, peering down into the pit beneath, where all was now dark. “You are too proud to speak to a convict, perhaps. Well, well, that is but natural in so honest a man. I take my leave, then. You have no message, I conclude, for home?”

An inarticulate cry, like that of a wild animal caught in a snare, was the only reply.

“That is the worst of letting his candle go out,” mused Richard, aloud; “some rat has got hold of him already.” Then, with a steady foot and smiling face, which showed how all his previous fears had been assumed, he retraced his steps, and mounted to the upper air. The sky was clearer now; and, casting the torch, for which he had no further need, far into the mine, and shouldering the ladder, he started for Gethin at good speed. It was past two o’clock before he reached his inn at Turlock; but before he retired to rest he sat down to the supper that had been prepared for him, but without the appetite which he had anticipated.

CHAPTER XLIII.

THE SMOKING-ROOM OF THE GEORGE AND VULTURE.

Robert Balfour did not remain at Turlock, as he had originally intended. Perhaps the vicinity to Wheal Danes was not so attractive to him as he had promised himself that it would be, although not for a single instant did his purpose of revenge relax. Other considerations, had he needed them, were powerful, now that he had taken the first step, to keep him on that terrible path which he had so long marked out for himself. To disclose the position of his victim now would have been not only to make void his future plans, but to place his own fate at Solomon’s mercy. Yet he found his heart less hard than the petrifaction it had undergone, the constant droppings of wrong and hardship for twenty years, should have rendered it. He did not wake until late, and the first sound that broke upon his ear was the tinkling of the bell of the little church, for it was Sunday morning. He compared it for a moment with something that he had been dreaming of: a man in a well chipping footsteps for himself in the brick wall, up which he climbed a few feet, and then fell down again. Then a pitiful, unceasing cry of “Help, help!–help, help!” rang in his ears, instead of the voice that called people to prayers. Even when that ceased, the wind and rain–for the weather was wild and wet–beating against the window-pane, brought with them doleful shrieks. Sometimes a sudden gust seemed to bear upon it confused voices and the tramp of hurrying feet; and then he would knit his brow and clench his hand, with the apprehension that they had found his enemy, and were bringing him to the door. Not the slightest fear of the consequences to himself in such a case agitated his mind; he had quite resolved what to do, and that no prison walls should ever hem him in again; but the bare idea that Solomon should escape his vengeance drove him to the brink of frenzy. He would have left the place at once, but that he thought the coincidence of his departure with the disappearance of his foe might possibly awaken suspicion; so he staid on through the day, waiting for the news which he knew must arrive sooner or later. At noon he thought the landlady wore an unusually grave air, and he felt impelled to ask her what was the matter. But then, if there was nothing–if she only looked sour, as folks often did, just because it was Sunday–she might think him too curious.

From his window, a little later, he saw a knot of people in the rain talking eagerly together, and one of them pointing with his hand toward Gethin. But they were too far off to be overheard, and he did not dare go down and interrogate them. It was his object to appear utterly indifferent to local affairs, and as a total stranger. He felt half stifled within doors, and yet, if he should go out, he knew that he would be incontrollably impelled to take the cliff path that he had followed the preceding night, to watch that nobody came near the place that held his prey, and thereby, like the bird who shows her nest by keeping guard too near, attract attention. The tidings for which he waited came at six o’clock, just as he was sitting down to his dinner. The parlor-maid who served him had that happy and excited look which the possession of news, whether it be good or bad, but especially the latter, always imparts to persons of her class.

“There’s strange news come from Gethin, Sir,” said she, as she arranged the dishes.

“Indeed,” said Balfour, carelessly, though he felt his brain spin round and his heart stop at the same moment. “What is it?”

“Mr. Coe, Sir, a very rich man–he as owns all Dunloppel–has disappeared.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, Sir, he went to his room last night, they say, at his usual hour, but never slept in his bed, and the front-door was found unlocked in the morning, so that he must have gone away of himself. That would not be so odd, for he is a secret sort of man, as is always coming and going; but he has taken nothing with him; only the clothes he stood in.”

“Well, I dare say he has come back again by this time, my good girl. What’s this? Is there no fish?”

“No, Sir; the weather was too bad yesterday for catching them, and all last night there was a dreadful sea: that’s what they fear about Mr. Coe–that he has fell into the sea. His footsteps have been tracked to the cliff edge, and there they stop.”

“Poor fellow! Has he any relatives?”

“Oh yes, Sir; a wife and son–a very handsome, nice young gentleman.”

“Then his widow will be rich, I suppose?”

“Oh, pray, don’t call her a widow yet, Sir; let us hope her husband may be found. It’s a dreadful thing to be drowned like that on a Sunday morning; and for one who knows the cliff path so well as he did, too. He was a hard man, and no favorite, but one forgets that now, of course.”

“You have also forgotten the Harvey Sauce, my good girl; oblige me by bringing it, will you?” said Mr. Balfour, beginning to whistle something which did not sound like a psalm tune. “You must excuse my hard-heartedness, but I had not the pleasure of knowing this gentleman.”

An hour afterward the solitary guest had left the inn, and was on his road to Plymouth. His departure caused little surprise, for the weather was such as to induce no visitor to prolong his stay.

Whether from his long enforced abstinence from society, or from the unwelcome nature of his thoughts, Robert Balfour was always disinclined to be alone. His expeditions with Charley in search of pleasure had been, though he did not find pleasure, more agreeable to him than the being left to his own resources; and now this was more the case than ever. He preferred even such company as that which the smoking-room of an hotel afforded to none at all. The voices of his fellow-creatures could not shape themselves, as every inarticulate sound did to his straining ear, into groans and feeble cries for aid. Not twenty-four hours had elapsed since his prisoner was placed in hold, so that such sounds of weakness and agony must have been in every sense chimerical; and yet he heard them. What, then, if these echoes from the tomb should always be heard? A terrible idea indeed, but one which bred no repentance. It was not likely that remorse should seize him in the very place where his hated foe had clutched and consigned him to _his_ living grave.

The hotel at which he now put up was the same at which he had then lodged; this public room was the same in which he had smoked his last cigar upon his fatal visit to the Miners’ Bank. He had had only one companion then, but now it was full of people. By their talk it was evident that they were townsfolk, and all known to one another; in fact, it was a tradesmen’s club, which met at the _George and Vulture_ on Sunday nights through the winter months. In spite of his willingness to be won from his thoughts, he could not fix his attention on the small local gossip that was going on about him. Men came in and out without his observing them; and indeed it was not easy to take note of faces through the cloud of smoke that filled the room; he was fast relapsing into his own reflections, wondering what Solomon was doing in the dark, and if he slept much, when an event occurred which roused him as thoroughly as the prick of a lance or a sudden douche of cold water.

“Let us have no misunderstanding and no obligation–that is my motto.”

The speaker was a thin, gray man, whose entrance into the apartment Balfour had not perceived, and who was seated in an elevated chair, which had apparently been reserved for him as president of the assembly. The face was unfamiliar, for twenty years had made an old man of the astute and lively detective; but his phrase, and the manner of delivering it, identified him at once as his old friend Mr. Dodge.

“It was in this very room,” continued the latter, “that I sat and talked with him as sociable as could be, not a quarter of an hour before I put the darbies on him; and it’s a thing that has been upon my mind ever since. I was only doing my duty, of course, but still it seemed hard to take advantage of such a frank young fellow. As for stealing them notes, it’s my belief he had no more intention of doing it than I had.”

“And yet he got it hot at the ‘sizes, Mr. Dodge, didn’t he?” inquired one of the company.

“Got it hot, Sir?” replied Mr. Dodge, with dignity; “he got an infamous and most unjustly severe sentence, if you mean that, Sir. Of course what he did was contrary to law, but it’s my opinion as the law was strained agin him. There was some as swore hard and fast to get him punished as knew he deserved no such treatment. Why, the girl as he loved, and whose picture I found upon him myself when I searched him, and gave it him back, too–ay, that I did–even she took a false oath, as Weasel himself told me, who was his lawyer, and had built up his case with that same hussy for its corner-stone. Ah!” said Mr. Dodge, with a gesture of abhorrence, “if there ever was a murdered man, it was that poor young fellow, Richard Yorke.”

“But I thought he got twenty years’ penal servitude,” observed the same individual who had interposed before, and whose thankless office it seemed to be to draw the old gentleman out for the benefit of society.

“I say he was murdered, Sir. He was shut up for nigh twenty years, and then shot in the back in trying to get away from Lingmoor. It was the hardest case I ever knew in all my professional experience. Lord, if you had seen him–the handsomest, brightest, gayest young chap! And he was what some folks call well-born, too; he was the son–that is, though, in a left-handed sort of way, it’s true–of mad Carew of Crompton, about whose death the papers were so full a month ago or so; and that, in my judgment, was the secret of all his misfortune: it was the Carew blood as did it. To take his own way in the world; to seek nobody’s advice, nor use it if ’twas given; to be spoiled and petted by all the women and half the men as came nigh him; to own no master nor authority; to act without thought, and to scorn consequences–well, all that was bred in the bone with him.”

“Then he had never any one to look after him at home, I reckon, Mr. Dodge?”

“Well, yes; he had a mother; and though she was a queer one too, she loved him dearly. She was the cleverest woman, Weasel used to say, as ever he had to do with; and a perfect lady too, mind you. She worked to get the poor lad off like a slave; and when all was over, instead of breaking down, as most would, she swallowed her pride, and went down on her bended knees to that old miserly devil, Trevethick, the prosecutor, and to his son-in-law, Coe, likewise: they lived down Cross Key way–where was it?–at Gethin–and begged and prayed him to join in petitioning in her son’s favor. She got down there the very day after his lying daughter was married to Solomon Coe, he as has got Dunloppel, and is a big man now. But he’ll never be any thing but a scurvy lot, if he was to be king o’ Cornwall. I shall never forget the way he insulted that poor young fellow when he was took up. Damme, I would have given a ten-pound note to have had _him_ charged with something, and I’d ha’ seen that the handcuffs weren’t none too big for his wrists neither.”

“And this Trevethick refused to help the lady, did he?”

“Why, of course he did. He broke her heart, poor soul. I saw her when she passed through Plymouth afterward, and she looked twenty years older than before that trial. Even then she didn’t give the matter up, but laid it before the crown. But poor Yorke had offended government–helped some fool or another through one of them public examinations; he had wits enough for any thing, had that young fellow. But there–I can’t a-bear to talk about him; and yet somehow I can’t help doing on it when I get into this room. He sat just where that gentleman sits yonder. I think I see him now, smoking the best of cigars, one of which he offered to me–for he was free as free; but I was necessitated to restore it, for I couldn’t take a gift from one as I was just a-going to nab. ‘Thank you kindly,’ says I, ‘but let us have no misunderstanding and no obligation.’ Poor fellow! poor fellow!”

No more was said about the case of Richard Yorke; but it was evidently a standing topic with the chairman of the _George and Vulture_ club. A yearning to behold and embrace that mother who had done and suffered so much for his sake took possession of Richard’s soul. His heart had been steeled against her when he found harbored under her roof the objects of his rage and loathing; but he felt now that that must have come to pass with some intention of benefit to himself. The very truth, indeed, flashed upon him that she entertained some plan of frustrating his revenge against them, with the idea of protecting him from the consequences that were likely to ensue from it; and he forgave her, while he hated his foes the more. He would carry out his design to the uttermost, but very cautiously, and with a prudence that he would certainly not have used had his own safety been alone concerned; and then, when he had avenged himself and her, he would disclose himself to her. The statement he had just heard affected him deeply, but in opposite ways. The justification of himself in no way moved him–he did not need that; it was also far too late for his heart to be touched by the expression of the old detective’s good-will, though the time had been when he would have thanked him for its utterance with honest tears; but the revelation of his mother’s toil and suffering in his behalf reawakened all his dormant love for her, while it made his purpose firmer than ever to be the Nemesis of her enemies and his own.

As he went to bed that night the clock struck twelve. It was just four-and-twenty hours since he had left his victim in the bowels of Wheal Danes. If a free pardon could have been offered to him for the crime, and the mine been filled with gold for him to its mouth, he would not have stretched out his hand to save him.

CHAPTER XLIV.

STILL HUMAN.

Mr. Balfour atoned for his previous indifference to the wares of the news-boy by sending him next morning to the station for all the local papers. In each, as he expected, there was a paragraph headed _Mysterious Disappearance_, and as lengthened an account as professional ingenuity could devise of the unaccountable departure of Mr. Solomon Coe from his house at Gethin. The missing man was “much respected;” and, “as the prosperous owner of the Dunloppel mine, which had yielded so largely for so many years, he could certainly not have been pressed by pecuniary embarrassments, and therefore the idea of suicide was out of the question.” Unlikely as it seemed in the case of one who knew the country so well, the most probable explanation of the affair was that the unfortunate gentleman, in taking a walk by night along the cliff top, must have slipped into the sea. The weather had been very rough of late and the wind blowing from off the land, which would have accounted–if this supposition was correct–for the body not having been washed ashore. “In the mean time an active search was going on.”

Balfour had resolved not to return to London for at least ten days. Mrs. Coe and her son would, without doubt, be telegraphed for, and he could not repair to their house in their absence. The idea of being under the same roof alone with his mother was now repugnant to him. He felt that he could not trust himself in such a position. It had been hard and grievous, notwithstanding his resentment against her, to see her in company with others, and her absence of late from table had been a great relief to him. With his present feeling toward her it would be impossible to maintain his incognito; and, if that was lost, his future plans–to which he well knew she would oppose herself–would be rendered futile. He had seen with rage and bitter jealousy that both Harry and her boy, and especially the latter, were dear to her; and it was certain she would interfere to protect them, for their sake as well as for his own. He had other reasons also for not returning immediately to town. It might hereafter be expedient to show that he _had_ really been to Midlandshire, where he had given out he had designed to go; and, moreover, though his purpose was relentless as respected Solomon, he did not perhaps care to be in a house where hourly suggestions would be dropped as to the whereabouts of his victim, or the fate that had happened to him. Harry and her son might even not have gone to Gethin, and in that case their apprehensions and surmises would have been insupportable.

Richard was more human than he would fain believe himself to be. Though he had gone to bed so inexorable of purpose, it had been somewhat shaken through the long hours of a night in which he had slept but little, and waked to think on what his feverish dreams had dwelt upon–the fate of his unhappy foe, perishing slowly beside his useless treasure. More than once, indeed, the impulse had been strong upon him that very morning to send word anonymously where Solomon was to be found to the police at Plymouth. Remorse had not as yet become chronic with him, but it seized him by fits and starts.

There had been a time when he had looked (through his prison bars) on all men with rage and hatred; but now he caught himself, as it were, at attempts at self-justification with respect to the retribution he had exacted even from his enemy. Had he not been rendered miserable, he argued, supremely wretched, for more than half his lifetime, through this man’s agency? for it was certain that Solomon had sworn falsely, in the spirit if not in the letter, and caused him to be convicted of a crime which his rival was well aware he had not in intention committed. His conduct toward him on the occasion of his arrest had also been most brutal and insulting; while, after conviction had been obtained, this wretch’s malice, as Mr. Dodge had stated, had known no cessation. In the arms of his young bride he had been deaf to the piteous cry of a mother beseeching for her only son.

But, on the other hand, had not he (Richard) deeply wronged this man in the first instance? Had he not robbed him–for so much at least must Solomon have known–of the love of his promised wife? If happiness from such an ill-assorted union was not to have been anticipated, still, had he not rendered it impossible? If their positions had been reversed, would not he have exacted expiation from such an offender to the uttermost? He would doubtless have scorned to twist the law as Solomon had done, and make it, as it were, the crooked instrument of his revenge. He would not, of course, have evoked its aid at all. But was that to be placed to his credit? He had put himself above the law throughout his life; he had never acknowledged any authority save that of his own selfish will; nay, he owned to himself that his bitterness against his unhappy victim had been caused not so much by the wrong he had suffered at his hands as by the contempt which he (Richard) had entertained for him. Without materials such as his father had possessed to back his pretensions he had imagined himself a sort of irresponsible and sovereign being. (Such infatuation is by no means rare, nor confined to despots and brigands, and when it exists in a poor man it is always fatal to himself.) His education, if it could be called such, had doubtless fostered this delusion; but Mr. Dodge was right; the Carew blood had been as poison in his veins, and had destroyed him.

All this might be true; but such philosophy could scarcely now obtain a hearing, while his enemy was dying of starvation in his living tomb. It was in vain for him to repeat mechanically that he had also suffered a sort of lingering death for twenty years. The present picture of his rival’s torments presented itself in colors so lively and terrible that it blotted out the reminiscence of his own. The recollection of his wrongs was no longer sufficient for his vindication. He therefore strove to behold his victim in another light than as his private foe–as the murderer of his friend Balfour, the history of whose end may here be told.

On the night that Richard escaped from Lingmoor, it was Balfour, of course, who assisted him, and who was awaiting him in person at the foot of the prison wall. The old man’s arms had received him as he slipped down the rope; and the object at which the sentry had fired had been two men, though in the misty night they had seemed but one. Balfour had been mortally wounded, and it was with the utmost difficulty that, laden with the burden of his dying friend, Richard had contrived to reach Bergen Wood. As his own footsteps were alone to be traced along the moor, the idea of another having accompanied his flight–though they knew there was complicity–had not occurred to the authorities. Balfour had hardly reached that wretched asylum when he expired, pressing Richard’s hand, and bidding him remember Earl Street, Spitalfields. “What you find there is all yours, lad,” was his dying testament and last words of farewell. And over his dead body Richard swore anew his vow of vengeance against the man that had thus, though indirectly, deprived him of his only friend. He had watched by the dead body, on its bed of rotten leaves, through that night and the whole of the next day; then, changing clothes with it, he had fled under cover of the ensuing darkness, and got away eventually to town.

He had found the house in Earl Street a wretched hovel, tenanted by a few abjects, whom the money found on Balfour–which he had received on leaving prison–was amply sufficient to buy out. Once alone in this tenement, he had easily possessed himself of the spoil so long secreted, and, furnished with it, he had hastened down to Crompton–the news of Carew’s death having reached London on the very day that he found himself in a position to profit by it. The very plan which he had suggested to Balfour, whose name he also assumed, he himself put into execution. He made a private offer for the disused mine, which was gladly accepted by those who had the disposal of the property, acting under the advice of Parson Whymper. Trevethick, the only man that had attached any importance to the possession of it, was dead; and it was not likely that any one at the sale should bid one-half of the sum which this stranger was prepared to give for the mere gratification of his whim. The mine itself, indeed, had scarcely been mentioned in the transaction; it merely formed a portion in the lot comprising the few barren acres on which this capricious purchaser had expressed his fancy to build a home. “Disposed of by private contract” was the marginal note written in the auctioneer’s catalogue which dashed Solomon’s long-cherished hopes to the ground.

Richard staid on in the neighborhood to attend the sale. It attracted an immense concourse; and no less than a guinea a head was the price of admission to those who explored the splendid halls of Crompton, discussing the character of its late owner, and retailing wild stories of his eccentricities. Poor Parson Whymper, who had not a shilling left to him–for Carew had died intestate, though, thanks to him, not absolutely a beggar–was perhaps the only person present who felt a touch of regret. He had asked for his patron’s signet-ring, as a keepsake, and this request had been refused on the part of the creditors; he wandered among the gay and jeering crowd like a ghost, little thinking that the one man who looked at him with a glance of pity was he whom he had once regarded as the heir of Crompton. It was the general opinion now that the unhappy chaplain had been Carew’s evil genius, and had “led him on.” Even Richard bestowed but that single glance upon him; he _was_ looking in vain for the face that had so terrible an interest for himself. He had not heard that Trevethick was dead, but he knew it was so the instant that his eyes fell upon Solomon Coe, and all his hate was at once transferred to his younger enemy. The business upon which this man had come was as clear to him as though it had been written on his forehead. The first gleam of pleasure which had visited his dark soul for twenty years was the sight of Solomon’s countenance when, on the sixth day’s sale, the auctioneer gave out that lot 970 had been withdrawn. Solomon might have received the intimation long before but for the cautious prudence which had prevented him from making any inquiries upon the subject. For a minute or two he stood stunned and silent, then hurriedly made his way to the rostrum. Richard, who was sitting at the long table with the catalogue before him, kept his eyes fixed upon its pages while the auctioneer pointed him out as the purchaser of the lot in question. He knew the inquiry that was being asked, and its reply; he knew whose burly form it was that thrust itself the next minute in between him and his neighbor; every drop of blood in his body, every hair on his head, seemed to be cognizant that the man he hated most on earth was seated cheek by jowl with him–that the first step in the road of retribution had been taken voluntarily by his victim himself. The rest is soon told. Solomon at once commenced his clumsy efforts at conciliation; and his endeavors to recommend himself to the stranger’s friendship were suffered quickly to bear fruit. He invited him to his house in London, which, to Richard’s astonishment and indignation, he found to be his mother’s home; and, in short, fell of his own accord into the very snare which the other, had he had the fixing of it, would himself have laid for him.

And now, as we have said, when all had gone exactly as Richard would have had it go, and Solomon was being punished to the uttermost, the executor of his doom was beginning to feel, if not compunction, at all events remorse. No adequate retribution had indeed overtaken Harry. To have made her a widow was, in fact, to have freed her from the yoke of a harsh and unloved master; but the fact was, notwithstanding the perjury of which he believed her to have been guilty, he had never hated her as he had hated the other authors of his wrongs. She had once on the rock-bound coast at Gethin preserved his life; she had accorded to his passion all that woman can grant, and had reciprocated it; not even in his fiercest hour of despair had he harbored the thought of raising his hand against her; he had hated her, indeed, as his betrayer, and as Solomon’s wife, but never regarded her with that burning detestation which he felt toward her husband. There was another motive also, though he did not even admit it to himself, which, now that his chief foe was expiating his offense, had no inconsiderable weight in the scale of mercy as regarded the others.

His endeavors to win Charley’s favor had had a reflex action. In spite of himself, a certain good-will had grown up in him toward this boy, whom his mission it was to ruin. If there had been less of his mother in the lad’s appearance, or any thing of his father in his character, his heart might have been steeled against his youth and innocence of transgression. As a mere son of Solomon Coe’s he would have beheld in him the whelp of a wolf, and treated him accordingly; but between the wolf and his offspring there was evidently as little of affection as there was of likeness. The very weaknesses of Charley’s character–his love of pleasure, his credulity, his wayward impulsiveness, of all which Balfour had made use for his own purposes–were foreign to the nature of the elder Coe; while the lad’s high spirit, demonstrativeness, and geniality were all his own. If he had one to guide as well as love him–a woman with sound heart and brain, such as this Agnes Aird was represented to be, what a happy future might be before this youth! Without such a wise counselor, how easy it would be, and how likely, for him to drift on the tide of self-will and self-indulgence to the devil! The decision rested in Richard’s own hands, he knew. Should he blast this young life in the bud, in revenge for acts for which he was in no way accountable, and which were already being so bitterly expiated? The apprehension that Solomon might even yet be found alive perhaps alone prevented Richard from resolving finally to molest Harry and her son no further. If his victim should have been rescued, his enmity would have doubtless blazed forth afresh against them as inextinguishable as ever, but in the mean time it smouldered, and was dying out for want of fuel. If he had no penitence with respect to the terrible retribution he had already wrought, the idea of it disturbed him. If he had no scruples, he had pangs: when all was over–in a day or two, for even so strong a man as Solomon could scarcely hold out longer–he would doubtless cease to be troubled with them; when he was once dead Richard did not fear his ghost; but the thought of this perishing wretch at present haunted him. He was still not far from Gethin, and its neighborhood was likely to encourage such unpleasant feelings. He had only executed a righteous judgment, since there was no law to right him; but even a judge would avoid the vicinity of a gallows on which hangs a man on whom he had passed sentence.

He would go into Midlandshire–where he was now supposed to be–until the affair had blown over. That watching and waiting for the Thing to be discovered would, he foresaw, be disagreeable, nervous work. And when it happened, how full the newspapers would be of it! How Solomon got to the place where he would be found would be as much a matter of marvel as the object of his going there. If the copper lode–the existence of which Richard did not doubt–were discovered, as it most likely would be when the mine became the haunt of the curious and the morbid, it was only too probable that public attention would be drawn to the owner. The identification of Robert Balfour with the visitor who had visited Turlock might then be established, whence would rise suspicion, and perhaps discovery. Richard had no terrors upon his own account, but he was solicitous to spare his mother this new shame. He had been hitherto guiltless in her eyes, or, when blameworthy, the victim of circumstances; but could her love for him survive the knowledge that he was a murderer? But why encourage these morbid apprehensions? Was it not just as likely that the Thing would never be discovered at all? Once set upon a wrong scent, as folks already were, since the papers had suggested the man was drowned, why should they ever hit upon the right one? Wheal Danes had not been explored for half a century. Why should not Solomon’s bones lie there till the judgment-day?

At this point in his reflections the door opened–he was taking his breakfast in a private sitting-room–and admitted, as he thought, the waiter. Richard stood in such profound thought that it was almost stupor, with his arms upon the mantel-piece, and his head resting on his hands. He did not change his posture; but when the door closed, and there was silence in place of the expected clatter of the breakfast things, he turned about, and beheld Harry standing before him–in deep black, and, as it seemed to him, in widow’s weeds!

CHAPTER XLV.

FACE TO FACE.

If Solomon himself, half starved and imbecile with despair, had suddenly presented himself from his living tomb, Richard could not have been more astonished than at the appearance of his present visitor. He had left her but three days ago for Midlandshire. How was it possible she had tracked him hither? With what purpose she had done so he did not ask himself, for he had already read it in her haggard face and hopeless eyes.

“Have I come too late?” moaned she in a piteous, terror-stricken voice.

“For breakfast?–yes, madam,” returned Richard, coldly; “but that can easily be remedied;” and he feigned to touch the bell. His heart was steel again; this woman’s fear and care he felt were for his enemy, and for him alone. It was plain she had no longer fear of himself.

“Where is my husband?” she gasped out. “Is he still alive?”

“I am not your husband’s keeper, madam.”

“But you are his murderer!” She held out her arm, and pointed at him with a terrible significance. There was something clasped in her trembling fingers which he could not discern.

“You speak in riddles, madam; and it seems to me your humor is somewhat grim.”

“I ask you once more, is my husband dead, and have I come too late?”

“I have not seen him for some days; I left him alive and well. What makes you think him otherwise, or that I have harmed him?”

“This”–she advanced toward him, keeping her eyes steadily fixed upon his own–“this was found among your things after you left my house!”

It was a ticket-of-leave–the one that had been given to Balfour on his discharge from Lingmoor. It seemed impossible that Richard’s colorless face could have become still whiter, but it did so.

“Yes, that is mine,” said he. “It was an imprudence in me to leave such a token among curious people. You took an interest in my effects, it seems.”

“It was poor Mrs. Basil who found it, and who gave it to me.” Her voice was calm, and even cold; but the phrase “poor Mrs. Basil” alarmed him.

“The good lady is still unwell, then, is she?”

“She is dead.”

“Dead!” Richard staggered to a chair, and pressed his hands to his forehead. The only creature in the world on whom his slender hopes were built had, then, departed from it! “When did she die?” inquired he in a hollow voice, “and how?”

“On the evening of the day you left, and, as I believe, of a disease which one like you will scarcely credit–of a broken heart.”

Her manner and tone were hostile; but that moved not Richard one whit; the cold and measured tones in which she had alluded to his mother’s death angered him, on the other hand, exceedingly. If his mother had died of a broken heart, it was this woman’s falsehood that had broken it; and yet she could speak with calmness and unconcern of the loss which had left him utterly forlorn! He forgot all his late remorse; and in his eyes glittered malice and cruel rage.

“I do not fear you,” cried she, in answer to this look; “for the wretched have no fear. The hen will do battle with the fox, the rabbit with the stoat, to save her young. If I can not save my husband, I will save my son. I have come down here to do it. You are known to me now for what you are–a jail-bird. If you dare to meet my Charley’s honest face again, I will tell him who and what you are.”

“Did Mrs. Basil tell you that, then?”

“Thus far she did,” cried Harry, pointing to the ticket which Richard had taken from her hand. “Is not that enough? She warned me with her latest breath against you. ‘Beware of him,’ said she; ‘and yet pursue him, if you would save your husband and your son. Where Solomon is, there will this man also be. Pursue, pursue!’ I did but stay to close her eyes.”

“And so she knew me, did she?”

“She knew enough, as I do. Of course she could not guess–who could?–your shameful past, the fruit of which is there!” and again she pointed to the ticket.

“_My_ shameful past!” cried Richard, rising and drawing himself to his full height. “Who are you, that dare to say so? Do you, then, need one to rise from the dead to remind you of _your_ past! Look at me, Harry Trevethick–look at _me_!”

“Richard!” It was but one word; but in the tone which she pronounced it a thousand memories seemed to mingle. An inexpressible awe pervaded her; she stood spell-bound, staring at his white hair and withered face.

“Yes, it _is_ Richard,” answered the other, mockingly, “though it is hard to think so. Twenty years of wretchedness have worked the change. It is you he has to thank for it, you perjured traitress!”

“No, no; as Heaven is my judge, Richard, I tell you No!” She threw herself on her knees before him; and as she did so her bonnet fell, and the rippling hair that he had once stroked so tenderly escaped from its bands; the color came into her cheeks, and the light into her eyes, with the passionate excitement of her appeal; and for the moment she looked almost as he had known her in the far-back spring-tide of her youth.

“Fair and false as ever!” cried Richard, bitterly.

“Listen, listen!” pleaded she; “then call me what you will.”

He sat in silence while she poured forth all the story of the trial, and of the means by which her evidence had been obtained, listening at first with a cold, cynical smile, like one who is prepared for falsehood, and beyond its power; but presently he drooped his head and hid his features. She knew that she had persuaded him of her fidelity, but feared that behind those wrinkled hands there still lay a ruthless purpose. She had exculpated herself, but only (of necessity) by showing in blacker colors the malice of his enemies. She knew that he had sworn to destroy them root and branch; and there was one green bough which he had already done his worst to bend to evil ways. “Richard, Richard!” said she, softly.

He withdrew his chair with a movement which she mistook for one of loathing.

“He hates me for their sake,” thought she, “although he knows me to be innocent. How much more must he hate those who made me seem so guilty!” But, in truth, his withdrawal from her touch had a very different explanation. He would have kissed her, and held out both his hands, but for the blood which he dreaded might be even now upon them. He saw that she loved him still, and had ever done so, even when she seemed his foe: all the old affection that he thought had been dead within him awoke to life, and yet he dared not give it voice.

“You have said my husband was alive and well, Richard?”

“I said I had left him so,” answered he, hoarsely.

“Then you have spared him thus far; spare him still, even for my sake; and, for Heaven’s sake, spare my son! Harden not your heart against one more dear to me by far than life itself. He has done you no wrong.”

Richard shook his head; he yearned to clasp her to his breast; he could have cried, “I forgive them all,” but he could not trust himself to speak, lest he should say, “I love you.”

“You have seen my boy, Richard, many times. The friendship you have simulated for him must have made you know how warm-hearted and kind and unsuspicious his nature is. You have listened to his merry laugh, and felt the sunshine of his gayety. Oh! can you have the heart to harm him?”

Still he did not speak; he scarcely heard her words. The murdered man was standing between her and him; and he would always stand there, seen by him, though not by her. From the grave itself he had come forth to triumph over him to the end.

“Richard”–her voice had sunk to a tremulous whisper–“I must save my son, and save you from yourself, no matter what it costs me. You little know on the brink of what a crime you stand.”

He laughed a bitter laugh; for was he not already steeped in crime? She thought him pitiless and malignant when he was only hopeless and self-condemned.

“Do you remember Gethin, Richard, and all that happened there? Can you