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<h4>CHAPTER XXXVIII.</h4> About an hour and a half after Edgar had left him, Dudley was seated with Martin Oldkirk at a very homely meal; but it was good, though plain, and the gentleman had shared, or rather more than shared, with his companion, the small portion of brandy which the labouring man had brought. Either Dudley's spirits had risen, or he had assumed a greater degree of cheerfulness than he really felt. He was by nature frank and free, as the good old English term goes, although early misfortunes had, as we have shown in his room at Cambridge, given a thoughtful cast to an imaginative mind. If, occasionally, he seemed a little proud or haughty, it was with his equals or his superiors in rank, where a feeling that impaired circumstances in himself might generate a sense of condescension in them, induced him, by a certain coldness of manner, to repel that vainest form of pride. With those inferior to him, his manner was very different. Calm, easy, certain of his own position and of their estimation of it, he ran no chance of offending by too great familiarity, or of checking by too great reserve. He was well aware that the lower classes are much keener observers than the general world gives them credit for being, and that their estimation of their superiors in station is generally founded on much more just grounds than those on which men who are accustomed to judge by mere conventional standards too frequently rely. Oldkirk had become easy in his society, and their conversation, though not, perhaps, exactly gay, was cheerful and interesting. Dudley described the house that Norries had built for himself, his habits, his manners of life, the difficulties, the dangers, the pleasures, and the wild freedom of an Australian settler; and Martin Oldkirk questioned, and talked, and discussed, as if his companion had been an old friend. They put their feet to the fire, they gazed into the glowing embers; they leaned on either side of the table in meditative chat, and the high-born, high-bred gentleman felt that he was speaking with a man of considerable natural powers, who, though uncultivated, was not ignorant, and though not always courteous, rarely actually vulgar. At length Dudley drew out his pocket-book, and taking forth the memoranda which he had previously examined, looked over them for a moment, and then inquired, in an ordinary tone, "Pray did you ever know a person of the name of Filmer--Peter Filmer?" The man started from his seat as if he had been struck; his whole countenance worked, his lips quivered, his brow contracted, and his sharp eyes fixed upon Dudley, with a fierce and angry stare. It seemed as if he were deprived of the power of utterance, for though his under jaw moved, as if he would have spoken, he spoke not, but struck the table a hard blow with his clenched fist. "What is the matter?" exclaimed Dudley. "I did not intend to agitate you in this manner. I had no idea that such simple words could produce such emotion." Martin Oldkirk cast himself down again upon the settle from which he had risen, pressing his hands upon his eyes; and when Dudley added a few words more, he exclaimed, in a loud, harsh voice, "Hold your tongue, hold your tongue! you have named a fiend, and you have raised one!" "I did not intend it, I can assure you," replied Dudley, "let us speak of something else." "No!" cried the man, "I can neither speak nor think of anything else now that name is mentioned. Let me look at that paper; let me see what is put down there." "I have no objection," answered Dudley; "but if it is to agitate you thus, you had really a great deal better forbear." The man did not answer, but stretched forth his hand; and Dudley gave him the paper. He then laid it down before him, drew the single candle closer to him, and supporting his broad forehead with his clasped hands, and leaning his elbows on the board, gazed upon the memoranda with a haggard and staring eye. He remained in the same position for fully ten minutes, without uttering one word, and then, pushing the paper across to Dudley, he said, in a much calmer tone, "That is Mr. Norries's writing?" "It is," answered Dudley; "but I am quite sure he had no idea the questions he had there put down for me to ask would agitate you so terribly!" "He should have known! he should have known!" said Martin Oldkirk, with stern bitterness; "but it matters not. I shall have recovered myself before tomorrow morning, and we will then talk more--but yet, tell me first, what have you to do with this man? This, this----" but it seemed he could not utter the word, and after breaking off the sentence abruptly, he added, "Have you ever seen him? Do you know him?" "I have seen him, do know him," answered Dudley; "and I have every reason to believe that he has endeavoured to injure me most basely." Dudley paused, and thought for a moment or two, and then added, "I had better, perhaps, tell you how; for you had some share in the business." "I?--I?" exclaimed Martin Oldkirk. "What had I to do between you and him? I have not seen him for many long years. I knew Sir Arthur Adelon was here, it is true, and I kept out of his way; but the priest is not with him surely." "The priest is with him," answered Dudley; "and has never left him." "Oh! yes he did; yes he did!" replied the peasant; "he was away two whole years, I know. I thought he had gone to do penance, as he would call it, and would never appear in the world again. Had he done so, had he wept in solitude and silence for the whole of his bad career, I might have forgotten it: no, not forgotten it! forgiven, perhaps, but forgot it, never! He is here, then, here in this country; here in the baronet's house?" "I cannot exactly say that," answered Dudley; "for I do not know, and I would not deceive you on any account; but he was here two years ago, rather more, perhaps, for it was in the autumn; and he did all he could to injure me, though life or death were at stake." "Ay, that is strange," said Martin Oldkirk. "Pray, may I ask what is your name, sir, for that is a thing I do not know even yet?" "My name is Dudley," replied his companion; "and you may perhaps remember----" "Why, then, you are the man who was tried and cast for the death of the young lord over the cliffs?" said Martin Oldkirk, interrupting him. "The same," answered Dudley. "I was tried and condemned for an act with which I had nothing to do. Of Father Filmer, I have seen little or nothing, except when he came to visit me in prison, and tried to convert me to the Roman Catholic faith." "Ah! he never lost sight of that," answered Oldkirk; "but still, what had he to do with you?" "Why, you shall hear," answered Dudley; "only let me tell my tale to the conclusion. Do you remember one night when Mr. Adelon came to visit you, and when you gave him a good deal of assistance?" "Oh, yes! I remember it very well," answered the man. "I thought, at first, there was some trick, and I would not say much; but I soon got sure of my man, and then I was willing enough to do anything I could for him, for I thought of his mother, poor young man. It's a pity I couldn't do more; but I fancied that Mr. Norries would know how to manage." "Mr. Norries knew little of the matter till it all transpired long afterwards," replied Dudley; "but now, as a friend, Mr. Norries wishes me to possess such information as to frustrate the schemes of this Mr. Filmer, and he know no one better to whom he could send me than yourself." "I should like to see the letter," said Martin Oldkirk. "I am afraid that cannot well be," replied Mr. Dudley; "my baggage, as I told you, is by this time, doubtless, at the bottom of the sea; but you know Mr. Norries's hand-writing, and you cannot doubt that those memoranda were put down by him." "That's true, that's true!" said the man; "but still I should like to see the letter. However, don't let us talk any more of things which are so long gone. I will give you an answer to-morrow, when I have thought over it. In the mean time, I should like very much to hear what the matter was all about two years ago. I recollect the trial very well, and Mr. Adelon coming to me in search of information. I gave him a rudish sort of answer at first; but he was so frank and so desperate-like, that I could not well refuse; and in the end I went with him to Norries, but I cannot see how this hypocritical priest had anything to do with that." "What object, and interest he could have, I know not," answered Dudley, who was a little puzzled with the rambling and desultory manner in which his companion spoke. "All I can tell you is what he actually did, and of that Mr. Adelon says he has no doubt. In the first place, when Edgar went to meet you the second time, he saw you at the old workhouse of a place the name of which I forget. He was followed secretly, by Mr. Filmer's order, by a little boy, who was directed, immediately he discovered the place he entered, to give information to the constable of the hundred, who was already warned to seize Mr. Adelon and any one whom he had with him, on the pretence of his companions having been engaged in the Chartist riots." "Ay, I broke master constable's head for his pains," said Oldkirk. "Go on, sir." "He then deceived Mr. Adelon as to the time of my trial," continued Dudley; "and subsequently the same man gave intimation to a blacksmith, named Edward Lane, who could have borne important testimony, that the officers of justice were seeking for him. This priest also persuaded Mr. Clive and his daughter, who could have proved my innocence at once, and who have proved it since, to fly from England, and induced a man, named Daniel Connor, to give evidence which approached as near perjury as possible." "He hated you heartily," said Martin Oldkirk, setting his teeth hard; "and he cannot hate without seeking to destroy." "For some reason, he certainly does seem to hate me," replied Dudley; "and whether he has power to injure me farther or not, I cannot tell; but at all events, it is the opinion of both Mr. Adelon and myself, that he will try to do so, and that, perhaps, in matters which most deeply affect my welfare. Mr. Norries, with whom I consulted, told me to ask you for some particulars of this priest's previous life, which he thought would open the eyes of Sir Arthur Adelon to the man's real character." "Puppies are only blind nine days," replied Oldkirk, with a bitter smile. "Sir Arthur Adelon has been blind for twenty years. You will find it a hard matter to open his eyes. Did his son tell him what the priest had done in your case?" "No," answered Dudley, "he did not, on many accounts. For some weeks after my condemnation Edgar was very ill, and then he only arrived at the whole truth by degrees. He proposes now to do so, however, and I wish to strengthen the case against this man by any previous circumstances which may tend to show his false and deceitful character." "Do not tell it to Sir Arthur when alone," said Oldkirk, musing while he spoke. "He is too weak to retain a deep impression long; he may believe a part of what you say at first, but his inclination will be, not to believe, and if his own better judgment and convictions are not backed up by those of others, they will soon fall and be forgotten. I have seen it so myself. As to the rest, I will think over it, sir, and see what can be done. It is many a year since I heard that bitter name, and it has raised feelings in me which I had hoped and thought were dead. I will try to get quieter before to-morrow. I did not know the viper was so near me, or I might have tried to crush his brains out before now. I knew that Sir Arthur was here a great deal, but him I have never seen but once, and that at a distance. The son I saw many times, for he rode much about the country, and I used to think how much like his poor mother he was, but I never spoke to him till he came that night to see me, for I did not wish to have anything more to do with them." "Did no one ever tell you that they had a priest with them?" asked Dudley. "Oh! yes, I heard that," replied Martin Oldkirk; "but there are many priests in Rome, and I knew that this man had been away for a long while after poor Lady Adelon's death; so I never thought it was the same. Did Mr. Norries tell you to ask me for anything more?" "Yes," replied Dudley; "he said you have charge of certain papers belonging to me." "They were given me by Norries," replied Oldkirk; "and I certainly shan't give them to any one without his orders." "Perhaps you are right," replied Dudley; "and to tell you the truth, I care very little about them, for they only serve to prove a fact which I have long known: that strong passions take as inveterate a hold of weak minds as of more powerful minds. They might, indeed, give me some little authority and influence where it may be needful, but that is all." "Strike at Filmer, strike at Filmer!" said Martin Oldkirk, sharply; "and be you sure, sir, that man has nourished in the baronet every evil plant, till it has produced evil fruit. But remember, whatever you do, do it before plenty of witnesses. Take some public room, some crowd, some general meeting, and tax him there with all his wickedness. Unmask him before multitudes, and make him a scoff and a byword for ever. But now, sir, it is late; you must be tired enough, and we shall have many things to talk of to-morrow. It is my way, when anything moves me a great deal, to lie down and sleep. I sleep like a stone when I am much moved; and then I get up with my thoughts fresh and clear. I have made you up the best bed I can, and I dare say weariness will be as good as a feather pillow. Wait, I will light you another candle; I dare say, now, you never sat with a single one before." "I have sat through long nights with none," replied Dudley. "You forget, my good friend, what it is to be a convict in a penal colony, and cannot know what it is to be an escaped convict in the midst of wilds and deserts which the foot of man has seldom trod; but such has been my fate." "I did forget," replied Martin Oldkirk. "You have had a hard lot, sir." And Dudley and he parted for the night. The sun had been up more than an hour when Dudley awoke on the following morning; and while he dressed himself in the little back room of the cottage where he had slept, he heard voices in the neighbouring chamber, and could distinguish the words: "I hope the gentleman will remember us well for our trouble, for you see, Martin, the locks aren't broken, and we've not even looked into them." "I will be answerable for him," replied the voice of Martin Oldkirk. "You may be sure he will pay you well;" and the words were succeeded by a heavy trailing sound, as if some large object was dragged slowly from one side of the room to another. When Dudley entered the front chamber, he saw two large boxes standing on the left hand side, to which Martin Oldkirk pointed, with a look of satisfaction, saying, "We've got them out, sir, though we had some trouble, and they seemed pretty well soaked in the seawater. Now that the tide's out, she stands well nigh high and dry at one part; that's to say, what's left of her, for the masts are all down, and she's broken in two. Another tide, if the wind goes on blowing in this way, won't leave a stick of her together. A good deal has been got out of her, notwithstanding: one-third of the cargo, I dare say, and most of the passengers' baggage." "This, is, indeed, an important service, Oldkirk," replied Dudley; "and you shall now have Norries's letter; but we must break the chest open, for my keys are lost." What he proposed was soon effected. The trunks were broken open, the different articles they contained taken out to dry, and the letter which had been so often mentioned was placed in Oldkirk's hands. He took it to the window and read it eagerly, and then exclaimed, "That's a good man, that's a good man, sir! He's the only lawyer that I ever knew who would come forward to help a poor man without fee or reward. He saved me from ruin. The little I have I owe all to him, and I will do all that he tells me. You shall hear all about it, sir; every word; but first let us have some breakfast." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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