CHAPTER XXXI.

THE DREARY HEADLAND.

“Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, oh sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead, Will never come back to me.

“And the stately ship goes on To the haven under the hill, But oh! for the touch of a vanished hand And the sound of a voice that is still.”—_Tennyson._

“What a place to land in! It is like entering Hades,” said Sir Parke, as they got out of the boat and stood upon the beach.

“Take the boat back to bring off the boys,” ordered Miss Brande.

And when she was left alone with her passengers, she said—

“Now, gentlemen, how can I serve you? How will you amuse yourselves? The sporting season is long over. And I regret to say that I am not at liberty to invite you up to the house.”

“Then, Miss Brande, we must waive ceremony and proceed without invitation,” said Lord Montressor, gently, as if to atone in his manner for any seeming rudeness in his words.

“What can you mean, sir?” inquired Barbara, with increased distrust and anxiety.

“Pardon me, Miss Brande. You cannot but have guessed the object of Sir Parke Morelle’s voyage to America?”

“I am no Yankee, sir; yet, of course, as you say, I have surmised that the father comes but in quest of his daughter,” replied Barbara, with a glance full of sympathy toward the baronet.

Sir Parke responded by slightly lifting his hat.

“And would you, Miss Brande, knowing the present home of that long-lost daughter, suffer her father, in his ignorance of her retreat, to leave the spot far behind, to pursue his unavailing search in another hopeless direction?” inquired Lord Montressor, solemnly.

Barbara did not at once reply, but seemed buried in profound reflection, as if seeking the clue to some unexplained mystery.

Lord Montressor could scarcely repress his vehement impatience.

“Well, Miss Brande?” he said, anxiously regarding her.

“Well, sir,” replied Barbara, gravely, “I perceive that you have somehow discovered the retreat of this lady. I only trust that it has been through no indiscretion on my part.”

“We have. She is your recluse tenant. And we have learned this fact through no inadvertency of yours.”

“Since this is so,” said Barbara, earnestly, “I will admit, that I am glad of it. Knowing, or rather believing as I did, that yourself and her father were on the way to seek her where she could not be found, in the city of Baltimore, my heart, through all the voyage, ached because I was not permitted to say to you—‘She whom you seek is my tenant at the Headland.’ Thank Heaven, that without any breach of faith on my part, you are informed of it. Sir Parke”—she said, turning and addressing the baronet—“you will let your daughter know this.”

“I will, Miss Brande. How shall we get up this steep? It is a very dark night.”

“I will show you. Follow me, if you please. Lord Montressor! I really think you had better give your arm to Sir Parke. The ascent is very difficult even in daylight, and now we can scarcely discern the cedar thickets from the chasms in the rocks,” said Barbara, as she carefully led the way up the bank.

Lord Montressor took the hand of the old man, and with a wildly throbbing heart, that all his resolution could not quiet, followed. A few moments more—a few swift, vital moments more and he should see her—should hear her speak—should clasp her living hand! Oh! wild impatient heart be still—be still—it is but an instant, and then! and then!

They toiled up the bank; they reached the top, and then the old trees waving in the night wind, and the old house looming in the darkness, stood before them. A gloomy, foreboding, funereal atmosphere overshadowed the place. Hope sickened as she looked upon the scene.

“It is as dark as Erebus! There is not a light to be seen in all the house, and not a sound to be heard without. I hope the mistress and her maid have not yet retired,” said Lord Montressor, uneasily.

“Oh, no, sir! I think not. The lady’s chamber, which is also her usual sitting-room, and the maid’s kitchen, are both in the back part of the building. I will ring.”

And going up the rickety steps of the portico, Barbara rang a peal, and waited a minute—two minutes—but no advancing light was seen; no coming step was heard. She rang louder.

Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling!

The peal was re-echoed through the great, desolate house, with a strange, vacant, hollow reverberation!

Then followed a dead silence; they waited anxiously and tried in the darkness to read the expression in each other’s faces. Three minutes passed like an age, and Barbara pulled the bell-handle with all her strength.

Ting! a-ling! a-ling! a-ling! A-LANG! A-LANG! LANG!

It sounded through the vast gloomy house with a clamor and a clangor loud enough to rouse the old dead ancestors in the burial-ground beyond; it awoke nothing but the dreary, wailing, ghostly echo!

Five minutes of anxious waiting, peering and listening, passed, and then Barbara jerked the bell-handle a third time, with peril to the ropes.

CLANG! A-RANG! A-RANG! RANG! RANG! RANG! RANG!

It seemed enough to have shaken the old chimneys to their base, and started the slates from the roof!

But only the phantom Echo was within to wail forth her weird response!

They looked at each other, with dimly visible, troubled white faces, gleaming faintly in the surrounding darkness For some moments, no one spoke; each seemed fearful to give voice to his or her forebodings.

Had Death been there before them, and forever set the seal of the grave upon Estelle’s earthly fate, and rendered vain, as far as life was concerned, her father’s late relenting?

Lord Montressor’s deep troubled voice first broke the silence.

“Miss Brande, what think you of this?”

“I dare not yet think,” replied Barbara, in a tremulous tone; “but we will go around to the back part of the house, and see if we can discover any thing.”

And carefully descending the rickety stairs, she groped her way around to the rear of the dwelling. The two gentlemen followed her. But at the back as at the front, all was shut up, dark and still. No sign of human habitation was near the place.

“Miss Brande,” exclaimed Lord Montressor, in voice of anguish, “what is the meaning of this?”

“The Lord only knows!” responded Barbara, in great agitation. “But, follow me, gentlemen.”

“Where are you going?” inquired Sir Parke Morelle.

“Down to a cabin at the foot of the bank, where two old negroes live who may be able to give us some satisfaction.”

And hurrying onward, she began the difficult descent of the steep, with a precipitancy more indicative of haste and anxiety than of a regard for her own life and limbs.

The gentlemen followed with all speed consistent with Sir Parke’s infirmities.

At the foot of the bank she ran against the boys, just landed from the boat.

“Why, where in the world are you running to, sister?” exclaimed Willful, when stopped by the wild and hurrying figure.

“To Uncle Nep’s cabin! The house above is abandoned! Follow me. But where is the boat?”

“It is just putting off,” replied Willful.

“Boat ahoy!” she called—“come back and wait for us at the foot of the ash tree.”

Lord Montressor, who had by this time helped Sir Parke down the descent, now joined her. She also heard the light splash of the oars of the returning boat, and knew by the sound which followed that it was pushed up on the sands.

“Come, now,” she said, and hurried along under the overhanging bank until she came to a place where the bluff suddenly sunk into a little bowl-like hollow, where, closely sheltered and deeply shaded even at noonday by the overarching trees, stood the little cabin, with its single dip candle gleaming through the tiny window out into the deep darkness.

Willful ran forward and rapped at the door, which was immediately opened by the namesake of the Ocean Queen, who called out—

“Who dar?”

“It’s me, Aunt Amphitrite,” replied the grammar-despising lad.

“Lors a messy pon top o’ my soul, if it aint de chile! Hi, boy, where you come from? Drop right outen the sky, didn’t yer? Come in, chile! Come in! Lors a messy, come in outen de night air! Where’s your sister?”

“Here I am, Aunty, and here are strangers,” said Barbara, as she came up.

“Lors, Miss Barbra, chile, I’se so ’joyed to see yer, ’deed I is; but what made you go for to fetch strangers here and ketch me in my ole, ebery-day duds? Ef you’d a only guve me time I’d a put on my black silk gown as dat dear, bressed, free-hearted chile, Miss Estel, guve me for a Sunday gown! An’ dere’s my ole man in dere a fuming de whole place wid his ’bacco, like a saint in de odor o’ sanctity, which I knows as white folks don’t like! Heave it away, you mis-beguided ole sinner you, an’ let de white folks in!” cried Amphitrite, breaking off from her discourse to take the pipe from her dark liege lord’s lips.

“Never mind his smoking, Amphy! We do not want to come in! Ask your husband to come here to the door; we wish to speak to you both,” said Barbara, who with her heart pausing with dread, now that she had arrived at the spot, seized the slightest pretext for delaying the question upon which the happiness of so many hung.

The old man came bending toward the door.

“How does you do, Miss Barbra, honey? ’Deed I’se mighty proud to see you! How do, Mars’t Edwy, honey? How de chile do grow!”

“I am very glad to see you so well, Neptune, but have no time nor heart for compliments now, old man,” said Miss Brande, when she saw that Sir Parke Morelle and Lord Montressor had come up and were now standing near her, in great anxiety. “Tell me, Neptune! What has become of Mrs. Estel?”

The hearts of all suspended their action while waiting the slow reply of the old man. It came at last in the form of another question.

“Mrs. Estel, honey?”

“Yes!”

“De beaut’ful chile as lib up yonder?”

“Yes. Yes!”

“De one as you rent de ole house to?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh! speak at once, and tell us where she is!”

“Done gone.”

“Gone! we know it! but WHERE?”

“Dat’s what I can’t tell you, honey. She done gone ’way in a wessel!—she an’ de young ’oman.”

Thank Heaven that their worst fears were set at rest. She was not “gone” out of the world! she was still living! they had still a future! all breathed more freely.

“But surely you know something about the lady’s departure? Come! collect your faculties, Neptune, and tell us what you do know!” said Barbara.

“’Deed I doesn’t know a singly thing more’n I’se telled yer; an’ dat’s de Hebenly Marster’s trufe!”

“Don’t you know _when_ the lady went?”

“’Deed, honey, she went t’other week; but de zact one I could not ’form you; dough ’haps my ole ’oman might.”

“What an idiotic creature!” exclaimed Sir Parke Morelle, in disgust.

Lord Montressor remained silently and intently listening “Amphitrite, can you tell me when Mrs. Estel went?”

“’Bout a mont’ ago, chile!—’deed she!”

“Where did she go?”

“’Deed, chile, Miss Susan—she ’cline for to tell me, when I ax her!”

“You don’t know where she went, then?”

“’Deed, Lord knows don’t I, honey! I wish to de Lord how I did!”

“What was the name of the vessel she sailed by?”

“’Clare to Marster, honey, I couldn’t tell you, being as how I don’t know myself.”

“Nor the name of the captain?”

“Nor likewise de name o’ de cappen, chile.”

“Umph! Was the vessel she sailed in going up or down the Bay?”

“’Deed Lors-a-mity knows, I couldn’t ’form you which, Miss Barbra—case de wessel come to anchor some time in de night, and den next night, some time ’fore day, she sailed ag’in. So we nebber seen whedder she came up or down when she ’riv’, or whedder she go up or down when she lef’.”

“But surely you can tell us which way her prow pointed?” asked Barbara, catching at this faint clue as the drowning catch at straws.

“I donno what you mean by the _prow_, honey.”

“Her head, then. In which direction was her head? Where did her head point? Up or down?”

“Why, chile, when _I_ seen her, her head pointed straight up in de _sky_, wid a blue an’ white flag aflyin’ from the top of it! least ways it wer a blue groun’ wid a ’mendous big white cross on it, as Miss Susan said, wer a Union Jack—which _Jack_ being short for Jonathan, and _Union_ meanin’ de United States—made me think how she must a’ been a ’Merican ship. But any ways, long as yer so anxious to know, her head pointed straight up to de sky!”

“Oh dear me, Amphy! we are not talking of the _mast_ head, but of the prow—the forepart of the vessel!” said Barbara, impatiently.

“’Den ’clare to my ’Vine Master I doesn’t know de head from de tail!” retorted the Ocean Queen.

“Neptune! can you inform me whether, when you saw that vessel at anchor in the day time, her prow pointed up or down the bay?”

“’Deed, honey, she stood neyther up _nor_ down the Bay; but right _crossways_, wid her prow pintin’ right in toward the Headland here!”

“Satisfactory! And you do not know, Neptune, whether she went up or down the Bay?”

“’Deed, honey, I don’t know nuffin ’tall, ’bout ’cept what I’se already telled you.”

“Did the lady leave a letter or a message with either of you?”

“’Clare to Marster, honey, de chile didn’t leave no letter ’long of us, nor likewise no message cept ’twas to give her love an’ de Lor’ might bless you.”

It were tedious to repeat the close and severe cross-questioning to which the old people were subjected. Suffice it to say that the catechism proved fruitless. The old couple had already informed their mistress of all they had learned upon the subject of the mysterious flitting.

At length Barbara said, “It is barely possible, my lord, that she has left a note or letter for me upon her dressing-table, or somewhere in the house. Shall we get lights, proceed thither, and examine the premises?”

Lord Montressor bowed in silence. His heart was too heavily oppressed with despair for many words.

Barbara told the old man to light a lantern and attend them back to the old house. And once more the whole party, preceded by the old man with the light, traversed the winding beach, ascended the weary bluff, and stood before the half-ruined mansion.

Neptune, who had the keys as well as the lantern, unlocked the front door and admitted them.

The damp, dreary wind that must have blown out the light had it not been protected by the glass lantern, was the only thing that welcomed them.

They went into the barely furnished parlor, where Barbara found every thing standing as it had stood for years; but no note or letter on table, stand, or mantle-shelf. They next passed into her bed-chamber, where they found every thing in order, but no note or letter. They visited the kitchen and Susan Copsewood’s sleeping-room with no more successful results. And at last, after a thorough but fruitless examination of the whole premises, they were forced to abandon the hopeless search.

“All clue seems lost,” exclaimed the baronet, in despair.

Lord Montressor could not suppress a deep groan. His strong heart seemed about to break beneath this new blow.

“Let us hope,” said Barbara. “We set sail from London for the port of Baltimore, where you, first of all, expected to find her. Let us proceed on our voyage. We may yet come up with her in Baltimore.”

“Heaven grant it!” exclaimed the baronet, whose anxiety to find his lost daughter increased with the difficulty and delay.

Barbara then gave the old man, Neptune, the money and packets of groceries that she had brought for him; completed the other little arrangements that had brought her to the shore; took her leave of her old servants, and, accompanied by her disappointed and saddened passengers, returned to the vessel.

Assembled around the little centre-table of the cabin, they held another consultation.

“Had Estelle no friends or neighbors in this place, with whom she might have left a letter or message?” inquired Lord Montressor.

“No, there are none nearer than Eastville. And yet now that I think of it, she may have left some charge with my attorney at that village. So if you think best, we will lie at anchor over to-morrow, to ride up thither to make inquiries. What say you, gentlemen?”

“Undoubtedly, that is the plan,” replied Lord Montressor and Sir Parke.

The party then separated for the night.

Early the next morning they went on shore. Old Neptune, being ordered, quickly put the horses to the carry-all. Sir Parke and Miss Brande entered and took the back seat. Lord Montressor and Willful sat in front. The boy took the reins. After a rapid drive of two hours, they reached Eastville, and drew up before the lawyer’s office.

Miss Brande alighted and entered, where she found the lawyer seated at his desk, writing. He instantly arose and came forward to meet her.

“Good-morning, Miss Brande. Pray take a seat.”

“I thank you, no sir. My tenant, Mrs. Estel, has left the Headland. Has she possibly charged you with any letter or message for me?”

“Letter? Yes, Miss Brande; here it is,” answered the lawyer, going to his desk and producing the missive.

Barbara almost snatched it from his hand, tore it open, and glanced eagerly along its lines. Then, with a deep sigh, she went out and read it to Sir Parke and Lord Montressor. It ran thus:—

_The Headland, March 18._

MY DEAR MISS BRANDE:—In withdrawing from the Headland, for an indefinite number of years, I do not throw up the lease; but leaving the key in charge of Neptune, I beg that during my absence you will freely use the house. Enclosed, you will find payment for the whole term of the lease.

Truly your friend, ESTELLE.

“And that is all!” simultaneously exclaimed the father and the lover.

“Yes.”

They were not contented. They left the carriage and went into the office of the lawyer whom they minutely questioned. But he could tell them absolutely nothing.

They re-entered the carriage, and, at Barbara’s suggestion, drove to the dwelling of the parish clergyman.

This venerable man had attended Estelle in her illness; but he could give them no satisfaction as to her present retreat. All further inquiries in that neighborhood proved fruitless. Evidently Estelle had concealed from all, the place of her destination.

With heavy hearts they returned to their vessel.

The next morning they set sail for Baltimore, where they duly arrived.

For weeks Sir Parke and Lord Montressor pursued their search through the city. Then finding all their efforts unavailing, they took leave of Barbara Brande and of Baltimore, and began a tour of all the principal cities in the United States. Meanwhile they appointed an agent in New York to whom all communications for themselves were to be addressed. Then they inserted in all the newspapers, carefully-worded advertisements, designed to be understood by Estelle alone, and to be answered through this agent.

After several months of fruitless travel, search, and anxious waiting, it occurred to Sir Parke that his daughter might possibly have returned to her native country. And acting upon this idea, and still accompanied by his intended son-in-law, the baronet sailed for England.