Chapter IX: A Compromise

“Dear, dear grandpa! Has he been making you unhappy, too? What has he done? What has he been saying to you? Tell me all about it.”

The earl felt two warm, loving arms around his neck, and a dear, treasured head pillowed on his bosom. By and by he looked up, and met the earnest, beseeching gaze of his beautiful ward--his grandchild of his heart--the one true, enduring love left to him in all the world.

“Oh, Cordelia, my sweet child! God and all the good angels keep and bless thee!”

And then, with many pauses, and many tears, he told the story of his interview with his grandson--all save that part of it which had reference to the smuggler’s son. Of that he spoke not yet.

When this had been told, Cordelia gave a truthful account of the interview in the arbor; but she did not dwell upon it. She hurried through with it as rapidly as possible, and then broached a new subject.

“Grandpa,” she said, with a world of eager inquiry in look and tone, “you have heard stories told of the old chapel of the Monks, on the crag--about its being haunted, and so on, haven’t you?”

“Yes, darling. Those stories are older than I am.”

“Well, what do you think about it? What did you ever think? Of course, you have had your thoughts.”

“Really, my dear child, you puzzle me. I hardly know how to answer. I must have had a great many thoughts during all the years since, in my boyhood, I heard the first stories of the ghosts of the old chapel. And there was one thing curious. For many years--for almost two-score, I should say, those stories died out.

“Of late, however, within ten or a dozen years, they have revived. I remember, it was during the very week of your father’s death, a number of our servants were frightened by a ghost--the ghost, they said, of a gray friar--wandering about the old ruin. But--but--it was, of course, the veriest nonsense.”

Cordelia looked up into the old man’s face searchingly. She looked so sharply, and with so much of meaning in the look, that he shrank away from it, and his eyes, usually so honest and true, wavered.

“Grandpa! grandpa! There is something you do not tell me. What is it? Come, you surely can have nothing that you would wish to hide from your darling.”

“Child! child! why are you so eager? Ah! tell me, were you in the chapel through the storm? Why of course you were. You told me so. Did you see anything?”

“Grandpa, I want you to answer me first. You ought to. You are the oldest, and should take the lead. Tell me, what was it you kept back from me?”

Once more, after a little further hesitation, the frank, steady, and straightforward look came back to the old earl’s eyes; and he said, first casting a swift glance around:

“Cordelia, the story I am going to tell you I have never told to anybody. It has puzzled me; and I have tried to solve the mystery involved; but I have kept it to myself.

“You will remember, shortly before your father’s death, his old attorney, John Chudley, came up to make the papers necessary to prove my appointment as your guardian, and to make the will, and so on. You will remember also that his son Charles came with him. Charles was at that time somewhere near twenty years old; and he was observant and reliable, as was his father.

“Well, one day, while they were here, after the legal business had all been done, those two, the Chudleys, went off up the river after fish, a sport of which they were fond, and of which they got little at home. They fished through the greater part of the day, and on their way home they took a fancy to climb Witch’s Crag. Suffice it to say--they went up--”

“Oh!--and got lost!” broke in the eager listener. “I remember the night, and how frightened everybody was. Just such another night as it was last night. Am I not right?”

“Entirely so, darling. They went up the crag, and on their way down they lost the path. The storm and darkness came and found them in sight of the chapel, and there they sought shelter. They had found some stone seats away in one corner, where they sat down and waited for the storm to pass, or at least for the rain to hold up a bit.

“And now comes the wonderful part. While they thus sat they were startled by the sound of somebody walking outside, and presently afterward they were sure somebody had entered the chapel. As luck would have it, a few seconds later there came a stream of lightning that made the place as light as day, and they plainly saw a human figure, tall and large, enveloped in the robe and cowl of a gray friar! Strangely enough, not more than three seconds had passed when another flash came, and this time they saw the friar close by the altar. The third flash came in a few seconds more, and the friar had vanished.

“The mystery was, what could have become of the strange intruder? They, father and son, could both swear that he had not gone out by the door. He could not have done it and they not know it. The windows were beyond the reach of any man unless he had a ladder or a tall stepping-place of some kind to help him. And yet he had gone--vanished, as into thin air.

“On the next day they went to the chapel; and I went with them; and they there told the story over, at the same time pointing out the different localities--the course which the figure took--and the point at the altar where he stood before he disappeared.

“That is the story, Cordelia. And I am free to confess it has puzzled me. That a person in the guise of a Franciscan monk, or gray friar, entered the chapel on that evening I am confident. Also, I can not doubt that he made his way out without going by the vestibule or through a window.”

“And now, my dear grandpa, what do you think of it? How do you think it was done?”

“To tell you the truth, dear child, I have thought there must be, somewhere near that altar, a secret trap--an entrance, in some way, to hidden vaults or crypts below.”

“But you never found anything?”

“No. I have searched at every possible point. I have closely examined every seam and every crevice, but nothing have I been able to find--not a trace, not a sign.”

“Now, grandpa, if I will tell you something, you will keep it to yourself, won’t you--at least till I tell you otherwise?”

“Certainly, darling, if there is good reason for it.”

“Well, there is the very best of reasons. We agreed--Percy and I--that we wouldn’t speak of it until he had time to investigate; but, since you know so much, you ought to know this, too.”

And thereupon she went on, excitedly and vividly, yet very clearly and succinctly, to tell the story of the adventure of the previous evening.

“Oh!” she cried, when she had concluded the narrative, “I am glad it was Percy. If there is anything to be found, be sure he will find it.”

“Cordelia!”

The girl started. There was something in the tone--in the manner in which her name had been thus abruptly pronounced, that sounded strangely to her. It seemed to her as though she could detect pain in it.

“Cordelia! You think a great deal of Percy Maitland?”

What in the world did he mean? Had he read her secret? Did he know or did he suspect, that she loved him, loved him with all the love of her heart? Ah! Matthew had spoken. His word had given the earl’s thoughts direction. She had hoped that the secret might be Percy’s and hers for a time longer; and it would be an easy matter to deceive her questioner, even now.

But, could she do it? Could she, in this hour, when a holy love had sanctified and beautified her life, take her first step in falsehood? Oh, no! no!

“My dear child!--darling!” reaching out and taking her hand, when a full minute had elapsed and she had not spoken. “You are not afraid of your dear old grandpa. Will you not trust him fully?”

“Yes, yes!” the noble girl answered. She started to her feet, and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him; then having resumed her seat, she looked frankly, trustfully up, and added: “Ask me what you please, dear grandpa, and I will answer if I can.”

“Cordelia! your generous tone, your entire readiness to answer, tells me that I, too, should be generous and confess to you my source of information. It was Matthew who put the thought into my mind, and he did it most unkindly.”

“I knew it, dear grandpa. He taunted me, or he meant to do so, and he made terrible threats, but they do not frighten me. They did at first, but they do not now. Dear, dear old grandpa,” she cried impulsively, after a short silence, at the same time grasping his arm with both her hands, “would you, could you ask me to marry with Lord Oakleigh?”

“Oh, my soul, no!”

“Did my father ever express a wish that I should marry with him?”

“No; he never did.”

“Do you believe he would have allowed such a thing had he been living?”

“I know very well he would not have allowed it. So, my child, do you borrow no trouble because of your refusal of his suit.”

“Grandpa, do you believe he loves me?”

“Alas! I can not believe that a true love of the heart--a pure, unselfish love--is possible to his nature! But let him pass. Tell me of this other--of Percy Maitland. What is he to you? You know what I mean.”

She had thought to answer promptly, but when the moment came her heart was bounding too strongly for coherent speech. She bent her head and pressed her hands over her bosom, and by and by she had gained control of her emotions; or, at least, of those that had overcome her. She looked up, with a warm, radiant light in her truthful eyes, and a rich, rosy glow on her earnest, lovely face.

“Dear grandpa, don’t be frightened; don’t have any fear; and I pray you, don’t blame me until you have taken a good long time for thought and observation; for I tell you, in the outset, while you live and need me, I will not leave.”

“Bless you, darling, for that!”

“And now, I must confess to you, I love Percy Maitland with all my heart, and all my strength. I love him as I never loved another--as I never can love another--with a love that would be my death if he were taken from me. We never knew till yesterday.”

And then, in her frank bubbling manner, with the ice thus broken, she went on and told the story of the love-passage on the crag; and of how their love had been sealed in the old chapel.

The old man was deeply interested. He felt his own youth come back, with the one great love of his lifetime; and he lived over again the ecstasy of the long ago.

And another thing--the character and the behavior of the low-born youth stood out in flattering colors. The earl could not put away his admiration for him; he could not help respecting and esteeming him.

And again he found himself wishing, “Oh! that Matthew had been like him!” Yet there was another and sterner side to the subject. Could he allow the lady daughter of one of England’s proudest, wealthiest knights to marry with the son of a smuggler?

But even here the old earl, his tender, loving heart, could find argument on both sides. He called to mind the dying words of Sir William. His gentle daughter should never be urged to wed without love, and he--the earl--had solemnly promised that he would never even ask her to do such a thing.

He remembered with a start how earnestly and feelingly the dying father of his fair ward had spoken of the misery that came from loveless marriage.

And here was the girl with a love in her heart that had become so much a part of her life that the loss of it would kill her.

Were the man the son of a landed proprietor--of an humble esquire--or even of a wealthy farmer, of good family, he might have hesitated; but--the son of an obscure seaman--aye, in truth, the son of an outlaw! Oh! it was too much!

“Cordelia? My blessed child, do you not see--do you not understand--this must not be. Think of it. You know how I love you. I do not exaggerate when I say, I would willingly die for you. Then, oh, then, you will believe I have only your best good at heart. Think who and what this man is. Think of his family--his parentage. Do you not see?”

“Grandpa, I can not quite understand it. Here am I with a heart capable of loving. In my brief span of life I have become acquainted with two men, and have been thrown more or less into their companionship. In fact my relations with these two have been such that their friendship could not have been otherwise than valuable and very pleasant to me, provided I had found them worth confidence and esteem. One of those men was born the child of a smuggler. He could not help it, could he? The question with me is, what sort of a man has the smuggler’s son grown to be?

“The other man, dear grandpa, was born the son of--”

“Stop! stop! Oh, I know what you would say. Aye, and what sort of a man has he grown to be? Oh, Heaven have mercy!”

“Dear grandpa!” rising to her feet and once more winding her arms around his neck, “let us say no more about the matter at this time. You will not forbid me to associate with Percy as I have heretofore done. Think what he has been to me--my teacher and guide through all these years! And what a teacher! Could there have been a nobler, truer, or purer guide? You need not fear that I shall marry him without your knowledge, and, I am almost ready to say, without your consent. But let it be for now. You may talk with my lover if you like; but mind, you shall not blame him. Mine is the blame if you have any to lay upon us.

“There!” giving him another kiss, “now go and be as happy as you can. Be sure your darling will do nothing to give you pain if she can help it. Shall it not be so?”

Poor, fond, foolish old man! He could not find it in his heart to say her nay. And, if the truth were told, he felt greatly relieved that the matter had been thus pleasantly disposed of.

He told himself things would simply be as they had been. If he would win his ward from the unfortunate love, he would not do it by beginning now to make her miserable and unhappy. He would wait. Who should say what of good the future might bring? He kissed her and blessed her, and the conference ended.

While this scene had been transpiring in the breakfast-room of the castle, another, of a somewhat different character, had been taking place in the wood by the river, not a great way off.

Lord Oakleigh had left his grandfather feeling about as angry--as thoroughly mad with rage and passion--as a naturally perverse and passionate man could be.

He went first to the butler’s room and got a bottle of brandy, which he took with him to his own apartment, where he drank freely.

Then he buckled on his sword and took his hat and went out. He had no particular aim in view, though his thoughts, which he muttered aloud as he gained the open park, were of the smuggler’s son. He could not believe that his grandfather would allow Cordelia to marry with the outlaw’s offspring; but there was no telling what the girl herself might do. So far as true love--or real love of any kind--was concerned, he felt not a particle of it in his heart for his grandfather’s fair ward. But he had never seen a girl he had liked better; and, surely, he had never seen one more beautiful.

In truth, he did not believe there was a more beautiful woman in the kingdom. At some time he would be earl of Allerdale; and he would want a mistress to preside over his household; and Cordelia Chester was the one woman of all the world upon whom his choice had been fixed.

So it would not answer to suffer this young smuggler to bewitch her. He was forced to acknowledge to himself that young Maitland was about the handsomest young fellow he had ever met--just the man, he told himself, for an impressionable young girl like Cordelia to go crazy about. “Upon my soul,” he muttered on, “I believe she would run away with him in a moment, if she were crossed. And just so long as the fellow is in the neighborhood, just so long will the old earl allow her to associate with him. Poor old fool! He don’t know what he is doing. But I think I’ve put a flea in his ear. Yet, for all that, the girl can befool him. She can coax and wheedle him into anything, I don’t care how monstrous it is.

“By --! There’s one thing I can do! Aye, and if the need shall come, I will do it. Ha! I was talking of him; and here he is.”

Brandon had entered the wood at the edge of the park, and was now in the path that ran along upon the shore of the river.

He had been muttering to himself, as we have heard, when, on raising his eyes, he beheld not far away the very man of whom he had been thinking and speaking, coming toward him.

When Percy lifted his eyes on hearing an approaching footstep, and beheld Lord Oakleigh, his first thought was to avoid him; and he had half turned, for the purpose of striking into the wood, when it occurred to him that the act would not only appear cowardly, but the young lord might take it as an affront.

At all events his second thought, which he obeyed, led him straight on, and pretty soon they were face to face. Maitland had swerved to the right, intending to pass; but the other had stepped directly in front of him, thus preventing the passage.

Percy looked up in surprise--surprise and indignation. He saw that his lordship had been drinking, and there was mischief in his black, sunken eyes.

But the well-disposed youth would avoid trouble if the thing were possible; and, to that end, he turned to the left, making a movement to pass in that direction. And again the young lord stepped in front of him, thus interposing a second time.

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