University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

The scenes of this story are now once more
transferred to Castle Monteagle. Three years
have passed since our hero, Philip, whom we
trust the reader has not quite forgotten, left
there to go to London. We have seen how he
was pressed into the service of the king, on
board the “Bucephalus;” and that, through the
recognition of him by the Earl and Countess of
Monteagle, who were on board, passengers for
Cadiz, he was released from duty on board, and
permitted to return from that port to England
at his pleasure.

We have also seen how, after his forcible departure
from London, by the means of the advertisement
of the half-pay captain, it was
clearly shown that he was the long lost son of
the Earl and Countess of Devon. We have
seen them acknowledge the consanguinity from
evidence not disputed by them, and how, at the
request of the nobleman, his father, the Admiralty
instructed the captain, Lord Manners, to
give him his liberty, and send him at the crown's
cost, on his way back to England.

The order from the Admiralty reached Cadiz
in due time; but the “Bucephalus” had already
resumed her voyage to Malta, having left at Cadiz
not only the Earl and Countess of Monteagle,
but, as was reported to the Admiralty,
“the pressed seaman, Philip.” The report fur
ther stated that he had embarked, soon after the
departure of the “Bucephalus,” from which he
was discharged, in a Spanish ship for London,
there being no English vessel immediately sailing.

This intelligence being received at the Admiralty
was duly made known to the Earl of Devon.
With anxious hope, and with hearts yearning
to embrace their long lost and now recovered
son, the noble pair awaited the arrival of the
“Carlos V.,” the name of the vessel in which
Philip was said to have taken his return passage
for England. Twenty—thirty—thirty five days
passed, and yet she arrived not. Daily the earl
visited the Exchange, and examined the list of
vessels in from sea. Thence he invariably
stopped at the “Arrow Inn,” to ask there if the
captain, or Bolton the waterman, had, by chance,
got any intelligence. The distinctions of rank
seemed to be quite set aside when the heart was
interested; and the countess would often spend
an hour at the inn, talking with Dame Cresset
about her son, and making her, over and over,
describe his dress, his look, his eyes, the color of
his hair, his mouth, his smile, his tone of voice,
his step, his hands! and good Dame Cresset was
never weary of the subject. The earl, at the
same time, would hold discourse with the captain,
and wonder at the detention; they would
bring up all the instances of protracted passages

they could hear of; but these comforted the
earl but little; for three ships from Cadiz had
already arrived that left a fortnight or eighteen
days after the “Carlos V.”

“We have only recovered our son to lose him
again, unseen and unembraced!” said the countess,
one day, after hope, long deferred, had made
her heart sick.

“There yet is hope, dear lady,” said the kind
hostess.

“None! It is now fifty-four days. The `Bucephalus'
is already returning from Malta!
The earl has learned that there was a great
storm the day after the `Carlos' left Cadiz; and
without doubt the ship was wrecked on the coast
of Spain, or of Portugal, and Henry perished!”

“Take heart, take heart, dear lady!” said the
widow, whose own heart now sank within her;
“Providence would not snatch him from the sea
twelve years ago, and give you knowledge of his
being alive, to cause him to perish before you
see him.”

But time passed on. Months elapsed, and,
with total absence of all tidings of the ship,
died all hopes in the bosoms of the noble earl
and countess of embracing on earth their lost
son—now twice lost to them!

At length three years passed by, and they had
not ceased to mourn him whom they had once
more assigned to a grave beneath the sea.
About this time, the Earl of Monteagle, who
for three years had faithfully served the crown
at Madrid, as minister to the Spanish court, returned
on a visit of a few weeks to his estates.
This visit had been rendered imperative by the
fall in battle, with a French frigate, of the brave
brother of the countess—Captain Lord Manners.
Lady Berkely Manners, his widow, yielding
to her grief at his loss, was rapidly going
into a decline.

“We must return for a time,” said the earl,
on hearing this news at Madrid. “Our dear
child, Agnes, must now be ever with us, since
her unfortunate blindness is to be for life.”

The evening after the return of Lord and
Lady Monteagle to their castle, the Lady Manners
was laid in the tomb beneath the chancel of
the village church.

“You must now return to Spain with us,
dear Agnes,” said the Conntess Eleanora, as
they were seated in the castle, at the lattice of
which three years before, Radnor Catheart had
stood and observed the maiden write the name
“Philip” on the air with the point of the gold
en arrow; and at which Philip, a few days afterwards
had taken leave of her, to go up to
London.

“And you have no doubt, my more than
mother, that I am the daughter of Lord Robert
Clan-William?” after some silent thought, asked
Agnes, now in her nineteenth year, and, if possible,
more beautiful than ever. Her blindness
had lent a pensive cast to her sweet face, and
given a spiritual and soul-inward look to her
soft eyes. She appeared like an angel, who is
compelled to dwell for a time on earth, but is
ever thinking of the heaven whence she came.

“The necklace which Alice found upon your
neck, and which my brother, Lord Manners,
took up to London, has been recognized at the
Herald's Office, where he left it before going to
sea. We heard yesterday that it was claimed
by Lady Clan-William! And we look for her
here every hour!”

“To see me?” cried Agnes, with trembling
lips, and turning pale.

“But not to take her from me!” said Dame
Alice, decidedly—the decision of firm affection.

This faithful and true friend of Agnes had
for three years watched over her “daughter of
the sea,” as she termed her, and was now present,
looking no longer wild and weird-like, but
calm and affectionate.

“If she takes her, you will not be left behind,
Alice,” said the Countess of Monteagle.

“And if Lady Clan-William be my mother?”

“She is kind as well as noble. I know her
intimately, Agnes. You will almost forget me,
I fear, when you see her.”

“See her? Would that I could see her, dear
Lady Eleanora, if she be indeed my mother!”

“Pardon me! I was careless in the word I
used.”

“And my father?—if she be my mother!”
asked Agnes, with deep interest.

The countess looked embarrassed, and then
said: “He has been a great many years dead.”

Alice started, and became deadly pale! She
recollected where and how, fifteen years ago, she
had hid him in the dungeon of the old tower on
the cliff. She had not from that hour till the
present thought of him! Her own danger and
imminent peril of death had cast him quite out
of her mind.

“Dead? Lord Robin dead!”

“Yes, Alice. He has been many years dead.”

“In the—the—cavern—”

The countess made a sign for her to be silent.

She obeyed, but her looks betrayed her curiosity
and deep interest in the interdicted subject.

“He has been years dead,” added the countess;
“but you will be a source of consolation to
your mother, who has passed a life of sad and
secluded widowhood.”

At this moment the earl entered, and announced
their expected guests to be in sight
upon the road. The countess left Agnes, trembling
with anxiety and nervous hope, to receive
the noble widow of Lord Robin, whose terrible
death in the tower the reader is already familiar
with.

The Lady Clan-William, upon an interview
with the earl and countess on her arrival at the
castle, showed them clearly that Agnes must be
her daughter. She explained to them how that
she had taken passage in a barque, at London,
to go to her brother, a Scottish lord, near Inverness,
after the treason and crime of her husband,
Lord Robert; and that the vessel was
wrecked off the tower, already known to the
reader. She stated that she had been washed
ashore some miles above the tower upon a piece
of the ship, and that a fisherwoman rescued her,
and entreated her with hospitality for several
days; and that finally her son had conveyed her
to the nearest town. Here she made known her
desolate situation to her brother, who came for
her, and took her to his home.

“My child,” she added, “I gave up for lost.
I mourned for it for years, and left not my
brother's secluded home; for he was now my
all, as my erring husband's estate had been confiscated
to the crown. But a few weeks ago,
my brother being in London, saw in the papers
how that a costly necklace, found upon a female
child, shipwrecked fifteen years ago, was deposited
at the Herald's Office for recognition. On
his return he described it to me, and said he believed
that it once belonged to Agnes. I at
once clung to the hope, hastened to London,
and recognized the bracelet by her initials graven
beneath the braided hair in the clasp. I am
now here, dear Lady Monteagle, to see if in this
young girl I can recognize my daughter.”

She was soon ushered into the room where
Agnes was seated, helplessly, as usual, in her
arm-chair. Lady Olan-William gazed a moment
upon the lovely face, each instant the light
of maternal recoguition brightening her countenance.

“Agnes! do you know your dear mothers,
voice?” she suddenly called out, with much
emotion.

“Mother—O, my mother! my dear, dear
mother!” cried Agnes, extending her hands, “I
hear you—I know those tones! You are my
own—my lost—my beloved mother!”

In an instant they were folded in one another's
arms, and so clung they together that it seemed
they would mingle into one. Lady Monteagle
wept, and Dame Alice let the tears trickle unheeded
adown her wrinkled cheeks.

A few days passed of such happiness as earth
seldom bestows upon its children. The time at
length arrived that the earl should return to his
post at Madrid. Lady Clan-William consented
to accompany them with Agnes, who now would
not for a moment be separated from her newfound
mother. The earl had insisted that Agnes
ought to go to Spain, for he said he had heard
there of the reputation of a great Arabian magician
and alchymist, who had restored sight to
the eyes of many blind persona.

“It was our intention,” he said, to Lady
Clan-William, “to have taken her back with us,
that the skill of this person, who often comes
into Spain from Barbary, may be tested in her
case.”

“Whatever holds out any hope for the recovery
of her sight, must not be untried,” said her
mother; and so it was decided that they should
sail with them.

Three weeks afterwards, the whole party were
in London, waiting the sailing of their frigate.
At the hotel where they lodged, the earl happily
met his friend, Lord Devon, whom he had not
seen for some years, and who was on the eve of
embarking for a tour in the East. Dining together
the following day, the latter alluded to
the proposed voyage to Cadiz by the earl, and
sorrowfully remarked:

“We can never, Lady Devon and I, think of
Cadiz without emotion. One dear to us, who
embarked there for London three years ago,
never reached England. He was lost at sea!”

“May I ask of what friend you speak?” asked
Lord Monteagle, with a look and tone of sympathy.

“Of our son—our only son, Henry! The
history of this dear boy is one full of painful
interest. Twice lost to us—twice given up as
dead!”

Here, at the request of the earl and countess,
and while Agnes, as well as Dame Alice, were
listeners, Lord Devon recounted what the reader
already knows of the narrative of Philip, up
to the time of the expected return from Cudiz in
the Spanish ship.

This account was heard by the earl and countess,
and not less so by Agnes, with the deepest
surprise. And when the earl made known to
Lord and Lady Devon what he knew of Philip,
their amazement was unbounded; while their
regret at his death was increased when they
heard him spoken of with such praise by their
noble friends.

“You have no doubt,” said the earl, “of his
being your son?”

“None, my lord,” answered Lady Devon.
“The silver cup—the prayer book found upon
him, with our arms and my name, assure us!
But, I should have known him without any hesitation
had it pleased Heaven to give him back
to us. Upon each arm he had tattooed a strange
gipsey mark.”

“What was it, my lady?” asked Dame Alice.

“A crocodile on one wrist, and a fish on the
other! The gipsies would often camp about our
castle, and once we missed Henry for a whole
day. When at length he was found in their encampment,
his arms bore these signs, which they
said were a charm for good luck. Being pricked
in in Hindoo ink, they are indelible.”

“He is without doubt your son, then,” said
the earl; “for I noticed on his left arm, as he
drew his arrow hard to the head on the archery
ground, the crocodile. It struck me then as a
singular device; but as seamen and fishermen
often tattoo themselves, I did not think of it
again. Now I distinctly recall it to mind!”

“Too late! Our child is lost forever to us!”
said the Countess of Devon, with deep emotion.

We now change the scene of our tale to the
fortress of Gibraltar. A month has elapsed, and
the whole party, whom we left in London, are
guests in the lordly mansion of the commander
of the gigantic fortress. The next month, Lord
and Lady Devon were to continue their voyage
to Constantinople, while the earl and his family
were to remain to test the skill of the famed
Arabian magician, who, to the nobleman's great
gratification, he learned was in Algiers. Thither
he at once sent to invite him, with offers of a
large sum, to visit Gibraltar.

We now return to Aldebrac and Selim. In
due time they reached Algiers; and here the
magician communicated to the page the secret
of preparing the three fluids, and, at the same
time, presented him, with great ceremony, three
small vials.

Selim was now all impatience to embark for
Europe; and Aldebrac having received the earl's
message, said he would depart the day after the
year, then drawing to its close, completed the
horoscopic cycle.

At length the two took ship together, on board
of a Portuguese trading vessel, that came to Algiers
with tribute. The fifth day, thereafter,
they anchored within the shadow of Gibraltar.
It was night when Aldebrac reached the town
from the vessel, accompanied by Selim. The
latter followed him to an ancient quarter of the
city, where dwelt chiefly Moors and Jews. After
devious windings through narrow and dark
streets, which seemed familiar to the astrologer's
tread, he stopped before an old house, built in
the Oriental style. Here he was welcomed by a
bearded man, whose features betrayed his Moorish
origin.

The two men conversed long together, while
Selim, fatigued, slept, clasping his precious vials
to his breast; while his goat-skin bag, filled with
gold and precious stones, lay carelessly near
him.

About midnight he was awaked by a deep,
muttered cry and a heavy fall. Springing to
his feet, he saw by the moonlight the astrologer
lying bleeding upon the stone floor, and gasping
with the suffocation of death. He attempted to
raise him up, but the body fell back with the
lifeless weight of clay. The spirit of the astrologer
had flown beyond the stars. The soul
of the magician had gone to the mysteries of
another life!

Selim was amazed at the suddenness of the
catastrophe. He saw no one in the room, but
he fancied he had caught sight of a dark form
gliding from the spot as he awoke. Suspecting
robbery as the cause of the murder, he felt for
the old man's sack of diamonds and pearls, into
which he had converted his wealth, and it had
been torn from his neck.

“The host has slain the guest for his gold!”
said Selim. “I, also, must fly! But happy am
I to have secured this great secret for restoring
vision, before it perished with him forever.”

The next day, the Earl of Monteagle, who had
been for several days past sending to the abode
to know if the Arabian magician had yet arrived,
sent again! Selim, in the meanwhile, had
sought other lodgings, and in the morning had
given information to the authorities of the robbery
and murder. When the earl's messenger
arrived at the door, he found a press of people
about it; and learning the fate of the astrologer,
was about to hasten to the fortress to inform his
master, when Selim, learning why he had come,
said: “When thou seest thy master, say to him
that though the astrologer is no more, he has an
apprentice to his art, who has equal power to
give sight to the blind. If he will send for me,
I will come. Who is thy lord? Who is the
patient?”

But before the man could reply, a party of
soldiers coming up, separated them.

“I will, at least, do this lady good, for whose
relief my poor master, Aldebrac, was sent for—
if relief be possible. I will test the virtue of
the vials on this lord of Gibraltar's daughter,—”

“Wert thou not with the Moorish magician
when he was slain?” suddenly demanded an
officer at his side.

“Yes, he was slain within reach of where I
slept.”

“Come with us—we need your testimony!”
said the officer.

It was late in the day before Selim was permitted
to go by the examining judge. The assassin
was proven to be the host, as on his person
was found the bag of jewels. The jewels
were given into Selim's possession, and the murderer
conducted to prison.

“Come with me, Sir Moor?” said a soldier,
addressing him, as he left the hall of judgment.
“My lord, the general and his guests wait
thee!”

Selim followed the man to the fortress; entering
its massive gateway, he was led across a
broad court, and into a stately residence, above
which floated the crimson folds of the banner of
the British Isles. It was an hour before sunset,
and the golden radiance of his western light
flooded a gorgeous banqueting room, where sat
around a table, from which the feast had long
since given place to a rich display of tropical
fruits, the white-haired commander of the castle,
Earl and the Countess of Monteagle, Lady Clan-William,
Lord and Lady Devon, Agnes, and
others. In the room were attendants, and good
Dame Alice was not far from the side of her favorite
“child of the sea.”

“You say you read this news of Lord Cranstown's
suicide in the Times?” asked the Earl of
Monteagle, with a look of surprise, at an announcement
by the commander of the castle.

“Yes, my lord—by poison.”

“I deeply regret this sad termination of the
life of a young nobleman, who, but for his uncontrollable
temper, might have conferred distinction
upon his country.”

Agnes seemed deeply touched by the intelligence,
and they were still speaking of the unhappy
event, when Selim was announced. His
appearance was striking, and drew all eyes upon
him. He was dressed in a magnificent Moorish
costume, with a jewelled yatagan at his side.
His figure was tall and noble in its commanding
proportions, his manner dignified and graceful,
his face dark, but exceedingly handsome, his
finely-shaped mouth relieved by a brown mustache,
and his jet black hair waved about his
neck.

There was a general interchange of glances of
admiration among the noble persons present.

“The apprentice of the magician, my lord,”
announced the attendant at the door.

Selim bowed with grace, and with a noble air.

“Canst thou hold speech in English?” asked
the commander.

“If it please your excellency.”

“This is well! For an Arab, you speak remarkably
well,” suggested the old officer, looking
around upon his guests. “It was a bad
murder of thy master?”

“He was old and defenceless, my lord.”

“Dost thou profess to have his art and skill?”
asked the Earl of Monteagle, while all eyes, but
those of Agnes, were fixed earnestly upon him.

“Not in all things, my lord. I have only one
art, and that is to restore sight to the blind, if
the eye be not marred.”

“Thou speakest confidently, young man!”

“Because I have confidence in my power! I
have heard that there is here a maiden who is
so unhappy as to have lost her sight. He who
came at your command to restore it, is no more.
His art lives with me. If you will permit me to
behold the lady, I will say if it is in my power
to benefit her by my skill.”

“He speaks fair,” said the old officer.

“Agnes,” said the earl, looking towards the
lovely daughter of Lady Clan-William, “thou
hearest! Will you consent?”

“Do not tremble thus,” said the countess and
her mother, going to her where she was seated in
a recess of the window, shaking like the leaf of
an aspen, and deadly pale.

“What wilt thou do?” demanded the earl,
without heeding this by-scene.

“I will use only a liquid.”

“I am calmer now,” said Agnes. “I was
only overcome! I feel that I ought to let this
young man try his skill. There is something in
the sound of his voice that gives me a strange
confidence in him!”

“Behold thy patient!” said the earl, conducting
Selim to where Agnes sat. The young
Arab, in his turn, was now visibly under the influence
of some sudden emotion.

“He trembles!—he doubts! He must not be
trusted!” said Lady Clan-William.

At this moment he stood before Agnes. He
had no sooner beheld her than a new agitation
seemed to seize him. He started back!—he
seemed about to fall! But recovering himself,
he said, firmly:

“My lord, I will cure her!”

“Agnes, wilt thou consent?” asked Lady Devon.
“He looks so noble and frank that I could
trust my life in his hand.”

“He shall try! I have full trust in him!”
she answered, in a voice tremulous and liquid
with some strange inward joy.

The maiden, by Selim's order, placed her
head between the hands of the Countess Monteagle.
Her countenance was pale, but expressed
firmness and trust.

There was the most intense expectation visible
on the faces of all present as Selim took from a
pearl casket the three vials which the magician
had given to him. His hand trembled—and the
reader will begin by this time to perceive why—
as he drew the golden stoppers. But when he
took up the first vial, to pour into those beautiful
but sightless eyes, that looked up to him like
twin heavens from beneath, his hand became
firm.

The crimson oil overflowed the fair eyes, which
seemed to be filled with blood to the sight of
those who gazed on. He then took the vial of
transparent fluid, and poured a drop upon each
pupil, whispering:

“Be firm and do not shrink. The pain will
be severe; but only for a moment.”

A slight moan escaped her. The next moment
a third vial had been used, and her eyes
were quickly bandaged. Scarcely had he tied
the knot, when a loud shriek thrilled to every
heart! Every eye turned to Lady Devon. She
stood pointing to the bared arm of Selim, who
had put back his sleeve in operating upon Agnes's
eyes.

“A crocodile!” exclaimed the Earl of Monteagle.

“It is my son—my living, lost son!” cried
Lady Devon, rushing towards him.

“Stay! Let us question him!” said Lord
Monteagle. “Young man, are you a Moor?”

“No, my Lord Monteagle! I am an Englishman,
I believe. I am surprised you did not recognize
me, as soon as I did you! I am Philip,
the shell-gatherer—who—”

“Is it true! Thou art he!” cried the earl.

“And my son!” shrieked Lady Devon.

“Art thou he who, three years ago, left in
London a silver cup, and was pressed on the
`Bucephalus?”' demanded Lord Devon.

“The same, my lord. I embarked from Cadiz,
and was captured, with the ship I was in,
by a Moorish cruiser, and made a slave to the
Prince of Morocco. After three years service,
he gave me, a few weeks ago, my freedom. I
there obtained knowledge from the great magician,
Aldebrac, of the art I have just now exercised
upon the eyes of the Lady Agnes.”

It would be impossible with pen and ink to
portray the scene of joy and excitement that
followed. Lord and Lady Devon clasped him
in their two fold embrace, and recognized him
as their long lost but recovered son. Who shall
paint, also, his surprise and joy?

All this while, Agnes was seated with bandaged
eyes. Her ears heard all, and her heart
bounded with the wildest joy. She had already
half recognized the voice as Philip's, but believing
him dead, the resemblance only touched
her, and led to no suspicions of the truth; it
only gave her confidence in one who spoke in a
tone so much like his, whose image was dearest
to her heart.

“When will Agnes see?” asked Lady Monteagle,
with tears of joy sparkling in her eyes at
the happy scenes of recovery, recognition and
re-union she had just passed through.

“This moment, if she can see again,” answered,
no longer Philip, no longer Selim, but
Lord Henry Devon, with a voice full of his
newly-awakened happiness.

He approached her, removed the bandage, and
bathing her eyes freely with water, as he had
seen the astrologer do in the Moorish prince's
palace, he removed the pressure of his fingers,
and said: “Agnes—look about you!”

“I see—I see you all! I behold your face
dear, noble Philip! my deliverer! Heaven bless
you forevermore!”

Thus speaking with the outbursts of her feelings,
she threw herself upon his breast, and the
lovers mingled their tears of joy together! No
one, for a moment, spoke! It was s scene too
sacred and holy to be interrupted.

The tale is done! It need not be told that
they all returned to England a happy party;
that the lovers were united at Monteagle castle;
and that the half-pay captain won for his part of
the spoils, the fair hand of the widow of “The
Arrow.”