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Mrs. Brown went upstairs, and remained there so long with her charge, that the gentlemen began to think it was a more serious matter than it really was: at length they came down together. Alrina was still very pale, and her eyes were swollen with weeping; but she was tranquil and more composed, – almost cheerful. She was leaning for support on Mrs. Brown, who looked on her sweet face and smoothed it with her hand caressingly, as ladies will sometimes smooth and caress a favourite lap-dog, playing with it as it were, and fondling it, while she expressed her love by kissing the smooth white forehead. It was a touching scene, – that kind, good, old woman leading in her whom she loved and respected so much, and caressing her as if she were a little child, while she looked up so lovingly in return, thanking by that look her kind friend who had been to her a second mother, and feeling that to express her gratitude in any other way would be more than she could do.

Mr. Morley, at that moment, thought he had never seen so lovely a creature before; and Frederick, – we will not tell his thoughts, – we cannot.

Alrina had told her kind friend all, and now Mrs. Brown wished to hear it all over again from Mr. Morley, who told his tale once more; and, with Frederick's assistance, a little more was added which he had not before remembered.

Alrina had not yet begun to realize her position: – her thoughts seemed to be wandering; her brain was bewildered, and she knew not what to say; her future had seemed before obscured by a dark cloud, – she could see nothing but gloom before her; now the cloud seemed brighter, but it was not quite dispelled. She had met with so many disappointments in her short life, that she feared there might be a greater one than she had hitherto felt still in store for her. What, if this tale should turn out to be a fabrication of her aunt's, – and after she had buoyed herself up with the hope of future happiness, it should be discovered that she was not Mrs. Courland's daughter after all? This overthrow of all her hopes, after having tasted of their pleasures, would be worse than remaining as she was. All these thoughts, and a thousand others, passed through her mind in rapid succession as she sat listening to the tale for the second time, and hearing questions asked by Mrs. Brown which the two young men could not answer; for Frederick knew nothing more than what he had heard Miss Freeman relate to his aunt: he had seen no proof; all he could say was, that his aunt seemed perfectly satisfied when he returned to take her to the carriage, and was most anxious to see Alrina, that she might judge of the likeness, as far as a person can judge of her own likeness.

Mrs. Brown thought that, at all events, it was Alrina's duty to go and see her aunt at once: but she could not go alone, nor could she go with the gentlemen without some female companion. Mrs. Brown could not leave her husband so long, nor the business; she suggested, therefore, that Alice Ann should be sought, – she was in the neighbourhood she knew. "Josiah will find her," said she, "if one of the gentlemen will run down to Captain Trenow's house and ask him."

Frederick volunteered to go; for although he was happy at having Alrina to gaze upon, yet he was not comfortable, nor was she, evidently; for neither knew how the other felt. They had both done violence to their feelings, – the one intentionally, the other unwittingly, and a mutual explanation was necessary before they could be certain how they now stood towards each other. Frederick could scarcely bring himself to believe that Alrina really meant that she had ceased to love him; – he could not think that, after what had passed between them. But she had told him so, and was he not bound to believe her? If so, – if that was really true, he must try and win her love back again. He could not give her up, – he would not. These were his reflections as he hastened on his errand.

Josiah was gone to Tol-pedn-Penwith signal-station, Mrs. Trenow said, in search of his young master. He must have gone the other road, and so he had missed him.

Frederick told Mrs. Trenow his errand, saying that Miss Alrina had come back to see the old house once more, and she wanted Alice Ann.

"I'll run up for her myself, sar," said she, "tesn't very far. I'll just clap up my 'tother cap fust. Where shall I tell her she'll find her missus?"

"I think you had better tell her to come to Mrs. Brown's," replied Frederick.

CHAPTER XLV.
AN AWFUL CATASTROPHE

Mrs. Trenow was not long in executing her errand, and Alice Ann was quite delighted at the thoughts of being once more in attendance on Alrina.

There were no conveyances to be had, so that the gentlemen were puzzled how they should convey Alrina and her attendant across the country to the place of rendezvous. Alrina had already walked from thence to St. Just, that morning, or rather in the course of the night; so that, although the distance was not more than six or seven miles, her walking back there again was quite out of the question. It was decided that Frederick should ride straight to Penzance, as fast as he could, to inform his aunt that Alrina had been found, and to send a carriage for her if his aunt wished it; and Alice Ann proposed that Alrina should ride on the other horse to the cottage, while Mr. Morley and herself walked by her side. As no better plan could be thought of, Alice Ann's suggestion was adopted, and the party set out at a slow pace, which gave them time for reflection and conversation on the road. Alice Ann could tell them many a legend connected with the different places they passed, and especially about Chapel Carn-Brea, where many a terrible deed had been done, she said, in times past, and where ghosts might be seen walking now, if anyone had the courage to go there at the midnight hour. "That boy, Bill could tell a sight of stories about this and that," said she, "I b'lieve he and 'The Maister' ha' be'n there brave an' often together."

"I wonder what has become of that boy?" said Alrina, joining for the first time in the conversation, "I am sure he knows a great deal about many things that are mysteries to other people."

"He do so," replied Alice Ann, "he wor the cutest chap for his size that evar I seed; and as for tongue, why, he would turn 'ee inside out in a minute, ef you dedn't keep your eyes abroad. What's become of he I caen't tell; but I can give a purty near guess, and so can Mrs. Trenow too, so she do say."

"Who was this boy?" asked Mr. Morley, "where did he come from?"

"I can no more tell than you can, sar," replied Alice Ann, "he wor found one night when he wor a cheeld, outside the workhouse door, an' wor broft up by the parish, so I've heard; for tes a bra' many years ago, – f'rall he's so small."

"Do you think he knew anything of my fa – , of Mr. Freeman's mysterious doings?" asked Alrina, who seemed now to take more interest in the conversation than she had done during the first part of the journey.

"Do I think?" replied Alice Ann, "I do knaw that he ded. 'Siah have seed that boy up to Chapel Carn-Brea in the middle of the night, when he ha' ben coming home from Bâl, and 'The Maister' havn't ben very far off, an' he whistling like a black-bird, that time o' night. I tell 'ee Miss Reeney, that boy Bill wor no good. What's become of the boy? says you. – What's become of 'The Maister?' says I. Find the one, and you'll find the t'other; that's my b'lief."

Thus they wiled away the time during the journey, until they arrived at the brow of the hill which overlooked the cottage to which they were directing their steps. Mr. Morley had turned round when they arrived on this eminence in the morning, to view the surrounding neighbourhood, and to mark the spot, that he might be able to find it again easily, for it was situated in rather a secluded valley, the approach to which was by a narrow path branching off from the main road. Everything looked serene and calm then, and, but for a thin jet of smoke rising from one of the chimneys and curling up against the clear blue sky, the cottage and its locality would have passed unobserved by a casual traveller; for it stood very low, as we have said before, all the rooms being built on the ground-floor: the walls were rudely built of clay – earth and straw wetted and well mixed together, – called in Cornwall, "Cob;" the roof was thatched with straw; and the partitions, inside, were made of thick wood, collected, from time to time, from the wrecks of vessels, with which that part of the coast of Cornwall abounds in the winter season.

As the party halted now on the top of this eminence, to enable Mr. Morley to reconnoitre and take his bearings, to guide him in the selection of the right path leading directly to the cottage, he saw, instead of a thin curl of smoke, such as he had seen in the morning, a large volume of black smoke rising from the spot, almost darkening the sky; and, at short intervals, a long tongue of fire would rise into the air above the smoke, and disappear again, as a darker and more dense volume of smoke issued forth.

"The cottage is on fire!" exclaimed Mr. Morley. "Follow me, as well as you can; take the second turning to your right: " and away he ran, leaving the two females to take care of themselves and the horse, and to find their way to the cottage as well as they could.

When Mr. Morley arrived at the spot, an awful sight presented itself to his view. The cottage was in flames, which the straw roof and wooden partitions were feeding most bountifully; and, as they consumed the dry conbustible on which they were feeding so greedily, their long tongues would issue, in fantastic spurts, from the doors and windows on the leeward side of the building. It was a fearful sight; a good number of men and women were already there, attracted by the smoke, which could now be seen far and wide. Josiah had been there some little time: he had received intelligence of the fire, as he was returning from the signal-station, and he hastened down to the spot at once, having sent a messenger on to Lieut. Fowler with all speed. Josiah, and the few persons who were there when he arrived, did all they could in carrying buckets of water from a well at a short distance off; but their efforts seemed at first to be increasing the fire rather than abating it. They continued however to pour water into the rooms on one side of the building which seemed the most likely to be inhabited, and, by opening the doors and windows on the other side, they, in a measure, diverted the fire to that side; but whether they were doing right or wrong they could not tell; they could only conjecture on which side the inmates, if any, were located.

Lieut. Fowler and his men, followed by a number of people from the surrounding neighbourhood, had just arrived, and the lieutenant was in the act of marshalling his men, when Mr. Morley rushed down among them, in the greatest excitement, asking all sorts of questions, as to how the fire had originated, and if there were buckets enough, and if the inmates had been got out; but instead of replying, Fowler took him by the arm, saying, "Take half a dozen men to the well, Morley, with buckets and ropes, and keep them there. Let them fill the buckets as fast as they can, and I will organize a double row of men and women from thence to the cottage to pass the full buckets up and the empty ones down; and my men and Josiah will then pour the water where it will be most available for extinguishing the flames." And to Squire Pendray, who also arrived about the same time, he allotted the task of keeping the double row of men and women steady at their work.

The commanding voice of the officer, and the example of his men, accustomed to obey, very soon restored order, where there was nothing but confusion before; and, by his judicious management, and the courage and bravery of his men, assisted by the strong arm of Josiah, the flames were soon got under sufficiently to enable some of them to enter the house. Fowler set a guard outside each door to prevent the mob from entering, and then, taking Mr. Morley and the squire with him, they entered the house followed by Josiah, and opened some of the inner-doors to let out the smoke, when something flitted by them and rushed into the interior of the house; but whether it was a man or a woman they could not make out. Josiah however, seemed to know what it was, for he followed immediately in full chase, leaving the others behind, who thought their most prudent plan was to emerge into the air to refresh themselves, and be prepared for anything that might turn up; for, in a very short time, the smoke would have evaporated sufficiently to enable them to go through the house with ease and impunity. Josiah did not return; so after a few minutes, the three gentlemen entered the house again. The entrance-rooms were not very much damaged; but as they proceeded, the ravages of the fire were fearful. The straw roof was entirely destroyed, from one end to the other. They passed into one room, if a room it could be called now, where the fire seemed to have raged in its greatest fury, and, looking into what was once another room, divided from the place where they stood by a thick wooden partition, they beheld a sight which made them shudder. The door, which was not so thick as the partition, was burnt to ashes, and a portion of the thick partition was also burnt: it was evident that the interior of the room had been partially preserved by the water which Josiah and the first comers had thrown in when they first arrived; but it had been the scene of a great conflagration, and the smoke had hardly cleared away yet: the walls were blackened, and the ornaments and pictures which hung against them had dropped off with the heat. It had evidently been a well-furnished room, the remains of which were still to be seen. The bed was reduced to ashes, and it seemed as if the flames from the bed had communicated to some inflammable substance in the room, and thence to the straw roof which was not protected or covered on the inside, and was at no great distance above the head of the bed. But their attention was not long confined to the destruction of the bed and the other furniture of the room; for a more awful spectacle presented itself to their view. On the floor, in a corner of the room, lay two females, the elder one having her hand entwined in the long hair of the younger, who grasped the elder woman's arms in a strong determined grip. That it had been a death-struggle there could be no doubt; but how they got there, or what the struggle was about, neither of the three gentlemen could divine. But there they lay, behind the door, dead! – They had been suffocated, no doubt by the smoke: their clothes were burnt and their flesh had been scarred by the fire.

The younger of the two, seemed well dressed, as far as they could judge by the little that was left of it, and she must have been a well-formed comely figure, in the hey-day of youth: the elder was an emaciated figure, evidently the occupant of the bed which had once stood in the middle of the room. It was a dreadful sight, and the three gentlemen left the room in search of information as to their identity, when they met Josiah, holding a boy by the arm. Mr. Morley pointed to the room from which they had just retreated, and looked enquiringly at Josiah. "Iss, sure I've seed them!" said he, "and 'tes a whisht sight, sure 'nuff; but there's a whisheder sight for 'ee to see yet. This way ef you plaise, gen'lemen: " and he led the way, still holding the boy by the arm, till they came to a room at the other end of the house, which seemed to have suffered more from the fire than any they had yet seen; for this end had been neglected by them all, supposing that nothing of any consequence would be found there.

This part seemed more securely built, and to have been better furnished than any of the other rooms. The partitions were of thicker wood, and the doors and windows were better finished with bolts and locks: the door had not been burnt through, as the other doors and partitions had been. Josiah said he had burst open the door from the outside, and it now stood wide open. On the floor lay the body of a man, whose lower extremities were literally burnt to a cinder; but his features, although blackened by the action of the fire, were still discernible. One look was enough! The whole party hurried from the scene with horror depicted in their countenances, and it was not until they got out into the open air, that either of them could find words to express their horror and dismay at what they had just witnessed.

Josiah still held the boy by the arm, who seemed very much distressed. Outside the door they encountered Alrina and Alice Ann, who were most anxious to hear all particulars.

"You shall know all, after we have made the necessary enquiries," said Lieut. Fowler.

At this moment a carriage drove up to the scene, and the post-boy handed a letter to Mr. Morley: it was from his aunt, begging him to bring Alrina to Penzance at once; he therefore told the squire and Lieut. Fowler that he was obliged to go to Penzance, but would be back again immediately; so the squire requested all the others of the party to go on to Pendrea-house and wait until Mr. Morley's return; for he said they must need some refreshment after the fatigues of the morning. Josiah took charge of the boy; for they all believed he could enlighten them on all that had happened. Alice Ann accompanied her mistress and Mr. Morley in the carriage to Penzance.

CHAPTER XLVI.
THE DREADED INTERVIEW

Her husband had not returned when Mrs. Courland reached their lodgings after her early journey to that ill-fated cottage.

This was fortunate, in many respects: it gave her a little time to reflect on the events of the morning, and to prepare herself for the ordeal she had yet to go through. Had Captain Courland returned before her, she must have accounted, in some way, for her absence, and that might have led to a premature confession, which she thought had better not be made until she had seen Alrina, and been fully convinced that the likeness could not be mistaken. She had received quite sufficient proof from Miss Freeman of the identity of the child, and she had, moreover, received from her a sealed packet, which she said would reveal all more clearly, and other mysteries besides; but she made her promise, most solemnly, that the packet should not be opened until after her death, which she knew could not be far distant, she said.

While Mrs. Courland was deliberating on these important matters, her nephew, Frederick Morley entered the room in great haste, telling her that he had found Alrina, and that she was gone on with his brother to see Miss Freeman, and he was to send a carriage for her if his aunt wished it.

"That is my first wish, at present," replied Mrs. Courland; "I must see Alrina before I confess my life of deception to my husband. Oh, how can I tell him that I have been keeping this secret from him and deceiving him for so many years! How could I have deceived him, who has been so kind and good to me! It was his goodness that made me keep it from him: I didn't like to wound his feelings: he will never forgive me – he cannot! Oh, Frederick, how can I look into his honest face, and confess my guilty secret!" and burying her face in the soft cushions of the couch on which she had been reclining, she burst into tears.

"My dear aunt," said Morley, "you are wrong to meet trouble half-way: my uncle's goodness of heart will forgive all; and, when he sees Alrina, he will take her to his heart as if she had been his own child: – I know he will!"

"No!" replied Mrs. Courland, " – you don't know him: he has the most utter abhorrence of deception – he hates secrets and mysteries: he expressed his opinion, in the severest manner, on this subject, only a few days ago. Oh, I cannot – I cannot go through with it! Should he even, in kindness, forgive the deception, he would look upon me with scorn and suspicion during the remainder of my life: oh, that would be terrible! – I could not bear it! – I could not live in such a state! – I should be wretched and miserable!"

"But consider, aunt," urged Frederick, "if you believe Alrina to be really your daughter, what injustice you will be doing her by withholding this confession. – What is to become of her? Would you send your daughter out into the world a houseless wanderer? Think of this, my dear aunt; oh, let me beg of you to think of this poor girl! Will you spurn her from your door, after permitting her to know what has been told her to day? – It would be cruel – most cruel! Uncle Courland must know it then; although Alrina would rather die than tell it herself; this I am sure of; but others would not be so scrupulous. Consider, aunt, – consider, before you send your daughter out unprotected into the wide world; those she once looked to for protection are gone, – scattered abroad on the face of the earth. Consider, Aunt Courland, her position and yours."

Frederick spoke with energy and warmth; for, in pleading the cause of Alrina, he was pleading his own cause too.

For some minutes after he had finished Mrs. Courland remained with her face buried in the cushions; at length she rose and wiped her eyes, which bore evidence of the tears she had shed, and the hard struggle that had been going on for the last few minutes in her breast, to subdue her haughty, proud, spirit to the task of making this humble confession of guilt, which she now felt she must and would make, whatever the consequences might be. Frederick had touched a tender chord in the mother's breast, and, rising with calm dignity, she approached the table and wrote a brief note, which she desired Frederick to send to his brother at once, with a carriage to bring him and Alrina to the hotel to wait the result of her dread interview with her husband: but whatever that result might be, she said her daughter should be cared for as her daughter.

Frederick lost no time in despatching the carriage, and waited impatiently its return to the hotel, where Alrina would remain until after Mrs. Courland's interview with her husband, the result of which Frederick still seriously feared and doubted. For although he could scarcely believe that the captain would refuse to take in this poor wanderer as one of his household, yet he knew his temper was sometimes hasty and impetuous, and he might say things in the first burst of passion, which he might be sorry for after, but which would decide his aunt in her course; for she possessed the haughty pride of her aristocratic ancestors, and would never bend to ask, as a favour, that which, in a hasty moment, might be denied, – even though the denial were made madly, in the heat of passion. Frederick, therefore, although he had urged the confession, and painted its reception by his uncle in as mild colours as he could, still dreaded the meeting of two such spirits, for such a purpose. But it must be done: and he thought "If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly."

Captain Courland returned soon after Frederick left, disappointed and out of spirits: they had not succeeded in discovering the slightest trace of the fugitive.

Julia was not satisfied with the search that had been made the night before, and she was gone to some houses a little way out of the town, which she knew Flora was fond of visiting sometimes; so the captain returned alone. He observed that his wife's spirits were unusually depressed. She had been weeping, evidently; but he imputed it to her anxiety for their poor afflicted protegè. She was sitting on the couch, resting her arm on a table, and supporting her throbbing brow with her hand.

Her husband seated himself by her side, and, taking her other hand in his, affectionately, tried to comfort her by saying that he had no doubt Flora had wandered out into the country and missed her way, and, from her infirmity, she could not, perhaps, make anyone understand who she was nor where she came from. "So cheer up my dear," said he, "all will turn up well in the end, no doubt."

"My dear husband," said she, withdrawing her hand, "I am not worthy that you should treat me so kindly: I have a dreadful secret to unfold to you, which I feel I have kept from you too long."

"A secret!" exclaimed her husband, rising hastily, "I tell you I don't like secrets: everything right and straight and above-board – that's my plan! I don't want to hear any secrets! Who says that my wife has been keeping a secret from me? I don't believe a word of it! Who says it, I should like to know? I'll have him strung up to the yard-arm!"

He seemed in such agitation, as he hurriedly paced the room, that his poor wife trembled for the result. She saw that a crisis was close at hand, and probably her happiness was gone for ever: but she had made up her mind to tell her secret, and she was determined to go through with it, let the consequences be what they would. So she asked her husband, in as calm a tone as she could command, to sit and listen for a few minutes to what she had to say, and then she should throw herself on his mercy, and would submit to any punishment he might think she deserved; but she begged him to hear her tale to the end before he judged her.

This serious appeal took the captain quite by surprise. He didn't know what to do or say, so he took a chair, and prepared for the worst.

With averted eyes, his guilty, trembling wife commenced her tale and told all: her former marriage, the birth of her daughter, and the concealment of the child by Miss Fisher: her treachery and heartless importunities for money, and threats: and, above all, her own weakness and guilt in keeping the secret from her good, kind husband.

When she had finished, she leaned her head on her hands, and burst into a torrent of tears. She had been keeping her feelings under control during the recital, that she might not interrupt the narrative which she had to relate. She could not restrain them any longer; and now she expected a terrible outburst of passion from her husband. The crisis was at hand. She waited the awful doom which she felt she deserved; but it did not come. She dared not look at her husband.

He had sat perfectly still and silent all the time she had been speaking, and after she had finished he was silent still. At length he rose, and approaching the couch seated himself by the side of his poor weeping, trembling wife; and, taking her hand as he had done before, he said, – "I knew my darling wife had no secrets that her husband was not cognizant of."

"No secrets!" she exclaimed, looking up in astonishment, – "I have been confessing the knowledge of a secret that I have been keeping from you for years and years, to my sorrow and shame!"

"I heard what you have been telling me," replied her husband, "but you have told me nothing that I didn't know before. Why I have known all that for years."

"You have known it!" exclaimed Mrs. Courland, in amazement. "How is it possible! Who can have told you!"

"Well, now 'tis my turn to spin a yarn, as we sailors say," replied the captain. "Your first husband's name was Marshall, he had a brother in the Indian army. After your poor husband was killed, his brother came to England. He had been informed of the secret marriage; and he had been enjoined by his brother, in his last letter, after he received the wound of which he died, that when he came to England, he would see his wife, and do all he could for her. He came to England in my ship, and he saw you."

"He did," replied Mrs. Courland. – "It was soon after the birth of my little girl. He came to Fisher's cottage. Miss Fisher told him a plausible tale, saying his brother wished that the marriage should never be known until he came home to claim me as his wife. As the marriage had been kept secret so long, it was thought best to keep it so entirely. I was sent for to come home to my father's house, where I found you waiting my arrival. You paid the most devoted attention to me. – You were rich. – My parents and all my friends urged it, and we were married. I was persuaded by Miss Fisher not to tell my secret, and so it was kept; and it has been a burden on my mind from that time to this."

"My beautiful wife," said the captain, kissing her affectionately, "Marshall returned with me to India, after our marriage, and he told me the secret, so that you see I have known it almost as long as you have known it yourself; but I never mentioned it, fearing to distress you, well-knowing that you had been imposed upon by a designing avaricious woman."

"My good, kind indulgent husband!" exclaimed his wife, caressing the bluff old sailor, as if he had been a little spoiled child.

"And now that we have had all these explanations," said the captain, "and might be happy with our daughter, she is lost!"

"She is found!" exclaimed Mrs. Courland: "our nephews have found her, and by this time she is in Penzance; we will send for them."

A servant was despatched to the hotel, which was very near, and in a few minutes, Mr. Morley appeared with a beautiful girl leaning on his arm.

Both the captain and Mrs. Courland were struck with her extreme beauty, and the captain at once exclaimed, – "Isabella Morley the second, by all that's beautiful!"

"No, sir!" replied Mr. Morley, – "not Isabella Morley, but Alrina Marshall!"

"My long lost child!" exclaimed Mrs. Courland, rushing towards Alrina, and embracing her tenderly, "I see the likeness myself!"

"Good heavens!" cried the captain, "is this our daughter? Then what has become of the other?"

"What other?" exclaimed Mr. Morley and Mrs. Courland in a breath.

"Why, the poor girl we have been in search of all night," replied the captain: "I concluded she was the lost child!"

"Alas!" said Mr. Morley, – "she is indeed lost!" And he briefly related the dreadful catastrophe which he had witnessed so recently, which threw a gloom over the whole party. They soon recovered their spirits, however, and, leaving the newly-formed family group to enjoy their unexpected happiness in quietude, Mr. Morley accompanied by Frederick, who had remained at the hotel while his brother took Alrina to her newly found parents, hastened, as fast as possible, back to Pendrea-house, to assist in unravelling the mysteries connected with that ill-fated cottage and its unfortunate inmates.