Miranda; or, The Heiress of the Grange : A romance

Preface

. The judicial records of this country afford us, unfortunately, too many instances of the danger of forming a judgment uponlmerely circumstantial evidence, even when that evidence appears most clear and con demnatory of the accused. Men have been tried, convicted aud executed, protesting their innocence to the last ; but the stain of crime has remained upon their memory for years, till perhaps ihe chance revela tion of some despairing sinner on his death-bed, has declared the really guilty, and amidst unavailing regrets it has been confessed that an innocent man had suffered through a judge and jury's confidence in circumstantial evidence. It was partly to illustrate this fact that the following tale was written ; and it will not have been penned in vain if aDy one should by its perusal be led to suspend his judgment on his fellow man, and even when ap pearances are blackest, to " lean to mercy's side.' The aim of the novelist should be to pourtray nature in all its aspects ; but while he thus holds up the mirror he should not forget that he wields an instrument powerful for good or for evil, and in his transcripts from humanity he should endeavour, as the author trusts he has dome in the present work, to elevate virtue and nobleness— to show how the pure, and the truthful,[and the innocent, achieve, even in their sufferings, higher triumph than can ever be attained amid the turbulence of vice. London, Se_t_._-Bef, 1848. IIKA N.D A. sa 1S.am.tii tt

Chapter I

I ( \ THE DUEL. " On she twentieth day of No- / vember, 1767, two men were exe- \ > cuted at York, for a murder un- . ' equalled in its atrocity and remarkable for the mode in which it was | perpetrated." The above brief announcement ( of the conclusion of a domestic tragedy, which in its coarser features only met the eyes of the *• world, has awakened dormant recollections, and aroused from the \ slumbering cells of memory, scenes j and events which together with a their actors have passed away, but J which still, according to their va 1 rious phases of joy or sorrow, produce tears or smiles upon the face | of those who with a reverential love - look back upon the dreary past. • •*••• The season was autumn, and although the latter end of October ■ 2 MIRANDA. was fast approaching, nature st I looked beautiful in the maturity of her charms The trees wore a thousand d.fferent magical tints, and the morerich and lovely of the summer flowers were yet lingering in their dazzlina beauty, as if loath to leave the world to the chill and cheerless dominion of the coming winter.

The keen north ern blast was, however, rapidly stripping the trees of the hardy leaves which had long outlived their fellows, and the sunshine, although bright and beautiful, was could and white, presenting but a faint mockery of the genial glow of the vernal season. On a morning such as this, at the early hour of six, when but a dim and uncertain light gleamed from the awakening east, two figures stood in a shallow valley, some half a mile from an irregular but picturesque building, situated about five miles from York, and called from time immemorial "The Grange." The two figures were those of men, but as dissimilar in personal appearance as any two human beings could be. One was a man apparently past the meridian, of life, tall and fair, with that irresolute and undecided expression of countenance, denoted by the half open mouth, ever shifting eye, and general want of firm pur pose in all his movements.

The other was shorter, and his dark brilliant eyes were well contrasted with a deep olive complexion and a firm compiessed mouth, which showed that for good or for evil he would hold his purpose. At the first glance this man might have been thought handsome, but although a more minute jnvestieation of his features might not entirely do away with the f rst impression, it would modify it in a peculiar manner, and that was, there did not appear one kindly feeling in the expression of the physiognomy, and people would shrink from Bernard Varley instinctively ani they knew not why. The air was loaded with a damp mist in the low ground where they stood, and its excessive coldness brought a shiver to the limbs of the tallest and the finest of the two men, as he remarked to his companion, in his usual irresolute tone and manner, — " Varley, the air is keen.

You will look to my girl, should anything befal me. My poor fond Miranda — you will miss your father. You solemnly promise me, Varley, to uphold her interest — to watch over her ?'' " Could I," rejoined the other, " be so unhappy as to lose so good a friend as yourself, I should have but one consolation, and that would be that the fair Miranda would allow me to fulfil a father's place." " You — you would marry her ?" "Even now — twice rejected I would.'' As he said the words, twice rejected, an expression of a perfectly demoniac character crossed his face, and the fire of smothered feeling flashed for a moment from his eye. " The affections are not our own," said the other sadly, " we cannot make them dependant upon the wi'l." " No, Sir George Rankley, bat " He paused, and silently pointed in the direction of the rising sun, as he laid his other hand lightly upon the shoulder of Sir George Rankley, who was his companion.

" Thev are coming," he said. Two dim figures by the uncertain light that prevailed, were seen slowly approach ing, and as they neared Sir Geoige and Varley, some clock far off chimed the quarter-past six. "Now, VaiLy," sa;d Rankley, "as Heaves is my judge, let the issue of this contest be what it may, I have been forced into it.". " Forced ? said Varley, his cheek reddening. " Yes, forced by insult pnst endurance. Yes — yes, most true — most true. You have been hardly used. Think again ofthose injuries, and nerve yourself to expiate your wrongs upon the head of him wbo has inflicted them." "The issue of such contests as these, Varley," said Sir George, " is in the hands Heaven." MIRANDA, 3 " Is it?" muttered Varley to himself, " It is for my — Miranda— my child, that I feel now pangs more exquisite than even death can inflict Upon me."

" Should your worst fears be accomplished," remarked Varley, with a scarcely perceptible sneer, " you leave behind you Bernard Varley, a warm friend." Sir George shuddered, and the other immediately added, — " You view the matter too seriously. The Squire of Larkswood mav fall.'' " Crime upon crime !" muttered or rathergroaned Sir George Rankley, " murder for such it is, added to " " Hush !" cried Varley ; " let not that, word pass your lips ! No more now The time has come for action !" " It has indeed. I feel it has," said Sir George Rankley. '' I am prepared." The approaching parties now paused, and at the moment there came a straggling beam of sunlight from the distant horizon, which lor some minutes previous had been obscured by clouds, which, falling on the side of the gentle declivity, at the base of which the four men now stood, imparted to the scene a rich and varied beauty it could not before pretend to.

" You must remain where you are," said Varley to his principal, " while I settle the necessary preliminaries." With these words he advanced towards the new arrivals, and bowing with much courtesy, although it seemed a little overstrained, he said, — " Does the Squire of Larkswood offer a humble apology?" "No, sir, he does not," replied one of the new-comers, a gentlemanly-looking man. " The Squire of Larkswood never yet did or said what he was ashamed of. It is for your principal to humbly apologise, if he has so much grace left him." " Then, sir, we proceed," said Varley, " as we can accept nothing but the most humble and submissive apology." There was about his tone a sneering air of insincerity as he spoke, which, coupled witb the words themselves, evidently produced an effect that by his lurking smile he looked for and wished to see.

" This is really quite irregular," suggested he who had not yet spoken. " I believe I have the — the honour to address Mr. Bernard Varley ?" " My name is Varley, sir . and in this business 1 act as second to Sir George Rankley. You, I presume, perform the same friendly office to the Squire of Larkswood ?" The squire himself fell back several paces, while the seconds advanced together. He was a fine specimen of an English gentleman, and he glanced towards Sir George Rankley with a look of painful regret, while the latter 's eyes Were fixed upon the gable-ends ofthe old Grange, which could just be seen above its shield of trees, glancing in the morning light, and its ancient rugged outlines made beautiful by the sunlight that was momentarily increasing now in brilliancy. The thoughts were evidently of a painful nature that were passing through his mind ; for tears slowly filled his eyes, and prevented him, after a few brief moments, from seeing anything clearly ; so he turned away his head, and with one long-drawn sigh appeared to have taken a last farewell of his home.

But what was tl a7 home to him, endcaied as it was by a thousand associations, compared with the enthusiastic love he bore to one within its ancient walls, who slept the calm sleep of innocence and youth, while be, her father, was from home on such an unholy errand as his present one. Yes ; his child, his dear, beautiful Miranda, the last ofher race, slept on in peace, while such a storm was hovering over her young head as she, in the wildest moment of her fancy, could not have pictured to herself, or had she done so, would have smiled at the dreamy improbability of the imaginary circumstances. '• My child— my dear Miranda," thought Sir George, — "am I never to see you more, my own beautiful child ? Heaven knows that by some fell agency I have been hurried into this act, I know not how. May " MIRANDA. 4 " Twelve paces, and I have won for you the light," whispered, at this moment, Varley in the ear of Sir George.

" Are you ready ?" " Quite — quite." In a few more moments the combatants were placed in their proper stations, and then Bernard Varley raising his voice, said, — " Gentlemen, your signal for firing will be my dropping this glove. Are you quite ready i" " One moment yet, Squire of Larkswood," said Sir George Rankley. "As Heaven is my judge, T come to this extremity with you most reluctantly. We are both fathers — both love our children " His voice faltered, and he could not proceed ; which his opponent perceiving, he in his turn spoke, saying mildly, but firmly,— " Sir George Rankley, time was when there was not a hand in all Yorkshire I could have grasped with more honest fervour than yours ; but the insults you have heaped upon me — the eontumely which you have so wantonly " " Gentlemen," interposed Bernard Varley, " shall 1 retire along with the friend ofthe squire, while with mutual civil regrets you terminate this business between yon ?

I am a peace-maker as you both know, and have laboured to avert this meeting ; even now it appears to me, that any humble apology on each side may avert hostilities." " Sir George, I fear you have been ill-advised," said the squire ; " why did you write to me in the terms you did 1" " I did but retort," said Sir George. " You know, Varley, how unwilling I was." " Enough — enough," said the squire, " we have gone too far to retreat." " Not so, gentleman," said Varley, " you can each of you go comfortably to your houses, setting a peaceful example to the whole country. Some people may certainly smile at the Christian forbearance of Sir George Rankley and the great Squire of Larkswood, who after defying each other to mortal conflict, made up matters on the battle field ; but what of that, gentlemen — you will have the approbation of all lovers of peace, all men of sound discretion."

The Squire of Larkswood turned and gazed full upon the eyes of Varley as he said slowly and distinctly : — " I have received from Sir George Rankley insults which the usages of society compel me to resent ; but as for you, sir, I hold you as a villain." A deadly paleness spread over the face of Varley as he replied, — " There may come a time, sir, when your too candid avowal of yonr opinions may cost you dear." The second of the Squire of Larkswood was a mild, inoffensive looking man, who seemed too timid to venture any opinion of his own, and during the whole of the foregoing dialogue, he had looked from one speaker to the other in a nervous state of mind, not knowing very well what to say or do. It was a relief to him when Varley now hastily added, — " Sir George, are you quite ready ?" and at the same moment held his glove at arm's length.

Not a word now was spoken — the glove fell — one sharp ringing report awakened echoes far and near — an execration burst from the lips of Varley, as he saw that both the combatants were standing apparently quite uninjured. It was but for a moment, though, that they thus 6tood, and then, with a shudder. Sir George Rankley placed his hand upon his breast, and turning round upon his heels, he made several desperate plunges to keep his feet, after which, with a gasp, he fell heavily upon the green sward. MIRANDA: 5

Chapter II. The Meeting

The Squire of Larkswood was the first to fly towards the fallen man, and, kneel ing by his side, he said feelingly, — " Rankley, Rankley, speak to^me. Oh, what a madman I have been to do this deed ! Rankley, my friend, my old companion, speak to me— .peak to me." " He is not much hurt," said the squire's second, as he tore open the coat and waistcoat of Sir George, and showed that the wound was high in the shoulder; " he has only fainted from tbe shock the system has received. Come, we have some water." " There is a spring not a hundred yards along the valley," said the squire ; "take my hat — quick — quick." Varley stood with" his arms folded across his breast, gazing upon the prostrate man, but taking no part in the proceedings for his recovery. Such conduct, how ever, seemed rather the result of want of thought at the moment than a determination to be a meie spectator ofthe scene, for he suddenly roused himself, like one awakening from a sleep, and affected a degree of officiousness about Sir George Rankley that was strongly at variance with his former indifference.

The water was brought in the squire's hat, and, upon dashing some of it in the face of Sir George, he gave a convulsive shudder, and opened his eyes. " Rankley, you are not much hurt," cried the squire ; " all will be well again." " What has happened?" said the wounded man. "A mere scratch," continued the squire ; " come, come, think nothing of it." " We had better," said Varley, "get Sir George home as quickly as possible. This may not turn out such a mere scratch as you may suppose." "I want none of ycur ill-omened croaking," cried the squire, "peace, sir. From my soul something strikes me that by some hellish means you have produced all this unhappiness. There's a lurking devil in every line of your countenance. By Heavens, I was mad to be made your tool ! A film appears now to have fallen from my eyes.

Bernard Varley, you are a villain." There was a tempest of passion evidently labouring in the breast of Varley, but by a strong effort he repressed its exhibition, and merely replied, — " You do well, sir, after placing the life of him you call your old friend in such great jeopardy, to turn upon me. I say you do well, sir. Should you find your way to the York assizes for the murder of Sir George Rankley, I presume your line of defence will be in character with your present conduct. Perhaps, too, you can find some excuse for provoking this quarrel you have brought to so successful a termination in your dislike to Bernard Varley." The Squire of Larkswood was about to make some angry reply, when a scream smote his ears with such terrible distinctness, that he involuntarily clasped his hands in horror, and was afraid to turn his eyes in the direction from whence it ctme.

" Miranda is coming," said Varley ; "she has recognised, from the brow of yon eminence, who it is who lies so bloody and still at your feet. Squire of Larkswood, she is coming — shall I or you explain this little tragedy?'' " Father — father," cried a young and beautiful girl, attired in a morning dress, and her long and glossy auburn ringlets serving as her only head dress, as she threw herself on her knees by the side of the wounded baronet. "Father — oh, what has happened ? There is blood upon you ; oh, Heaven help me I Why do you look upon me, gentlemen, with such pitying eyes? Can none of you tell me what is the meaniug of all this? Father, father, speak to me. It is your child — your Miranda, who calls you. Help, help ! he does not speak ; he does not move. Who killed my father? who spilt his blood ?

Show me the man. Squire of Larks wood, yon look pale and wan — speak, oh speak I" MIRANDA. 6 The squire turned his face away, and uttered no sound, but Varley stooped to the ear ofthe beautiful girl, and whispered, — "Miranda!" She immediately sprang to her feet, and, as she stood by tbe again insensible form of her father, she pointed with both hands at Varley, and in a voice of awful solemnity, she said, — " It — it is all true — you are here to confirm the vision sent by Heaven, to warn me of this deed of blood. Bernard Varley, since you, by some mysterious means, ensnared my poor father's soul, the shadow of some terrible catastrophe has been hanging like a funeral pall upon my mind— and — and now it is consummated. All is revealed — I know you — I know you." For a moment, but no more, Varley stood tbe fixed gaze of that fair young creatuie, and then as she continued speaking, he cowered before her, and shrunk back, although he seemed unable to withdraw his eye from hers.

He trembled in every limb, and the big drops of perspiration stood uppn his brow as he muttered, — '■ Miranda Rankley, what mean you ? 1 am your father's friend. You are ravina." " What brought me here ?" she said. "1 know not." " 1 have had a dream, Bernard Varley — an awful dream. Shall I relate it to you ? I— I " She cast her eyes upon her father at this moment, and her excitement gave way in a moment. She sunk upon his bleeding form, and wept with a bitterness of anguish that was terrible to hear. Varley drew a long breath and gave a sickly smile, as he said, — '< Well, well, I — suppose I am to be the butt of everybody's wild fancies. But here comes help." There now approached the group a s'range, grotesque figure. It was that of a young man, scarcely past the age of twenty, but habited in the most singular and opposite articles of costume that can be imagined.

He wore a cast-off faded military coat, and dependent from a paper cap, that was placed jauntily upon one side of his head, was an immense bunch of various coloured ribbons. The rest of his person was dotted here and there by bows and long streaming ends of ribbon. He came forward with a wild bounding kind of step, that looked like an imitation of some wild animal, and, as he neared the party, he shouted, — ■• Whoop, whoop — more sport. Where's the foremost dog ? The hawk has had strange dreams." " 'Tis the poor idiot, Martin," said the squire, " but he can carry a message. Martin come hither." The idiot either did not hear or did not heed the call of the squire, for he paused opposite to Varley, and, with a loud laugh, cried, — " I dreamt of you last night. A famous dream." •' Indeed !" " Yes, all night long.

I've laughed ever since, and I've come on purpose to tell it to you. It's rather a secret though yet." "Martin, run to the Grange," cried the squire, and biing some of tbe servants directly. Sir George is wounded." " Wait a bit — wait a bit," said the idiot. " I must tell Bernard Varley mv dream first," ,.■■■__ " Nay, you need not go at all,' said the sqwre, " for I see some oif the household hurrying hither." The "idiot beckoned Varley, and placing his mouth close to his ear, he shouted, — " 1 dreamt I saw you hanged at York !" Varley changed colour, as he said,— '■ Fool ! how dare you !" " Ha, ha, ha " roared the idiot, " I saw the crowd round the scaffold, so I MIRANDA. 7 pushed in among them, and some said, ' Let him sec it — he knows the man.' Then I came quite close, but I didn't kno<v you then, for a cap was over your face, but the corner of it was listed up by some one, and then I knew you Ha, ha, ha, Bernard Varley, I saw you hanged at York."

Varley sprung upon the idiot, and grasped him by the throat, as he cried, — " I will stop your vile croaking, or know the reason why." " Hands off," cried the squire ; " leave him whom God afflicted alone." Varley released the poor creature, who said, — " Well done, squire — well done, Bernard Vailey will be hanged at York." Four of the male domestics from the Grange now arrived Upon the spot, and, with an air of malicious gratification, Varley cried, — " Your master has been shot by his old friend, Mr. Percy, the Squire of Larks wood. Remove him gently home." The men looked at each other perfectly bewildered for a moment, and nothing was said till the idiot shouted, — " That may be all true, but Bernard Varley will be hanged at York." The squire said not a word, but with the care of a father, he lifted the insensible form of Miranda, for she had fainted, from her father's breast, and motioning to the servants to lift their master, he set off for the Grange, scarcely feeling the light weight ofthe delicately lovely girl he carried.

The men carried their master among them, and followed the squire, with wonder alarm, and grief depicted on their countenances. Varley tarried a few moments until they had got in advance of him. Then he raised his clenched hand and shook it menacingly as he muttered, — " Sir George Rankley will never recover from that wound. An insurmountable barrier is raised between Miranda and the son of the Squire of Larkswood. I shall be master ofthe whole Grange; Miranda will be dependant upon my bounty." " And Bernard Vi.r.ey will be hung al York," screamed the idiot, as he scoured off across the fields.

Chapter III. The Murder

At the hour of twelve that night there sat in a small antique room in the Grange, two men, upon whose pale and ghastly features the flickering light of a small lamp shone with an unsteady lustre. No one could have looked into the countenances of those men without a conviction that they had perpetrated, or were about to perpetrate, some awful crime, at which humanity might shudder. Even then they were suffering some of the pangs which would haunt them to their graves, and open for them an hereafter without hope. They were standing on the brink of that awful precipice of guilt, down which the murderer plunges, never — never to re ascend to the height he had so madly dashed himself from. The minutes they were now passing were those horrible ones between the conception and the execution of the crime alike denounced by God and man — murder! and now that years had elapsed into months, months into weeks, weeks to days, until the actual fiour had come for which they had plotted, longed, and toiled, they shrunk from themselves and from each other, ashast and trembling.

One of these men was Bernard Varley ; the other, a person of mean dimensions and crafty sinister aspect, who as he sat in his chair trembled so excessively, that he was fain to clutch the caived arms of it to give hi uself the least appearance of iteadiness. There was wine before them, and Varley now filled a brimming glass for each, and pushed in silence one over to his companion. MIRANDA. With cold and clammy fingers they clutched their glasses, and drained them off; but they might as well have drunk of the coldest spring, for all the reviving effect the generous liquid had upon them. They remained cold and trembling as before. " What is the time ?" asked Bernard Varley. " Some minutes after twelve," replied his companion. " That wine is — is very cold." " And the fire," added Varley, " gives no heat."

They both shivered as they spoke, and glanced uneasily at each other, after which another long pause ensued, which was at length broken by Varley, who said, " You heard what the surgeon said." "Yes, yes — I did. He said there was no danger whatever — none, none." Varley turned his eyes upon the other, as he remarked, in a hollow voice, — " But we know better. There is great danger — sudden and immediate danger." ■' Yes, yes — there is. Shall we persevere, Varley, or — or now draw back ? ' " Draw back ! Are you mad ? What have I striven for, for two years, and you for one? No, we will not drawback. Recollect your reward. The revenue of the Grange estates is about three thousand pounds per annum — you have one." '* Yes, that is understood." " But Sir George must not recover. You have a great stake in this business, but I have a far greater.

Rouse yourself — the time is near at hand." " My strength will fail me, Varley ; you had better depend upon yourself, and leave me here. I should, perhaps, mar everything — I am of weak nerves." " Leave — you — here! And pray of what earthly use would your testimonybe, if you are left here?" " I — I will swear. " " I know you would, but your oaths want corroboration. Come you must come you shall. The nurse is prepared for our visit ; yes, I told her I would re lieve her watch for an hour after midnight." "Good. We have no time to lose. Drink — drink." " The wine goes through my veins like ice. I will drink no more. 'Tis very strange how the mind will thus conquer the body, and change its very nature, so that fire will not warm — wine will not intoxicate." "Pshaw," said Varley, trembling, as he nervously rubbed his hands together.

" These are the feelings that ever wait on great actions before their executio n. Come, we must go." Varley rose as he spoke, and stood holding by the back of his chair, while with nervous haste his companion left his seat. " It will he over soon," he added. " A'moment's pang, and it is done. Then we begin, indeed, to reap a golden harvest." Varley took up the lamp, and moved to the door, and the other tiemblingly followed him ; but before they left the room, he laid both his hands upon Varley's aim, and in a husky whisper, he said, — " Shall— we — think — again ?" "No, we have now te act up in former thoughts." "But — but, Varley. Consider." The lamp shook in Varley's hand as his companion in guilt kept a trembling clutch of his arm, and continued to mutter, — " But, Varley, if he should resist.

You know one cry, and we are lost— lost for ever." " Fool!" said Varley. " Do you see me tremble thus ?" " Your hand shakes, Varley." •' Let go my arm, and you will find it steady." " A clammy moisture is upon your brow, and your lips are pale as ashes." f " The last meal not well digested will cause all these symptoms," said Varley, with so ghastly an imitation of a smile, that the other let go his arm, and recoiled from him in sudden fright. " What now ?" said Varley. " You are full of fancies." " You looked dreadful, Varley, Do not try to smile again, 'Tis too horrible." MIRANDA. 9 Varley bent his brows upon the man with anger, as he said, slowly and sternly, — *' Follow me at once. You have gone with me thus far, and I will not now allow you to pause. Come on. Yon are strangely timid of a wounded and enfeebled man."