A Prince of the Blood. A novel

Front matter

A PEINCE OF THE BLOOD. NEW ADVENTURE BOOKS. Each Handsomely Bound in Cloth Gilt. NIGEL FORTESCUE ; OR, THE HUNTED MAN. By William Westall, Author of " The Phantom City," &c. 5s. THE LAND OF THE HIBISCUS BLOSSOM : a Yarn of the Papuan Gulf. By Hume Nisbet. With 21 whole page Illustrations. 6s. SIX MONTHS IN THE HEJAZ. Being the Account of the Pilgrimages to Meccah and Medinah performed by the Author, disguised as a Mohammedan. By John F. Keane. tis. THREE YEARS OF A WANDERER'S LIFE. By John F. Keane. 6s. JOHN O' LONDON : a Story of the Days of Roger Bacon. By Somervtlle Gibney. With 6 whole page Illustrations, tis. THE NEW RIVER : a Story of the Days of Hugh Myddelton. By Somerville Gibney. 3s. tid. THE STORY OF ANTONY GRACE. By G. Manville Fenn. With 6 whole page Illustrations. 6s. ANCHOR AVATCH YARNS.

Life in the Coasting Trade. By Edmund Downey. With 6 whole page Illustrations. 3s. 6<i. LIEUTENANT BARNABAS. By Feank Babbett. 3s. 6d. LUCK AT THE DIAMOND FIELDS. By D. J. Belgeave. 6s. IN JEOPARDY : Stories of Peril. By G. Manville Fenn. 6s. RALPH NORBRECE/S TRUST. By William Westall. 2s. U. EVE AT THE WHEEL: a Story of Three Hundred Virgins. By G. Manville Fenn. 2s. WARD & DOWNEY, PUBLISHERS, LONDON. A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD. BY JAMES PAYN, AUTHOR OF " L06T SIB MASSINGBERD," "THE HEIR OF THE AGE6," "BY PROXY," ETC., ETC. NEW EDITION. fCmtbon : WARD AND DOWNEY, 12, YOKE STEEET, COVENT GARDEN. 1888. All Rights reserved. Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London & Bung ay. TO mxlttt gcsanf THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED BY HIS FRIEND JAMES PAYN. CONTENTS. CHAP. PACE Prologue — at the 'inventories' ... 1 i. a disunited family ... ' ... ... 13 ii. on the ramparts ... ... ... 18 iii. 'farewell' ... ... ... ... 26 iv. on board ... ... ... ... 32 v. the passenger ... ... ... 41 vi. the accusation ... ... ... 50 vii. the thief ... ... ... ... 61 viii. with her mask off ... ... ... 68 is. captain head to the rescue ... ... 77 X. LAND ... ... ... ... 84 SI.

NUMBER TWO ... ... ... ... 91 SII. PRESENTIMENTS ... ... ... 105 XIU. THE GALE ... ... ... ... 113 SIV. MR. BATES'S NEWS ... ... ... 120 SV. THE WRECK ... ... ... ... 127 XVI. LAND ... ... ... ... 137 XVII. RESCUE BAY ... ... ... ... 144 XVIII. THE CAPTAIN'S SPEECH ... ... ... 150 XIX. THE PLEBISCITE ... ... ... 157 XX. THE ESPLORATION ... ... ... 164 XXI. VISITORS ... ... ... ... 174 XXII. THE SONG ... ... ... ... Contents. VIII CHAP. PAGE XXIII. A VOLUNTARY EXIT ... ... ... 188 XXIV. THE COPPER KETTLE ... ... ... 194 XXV. ROYALTIES ... ... ... ... 200 XXVI. MASTER CONOLLY'S NARRATIVE ... ... 210 XXVII. MASTER CONOLLY'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED ... 218 XXVIII. TO THE RESCUE ... ... ... 225 XXIX. MR. BATES FINDS HIS MASTER ... ... 234 XXX. LET US KILL THE NIGGER ... ... 241 XXXI. THE EXAMINATION ... ... ... 248 XXXII.

Chapter I

a disunited family. On June the 13th, 1835, four persons were breakfasting together in a private room at the ' George Hotel,' Ports mouth. They were a family party consisting of a gentle man and three ladies. The former, Mr. Ernest Norbury, was a person of some note in the city, and of peculiar importance in the eyes of the East India Company, which was in the last days of its greatness. He had held more than one high post in India, and was now, somewhat to the astonishment of his friends, who had assumed him to have shaken the pagoda tree with sufficient skill upon previous occasions to render further application to it unnecessary, about to fill another. He was about sixty years of age, short, but squarely built, with a strong, intelligent face. His complexion, naturally pale, had not been rendered swarthy by the tropic sun to which it had been exposed, and though his life had been by no means devoid of action, he was of corpulent habit, which added to the effect produced by a pompous ' and dictatorial manner.

Miss Sophia, his sister and junior by five years, resembled him in figure, though she was much stouter, but in no other respects. Her face was flat and florid ; she smiled whenever there was an excuse for smiling. Her'enemies — ■ if she had any, which she had not — might have said that this was to show her teeth, which were very white and even ; but this was not the case : she smiled from pure frood nature, and also sometimes to mitigate wrath. Her manner was hesitating, especially when addressing the head of the family ; the expression of her countenance was weak and undecisive, though by no means unpleasing. It was whispered, but not widely believed, that she had once been very good-looking. The other two members of the party belonged to another generation. The elder of the two, Miss Eleanor, Mr. Norbury's daughter, was twenty four years of age ; she was tall and slight and slim, and her complexion was pasty, but, like her father's (though she, too, had been to India), it had not been baked by the sun.

Her eyes were of pale blue, and her manner for her age and sex exceedingly undemonstrative. She was of a reserved nature and spoke little, but when she did it was to the point ; she was one of those conscientious people who do not allow even their silence to be misunderstood. Miss Edith, Mr. Norbury's niece, was five years younger than her cousin, and, therefore, two years short of being of age. Though she was going to India, like her aunt, for the first time, she was darker than her uncle and cousin, who had lived there. Her complexion was naturally very delicate, but not having had a mother to look after it (for she had been left an orphan at ta very early age), it had been somewhat bronzed by our summer suns — a circumstance, however, which did not prevent her being exceedingly comely. Her eyes were grey, intermixed with hazel ; and her hair, which was very luxuriant, was of a deep brown.

She had a fine colour and a very charming figure. Her dress was far simpler than that of her cousin, but very becoming. Nobody, however (of the male sex), could have thought of her dress while looking at Edith Norbury, and if he did so, it would only have been to make the general but private observation, "That girl would look well in anything." The expression of her changeful face was, nevertheless, just now by no means joyous ; she had a depressed air which struck one as incongruous and unsuitable in her. This depression was not unobserved by the others, but except for an occasional squeeze of her hand from Aunt Sophia when opportunity offered itself for this expression of sympathy, it was ignored. Mr. Norbury was reading his newspaper to himself and the rest were silent. The A Disunited Family. 15 viands were plentiful, but it was an uncomfortable and unsociable meal.

"The Ganges starts to-morrow morning at daybreak," presently observed Mr. Norbury, in loud, authoritative tones, like those of a crier giving public notice. " As everything has been satisfactorily arranged for us, there will be no need for us to go on board till the evening, in the cool." The last words were suggested by his tropical experience. It is natural to the Anglo-Indian to do everything with reference to the temperature ; but, as a matter of fact, it was warm enough even at Portsmouth. The High-street, on which the windows of the ' George ' looked down, was baking hot : the soldiers that passed in their stiff stocks and close-fitting uniforms excited the pity of the civilians, as the sailor with his loose and low-necked garb aroused their envy. The trees on the ramparts at the end of the street moved not a leaf.

The flags on the dwellings of the great military and naval authorities clung to their staffs as though they were themselves in " office ; " even the smaller bunting on the ships in harbour, caught sight of here and there through gaps in the houses or over their roofs, had not a flutter in them. Distant firing broke on the ear complainingly, as though it were too hot for drill. '■ It is really too warm to do anything," remarked Aunt Sophia, fanning her ample self with a local guide-book. " I am going shopping," said Miss Eleanor. Tnis was not merely a reproof to laziness, though the tone conveyed that moral lesson. It had a much more direct significance ; it implied that she must have a companion. " Would it not be better to wait till it gets a little cooler, my dear ? " remarked Aunt Sophia.

" No doubt ; only, unfortunately, it is a law of nature that the higher the sun rises the warmer it gets. As for mo, I am not made of sugar." To judge by the tone in which she spoke, she certainly was not. " Well, it is quite impossible that you can walk out alone, my dear, in a place like this — so military and naval," sighed Aunt Sophia. She cast an appealing glance at Edith ; but that young lady, who had already finished her meal, which had been a very scanty one, and was sitting pensively at an open window, made no sign. It was probable she had not even heard the conversation. Miss Eleanor curled her lip, which was by nature straight and very thin. " Come," she said, impatiently, " let us be off." The two ladies retired, and presently reappeared with their bonnets on. Mr. Norbury was still behind his paper, his niece still at the window.

"You are not coming with us, Edie, I suppose?" said Aunt Sophia cheerfully. The girl shook her head. " Well, I must say it is rather warm for walking," as if in apology for the other's dumb refusal. " What nonsense ! " ejaculated Miss Eleanor. " If you think this warm, what will you think of India? " " I shall be dug out," said Aunt Sophia prophetically. It was a phrase she always used to express her feelings in a heated atmosphere ; but she used it now with quite pathetic despair. She looked forward to a residence in the gorgeous East with the utmost horror. " My dear," she had once said to Edith in confidence, " I would rather live in Whitechapel all my days than go to India. I shall melt away there to nothing, and you will have to remove the last of me with brown paper and a hot iron." She was serious, though she spoke in jest.

" Circumstances over which she had no control," in the personage of her brother Ernest, were impelling her ; and in Edith's case she spoke to sympathetic ears. Eleanor, on the other hand, ridiculed her apprehensions. She could hardly be said to make fun of them, for she had not in her nature the materials for A Disunited Family. 17 fun, nor did she make light of them. On the contrary, her humour was to exaggerate to her aunt the disagreeables of life in India. She discoursed upon the thug and the tiger with affected familiarity, and raised the temperature to imaginary degrees. As somebody said of her who knew her well, Eleanor Norbury had the grimness of a schoolboy without his light heart. Some minutes elapsed after the ladies had departed, which were passed by the occupants of the apartment in complete silence.

Edith, with her chin resting on her little hand, and her elbow on the window ledge, sat deep in thought and apparently unconscious of her companion's presence ; not so, however, Mr. Norbury. He sat facing her with the newspaper still before him, but ever and anon, over the edge of it, he shot a furtive glance at his niece, which seemed to give him anything but satisfaction. At last he rose, and in a bland and studiously conciliatory voice, observed, "Is your outfit complete? Edith, is there anything, any comfort or luxury, which my forethought has not provided? There is plenty of time to rectify any such omission, and if Portsmouth contains the article or articles in question, I will make it my business to procuro them for you." " Thank you, uncle ; no, I have everything I require." How feeble are words, as a vehicle of expression, compared with the voice that speaks them, or with the manner in which they are delivered.

Though the girl's reply was a strictly accurate one, her meaning seemed somehow the very reverse of that which her speech conveyed. Mr. Norbury looked at her steadily, as after a momentary glance towards him, she had resumed her former position, and with a heavy frown and a smile that fitted it — took up his hat. "An obstinate wench," he murmured to himself as he went down-stairs. " To have withstood such an offer as that, which, as she knew, must have comprehended a now bonnet at least, and might even have run to jewellery, o shows in a woman quite an unparalleled amount of pig headed ness. — Tush ! she's in the sulks, that's what she's in. Well, well, like Madeira she'll be better for going round the Cape. A sea voyage and a couple of years in India will wean her from her folly. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, they say. In that case, Mr. Charles Layton, she will adore you, for I shall take care she never sees your face again."

Chapter II. On The Ramparts

As soon as Edith Norbury found herself alone, she uttered a deep sigh of relief. The temperature without and within was hotter than ever, but the oppression which had weighed upon her almost to suffocation was withdrawn. For the first time since she had left her room that morning she felt free to look and move as she pleased. " The breath of man," science tells us, " is deadly to his fellow creatures ; " but hardly less so, under certain circumstances, is his presence. In the same room with her Uncle Ernest, Edith Norbury experienced much the same sensa tions as some very intelligent and bright-eyed bird who finds himself in the same compartment with a snake. Let him be ever so fascinating in his manner, he would end, she was convinced, by destroying her. His flattering speeches, his offers of costly gifts, were only so many acts of lubrica tion, intended to make the swallowing her the easier.

If asked for an explanation of her apprehension, she would have found it difficult to give one. It was not Ernest Norbury's nature to be demonstratively kind to any one but to Edith he had been always both generous and <*racious. He had put himself out of the way, in fact, to be agreeable to her, nor was it his fault so much as his misfortune that the effort had been very perceptible. As a host — and sho had lived in his house for the three years which had elapsed since her father's death had left her orphaned — she had had nothing to complain of him. His table was liberal ; his carriage had been as much at her own service as at that of his daughter, or of his sister, who resided with him. As a kinsman, he not only made no difference between those ladies and herself, but made much more ' fuss ' with her than with either of them ; his enemies said because she was an heiress, but that seemed hardly probable, since ho was a man of means himself, and had, therefore, not the weighty reason for that worship of wealth in another which bows down most heads so low.

In no domestic relation to her it was certain could Uncle Ernest be con sidered as an ogre. He was also, however, her guardian, and had absolutely and decisively forbidden her to marry the man of her choice. For one of her age and sex Edith Norbury had a strong sense of justice, and she sometimes asked herself was it fair, for this one action, cruel and unreasonable though it was of him, that she should ignore all her uncle's previous good conduct towards her, and impute to him she scarce knew what, of evil, but something which filled her involun tarily — nay, against her will — with a vague loathing and terror? With Mr. Charles Layton, barrister-at-law, she was without doubt very much in love. Before she met him her later life, notwithstanding she was still so young, had been as a dull, monotonous sea, while ever since it had been lit with smiles and sunshine ; and now that his presence was forbidden it had not only become dull again, but gray and cold, without the least gleam of light in the horizon.

Uncle Ernest, doubtless, did not quite believe that matters were so bad as this with her, but she had done her best to convince him of it. She had assured him with all the eloquence of nature's pleading, that the happiness of her life depended on her engagement, and he had been deaf to her tears and prayers. He had given, of C course, his reasons, or rather his reason, for his cruel con duct, and that had seemed to her a wholly inadequate one. Mr. Layton, he said, was a needy man, whereas she was an heiress. He was making, however, a gradually increas ing income at the law, and was certainly both diligent and clever, and he had some expectations, though of an un certain kind. Under these circumstances it had been infamous of Uncle Ernest to call him an adventurer, yet that was the term which, in a long and painful interview with his niece, he had applied to her lover.

Perhaps this plain speaking, even more than her uncle's bare refusal of her petition, was at the bottom of her changed feelings towards him. The man who could call Charles Layton an adventurer seemed to her capable of saying, yes, and doing, anything. Stung by indignation and despair, she had told Uncle Ernest that if his only objection to her marriage with her lover was in truth disparity of fortune, he, her guardian, might take her money for himself, and then Charley would take her penniless and prove that he was no adventurer. This reasonable proposition, so far from finding favour in Uncle Ernest's eyes, made him what could only be de scribed as furious. He had not only looked and spoken as she had never thought it possible he could look and speak, but had somehow left bohind him the impression that he had shown her his true face, with the mask off, for the first time.

From that hour all confidence in Uncle Ernest was gone, and even the grounds on which her confidence in him had hitherto rested were gone with it. She did not forget, of course, his hospitality, nor the solicitude he had so long exhibited for her welfare ; but they no longer seemed to have been dictated by duty. It was impossible, if he loved his dead brother as he had professed to do, that he could have behaved as he had done to that dead brother's child. That Edith's father had nevertheless be lieved that he had loved him was certain ; he had not only left his whole fortune in trust to him for her benefit, but her future until she should come of age entirely in his hands. He had the absolute disposal of her as regarded her place of residence ; and this right he was pushing to the uttermost by taking her with him to India.

The reason of so much power being confided in him was, unhappily, the very reason wdiich Uncle Ernest gave for his thus exporting her. Her father had been afraid that his daughter's fortune would attract adventurers ; and had, therefore, armed her guardian with every weapon to de fend her against them. He would have made her a ward in Chancery, but that he believed in his brother's judgment more than in that of the law ; nor, finally, had he been content with even these measures of precaution. Like one who keeps fast his prisoner with bolt and bar, and also puts him on his honour, her father had besought her to look on her uncle as a second parent, and even obtained a promise from her as he lay dying, that she would comport herself in all things to his brother Ernest's will ; and this was the bond that formed her firmest fetter.

The Rev. John Norbury, Rector of Midstead and Canon of Down minster, had never been suspected of being a saint, but neither was he a man of the world, in any sense. As the elder son of a wealthy father he had been always prosperous, quite independent of his Church preferment. His money had come to him not only without effort, but without even the full knowledge of how it came. Business would have been distasteful to him, no doubt, had he had any experience of it ; but he had none. His younger brother, on the other hand, had shown great capacity for it, and the Canon had admired him accordingly, as we are apt to admire our own flesh and blood who distinguish themselves in matters out of our line. It was upon the whole no wonder that the Canon, in leaving this life, had confided his daughter and her affairs so absolutely to his brother's care.

Filial love prevented her from resenting this fact, however much she regretted it, and she felt that, however mistaken he had been, he had done his best for her. But she did resent her uncle's conduct above measure, and while bowing to his authority for the sake of him who had delegated it, she felt that he had grossly abused it. To take her to India with him, not, as she was well con vinced, because it was necessary or because he could not have safely bestowed her at home, but merely to separate her effectually from the man she loved, was an outrage. Such was Edith Norbury's position as regarded her Uncle Ernest — a state of things so grievous and intolerable that it made all other matters almost indifferent to her. Her relations with her cousin Eleanor were by no means what she would have wished them to be ; but they had suffered no change, as in her uncle's case, from good to ill.

They had always been more or less uncomfortable — what diplomatists call ' strained.' The cause of this was not very explicable to her. She was loth to accuse her cousin of jealousy, but she had certainly seemed to dislike the con sideration with which her uncle had treated her. Eleanor would fain at first have given herself the airs of an elder sister, and when her efforts in that direction were put down by her parent with a strong hand, their failure seemed to embitter her against her. Of late, she had by no means insisted upon this superiority of age, but had resented the attentions paid to Edith by their common friends, not hesitating to hint that they were the result of her wealth lather than her merit. But where Edith felt her conduct the most keenly was with regard to Mr. Layton, of whom she knew Eleanor entertained a far better opinion than her father, and yet had taken the latter's part in the controversy concerning the young man.

At one time, unconscious of the pleasure her praise had given Edith, she had praised him to her exceedingly ; but since he had declared his love for her cousin, she had set herself against him. When reminded of her approval of him, she did not deny it ; and even con fessed that it was his very desire to ally himself with Edith that set her against him. " He has no self-respect," she said ; " no man with proper pride, being in comparatively narrow circumstances, would aspire to the hand of one so wealthy as yourself, even if he really loved you." The poisonous sting in the tail of that speech was too much for Edith ; she could not trust herself to reply to it, and from the moment it was uttered, she felt that all which consti tutes true friendship between her and her cousin was dead, if, indeed, it ever had an existence.

Even Aunt Sophia, slow as she was to speak up, or out, about anything, when she heard those cruel words, had cried, " For shame, Eleanor ! " but her niece had only added, " I was asked my opinion, and I have given it." And it was with this girl for her companion, and with Ernest Norbury as her host and master, that Edith was about to embark for India, for a residence of at least two years. Was ever heiress in so sad a plight? Most girls went to India in search of a suitor — the motive, perhaps, which caused her cousin Eleanor to regard their exodus with such complacency — but she was about to be carried thither avowedly to escape from one. What pressure, it was only too probable, would be put upon her in the mean time ! What efforts would be made to detach her from her lover ; what risks lay even in the chapter of accidents ex tending over so long a period ; and at the best, how unhappy among such domestic surroundings must be her sojourn in a foreign land.

Portsmouth, or rather its next-door neighbour, Southsea, was not unknown to Edith Norbury. It was not far from Midstead, and had been a favourite resort of the Canon's in the summer months. As a child she had played under those very trees upon the grassy rampart which she now beheld from the hotel window. It had been her custom, or her nurse's custom, to see the evening gun fired from the neighbouring bastion. The fancy seized her to re-visit these spots once more. That Uncle Ernest would not approve of it was certain. He disliked her going anywhere unaccompanied by Eleanor or Aunt Sophia ; but her apprehension of incurring his displeasure was not just now very keen— it is even doubtful whether it did not give her some zest for the enterprise. She put on her bonnet and started at once, for there was no knowing when her guardian might return.

As for Eleanor she had gone shopping, and for her last day's shopping; and, notwithstanding the heat of the weather, her absence might be counted upon up to luncheon time at least. On the ramparts it was by comparison cool, but not a soul had sought their shade but herself. I have been told by competent authorities that Portsmouth is the best defended town, independent of natural position, in Europe ; but at the date of our story the Portsdown lines did not exist, save perhaps in the brain of some engineer, impor tuning, and importuning in vain, an incredulous War Office. The old ramparts only, with their deep fosses, were there ; the drawbridges, the moats, the sluices, the subter ranean footways, cunningly devised to interpose by ser pentine windings the massive earth to the progress of the cannon-ball.

All these things were familiar to Edith. The sentries pacing hero and there in the distance, the soldiers at drill on the Common, or guarding with flashing bayonets the drab-clothed convicts at their spade-work — all looked as it had looked to her in the old days. She thought she could discern the very house in the old fashioned Jubilee Terrace where they used to lodge. As nature knows no change, whatever happens to us mortals, so it seemed that human affairs here went on like clock work, no matter who lived or died. How often, with her father's hand tight clasped in hers, had she listened to the same dropping fire of musketry that now met her ear ; how often gazed at those truculent offenders in drab, half in pity, half in fear. The Canon had known all the authorities ; she had sat with him in the Governor's pew in the garrison chapel, amid a blue and scarlet congregation, the movements of the service accompanied, to her delight and awe, with jingling of spurs and rattling of scabbards.

She had played with the sword-knots of old generals, and with the cocked hats of admirals of the red, white, and blue. Often had her father taken her up the harbour in some ten oared galley, lent to him by the high officials in the dock yard, to visit the Victory, where Nelson died, or the biscuit manufactory which supplied the navy, but had always one to spare, a very hot and hard one, for her dainty teeth ; or Porchester Castle, where the French prisoners were con fined in the great war. She seemed to hear once more the measured beat of the oars, and the shrill notes of command of the little midship men who accompanied them. Yet how long ago it seemed, nevertheless, now dear papa was dead. In those days she had thought it a dreadful thing to die, but now it almost seemed to her a more dreadful thing to live.