Chapter 1

OUR HERO MAKES TWO PROMISES.

We doubt if there is anywhere on the sea board of England another
stretch of coast so wild and rugged, and so forbidding of aspect to
navigators, as is that of Headlandshire--probably so called because of
its numerous bold headlands overlooking the Irish Sea.

Not far from midway of this stretch of coast is an inlet of the sea,
called Raven Bay; and from this bay there is still another inlet, narrow
and dubious of entrance, but deep and broad within, called King’s Cove.

The story goes that once upon a time an English king, fleeing from his
rebellious subjects by sea, sought shelter here and safety; and found
them both.

The bay itself is no mean shelter when safely gained. About its entrance
are numerous rocks, large and small--some lifting their storm-beaten
crests above the surface of the water, while many lie hidden beneath it;
also, there are a number of small islands so arranged as to effectually
veil the inlet from the eyes of strangers passing to and fro outside.

The man who would run even an ordinary yacht in safety into Raven Bay
must be thoroughly acquainted with every fathom of the true channel.

But, though we have gained that first haven, we see nothing of King’s
Cove--not a sign of it. Yet it is not far off. Away in the southeast
corner are two small well-wooded islands, which appear, when viewed from
the bosom of the bay, to be simple lumps of the mainland; but once get
in behind the outer one and we find a narrow, deep, winding channel
running between the two, and finally opening into a basin of water
wonderful to behold.

There it lies, an entirely land-locked off-put of the sea, oval in form,
very nearly a mile long by three-quarters of a mile wide, deep enough
and broad enough to float a naval squadron.

Not only was this cove land-locked, but it was so completely environed
by woods--by forest monarchs--as to be as invisible from the land as
from the water side.

From Raven Bay the view landward was partly wild and rugged, but
altogether picturesque and romantic. On the left, to the northward, as
we face inward from the seas, distant a mile and a half rose a grim
towering mass of volcanic rock, known as the Witch’s Crag.

Towards the bay the crag descended gradually--a continuous ragged, rocky
declivity--to the water’s edge.

Eastward from the bay, on a gradual verdant slope, many miles in extent,
opened to view one of the most beautifully romantic scenes in
England--the magnificent park, the outlying farms, the flanking forest,
and the grand old castle of Allerdale; while nearer at hand, close upon
the shore, nestled a pretty village, bearing the same name.

And this whole stretch of landscape was cut in twain, near its center,
by a silvery, limpid stream, rising in the distant hills and flowing
westward until it mingled its tide with the waters of the bay. It was
called Dale River.

There is one other view that must not be overlooked. Away to the right,
towards the south, half a mile from the village, but only a few rods
distant from the eastern shore of Kings’ Cove, in the edge of the
forest, with no other human habitation near, stood a small stone
cottage, the abode, when on shore, of the chief of a crew of smugglers,
whose lair was in the adjacent hidden inlet.

We now approach two scenes of a different character. The first is in the
cottage of the smuggler chief.

Hugh Maitland, now close upon his fortieth year, had for full half his
life been a bold and successful smuggler. Never, as yet, had he been
arrested.

Not only had the secret cove afforded him safe hiding from the king’s
cruisers, but the mass of the people, high and low, whom he had
furnished abundantly and cheaply with many a luxury of life, had been
his friends, tried and true, in the hour of need.

At length, however, an enemy with whom he was powerless to contend had
laid its unsparing hand upon him.

He was dying. A round shot, from the bow gun of a revenue cutter, had
struck the quarter-rail of his brig, knocking therefrom a splinter,
which had entered his side.

Two surgeons had been with him until within a few minutes of the time
when we look in upon him, and had promised to call again during the day,
but not with the hope of saving him. Death was sure, and close at hand.

The dying chief lay upon a comfortable bed, in a rear apartment on the
ground floor of the cottage, and near him were two persons--his wife,
Margery, and his son, Percy.

Margery Maitland was of middle age; a tall, handsome woman of dark
complexion, her hair black as a raven’s wing, with a pair of full,
bright, restless eyes to match.

She had loved her husband better than anything else on earth. Her
marriage had cost her friends and position, and she had prized the thing
gained accordingly.

She had been a faithful and devoted companion of his home life, making
that home as pleasant and attractive to him as she could.

Perhaps if his life had been entirely passed at home she might not have
made it quite an elysium for him; but let that pass. With regard to her
love for her son--of that anon.

Percy Maitland had entered upon the sixteenth year of his life. He
looked old for his age. Neither in form nor in feature did he resemble
his father or his mother. He was tall, like his mother, and, like her,
handsome, and there the likeness ended.

He was of a light, ruddy complexion; his hair, floating about his
shapely head in wavy masses, was a rich, golden auburn in color; his
eyes were blue as sapphires; his brow high, broad and full, with the
lower features in symmetrical keeping.

The whole face, in short, was a picture of manly beauty. It was a face
to admire, a face to love, and, above and beyond all, it was most
emphatically a face to trust.

Falsehood and deceit, treachery and cunning, together with all the baser
passions and instincts of human nature, were as foreign to that face as
is darkness to the full blaze of noonday. His youth gave ample promise
of a strong and vigorous manhood.

Whatever may have been the feelings of the mother toward her son, his
father had loved him with a love bordering on passion.

He had been proud of his boy’s beauty and proud of his surpassing
intellectual qualities; and when Percy had decided that he would not
sail in the brig as one of her crew--that he could not find it in his
heart to become a smuggler--the chieftain had seen the curate of the
village church, a finished scholar, and engaged him to be private tutor
to his boy. And so it had been.

Strangely enough, the mother had fought against all this. She had
insisted upon it--had put forth all her influence to that end--that the
boy should follow the fortunes of his father, and be ready, when the
time should come, to take command of the smuggler brig.

But she had pleaded and labored in vain. The love of the father had been
proof against all opposing forces.

A November day was drawing to its close, and a November chill was in the
fierce gusts that shook the limbs of the forest trees outside, as Hugh
Maitland lay dying in the old stone cottage. For several minutes he had
gazed upon the face of his son, thinking deeply. By and by he spoke:

“Percy!” The boy started and looked up. Then he arose and would have
advanced to the bedside, but his father waved him back.

“No, no. Sit down, my boy; I have something to say to you. Now,” when
the youth was again seated, “I wish you to answer me. Have I not, so far
as I could, so far as it was in me to do, been a kind and loving father
to you?”

“Oh, my father!” cried the son, extending his clasped hands towards the
bed. “You have been all that an earthly parent could be. I know you have
loved me well and truly. Since I can remember your whole heart has been
mine; and you know, you know, father, that I have loved you in return.”

“Aye, my boy, I do know it; and I tell you truly, your love has been a
blessing to me.” He paused here, and closed his eyes as though to rest.

He had spoken with difficulty, for he had become very weak, and the
speaking fatigued him. Presently he looked up and spoke again. His tones
were low and wavering, but with a depth that plainly told of former
power and compass; and he spoke distinctly.

“Percy, I have two requests to make; two promises I ask from you in
return. It is understood on all hands--your mother understands, and
Donald Rodney understands and through him every man of the crew will
gain knowledge--that you are, henceforth and forever, free from any
connection whatever with the contraband traffic. You shall never be
asked to go outside in our vessel; nor shall you be asked to help land
any item of our contraband goods--Hush! Don’t thank me yet. Wait until
you have heard my requests.

“My dear boy, I shall not live to see another day. I am bleeding
internally. Ah! I know the signs. The end is nearer than you think. I am
going--going to leave your mother alone, if you forsake her. My first
petition is this: Until you have reached the age of one-and-twenty you
will make the old cot your home, and give to your mother your presence
and your care. Surely, you will not refuse me this. Margery has been a
faithful wife to me, and I shall feel death robbed of much of its terror
in the knowledge that she is not to be left alone.”

Percy saw very plainly the hand of his mother in this. He knew, as
though he had heard her, that she had put that request into his father’s
mouth, and had urged him to press it strongly.

But, under any circumstances, he would not have refused. He had a
deep--a heartfelt--desire to be near the castle; and in what other way
could he so surely attain that end?

If he took a few seconds for thought before he answered, it was not with
the appearance of hesitation. When he spoke, not only were his tones
frank and hearty, but the warm, loving light in his handsome face told
her that he was sincere.

“Father, I will do what you ask, provided, of course, that no unforeseen
event beyond my power to overcome shall interpose to prevent it.”

“That is understood, of course, and I thank you, my boy--I thank you
from my heart. I shall die easier in the assurance that Margery is to
have the tender, loving care of our son after I am gone. And now, Percy,
to my second request.”

He paused for a little time, while his wife arose and went into the room
adjoining, returning presently with a phial and a glass.

She prepared for the sufferer a potion which one of the physicians had
prescribed, and he drank it, experiencing therefrom temporary relief and
strength.

“Percy, are you aware of the fact that when I am dead and gone that you
will be the only living man who can safely run our brig into the Cove?”

“Rodney can do it, father,” the youth replied, with much surprise.

“No, no, he cannot. The last time in I gave up the command to him when
we were about a mile outside Hood’s Island; and, if you will believe me,
we came within an ace of losing the old Staghound; and, most likely,
losing a few of ourselves as well. While I was looking in another
direction, never dreaming of danger, we were within a dozen fathoms of
the northern point of Dead Man’s Reef! Yes, my boy, had I been ten
seconds later no power on earth could have saved us. Poor old Donald! He
said he had no idea the reef made up so far.

“Perhaps I have been wrong. I have kept our secret too close for my own
good. You learned the course almost by instinct. By the way--didn’t you
tell me that you had discovered a safe channel some where about midway
of that reef?”

“Yes, father, I found it last spring. It is just about midway between
the southern headland of the bay and the northern extremity of the reef.
I took soundings, and got all the necessary bearings for coming in.
There are no reliable bearings by which to run out.”

“They’re not needful, boy. But the time may come when that way of
running in may be of use. My soul! it doesn’t seem possible. I wouldn’t
have believed that a course through that reef could have been found for
a fair sized barge, let alone a brig. But, my dear boy, this isn’t
getting on with business, and I feel that my voice is giving out.”

“Yes, father--your second request. Has it to do with piloting the brig?”

“Yes, Percy. I want you to give me your promise that, while you find a
home here in the old cottage, you will pilot the brig in whenever you
are asked to do so. As you know, we have other havens. For the year to
come she may not have occasion to run in here more than once or twice.
This is the refuge when the king’s cruisers are at our heels. On other
occasions we come here but seldom.”

“Of course,” said the youth, “until I can teach others how to find the
true course, I will find it for them; but, when I shall have taught
Rodney, he can, in turn, teach others--”

“Ah! my boy,” interrupted the chief, “the teaching of others is the very
thing we wish to avoid. You and Rodney will be enough. Surely, you can
do that for the old crew after I am gone.”

“Enough, father. I give you the promise. While I shall remain here--say
till I am twenty-one--whenever I shall receive due notice that the brig
is outside, or is expected, and that I am wanted to pilot her in, I will
take my boat and find her.”

“Bless you, Percy! Bless you! I have no more to ask. I shall die with
less of regret now that I have those two pledges from you.”

“Father,” said the boy, after a time of silence, during which Margery
had given her husband another dose of medicine, “who is that young
fellow that has made two or three runs with you to the French
coast--Ralph Tryon, I heard Rodworshiperney call him?”

“Oh” returned the failing chief, with a dubious motion of the head,
“he’s nobody that you care about.”

“But--you can tell me who he is--where he came from--or--or--”

“Percy! Don’t you see? Your father is suffering.”

It was Margery who had thus interfered. The dying man would have checked
her, but his voice failed him, and he sank back on the pillow with a
moan of pain. Sank back and lifted not his head again; neither did he
speak any more. Half an hour later the son was kneeling by the bedside
in devout prayer, while the bereaved wife, now widowed, wept in the
first great sorrow of her life.

The second scene is at the castle, where there is a bed on which lies
one dying.

It is now November. In the early springtime Sir William Chester had come
to Allerdale Castle in failing health, bringing with him his only child,
Cordelia, a girl of twelve years and little more.

She was all that was left to him of his own blood to care for and to
love. His wife had died several years before in India, where he was
employed by the government.

His parents had both died during his youth, and brother or sister he
never had. Neither had he an uncle or an own cousin. An aunt by marriage
he possibly may have had, but were she living she could be nothing to
him.

Thomas Brandon, Earl of Allerdale, had reached the age of sixty-four, a
hale hearty old man, seemingly as strong and vigorous as ever.

He was a handsome man, tall and strong, with a full, broad chest; his
limbs shapely and muscular, with a step as firm and light as that of
youth.

He had a grand head, covered with snow-white hair, and a strongly marked
face that retained much--very much--of its old-time beauty, for Tom
Brandon, when he had been simple Lord Oakleigh, had been accounted one
of the handsomest men of his time.

The earl was but little better off in the way of kindred than was his
guest. He had a son and a grandson, and that completed the list.

His wife had died while he was still young, leaving him with one child,
and he had never married again.

His son George, Lord Oakleigh, was absent in India. From him Sir William
had come when he first appeared at the castle. George Brandon and
William Chester were very nearly of the same age. The former was
forty-six, the later one year younger.

They had been friendly in youth, had been classmates at college, and had
been much together in after life.

In India they had been like brothers, a common misfortune, or calamity,
having cemented the bonds of their union more firmly and more closely
than ever before.

It was the death of their wives. They had resided beneath the same roof
in Calcutta. There Lady Chester had been taken down with fever, and Lady
Brandon had helped to nurse her.

Suffice it to say, both had the fever, and both died. Sir William was
left with his little Cordelia, then only ten; Lord Oakleigh being left
with a son three years older.

A few months after the sad bereavement Lord Oakleigh sent his son
Matthew home to England, to the care of his father, the earl having
written out an earnest request that it should be so done.

The boy had arrived safely, and from that time had been his
grandfather’s charge.

Little more than a year later Sir William had begun to feel that his
failing health betokened something serious. He was convinced that he
should never recover in India.

He considered a perfect recovery impossible; but, were he to seek his
native land, he might gain a few more years of life.

So, towards the close of the year, he had made his arrangements for
returning home. Said Lord Oakleigh, after the thing had been settled,
and the baronet had packed up:

“You say you have no settled home in England. Your family estate--the
home of your ancestors--Leyburn Abbey, with its park and forest, you
have leased for a term of years; and, of course, you can not push your
tenant out, if he wishes to remain, which we know he does. So, my dear
Willie, do you make your way to Allerdale, and there cast anchor. My
father will be delighted to see you--delighted to hear from me--and a
thousand times delighted when you tell him you have come to make a good
long stop with him. There your little Cordelia will have my boy Matt to
play with; and, further, the young hero will be old enough and strong
enough to have a care for her. Tell me--promise me--it shall be so.”

When Sir William had finally given the required promise he had a request
to make on his own account. He made it thus:

“George, I am a sicker man than you think. Should it prove in the end
that I am going to England only to die, I wish to leave my child in your
charge. You will be her guardian. Promise me that.”

At first George Brandon had been unwilling to listen to any such thing
as his friend’s dying; but, at length, when the baronet had pushed him
into a corner, he had replied:

“Look ye, William, you are going to Allerdale. That is settled. If you
are to die, as you seem to think may be possible, you will die there. If
that is to be, let my father be your daughter’s guardian. She could not
have a better. You can arrange with him, if you please, that should he
die while Cordelia is under age and I should survive him, he may
transfer the authority to me. Under such circumstances I should assume
the duties most cheerfully, though with sad remembrance. However, my
father is a hale and hearty man, and comes of a long-lived stock. I am
very sure, barring accidents, that he will live to see your daughter
married.”

So Sir William had left India with the understanding that if a guardian
should be required for his child the old earl should be the man.

Once Lord Oakleigh had let fall the remark that it might be a pleasant
thing in the future that their children should become united in
marriage; but Sir William had made no response.

Perhaps he felt that it was too early to be thinking of marriage for his
little pet, and it is not impossible that he preferred to wait a few
years and see what sort of a husband his friend’s son gave promise of
making.

That was the first and the last word ever spoken between Lord Oakleigh
and Sir William Chester regarding the marriage of their children; but it
was not the last of the subject, as we shall see anon.

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