University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.
THE INJURED AND THE INJURER.

The confession of the earl had been listened
to thus far with amazement; and when
he acknowledged that he had fired the house
of Robert of Burnside and thus caused the
death of two of its inmates, there were heard
exclamations of horror and loathing from
Griffitt and Red Beard.

`Thou only needest this to cap thy crimes,'
said Red Beard, `but I must hear thee out.
Tell me, then, how my daughter died?—
Speak all the truth as you hope to live!'

`She is not dead.'

`Not dead?' cried Robert, with a loud
cry between joy and incredulity.

`No, my lord; at least she was alive and
well two months ago.'

`Art thou lying to me, earl?' asked Red
Beard, greatly agitated.

`No. I have no motive in doing so. Your
daughter, after being taken from your house,
was brought to me. I adopted her as my
own, and her beauty and talents won from
me an affection more than parental.'

`And what become of her? Where is
she?'

`She grew up under my eye and received
the best education England could bestow.—
My niece, for my wife has long been dead,
took her under her charge as if she had been
her own child. Between them grew an attachment
which still exists. Your daughter,
when two months ago I left England, was at
my seat in Northumberland, in charge of
this niece, a maiden lady of forty, and of her
brother, a country baronet, who are in charge
of my household till I return. I assure you
of her happiness and peace!'

`My lord, may I credit this?' demanded
Robert Burnside, in a voice scarcely audible
with emotion. `Tell me if my child really
lives, and I will forgive thee thy great crime
in robbing me of her.'

`I swear it to you, my lord.'

`Is she fair and good?'

`She has no equal in beauty or virtues.'

`And her age is now nineteen! Oh, that
I could once more see my child! But I fear
that there is some mistake. It is impossible
that she lives!'

`The story seems probable, sir,' said Griffitt.
`Encourage the hope. I believe the
earl has told the truth. The setting fire to
your castle and robbing you of your child are
so in keeping with his base character, that I

should do him injustice to question the truth
of his confession.'

`One word. Is my child married to thy
son?'

`Alas, that son is no more. He was
thrown from his horse and killed the day he
reached his twenty-first year. He was my
only child, and his death not only threw me
into profound grief, but entirely changed my
plans with reference to your child.'

`Let me hear in what way? I trust not
to her honor.'

`Inasmuch as my son had died and I had
no heir to my title and estate, which were
greatly encumbered by debts, I determined
to invest money in American lands, and, in
my will, bequeath them to your daughter, as
my property in England would at once pass
to my creditors on my death. I desired,
therefore, to leave her some token of my regard;
and, therefore, as some property in
Baltimore, which belonged to me in right of
my wife's father, Lord Annapolis, required
looking after if I would retain it, I resolved
to embark for this country; and while I settled
the estate of Lord Annapolis, I intended
to look out for lands for investing what ready
money I intended to appropriate to the advantage
ofyour child, which I considered as my
own; for I had understood you, my lord, believing
your daughter to have perished, had
left the country and died abroad.'

`How hardily you speak of your crimes
and their results upon others,' said the marquis;
`but doubtless thou hast a seared conscience.
Did not your conscience smite you
for inflicting such sorrow upon a father's
heart as to drive him into exile, and, as you
supposed, to death? Had you no pity on my
son, if you had none on me nor my wife?—
Was there penitence or contrition in thus
robbing him of his child, his only child, and
piercing his soul with such sharp arrows of
grief?'

`I can say nothing in my defenee, my lord;
I wished to atone to the grandchild by—'

`By enriching your son with her honors
and wealth! For this end alone, not for
conscience sake, did you propose to restore
her to them by proclaiming her mother's innocence
in your will. But,' added Red
Beard in the same fierce tone, `have you,
now that your son is dead, have you proclaimed
her title to her grandfather's rank?'

`Not yet. I intended on my return to
England, after having secured to her the
American property, which I have met with
this accident in going to examine previous to
purchasing, I intended, I repeat, on my return
to England, to make out a full vindication
of the innocence of Lady Alice, and
confess my guilty conspiracy, feeling that I
should be compensated for the ignominy that
would be attached to my name, by the glory
that would be added to hers!'

`It is a proper sentiment and well spoken,
earl,' said Red Beard, `but I doubt if you
speak the truth with reference to your intentions.
It is my belief only the presence of
the noble marqnis here and myself have led
thee, by taking thee by surprise, in thy fear
and amazement, to confess ought of thy
crimes. I do not see what my child, if re-instated
in the rich domains of her grandfather
here, could want of wild lands in the
New World.'

`My lord, I was childless. I had a little
money and I felt that I had wronged the
maiden, and could not do too much to show
my contrition. It was, therefore, as a token
to her of my regard that I intended this bequest.'

`It may be as you say. This time will
show. Does my child know the relation in
which she stands to you—or to me?'

`No; she believes me, for I have so taught
her, to be her uncle.'

`And has she no recollection of her childhood?'
asked Griffitt; for Red Beard was
too indignant and grieved to speak.

`But slight; she was young when I took
her from her father's, and I took pains to—'

`To make her forget me and her home,'
shouted Red Beard, almost with frenzy.—

`Old man, I am tempted to tear thee in pieces,
as a lion would rend a fox? But I spare
thee, for thou hast not yet written thy confession
and testimony to the immaculate innocence
of the Lady Alice. Take thy pen
and write to my dictation! come, begin, and
I will sit opposite thee here and see thee do
it!'

`Is this my return, my lord, for telling
thee thy daughter lives?' asked the caitif,
looking up with a begging, deprecating look.

`My heart hath hardly given thy tale full
credit, yet I live in hope 'twill prove true.—
Yet I will not the less loathe thee, should it
be thou hast spoken truth. I shall rejoice
as one who receives his dead back again to
life, to behold and embrace my child, even
though she may not know me. But write,
writs! Take the pen! Now, my noble father,'
he added, turning to the marquis, as
the earl tremblingly took the pen, `dictate
such words as thou mayest deem the sweet
innocent Lady Alice needeth for the vindication
of her memory.'

The scene that took place for the next
quarter of an hour was one of the most extraordinary
character and absorbing interest.
The Earl, pale and craven in looks, his snow
white head rendering him the more infamous
and inglorious, sat by a small pine table by
the bed-side, his back to the bed, his face to
the door of the room. In his right hand he
held a pen which the tremor of the hand
caused to rattle audibly upon the paper to
which he tried to apply it for the purpose of
dating his confession, at the dictation of the
marquis. Directly opposite to him the marquis
sat, three feet distant from the table, a
venerable figure, to whose noble head his
grey hairs were a crown of glory. He leaned
upon his staff and bent his eyes upon the
earl, as he gave him words to write. On
the left of his father, with one hand on the
table, stood the athletic and manly figure of
Robert Burnside, his brow contracted and
stern, and his whole bearing such as impressed
the guilty Earl with mortal fear whenever
he chanced to glance up at him. On the
right of the marquis stood Griffitt, his face
betraying his intense interest in all that passed,
while a little to his right was Whitlock,
with a countenance indicative of the greatest
curiosity and amazement at all he saw and
heard; and it was not without a dash of awe
at finding himself in the presence of such
noble company as were by chance assembled
there. In the back ground, at the door at
which he had softly opened and held ajar for
the purpose was visible, one eye and an ear
of the landlord, Master Tapp, who aware that
something out of the common way was going
on in his house, had crept up stairs and stationed
himself where he could see and hear
fractions of what transpired.

It is not our purpose, here, to copy the
document which the base earl wrote out at
the joint dictation of the marquis and Robert
Burnside, as the facts embraced in it are
already known fully to the reader. It embraced
a brief but succinct history of the
conspiracy: its origin and object bore full
testimony to the innocence of its lovely victim,
and to the total depravity and wickedness
of the conspirators. It also bore testimony
to the identity of the youthful maiden,
Lady —, his neice, (so called,) with the
daughter of Lord Robert Burnside, whom he
acknowledged having stolen from her father's
roof when she was in her eighth year.—
For the purpose of educating her to the rank
to which she was born and into which he intended
to have installed her, the earl would
have written, but the marquis and Lord Robert
compelled him to word it `for the purpose
of marrying her to his son and enriching
him by her estates, to be restored to her
only for this end.'

When the confession, which was in the
form of an address to the king, was fully
written out and signed in the presence of
Griffitt and Whitlock, whose attesting signatures
were appended, it was read aloud by
Lord Robert, and pronounced by him and
his father sufficient for the purpose it was

designed to accomplish. The earl was also
compelled to fix his family seal against his
name.

`Now, my lords,' said the wearied nobleman
as he laid down his pen, `I trust you are
satisfied, by this humiliating confession in
writing that I have made, that it is my wish
to atone, so far as it is in my power, for the
guilt and wrong-doing of my former life.'

`It is full late, full late; when the innocent
lady, this should benefit, has long been
dead—her end hastened by her sorrows,' said
the marquis, sadly and severely.

`To do evil seems to have been thy chief
virtue, earl!' said Robert Burnside, with a
gloomy brow. `Why did you not let me
know my child lived?'

`I should then have had to confessed my
guilt. I hoped to do justice to her and
let the secret of my crime go down to the
grave with me. It was the desire to preserve
my position in the world that made me take
these windings that I have followed, and
which added, I now see, crime to crime.'

`What do you propose doing?' asked Red
Beard, after talking aside a moment or two
with Griffitt.

`My lords, I am at your service. Sincerely
hostile as you look upon me—evil as you
think me—sincerely do I desire to see you
in the enjoyment of the position in the world
to which you are entitled, and from which
you have so long been deprived. Above all,
wish to insure the happiness of my neice,—
I mean thy child, Lord Robert. Therefore,
I am ready to return to England, when you
desire.'

`Then let it be at once,' said Robert, with
quickness. `There is no time for delay. A
carriage shall be at once obtained to convey
you to Philadelphia—the nighest port, and
where a vessel will be most likely to be found
going at once to England.'

`We must not loose sight of this bad man,'
said the marquis.

`No, my father. We go also with him.'

`Not in the same coach; not in the same.
I cannot ride with him.'

`You shall not be thus insulted, my noble
father. At the town, six miles from hence,
we can obtain suitable conveyances. He
shall go in one with Griffitt and Whitlock,
and I and you will ride in another.'

Ringold and Robert Burnside, the latter
having escorted the marquis below stairs
again, consulted aside together. Whitlock
received instructions, and at once, late as it
was, for the sun had set, took horse to the
next town, eight miles off, in order to engage
coaches to convey the party to Philadelphia,
which was a distance of fifty-four miles.

`Now, Master Griffitt, if you are ready to
take a trip to England with me, go and bid
thy mother good bye, and be back by noon
to-morrow, if thou canst,' said Robert.'

`I left her prepared to hear of my departure,
or see me return. I shall write and send
my good bye by Whitlock.'

`Then there will be no delay. We will
start as soon as the vehicles arrive. You
must go to keep this false craven earl under
your eye. I commit him to you as your
prisoner; for it may be his personal examination
before the king or lord chancellor may
be needful. Keep him safe.'

`He shall not escape me. How wonderfully
every thing has transpired! It seems
like a dream!'

`Said I not my dream was a true one?' exclaimed
Robert with triumph. `I felt I
could not be deceived.'

`It is all most amazing! The chances
were a myriad to one that you three persons
should encounter each other, and such a result
should take place! Fear not for this
earl, for I will keep careful watch over him.'