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Breakfast next morning.
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--Woodward, on his way Home, meets a Stranger. --Their Conversation.
The next morning he joined the family in the breakfast parlor, where he was received with much kindness and attention. The stranger was a young man, probably about twenty-seven, well made, and with features that must be pronounced good; but, from whatever cause it proceeded, they were felt to be by no means agreeable. It was impossible to quarrel with, or find fault with them; their symmetry was perfect; the lip well defined, but hard and evidently unfeeling; his brows, which joined each other, were black, and, what was very peculiar, were heaviest where they met--a circumstance which, notwithstanding the regularity of his other features, gave him, unless when he smiled, a frowning if not a sinister aspect. That, however, which was most remarkable in his features was the extraordinary fact that his eyes were each of a different color, one being black and piercing in its gleam, and the other gray; from which circumstance he was known from his childhood by the name of _Harry na Suil Gloir_--Suil Gloir being an epithet always bestowed by the Irish upon persons who possessed eyes of that unnatural character. This circumstance, however, was not observed on that occasion by any of the family. His general manners, though courteous, were cold, and by no means such as were calculated either to bestow or inspire confidence. His language, too, was easy enough when he spoke, but a cold habit of reserve seemed to permeate his whole being, and to throw a chill upon the feelings of those to whom he addressed himself. So much was this the case that when ever he assumed an air of familiarity a dark, strange, and undefinable spirit, which was strongly felt, seemed not only to contradict his apparent urbanity, but to impress his auditors with a sense of uneasiness sometimes amounting to pain--an impression, however, for which they could not at all account.
“Sir,” said Mr. Goodwin, “I hope you slept well after what you suffered under the tempest of last night?”
“I assure you, sir, I never enjoyed a rounder night's sleep in my life,” replied their guest; “and were it not for the seasonable shelter of your hospitable roof I know not what would have become of me. I am unacquainted with the country, and having lost my way, I knew not where to seek shelter, for the night was so dreadfully dark that unless by the flashes of the lightning nothing could be seen.”
“It was certainly an awful--a terrible night,” observed his host; “but come, its severity is now past; let me see you do justice to your fare;--a little more ham?”
“Thank you, sir,” replied the other; “if you please. Indeed, I cannot complain of my appetite, which is at all times excellent”--and he certainly corroborated the truth of his statement by a sharp and vigorous attack upon the good things before him.
“Sir,” said Mrs. Goodwin, “we feel happy to have had the satisfaction of opening our doors to you last night; and there is only one other circumstance which could complete our gratification.”
“The gratification, madam,” he replied, “as well as the gratitude, ought to be all on my side, although I have no doubt, and can have none, that the consciousness of your kindness and hospitality are equally gratifying on yours. But may I ask to what you allude, madam?”
“You are evidently a gentleman, sir, and a stranger, and we would feel obliged by knowing--” “O, I beg your pardon, madam,” he replied, interrupting her; “I presume that you are good enough to flatter me by a wish to know the name of the individual whom your kindness and hospitality have placed under such agreeable obligations. For my part I have reason to bless the tempest I which, I may say, brought me under your roof. 'It is an ill wind,' says the proverb, 'that blows nobody good;' and it is a clear case, my very kind hostess, that at this moment we are mutually ignorant of each other. I assure you, then, madam, that I am not a knight-errant travelling in disguise and in quest of adventure, but a plain gentleman, by name Woodward, step-son to a neighbor of yours, Mr. Lindsay, of Rathfillan House. I need scarcely say that I am Mrs. Lindsay's son by her first husband. And now, madam, may I beg to know the name of the family to whom I am indebted for so much kindness.”
Mrs. Goodwin and her husband exchanged glances, and something like a slight cloud appeared to overshadow for a moment the expression of their countenances. At length Mr. Goodwin spoke.
“My name, sir,” he proceeded, “is Goodwin; and until a recent melancholy event, your family and mine were upon the best and most cordial terms; but, unfortunately, I must say that we are not so now--a circumstance which I and mine deeply regret. You must not imagine, however, that the knowledge of your name and connections could make the slightest difference in our conduct toward you on that account. Your family, Mr. Woodward, threw off our friendship and disclaimed all intimacy with us; but I presume you are not ignorant of the cause of it.”
“I should be uncandid if I were to say so, sir. I am entirely aware of the cause of it; but I cannot see that there is any blame whatsoever to be attached to either you or yours for the act of my poor uncle. I assure you, sir, I am sorry that my family failed to consider it in its proper light; and you will permit me to request that you we not identify my conduct with theirs. So far as I am least am concerned, my uncle's disposition of his property shall make no breach nor occasion any coolness between us. On the contrary, I shall feel honored by being permitted to pay my respects to you all, and to make myself worthy of your good opinions.”
“That is generously spoken, Mr. Woodward,” replied the old man; “and it will afford us sincere pleasure to reciprocate the sentiments you have just expressed.”
“You make me quite happy, sir,” replied Woodward, bowing very courteously. “This, I presume, is the young lady to whom my cousin Agnes was so much attached?”
“She is, sir,” replied her father.
“Might I hope for the honor of being presented to her, Mr. Goodwin?”
“With pleasure, sir. Alice, my dear, although you already know who this gentleman is, yet allow me, nevertheless, to present him to you.”
The formal introduction accordingly took place, after which Woodward, turning to Mrs. Goodwin, said, “I am not surprised, madam, at the predilection which my cousin entertained for Miss Goodwin, even from what I see; but I feel that I am restrained by her presence from expressing myself at further length. I have only to say that I wish her every happiness, long life, and health to enjoy that of which she seems, and I am certain is, so worthy.”
He accompanied those words with a low bow and a very gracious smile, after which, his horse having been brought to the door, he took his leave with a great deal of politeness, and rode, according to the directions received from Mr. Goodwin, toward his father's house.
After his departure the family began to discuss his character somewhat to the following effect: “That is a fine young man,” said Mr. Goodwin, “liberal-minded and generous, or I am much mistaken. What do you think, Martha,” he added, addressing his wife.
“Upon my word,” replied that lady, “I am much of your opinion--yet I don't know either; although polite and courteous, there is something rather disagreeable about him.”
“Why,” inquired her husband, “what is there disagreeable about him? I could perceive nothing of the sort; and when we consider that his uncle, who left this property to Alice, was his mother's brother, and that he was nephew by blood as well as by law, and that it was the old man's original intention that the property should go directly to him, or in default of issue, to his brother--I think when we consider this, Martha, that we cannot but entertain a favorable impression of him, considering what he has lost by the unexpected turn given to his prospects in consequence of his uncle's will. Alice, my dear, what is your opinion of him?”
“Indeed, papa,” she replied, “I have had--as we all have had--but a very slight opportunity to form any opinion of him. As for me, I can judge only by the impressions which his conversation and person have left upon me.”
“Well, anything favorable or otherwise?”
“Anything at all but favorable, papa--I experienced something like pain during breakfast, and felt a strong sense of relief the moment he left the room.”
“Poor child, impressions are nothing. I have met men of whom first impressions were uniformly unfavorable, who, notwithstanding their rough outsides, were persons of sterling worth and character.”
“Yes, papa, and men of great plausibility and ease of manner, who, on the contrary, were deep, hypocritical and selfish when discovered and their hearts laid open. As regards Mr. Woodward, however, heaven forbid that I should place the impressions of an ignorant girl like myself against the knowledge and experience of a man who has had such opportunities of knowing the world as you. All I can say is, that whilst he seemed to breathe a very generous spirit, my impressions were completely at variance with every sentiment he uttered. Perhaps, however, I do him injustice--and I should regret that very much. I will then, in deference to your opinion, papa, endeavor to control those impressions and think as well of him as I can.”
“You are right, Alice, and I thank you. We should never, if possible, suffer ourselves to be prematurely ungenerous in our estimate of strangers, especially when we know that this world is filled with the most absurd and ridiculous prejudices. How do you know, my dear child, that yours is not one of them?”
“Alice, love,” said her mother, “I think, upon reflection, your father is right, as he always is; let us not be less generous than this young man, and you know it would be ungenerous to prejudge him; and this comes the more strange from you, my love, inasmuch as I never yet heard you express a prejudice almost against any person.”
“Because I don't remember, mamma, that I ever felt such an impression--prejudice--call it what you will--against any individual as I do against this man. I absolutely fear him without knowing why.”
“Precisely so, my dear Alice,” replied her father, “precisely so; and, as you say, with-out knowing why. In that one phrase, my child, you have defined prejudice to the letter. Fie, Alice; have more sense, my dear; have more sense. Dismiss this foolish prejudice against a young man, who, from what he said at breakfast, is entitled to better feelings at your hands.”
“As I said, papa, I shall certainly strive to do so.”
Alice Goodwin's person and character must, at this stage of our narrative, be made known to our readers. As to her person, it is only sufficient to say that she was a tall, beautiful girl, of exceeding grace and wonderful proportions. There was, however, a softness about her appearance of constitutional delicacy that seemed to be incompatible with a strong mind, or perhaps we should rather say that was identical with an excess of feeling. This was exhibited in the tenderness of her attachment to Agnes Hamilton, and in the agonizing grief which she experienced at her death--a grief which had well-nigh become fatal to a girl of her fragile organization. The predominant trait, however, in her character was timidity and a terror of a hundred trifles, which, in the generality of her sex, would occasion only indifference or laughter. On that very morning, for instance, she had not recovered from her painful apprehensions of the thunder-storm which had occurred on the preceding night. Of thunder, but especially of lightning, she was afraid even to pusillanimity; indeed so much so, that on such occurrences she would bind her eyes, fly down stairs, and take refuge in the cellar until the I hurly-burly in the clouds was over. This, however, was not so much to be wondered at by those who live in our present and more enlightened days; as our readers will admit when they are told that the period of our narrative is in the reign of that truly religious monarch, Charles the Second, who, conscious of his inward and invisible grace, was known to exhaust himself so liberally of his virtue, when touching for the Evil, that there was very little of it left to regulate that of his own private life. In those days Ireland was a mass of social superstitions, and a vast number of cures in a variety of diseases were said to be performed by witches, wizards, fairy-men, fairy-women, and a thousand other impostors, who, supported by the gross ignorance of the people, carried that which was first commenced in fraud and cunning into a self-delusion, which, in process of time, led them to become dupes to their own impostures. It is not to be wondered at, then, that Alice Goodwin, a young creature of a warm imagination and extraordinary constitutional timidity, should feel the full force of the superstitions which swarmed around her, and impregnated her fancy so strongly that it teemed with an unhealthy creation, which frequently rendered her existence painful by a morbid apprehension of wicked and supernatural influences. In other respects she was artlessness itself, could never understand what falsehood meant, and, as to truth, her unspotted mind was transparent as a sunbeam. Our readers are not to understand, however, that though apparently flexible and ductile, she possessed no power of moral resistance. So very far from that, her disposition, wherever she thought herself right, was not only firm and unbending, but sometimes rose almost to obstinacy. This, however, never appeared, unless she considered herself as standing upon the basis of truth. In cases where her judgment was at fault, or when she could not see her way, she was a perfect child, and, like a child, should be taken by the hand and supported. It was, however, when mingling in society that her timidity and bashfulness were most observable; these, however, were accompanied with so much natural grace, and unaffected innocence of manner, that the general charm of her whole character was fascinating and irresistible; nay, her very weaknesses created an atmosphere of love and sympathy around her that nobody could breathe without feeling her influence. Her fear of ghosts and fairies, her dread of wizards and witches, of wise women and strolling conjurers, with the superstitious accounts of whom the country then abounded, were, in the eyes of her more strong-minded friends, only a source of that caressing and indulgent affection which made its artless and innocent object more dear to them. Every one knows with what natural affection and tenderness we love the object which clings to us for support under the apprehension of danger, even when we ourselves are satisfied that the apprehension is groundless. So was it with Alice Goodwin, whose harmless foibles and weaknesses, associated as they were with so much truth and purity, rendered her the darling of all who knew her.
Woodward had not proceeded far on his way when he was overtaken by an equestrian, who came up to him at a smart pace, which, however, he checked on getting beside him.
“A fine morning, sir, after an awful night,” observed the stranger.
“It is, sir,” replied Woodward, “and a most awful night it assuredly was. Have you heard whether there has been destruction to life or property to any extent?”
“Not so much to life,” replied his companion, “but seriously, I understand, to property. If you had ridden far you must have observed the number of dwelling-houses and out-offices that have been unroofed, and some of them altogether blown down.”
“I have not ridden far,” said Woodward; “I was obliged to take shelter in the house of a country gentleman named Goodwin, who lives over in the trees.”
“You were fortunate in finding shelter anywhere,” replied the stranger, “during such a tempest. I remember nothing like it.”
As they proceeded along, indulging in similar chat, they observed that five or six countrymen, who had been walking at a smart pace, about a couple of hundred yards before them, came suddenly to a stand-still, and, after appearing to consult together, they darted off the road and laid themselves down, as if with a view of concealment, behind the grassy ditch which ran along it.
“What can these persons mean?” asked Woodward; “they seem to be concealing themselves.”
“Unquestionably they do,” replied the stranger; “and yet there appears to be no pursuit after them. I certainly can give no guess as to their object.”
While attempting, as they went along, to account for the conduct of the peasants, they were met by a female with a head of hair that was nearly blood-red, and whose features were hideously ugly, or rather, we should say, absolutely revolting. Her brows, which were of the same color as the hair, were knit into a scowl, such as is occasioned by an intense expression of hatred and malignity, yet which was rendered almost frightful by a squint that would have disfigured the features of a demon. Her coarse hair lay matted together in stiff, wiry waves! on each side of her head, from whence it streamed down her shoulders, which it covered like a cape of scarlet. As they approached each other, she glanced at them with a look from which they could only infer that she seemed to meditate the murder of each, and yet there was mingled with its malignity a bitter but derisive expression that was perfectly diabolical.
“What a frightful hag!” exclaimed Woodward, addressing his companion; “I never had a perfect conception of the face of an ogress until now! Did you observe her walrus tusks, as they projected over her misshapen nether lip? The hag appears to be an impersonation of all that is evil.”
“She may be a very harmless creature for all that,” replied the other; “we are not to judge by appearances. I know a man who had murder depicted in his countenance, if ever a man had, and yet there lived! not a kinder, more humane, or benevolent creature on earth. He was as simple, too, as a child, and the most affectionate father! and husband that ever breathed. These, however, may be exceptions; for most certainly I am of opinion that the countenance may be considered, in general, a very certain index to the character and disposition. But what is this? --here are the men returning from their journey, let us question them.”
“Pray,” said Woodward, addressing them, “if it be not impertinent, may I inquire why you ran in such a hurry off the road just now, and hid yourselves behind the ditch?”
“Certainly, sir, you may,” replied one of them; “we wor on our way to the fair of, Knockmore, and we didn't wish to meet Pugshy Roe.” (Red Peggy).
“But why should you not wish to meet her?”
“Bekaise, sir, she's unlucky--unlucky in the three ways--unlucky to man, unlucky to baste, and unlucky to business. She overlooks, sir; she has the Evil Eye--the Lord be about us!”
“The Evil Eye,” repeated Woodward, dryly; “and pray, what harm could her evil eye do you?”
“Why, nothing in the World,” replied the man, naively, “barrin' to wither us off o' the earth--that's all.”
“Has she been long in this neighborhood?” asked the stranger.
“Too long, your honor. Sure she overlooked Biddy Nelligan's child, and it never did good afterwards.”
“And I,” said another, “am indebted to the thief o' hell for the loss of as good a cow as ever filled a piggin.”
“Well, sure,” observed a third, “Father Mullen is goin' to read her out next Sunday from the althar. She has been banished from every parish in the counthry. Indeed, I believe he's goin' to drown the candles against her, so that, plaise the Lord, she'll have to tramp.”
“How does she live and maintain herself?” asked the stranger again.
“Why, sir,” replied the man, “she tuck possession of a waste cabin and a bit o' garden belongin' to it; and Larry Sullivan, that owns it, was goin' to put her out, when, Lord save us, he and his whole family were saized with sickness, and then he sent word to her that if she'd take it off o' them and put it on some one else he'd let her stay.”
“And did she do so?”
“She did, sir; every one o' them recovered, and she put it on his neighbor, poor Harry Commiskey and his family, that used to visit them every day, and from them it went over the country--and bad luck to her! Devil a man of us would have had luck or grace in the fair to-day if we had met her. That's another gift she has--to bring bad luck to any one that meets her first in the mornin'; for if they're goin' upon any business it's sure not to thrive with them. She's worse than Mrs. Lindsay; for Mrs. Lindsay, although she's unlucky to meet, and unlucky to cattle, too, has no power over any one's life; but they say it has always been in her family, too.”
The equestrians then proceeded at a rather brisk pace until they had got clear of the peasants, when they pulled up a little.
“That is a strange superstition, sir,” said Woodward, musingly.
“It is a very common one in this country, at all events,” replied the other; “and I believe pretty general in others as well as here.”
“Do you place any faith in it?” asked the other.
The stranger paused, as if investigating the subject in question, after which he replied, “To a certain extent I do; but it is upon this principle, that I believe the force of imagination on a weak mind constitutes the malady. What is your own opinion?”
“Why, that it is not a superstition but a fact; a fact, too, which has been frequently proved; and, what is more, it is known, as the man said, to be hereditary in families.”
“I don't give credence to that,” said the stranger.
“Why not, sir?” replied Woodward; “are not the moral qualities hereditary? are not the tempers and dispositions hereditary, as well as decline, insanity, scrofula, and other physical complaints?”
The stranger paused again, and said, “Perhaps so. There is certainly much mystery in human nature; more, probably, than we can conceive or be aware of. Time, however, and the progress of science, will develop much. But who was this Mrs. Lindsay that the man spoke of?”
“That lady, sir,” replied the other, “is my mother.”
The stranger, from a feeling of delicacy, made no observation upon this, but proceeded to take another view of the same subject.
“Suppose, then,” he added, “that we admit the fact that the eye of a certain individual can transfuse, by the force of strong volition, an evil influence into the being or bodily system of another--why should it happen that an eye or touch charged with beneficence, instead of evil, should fail to affect with a sanative contagion those who labor under many diseases?”
“The only reply I can make to your question,” said Woodward, “is this: the one has been long and generally known to exist, whereas the latter has never been heard of, which most assuredly would not have been the case if it had ever existed; as for the cure of the King's Evil it is a royal imposture.”
“I believe in the latter,” observed the other calmly.
“Upon what grounds?” asked his companion.
“Simply because I know a person who possesses the sanative power I speak of.”
“And I believe in the former,” replied Woodward, “and upon better grounds still, because I possess it myself.”
“You will pardon me,” said the other; “but I hesitate to believe that.”
Woodward, who felt this imputation against his veracity with resentment, suddenly pulled up his horse, and, turning himself on the saddle, looked upon his companion with an expression that was as extraordinary as it was blighting. The stranger, on the other hand, reining in his horse, and taking exactly the same attitude as Woodward, bent his eye on him in return; and there they sat opposite to each other, where we will leave them until we describe the somewhat extraordinary man who had become the fellow-traveller of the hero of the breakfast table.
[Illustration: PAGE 631-- The gaze was long and combative] He was mounted upon a powerful charger; for indeed it was evident at a glance that no other would have been equal to his weight. He was well-dressed--that is to say, in the garb of a country gentleman of the day. He wore his own hair, however, which fell in long masses over his shoulders, and a falling collar, which came down over his breast. His person was robust and healthy looking, and, what is not very usual in large men, it was remarkable for the most consummate proportion and symmetry. He wore boots and silver spurs, and his feet were unusually small, considering his size, as were also his hands. That, however, which struck the beholder with amazement, was the manly beauty of his features. At a first glance this was visible; but on contemplating them more closely you began to feel something strange and wonderful associated with a feeling of veneration and pleasure. Even this, however, was comparatively little to what a still more deliberate perusal of that face brought to light. There could be read that extraordinary union of humility and grandeur; but above all, and beyond all other expressions, there proceeded from his eyes, and radiated like a halo from every part of his countenance, a sense of power which was felt to be irresistible. His eyes, indeed, were almost transparent with light--a light so clear, benignant, and strong, that it was impossible to withstand their glance, radiant with benevolence though it was. The surrender to that glance, however, was a willing and a pleasing one. The spectator submitted to it as an individual would to the eye of a blessed spirit that was known to communicate nothing but good. There, then, they sat contemplating one another, each, as it were, in the exercise of some particular power, which, in this case, appeared to depend altogether on the expressions of the eye. The gaze was long and combative in its character, and constituted a trial of that moral strength which each, in the peculiar constitution of his being, seemed to possess. After some time, however, Woodward's glance seemed to lose its concentrative power, and gradually to become vague and blank. In a little time he felt himself rapidly losing ground, and could hardly avoid thinking that the eyes of his opponent were looking into his very soul: his eyelids quivered, his eyes assumed a dull and listless appearance, and ultimately closed for some moments--he was vanquished, and he felt it.
“What is the matter with you?” said his companion at length, “and why did you look at me with such a singular gaze? I hope you do not feel resentment at what I said. I hesitated to believe you only because I thought you might be mistaken.” .
“I entertain no resentment against you,” replied Woodward; “but I must confess I feel astonished. Pray, allow me to ask, sir, are you a medical man?”
“Not at all,” replied the other; “I never received a medical education, and yet I perform a great number of cures.”
“Then, sir,” said Woodward, “I take it, with every respect, that you must be a quack.”
“Did you ever know a quack to work a cure without medicine?” replied the other; “I cure without medicine, and that is more than the quack is able to do with it; I consequently, cannot be a quack.”
“Then, in the devil's name, what are you?” asked Woodward, who felt that his extraordinary fellow-traveller was amusing himself at his expense.
“I reply to no interrogatory urged upon such authority,” said the stranger; “but let me advise you, young man, not to allow that mysterious and malignant power which you seem to possess to gratify itself by injury to your fellow-creatures. Let it be the principal purpose of your life to serve them by every means within your reach, otherwise you will neglect to your cost those great duties for which God created you. Farewell, my friend, and remember my words; for they are uttered in a spirit of kindness and good feeling.”
They had now arrived at cross-roads; the stranger turned to the right, and Woodward proceeded, as directed, toward Rathfillan House, the residence of his father.
The building was a tolerably large and comfortable one, without any pretence to architectural beauty. It had a plain porch before the hall-door, with a neat lawn, through which wound a pretty drive up to the house. On each side of the lawn was a semicircle of fine old trees, that gave an ancient appearance to the whole place.
Now, one might imagine that Woodward would have felt his heart bound with affection and delight on his return to all that ought to have been dear to him after so long an absence. So far from that, however, he returned in disappointment and ill-temper, for he calculated that unless there had been some indefensible neglect, or unjustifiable offence offered to his uncle Hamilton by his family, that gentleman, who, he knew, had the character of being both affectionate and good-natured, would never have left his property to a stranger. The alienation of this property from himself was, indeed, the bitter reflection which rankled in his heart, and established in it a hatred against the Goodwins which he resolved by some means to wreak upon them in a spirit of the blackest vengeance. Independently of this, we feel it necessary to say here, that he was utterly devoid of domestic affection, and altogether insensible to the natural claims and feelings of consanguinity. His uncle abroad, for instance, had frequently urged him to pay a visit to his relatives, and, of course, to supply him liberally with the necessary funds for the journey. To every such suggestion, however, he gave a decided negative. “If they wish to see me,” he would reply, “let them come and see me: as for me, I have no wish to see them, and I shall not go.”
This unnatural indifference to the claims of blood and affection, not only startled his uncle, but shook his confidence in the honor and integrity of his favorite. Some further discoveries of his dishonesty ultimately led to his expulsion from the heart of that kind relative, as well as from the hospitable roof of which he proved himself so unworthy.
With such a natural disposition, and affected as he must have been by a train of circumstances so decidedly adverse to his hopes and prospects, our readers need not feel surprised that he should return home in anything but an agreeable mood of mind.
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Woodward meets a Guide--His Reception at Home--Preparations for a Fete.
Woodward rode slowly, as he indulged in those disagreeable reflections to which we alluded, until he reached a second crossroads, where he found himself somewhat at a loss whether to turn or ride straight onward. While pausing for a moment, as to which way he should take, the mellow whistle of some person behind him indulging in a light-hearted Irish air, caused him to look back, when he saw a well-made, compact, good-looking young fellow approaching, who, finding his attention evidently directed to him, concluded his melody and respectfully touched hia hat.”
“Pray, my good friend,” said Woodward, “can you direct me to Rathfillan, the residence of Mr. Lindsay, the magistrate?”
“Misther Lindsay's, is it?”
“Yes; I said so.”
“Well, I think I can, sir.”
“Yes; but are you sure of it?”
“Well, I think I am, sir.”
“You think! why, d--n it, sir, do you not know whether you are or not?”
“May I ax, sir,” inquired the other in his turn, “if you are a religious character?”
“WHy, what the devil has that to do with the matter in question?” said Woodward, beginning to lose his temper. “I ask you to direct me to the residence of a certain gentleman, and you ask me whether I am a religious character? What do you mean by that?”
“Why, sir,” replied the man, “not much, I'm afeard--only if you had let me speak, which you didn't, God pardon you, I was going to say, that if you knew the way to heaven as well as I do to Misther Lindsay's you might call yourself a happy man, and born to luck.”
Woodward looked with something of curiosity at his new companion, and was a good deal struck with his appearance. His age might be about twenty-eight or from that to thirty; his figure stout and well-made; his features were decidedly Milesian, but then they were Milesian of the best character; his mouth was firm, but his lips full, red, and handsome; his clear, merry eyes would puzzle one to determine whether they were gray or blue, so equally were the two colors blended in them. After a very brief conversation with him, no one could doubt that humor formed a predominant trait in his disposition. In fact, the spirit of the forthcoming jest was visible in his countenance before the jest itself came forth; but although his whole features bore a careless and buoyant expression, yet there was no mistaking in them the unquestionable evidences of great shrewdness and good sense. He also indulged occasionally in an ironical and comic sarcasm, which, however, was never directed against his friends; this he reserved for certain individuals whose character entitled them to it at his hands. He also drew the long-bow, when he wished, with great skill and effect. Woodward, after having scrutinized his countenance for some time, was about to make some inquiries, as a stranger, concerning his family and the reputation they bore in the neighborhood, when he found himself, considerably to his surprise, placed in the witness-box for a rather brisk fire of cross-examination.
“You are no stranger in this part of the country, I presume” said he, with a view of bringing him out for his own covert and somewhat ungenerous purposes.
“I am no stranger, sure enough, sir,” replied the other, “so far as a good slice of the counthry side goes; but if I am not you are, sir, or I'm out in it.”
“Yes, I am a stranger here.”
“Never mind, sir, don't let that disthress you; it's a good, man's case, sir. Did you thravel far, wid submission? I spake in kindness, sir.”
“Why, yes, a--a--pretty good distance; but about Mr. Lindsay and--” “Yes, sir; crossed over, sir, I suppose? I mane from the other side?”
“O! you want to know if I crossed the Channel?”
“Had you a pleasant passage, sir?”
“Yes, tolerable.”
“Thank God! I hope you'll make a long stay with us, sir, in this part of the counthry. If you have any business to do with Mr. Lindsay--as of coorse you have--why, I don't think you and he will quarrel; and by the way, sir, I know him and the family well, and if I only got a glimpse, I could throw in a word or two to guide you in dalin' wid him--that is, if I knew the business.”
“As to that,” replied Woodward, “it is not very particular; I am only coming on a pretty long visit to him, and as you say you know the family, I would feel glad to hear what you think of them.”
“Misther Lindsay, or rather Misther Charles, and you will have a fine time of it, sir. There's delightful fishin' here, and the best of shootin' and huntin' in harvest and winter--that is, if you stop so long.”
“What kind of a man is Mr. Lindsay?”
“A fine, clever (*Portly, large, comely) man, sir; six feet in his stockin' soles, and made in proportion.”
“But I want to know nothing about his figure; is the man reputed good or bad?”
“Why, just good or bad, sir, according as he's treated.”
“Is he well liked, then? I trust you understand me now.”
“By his friends, sir, no man betther--by them that's his enemies, not so well.”
“You mentioned a son of his, Charles, I think; what kind of a young fellow is he?”
“Very like his father, sir.”
“I see; well, I thank you, my friend, for the liberality of your information. Has he any daughters?”
“Two, sir; but very unlike their mother.”
“Why, what kind of a woman is their mother?”
“She's a saint, sir, of a sartin class--ever and always at her prayers,” (_sotto voce_, “such as they are--cursing her fellow-cratures from mornin' till night.”)
“Well, at all events, it is a good thing to be religious.”
“Devil a better, sir; but she, as I said, is a saint from--heaven” (_sotto voce_, “and very far from it too.) But, sir, there's a lady in this neighborhood--I won't name her--that has a tongue as sharp and poisonous as if she lived on rattlesnakes; and she has an eye of her own that they say is every bit as dangerous.”
“And who is she, my good fellow?”
“Why, a very intimate friend of Mrs. Lindsay's, and seldom out of her company. Now, sir, do you see that house wid the tall chimleys, or rather do you see the tall chimleys--for you can't see the house itself? That's where the family we spake of lives, and there you'll see Mrs. Lindsay and the lady I mention.”
Woodward, in fact, knew not what to make of his guide; he found him inscrutable, and deemed it useless to attempt the extortion of any further intelligence from him. The latter was ignorant that Mrs. Lindsay's son was expected home, as was every member of that gentleman's family. He had, in fact, given them no information of his return. The dishonest fraud which he had practised upon his uncle, and the apprehension that that good old man had transmitted an account of his delinquency to his relatives, prevented him from writing, lest he might, by subsequent falsehoods, contradict his uncle, and thereby involve himself in deeper disgrace. His uncle, however, was satisfied with having got rid of him, and forbore to render his relations unhappy by any complaint of his conduct. His hope was, that Woodward's expulsion from his house, and the withdrawal of his affections from him, might, upon reflection, cause him to turn over a new leaf--an effort which would have been difficult, perhaps impracticable, had he transmitted to them a full explanation of his perfidy and ingratitude.
A thought now occurred to Woodward with reference to himself. He saw that his guide, after having pointed out his father's house to him, was still keeping him company.
“Perhaps you are coming out of your way,” said he; “you have been good enough to show me Mr. Lindsay's residence, and I have no further occasion for your services. I thank you: take this and drink my health;”,and as he spoke he offered him some silver.
“Many thanks, sir,” replied the man, in a far different tone of voice, “many thanks; but I never resave or take payment for an act of civility, especially from any gentleman on his way to the family of Mr. Lindsay. And now, sir, I will tell you honestly and openly that there is not a better gentleman alive this day than he is. Himself, his son, and daughter* are loved and honored by all that know them; and woe betide the man that 'ud dare to crock (crook) his finger at one of them.”
* His daughter Jane was with a relation in England, and does not appear in this romance.
“You seem to know them very well.”
“I have a good right, sir, seein' that I have been in the family ever since I was a gorson.”
“And is Mrs. Lindsay as popular as her husband?”
“She is his wife, sir--the mother of his children, and my misthress; afther that you may judge for yourself.”
“Of course, then, you are aware that they have a son abroad.”
“I am, sir, and a fine young man they say he is. Nothing vexes them so much as that he won't come to see them. He's never off their tongue; and if he's aquil to what they say of him, upon my credit the sun needn't take the trouble of shinin' on him.”
“Have they any expectation of a visit from him, do you know'?”
“Not that I hear, sir; but I know that nothing would rise the cockles of their hearts aquil to seein' him among them. Poor fellow! Mr. Hamilton's will was a bad business for him, as it was thought he'd have danced into the property. But then, they say, his other uncle will provide for him, especially as he took him from the family, by all accounts, on that condition.”
This information--if information it could be called--was nothing more nor less than wormwood and gall to the gentleman on whose ears and into whose heart it fell. The consciousness of his present position--discarded by a kind uncle for dishonesty, and deprived, as he thought, by the caprice or mental imbecility, of another uncle, of a property amounting to upwards of twelve hundred per annum--sank upon his heart with a feeling which filled it with a deep and almost blasphemous resentment at every person concerned, which he could scarcely repress from the observation of his guide.
“What is your name?” said he abruptly to him; and as he asked the question he fixed a glance upon him that startled his companion.
The latter looked at him, and felt surprised at the fearful expression of his eye; in the meantime, we must say, that he had not an ounce of coward's flesh on his bones.
“What is my name, sir?” he replied. “Faith, afther that look, if you don't know my name, I do yours; there was your mother's eye fastened on me to the life. However, take it easy, sir; devil a bit I'm afeared. If you're not her son, Misther Woodward, why, I'm not Barney Casey, that's all. Don't deny it, sir; you're welcome home, and I'm glad to see you, as they all will be.”
“Harkee, then,” said Woodward, “you are right; but, mark me, keep quiet, and allow me to manage matters in my own way; not a syllable of the discovery you have made, or it will be worse for you. I am not a person to be trifled with.”
“Troth, and you're right there, sir; it's what I often said, often say, and often will say of myself. Barney Casey is not the boy to be trifled wid.”
On arriving at the house, Barney took round the horse--a hired one, by the way--to the stable, and Woodward knocked. On the door being opened, he inquired if Mr. Lindsay was within, and was answered in the affirmative.
“Will you let him know a gentleman wishes to see him for a few minutes?”
“What name, sir, shall I say?”
“O, it doesn't matter--say a gentleman.”
“Step into the parlor, sir, and he will be with you immediately.”
He did so, and there was but a very short time when his step-father entered. Short, as the time was, however, he could not prevent himself from reverting to the strange equestrian he had met on his way, nor to the extraordinary ascendancy he had gained over him. Another young man placed in his circumstances would have felt agitated and excited by his approaching interview with those who were so nearly related to him, and whom, besides, he had not seen for such a long period of time. To every such emotion, however, he was absolutely insensible; there was no beating pulse, no heaving of the bosom, not a nerve disturbed by the tremulous vibrations of awakened affection, no tumult of the heart, no starting tear--no! there was nothing of all this--but, on the contrary, a calm, cold, imperturbable spirit, so dead and ignorant of domestic attachment, that the man could neither feel nor understand what it meant.
When his step-father entered, he naturally bowed to the stranger, and motioned him to a seat, which the other accordingly took. Lindsay certainly was, as Barney Casey had said, a very fine-looking man for his years. He was tall, erect, and portly, somewhat inclined to corpulency, of a handsome, but florid countenance, in which might be read a large expression of cheerfulness and good humor, together with that peculiar tinge which results from conviviality. Indeed, there could scarcely be witnessed a more striking contrast than that between his open, kind-looking features, and the sharp, disagreeable symmetry which marked those of his step-son with such a dark and unpleasant character.
“My servant tells me,” said Lindsay, courteously, “that you wished to see me.”
“I did, sir,” replied Woodward; “in that, he spoke correctly; I wished to see you, and I am glad to see you.”
“I thank you, sir,” replied the other, bowing again; “but--ahem--in the meantime, sir, you have the advantage of me.”
“And intend to keep it, sir, for a little,” replied Woodward with one of his cold smiles. “I came to speak to you, sir, concerning your son who is abroad, and to ask if you have recently heard from himself or his uncle.”
“O, then, I presume, sir,” replied Lindsay, “you are an acquaintance or friend of his; if so, allow me to bid you welcome; nothing, I assure you, could afford either myself or my family greater pleasure than to meet and show attention to any friend of his. Unfortunately, we have heard nothing from him or his uncle for nearly the last year and a half; but, you will be doubly welcome, sir, if you can assure us that they are both well. His uncle, or rather I should, say his grand-uncle, for in that relation he stands to him, adopted him, and a kinder man does not live.”
“I believe Mr. Woodward and his uncle are both well, the former, I think, sir, is your step-son only.”
“Don't say only, sir, he is just as much the son of my affection as his brother, and now, sir, may I request to know the name of the gentleman I am addressing?”
“Should you wish to see Henry Woodward himself, sir?”
“Dear sir, nothing would delight me more, and all of us, especially his mother; yet the ungrateful boy would never come near us, although he was pressed and urged to do so a hundred times.”
“Well, then, sir,” replied that gentleman, rising up, “he now stands before you; I am Henry Woodward, father.”
A hug that half strangled him was the first acknowledgment of his identity. “Zounds, my dear Harry--Harry, my dear boy, you're welcome a thousand times, ten thousand times. Stand off a little till I look at you; fine young fellow, and your mother's image. Gadzooks, I was stupid as a block not to know you; but who would have dreamed of it. There, I say--hallo, Jenny! --come here, all of you; here is Harry at last. Are you all deaf, or asleep?”
These words he shouted out at the top of his voice, and in a few minutes his mother, Charles, and his sister Maria entered the room, the two latter in a state of transport.
“Here, Jenny, here he is; you have the first claim; confound it, Charley, Maria, don't strangle the boy; ha, ha, ha!”
In fact, the precaution, so far as the affectionate brother and sister were concerned, was anything but needless. His mother, seeing their eagerness to embrace him, which they did with tears of delight, stood calmly by until he was disentangled from their arms, when she approached him and imprinted two kisses upon his lips, with an indifference of manner that, to a stranger, would have been extraordinary, but which, to those who were present, excited no surprise; for she had scarcely, during her life, ever kissed one of her own children. Nothing, indeed, could exceed the tumultuous exultation of spirits with which they received him, nor was honest Lindsay himself less joyously affected. Yet it might be observed that there was a sparkle in the eye of his mother, which was as singular as it was concentrated and intense. Such an expression might be observed in a menagerie when a tigress, indolently dallying with one of her cubs, exhibits, even in repose, those fiery scintillations in the eye which startle the beholders. The light of that eye, though intense, was cold, calculating, and disagreeable to look upon. The frigidity of her manner and reception of him might, to a certain extent, be accounted for from the fact that she had gone to his uncle's several times for the purpose of seeing him, and watching his interests. Let us not, therefore, impute to the coldness of her habits any want of affection for him; on the contrary, his little finger was a thousand times dearer to her than the bodies and souls of all her other children, adding to them her husband himself, put together. Besides, she was perfectly unsusceptible of emotions of tenderness, and, consequently, a woman of powerful will, inflexible determination, and the most inexorable resentments. She was also ambitious, as far as she had scope for it, within her sphere of life, and would have been painfully penurious in her family, were it not that the fiery resolution of her husband, when excited by long and intolerable provocation, was at all times able to subdue her--a superiority over her will and authority which she never forgave him. In fact, she neither loved himself, nor anything in common with him; and the natural affection which he displayed on the return of her son was one reason why she received him with such apparent indifference. To all the rest of the family she had a heart of stone. Since her second marriage they had lost three children; but, so far as she was concerned, each of them went down into a tearless grave. She had once been handsome; but her beauty, like her son's, was severe and disagreeable. There is, however, such a class of beauty, and it is principally successful with men who have a penchant for overcoming difficulties, because it is well known that the fact of conciliating or subduing it is justly considered no ordinary achievement. A great number of our old maids may trace their solitude and their celibacy to the very questionable gift of such beauty, and the dispositions which usually accompany it. She was tall, and had now grown thin, and her features had become sharpened by ill-temper into those of a flesh-less, angular-faced vixen. Altogether she was a faithful exponent of her own evil and intolerable disposition; and it was said that she had inherited that and the “unlucky eye” from a family that was said to have I been deservedly unpopular, and equally unscrupulous in their resentments.
“Well, Harry,” said she, after the warmhearted ebullition of feeling produced by his appearance had subsided, “so you have returned to us at last; but indeed, you return now to a blank and dismal prospect. Miss Goodwin's adder tongue has charmed the dotage of your silly old uncle to some purpose for herself.”
“Confound it, Jenny,” said her husband, “let the young man breathe, at least, before you bring up that eternal subject. Is not the matter over and decided and where is the use of your making both yourself and us unhappy by discussing it?”
“It may be decided, but it is not over, Lindsay,” she replied; “don't imagine it: I shall pursue the Goodwins, especially that sorceress, Alice, with a vengeance that will annul the will, and circumvent those who wheedled him into the making of it. My curse upon them all, as it will be!”
“Harry, when you become better acquainted with your mother,” said his step-father, “you will get sick of this. Have you breakfasted; for that is more to the point?”
“I have, sir,” replied the other; “and you would scarcely guess where;” and here he smiled and glanced significantly at his mother.
“Why, I suppose,” said Lindsay, “in whatever inn you stopped at.”
“No,” he replied; “I was obliged to seek shelter from the storm last night, and where do you think I found it?”
“Heaven knows. Where?”
“Why, with your friend and neighbor, Mr. Goodwin.”
“No friend, Harry,” said his mother; “don't say that.”
“I slept there last night,” he proceeded, “and breakfasted there this morning, and nothing could exceed the cordiality and kindness of my reception.”
“Did they know who you were?” asked his mother, with evident interest.
“Not till this morning, at breakfast.”
“Well,” said she again, “when they heard it?”
“Why, their attention and kindness even redoubled,” replied her son; “and as for Miss Goodwin herself, she's as elegant, as sweet, and as lovely a girl as I ever looked on. Mother, I beg you to entertain no implacable or inveterate enmity against her. I will stake my existence that she never stooped to any fraudulent circumvention of my poor uncle. Take my word for it, the intent and execution of the will must be accounted for otherwise.”
“Well and truly said, Harry,” said his step-father--“well and generously said; give me your hand,--my boy; thank you. Now, madam,” he proceeded, addressing his wife, “what have you to say to the opinion of a man who has lost so much by the transaction, when you hear that that opinion is given in her favor?”
“Indeed, my dear Harry,” observed his sister, “she is all that you have said of her, and much more, if you knew her as we do; she is all disinterestedness and truth, and the most unselfish girl that ever breathed.”
Now, there were two persons present who paused upon hearing this intelligence; one of whom listened to it with unexpected pleasure, and the other with mingled emotions of pleasure and pain. The first of these were Mrs. Lindsay, and the other her son Charles. Mrs. Lindsay, whose eyes were not for a moment off her son, understood the significant glance he had given her when he launched forth so heartily in the praise of Alice Goodwin; neither did the same glance escape the observation of his brother Charles, who inferred, naturally enough, from the warmth of the eulogium that had been passed upon her, that she had made, perhaps, too favorable an impression upon his brother. Of this, however, the reader shall hear more in due time.
“Well,” said the mother slowly, and in a meditating voice, “perhaps, after all, we may have done her injustice. If so, no person would regret it more than myself; but we shall see. You parted from them, Harry, on friendly terms?”
“I did, indeed, my dear mother, and am permitted, almost solicited, to make their further acquaintance, and cultivate a friendly intimacy with them, which I am determined to do.”
“Bravo, Harry, my fine fellow; and we will be on friendly terms with them once more. Poor, honest, and honorable old Goodwin! what a pity that either disunion or enmity should subsist between us. No; the families must be once more cordial and affectionate, as they ought to be. Bravo, Harry! your return is prophetic of peace and good feeling; and, confound me, but you shall have a bonfire this night for your generosity that will shame the sun. The tar-barrels shall blaze, and the beer-barrels shall run to celebrate your appearance amongst us. Come, Charley, let us go to Rathfillan, and get the townsfolk to prepare for the fete: we must have fiddlers and pipers, and plenty of dancing. Barney Casey must go among the tenants, too, and order them all into the town. Mat Mulcahy, the inn-keeper, must give us his best room; and, my life to yours, we will have a pleasant night of it.”
“George,” exclaimed his wife, in a tone of querulous remonstrance, “you know how expensive--” “Confound the expense and your penury both,” exclaimed her husband; “is it to your own son, on his return to us after such an absence, that you'd grudge the expense of a blazing bonfire?”
“Not the bonfire,” replied his wife, but--” “Ay, but the cost of drink to the tenants. Why, upon my soul, Harry, your mother is anything but popular here, you must know; and I think if it were not from respect to me and the rest of the family she'd be indicted for a witch. Gadzooks, Jenny, will I never get sense or liberality into your head? Ay, and if you go on after your usual fashion, it is not unlikely that you may have a tar-barrel of your own before long. Go, you and Harry, and tell your secrets to each other while we prepare for the jubilation. In the meantime, we must get up an extempore dinner to-day--the set dinner will come in due time, and be a different affair; but at all events some of the neighbors we must have to join us in the jovialities--hurroo!”
“Well, George,” said she, with her own peculiar smile, “I see you are in one of your moods to-day.”
“Ay, right enough, the imperative one, my dear.”
“And, so far as I am concerned, it would not certainly become me to stand in the way of any honor bestowed upon my son Harry; so I perceive you must only have it your own way--I consent.”
“I don't care a fig whether you do or not. When matters come to a push, I am always master of my own house, and ever will be so--and you know it. Good-by, Harry, we will be back in time for dinner, with as many friends as we can pick up on so short notice--hurroo!”
He and Charles accordingly went forth to make the necessary preparations, and give due notice of the bonfire, after which they succeeded in securing the attendance of about a dozen guests to partake of the festivity.
Barney, in the meantime, having received his orders for collecting, or, as it was then called, warning in the tenantry to the forthcoming bonfire, proceeded upon his message in high spirits, not on account of the honor it was designed to confer on Woodward, against whom he had already conceived a strong antipathy, in consequence of the resemblance he bore to his mother, but for the sake of the fun and amusement which he purposed to enjoy at it himself. The first house he went into was a small country cabin, such as a petty farmer of five or six acres at that time occupied. The door was not of wood, but of wicker-work woven across long wattles and plastered over with clay mortar. The house had two small holes in the front side-walls to admit the light; but during severe weather these were filled up with straw or rags to keep out the storm. On one side of the door stood a large curra, or, “ould man,” for it was occasionally termed both--composed of brambles and wattles tied up lengthwise together--about the height of a man and as thick as an ordinary sack. This was used, as they termed it, “to keep the wind from the door.” If the blast came from the right, it was placed on that side, and if from the left, it was changed to the opposite. Chimneys, at that period, were to be found only upon the houses of extensive and wealthy farmers, the only substitute for them being a simple hole in the roof over the fireplace. The small farmer in question cultivated his acres with a spade: and after sowing his grain he harrowed it in with a large thorn bush, which he himself, or one of his sons, dragged over it with a heavy stone on the top to keep it close to the surface. When Barney entered this cabin he found the vanithee, or woman of the house, engaged in the act of grinding oats into meal for their dinner with a quern, consisting of two diminutive millstones turned by the hand; this was placed upon a praskeen, or coarse apron, spread under it on the floor to receive the meal. An old woman, her mother, sat spinning flax with the distaff--for as yet flax wheels were scarcely known--and a lubberly young fellow about sixteen, with able, well shaped limbs and great promise of bodily strength, sat before the fire managing a double task, to wit, roasting, first, a lot of potatoes in the _greeshaugh_, which consisted of half embers and half ashes, glowing hot; and, secondly, at a little distance from the larger lighted turf, two duck eggs, which, as well as the potatoes, he turned from time to time, that they might be equally done. All this he conducted by the aid of what was termed a _muddha vristha_, or rustic tongs, which was nothing more than a wattle, or stick, broken in the middle, between the ends of which he held both his potatoes and his eggs while turning them. Two good-looking, fresh-colored girls were squatted on their hunkers (hams), cutting potatoes for seed--late as the season was--with two case knives, which, had been borrowed from a neighboring farmer of some wealth. The dress of the women was similar and simple. It consisted of a long-bodied gown that had only half skirts; that is to say, instead of encompassing the whole person, the lower part of it came forward only as far as the hip bones, on each side, leaving the front of the petticoat exposed. This posterior part of the gown would, if left to fall to its full length, have formed a train behind them of at least two feet in length. It was pinned up, however, to a convenient length, and was not at all an ungraceful garment, if we except the sleeves, which went no farther than the elbows--a fashion in dress which is always unbecoming, especially when the arms are thin. The hair of the elder woman was doubled back in front, from about the middle of the forehead, and the rest of the head was covered by a _dowd cap_, the most primitive of all female headdresses, being a plain shell, or skull-cap, as it were, for the head, pointed behind, and without any fringe or border whatsoever. This turning up of the hair was peculiar only to married life, of which condition it was universally a badge. The young females wore theirs fastened behind by a skewer; but on this occasion one of them, the youngest, allowed it to fall in natural ringlets about her cheeks and shoulders.
“God save all here,” said Barney, as he entered the house.
“God save you kindly, Barney,” was the instant reply from all.
“Ah, Mrs. Davoren,” he proceeded, “ever the same; by this and by that, if there's a woman living ignorant of one thing, and you are that woman.”
“Sorrow off you, Barney! well, what is it?”
“Idleness, achora. Now, let me see if you have e'er a finger at all to show; for upon my honorable word they ought to be worn to the stumps long ago. Well, and how are you all? But sure I needn't ax. Faith, you're crushin' the _blanter_* anyhow, and that looks well.”
* Blantur, a well-known description of oats. It was so called from having been originally imported from Blantire in Scotland.
“We must live, Barney; 'tis a poor shift we'd make 'idout the praties and the broghan,” (meal porridge).
“What news from the big house?”
“News, is it? Come, Corney, come, girls, bounce; news is it? O, faitha', thin it's I that has the news that will make you all shake your feet to-night.”
“Blessed saints, Barney what is it?”
“Bounce, I say, and off wid ye to gather brusna (dried and rotten brambles) for a bonfire in the great town of Rathfillan.”
“A bonfire, Barney! Arra, why, man alive?”
“Why? Why, bekaise the masther's stepson and the misthress's own pet has come home to us to set the counthry into a state o' conflagration wid his beauty. There won't be a whole cap in the barony before this day week. They're to have fiddlers, and pipers, and dancin', and drinkin' to no end; and the glory of it is that the masther, God bless him, is to pay for all. Now!”
The younger of the two girls sprang to her feet with the elasticity and agility of a deer.
“O, _beetha_, Barney,” she exclaimed, “but that will be the fun! And the misthress's son is home? Arra, what is he like, Barney? Is he as handsome as Masther Charles?”
“I hope he's as good,” said her mother.
“As good, Bridget? No, but worth a shipload of him; he has a pair of eyes in his head, _Granua_,” (anglice, Grace,) addressing the younger, “that 'ud turn _Glendhis_ (the dark glen) to noonday at midnight; divil a lie in it; and his hand's never out of his pocket wid generosity.”
“O, mother,” said Grace, “won't we all go?”
“Don't ax your mother anything about it,” replied Barney, “bekaise mother, and father, and sister, and brother, daughter and son, is all to come.”
“Arra, Barney,” said Bridget Davoren, for such was her name, “is this gentleman like his _ecald_ of a mother?”
“Hasn't a feature of her purty face,” he replied, “and, to the back o' that, is very much given to religion. Troth, my own opinion is, he'll be one of ourselves yet; for I can tell you a saicret about him.”
“A saicret, Barney,” said Grace; “maybe he's married?”
“Married, no; he tould me himself this momin' that it's not his intention ever to marry 'till he meets a purty girl to plaise him; he'll keep a loose foot, he says, and an aisy conscience till then, he says; but the saicret is this, he never aits flesh mate of a Friday--when he emit get it. Indeed, I'm afeared he's too good to be long for this world; but still, if the Lord was to take him, wouldn't it be a proof that he had a great regard for him!”
Grace Davoren was flushed and excited with delight. She was about eighteen, rather tall for her age, but roundly and exquisitely moulded; her glossy ringlets, as they danced about her cheeks and shoulders, were black as ebony; but she was no brunette; for her skin was milk white, and that portion of her bosom, which was uncovered by the simple nature of her dress, threw back a polished light like ivory; her figure was perfection, and her white legs were a finer specimen of symmetry than ever supported the body of the _Venus de Medicis_. This was all excellent; but it was the sparkling lustre of her eyes, and the radiance of her whole countenance, that attracted the beholder. If there was anything to be found fault with, it was in the spirit, not in the physical perfection, of her beauty. There was, for instance, too much warmth of coloring and of constitution visible in her whole exquisite person; and sometimes her glances, would puzzle you to determine whether they were those of innocence or of challenge. Be this as it may, she was a rare specimen of rustic beauty and buoyancy of spirit.
“O, Barney,” said she, “that's the pleasantest news I heard this month o' Sundays--sich dancin' as we'll have! and maybe I won't foot it, and me got my new shoes and drugget gown last week;” and here she lilted a gay Irish air, to which she set a-dancing with a lightness of foot and vivacity of manner that threw her whole countenance into a most exquisite glow of mirthful beauty.
“Granua,” said her mother, reprovingly, “think of yourself and what you are about; if you worn't a light-hearted, and, I'm afeard, a light-headed, girl, too, you wouldn't go on as you do, especially when you know what you know, and what Barney here, too, knows.”
“Ah,” said Barney, his whole manner immediately changing, “have you heard from him, poor fellow?”
“Torley's gone to the mountains,” she replied, “and--but here he is. Well, Torley, what news, asthore?”
Her husband having passed a friendly greeting to Barney, sat down, and having taken off his hat, lifted the skirt of his cothamore (big coat) and wiped the perspiration off his large and manly forehead, on which, however, were the traces of deep care. He did not speak for some time, but at length said: “Bridget, give me a drink.”
His wife took a wooden noggin, which she dipped into a churn and handed him. Having finished it at a draught, he wiped his mouth with his gathered, palm, breathed deeply, but was still silent.
“Torley, did you hear me? What news of that unfortunate boy?”
“No news, Bridget, at least no good news; the boy's an outlaw, and will be an outlaw--or rather he won't be an outlaw long; they'll get him soon.”
“But why would they get him? hasn't he sense enough to keep from them?”
“That's just what he has not, Bridget; he has left the mountains and come down somewhere to the Infield country; but where, I cannot make out.”
“Well, asthore, he'll only bring on his own punishment. Troth, I'm not a bit sorry that Granua missed him. I never was to say, for the match, but you should have your way, and force the girl there to it, over and above. Of what use is his land and wealth to him now?”
“God's will be done,” replied her husband, sorrowfully. “As for me, I can do no more in it, nor I won't. I was doing the best for my child. He'll be guided by no one's advice but his own.”
“That's true,” replied his wife, “you did. But here's Barney Casey, from the big house, comin' to warn the tenantry to a bonfire that's to be made to-night in Rathfillan, out of rejoicin' for the misthress's son that's come home to them.”
Here Barney once more repeated the message, with which the reader is already acquainted.
“You are all to come,” he proceeded, “ould and young; and to bring every one a backload of sticks and brusna to help to make the bonfire.”
“Is this message from the masther or misthress, Barney?” asked Davoren.
“O, straight from himself,” he replied. “I have it from his own lips. Troth he's ready to leap out of his skin wid delight.”
“Bekaise,” added Davoren, “if it came from the misthress, the sorrow foot either I or any one of my family would set near her; but from himself, that's a horse of another color. Tell him, Barney, we'll be there, and bring what we can to help the bonfire.”
Until this moment the young fellow at the fire never uttered a syllable, nor seemed in the slightest degree conscious that there was any person in the house but himself. He was now engaged in masticating the potatoes, and eggs, the latter of which he ate with a thin splinter of bog deal, which served as a substitute for an egg-spoon, and which is to-this day used among the poor for the same purpose in the remoter parts of Ireland. At length he spoke: “This won't be a good night for a bonfire anyhow.”
“Why, Andy, _abouchal? _” (my boy.)
“Bekaise, mudher, _the storm was in the fire_* last night when I was rakin' it.”
* This is a singular phenomenon, which, so far as I am aware, has never yet been noticed by any Irish or Scotch writers when describing the habits and usages of the people in either country. When stirring the _greeshaugh_, or red- hot ashes, at night at the settling, or mending, or Taking of the fire, a blue, phosphoric-looking light is distinctly visible in the embers, and the more visible in proportion to the feebleness of the light emitted by the fire. It is only during certain states of the atmosphere that this is seen. It is always considered as as prognostic of severe weather, and its appearance is termed as above.
“Then we'll have rough weather,” said his father; “no doubt of that.”
“Don't be afeard,” said Barney, laughing; “take my word for it, if there's to be rough weather, and that some witch or wizard has broken bargain with the devil, the misthress has intherest to get it put off till the bonfire's over.”
He then bade them good-by, and took his departure to fulfil his agreeable and welcome mission. Indeed, he spent the greater portion of the day not only in going among the tenants in person, but in sending the purport of the said mission to be borne upon the four winds of heaven through every quarter of the barony; after which he proceeded to the little market-town of Rathfillan, where he secured the services of two fiddlers and two pipers. This being accomplished, he returned home to his master's, ripe and ready for both dinner and supper; for, as he had missed the former meal, he deemed it most judicious to kill, as he said, the two birds with one stone, by demolishing them both together.
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{
"id": "16004"
}
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5
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The Bonfire--The Prodigy.
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Andy Davoren's prognostic, so far as the appearance of the weather went, seemed, at a first glance, to be literally built on ashes. A calm, mild, and glorious serenity lay upon the earth; the atmosphere was clear and golden; the light of the sun shot in broad, transparent beams across the wooded valleys, and poured its radiance upon the forest tops, which seemed empurpled with its rich and glowing tones. All the usual signs of change! or rough weather were wanting. Everything was quiet; and a general stillness was abroad, which, when a sound did occur, caused it to be heard at an unusual distance. Not a breath of air stirred the trees, which stood as motionless as if they had been carved of marble. Notwithstanding all these auspicious appearances, there were visible to a clear observer of nature some significant symptoms of a change. The surfaces of pools and rivers were covered with large white bubbles, which are always considered as indications of coming rain. The dung heaps, and the pools generally attached to them, emitted a fetid and offensive smell; and the pigs were seen to carry straw into their sties, or such rude covers as had been constructed for them.
In the meantime the dinner party in Lindsay's were enjoying themselves in a spirit quite as genial as his hospitality. It consisted of two or three country squires, a Captain Dowd--seldom sober--a pair of twin brothers, named Gumming, with a couple of half sirs--a class of persons who bore the same relation to a gentleman that a salmon-trout does to a salmon. The Protestant clergyman of the parish was there--a jocund, rattling fellow, who loved his glass, his dog, his gun, and, if fame did not belie him, paid more devotion to his own enjoyments than he did to his Bible. He dressed in the extreme of fashion, and was a regular dandy parson of that day. There also was! Father Magauran, the parish priest, a rosy-faced, jovial little man, with a humorous! twinkle in his blue eye, and an anterior rotundity of person that betokened a moderate relish for the convivialities. Altogether it was a merry meeting; and of the host himself it might be said that he held as conspicuous a place in the mirth as he did in the hospitality.
“Come, gentleman,” said he, after the ladies had retired to the withdrawing-room, “come, gentlemen, fill high; fill your glasses.”
“Troth,” said the priest, “we'd put a heap on them, if we could.”
“Right, Father Magauran; do put a heap on them, if you can; but, at all events, let them be brimmers; I'm going to propose a toast.”
“Let it be a lady, Lindsay, if you love me,” said the parson, filling his glass.
“Sorra hair I care if it is,” said the priest, “provided she's dacent and attends her duty; go on, squire; give us her name at once, and don't keep the parson's teeth watering.”
“Be quiet, reverend gentlemen,” said Lindsay, laughing; “how can a man speak when you take the words out of his mouth?”
“The Lord forbid we'd swallow them, though,” subjoined the parson; “if we did, we'd not be long in a state of decent sobriety.”
“Talk about something you understand, my worthy friends, and, allow me to proceed,” replied the host; “don't you know that every interruption keeps you from your glass? Gentlemen, I have great pleasure in proposing the health of my excellent and worthy step-son, who has, after a long absence, made me and all my family happy by his return amongst us. I am sure you will all like him when you come to know him, and that the longer you know him, the better you will like him. Come now, let me see the bottom of every man's glass uppermost. I do not address myself directly to the parson or the priest, because that, I know, would be, as the latter must admit, a want of confidence in their kindness.
“Parson,” said the priest, in a whisper, “that last observation is gratifying from Lindsay.”
“Lindsay is a gentleman,” replied the other, in the same voice; “and the most popular magistrate in the barony. Come, then.”
Here the worthy gentleman's health was drank with great enthusiasm, after which he thanked them in very grateful and courteous terms, paying at the same time, some rather handsome compliments to the two clergymen with respect to the appropriate gravity and exquisite polish of their manners. He saw the rapidity with which they had gulped down the wine, and felt their rudeness in interrupting Mr. Lindsay, when about to propose his health, as offensive, and he retorted it upon them with peculiar irony, that being one of the talents, which, among others, he had inherited from his mother.
“I cannot but feel myself happy,” said he, “in returning to the roof of so hospitable a father; but sensible to the influences of religion, as I humbly trust I am, I must express a still higher gratification in having the delightful opportunity of making the acquaintance of two reverend gentlemen, whose proper and becoming example will, I am sure, guide my steps--if I have only grace to follow it--into those serious and primitive habits which characterize themselves, and are so decent and exemplary in the ministers of religion. They may talk of the light of the gospel; but, if I don't mistake, the light of the gospel itself might pale its ineffectual fires before that which shines in their apostolic countenances.”
The mirth occasioned by this covert, but comical, rebuke, fell rather humorously upon the two worthy gentlemen, who, being certainly good-natured and excellent men, laughed heartily.
“That's a neat speech,” said the parson, “but not exactly appropriate. Father Tom and I are quite unworthy of the compliment he has paid us.”
“Neat,” said Father Tom; “I don't know whether the gentleman has a profession or not; but from the tone and spirit in which he spoke, I think that if he has taken up any other than that of his church, he has missed his vocation. My dear parson, he talks of the light of our countenances--a light that is lit by hospitality on the one hand, and moderate social enjoyment on the other. It is a light, however, that neither of us would exchange for a pale face and an eye that seems to have something mysterious at the back of it.”
“Come, come, Harry,” said Lindsay, “you mustn't be bantering these two gentlemen; as I said of yourself, the longer you know them the better you will relish them. They have both too much sense to carry religion about with them like a pair of hawkers, crying out 'who'll buy, who'll buy;' neither do they wear long faces, nor make themselves disagreeable by dragging religion into every subject that becomes the topic of conversation. On the contrary, they are cheerful, moderately social, and to my own knowledge, with all their pleasantry, are active exponents of much practical benevolence to the poor. Come, man, take your wine, and enjoy good company.”
“Lindsay,” said one of the guests, a magistrate, “how are we to get the country quiet? Those rapparees and outlaws will play the devil with us if we don't put them down. That young scoundrel, _Shawn na Middogue_, is at the head of them it is said, and, it would seem, possesses the power of making himself invisible; for we cannot possibly come at him, although he has been often seen by others.”
“Why, what has been Shawn's last exploit?”
“Nothing that I have heard of since Bingham's robbery; but there is none of us safe. Have you your house and premises secured?”
“Not I,” replied Lindsay, “unless by good bolts and bars, together with plenty of arms and ammunition.”
“How is it that these fellows are not taken?” asked another.
“Because the people protect them,” said a third; “and because they have strength and activity; and thirdly, because we have no adequate force to put them down.”
“All very sound reasons,” replied the querist; but as to _Shawn na Middogue_, the people are impressed with a belief that he is under the protection of the fairies, and can't be taken on this account. Even if they were willing to give him up, which they are not, they dare not make the attempt, lest the vengeance of the fairies might come down on themselves and their cattle, in a thousand shapes.”
“I will tell you what the general opinion upon the subject is,” replied the other. “It seems his foster-mother was a midwife, and that she was called upon once, about the hour of midnight, to discharge the duties of her profession toward a fairyman's wife, and this she refused to do unless they conferred some gift either upon herself personally, or upon some one whom she should name. Young Shawn, it appears, was her favorite, and she got a solemn promise from them to take him under their protection, and to preserve him from danger. This is the opinion of the people; but whether it is true or not I won't undertake to determine.”
“Come, gentlemen,” said their host, “push the bottle; remember we must attend the bonfire.”
“So,” said the magistrate, “you are sending us to blazes, Mr. Lindsay.”
“Well, at all events, my friends,” continued Mr. Lindsay, “we must make haste, for there's little time to spare. Take your liquor, for we must soon be off. The evening is delightful. If you are for coffee, let us adjourn to the ladies; and after the bonfire we will return and make a night of it.”
“Well said, Lindsay,” replied the parson; “and so we will.”
“Here, you young stranger,” said the priest, addressing Woodward, “I'll drink your health once more in this bumper. You touched us off decently enough, but a little too much on the sharp, as you would admit if you knew us. Your health again, sir, and you are welcome among us!”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Woodward; “I am glad to see that you can bear a jest from me or my father, even when it is at your own expense--your health.”
“Are you a sportsman?” asked the parson; “because, if you are not, just put yourself under my patronage, and I will teach you something worth knowing. I will let you see what shooting and hunting mean.”
“I am a bit of one,” replied Woodward, “but shall be very happy to put myself into your hand, notwithstanding.”
“If I don't lengthen your face I shall raise your heart,” proceeded, the divine. “If I don't make a sportsman of you--” “Ay,” added the priest, “you will find yourself in excellent hands, Mr. Woodward.”
“If I don't make a sportsman of you:--confound your grinning, Father Tom, what are you at? --I'll make a far better thing of you, that is, a good fellow, always, of course, provided that you have the materials in you.”
“Not a doubt of it,” added Father Tom; “you'll polish the same youth until he shines like yourself or his worthy father here. He'll give you a complexion, my boy--a commodity that you sadly want at present.”
The evening was now too far advanced to think of having coffee--a beverage, by the way, to which scarcely a single soul of them was addicted. They accordingly got to their legs, and as darkness was setting in they set out for the village to witness the rejoicings. Young Woodward, however, followed his brother to the drawing-room, whither he had betaken himself at an early hour after dinner. Under their escort, their mother and sister accompanied them to the bonfire. The whole town was literally alive with animation and delight. The news of the intended bonfire had gone rapidly abroad, and the country people crowded into the town in hundreds. Nothing can at any time exceed the enthusiasm with which the Irish enter into and enjoy scenes like that to which they now flocked with such exuberant spirits. Bells were ringing, drums were beating, fifes were playing in the town, and horns sounding in every direction, both in town and country. The people were apparelled in their best costume, and many of them in that equivocal description of it which could scarcely be termed costume at all. Bareheaded and barefooted multitudes of both sexes were present, regardless of appearances, half mad with delight, and exhibiting many a frolic and gambol considerably at variance with the etiquette of fashionable life, although we question whether the most fashionable fete, of them all ever produced half so much happiness. Farmers had come from a distance in the country, mounted upon lank horses ornamented with incrusted hips, and caparisoned with long-straw back-suggauns that reached from the shoulders to the tail, under which ran a crupper of the same material, designed, in addition to a hay girth, to keep this primitive riding gear firm upon the animal's back. Behind the farmer, generally sat either a wife or a daughter, remarkable for their scarlet cloaks and blue petticoats; sometimes with shoes and stockings, and very often without them. Among those assembled, we cannot omit to mention a pretty numerous sprinkling of that class of strollers, vagabonds, and impostors with which the country, at the period of our tale, was overrun. Fortune-tellers, of both sexes, quacks, cardcutters, herbalists, cow-doctors, whisperers, with a long list of such cheats, were at the time a prevailing nuisance throughout the kingdom; nor was there a fair proportion of them wanting here. That, however, which filled the people with the most especial curiosity, awe, and interest, was the general report that nothing less than a live conjurer, who had come to town on that very evening, was then among them. The town, in fact, was crowded as if it had been for an illumination; but as illuminations, unless they could be conducted with rushlights, were pageants altogether unknown in such small remote towns as Rathfillan, the notion of one had never entered their heads. All around the country, however, even for many miles, the bonfires were blazing, and shone at immense distances from every hill-top. We have said before that Lindsay was both a popular landlord and a popular magistrate; and, on this account alone the disposition to do honor to any member of his family was recognized by the people as an act of gratitude and duty.
The town of Rathfillan presented a scene of which we who live in the present day can form but a faint conception. Yet, sooth to say, we ourselves have, about forty years ago, witnessed in remote glens and mountain fastnesses little clumps of cabins, whose inhabitants stood still in the midst even of the snail's progress which civilization had made in the rustic parts of Ireland; and who, upon examination, presented almost the same rude personal habits, antiquated social usages, agricultural ignorance, and ineradicable superstition as their ancestors did in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Lindsay, knowing how unpopular his wife was, not only among their own tenantry, but throughout the country at large, and feeling, besides, how well that unpopularity was merited, very properly left her and Maria to his son Charles, knowing that as the two last named shared in the good-will which the people bore him, their mother would be treated with forbearance and respect so long as she was in their company. He wished, besides, that Harry should seem to partake of the honor and gratitude which their enthusiasm would prompt them to pay to himself.
The whole town was one scene of life, bustle, and enjoyment. It was studded with bonfires, which were surrounded by wild groups of both sexes, some tolerably dressed, some ragged as Lazarus, and others young urchins with nothing but a slip of rag tied about their loins “to make them look jinteel and daicent.” The monster bonfire, however--that which was piled up into an immense pyramid in honor of the stranger--was not ignited until the arrival of the quality. The moment the latter made their appearance it was set in a flame, and in a few minutes a blaze issued up from it into the air that not only dimmed the minor exhibitions, but cast its huge glare over the whole town, making every house and hut as distinctly visible as if it were broad daylight. Then commenced the huzzaing--the bells rang out with double energy--the drums were beaten more furiously--the large bullocks' horns were sounded until those who blew them were black in the face, and every manifestation of joy that could be made was resorted to. Fiddles and pipes were in busy requisition, and “The Boys of Rathfillan,” the favorite local air, resounded in every direction. And now that the master and the quality had made their appearance, of course the drink should soon follow, and in a short time the hints to that effect began to thicken.
“Thunder and turf, Jemmy, but this is dry work; my throat's like a lime-burner's wig for want of a drop o' something to help me for the cheerin'.”
Hould your tongue, Paddy; do you think the masther's honor would allow us to lose our voices in his behalf. It's himself that hasn't his heart in a trifle, God bless him.”
“Ah, thin, your honor,” said another fellow, in tatters, “isn't this dust and hate enough to choke a bishop? O Lord, am I able to spake at all? Upon my sowl, sir, I think there's a bonfire in my throath.”
Everything, however, had been prepared to meet these demands; and in about a quarter of an hour barrels of beer and kegs of whiskey were placed under the management of persons appointed to deal out their contents to the thirsty crowds. Then commenced the dancing, whilst the huzzaing, shouting, jingling of bells, squeaking of fifes, blowing of horns, and all the other component parts of this wild melody, were once more resumed with still greater vigor. The great feat of the night, however, so far as the people were concerned, was now to take place. This was to ascertain, by superior activity, who among the young men could leap over the bonfire, when burnt down to what was considered such a state as might make the attempt a safe one. The circles about the different fires were consequently widened to leave room for the run, and then commenced those hazardous but comic performances. As may be supposed, they proceeded with various success, and occasioned the most uproarious mirth whenever any unfortunate devil who had overtasked his powers in the attempt, happened to fail, and was forced to scamper out of the subsiding flames with scorched limbs that set him a dancing without music. In fact, those possessed of activity enough to clear them were loudly cheered, and rewarded with a glass of whiskey, a temptation which had induced so many to try, and so many to fail. When these had been concluded about the minor fires, the victors and spectators repaired to the great one, to try their fortune upon a larger and more hazardous scale. It was now nearly half burned down, but was still a large, glowing mass, at least five feet high, and not less than eighteen in diameter at the base. On arriving there they all looked on in silence, appalled by its great size, and altogether deterred from so formidable an attempt.
It would be death to try it, they exclaimed; no living man could do it; an opinion which was universally acceded to, with one single exception. A thin man, rather above the middle size, dressed in a long, black coat, black breeches, and black stockings, constituted that exception. There was something peculiar, and even strikingly mysterious, in his whole appearance. His complexion was pale as that of a corpse, his eyes dead and glassy, and the muscles of his face seemed as if they were paralyzed and could not move. His right hand was thrust in his bosom, and! over his left arm he bore some dark garment of a very funereal cast, almost reminding one of a mortcloth.
“There is one,” said he, in a hollow and sepulchral voice, “that could do it.” Father Magauran, who was present, looked at him with surprise; as indeed did every one who had got an opportunity of seeing him.
“I know there is,” he replied, “a sartin individual who could do it; ay, in troth, and maybe if he fell into the flames, too, he'd only find himself in his own element; and if it went to that could dance a hornpipe in the middle of it.”
This repartee of the priest's elicited loud laughter from the by-standers, who, on turning round to see how the other bore it, found that he had disappeared. This occasioned considerable amazement, not unmixed with a still more extraordinary feeling. Nobody there knew him, nor had ever even seen him before; and in a short time the impression began to gain ground that he must have been no other than the conjurer who was said to have arrived in the town that day. In the meantime, while this point was under discussion, a clear, loud, but very mellow voice was heard about twenty yards above them, saying, “Stand aside, and make way--leave me room for a run.”
The curiosity of the people was at once excited by what they had only a few minutes before pronounced to be a feat that was impossible to be accomplished. They accordingly opened a lane for the daring individual, who, they imagined, was about to submit himself to a scorching that might cost him his life. No sooner was the lane made, and the by-standers removed back, than a person evidently youthful, tall, elastic, and muscular, approached the burning mass with the speed, and lightness of a deer, and flew over it as if he had wings. A tremendous shout burst forth, which lasted for more than a minute, and the people were about to bring him to receive his reward at the whiskey keg, when it was found that he also had disappeared. This puzzled them once more, and they began to think that, there were more present at these bonfires than had ever received baptism; for they could scarcely shake themselves free of the belief that the mysterious stranger either was something supernaturally evil himself, or else the conjurer as aforesaid, who, by all accounts, was not many steps removed from such a personage. Of the young person who performed this unprecedented and terrible exploit they had little time to take any notice. Torley Davoren, however, who was one of the spectators, turned round to his wife and whispered, “Unfortunate boy--madman I ought-to say--what devil tempted him to come here?”
“Was it him?” asked his wife.
“Whist, whist,” he replied; “let us say no more about it.”
In the meantime, although the youthful performer of this daring feat may be said to have passed among them like an arrow from a bow, yet it so happened that the secret of his identity did not rest solely with Torley Davoren. In a few minutes whisperings began to take place, which spread gradually through the crowd, until at length the name of _Shawn na Middogue_ was openly pronounced, and the secret--now one no longer--was instantly sent abroad through the people, to whom his fearful leap was now no miracle. The impression so long entertained of his connection with the fairies was thus confirmed, and the black stranger was no other, perhaps, than the king of the fairies himself.
At this period of the proceedings Mrs. Lindsay, in consequence of some significant whispers which were directly levelled at her character, suggested to Maria that having seen enough of these wild proceedings, it would be more advisable to return home--a suggestion to which Maria, whose presence there at all was in deference to her father's wishes, very gladly consented. They accordingly placed themselves under the escort of the redoubtable and gallant twins, and reached home in safety.
It was now expected that the quality would go down to the inn, where the largest room had been fitted up for refreshments and dancing, and into which none but the more decent and respectable classes were admitted. There most of the beauties of the town and the adjoining neighborhood were assembled, together with their admirers, all of whom entered into the spirit of the festivity with great relish. When Lindsay and his company were about to retire from the great bonfire, the conductors of the pageant, who also acted as spokesmen on the occasion, thus addressed them: “It's right, your honors, that you should go and see the dancin' in the inn, and no harm if you shake a heel yourselves, besides taking something to wash the dust out o' your throats; but when you come out again, if you don't find a fresh and high blaze before you still, the devil's a witch.”
As they proceeded toward the inn, the consequences of the drink, which the crowd had so abundantly received, began, here and there, to manifest many unequivocal symptoms. In some places high words were going on, in others blows; and altogether the affair seemed likely to terminate in a general conflict.
“Father,” said his son Charles, “had you not better try and settle these rising disturbances?”
“Not I,” replied the jovial magistrate; “let them thrash one another till morning; they like it, and I make it a point never to go between the poor people and their enjoyments. Gadzooks, Charley, don't you know it would be a tame and discreditable affair without a row?”
“Yes; but now that they've got drunk, they're cheering you, and groaning my mother.”
“Devil's cure to her,” replied his father; “if she didn't deserve it she'd not get it. What right had she to send my bailiffs to drive their cattle without my knowledge, and to take duty fowl and duty work from them whenever my back is turned, and contrary to my wishes? Come in till we have some punch; let them shout and fight away; it wouldn't fee the thing, Charley, without it.”
They found an exceedingly lively scene in the large parlor of the inn; but, in fact, every available room in the house was crowded. Then, after they had looked on for some time, every eye soon singled out the pride and beauty of the assembly in the person of Grace Davoren, whose features were animated into greater loveliness, and her eyes into greater brilliancy, by the light-hearted spirit which prevailed. She was dressed in her new drugget gown, had on her new shoes and blue stockings, a short striped blue and red petticoat, which displayed as much of her exquisite limbs as the pretty liberal fashion of the day allowed; her bust was perfection; and, as her black, natural ringlets fluttered about her milk-white neck and glowing countenance, she not only appeared inexpressibly beautiful, but seemed to feel conscious of that beauty, as was evident by a dash of pride--very charming, indeed--which shot from her eye, and mantled on her beautiful cheek.
“Why, Charles,” exclaimed Woodward, addressing his brother in a whisper, “who is that lovely peasant girl?”
“Her father is one of our tenants,” replied Charles; “and she was about to be married some time ago, but it was discovered, fortunately in time, that her intended husband was head and leader of the outlaws that infest the country. It was he, I believe, that leaped over the bonfire.”
“Was she fond of him?”
“Well, it is not easy to say that; some say she was, and others that she was not. Barney Casey says she was very glad to escape him when he became an outlaw.”
“By the way, where is Barney? I haven't seen him since I came to look at this nonsense.”
“Just turn your eye to the farthest corner of the room, and you may see him in his glory.”
On looking in the prescribed direction, there, sure enough, was Barney discovered making love hard and fast to a pretty girl, whom Woodward remembered to have seen that morning in Mr. Goodwin's, and with whom he (Barney) had become acquainted when the families were on terms of intimacy. The girl sat smiling on his knee, whilst Barney who had a glass of punch in his hand, kept applying it to her lips from time to time, and pressing her so lovingly toward him, that she was obliged occasionally to give him a pat upon the cheek, or to pull his whiskers. Woodward's attention, however, was transferred once more to Grace Davoren, from whom he could not keep his eyes--a fact which she soon discovered, as was evident by a slight hauteur and affectation of manner toward many of those with whom she had been previously on an equal and familiar footing.
“Charles,” said he, “I must have a dance with this beautiful girl; do you think she will dance with me?”
“I cannot tell,” replied his brother, “but you can ask her.”
“By the way, where are my father and the rest? They have left the room.”
“The landlord has got them a small apartment,” replied Charles, “where they are now enjoying themselves. If you dance with Grace Davoren, however, be on your good behavior, for if you take any unbecoming liberties with her, you may repent it; don't imagine because you see these humble girls allowing their sweethearts to kiss them in corners, that either they or their friends will permit you to do so.”
“That's as it may be managed, perhaps,” said Woodward, who immediately approached Grace in imitation of what he had seen, and making her a low bow, said, “I dance to you, Miss Davoren, if you will favor me.”
She was then sitting, but immediately rose up, with a blushing but gratified face, and replied, “I will, sir, but I'm not worthy to dance with a gentleman like you.”
“You are worthy to dance with a prince,” he replied, as he led her to their station, fronting the music.
“Well, my pretty girl,” said he, “what do you wish?”
“Your will, sir, is my pleasure.”
“Very well. Piper,” said he, “play up 'Kiss my lady;'” which was accordingly done, and the dance commenced. Woodward thought the most popular thing he could do was to affect no superiority over the young fellows present, but, on the contrary, to imitate their style and manner of dancing as well as he could; and in this he acted with great judgment. They felt flattered and gratified even at his awkward and clumsy imitations of their steps, and received his efforts with much laughter and cheering; nor was Grace herself insensible to the mirth he occasioned. On he went, cutting and capering, until he had them in convulsions; and when the dance was ended, he seized his partner in his arms, swung her three times round, and imprinted a kiss upon her lips with such good humor that he was highly applauded. He then ordered in drink to treat her and her friends, which he distributed to them with his own hand; and after contriving to gain a few minutes' private chat with Grace, he amply rewarded the piper. He was now about to take his leave and proceed with his brother, when two women, one about thirty-five, and the other far advanced in years, both accosted him almost at the same moment.
“Your honor won't go,” said the less aged of the two, “until you get your fortune tould.”
“To be sure he won't, Caterine,” they all replied; “we'll engage the gentleman will cross your hand wid silver, like his father before him, his heart's not in the money.”
“Never mind her, sir,” said the aged crone, “she's a schemer, and will tell you nothing but what she knows will plaise you. Show me your hand, sir, and I'll tell you the truth.”
“Never mind the _calliagh_, sir, (old woman, by way of reproach;) she's dotin', and hasn't remembered her own name these ten years.”
“It doesn't matter,” said Woodward, addressing Caterine, “I shall hear what you both have to say--but you first.”
He accordingly crossed her hand with a piece of silver, after which she looked closely into it--then upon his countenance, and said, “You have two things in your mind, and they'll both succeed.”
“But, my good woman, any one might tell me as much.”
“No,” she replied, with confidence; “examine your own heart and you'll find the two things there that it is fixed upon; and whisper,” she added, putting her lips to his ear, “I know what they are, and can help you in both. When you want me, inquire for Caterine Collins. My uncle is Sol Donnell, the herb doctor.”
He smiled and nodded, but made no reply.
“Now,” said he, “my old crone, come and let me hear what you have to say for me;” and as he spoke another coin was dropped into her withered and skinny hand.
“Bring me a candle,” said she, in a voice that whistled with age, and if one could judge by her hag-like and repulsive features, with a malignity that was a habit of her life. After having inspected his palm with the candle, she uttered three eldrich laughs, or rather screams, that sounded through the room as if they were more than natural.
“Ha, ha, ha!” she exclaimed; “look here; there's the line of life stopped by a red instrument; that's not good; I see it, I feel it; your life will be short and your death violent; ay, indeed, the purty bonfire of your life, for all so bright as it burns, will be put out wid blood--and that soon.”
“You're a d--d old croaker,” said Woodward, “and take delight in predicting evil. Here, my good woman,” he added, turning to the other, “there's an additional half-crown for you, and I won't forget your words.”
He and Charles then joined their friends in the other room, and as it was getting late they all resolved to stroll once more through the town, in order to take a parting look at the bonfires, to wish the people good-night, and to thank them for the kindness and alacrity with which they got them up, and manifested their good feeling upon so short a notice. The large fire was again blazing, having been recruited with a fresh supply of materials. The crowd were looking on; many were staggering about, uttering a feeble huzza, in a state of complete intoxication, and the fool of the parish was attempting to dance a hornpipe, when large, blob-like drops began to fall, as happens at the commencement of a heavy shower. Lindsay put his hand to his face, on which some few of them had fallen, and, on looking at his fingers, perceived that they were spotted as if with blood!
“Good God!” he exclaimed, “what is this? Am I bleeding?”
They all stared at him, and then at each other, with dismay and horror; for there, unquestionably, was the hideous and terrible fact before them, and legible on every! face around them--it was raining blood!
An awe, which we cannot describe, and a silence, deep as that of the grave, followed this terrible prodigy. The silence did not last long, however, for in a few minutes, during which the blood fell very thickly, making their hands and visages appear as if they had been steeped in gore--in a few moments, we say, the heavens, which had become one black and dismal mass, opened, and from the chasm issued a red flash of lightning, which was followed almost immediately by a roar of thunder, so loud and terrific that the whole people became fearfully agitated as they stood round the blaze. It was extremely difficult, indeed, for ignorant persons to account for, or speculate upon, this strange and frightful phenomenon. As they stood in fear and terror, with their faces apparently bathed in blood, they seemed rather to resemble a group of hideous murderers, standing as if about to be driven into the! flames of perdition itself. To compare them to a tribe of red Indians surrounding their war fires, would be but a faint and feeble simile when contrasted with the terror which, notwithstanding the gory hue with which they were covered from top to toe, might be read in their terrified eyes and visages. After a few minutes, however, the alarm became more intense, and put itself forth into words. The fearful intelligence now spread. “It is raining blood! it is raining blood!” was shouted from every mouth; those who were in the houses rushed out, and soon found that it was true; for the red liquid was still descending, and in a few minutes they soon were as red as the others. The flight home now became one of panic; every house was crowded with strangers, who took refuge wherever they could find shelter; and in the meantime the lightning was flashing and the thunder pealing with stunning depth throughout the heavens. The bonfires were soon deserted; for even those who were drunk and tipsy had been aroused by the alarm, and the language in which it was uttered. Nobody, in fact, was left at the great fire except those who composed the dinner party, with the exception of the two clergymen, who fled and disappeared along with the mob, urged, too, by the same motives.
“This will not be believed,” said Lindsay; “it is, beyond all doubt and scepticism, a prodigy from heaven, and must portend some fearful calamity. May God in heaven protect us! But who is this?”
As he spoke, a hideous old hag, bent over her staff, approached them; but it did not appear that she was about to pay them any particular attention. She was mumbling and cackling to herself when about to pass, but was addressed by Lindsay.
“Where are you going, you old hag? They say you are acquainted with more than you ought to know. Can you account for this blood that's falling?”
“Who are you that axes me?” she squeaked.
“I'm Mr. Lindsay, the magistrate.”
“Ay,” she screamed again, “it was for your son, Harry, na Suil Gloir, (* Suil Gloir was an epithet bestowed on persons whose eyes were of different colors) that this bonfire was made to-night. Well he knows what I tould him, and let him think of it; but there will be more blood than this, and that before long, I can tell you and him.”
So saying, she hobbled on, mumbling and muttering to herself like a witch rehearsing her incantations on her way to join their sabbath. They now turned their steps homewards, but had not proceeded far, when the rain came down as it might be supposed to have done in the deluge; the, lightnings flashed, the thunder continued! to roar, and by the time they reached Rathfillan House they were absolutely drenched to the skin. The next morning, to the astonishment of the people, there was not visible a trace or fragment of the bonfires; I every vestige of them had disappeared; and the general impression now was, that there must have been something evil and unhallowed connected with the individual for whom they had been prepared.
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{
"id": "16004"
}
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6
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Shawn-na-Middogue
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--Shan-Dhinne-Dhuv, or The Black Spectre.
The next evening was calm and mild; the sun shone with a serene and mellow light from the evening sky; the trees were green, and still; but the music of the blackbird and the thrush came sweetly from their leafy branches. Henry Woodward had been listening to a rather lengthy discussion upon the subject of the blood-shower, which, indeed, was the topic of much conversation and great wonder throughout the whole parish. His father, a Protestant gentleman, and with some portion of education, although not much, was, nevertheless, deeply imbued with the superstitions which prevailed around him, as, in fact, were most of those who existed in his day; the very air which he breathed was rife with them; but what puzzled him and his family most was the difficulty which they found in shaping the prodigy into significance. Why should it take place, and upon such an occasion, they could not for their lives imagine. The only persons in the family who seemed altogether indifferent to it were Woodward and his mother, both of whom treated it with ridicule and contempt.
“It comes before some calamity,” observed Mr. Lindsay.
“It comes before a fiddle-stick, Lindsay,” replied his wife. “Calamity! yes; perhaps you may have a headache to-morrow, for which the world must be prepared by a storm of thunder and lightning, and a shower of blood. The head that reels over night with an excess of wine and punch will ache in the morning without a prodigy to foretell it.”
“Say what you will,” he replied, “I believe the devil had a hand in it; and I tell you,” he added, laughing, “that if you be advised by me, you'll begin to prepare yourself--'a stitch in time saves nine,' you know--so look sharp, I say.”
“This, Harry,” she said, addressing her son, “is the way your mother has been treated all along; yes, by a brutal and coarse-minded husband, who pays no attention to anything but his own gross and selfish enjoyments; but, thank God, I have now some person to protect me.”
“O, ho!” said her husband, “you are for a battle now. Harry, you don't know her. If she lets loose that scurrilous tongue of hers I have no chance; upon my soul, I'd encounter another half dozen of thunder-storms, and as many showers of blood, sooner than come under it for ten minutes; a West India hurricane is a zephyr to it.”
“Ah, God help the unhappy woman that's blistered for life with an ignorant sot! --such a woman is to be pitied. --and such a woman am I;--I, you good-for-nothing drunken booby, who made you what you are.”
“O, fie! mamma,” said Maria, “this is too bad to papa, who, you know, seldom replies to you at all.”
“Miss Lindsay, I shall suffer none of your impertinence,” said her mother; “leave the room, madam, this moment--how dare you? but I am not surprised at it;--leave the room, I say.”
The poor, amiable girl, who was all fearfulness and affection, quietly left the room as she was desired, and her father, who saw that his worthy wife was brimful of a coming squall, put on his hat, and after having given one of his usual sardonic looks, left the apartment also.
“Mother,” said her son Charles, “I must protest against the unjustifiable violence of temper with which you treat my father. You know he was only jesting in what he said to you this moment.”
“Let him carry his jests else were, Mr. Charles,” she replied, “he shan't indulge in them at my expense; nor will I have you abet him in them as you always do--yes, sir, and laugh at them in my face. All this, however, is very natural; as the old cock crows the young one learns. As for Maria, if she makes as dutiful a wife as she does a daughter, her husband may thank God for getting his full share of evil in this life.”
“I protest to heaven, Harry,” said Charles, addressing his brother, “if ever there was a meek, sweet-tempered girl living, Maria is. You do not yet know her, but you will, of course, have an opportunity of judging for yourself.”
“You perceive, Harry,” said his mother, addressing him in turn, “you perceive how they are banded against me; in fact, they are joined with their father in a conspiracy to destroy my peace and happiness. This is the feeling that prevails against me in the house at large, for which I may thank my husband and children--I don't include you, Harry. There is not a servant in our establishment but could poison me, and probably would, too, were it not for fear of the gallows.”
Woodward listened to this strange scene with amazement, but was prudent enough to take no part in it whatsoever. On the contrary, he got his hat and proceeded out to take a stroll, as the evening was so fine, and the aspect of the country was so delightful.
“Harry,” said his brother, “if you're for a walk I'll go with you.”
“Not at present, Charley,” said he, “I am in a thoughtful mood, and generally prefer a lonely stroll on such a beautiful evening as this.”
He accordingly went out, and bent his I steps by a long, rude green lane, which extended upwards of half a mile across a rich! country, undulating with fields and meadows. This was terminated by a clump of, hawthorn trees, then white and fragrant with their lovely blossoms, which lay in rich profusion on the ground. Contiguous to this was a small but delightful green glen, from the side of which issued one of those beautiful spring wells for which the country is so celebrated. Over a verdant little hill, which concealed this glen and the well we mention, from a few humble houses, or rather a decenter kind of cabins, was visible a beaten pathway by which the inhabitants of this small hamlet came for their water. Upon this, shaded as he was by the trees, he steadily kept his eye for a considerable time, as if in the expectation of some person who had made an appointment to meet him. Half an hour had nearly elapsed--the shades of evening were now beginning to fall, and he had just come to the resolution of retracing his steps, with a curse of disappointment on his lips, when, on taking another, and what he intended to be a last glance at the pathway in question, he espied the individual for whom he waited. This was no other than the young beauty of the neighborhood--Grace Davoren. She was tripping along with a light and merry step, lilting an Irish air of a very lively character, to which she could scarcely prevent herself from dancing, so elastic and buoyant were her spirits. On coming to the brow of the glen she paused a moment and cast her eye searchingly around her, but seemed after the scrutiny to hesitate about proceeding farther.
Woodward immediately showed himself, and after beckoning to her, proceeded toward the well. She still paused, however, as if irresolute; but after one or two significant gestures on his part, she descended with a slow and apparently a timid step, and in a couple of minutes stood beside the well. The immediate purport of their conversation is not essential to this narrative; but, indeed, we presume that our readers may give a very good guess at it without any assistance from us. The beautiful girl was young, and credulous, and innocent, as might naturally be inferred from the confusion of her manner, and the tremulous tones of her voice, which, indeed, were seductive and full of natural melody. Her heart palpitated until its beatings might be heard, and she trembled with that kind of terror which is composed of apprehension and pleasure. That a gentleman--one of the quality--could condescend to feel any interest in a humble girl like her, was what she could scarcely have dreamed; but when he told her of her beauty, the natural elegance and symmetry of her figure, and added that he loved her better than any girl, either high or low, he had ever seen, she believed that his words were true, and her brain became almost giddy with wonder and delight. Then she considered what a triumph it was over all her female acquaintances, who, if they knew it, would certainly envy her even far more than they did already. After about half an hour's conversation the darkness set in, and she expressed an apprehension lest some of her family should come in quest of her--a circumstance, she said, which might be dangerous to them both. He then prevailed on her to promise another meeting, which at length she did; but on his taking leave of her she asked him by which way he intended to go home.
“I came by the old green path,” said he, “but intend to turn down the glen into the common road.”
“O, don't go that way,” said she; “if you do, you'll have to pass the haunted house, ay, and maybe, might meet the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv_.”
“What is that,” said he.
“O, Lord save us, sir,” said she, “did you never hear of the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv? _ A spirit, sir, that appears about the haunted house in the shape of a black ould man, and they say that nobody lives long afther seein' him three times.”
“Yes; but did he ever take any person's life?”
“They say so, sir.”
“When? How long ago?”
“Indeed, I can't tell that, sir; but sure every one says it.”
“Well, what every one says must be true,” he replied, smiling. “I, however, am not afraid of him, as I never go unarmed; and if I happen to meet him, trust me I will know what mettle he's made of before we part, or whether he belongs to this world or the other.”
He then went down the glen, by the bottom of which the road went; and at a lonely place in a dark angle of it this far-famed spirit was said to appear.
This vain, but simple girl, the pride of her honest parents and all her simple relations and friends, took up her pitcher and proceeded with an elated heart by the pathway house. We say her heart was elated at the notion of having engaged the affections of a handsome, young, and elegant gentleman, but at the same time she felt a secret sense of error, if not of guilt, in having given him a clandestine meeting, and kept an appointment which she knew her parents and brothers would have heard with indignation and shame. She was confident, however, in her own strength, and resolved in her mind that Woodward's attachment for her never should terminate either in her disgrace or “ruin.” There were, however, many foolish and pernicious ballads sung about that period at the hearths of the peasantry, in which some lord or squire of high degree was represented to have fallen in love with some beautiful girl of humble life, whom he married in spite of his proud relations, and after having made her a lady of rank, and dressed her in silks and satins, gold rings and jewels, brought her home to his castle, where they lived in grandeur and happiness for the remainder of their lives. The simple-minded girl began to imagine that some such agreeable destiny might be reserved for herself; and thus endeavored, by the deceitful sophistry of a credulous heart, and proud of her beauty, to palliate her conduct amidst the accusations of her own conscience, which told her she was acting wrong.
She had now got about half way home, when she saw an individual approach her at a rapid pace; and as the moon had just risen, his figure was distinctly before her, and she immediately felt a strong impression of terror and alarm. The individual in question was young, tall, and muscular; his person had in it every symptom of extraordinary activity and vigor. His features, however, were not at all such as could be termed handsome; so far from that, they were rude and stern, but not without a wild and disagreeable dignity. His eyes were at all times fierce and fiery, and gave unequivocal indications of a fierce and fiery spirit. He wore a pair of rude pantaloons that fitted closely to his finely made limbs, a short jacket or Wyliecoat that also fitted closely to his body, over which he wore the usual cloak of that day, which was bound about his middle with a belt and buckle, in which was stuck a middogue, or, as it ought to be written, _meadoige_, and pronounced _maddogay_. He wore a kind of cap or _barrad_, which, as well as his cloak, could, by being turned inside out, instantly change his whole appearance, and mislead his pursuers--for he was the outlaw. Such was the startling individual who now approached her, and at whose fierce aspect she trembled--not less from her knowledge of the natural violence of his character than from a consciousness of her interview with Woodward.
“Well, Granua (Grace),” said he, quickly and with some vehemence, “where have you been?”
“At the well,” she replied; “have you eyes in your head? Don't you see my pitcher?”
“I do; but what kept you there so long? and why is your voice tremblin', as if you wor afeard, or did something wrong? Why is your face pale, too? --it's not often so.”
“The Lord save us, Shawn,” replied Grace, attempting to treat those pointed interrogatories with a jocular spirit, “how can you expect me to answer such a catechize as you're puttin' to me at wanst.”
“Answer me, in the mane time,” he replied; “I'll have no doubling, Granua.”
“Has anything vexed you, Shawn?”
“_Chorp an diaoul! _ tell me why you staid so long at the well”--and as he spoke his eyes flashed with resentment and suspicion.
“I didn't stay long at it.”
“I say you did. What kept you?”
“Why, bekaise I didn't hurry myself, but took my time. I was often longer.”
“You were spakin' to some one at the well.”
“Ah, thin, Shawn, who would I be spakin' to?”
“Maybe I know--I believe I do--but I want now to know whether you're a liar, as I suspect you to be, or whether you are honest enough to tell the truth.”
“Do you suspect me, then?”
“I do suspect you; or rather I don't--bekaise I know the truth. Answer me--who were you spakin' with?”
“Troth,” said she, “I was lookin' at your sweetheart in the well,” meaning her own shadow, “and was only asking her how she did.”
“You danced with _Harry-na-Suil Balor_ last night?”
“I did; because the gentleman axed me--and why would I refuse him?”
“You whispered in a corner with him?”
“I did not,” she replied; “how could I when the room was so throng?”
“Ay, betther in a throng room than a thin one; ay, and you promised to meet him at the well to-night; and you kept your word.”
A woman's courage and determination to persist in falsehood are never so decided and deliberate as when she feels that the suspicion expressed against her is true. She then gets into heroics and attempts to turn the tables upon her opponent, especially when she knows, as Miss Davoren did on this occasion, that he has nothing but suspicion to support him. She knew that her lover had been at the bonfire, and that his friends must have seen her dance with Woodward; and this she did not attempt to deny, because she could not; but as for their tryst at the well, she felt satisfied, from her knowledge of his jealous and violent character, that if he had been aware of it, it would not have been by seeking the fact through the medium of his threats and her fears that he would have proceeded. Had he seen Woodward, for instance, and herself holding a secret meeting in such a place and at such an hour, she concluded justly that the _middogue_ or dagger, for the use of which he had been already so celebrated, would have been brought into requisition against either one or both.
“I'll talk no more to you,” she replied, with a flushed face; “for even if I tould you the truth, you wouldn't believe me. I did meet him, then; are you satisfied now?”
This admission was an able stroke of policy on her part, as the reader will soon perceive.
“O,” he exclaimed, with a bitter, or, rather, a furious expression of face, “_dar manim_, if you had, you wouldn't dare to confess as much. But listen to me; if I ever hear or know, to my own satisfaction, that you meet him, or keep his company, or put yourself in his power, I'll send six inches of this “--and he pulled out the glittering weapon--“into your heart and his; so now be warned and avoid him, and don't bring down my vengeance on you both.”
“I don't see what right you have to bring me over the coals about any one. My father was forcin' me to marry you; but I now tell you to your teeth, that I never had the slightest intention of it. No! I wouldn't take the wealth of the barony, and be the wife of sich a savage murdherer. No man wid blood upon his hands and upon his sowl, as you have--a public robber, a murdherer, an outlaw--will ever be my husband. What right have you to tell me who I'm to spake to, or who I'm not to spake to?”
“Ah,” he replied, “that wasn't your language to me not long ago.”
“But you were a different boy then from what you are now. If you had kept your name free from disgrace and blood, I might have loved you; but I cannot love a man with such crimes to answer for as you have.”
“You accuse me of shedding blood,” he replied; “that is false. I have never shed blood nor taken life; but, on the contrary, did all in my power to prevent those who have placed me at their head from doin' so. Yet, when they did it in my absence, and against my orders, the blame and guilt is charged upon me because I am their leader. As for anything else I have done, I do not look upon it as a crime; let it rest upon the oppression that drove me and others to the wild lives we lead. We are forced to live now the best way we can, and that you know; but as to this gentleman, you mustn't spake to him at any rate,” he proceeded; “why should you? What 'ud make a man so high in life, and so far above you as he is, strive to become acquainted with you, unless to bring about your ruin to gratify his own bad passions? Think of it, and bring it home to your heart. You have too many examples before your eyes, young as you are, of silly girls that allow themselves to be made fools of, and desaved and ruined by such scoundrels as this. Look at that unfortunate girl in the mountains there--Nannie Morrissey; look at her father hanged only for takin' God's just revenge, as he had a right to do, on the villain that brought destruction upon her and his innocent family, and black shame upon their name that never had a spot upon it before. After these words you may now act as you like; but remember that you have got _Shawn-na-Middogue's_ warning, and you ought to know what that is.”
He then started off in the same direction which Woodward had taken, and Grace, having looked after him with considerable indignation on her own part and considerable apprehension on behalf of Woodward, took up her pitcher and proceeded home.
She now felt herself much disturbed, and experienced that state of mind which is often occasioned by the enunciation of that which is known to be truth, but which, at the same time, is productive of pain to the conscience, especially when that conscience begins to abandon the field and fly from its duty.
Woodward, as he had intended, preferred the open and common road home, although it was much longer, rather than return by the old green lane, which was rugged and uneven, and full of deep ruts, dangerous inequalities, and stumps of old trees, all of which rendered it not only a disagreeable, but a dangerous, path by night. Having got out upon the highway, which here, and until he reached near home, was, indeed, solemn-looking and lonely, not a habitation except the haunted house being visible for upwards of two miles, he proceeded on his way, thinking of his interview with Grace Davoren. The country on each side of him was nearly a desert; a gray ruin, some of whose standing and isolated fragments assumed, to the excited imagination of the terrified peasants as they passed it by night, the appearance of supernatural beings, stood to the left, in the centre of an antiquated church-yard, in which there had not been a corpse buried for nearly half a century--a circumstance which always invests a graveyard with a more fearful character. As Woodward gazed at these still and lonely relics of the dead, upon which the faint rays of the moon gleamed with a spectral and melancholy light, he could not help feeling that the sight itself, and the associations connected with it, were calculated to fill weak minds with strong feelings of supernatural terror. His, however, was not a mind accessible to any such impressions; but at the same time he could make allowance for them among those who had seldom any other notions to guide them on such subjects than those of superstition and ignorance.
The haunted house, which was not yet in sight, he did not remember, nor was he acquainted with its history, with the exception of Grace's slight allusion to it. At length he came to a part of the road which was overhung, or rather altogether covered with long beech trees, whose huge arms met and intertwined with each other across it, filling the arch they made with a solemn darkness even in the noon of day. At night, however, the obscurity was black and palpable; and such upon this occasion was its awful solemnity and stillness, and the sense of insecurity occasioned by the almost supernatural gloom about him, that Woodward could not avoid the idea that it afforded no bad conception of the entrance to the world of darkness and of spirits. He had not proceeded far, however, under this dismal canopy, when an incident occurred which tested his courage severely. As he went along he imagined that he heard the sound of human footsteps near him. This, to be sure, gave him at first no trouble on the score of anything supernatural. The country, however, was, as we have already intimated, very much infested with outlaws and robbers, and although Woodward was well armed, as he had truly said, and was no coward besides, yet it was upon this view of the matter that he experienced anything like apprehension. He accordingly paused, in order to ascertain whether the footsteps he heard might not have been the echo of his own. When his steps ceased, so also did the others; and when he advanced again so did they. He coughed aloud, but there was no echo; he shouted out “Is there any one there?” but still there was a dead stillness. At length he said again, “Whoever you may be, and especially if your designs be evil and unlawful, you had better beware; I am well armed, and both able and determined to defend myself; if money is your object, pass on, for I have none about me.”
Again there was the silence, as there was the darkness of the grave. He now resumed his former pace, and the noise of footsteps, evidently and distinctly different from his own, were once more heard near him. Those that accompanied him fell upon his ear with a light, but strange and chilling sound, that filled him with surprise, and something like awe. In fact, he had never heard anything similar to it before. It was very strange, he thought, for the sounds, though light, were yet as distinct and well-defined as his own. He still held a pistol in each hand, and as he had no means of unravelling this mystery so long as he was inwrapped in such Cimmerian gloom, he resolved to accelerate his pace and get into the light of the moon as soon as he could. He accordingly did so; but the footsteps, although they fell not now so quickly as his own, still seemed to maintain the same distance from him as before. This certainly puzzled him; and he was attempting, if possible, to solve this new difficulty, when he found himself emerging from the darkness, and in a few moments standing in the light of the moon. He immediately looked about him, but except the usual inanimate objects of nature, he could see nothing. Whatever it is, thought he, or, rather, whoever it is, he has thought proper to remain undiscovered in the darkness. I shall now bid him good-night, and proceed on my way home. He accordingly moved on once more, when, to his utter astonishment, he heard the footsteps again, precisely within the same distance of him as before.
“Tut,” said he, “I now perceive what the matter with me is. This is a mere hallucination, occasioned by a disordered state of the nerves; and as he spoke he returned his pistols into his breast pockets, where he usually wore them, and once more resumed his journey. There was, however, something in the sound of the footsteps--something so hollow--so cold, as it were, and so unearthly, that he could not throw off the unaccountable impression which it made upon him, infidel and sceptic as he was upon all supernatural intimations and appearances. At length, he proceeded, or rather they proceeded, onward until he arrived within sight of what he supposed to be the haunted house. He paused a few moments, and was not now so insensible to its lonely and dismal aspect. It was a two-storied house, and nothing could surpass the spectral appearance of the moon's light as it fell with its pale and death-like lustre upon the windows. He stood contemplating it for some time, when, all at once, he perceived, walking about ten yards in advance of him, the shape of a man dressed in black from top to toe. It was not within the scope of human fortitude to avoid being startled by such a sudden and incomprehensible apparition. Woodward was startled; but he soon recovered himself, and after the first shock felt rather satisfied that he had some visible object with which he could make the experiment he projected, viz., to ascertain the nature, whether mortal or otherwise, of the being before him. With this purpose in view, he walked very quickly after him, and as the other did not seem to quicken his pace into a corresponding speed, he took it for granted that he would soon overtake him. In this, however, he was, much to his astonishment, mistaken. His own walk was quick and rapid, whilst that of this incomprehensible figure was slow and solemn, and yet he could not lessen the distance between them a single inch.
“Stop, sir,” said Woodward, “whoever or whatever you are--stop, I wish to speak with you; be you mortal or spiritual, I fear you not--only stop.”
The being before him, however, walked on at the same slow and solemn pace, but still persisted in maintaining his distance. Woodward was resolute, fearless--a sceptic, an infidel, a materialist--but here was a walking proposition in his presence which he could not solve, and which, up to that point, at least, had set all his theories at defiance. His blood rose--he became annoyed at the strange silence of the being before him, but more still at the mysterious and tardy pace with which it seemed to precede and escape him.
[Illustration: PAGE 652-- I will follow it until morning] “I will follow it until morning,” he said to himself, “or else I shall develop this startling enigma.”
At this moment his mysterious fellow-traveller, after having advanced as if there had not been such an individual as Woodward in existence, now stood; he was directly opposite the haunted house, and turning round, faced the tantalized and bewildered mortal. The latter looked on him; his countenance was the countenance of the dead--of the sheeted dead, stretched out in the bloodless pallor which lies upon the face of vanished life--of existence that is no more, at least in flesh and blood. Woodward approached him--for the thing had stood, as we have said, and permitted, him to come within a few yards from him. His eyes were cold and glassy, and apparently without speculation, like those of a dead man open; yet, notwithstanding this, Woodward felt that they looked at him, if not into him.
“Speak,” said he, “speak; who or what are you?”
He received no reply; but in a few seconds the apparition, if it were such, put his hand into his bosom, and, pulling out a dagger, which gleamed with a faint and visionary light, he directed it as if to his (Woodward's) heart. Three times he did this, in an attitude more of warning than of anger, when, at length, he turned and approached the haunted house, at the door of which he disappeared.
Woodward, as the reader must have perceived, was a strong-minded, fearless man, and examined the awful features of this inscrutable being closely.
“This, then,” thought he, “is the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv_, or the Black Spectre; but, be it what it may, I am strongly of opinion that it was present at the bonfire last night, and as I am well armed, I will unquestionably pursue it into the house. Nay, what is more, I suspect that it is in some way or I other connected with the outlaw _Shawn-na-Middogue_, who it was, they say, made that amazing leap over the aforesaid bonfire in my own presence.”
On that very account, however, he reflected that such an intrusion might be attended with more danger than that to be apprehended from a ghost. He consequently paused for some time before he could decide on following up such a perilous resolution. While he thus stood deliberating upon the prudence of this daring exploit, he heard a variety of noises, and knockings, and rollings, as if of empty barrels, and rattling of chains, all going on inside, whilst the house itself appeared to be dark and still, without smoke from the chimneys, or light in the windows, or any other symptom of being inhabited, unless by those who were producing the wild and extraordinary noises he then heard.
“If I do not see this out,” said he, “my account of it will go to add another page to the great volume of superstition. I am armed, not a whit afraid, and I will see it out, if human enterprise can effect it.”
He immediately entered the door, which he found, somewhat to his surprise, was only laid to, and, after listening for a few moments, resolved to examine the premises closely. In deference to the reader, whose nerves may not be so strong as those of Henry Woodward, and who consequently may entertain a very decided objection to enter a haunted house, especially one in such a lonely and remote situation, we will only say that he remained in it for at least an hour and a half; at the expiration of which time he left it, walked home in a silent and meditative mood, spoke little to his family, who were a good deal surprised at his abstracted manner, and, after sipping a tumbler of punch with his step-father, went rather gloomily to bed.
The next morning at breakfast he looked a good deal paler than they had yet seen him, and for some time his contribution to the family dialogue was rather scanty.
“Harry,” said his mother, “what is the matter with you? You are silent, and look pale. Are you unwell?”
“No, ma'am,” he replied, “I cannot say that I am. But, by the way, have you not a haunted house in the neighborhood, and is there not an apparition called the Black Man, or the Black Spectre, seen occasionally about the premises?”
“So it is said,” replied Lindsay, “but none of this family has ever seen it, although I believe it has undoubtedly been seen by many persons in the neighborhood.”
“What is supposed to have been the cause of its appearance?” asked Harry.
“Faith, Harry,” replied his brother, “I fear there is nobody here can give you that information. To speak for myself, I never heard its appearance accounted for at all. Perhaps Barney Casey knows. Do you, father?”
“Not I,” replied his father; “but as you say, Charley, we had better try Barney. Call him up.”
“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Lindsay, sharply and disdainfully, “it was the Black Spectre who produced the shower of blood last night?”
“Faith, it's not unlikely,” replied her husband, “if he be, as the people think, connected with the devil.”
In a couple of minutes Barney entered to know what was wanted.
“Barney,” said his master, “can you inform us who or what the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv_ is, or why he appears in this neighborhood? Damn the fellow; he has that house of mine on my hands this many a long year, for I cannot get it set. I've had priests and parsons to lay him, and for some time we thought the country was free of him; but it was all to no purpose; he was still sure to return, and no earthly habitation should serve him but that unlucky house of mine. It is very odd that he never began to appear until after my second marriage.”
“Sir,” replied Barney, “I heard something about it; but I'm not clear on it. To tell you the truth, there's two or three accounts of him; but anyhow, sir, you're in luck for the right one; for if livin' man can give it to you, Bandy Brack, the peddler, is the man. He's now at his breakfast in the kitchen; but I'll have him up.”
“Not in the parlor,” said his mistress; “a strolling knave like him. Who ordered him his breakfast in the kitchen without my knowledge?” she asked. “The moment I can find out the person that dared to do so, that moment they shall leave my family. Must I keep an open house for every strolling vagabond in the country?”
“If you choose to turn me out,” replied her husband, “you may try your hand at it. It was I ordered the poor man his breakfast; and, what is more, I desire you instantly to hold your peace.”
As he spoke, she saw that one of his determined looks settled upon his countenance--a pretty certain symptom that she had better be guided by his advice.
“Come, Barney,” said he, “throw up that window and send the poor man here, until he tells us what he knows about this affair.”
The window was accordingly thrown open, and in a few minutes Bandy Brack made his appearance outside, and, on being interrogated on the subject in question, took off his hat, and was about to commence his narrative, when Lindsay said, “Put on your hat, Bandy; the sun's too hot to be uncovered.”
“That's more of it,” said his wife; “a fine way to make yourself respected, Lindsay.”
“I love to be respected,” he replied sternly, “and to deserve respect: but I have no desire to incur the hatred of the poor by oppression and want of charity, like some of my female acquaintances.”
“Plase your honor,” said Bandy, “all that I know about the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv_, or the Black Spectre, as the larned call him, won't require many words to tell you. It's not generally known what I'm goin' to say now. The haunted house, as your honor, maybe, remimbers, was an inn--a carman's inn chiefly--and one night, it seems, there came a stranger to stop in it. He was dressed in black, and when he thought it time to go to bed he called the landlord, Antony McMurt, and placed in his hands a big purse o' goold to keep for him till he should start at daybreak, as he intended, the next morning. Antony-- “Ay,” said Lindsay, interrupting him, “that accounts for the nature of the villain's death. I remember him well, Bandy, although I was only a boy at the time; go on--he was always a dishonest scoundrel it was said--proceed.”
“Well it seems, Antony, sir, mistook him for a Protestant parson; and as he had a hankerin' afther the goold, he opened a gusset in the man's throat that same night, when the unsuspectin' traveller was sound in that sleep that he never woke from in this world. When the deed was done Antony stripped him of his clothes, and in doing so discovered a silver crucifix upon his breast, and a bravery (breviary) under his head, by which he found that he had murdhered a priest of his own religion in mistake. They say he stabbed him in the jigler vein wid a _middoge_. At all events, the body disappeared, and there never was any inquiry made about it--a good proof that the unfortunate man was a stranger. Well and good, your honor--in the coorse of a short time, it seems, the murdhered priest began to appear to him, and haunted him almost every night, until the unfortunate Antony began to get out of his rason, and, it is said, that when he appeared to him he always pointed the _middoge_ at him, just as if he wished to put it into his heart. Antony then, widout tellin' his own saicret, began to tell everybody that he was doomed to die a bloody death; in short, he became unsettled--got fairly beside himself, and afther mopin' about for some months in ordher to avoid the bloody death the priest threatened him wid, he went and hanged himself in the very room where he killed the unfortunate priest before.”
“I remember when he hanged himself, very well,” observed Lindsay, “but d--n the syllable of the robbery and murder of the priest or any body else ever I heard of till the present moment, although there was an inquest held over himself. The man got low-spirited and depressed, because his business failed him, or, rather, because he didn't attend to it; and in one of these moods hanged himself; but by all accounts, Bandy, if he hadn't done the deed for himself the hangman would have done it for him. He was said, I think, to have been connected with some of the outlaws, and to have been a bad boy altogether. I think it is now near fifty years ago since he hanged himself.”
“'Tis said, sir, that this account comes from one of his own relations; but there's another account, sir, of the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv_ that I don't believe a word of.”
“Another--what is that, Bandy?”
“O, bedad, sir,” replied Bandy, “it's more than I could venture to tell you here.”
“Come, come--out with it.”
Mrs. Lindsay went over with an inflamed face, and having ordered him to go about his business, slapped down the window with great violence, giving poor Bandy a look of wrath and intimidation that sealed his lips upon the subject of the other tradition he alluded to. He was, consequently, glad to escape from the threatening storm which he saw brewing in her countenance, and, consequently, made a very hasty retreat. Barney, who met him in the yard returning to fetch his pack from the kitchen, noticed his perturbation, and asked him what was the matter.
“May the Lord protect me from that woman's eye!” replied the pedler, “if you'd 'a' seen the look she gave me when she thought I was goin' to tell them the true story of the Shan-dhinne-dhuv.”
“And why should she put a sword in her eye against you for that, Bandy?” asked the other.
Bandy looked cautiously about him, and said in a whisper: “Because it's connected with her family, and follows it.”
He then proceeded to the kitchen, and having secured his pack, he made as rapid a disappearance as possible from about the premises.
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{
"id": "16004"
}
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7
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A Council of Two
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--Visit to Beech Grove. --The Herbalist Woodward now amused himself by walking and riding about the country and viewing its scenery, most of which he had forgotten during his long absence from home. It was not at all singular in that dark state of popular superstition and ignorance, that the shower of blood should, somehow or another, be associated with him and his detested mother. Of course, the association was vague, and the people knew not how to apply it to their circumstances. As they believed, however, that Mrs. Lindsay possessed the power of overlooking cattle, which was considered an evil gift, and in some mysterious manner connected with the evil spirit, and as they remembered--for superstition, like guilt, always possesses a good memory--that even in his young days, when little more than a child, her son Harry was remarkable for having eyes of a different color, from which circumstance he was even then called _Harry na Suil Gloir_, they naturally inferred that his appearance in the country boded nothing good; that, of course, he had the Evil Eye, as every one whose eyes differed, as his did, had; and that the thunder and lightning, the rain which drowned the bonfires, but, above all, the blood-shower, were indications that the mother and son were to be feared and avoided as much as possible, especially the latter. Others denied that the devil had anything to do with the shower of blood, or the storm which extinguished the fires, and stoutly maintained that it was God himself who had sent them to warn the country against having any intercourse that could possibly be avoided, with them. Then there was the Black Spectre that was said to follow her family; and did not every one know that when it appeared three times to any person, it was a certain proof that that person's coffin might be purchased? We all know how rapidly such opinions and colloquies spread, and we need scarcely say that in the course of a fortnight after the night of the bonfires all these matters had been discussed over half the barony. Some, in fact, were for loading him with the heavy burden of his mother's unpopularity; but others, more generous, were for waiting until the people had an opportunity of seeing how he might turn out--whether he would follow in his mother's footsteps, or be guided by the benevolent principles of his step-father and the rest of the family. Owing to these circumstances, need we say, that there was an unusual interest, almost an excitement, felt about him, which nothing could repress. His brother Charles was as well-beloved and as popular as his father, but, then, he excited no particular interest, because he was not suspected to possess the Evil Eye, nor to have any particular connection with the devil.
In this case matters stood, when one day Woodward, having dressed himself with particular care, ordered his horse, saying that he would ride over to Beech Grove and pay a visit to the Goodwins. There were none in the room at the time but Charles and his mother. The former started, and seemed uneasy at this intelligence; and his mother, having considered for a time, said: “Charles, I wish to speak to Harry.” Charles took the hint, and left the mother and son to the following dialogue:-- “Harry,” said she, “you spoke very warmly of that cunning serpent who defrauded you of your inheritance, and all of us out of our right. May I ask for what purpose you wish to cultivate an intimacy with such a scheming and dishonest crew as that?”
“Faith, mother, to tell you the truth, you don't detest them, nor feel the loss of the property more than I do; but the truth is, that the game I wish to play with them will be a winning one, if I can induce them to hold the cards. I wish to get the property, and as I feel that that can't be done without marrying their milk-and-curd of a daughter, why, it is my intention to marry her accordingly.”
“Then you don't marry a wife to be happy with her?”
“In one sense not I--in another I do; I shall make myself happy with her property.”
“Indeed, Harry, to tell you the truth, there is very little happiness in married life, and they are only fools that expect it. You see how I am treated by Lindsay and my own children.”
“Well, but you provoke them--why disturb yourself with them? Why not pass through life as quietly as you can? Imitate Lindsay.”
“What! make a sot of myself--become a fool, as he is?”
“Then, why did you marry him?”
“Because I was the fool then, but I have suffered for it. Why, he manages this property as if it wasn't mine--as if I didn't bring it to him. Think of a man who is silly enough to forgive a tenant his gale of rent, provided he makes a poor mouth, and says he is not able to pay it.”
“But I see no harm in that either; if the man is not able to pay, how can he? What does Lindsay do but make a virtue of necessity. He cannot skin a flint, can he?”
“That's an ugly comparison,” she replied, “and I can't conceive why you make it to me. I am afraid, Harry, you have suffered yourself to be prejudiced against the only friend--the only true friend, you have in the house. I can tell you, that although they keep fair faces to you, you are not liked here.”
“Very well; if I find that to be true, they will lose more than they'll gain by it.”
“They have been striving to secure your influence against me. I know it by your language.”
“In the devil's name, how can you know it by my language, mother?”
“You talked about skinning a flint; now, you had that from them with reference to me. It was only the other day that an ill-tongued house-maid of mine, after I had paid her her wages, and 'stopped' for the articles she injured on me, turned round, and called me a skinflint; they have made it a common nickname on me. I'd have torn her eyes out only for Lindsay, who had the assurance to tell me that if he had not interfered I'd have had the worst of it--that I'd come off second best, and such slang; yes, and then added afterwards, that he was sorry he interfered. That's the kind of a husband he is, and that's the life I lead. Now, this property is mine, and I can leave it to any one I please; he hasn't even a life interest in it.”
“O,” exclaimed the son, in surprise, “is that the case?”
“It is,” she replied, “and yet you see how I am treated.”
“I was not aware of that, my dear mother,” responded worthy Harry. “That alters the case entirely. Why, Lindsay, in these circumstances, ought to put his hands under your feet; so ought they all I think. Well, my dear mother, of one thing I can assure you, no matter how they may treat you, calculate firmly upon my support and protection; make yourself sure of that. But, now, about Miss Milk-and-curds--what do you think of my project?”
“I have been frequently turning it over in my mind, Harry, since the morning you praised her so violently, and I think, as you cannot get the property without the girl, you must only take her with it. The notion of its going into the hands of strangers would drive me mad.”
“Well, then, we understand each other; I have your sanction for the courtship.”
“You have; but I tell you again, I loathe her as I do poison. I never can forgive her the art with which she wheedled that jotter-headed old sinner, your uncle, out of twelve hundred a year. Unless it returns to the family, may my bitter malediction fall upon her and it.”
“Well, never mind, my dear mother, leave her to me--I shall have the girl and the property--but by hook or crook, the property. I shall ride over there, now, and it will not be my fault, if I don't tip both her and them the saccharine.”
“By the way, though, Harry, now that I think of it, I'm afraid you'll have opposition.”
“Opposition! How is that?”
“It is said there is a distant relation of theirs, a gentleman named O'Connor, a Ferdora O'Connor, I think, who, it is supposed, is likely to be successful there; but, by the way, are you aware that they are Catholics?”
“As to that, my dear mother, I don't care a fig for her religion; my religion is her property, or rather will be so when I get it. The other matter, however, is a thing I must look to--I mean the rivalry; but on that, too, we shall put our heads together, and try what can be done. I am not very timid; and the proverb says, you know, a faint heart never won a fair lady.”
Our readers may perceive, from the spirit of the above conversation, that the son was worthy of the mother, and the mother of the son. The latter, however, had, at least, some command over his temper, and a great deal of dexterity and penetration besides; whilst the mother, though violent, was clumsy in her resentments, and transparent in her motives. Short as Woodward's residence in the family was, he saw at a glance that the abuse she heaped upon her husband and children was nothing more nor less than deliberate falsehood. This, however, to him was a matter of perfect indifference. He was no great advocate of truth himself, whenever he found that his interests or his passions could be more effectually promoted by falsehood; although he did not disdain even truth whenever it equally served his purpose. In such a case it gave him a reputation for candor under which he could, with more safety, avail himself of his disingenuity and prevarication. He knew, as we said, that his mother's description of the family contained not one atom of truth; and yet he was too dastardly and cunning to defend them against her calumny. The great basis of his character, in fact, was a selfishness, which kept him perpetually indifferent to anything that was good or generous in itself, or outside the circle of his own interests, beyond which he never passed. Now, nothing, on the other hand, could be more adversative to this, than the conduct, temper, and principles of his brother and sister. Charles was an amiable, manly, and generous young fellow, who, with both spirit and independence, was, as a natural consequence, loved and respected by all who knew him; and as for his sweet and affectionate sister, Maria, there was not living a girl more capable of winning attachment, nor more worthy of it when attained; and severely, indeed, was the patience of this admirable brother and sister tried, by the diabolical temper of their violent and savage mother. As for Harry, he had come to the resolution, now that he understood the position of the property, to cultivate his mother's disposition upon such a principle of conduct as would not compromise him with either party. As to their feuds he was perfectly indifferent to them; but now his great object was, to study how to promote his own interests in his own way.
Having reached Beech Grove, he found that unassuming family at home, as they usually were; for, indeed, all their principal enjoyments lay within the quiet range of domestic life. Old Goodwin himself saw him through the parlor window as he approached, and, with ready and sincere kindness, met him in the hall.
“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Woodward,” said he. “Allow me to conduct you to the drawing-room, where you will meet Mrs. Goodwin, Alice, and a particular friend of ours. I cannot myself stop long with you, because I am engaged on particular business; but you will not miss an old fellow like me when you have better company. I hope my old friends are all well. Step in, sir. Here is Mr. Woodward, ladies; Mr. Woodward, this gentleman is a friend of ours, Mr. Ferdora O'Connor; Ferdora, this is Mr. Woodward; and now I must leave you to entertain each other; but I shall return, Mr. Woodward, before you go, unless you are in a great harry. Bridget, see that luncheon is ready; but you must lay it in the front parlor, because I have these tenants about me in the dining-room, as it is so much larger.”
“I have already given orders for that,” replied his wife. He then hurried out and left them, evidently much gratified by Woodward's visit. O'Connor and the latter having scanned each other by a glance or two, bowed with that extreme air of politeness which is only another name for a want of cordiality. O'Connor was rather a plain-looking young fellow, as to his person and general appearance; but his Milesian face was handsome, and his eye clear and candid, with a dash of determination and fire in it. Very different, indeed, was it from the eye that was scrutinizing him at that moment, with such keenness and penetration. There are such things as antipathies; otherwise why should those two individuals entertain, almost in a moment's time, such a secret and unaccountable disrelish towards each other? Woodward did not love Alice, so that the feeling could not proceed from jealousy; and we will so far throw aside mystery as to say here, that neither did O'Connor; and, we may add still further, that poor, innocent, unassuming Alice was attached to neither of them.
“I hope your brother is well, sir,” said O'Connor, anxious to break the ice, and try the stuff Woodward was made of. “I have not seen him for some time.”
“O! then, you are acquaintances?” said Woodward.
“We are more, sir,” replied O'Connor, “we are friends.”
“I hope you are all well,” interrupted kind-hearted Mrs. Goodwin.
“Quite well, my dear madam,” he replied. Then turning to O'Connor: “To be a friend to my brother, sir,” he said, “next to finding you a friend and favorite in this family, is the warmest recommendation to me. My long absence from home prevented me from knowing his value until now; but now that! I do know him, I say it, perhaps, with too much of the partiality of a brother, I think that any man may feel proud of his friendship; and I say so with the less hesitation, because I am sure he would select no man for his friend who was not worthy of it;” and he bowed courteously as he spoke.
“Faith, sir,” replied O'Connor, “you have hit it; I for one am proud of it; but, upon my conscience, he wouldn't be his father's son if he wasn't what he is.”
Alice was sewing some embroidery, and seemed to take no notice, if one could judge by her downcast locks, of what they said. At length she said, with a smile: “As you, Ferdora, have inquired for your favorite, I don't see why I should not inquire after mine; how is your sister, Mr. Woodward?”
“Indeed, she's the picture of health, Miss Goodwin; but I will not”--he added, with a smile to balance her own--“I will not be answerable for the health of her heart.”
Alice gave a low laugh, that had the slightest tincture of malice in it, and glanced at O'Connor, who began to tap his boot with his riding whip.
“She is a good girl as ever lived,” said Mrs. Goodwin, “and I hope will never have a heartache that may harm her.”
“Heaven knows, madam,” replied Woodward, “it is time only that will tell that. Love is a strange and sometimes rather a painful malady.”
“Of course you speak from your own experience, Mr. Woodward,” replied Alice.
“Then you have had the complaint, sir,” said O'Connor, laughing. “I wonder is it like small-pox or measles?”
“How is that, sir?” said Woodward, smiling.
“Why, that if you've had it once you'll never have it a second time.”
“Yes, but if I should be ill of it now?” and he glanced at Alice, who blushed.
“Why, in that case,” replied O'Connor, “it's in bed you ought to be; no man with an epidemic on him should be permitted to go abroad among his majesty's liege subjects.”
“Yes, Ferdora,” said Alice, “but I don't think Mr. Woodward's complaint is catching.”
“God forbid that the gentleman should die of it, though,” replied Ferdora, “for that would be a serious loss to the ladies.”
“You exaggerate that calamity, sir,” replied Woodward, with the slightest imaginable sneer, “and forget that if I die you survive me.”
“Well, certainly, there is consolation in that,” said O'Connor, “especially for the ladies, as I said; isn't there, Alley?”
“Certainly,” replied Alice; “in making love, Ferdora, you have the prowess of ten men.”
“Do you speak from experience, now, Miss Goodwin?” asked Woodward, rather dryly.
“O! no,” replied Alice, “I have only his own word for it.”
“Only his own word. Miss Goodwin! Do you imply by that, that his own word requires corroboration?”
Alice blushed again, and felt confused.
“I assure you, Mr. Woodward,” said O'Connor, “that when my word requires corroboration, I always corroborate it myself.”
“But, according to Miss Goodwin's account of it, sir, that's not likely to add much to its authenticity.”
“Well, Mr. Woodward,” said O'Connor, with the greatest suavity of manner, “I'll tell you my method under such circumstances; whenever I meet a gentleman that doubts my word, I always make him eat his onion.
“There's nothing new or wonderful in that,” replied the other; “it has been my own practice during life.”
“What? to eat your own words!” exclaimed O'Connor, purposely mistaking him; “very windy feeding, faith. Upon my honor and conscience, in that case, your complaint must be nothing else but the colic, and not love at all. Try peppermint wather, Mr. Woodward.”
Alice saw at once, but could not account for the fact, that the worthy gentlemen were cutting at each other, and the timid girl became insensibly alarmed at the unaccountable sharpness of their brief encounter. She looked with an anxious countenance, first at one, and then at the other, but scarcely knew what to say. Woodward, however, who was better acquainted with the usages of society, and the deference due to the presence of women, than the brusque, but somewhat fiery Milesian, now said, with a smile and a bow to that gentleman: “Sir, I submit; I am vanquished. If you are as successful in love as you are in banter, I should not wish to enter the list against you.
“Faith, sir,” replied O'Connor, with a poor-humored laugh, “if your sword is as sharp as your wit, you'd be an ugly customer to meet in a quarrel.”
O'Connor, who had been there for some time, now rose to take his leave, at which Alice felt rather satisfied. Indeed, she could not avoid observing that, whatever the cause of it might be, there seemed to exist some secret feeling of dislike between them, which occasioned her no inconsiderable apprehension. O'Connor she knew was kind-hearted and generous, but, at the same time, as quick as gunpowder in taking and resenting an insult. On the other hand, she certainly felt much regret at being subjected to the presence of Woodward, against whom she entertained, as the reader knows, a strong feeling that amounted absolutely to aversion. She could not, however, think of treating him with anything bordering on disrespect, especially in her own house, and she, consequently, was about to say something merely calculated to pass the time. In this, however, she was anticipated by Woodward, who, as he had his suspicions of O'Connor, resolved to sound her on the subject.
“That seems an agreeable young fellow,” said he; “somewhat free and easy in his deportment.”
“Take care, Mr. Woodward,” said her mother, “say nothing harsh against Ferdora, if you wish to keep on good terms with Alley. He's the white-headed boy with her.”
“I am not surprised at that, madam,” he replied, “possessed as he is of such a rare and fortunate quality.”
“Pray, what is that, Mr. Woodward?” asked Alice, timidly.
“Why, the faculty of making love with the power of ten men,” he replied.
“You must be a very serious man,” she replied.
“Serious, Miss Goodwin! Why do you think so?”
“I hope you are not in the habit of receiving a jest as a matter of fact.”
“Not,” he replied, “if I could satisfy myself that there was no fact in the jest; but, indeed, in this world, Miss Goodwin, it is very difficult to distinguish jest from earnest.”
“I am a bad reasoner, Mr. Woodward,” she replied.
“But, perhaps, Miss Goodwin, Mr. O'Connor would say that you make up in feeling what you want in logic.”
“I hope, sir,” replied Alice, with some spirit--for she felt hurt at his last observation--“that I will never feel on any subject until I have reason as well as inclination to support me.”
“Ah,” said he, “I fear that if you once possess the inclination you will soon supply the reason. But, by the way, talking of your friend and favorite, Mr. O'Connor, I must say I like him very much, and I am, not surprised that you do.”
“I do, indeed,” she replied; “I know of nobody I like better than honest, frank, and generous Ferdora.”
“Well, Miss Goodwin, I assure you he shall be a favorite of mine for your sake.”
“Indeed, Mr. Woodward, if you knew him, he would become one for his own.”
“Have you known him long, may I ask, Miss Goodwin?”
“O dear, yes,” said Mrs. Goodwin, who now, finding this a fair opening in the conversation, resolved to have her share of it--“O dear! yes; Alley and he know each other ever since her childhood; he's some three or four years older than she is, to be sure, but that makes little difference.”
“And, I suppose, Mrs. Goodwin, their intimacy--perhaps I may say attachment--has the sanction of their respective families?”
“God bless you, sir, to be sure it has--are they not distantly related?”
“That, indeed, is a very usual proceeding among families,” observed Woodward; “the boy and girl are thrown together, and desired to look upon each other as destined to become husband and wife; they accordingly do so, fall in love, are married, and soon find themselves--miserable; in fact, these matches seldom turn out well.”
“But there is no risk of that here,” replied Alice.
“I sincerely hope not, Miss Goodwin. In your case, unless the husband was a fool, or a madman, or a villain, there must be happiness. Of course you will be happy with him; need I say,” and here he sighed, “that he at least ought to be so with you?”
“Upon my word, Mr. Woodward,” replied Alice, smiling, “you are a much cleverer man than I presume your own modesty ever permitted you to suspect.”
“I don't understand you,” he replied, with a look of embarrassment.
“Why,” she proceeded, “here have you, in a few minutes, made up a match between two persons who never were intended to be married at all; you have got the sanction of two families to a union which neither of them even for a moment contemplated. Dear me, sir, may not a lady and gentleman become acquainted without necessarily falling in love?”
“Ah, but, in your case, my dear Miss Goodwin, it would be difficult--impossible I should say--to remain indifferent, if the gentleman had either taste or sentiment; however, I assure you I am sincerely glad to find that I have been mistaken.”
“God bless me, Mr. Woodward,” said Mrs. Goodwin, “did you think they were sweethearts?”
“Upon my honor, madam, I did--and I was very sorry for it.”
“Mr. Woodward,” replied Alice, “don't mistake me; I am inaccessible to flattery.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” said he, “because I know that for that reason you are not and will not be insensible to truth.”
“Unless when it borrows the garb of flattery, and thus causes itself to be suspected.”
“In that case,” said Woodward, “nothing but good sense, Miss Goodwin, can draw the distinction between them--and now I know that you are possessed of that.”
“I hope so, sir,” she replied, “and that I will ever continue to observe that distinction. Mamma, I want more thread,” she said: “where can I get it?”
“Up stairs, dear, in my work-box.”
She then bowed slightly to Woodward and went up to find her thread, but in fact from a wish to put an end to a conversation that she felt to be exceedingly disagreeable. At this moment old Goodwin came in.
“You will excuse me, I trust, Mr. Woodward,” said he, “I was down in the dining-room receiving rents for------.” He paused, for, on reflection, he felt that this was a disagreeable topic to allude to; the fact being that he acted as his daughter's agent, and I had been on that and the preceding day receiving her rents. “Martha,” said he, “what! about luncheon? You'll take luncheon with us, Mr. Woodward?”
Woodward bowed, and Mrs. Goodwin was about to leave the room, when he said: “Perhaps, Mrs. Goodwin, you'd be good enough to remain for a few minutes.” Mrs. Goodwin sat down, and he proceeded: “I trust that my arrival home will, under Providence, be the means of reconciling and reuniting two families who never should have been at variance. Not but that I admit, my dear friends,--if you will allow me to call you so,--that the melancholy event of my poor uncle's death, and the unexpected disposition of so large a property, were calculated to try the patience of worldly-minded people--and who is not so in a more or less I degree?”
“I don't think any of your family is,” replied Goodwin, bluntly, “with one exception.”
“O! yes, my mother,” replied Woodward, “and I grant it; at least she was so, and acted upon worldly principles; but I think you will admit, at least as Christians you must, that the hour of change and regret may come to every human heart when its errors, and its selfishness, if you will, have been clearly and mildly pointed out. I do not attribute the change that has happily taken place in my dear mother to myself, but to a higher power; although I must admit, as I do with all humility, that I wrought earnestly, in season and out of season, since my return, to bring it about; and, thank heaven, I have succeeded. I come this day as a messenger of peace, to state that she is willing that the families should be reconciled, and a happier and more lasting union effected between them.”
“I am delighted to hear it, Mr. Woodward,” said Goodwin, much moved; “God knows I am. Blessed be the peace-maker, and you are he; an easy conscience and a light heart must be your reward.”
“They must,” added his wife, wiping her eyes; “they must and they will.”
“Alas!” proceeded Woodward, “how far from Gospel purity is every human motive when it comes to be tried by the Word! I will not conceal from you the state of my heart, nor deny that in accomplishing this thing it was influenced by a certain selfish feeling on my part; in one sense a disinterested selfishness I admit, but in another a selfishness that involves my own happiness. However, I will say no more on that subject at present. It would scarcely be delicate until the reconciliation is fully accomplished; then, indeed, perhaps I may endeavor, with fear and trembling, to make myself understood. Only until then, I beg of you to think well of me, and permit me to consider myself as not unworthy of a humble place in your affections.”
Old Goodwin shook him warmly by the hand, and his wife once more had recourse to her pocket-handkerchief. “God bless you, Mr. Woodward!” he exclaimed, “God bless you, I now see your worth, and know it; you already have our good-will and affections, and, what is more, we feel that you deserve them.”
“I wish, my dear sir,” said the other, “that Miss Goodwin understood me as well as you and her respected mother.”
“She does, Mr. Woodward,” replied her father; “she does, and she will too.”
“I tremble, however,” said Woodward, with a deep sigh; “but I will leave my fate in your hands, or, I should rather say in the hands of Heaven.”
Lunch was then announced, and they went down to the front parlor, where it was laid out. On entering the room Woodward was a good deal disappointed to find that Miss Goodwin was not there.
“Will not Miss Goodwin join us?” he asked.
“Certainly,” said her father; “Martha, where is she?”
“You know, my dear, she seldom lunches,” replied her mother.
“Well, but she will now,” said Goodwin; “it is not every day we have Mr. Woodward; let her be sent for. John, find out Miss Goodwin, and say we wish her to join us at luncheon.”
John in a few moments returned to say that she had a slight headache, and could not have the pleasure of coming down.
“O, I am very sorry to hear she is unwell,” said Woodward, with an appearance of disappointment and chagrin, which he did not wish to conceal; or, to speak the truth, which, in a great measure, he assumed.
After lunch his horse was ordered, and he set out on his way to Rathfillan, meditating upon his visit, and the rather indifferent reception he had got from Alice.
Miss Goodwin, though timid and nervous, was, nevertheless, in many things, a girl of spirit, and possessed a great deal of natural wit and penetration. On that day Woodward exerted himself to the utmost, with a hope of making a favorable impression upon her. He calculated a good deal upon her isolated position and necessary ignorance of life and the world, and in doing so, he calculated, as thousands of self-sufficient libertines, in their estimate of women, have done both before and since. He did not know that there is an intuitive spirit in the female heart which often enables it to discover the true character of the opposite sex; and to discriminate between the real and the assumed with almost infallible accuracy. But, independently of this, there was in Woodward's manner a hardness of outline, and in his conversation an unconscious absence of all reality and truth, together with a cold, studied formality, dry, sharp, and presumptuous, that required no extraordinary penetration to discover; for the worst of it was, that he made himself disagreeably felt, and excited those powers of scrutiny and analysis that are so peculiar to the generality of the other sex. In fact, he sought his way home in anything but an agreeable mood. He thought to have met Alice an ignorant country girl, whom he might play upon; but he found himself completely mistaken, because, fortunately for herself, he had taken her upon one of her strong points. As it was, however, whilst he could not help admiring the pertinence of her replies, neither could he help experiencing something of a bitter feeling against her, because she indulged in them at his own expense; whilst against O'Connor, who bantered him with such spirit and success, and absolutely turned him into ridicule in her presence, he almost entertained a personal resentment. His only hope now was in her parents, who seemed as anxious to entertain his proposals with favor as Alice was to reject them with disdain. As for Alice herself, her opinion of him is a matter with which the reader is already acquainted.
Our hero was about half way home when he overtook a thin, lank old man, who was a rather important character in the eyes of the ignorant people at the period of which we write. He was tall, and so bare of flesh, that when asleep he might pass for the skeleton of a corpse. His eyes were red, cunning, and sinister-looking; his lips thin, and from under the upper one projected a single tooth, long and yellow as saffron. His face was of unusual length, and his parchment cheeks formed two inward curves, occasioned by the want of his back teeth. His breeches were open at the knees; his polar legs were without stockings; but his old brogues were foddered, as it is called, with a wisp of straw, to keep his feet warm. His arms were long, even in proportion to his body, and his bony fingers resembled claws rather than anything! else we can now remember. They (the claws): were black as ebony, and resembled in length and sharpness those of a cat when she is stretching herself after rising from the! hearth. He wore an old _barrad_ of the day, the greasy top of which fell down upon the collar of his old cloak, and over his shoulder was a bag which, from its appearance, must have contained something not very weighty, as he walked on without seeming to travel as a man who carried a burden. He had a huge staff in his right hand, the left having a hold of his bag. Woodward at first mistook him for a mendicant, but upon looking at him more closely, he perceived nothing of that watchful and whining cant for alms which marks the character of the professional beggar. The old skeleton walked on, apparently indifferent and independent, and never once put himself into the usual posture of entreaty. This, and the originality of his appearance, excited Woodward's curiosity, and he resolved to speak to him.
“Well, my good old man, what may you be carrying in the bag?”
The man looked at him respectfully, and raising his hand and staff, touched his barrad, and replied: “A few yarribs, your honor.”
“Yarribs? What the deuce is that?”
“Why, the yarribs that grow, sir--to cure the people when they are sick.”
“O, you mean herbs.”
“I do, sir, and I gather them too for the potecars.”
“O, then you are what they call a herbalist.”
“I believe I am, sir, if you put that word against (to) a man that gethers yarribs.”
“Yes, that's what I mean. You sell them to the apothecaries, I suppose?”
“I do a little, sir, but I use the most of them myself. Sorra much the potecars knows about the use o' them; they kill more than they cure wid 'em, and calls them that understands what they're good for rogues and quacks. May the Lord forgive them this day! _Amin, acheernah! _ (Amen, O Lord!)”
“And do you administer these herbs to the sick?”
“I do, sir, to the sick of all kinds--man and baste. There's nothing like them, sir, bekaise it was to cure diseases of all kinds that the Lord, blessed be His name! _amin, acheernah! _ planted them in the earth for the use of his cratures. Why, sir, will you listen to me now, and mark my words? There never was a complaint that follied either man or baste, brute or bird, but a yarrib grows that 'ud cure it if it was known. When the head's hot wid faver, and the heart low wid care, the yarrib is to be found that will cool the head and rise the heart.”
“Don't you think, now,” said Woodward, imagining that he would catch him, “that a glass of wine, or, what is better still, a good glass of punch, would raise the heart better than all the herbs in the universe?”
“Lord bless me!” he exclaimed, as if in soliloquy; “the ignorance of the rich and wealthy, and of great people altogether, is unknown! Wine and punch! And what, will you tell me, does wine and punch come from? Doesn't the wine come from the grapes that grow in forrin parts--sich as we have in our hot-houses--and doesn't the whiskey that you make your punch of grow from the honest barley in our own fields? So much for your knowledge of yarribs.”
“Why, there you are right, my old friend. I forgot that.”
“You forgot it? Tell the truth at once, and say you didn't know it. But may be you did forget it, for troth he'd be a poor crature that didn't know whiskey was made from barley.”
He here turned his red satirical eye upon Woodward, with a glance that was strongly indicative of contempt for his general information.
“Well,” he proceeded, “the power of yarribs is wondherful,--if it was known to many as it is to me.”
“Why, from long practice, I suppose, you must be skilful in the properties ol herbs?”
“Well, indeed, you needn't only suppose it, but you may be sartin of it. Have you a good appetite?”
“A particularly good one, I assure you.”
“Now, wouldn't you think it strange that I could give you a dose that 'ud keep you on half a male a day for the next three months.”
“God forbid,” replied Woodward, who, among his other good qualities, was an enormous trencherman,--“God forbid that ever such a dose should go down my throat.”
“Would you think, now,” he proceeded, with a sinister grin that sent his yellow tusk half an inch out of his mouth, “that if a man was jealous of his wife, or a wife of her husband, I couldn't give either o' them a dose that 'ud cure them?”
“Faith, I dare say you could,” replied Woodward; “a dose that would free them from care of all sorts, as well as jealousy.”
“I don't mane that,” said the skeleton; “ha, ha! you're a funny gentleman, and maybe I--but no--I don't mane that; but widout injurin' a hair in either o' their heads.”
“I am not married,” said the other, “but I expect to be soon, and when I am I will pay you well for the knowledge of that herb--for my wife, I mean. Where do you live?”
“In Rathfillan, sir. I'm a well-known man there, and for many a long mile about it.”
“You must be very useful to the country people hereabouts?”
“Ay,” he exclaimed, “you mane to the poor, I suppose, and you're right; but maybe I'm of sarvice to the rich, too. Many a face I save from--I could save from shame, I mane--if I liked, and could get well ped for it, too. Some young, extravagant people that have rich ould fathers do be spakin' to me, too; but thin, you know, I have a sowl to be saved, and am a religious man, I hope, and do my duty as sich, and that every one that has a sowl to be saved, may! _Amin, acheernah! _ “I am glad to find that your sense of duty preserves you against such strong temptations.”
“Then, there's another set of men--these outlaws that do be robbin' rich people's houses, and they, too, try to tempt me.”
“Why should they tempt you?”
“Bekaise the people, now knowin' that they're abroad, keep watch-dogs, bloodhounds, and sich useful animals, that give the alarm at night, and the robbers wishin', you see, to get them out of the way, do be temptin' me about wishin' me to pison them.”
“Of course you resist them?”
“Well, I hope I do; but sometimes it's hard to get over them, especially when they plant a _skean_ or a _middogue_ to one's navel, and swear great oaths that they'll make a scabbard for it of my poor ould bulg (belly)--I say, when the thieves do the business that way, it requires a grate dale of the grace o' God to deny them. But what's any Chr'sthen 'idout the grace o' God? May we all have it! _Amin, acheernah! _” “Well, when I marry, as I will soon, I'll call upon you; I dare say my wife will get jealous, for I love the ladies, if that's a fault.”
Another grin was his first reply to this, after which he said: “Well, sir, if she does, come to me.”
“Where in Rathfillan do you live?”
“O, anybody will tell you; inquire for ould Sol Donnel, the yarrib man, and you'll soon find me out.”
“But 'suppose I shouldn't wish it to be known that I called on you?”
“Eh?” said the old villain, giving him another significant grin that once more projected the fang; “well, maybe you wouldn't. If you want my sarvices then, come to the cottage that's built agin the church-yard wall, on the north side; and if you don't wish to be seen, why you can come about midnight, when every one's asleep.”
“What's this you say your name is?”
“Sol Donnel.”
“What do you mean by Sol?”
He turned up his red eyes in astonishment, and exclaimed: “Well, now, to think that, a larned man as you must be shouldn't know what Sol means! Well, the ignorance of you great people is unknown. Don't you know--but you don't--oughn't you know, then, that Sol means Solomon, who was the wisest many and the biggest blaggard that ever lived! Faith, if I had lived in his day he'd be a poor customer to me, bekaise he had no shame in him; but indeed, the doin's that goes on now in holes and corners among ourselves was no shame in his time. That's a fine bay horse you ride; would you like to have him dappled? A dappled bay, you know, is always a great beauty.”
“And could you dapple him?
“Ay, as sure as you ride him.”
“Well, I'll think about it and let you know; there's some silver for you, and good-by, honest Solomon.”
Woodward then rode on, reflecting on the novel and extraordinary character of this hypocritical old villain, in whose withered and repulsive visage he could not discover a single trace of anything that intimated the existence of sympathy with his kind. As to that, it was a _tabula rasa_, blank of all feelings except those which characterize the hyena and the fox. After he had left him, the old fellow gave a bitter and derisive look after him.
“There you go,” said he, “and well I knew you, although you didn't think so. Weren't you pointed out to me the night o' the divil's bonfire, that your mother, they say, got up for you; and didn't I see you since spakin' to that skamin' blaggard, Caterine Collins, my niece, that takes many a penny out o' my hands; and didn't I know that you couldn't be talkin' to her about anything that was good. Troth, you're not your mother's son or you'll be comin' to me as well as her. Bad luck to her! she was near gettin' me into the stocks when I sowld her the dose of oak bark for the sarvants, to draw in their stomachs and shorten their feedin'. My faith, ould Lindsay 'ud have put me in them only for bringin' shame upon his wife.” * * Some of our readers may imagine that in the enumeration of the cures which old Sol professed to effect we have drawn too largely upon their credulity, whereas there is scarcely one of them that, is not practised, or attempted, in remote and uneducated parts of Ireland, almost down to the present day. We ourselves in early youth saw a man who professed, and was believed to be able, to cure jealousy in either man or woman by a potion; whilst charms for colics, toothaches, taking motes out of the eye, and for producing love, were common among the ignorant people within our own recollection.
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{
"id": "16004"
}
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8
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A Healing of the Breach.
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--A Proposal for Marriage Accepted.
On that evening, when the family were assembled at supper, Mrs. Lindsay, who had had a previous consultation with her son Harry, thought proper to introduce the subject of the projected marriage between him and Alice Goodwin.
“Harry has paid a visit to these neighbors of ours,” said she, “these Goodwins, and I think, now that he has come home, it would be only prudent on our part to renew the intimacy that was between us. Not that I like, or ever will like, a bone in one of their bodies; but it's only right that we should foil them at their own weapons, and try to get back the property into the hands of one of the family at least, if we can, and so prevent it from going to strangers. I am determined to pay them a friendly visit tomorrow.”
“A friendly visit!” exclaimed her husband, with an expression of surprise and indignation on his countenance which he could not conceal; “how can you say a friendly visit, after having just told us that you neither like them, nor ever will like them? not that it was at all necessary for you to assure us of that. It is, however, the hypocrisy of the thing on your part that startle? and disgusts me.”
“Call it prudence, if you please, Lindsay, or worldly wisdom, if you like, after all the best kind of wisdom; and I only wish you had more of it.”
“That makes no difference in life,” replied her husband, calmly, but severely; “as it is, you have enough, and more than enough for the whole family.”
“But has Harry any hopes of success with Alice Goodwin,” asked Charles, “because everything depends on that?”
“If he had not, you foolish boy, do you think I would be the first to break the ice by going to pay them a visit? The girl, I dare say, will make a very good wife, or if she does not, the property will not be a pound less in value on that account; that's one comfort.”
“And is it upon this hollow and treacherous principle that you are about to pay them a friendly visit?” asked her husband, with ill-repressed indignation.
“Lindsay,” she replied, sharply, “I perceive you are rife for a quarrel now; but I beg to tell you, sir, that I will neither seek your approbation nor regard your authority. I must manage these people after my own fashion.”
“Harry,” said his step-father, turning abruptly, and with incredulous surprise to him, “surely it is not possible that you are a party to such a shameful imposture upon this excellent family?”
His brother Charles fastened his eyes upon him as if he would read his heart.
“I am sorry, sir,” replied that gentleman, “that you should think it necessary to apply the word imposture to any' proceeding of mine. You ought to know my mother's outspoken way, and that her heart is kinder than her language. The fact is, from the first moment I saw that beautiful girl I felt a warm interest in her, and I feel that interest increasing every day. I certainly am very anxious to secure her for her own sake, whilst I candidly admit that I am not wholly indifferent to the property. I am only a common man like others, and not above the world and its influences--who can be that lives in it? My mother, besides, will come to think better of Alice, and all of them, when she shall be enabled to call Alice daughter; won't you, mother?”
The mother, who knew by the sentiments which he had expressed to her before on this subject, that he was now playing a game with the family, did not consider it prudent to contradict him; she consequently replied,-- “I don't know, Harry; I cannot get their trick about the property out of my heart; but, perhaps, if I saw it once more where it ought to be, I might change. That's all I can say at present.”
“Well, come, Harry,” said Lindsay--adverting to what he had just said--“I think you have spoken fairly enough; I do--it's candid; you are not above this world; why should you be? --come, it is candid.”
“I trust, sir, you will never find me un-candid, either on this or any other subject.”
“No; I don't think I shall, Harry. Well, be it so--setting your mother out of the question,--proceed with equal candor in your courtship. I trust you deserve her, and, if so, I hope you may get her.”
“If he does not,” said Maria, “he will never get such a wife.”
“By the way, Harry,” asked Charles, “has she given you an intimation of anything like encouragement?”
“Well, I rather think I am not exactly a fool, Charles, nor likely to undertake an enterprise without some prospect of success. I hope you deem me, at least, a candid man.”
“Yes; but there is a class of persons who frequently form too high an estimate of themselves, especially in their intercourse with women; and who very often mistake civility for encouragement.”
“Very true, Charles--exceedingly just and true; but I hope I am not one of those either; my knowledge of life and the world will prevent me from that, I trust.”
“I hope,” continued Charles, “that if the girl is adverse to such a connection she will not be harassed or annoyed about it.”
“I hope, Charles, I have too much pride to press any proposal that may be disagreeable to her; I rather think I have. But have you, Charles, any reason to suppose that she should not like me?”
“Why, from what you have already hinted, Harry, you ought to be the best judge of that yourself.”
“Well, I think so, too. I am not in the habit of walking blindfold into any adventure, especially one so important as this. Trust to my address, my dear fellow,” he added, with a confident smile, “and, believe me, you shall soon see her your sister-in-law.”
“And I shall be delighted at it, Harry,” said his sister; “so go on and prosper. If you get her you will get a treasure, setting her property out of the question.”
“Her property!” ejaculated Mrs. Lindsay; “but no matter; we shall see. I can speak sweetly enough when I wish.”
“I wish to God you would try it oftener, then,” said her husband; “but I trust that during this visit of yours you will not give way to your precious temper and insult them at the outset. Don't tie a knot with your tongue that you can't unravel with your teeth. Be quiet, now; I didn't speak to raise the devil and draw on a tempest--only let us have a glass of punch, till Charley and I drink success to Harry.”
The next day Mrs. Lindsay ordered the car, and proceeded to pay her intended visit to the Goodwins. She had arrived pretty near the house, when two of Goodwin's men, who were driving his cows to a grazing field on the other side of the road by which she was approaching, having noticed and recognized her, immediately turned them back and drove them into a paddock enclosed by trees, where they were completely out of her sight.
“Devil blow her, east and west!” said one of them. “What brings her across us now that we have the cattle wid us? and doesn't all the world know that she'd lave them sick and sore wid one glance of her unlucky eye. I hope in God she didn't see them, the thief o' the devil that she is.”
“She can't see them now, the cratures,” replied the other; “and may the devil knock the light out of her eyes at any rate,” he added, “for sure, they say it's the light of hell that's in them.”
“Well, when she goes there she'll be able to see her way, and sure that'll be one comfort,” replied his companion; “but in the mane time, if anything happens the cows--poor bastes--we'll know the rason of it.”
“She must dale wid the devil,” said the other, “and I hope she'll be burned for a witch yet; but whisht, here she comes, and may the devil roast her on his toastin' iron the first time he wants a male!”
“Troth, an' he'd find her tough feedin',” said his comrade; “and. barrin' he has strong tusks, as I suppose he has, he'd find it no every-day male wid him.”
As they spoke, the object of their animadversion appeared, and turned upon them, so naturally, a sinister and sharp look, that it seemed to the men as if she had suspected the subject of their conversation.
“You are Mr. Goodwin's laborers, are you not?”
“We are, ma'am,” replied one of them, without, as usual, touching his hat however.
“You ill-mannered boor,” she said, “why do you not touch your hat to a lady, when she condescends to speak to you?”
“I always touch my hat to a lady, ma'am,” replied the man sharply.
“Come here, you other man,” said she; “perhaps you are not such an insolent ruffian as this? Can you tell me if Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin are at home?”
“Are you goin' there?” asked the man, making a low bow.
“Yes, I am, my good man,” she replied.
“Well, then, ma'am,” he added, bowing again, “you'll find that out when you go to the house;” and he made her another bow to wind up the information with all due politeness.
“Barney,” said she to the servant, her face inflamed with rage, “drive on. I only wish I had those ruffianly scoundrels to deal with; I would teach them manners to their betters at all events; and you, sirra, why did you not use your whip and chastise them?”
“Faith, ma'am,” replied our friend Barney Casey, “it's aisier said than done wid some of us. Why, ma'am, they're the two hardiest and best men in the parish; however, here's Pugshy Ruah turnin' out o' the gate, and she'll be able to tell you whether they are at home or not.”
“O, that's the woman they say is unlucky,” observed his mistress--“unlucky to meet, I mean; I have often heard of her; indeed, it may be so, for I believe there are such persons; we shall speak to her, however. My good woman,” she said, addressing Pugshy, “allow me to ask, have you been at Mr. Goodwin's?”
Now Pugshy had all the legitimate characteristics of an “unlucky” woman; red-haired, had a game eye--that is to say, she squinted with one of them; Pugshy wore a caubeen hat, like a man; had on neither shoe nor stocking; her huge, brawny arms, uncovered almost to the shoulders, were brown with freckles, as was her face; so that, altogether, she would have made a bad substitute either for the Medicean Venus or the Apollo Belvidere.
“My good woman, allow me to ask if you have been at Mr. Goodwin's.”
Pugshy, who knew her well, stood for a moment, and closing the eye with which she did not squint, kept the game one fixed upon her very steadily for half a minute, and as she wore the caubeen rather rakishly on one side of her head, her whole figure and expression were something between the frightful and the ludicrous.
“Was I at Misther Goodwin's, is it? Lord love you, ma'am, (and ye need it, _sotto voce_), an' maybe you'd give us a thrifle for the male's mate; it's hard times wid us this weader.”
“I have no change; I never bring change out with me.”
“You're goin' to Mr. Goodwin's, ma'am?”
“Yes; are he and Mrs. Goodwin at home, can you tell me?”
“They are, ma'am, but you may as well go back again; you'll have no luck this day.”
“Why so?”
“Why, bekaise you won't; didn't you meet me? Who ever has luck that meets me? Nobody ought to know that betther than yourself, for, by all accounts, you're tarred wid the same stick.”
“Foolish woman,” replied Mrs. Lindsay, “how is it in your power to prevent me?”
“No matther,” replied the woman; “go an; but mark my words, you'll have your journey for nuttin', whatever it is. Indeed, if I turned back three steps wid you it might be otherwise, but you refused to cross my hand, so you must take your luck,” and with a frightful glance from the eye aforesaid, she passed on.
As she drove up to Mr. Goodwin's residence she was met on the steps of the hall-door by that kind-hearted gentleman and his wife, and received with a feeling of gratification which the good people could not disguise.
“I suppose,” said Mrs. Lindsay, after they had got seated in the drawing-room, “that you are surprised to see me here?”
“We are delighted, say, Mrs. Lindsay,” replied Mr. Goodwin--“delighted. Why should ill-will come between neighbors and friends without any just cause on either side? That property--” “O, don't talk about that,” replied Mrs. Lindsay; “I didn't come to speak about it; let everything connected with it be forgotten; and as proof that I wish it should be so, I came here to-day to renew the intimacy that should subsist between us.”
“And, indeed,” replied Mrs. Goodwin, “the interruption of that intimacy distressed us very much--more, perhaps, Mrs. Lindsay, than you might feel disposed to give us credit for.”
“Well, my dear madam,” replied the other, “I am sure you will be glad to hear that I have not only my own inclination, but the sanction and wish of my whole family, in making this friendly visit, with the hope of placing us all upon our former footing. But, to tell you the truth, this might not have been so, were it not for the anxiety of my son Henry, who has returned to us, and whom, I believe, you know.”
“We have that pleasure,” replied Goodwin; “and from what we have seen of him, we think you have a right to feel proud of such a son.”
“So I do, indeed,” replied his mother; “he is a good and most amiable young man, without either art or cunning, but truthful and honorable in the highest degree. It is to him we shall all be indebted for this reconciliation; or, perhaps, I might say,” she added, with a smile, “to your own daughter Alice.”
“Ah! poor Alice,” exclaimed her father; “none of us felt the estrangement of the families with so much regret as she did.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Lindsay,” added his wife, “I can bear witness to that; many a bitter tear it occasioned the poor girl.”
“I believe she is a most amiable creature,” replied Mrs. Lindsay; “and I believe,” she added with a smile, “that there is one particular young gentleman of that opinion as well as myself.”
We believe in our souls that the simplest woman in existence, or that ever lived, becomes a deep and thorough diplomatist when engaged in a conversation that involves in the remotest degree any matrimonial speculation for a daughter. Now, Mrs. Goodwin knew as well as the reader does, that Mrs. Lindsay made allusion to her son Harry, the new-comer; but she felt that it was contrary to the spirit of such negotiations to make a direct admission of that feeling; she, accordingly, was of opinion that in order to bring Mrs. Lindsay directly to the point, and to exonerate herself and her husband from ever having entertained the question at all, her best plan was to misunderstand her, and seem to proceed upon a false scent.
“O, indeed, Mrs. Lindsay,” she replied, “I am not surprised at that; Charles and Alice were always great favorites with each other.”
“Charles!” exclaimed Mrs. Lindsay; “Charles! What could induce you to think of associating Charles and Alice? He is unworthy of such an association.”
“Bless me,” exclaimed Mrs. Goodwin in her turn; “why, I thought you alluded to Charles.”
“No,” said her neighbor, “I alluded to my eldest son, Harry, to whose good offices in this matter both families are so much indebted. He is worthy of any girl, and indeed few girls are worthy of him; but as for Alice, you know what a favorite she was with me, and I trust now I shall like her even better than ever.”
“You are right, Mrs. Lindsay,” said Goodwin, “in saying that few women are worthy of your eldest son; he is a most gentlemanly, and evidently a most accomplished young man; his conversation at breakfast here the morning after the storm was so remarkable, both for good sense and good feeling, that I am not surprised at your friendly visit today, Mrs. Lindsay. He was sent, I hope, to introduce a spirit of peace and concord between us, and God forbid that we should repel it; on the contrary, we hail his mediation with delight, and feel deeply indebted to him for placing both families in their original position.”
“I trust in a better position,” replied his adroit mother; “I trust in a better position, Mr. Goodwin, and a still nearer and dearer connection. It is better, however, to speak out; you know me of old, my dear friends, and that I am blunt and straightforward--as the proverb has it, 'I think what I say, and I say what I think.' This visit, then, is made, as I said, not only by my own wish, but at the express entreaty of my son Harry, and the great delight of the whole family; there is therefore no use in concealing the fact--he is deeply attached to your daughter, Alice, and was from the first moment he saw her;--of course you now understand my mission--which is, in fact, to make a proposal of marriage in his name, and to entreat your favorable consideration of it, as well as your influence in his behalf with Alice herself.”
“Well, I declare, Mrs. Lindsay,” replied Mrs. Goodwin, (God forgive her!) “you have taken us quite by surprise--you have indeed;--dear me--I'm quite agitated; but he is, indeed, a fine young man--a perfect gentleman in his manners, and if he be as good as he looks--for marriage, God help us, tries us all--” “I hope it never tried you much, Martha,” replied her husband, smiling.
“No, my dear, I don't say so. Still, when the happiness of one's child is concerned--and such a child as Alice--” “But consider, Mrs. Goodwin,” replied the ambassadress, who, in fact, was not far from an explosion at what she considered a piece of contemptible vacillation on the part of her neighbor--“consider, Mrs. Goodwin,” said she, “that the happiness of my son is concerned.”
“I know it is,” she replied; “but speak to her father, Mrs. Lindsay--he, as such, is the proper person--O, dear me.”
“Well, Mr. Goodwin--you have heard what I have said?”
“I have, madam,” said he; “but thank God I am not so nervous as my good wife here. I like your son, Harry, very much, from what I have seen of him--and, to be plain with you, I really see no objection to such a match. On the contrary, it will promote peace and good-will between us; and, I have no doubt, will prove a happy event to the parties most concerned.”
“O, there is not a doubt of it,” exclaimed Mrs. Goodwin, now chiming in with her husband; “no, there can be no doubt of it. O, they will be very happy together, and that will be so delightful. My darling Alice!” --and here she became pathetic, and shed tears copiously--“yes,” she added, “we will lose you, my darling, and a lonely house we will have after you, for I suppose they will live in the late Mr. Hamilton's residence, on their own property.”
This allusion to the arrangements contemplated in the event of the marriage, redeemed, to a certain degree, the simple-hearted Mrs. Goodwin from the strongest possible contempt on the part of a woman who was never known to shed a tear upon any earthly subject.
“Well, then,” proceeded Mrs. Lindsay, “I am to understand that this proposal on the behalf of my son is accepted?”
“So far as I and Mrs. Goodwin are concerned,” replied Goodwin, “you are, indeed, Mrs. Lindsay, and so far all is smooth and easy; but, on the other hand, there is Alice--she, you know, is to be consulted.”
“O! as for poor Alice,” said her mother, “there will be no difficulty with her; whatever I and her father wish her to do, if it be to please us, that she will do.”
“I trust,” said Mrs. Lindsay, “she has no previous attachment; for that would be unfortunate for herself, poor girl.”
“She an attachment!” exclaimed her mother; “no, the poor, timid creature never thought of such a thing.”
“It is difficult for parents to know that,” replied Mrs. Lindsay; “but where is she?”
“She's gone out,” replied her mother, “to take a pleasant jaunt somewhere with a young friend of ours, a Mr. O'Connor; but, indeed, I'm glad she is not here, for if she was, we could not, you know, discuss this matter in her presence.”
“That is very true,” observed Mrs. Lindsay, dryly; “but perhaps she doesn't regret her absence. As it is, I think you ought to impress upon her that, in the article of marriage, a young and inexperienced girl like her ought to have no will but that of her parents, who are best qualified, from their experience and knowledge of life to form and direct her principles.”
“I do not think,” said her father, “that there is anything to be apprehended on her part. She is the most unselfish and disinterested girl that ever existed, and sooner than give her mother or me a pang, I am sure she would make any sacrifice; but at the same time,” he added, “if her own happiness were involved in the matter, I should certainly accept no such sacrifice at her hands.”
“As to that, Mr. Goodwin,” she replied, “I hope we need calculate upon nothing on her part but a willing consent and obedience. At all events, it is but natural that they should be pretty frequently in each other's society, and that my son should have an opportunity of inspiring her with good will towards him, if not a still warmer feeling. The matter being now understood, of course, that is and will be his exclusive privilege.”
“Your observations, my dear madam, are but reasonable and natural,” replied Goodwin. “Why, indeed, should it be otherwise, considering their contemplated relation to each other? Of course, we shall be delighted to see him here as often as he chooses to come, and so, I am sure, will Alice.”
They then separated upon the most cordial terms; and Mrs. Lindsay, having mounted her vehicle, proceeded on her way home. She was, however, far from satisfied at the success of her interview with the Goodwins. So far as the consent of her father and mother went, all was, to be sure, quite as she could have wished it; but then, as to Alice herself, there might exist an insurmountable difficulty. She did not at all relish the fact of that young lady's taking her amusement with Mr. O'Connor, who she knew was of a handsome person and independent circumstances, and very likely to become a formidable rival to her son. As matters stood, however, she resolved to conceal her apprehensions on this point, and to urge Harry to secure, if possible, the property, which both she herself and he had solely in view. As for the girl, each of them looked on her as a cipher in the transaction, whose only value was rated by the broad acres which they could not secure without taking her along with them.
The family were dispersed when she returned home, and she, consequently, reserved the account of her mission until she should meet them in the evening. At length the hour came, and she lost no time in opening the matter at full length, suppressing, at the same time, her own apprehensions of Alice's consent, and her dread of the rivalry on the part of O'Connor.
“Well,” said she, “I have seen these people; I have called upon them, as you all know; and, as I said, I have seen them.”
“To very little purpose, I am afraid,” said her husband; “I don't like your commencement of the report.”
“I suppose not,” she replied; “but, thank God, it is neither your liking nor disliking that we regard, Lindsay. I have seen them, Harry; and I am glad to say that they are civil people.”
“Is it only now you found that out?” asked her husband; “why, they never were anything else, Jenny.”
“Well, really,” said she, “I shall be forced to ask you to leave the room if you proceed at this rate. Children, will you protect me from the interruption and the studied insults of this man?”
“Father,” said Charles, “for Heaven's sake will you allow her to state the result of her visit? We are all very anxious to hear it; none more so than I.” “Please except your elder brother,” said Harry, laughing, “whose interest you know, Charley, is most concerned.”
“Well, perhaps so,” said Charles; “of course, Harry--but proceed, mother, we shan't interrupt you.”
“O, go on,” said his mother, “go on; discuss the matter among you, I can wait; don't hesitate to interrupt me; your father there has set you that gentlemanly example.”
“It must surely be good when it comes,” said Harry,with a smile; “but do proceed, my dear mother, and never mind these queer folk; go on at once, and let us know all: we--that is, myself--are prepared for the worst; do proceed, mother.”
“Am I at liberty to speak?” said she, and she looked at them with a glance that expressed a very fierce interrogatory. They all nodded, and she resumed: “Well, I have seen these people, I say; I have made a proposal of marriage between Harry and Alice, and that proposal is--” She paused, and looked around her with an air of triumph; but whether that look communicated the triumph of success, or that of her inveterate enmity and contempt for them ever since the death of old Hamilton, was as great a secret to them as the Bononian enigma. There was a dead silence, much to her mortification, for she would have given a great deal that her husband had interrupted her just then, and taken her upon the wrong tack.
“Well,” she proceeded, “do you all wish to hear it?”
Lindsay put his forefinger on his lips, and nodded to all the rest to do the same.
“Ah, Lindsay,” she exclaimed, “you are an ill-minded man; but it matters not so far as you are concerned--in three words, Harry, the proposal is accepted; yes, accepted, and with gratitude and thanksgiving.”
“And you had no quarrel?” said Lindsay, with astonishment; “nor you didn't let out on them? Well, well!”
“Children, I am addressing myself to you, and especially to Harry here, who is most interested; no, I see nothing to prevent us from having back the property and the curds-and-whey along with it.”
“Faith, and the curds-and-whey are the best part of it after all,” said Lindsay; “but, in the meantime, you might be a little more particular, and give us a touch of your own eloquence and ability in bringing it about.”
“What did Alice herself say, mother?” asked Charles; “was she a party to the consent? because, if she was, your triumph, or rather Harry's here, is complete.”
“It is complete,” replied his mother, having recourse to a dishonest evasion; “the girl and her parents have but one opinion. Indeed, I always did the poor thing the credit to believe that she never was capable of entertaining an opinion of her own, and it now turns out a very fortunate thing for Harry that it is so; but of course he has made an impression upon her.”
“As to that, mamma,” said Maria, “I don't know--he may, or he may not; but of this I am satisfied, that Alice Goodwin is a girl who can form an opinion for herself, and that, whatever that opinion be, she will neither change or abandon it upon slight grounds. I know her well, but if she has consented to marry Harry she will marry him, and that is all that is to be said about it.”
“I thought she would,” said Harry; “I told you, Charley, that I didn't think I was a fool--didn't I?”
“I know you did, Harry,” replied his brother; “but I don't know how--it strikes me that I would rather have any other man's opinion on that subject than your own; however, time will tell.”
“It will tell, of course; and if it proves me a fool, I will give you leave to clap the fool's cap on me for life. And now that we have advanced so far and so well, I may go and take one of my evening strolls, in order to meditate on my approaching happiness.” And he did so.
The family were not at all surprised at this, even although the period of his walks frequently extended into a protracted hour of the night. Not so the servants, who wondered why Master Harry should walk so much abroad and remain out so late at night, especially considering the unsettled and alarming state of the country, in consequence of the outrages and robberies which were of such frequent occurrence. This, it is true, was startling enough to these simple people; but that which filled them not only with astonishment, but with something like awe, was the indifference with which he was known to traverse haunted places alone and unaccompanied, when the whole country around, except thieves and robbers, witches, and evil spirits, were sound asleep. “What,” they asked each other, “could he mean by it?”
“Barney Casey, you that knows a great deal for an unlarned man, tell us what you think of it,” said the cook; “isn't it the world's wondher, that a man that's out at such hours doesn't see somethin'? There's Lanty Bawn, and sure they say he saw the _white woman_ beyant the end of the long _boreen_ on Thursday night last, the Lord save us; eh, Barney?”
Barney immediately assumed the oracle.
“He did,” said he; “and what is still more fearful, it's said there was a black man along wid her. They say that Lanty seen them both, and that the black man had his arm about the white woman's waist, and was kissin' her at full trot.”
The cook crossed herself, and the whole kitchen turned up its eyes at this diabolical piece of courtship.
“Musha, the Lord be about us in the manetime; but bad luck to the ould boy, (a black man is always considered the devil, or the ould boy, as they call him,) wasn't it a daisant taste he had, to go to kiss a ghost?”
“Why,” replied Barney with a grin, “I suppose the ould chap is hard set on that point; who the devil else would kiss him, barrin' some she ghost or other? Some luckless ould maid, I'll go bail, that gather a beard while she was here, and the devil now is kissin' it off to get seein' what kind of a face she has. Well, all I can say,” he proceeded, “is, that I wish him luck of his employment, for in troth it's an honorable one and he has a right to be proud of it.”
“Well, well,” said the housemaid, “it's a wondher how any one can walk by themselves at night; wasn't it near the well at the foot of the long hill that goes up to where the Davorens live that they were seen?”
“It was,” replied Barney; “at laste they say so.”
“And didn't yourself tell me,” she proceeded, “that that same lonesome boreen is a common walk at night wid Master Harry?”
“And so it is, Nanse,” replied Barney: “but as for Misther Harry, I believe it's party well known, that by night or by day he may walk where he likes.”
“Father of heaven!” they exclaimed in a low, earnest voice; “but why, Barney?” they asked in a condensed whisper.
“Why! Why is he called _Harry na Suil Balor_ for? Can you tell me that?”
“Why, bekaise his two eyes isn't one color.”
“And why aren't they one color? Can you tell me that?”
“O, the sorra step farther I can go in that question.”
“No,” said Barney, full of importance, “I thought not, and what is more, I didn't expect it from you. His mother could tell, though. It's in her family, and there's worse than that in her family.”
“Troth, by all accounts,” observed the girl, “there never was anything good in her family. But, Barney, achora, will you tell us, if you know, what's the rason of it?”
“If I know?” said Barney, rather offended; “maybe I don't know, and maybe I do, if it came to that. Any body, then, that has two eyes of different colors always has the Evil Eye, or the _Suil Balor_, and has the power of overlookin'; and, between ourselves, Masther Harry has it. The misthress herself can only overlook cattle, bekaise both her eyes is of the one color; but Masther Harry could overlook either man or woman if he wished. And how do you think that comes?”
“The Lord knows,” replied the cook, crossing herself; “from no good, at any rate. Troth, I'll get a gospel and a scapular, for, to tell you the truth, I observed that Masther Harry gave me a look the other day that made my flesh creep, by rason that he thought the mutton was overdone.”
“O, you needn't be afeard,” replied Barney; “he can overlook or not, as he plaises; if he does not wish to do so, you're safe enough; but when any one like him that has the power wishes to do it, they could wither you by degrees off o' the airth.”
“God be about us! But, Barney, you didn't tell us how it comes, for all that.”
“It comes from the fairies. Doesn't every one know that the fairies themselves has the power of overlookin' both cattle and Christians?”
“That's true enough,” she replied; “every one, indeed, knows that. Sure, my aunt had a child that died o' the fairies.”
“Yes, but Masther Harry can see them.”
“What! is it the fairies?”
“Ay, the fairies, but only wid one eye, that piercin' black one of his. No, no; as I said before, he may walk where he likes, both by night and by day; he's safe from everything of the kind; even a ghost daren't lay a finger on him; and as the devil and the fairies are connected, he's safe from him, too, in this world at laste; but the Lord pity him when he goes to the next; for there he'll suffer _lalty_.”
The truth is, that in those days of witchcraft and apparitions of all kinds, and even in the present, among the ignorant and uneducated of the lower classes, any female seen at night in a lonely place, and supposed to be a spirit, was termed a white woman, no matter what the color of her dress may have been, provided it was not black. The same superstition held good when anything in the shape of a man happened to appear under similar circumstances. Terror, and the force of an excited imagination, instantly transformed it into a black man, and that black man, of course, was the devil himself. In the case before us, however, our readers, we have no doubt, can give a better guess at the nature of the black man and white woman in question than either the cook, the housemaid, or even Barney himself.
It was late that night when Harry came in. The servants, with whose terrors and superstitions Casey had taken such liberties, now looked upon him as something awful, and, as might be naturally expected, felt a dreadful curiosity with respect to him and his movements. They lay awake on the night in question, with the express purpose of satisfying themselves as to the hour of his return, and as that was between twelve and one, they laid it down as a certain fact that there was something “not light,” and beyond the common in his remaining out so late.
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{
"id": "16004"
}
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9
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Chase of the White Hare.
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“Hark, forward, forward; holla ho!”
The next morning our friend Harry appeared at the breakfast table rather paler than usual, and in one of his most abstracted moods; for it may be said here that the frequent occurrence of such moods had not escaped the observation of his family, especially of his step-father, in whose good grace, it so happened, that he was not improving. One cause of this was his supercilious, or, rather, his contemptuous manner towards his admirable and affectionate brother. He refused to associate with him in his sports or diversions; refused him his confidence, and seldom addressed him, except in that tone of banter which always implies an offensive impression of inferiority and want of respect towards the object of it. After breakfast the next morning, his father said to Charles, when the other members of the family had all left the room,-- “Charley, there is something behind that gloom of Harry's which I don't like. Indeed, altogether, he has not improved upon me since his return, and you are aware that I knew nothing of him before. I cannot conceive his object in returning home just now, and, it seems, with no intention of going back. His uncle was the kindest of men to him, and intended to provide for him handsomely. It is not for nothing he would leave such an uncle, and it is not for nothing that such an uncle would part with him, unless there was a screw loose somewhere. I don't wish to press him into an explanation; but he has not offered any, and refuses, of course, to place any confidence in me.”
“My dear father,” replied the generous brother, “I fear you judge him too harshly. As for these fits of gloom, they may be constitutional; you know my mother has them, and won't speak to one of us sometimes for whole days together. It is possible that some quarrel or misunderstanding may have taken place between him and his uncle; but how do you know that his silence on the subject does not proceed from delicacy towards that relative?”
“Well, it may be so; and it is a very kind and generous interpretation which you give of it, Charley. Let that part of the subject pass, then; but, again, regarding this marriage. The principle upon which he and his mother are proceeding is selfish, heartless, and perfidious in the highest degree; and d---- me if I think it would be honorable in me to stand by and see such a villainous game played against so excellent a family--against so lovely and so admirable a girl as Alice Goodwin. It is a union between the kite and the dove, Charley, and it would be base and cowardly in me to see such a union accomplished.”
“Father,” said Charles, “in this matter will you be guided by me? If Alice herself is a consenting party to the match, you have, in my opinion, no right to interfere, at least with her affections. If she marries him without stress or compulsion, she does it deliberately, and she shapes her own course and her own fate. In the meantime I advise you to hold back for the present, and wait until her own sentiments are distinctly understood. That can be effected by a private interview with yourself, which you can easily obtain. Let us not be severe on Harry. I rather think he is pressed forward in the matter by my mother, for the sake of the property If his uncle has discarded him, it is not, surely, unreasonable that a young man like him, without a profession or any fixed purpose in life, should wish to secure a wife--and such a wife--who will bring back to him the very property which was originally destined for himself in the first instance. Wait, then, at all events, until Alice's conduct in the matter is known. If there be unjustifiable force and pressure upon her, act; if not, I think, sir, that, with every respect, your interference would be an unjustifiable intrusion.”
“Very well, Charley; I believe you are right; I will be guided by you for the present; I won't interfere; but in the meantime I shall have an eye to their proceedings. I don't think the Goodwins at all mercenary or selfish, but it is quite possible that they may look upon Harry as the heir of his uncle's wealth; and, after all, Charley, nature is nature; that may influence them even unconsciously, and yet I am not in a condition to undeceive them.”
“Father,” said Charles, “all I would suggest is, as I said before, a little patience for the present; wait a while until we learn how Alice herself will act. I am sorry to say that I perceived what I believe to be an equivocation on the part of my mother in her allusion to Alice. I think it will be found by and by that her personal consent has not been given; and, what is more, that she was not present at all during their conversation on the subject. If she was, however, and became a consenting party to the proposal, then I say now, as I said before, you have no right to interfere in the business.”
“What keeps him out so late at night? I mean occasionally. He is out two or three nights every week until twelve or one o'clock. Now, you know, in the present state of the country, that it is not safe. _Shawn-na-Middogue_ and such scoundrels are abroad, and they might put a bullet through him some night or other.
“He is not at all afraid on that score,” replied Charles; “he never goes out in the evening without a case of pistols freshly loaded.”
“Well, but it, is wrong to subject himself to danger. Where is he gone now?”
“He and Barney Casey have gone out to course; I think they went up towards the mountains.”
Such was the fact. Harry was quite enamoured of sport, and, finding dogs, guns, and fishing-rods ready to his hand, he became a regular sportsman--a pursuit in which he found Barney a very able and intelligent assistant, inasmuch as he knew the country, and every spot where game of every description was to be had. They had traversed a considerable portion of rough mountain land, and killed two or three hares, when the heat of the day became so excessive that they considered it time to rest and take refreshments.
“The sun, Masther Harry, is d---- hot,” said Barney; “and now that ould Bet Harramount hasn't been in it for many a long year, we may as well go to that desolate cabin there above, and shelter ourselves from the hate--not that I'd undhertake to go there by myself; but now that you are wid me I don't care if I take a peep into the inside of it, out of curiosity.”
“Why,” said Woodward, “what about that cabin?”
“I'll tell you that, sir, when we get into it. It's consarnin' coorsin' too; but nobody ever lived in it since she left it.”
“Since who left it?”
“Never mind, sir; I'll tell you all about it by and by.”
It was certainly a most desolate and miserable hut, and had such an air of loneliness and desertion about it as was calculated to awaken reflections every whit as deep and melancholy as the contemplation of a very palace in ruins, especially to those who, like Barney, knew the history of its last inhabitant. It was far up in the mountains, and not within miles of another human habitation. Its loneliness and desolation alone would not have made it so peculiarly striking and impressive had it been inhabited; but its want of smoke--its still and lifeless appearance--the silence and the solitude around it--the absence of all symptoms of human life--its significant aspect of destitution and poverty, even at the best--all contributed to awaken in the mind that dreamy reflection that would induce the spectator to think that, apart from the strife and bustle of life, it might have existed there for a thousand years. Humble and contemptible in appearance as it was, yet there, as it stood--smokeless, alone, and desolate, as we have said, with no exponent of existence about it--no bird singing, no animal moving, as a token of contiguous life, no tree waving in the breeze, no shrub, even, stirring, but all still as the grave--there, we say, as it stood, afar and apart from the general uproar of the world, and apparently gray with long antiquity, it was a solemn and a melancholy homily upon human life in all its aspects, from the cabin to the palace, and from the palace to the grave. Now, its position and appearance might suggest to a thinking and romantic mind all the reflections to which v& have alluded, without any additional accessories; but when the reader is informed that it was supposed to be the abode of crime, the rendezvous of evil spirits, the theatre of unholy incantations, and the temporary abode of the Great Tempter--and when all these facts are taken in connection with its desolate character, he will surely admit that it was calculated to impress the mind of all those who knew the history of its antecedents with awe and dread.
“I have never been in it,” said Barney, “and I don't think there's a man or woman in the next three parishes that would enter it alone, even by daylight; but now that you are wid me, I have a terrible curiosity to see it inside.”
A curse was thought to hang over it, but that curse, as it happened, was its preservation in the undilapidated state in which it stood.
On entering it, which Barney did not do without previously crossing himself, they were surprised to find it precisely in the same situation in which it had been abandoned. There were one small pot, two stools, an earthen pitcher, a few wooden trenchers lying upon a shelf, an old dusty salt-bag, an ash stick, broken in the middle, and doubled down so as to form a tongs; and gathered up in a corner was a truss of straw, covered with a rug and a thin old blanket, which had constituted a wretched substitute for a bed. That, however, which alarmed Barney most, was an old broomstick with a stump of worn broom attached to the end of it, as it stood in an opposite corner. This constituted the whole furniture of the hut.
“Now, Barney,” said Harry, after they had examined it, “out with the brandy and water and the slices of ham, till we refresh ourselves in the first place, and after that I will hear your history of this magnificent mansion.”
“O, it isn't the mansion, sir,” he replied, “but the woman that lived in it that I have to spake about. God guard us! There in that corner is the very broomstick she used to ride through the air upon!”
“Never mind that now, but ransack that immense shooting-pocket, and produce its contents.”
They accordingly sat down, each upon one of the stools, and helped themselves to bread and ham, together with some tolerably copious draughts of brandy and water which they had mixed before leaving home. Woodward, perceiving Barney's anxiety to deliver himself of his narrative, made him take an additional draught by way of encouragement to proceed, which, having very willingly finished the bumper offered him, he did as follows: “Well, Masther Harry, in the first place, do you believe in the Bible?”
“In the Bible! --ahem--why--yes--certainly, Barney; do you suppose I'm not a Christian?”
“God forbid,” replied Barney; “well, the Bible itself isn't thruer than what I'm goin' to tell you--sure all the world for ten miles round knows it.”
“Well, but, Barney, I would rather you would let me know it in the first place.”
“So I will, sir. Well, then, there was a witch-woman, by name one Bet Harramount, and on the surface of God's earth, blessed be his name! there was nothin' undher a bonnet and petticoats so ugly. She was pitted wid the small-pox to that degree that you might hide half a peck of marrowfat paise (peas) in her face widout their being noticed; then the sanies (seams) that ran across it were five-foot raspers, every one of them. She had one of the purtiest gooseberry eyes in Europe; and only for the squint in the other, it would have been the ornament of her comely face entirely; but as it was, no human bein' was ever able to decide between them. She had two buck teeth in the front of her mouth that nobody could help admirin'; and, indeed, altogether I don't wondher that the devil fell in consate wid her, for, by all accounts, they say he carries a sweet tooth himself for comely ould women like Bet Harramount. Give the tasty ould chap a wrinkle any day before a dimple, when he promotes them to be witches, as he did her. Sure he was seen kissin' a ghost the other night near Crukanesker well, where the Davorens get their wather from. O, thin, bedad, but Grace Davoren is a beauty all out; and maybe 'tis herself doesn't know it.”
“Go on with your story,” said Woodward, rather dryly; “proceed.”
“Well, sir, there is Bet Harramount's face for you, and the rest of her figure wasn't sich as to disgrace it. She was half bent wid age, wore an ould black bonnet, an ould red cloak, and walked wid a staff that was bent at the top, as it seems every witch must do. Where she came from nobody could ever tell, for she was a black stranger in this part of the country. At all events, she lived in the town below, but how she lived nobody could tell either. Everything about her was a riddle; no wondher, considherin' she hardly was ever known to spake to any one, from the lark to the lamb. At length she began to be subjected by many sensible people to be something not right; which you know, sir, was only natural. Peter O'Figgins, that was cracked--but then it was only wid dhrink and larnin'--said it; and Katty McTrollop, Lord Bilberry's henwife, was of the same opinion, and from them and others the thing grew and spread until it became right well known that she was nothin' else than a witch, and that the big wart on her neck was nothin' more nor less than the mark the devil had set upon her, to suckle his babies by. From this out, them that had Christian hearts and loved their religion trated the thief as she desarved to be trated. She was hissed and hooted, thank God, wherever she showed her face; but still nobody had courage to lay a hand upon her by rason of her blasphaimin' and cursin', which, they say, used to make the hair stand like wattles upon the heads of them that heard her.”
“Had she not a black cat?” asked Woodward; “surely, she ought to have had a familiar.”
“No,” replied Barney; “the cat she had was a white cat, and the mainin' of its color will appear to you by and by; at any rate, out came the truth. You have heard of the Black Spectre--the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv? _” “I have,” replied the other; “proceed.”
“Well, sir, as I said, the truth came out at last; in the coorse of a short time she was watched at night, and seen goin' to the haunted house, where the Spectre lives.”
“Did she walk there, or fly upon her broomstick?” asked Woodward, gravely.
“I believe she walked, sir,” replied Barney; “but afther that every eye was upon her, and many a time she was seen goin' to the haunted house when she thought no eye was upon her. Afther this, of coorse, she disappeared, for, to tell you the truth, the town became too hot for her; and, indeed, this is not surprisin'. Two or three of the neighborin' women miscarried, and several people lost their cattle after she came to the town; and to make a long story short, just as it was made up to throw her into the parson's pond, she disappeared, as I said, exactly as if she had known their intention: and becoorse she did.”
“And did they ever find out where she went to?”
“Have patience, sir, for patience, they say, is a virtue. About a month afterwards some of the townspeople came up to the mountains here, to hunt hares, just as we did. Several of them before this had seen a white hare near the very spot we're sittin' in, but sorra dog of any description, either hound, greyhound, or lurcher could blow wind in her tail; even a pair of the Irish bloodhounds were brought, and when they came on her, she flew from them like the wind, I and laughed at them, becoorse. Well, sir, the whole country was in a terrible state of alarm about the white hare, for every one knew, of coorse, that she was a witch; and as the cows began, here and there, to fail in their milk, why, it was a clear case that she sucked them in ordher to supply some imp of the devil that sucked herself. At that time there was a priest in this parish, a very pious man by name Father McFeen; and as he liked, now and then, to have a dish of hare soup, he kept a famous greyhound, called Koolawn, that was never said to miss a hare by any chance. As I said, some of the townspeople came up here to have a hunt, and as they wished, above all things, to bring the priest's greyhound and the white hare together, they asked the loan of him from his reverence, telling him, at the same time, what they wanted him for. Father McFeen was very proud of his dog, and good right he had, and tould them they should have him with pleasure.
“'But, as he's goin' to try his speed against a witch,' said he, 'I'll venture to say that you'll have as pretty a run as ever was seen on the hills.'
“Well, sir, at all events, off they set to the mountains; and sure enough, they weren't long there when they had the best of sport, but no white hare came in their way. Koolawn, however, was kept in the slip the whole day, in the hope of their startin' her, for they didn't wish to have him tired if they should come across her. At last, it was gettin' late, and when they were just on the point of givin' her up, and, goin' home, begad she started, and before you'd say Jack Kobinson, Koolawn and she were at it. Sich a chase, they say, was never seen. They flew at sich a rate that the people could hardly keep their eyes upon them. The hare went like the wind; but, begad, it was not every evening she had sich a dog as famous Koolawn at her scut. He turned her, and turned her, and every one thought he had her above a dozen of times, but still she turned, and was off from him again. At this rate they went on for long enough, until both began to fail, and to appear nearly run down. At length the gallaut Koolawn had her; she gave a squeal that was heard, they say, for miles. He had her, I say, hard and fast by the hip, but it was only for a moment; how she escaped; from him nobody knows; but it was thought that he wasn't able, from want of breath, to keep his hoult. To make a long story short, she got off from him, turned up towards the; cabin we're sittin' in, Koolawn, game as ever, still close to her; at last she got in, and as the dog was about to spring in afther her, he found the door shut in his face. There now was the proof of it; but wait till you hear what's comin'. The men all ran up here and opened the door, for there was only a latch upon it, and if the hare was in existence, surely they'd find her now. Well, they closed the door at wanst for fraid she'd escape them; but afther sarchin' to no purpose, what do you think they found? No hare, at any rate, but ould Bet Harramount pantin' in the straw there, and covered wid a rug, for she hadn't time to get on the blanket--just as if the life was lavin' her. The sweat, savin' your presence, was pourin' from her; and upon examinin' her more closely, which they did, they found the marks of the dog's teeth in one of her ould hips, which was freshly bleedin'. They were now satisfied, I think, and--” “But why did they not seize and carry her before a magistrate?”
“Aisy, Masther Harry; the white cat, all this time, was sittin' at the fireside there, lookin' on very quietly, when the thought struck the men that they'd set the dogs upon it, and so they did, or rather, so they tried to do, but the minute the cat was pointed out to them, they dropped their ears and tails, and made out o' the house, and all the art o' man couldn't get them to come in again. When the men looked at it agin it was four times the size it had been at the beginin', and, what was still more frightful, it was gettin' bigger and bigger, and fiercer and fiercer lookin', every minute. Begad, the men seein' this took to their heels for the present, wid an intention of comin' the next momin', wid the priest and the magisthrate, and a strong force to seize upon her, and have her tried and convicted, in ordher that she might be burned.”
“And did they come?”
“They did; but of all the storms that ever fell from the heavens, none o' them could aquil the one that come on that night. Thundher, and wind, and lightnin', and hail, and rain, were all at work together, and every one knew at wanst that the devil was riz for somethin'. Well, I'm near the end of it. The next mornin' the priest and the magisthrate, and a large body of people from all quarthers, came to make a prisoner of her; but, indeed, wherever she might be herself, they didn't expect to find this light, flimsy hut standin', nor stick nor stone of it together afther such a storm. What was their surprise, then, to see wid their own eyes that not a straw on the roof of it was disturbed any more than if it had been the calmest night that ever came on the earth!”
“But about the witch herself?”
“She was gone; neither hilt nor hair of her was there; nor from that day to this was she ever seen by mortal. It's not hard to guess, however, what became of her. Every one knows that the devil carried her and her imp off in the tempest, either to some safer place, or else to give her a warm corner below stairs.”
“Why, Barney, it must be an awful little house, this.”
“You may say that, sir; there's not a man, woman, or child in the barony would come into it by themselves. Every one keeps from it; the very rapparees, and robbers of every description, would take the shelter of a cleft or cave rather than come into it. Here it is, then, as you see, just as she and the devil and his imp left it; no one has laid a hand on it since, nor ever will.”
“But why was it not pulled down and levelled at the time?”
“Why, Masther Harry? Dear me, I wondher you ask that. Do you think the people would be mad enough to bring down her vengeance upon themselves or their property, or maybe upon both? and for that matther she may be alive yet.”
“Well, then, if she is,” replied Woodward, “here goes to set her at defiance;” and as he spoke he tossed bed, straw, rug, blanket, and every miserable article of furniture that the house contained, out at the door.
Barney's hair stood erect upon his head, and he looked aghast.
“Well, Masther Harry,” said he, “I'm but a poor man, and I wouldn't take the wealth of the parish and do that. Come away, sir; let us lave it; as I tould you, they say there's a curse upon it, and upon every one that makes or meddles wid it. Some people say it's to stand there till the day of judgment.”
Having now refreshed themselves, they left Bet Harramont's cabin, with all its awful associations, behind them, and resumed their sport, which they continued until evening, when, having killed as many hares as they could readily carry, they took a short cut home through the lower fields. By this way they came upon a long, green hill, covered in some places with short furze, and commanding a full view of the haunted house, which lay some four or five hundred yards below them, with its back door lying, as usual, open.
“Let us beat these furze,” said Woodward, “and have one run more, if we can, before getting home; it is just the place for a hare.”
“With all my heart,” replied Barney; “another will complete the half dozen.”
They accordingly commenced searching the cover, which they did to no purpose, and were upon the point of giving up all hope of I success, when, from the centre of a low, broad clump of furze, out starts a hare, as white almost as snow. Barney for a moment was struck dumb; but at length exerting his voice, for he was some distance from Woodward, he shouted out-- “O, for goodness' sake, hould in the dogs, Masther Harry!”
It was too late, however; the gallant, animals, though fatigued by their previous exertions, immediately gave noble chase, and by far the most beautiful and interesting course they had had that day took place upon the broad, clear plain that stretched before them. It was, indeed, to the eye of a sportsman, one of intense and surpassing interest--an interest which, even to Woodward, who only laughed at Barney's story of the witch, was, nevertheless, deepened tenfold by the coincidence between the two circumstances. The swift and mettlesome dogs pushed her hard, and succeeded in turning her several times, when it was observed that she made a point to manage her running so as to approximate to the haunted house--a fact which was not unobserved by Barney, who now, having joined Woodward, exclaimed-- “Mark it, Masther Harry, mark my words, she's alive still, and will be wid the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv_ in spite o' them! Bravo, Sambo! Well done, Snail; ay, Snail, indeed--hillo! by the sweets o' rosin they have her--no, no--but it was a beautiful turn, though; and poor Snail, so tired afther his day's work. Now, Masther Harry, thunder and turf! how beautiful Sambo takes her up. Bravo, Sambo! stretch out, my darlin' that you are! --O, blood, Masther Harry, isn't that beautiful? See how they go neck and neck wid their two noses not six inches from her scut; and dang my buttons but, witch or no witch, she's a thorough bit o' game, too. Come, Bet, don't be asleep, my ould lady; move along, my darlin'--do you feel the breath of your sweetheart at your bottom? Take to your broomstick; you want it.”
As he uttered these words the hare turned,--indeed it was time for her--and both dogs shot forward, by the impetus of their flight, so far beyond the point of her turn, that she started off towards the haunted house. She had little time to spare, however, for they were once more gaining on her; but still she approached the house, the dogs nearing her fast. She approached the house, we say; she entered the open door, the dogs within a few yards of her, when, almost in an instant, they came to a standstill, looked into it, but did not enter; and when whistled back to where Woodward and Barney stood, they looked in Barney's eye, not only panting and exhausted, as indeed they were, but terrified also.
“Well, Masther Harry,” said he, assuming the air of a man who spoke with authority, “what do you think of that?”
“I think you are right,” replied Woodward; assuming on his part, for reasons which will be subsequently understood, an impression of sudden conviction. “I think you are right, Barney, and that the Black Spectre and the witch are acquaintances.”
“Try her wid a silver bullet,” said Barney; “there is nothing else for it. No dog can kill her--that's a clear case; but souple as she is, a silver bullet is the only messenger that can overtake her. Bad luck to her, the thief! sure, if she'd turn to God and repint, it isn't codgerin' wid sich company she'd be, and often in danger, besides, of havin' a greyhound's nose at her flank. I hope you're satisfied, Masther Harry?”
“Perfectly, Barney; there can be no doubt about it now. As for my part, I know not what temptation could induce me to enter that haunted house. I see that I was on dangerous ground when I defied the witch in the hut; but I shall take care to be more cautious in future.”
They then bent their steps homewards, each sufficiently fatigued and exhausted after the sports of the day to require both food and rest. Woodward went early to bed, but Barney, who was better accustomed to exercise, having dined heartily in the kitchen, could not, for the soul of him, contain within his own bosom the awful and supernatural adventure which had just occurred. He assumed, as before, a very solemn and oracular air; spoke little, however, but that little was deeply abstracted and mysterious. It was evident to the whole kitchen that he was brimful of something, and that that something was of more than ordinary importance.
“Well, Barney, had you and Masther Harry a pleasant day's sport? I see you have brought home five hares,” said the cook.
“Hum!” groaned Barney; “but no matther; it's a quare world, Mrs. Malony, and there's strange things in it. Heaven bless me! Heaven bless me, and Heaven bless us all, if it comes to that! Masther Harry said he'd send me down a couple o' glasses of------O, here comes Biddy wid them; that's a girl, Bid--divil sich a kitchen-maid in Europe!”
Biddy handed him a decanter with about half a pint of stout whiskey in it, a portion of which passed into a goblet, was diluted with water, and drunk off, after which he smacked his lips, but with a melancholy air, and then, looking solemnly and meditatively into the fire, relapsed into silence.
“Did you meet any fairies on your way?” asked Nanse, the housemaid. For about half a minute Barney did not reply; but at length, looking about him, he started-- “Eh? What's that? Who spoke to me?”
“Who spoke to you?” replied Nanse. “Why, I think you're beside yoursel'--I did.”
“What did you say, Nanse? I am beside myself.”
There was now a sudden cessation in all the culinary operations, a general pause, and a rapid congregating around Barney, who still sat looking solemnly into the fire.
“Why, Barney, there's something strange over you,” said the cook. “Heaven help the poor boy; sure, it's a shame to be tormentin' him this way; but in the name of goodness, Barney, and as you have a sowl to be saved, will you tell us all? Stand back, Nanse, and don't be torturin' the poor lad this way, as I said.”
“Biddy,” said Barney, his mind still wandering, and his eyes still fixed on the fire--“Biddy, darlin', will you hand me that de-canther agin; I find I'm not aquil to it. Heaven presarve us! Heaven presarve us! that's it; now hand me the wather, like an angel out of heaven, as you are, Bid. Ah, glory be to goodness, but that's refreshin', especially afther sich a day--sich a day! O saints above, look down upon us poor sinners, one and all, men and women, wid pity and compassion this night! Here; I'm very wake; let me get to bed; is there any pump wather in the kitchen?”
To describe the pitch to which he had them wound up would be utterly impossible. He sat in the cook's arm-chair, leaning a little back, his feet placed upon the fender, and his eyes, as before, immovably, painfully, and abstractedly fixed upon the embers. He was now the centre of a circle, for they were all crowded about him, wrapped up to the highest possible pitch of curiosity.
“We were talkin' about Masther Harry,” said he, “the other night, and I think I tould you something about him; it's like a dhrame to me that I did.”
“You did, indeed, Barney,” said the cook, coaxingly, “and I hope that what you tould us wasn't true.”
“Aye, but about to-day, Barney; somthin' has happened to-day that's troublin' you.”
“Who is it said that?” said he, his eyes now closed, as if he were wrapped up in some distressing mystery. “Was it you, Nanse? It's like your voice, achora.”
Now, the reader must know that a deadly jealousy lay between Nanse and the cook, _quoad_ honest Barney, who, being aware of the fact, kept the hopes and fears of each in such an exact state of equilibrium, that neither of them could, for the life of her, claim the slightest advantage over the other. The droll varlet had an appetite like a shark, and a strong relish for drink besides, and what between precious tidbits from the cook and borrowing small sums for liquor from Nanse, he contrived to play them off one against the other with great tact.
“I think,” said he, his eyes still closed, “that that is Nanse's voice; is it, acushla?”
“It is, Barney, achora,” replied Nanse; “but there's something wrong wid you.”
“I wish to goodness, Nanse, you'd let the boy alone,” said the cook; “when he chooses to spake, he'll spake to them that can undherstand him.”
“O, jaminy stars! that's you, I suppose; ha, ha, ha.”
“Keep silence,” said Barney, “and listen. Nanse, you are right in one sinse, and the cook's right in another; you're both right, but at the present spakin' you're both wrong. Listen--you all know the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv? _” “Know him! The Lord stand between us and him,” replied Nanse; “I hope in God we'll never either know or see him.”
“You know,” proceeded Barney, “that he keeps' the haunted house, and appears in the neighborhood of it?”
“Yes, we know that, achora,” replied the cook, sweetly.
“Well, you can't forget Bet Harramount, the witch, that lived for some time in Rathfillan? She that was hunted in the shape of a white hare by pious Father McFeen's famous greyhound, Koolawn.”
“Doesn't all the world know it, Barney, avillish?” said Nanse.
“Divil the word she'll let out o' the poor boy's lips,” said the cook, with a fair portion of venom. Nanse made no reply, but laughed with a certain description of confidence, as she glanced sneeringly at the cook, who, to say the truth, turned her eyes with a fiery and impulsive look towards the ladle.
“Well,” proceeded Barney, “you all know that the divil took her and her imp, the white cat, away on the night of the great storm that took place then?”
“We do! Sure we have heard it a thousand times.”
“Very well--I want to show you that Bet Harramount, the white witch, and the Black Speacthre are sweethearts, and are leadin' a bad life together.”
“Heavenly father! Saints above! Blessed Mother!” were ejaculated by the whole kitchen. Barney, in fact, was progressing with great effect.
“O, yez needn't be surprised,” he continued, “for it was well known that they had many private meetin's while Bet was livin' in Rathfillan. But it was thought the devil had taken her away from the priest and magisthrate on the night o' the storm, and so he did; and he best knew why. Listen, I say--Masther Harry and I went out this day to coorse hares; we went far up into the mountains, and never pulled bridle till we came to the cabin where the witch lived, the same that Koolawn chased her into in the shape of a white hare, after taking a bite out of her--out of the part next her scut. Well, we sat down in the cursed cabin, much against my wishes, but he would rest nowhere else--mark that--so while we were helpin' ourselves to the ham and brandy, I up and tould him the history of Bet Harramount from a to izzard. 'Well,' said he, 'to show you how little I care about her, and that I set her at defiance, I'll toss every atom of her beggarly furniture out of the door;' and so he did--but by dad I thought he done it in a jokin' way, as much as to say, I can take the liberty where another can't. I knew, becoorse, he was wrong; but that makes no maxim--I'll go on wid my story. On our way home we came to the green fields that lie on this side of the haunted house; a portion of it, on a risin' ground, is covered with furz. Now listen--when we came to it he stood; 'Barney,' says he, 'there's a hare here; give me the dogs, Sambo and Snail; they'll have sich a hunt as they never had yet, and never will have agin.'
“He then closed his eyes, raised his left foot, and dhrew it back three times in the divil's name, pronounced some words that I couldn't understand, and then said to me, 'Now, Barney, go down to that withered furze, and as you go, always keep your left foot foremost; cough three times, then kick the furze with your left foot, and maybe you'll see an old friend o' yours.'
“Well, I did so, and troth I thought there was somethin' over me when I did it; but--what 'ud you think? --out starts a white hare, and off went Sambo and Snail after her, full butt. I have seen many a hard run, but the likes o' that I never seen. If they turned her wanst they turned her more than a dozen times; but where do you think she escaped to at last?”
“The Lord knows, Barney; where?”
“As heaven's above us, into the haunted house; and if the dogs were to get a thousand guineas apiece, one of them couldn't be forced into it afther her. They ran with their noses on her very scut, widin five or six yards of it, and when she went into it they stood stock still, and neither man nor sword could get them to go farther. But what do you think Masther Harry said afther he had seen all this? 'Barney,' said he, 'I'm detarmined to spend a night in the haunted house before I'm much ouldher; only keep that to yourself, and don't make a blowing horn of it through the parish.' And what he said to me, I say to you--never breathe a syllable of it to man or mortal. It'll be worse for you if you do. And now, do you remember what Lanty Malony saw the other night? The black man kissin' the white woman. Is it clear to yez now? The _Shan-dhinne-dhuv_--_the Black Specthre_--kissin' Bet Harramount, the white woman. There it is; and now you have it as clear as a, b, c.” Barney then retired to his bed, leaving the denizens of the kitchen in a state which the reader may very well understand.
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{
"id": "16004"
}
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10
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True Love Defeated.
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Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin, in the absence of their daughter, held a very agreeable conversation on the subject of Mrs. Lindsay's visit. Neither Goodwin nor his wife was in the slightest degree selfish, yet, somehow, there crept into their hearts a certain portion of selfishness, which could be traced only to the affection which they felt for Alice. They calculated that Henry Woodward, having been reared and educated by his uncle, would be amply provided for by that wealthy gentleman--who, besides, was childless. This consideration became a strong element in their deliberations and discussions upon the projected match, and they accordingly resolved to win over Alice's consent to it as soon as possible. From the obedience of her disposition, and the natural pliancy of her character with the opinions of others, they concluded the matter as arranged and certain. They forgot, however, that Alice, though a feeble thinker on matters of superstition and others of a minor importance, could sometimes exercise a will of her own, but very seldom, if ever, when opposed to theirs. They knew her love and affection for them, and that she was capable of making any sacrifice that might contribute to their happiness. They had, however, observed of late--indeed for a considerable time past--that she appeared to be in low spirits, moved about as if there was a pressure of some description in her mind; and when they asked her if she were at ease--which they often did--she only replied by a smile, and asked them in return why she should be otherwise. With this reply they were satisfied, for they knew that upon the general occurrences of life she was almost a mere child, and that, although her health was good, her constitution was naturally delicate, and liable to be affected by many things indifferent in themselves, which girls of a stronger mind and constitution would neither perceive nor feel. The summing up of all was that they apprehended no obstruction to the proposed union from any objection on her part, as soon as she should be made acquainted with their wishes.
In the course of that very evening they introduced the subject to her, with that natural confidence which resulted from their foregone conclusions upon it.
“Alley,” said her mother, “I hope you're in good spirits this evening.”
“Indifferent enough, mamma; my spirits, you know, are not naturally good.”
“And why should they not?” said her mother; “what on earth have you to trouble you?”
“O, mamma,” she exclaimed, “you don't know how often I miss my sister;--at night I think I see her, and she looks pale and melancholy, and full of sorrow--just as she did when she felt that her hope of life was gone forever. O, how willingly--how joyfully--would I return her fortune, and if I had ten times as much of my own, along with it, if it could only bring her back to me again!”
“Well, you know, my darling, that can't be done; but cheer up; I have good news for you--news that I am sure will delight you.”
“But I don't stand in need of any good news, mamma.”
This simple reply proved an unexpected capsize to her mother, who knew not how to proceed; but, in the moment of her embarrassment, looked to her husband for assistance.
“My dear Alice,” said her father, “the fact is this--you have achieved a conquest, and there has been a proposal of marriage made for you.”
Alice instantly suspected the individual from whom the proposal came, and turned pale as death.
“That does not cheer my spirits, then, papa.”
“That may be, my dear Alice,” replied her father; “but, in the opinion of your mother and me, it ought.”
“From what quarter has it come, papa, may I ask? I am living very lonely and retired here, you know.”
“The proposal, then, my dear child, has come from Henry Woodward, this day; and what will surprise you more, through his mother, too--who has been of late such an inveterate enemy to our family. So far as I have seen of Henry himself, he is everything I could wish for a son-in-law.”
“But you have seen very little of him, papa.”
“What I have seen of him has pleased me very much, Alice.”
“How strange,” said she musingly, “that father and daughter should draw such different conclusions from the same premises. The very thought of that young man sinks the heart within me. I beg, once for all, that you will never mention his name to me on this subject, and in this light, again. It is not that I hate him--I trust I hate nobody--but I feel an antipathy against him; and what is more, I feel a kind of terror when I even think of him; and an oppression, for which I cannot account, whilst I am in his society.”
“This is very strange, Alice,” replied her father; “and, I am afraid, rather foolish, too. There is nothing in his face, person, manner, or conversation that, in my opinion, is not calculated to attract any young woman in his own rank of life--at least, I think so.”
“Well, but the poor child,” said her mother, “knows nothing about love--how could she? Sure, my dear Alley, true love never begins until after marriage. You don't know what a dislike I had to your father, there, whilst our friends on both sides were making up the courtship. They literally dragged me into it.”
“Yes, Alley,” added her father, smiling, “and they literally dragged me into it; and yet, when we came together, Alice, there never was a happier couple in existence.”
Alice could not help smiling, but the smile soon passed away. “That may be all very true,” she replied, “but in the meantime, you must not press me on this subject. Don't entertain it for a moment. I shall never marry this man. Put an end to it--see his mother, and inform her, without loss of time, of the unalterable determination I have made. Do not palter with them, father---do not, mother; and above all things, don't attempt to sacrifice the happiness of your only daughter. I could make any sacrifice for your happiness but this; and if, in obedience to your wishes, I made it, I can tell you that I would soon be with my sister. You both know that I am not strong, and that I am incapable of severe struggles. Don't, then, harass me upon this matter.”
She here burst into tears, and for a few minutes wept bitterly.
“We must give it up,” said her father, looking at Mrs. Goodwin.”
“No such thing,” replied his wife; “think of our own case, and how happy we have been in spite of ourselves.”
“Ay, but we were neither of us fools, Martha; at least you were not, or you would never have suffered yourself to be persuaded into matrimony, as you did at last. There was, it is true, an affected frown upon your brow; but then, again, there was a very sly smile under it. As for me, I would have escaped the match if I could; but no matter, it was all for the best, although neither of us anticipated as much. Alice, my child, think of what we have said to you; reflect upon it. Our object is to make you happy; our experience of life is much greater than yours. Don't reply to us now; we will give you a reasonable time to think of it. Consider that you will add to your mother's happiness and mine by consenting to such an unobjectionable match. This young man will, of course, inherit his uncle's property; he will elevate you in life; he is handsome, accomplished, and evidently knows the world, and you can look up to him as a husband of whom you will have a just right to feel proud. Allow the young man to visit you; study him as closely as you may; but above all things do not cherish an unfounded antipathy against him or any one.”
Several interviews took place afterwards between Alice and Henry Woodward; and after each interview her parents sought her opinion of him, and desired to know whether she was beginning to think more favorably of him than she had hitherto done. Still, however, came the same reply. Every interview only increased her repugnance to the match, and her antipathy to the man. At length she consented to allow him one last interview--the last, she asserted, which she would ever afford him on the subject, and he accordingly presented himself to know her final determination. Not that from what came out from their former conversations he had any grounds, as a reasonable man, to expect a change of opinion on her part; but as the property was his object, he resolved to leave nothing undone to overcome her prejudice against him if he could. They were, accordingly, left in the drawing-room to discuss the matter as best they might, but with a hope on the part of her parents that, knowing, as she did, how earnestly their hearts were fixed upon her marriage with him, she might, if only for their sakes, renounce her foolish antipathy, ard be prevailed upon, by his ardor and his eloquence, to consent at last.
“Well, Miss Goodwin,” said he, when they were left together, “this I understand, and what is more, I fear, is to be my day of doom. Heaven grant that it may be a favorable one, for I am badly prepared to see my hopes blasted, and my affection for you spurned! My happiness, my dear Miss Goodwin--my happiness for life depends upon the result of this interview. I know--but I should not say so--for in this instance I must be guided by hearsay--well, I know from hearsay that your heart is kind and affectionate. Now I believe this; for who can look upon your face and doubt it? Believing this, then, how can you, when you know that the happiness of a man who loves you beyond the power of language to express, is at stake, depends upon your will--how can you, I say, refuse to make that individual--who appreciated all your virtues, as I do--who feels the influence of your extraordinary beauty, as I do--who contemplates your future happiness as the great object of his life, as I do--how can you, I say, refuse to make that man happy?”
“Mr. Woodward,” she said, “I will not reply to your arguments; I simply wish to ask you, Are you a gentleman? --in other words, a man of integrity and principle?”
“Do you doubt me, Miss Goodwin?” he inquired, as if he felt somewhat hurt.
“It is very difficult, Mr. Woodward,” she replied, “to know the heart; I request, however, a direct and a serious answer, for I can assure you that I am about to place the deepest possible confidence in your faith and honor.”
“O,” he exclaimed, “that is sufficient; in such a case I feel bound to respect your confidence as sacred; do not hesitate to confide in me. Let me perish a thousand times sooner than abuse such a trust. Speak out, Miss Goodwin.”
“It is necessary that I should,” she replied, “both for your sake and my own. Know, then, that my heart is not at my own disposal; it is engaged to another.”
“I can only listen, Miss Goodwin--I can only listen--but--but--excuse me--proceed.”
“My heart, as I said, is engaged to another--and that other is your brother Charles.”
Woodward fixed his eyes upon her face--already scarlet with blushes, and when she ventured to raise hers upon him, she beheld a countenance sunk apparently in the deepest sorrow.
“Alas! Miss Goodwin,” he replied, “you have filled my heart with a double grief. I could resign you--of course it would and must be with the most inexpressible anguish--but to resign you to such a--. O!” he proceeded, shaking his head sorrowfully, “you know not in what a position of torture you place me. You said you believed me to be a gentleman; so I trust--I feel--I am, and what is more, a brother, and an affectionate brother, if I--O, my God, what am I to do? How, knowing what I know of that unfortunate young man, could I ever have expected this? In the meantime I thank you for your confidence, Miss Goodwin; I hope it was God himself who inspired you to place it in me, and that it may be the means of your salvation from--but perhaps I am saying too much; he is my brother; excuse me, I am not just now cool and calm enough to say what I would wish, and what you, poor child, neither know nor suspect, and perhaps I shall never mention it; but you must give me time. Of course, under the circumstances you have mentioned, I resign all hopes of my own happiness with you; but, so help me Heaven, if I shall resign all hopes of yours. I cannot now speak at further length; I am too much surprised, too much agitated, too much shocked at what I have heard; but I shall see you, if you will allow me, to-morrow; and as I cannot become your husband, perhaps I may become your guardian angel. Allow me to see you to-morrow. You have taken me so completely by surprise that I. am quite incapable of speaking on this subject, as perhaps--but I know not yet--I must become more cool, and reflect deeply upon what my conduct ought to be. Alas! my dear Miss Goodwin, little you suspect how completely your happiness and misery are in my power. Will you permit me to see you to-morrow?”
“Certainly, sir,” replied Alice, “since it seems that you have something of more than ordinary importance to communicate to me--something, which, I suppose, I ought to know. I shall see you.”
He then took his leave with an air of deep melancholy and sorrow, and left poor Alice in a state of anxiety very difficult to be described. Her mind became filled with a sudden and unusual alarm; she trembled like an aspen leaf; and when her mother came to ask her the result of the interview, she found her pale as death and in tears.
“Why, Alley, my child,” said she, “what is the matter? Why do you look so much alarmed, and why are you in tears? Has the man been rude or offensive to you?”
“No, mamma, he has not; but--but--I am to see him again to-morrow, and until then, mamma, do not ask me anything upon the subject of our interview to-day.”
Her mother felt rather gratified at this. There was, then, to be another interview, and that was a proof that Woodward had not been finally discarded. So far, matters did not seem so disheartening as she had anticipated. She looked upon Alice's agitation, and the tears she had been shedding, as the result of the constraint which she had put upon her inclination in giving him, she hoped, a favorable reception; and with this impression she went to communicate what she conceived to be the good intelligence to her husband.
Alice, until the next interview took place, passed a wretched time of it. As the reader knows, she was constitutionally timid and easily alarmed, and she consequently anticipated, something very distressing in the disclosures which Woodward was about to make. That there was something uncommon and painful in connection with Charles Lindsay to be mentioned, was quite evident from Woodward's language and his unaccountable agitation. He was evidently in earnest; and, from the suddenness with which the confession of her attachment to his brother came upon him, it was impossible, she concluded, that he could have had time to concoct the hints which he threw out. Could she have been mistaken in Charles? And yet, why not? Had he not, as it were, abandoned her ever since the occurrence of the family feud? and why should he have done so unless there had been some reason for it? It was quite clear, she thought, that, whatever revelation Woodward was about to make concerning him, it was one which would occasion himself great pain as his brother, and that nothing but the necessity of saving her from unhappiness could force him to speak out. In fact, her mind was in a tumult; she felt quite nervous--tremulous--afraid of some disclosure that might destroy her hopes and her happiness, and make her wretched for life.
On the next day Woodward made his appearance and found Alice by herself in the drawing-room, as when he left her the day before. His countenance seemed the very exponent of suffering and misery.
“Miss Goodwin,” said he, “I have passed a period of the deepest anxiety since I saw you last. You may, indeed, read what I have suffered, and am suffering, in my face, for unfortunately it is a tell-tale upon my heart; but I cannot help that, nor should I wish it to be otherwise. Believe me, however, that it is not for myself that I suffer, but for you, and the prospects of your future happiness. You must look upon my conduct now as perfectly disinterested, for I have no hope. What, then, should that conduct be in me as a generous man, which I trust I am, but to promote your happiness as far as I can? and on that I am determined. You say you love my brother; are you certain that your affection is reciprocated?”
“I believe your brother certainly did love me,” she replied, with a tremor in her voice, which she could not prevent, “Just so, my dear Miss Goodwin; that is well expressed--did love you; perhaps it may have been so; possessing anything like a heart, I don't see how it could have been otherwise.”
“I will thank you, Mr. Woodward, to state what you have to say with as little circumlocution and ambiguity as possible. Take me out of suspense, and let me know the worst. Do not, I entreat you, keep me in a state of uncertainty. Although I have acknowledged my love for your brother, in order to relieve myself from your addresses, which I could not encourage, still I am not without the pride of a woman who respects herself.”
“I am aware of that; but before I proceed, allow me to ask, in order that I may see my way the clearer, to what length did the expression of my brother's affection go?”
“It went so far,” she replied, blushing, “as an avowal of mutual attachment; indeed, it might be called an engagement; but ever since the death of his cousin, and the estrangement of our families, he seems to have forgotten me. It is very strange; when I was a portionless girl he was ardent and tender, but, ever since this unfortunate property came into my hands, he seems to have joined in the hard and unjust feeling of his family against me. I have certainly met him since at parties, and on other occasions, but we met almost as strangers; he was not the Charles Lindsay whom I had known when I was comparatively a poor girl; he appeared to shrink from me. In the meantime, as I have already confessed to you, he has my heart; and, so long as he has, I cannot encourage the addresses of any other man.”
Woodward paused, and looked upon her with well-feigned admiration and sorrow.
“The man is blind,” he at length said, “not only to the fascinations of your person and character, but to his own interests. What is he in point of property? Nothing. He has no rich uncle at his back to establish him in life upon a scale, almost, of magnificence. Why, it is since you came into this property that he ought to have urged his suit with greater earnestness. I am speaking now like a man of the world, Miss Goodwin; and I am certain that he would have done so but for one fact, of which I am aware: he has got into a low intrigue with a peasant's daughter, who possesses an influence over him such as I have never witnessed. She certainly is very beautiful, it is said; but of that I cannot speak, as I have not yet seen her; but I am afraid, Miss Goodwin, from all I hear, that a very little time will disclose her calamity and his guilt. You will now understand what I felt yesterday when you made me acquainted with your pure and virtuous attachment to such a man; what shall I say,” he added, rising, and walking indignantly through the room, “to such a profligate?”
“Mr. Woodward,” replied Alice, “I can scarcely believe that; you must have been imposed on by some enemy of his. Depend upon it you are. I think I know Charles well--too well to deem him capable of such profligacy; I will not believe it.”
“I don't wish you, my dear Miss Goodwin, to believe it; I only wish you to suspend your opinion until time shall convince you. I considered it my duty to mention the fact, and after that to leave you to the exercise of your own judgment.”
“I will not believe it,” replied Alice, “because I place his estrangement to a higher and nobler motive, and one more in accordance with his honorable and generous character. I do believe, Mr. Woodward, that his apparent coldness to me, of late, proceeds from delicacy, and a disinterestedness that is honorable to him; at least I will interpret his conduct in this light until I am perfectly convinced that he is the profligate you describe him. I do not impute, in the disclosure you have made, ungenerous motives to you; because, if you attempted to displace my affections from your brother by groundless slander or deliberate falsehood, you would be a monster, and as such I would look upon you, and will, if it appears that you are maligning him for selfish purposes of your own. I will now tell you to what I impute his apparent estrangement; I impute it to honor, sir--to an honorable pride. He knows now that I am rich; at least comparatively so, and that he is comparatively poor; he hesitates to renew our relations with each other lest I might suspect him of mingling a selfish principle with his affection. That is the conduct of a man of honor; and until the facts you hint at come out broadly, and to public proof, as such I shall continue to consider him. But, Mr. Woodward, I shall not rest here; I shall see him, and give him that to which his previous affection and honorable conduct have entitled him at my hands--that is, an opportunity of making an explanation to myself. But, at all events, I assure you of this fact, that, if I do not marry him, I shall never marry another.”
“Great God!” exclaimed Woodward, “what a jewel he has lost. Well, Miss Goodwin, I have nothing further to say; if I am wrong, time will convict me. I have mentioned these matters to you, not on my own account but yours. I have no hope of your affection; and if there were any living man, except myself, to whom I should wish to see you united, it would be my brother Charles--that is, if I thought he was worthy of you. All I ask of you, however, is to wait a little; remain calm and quiet, and time will tell you which of us feels the deepest interest in your happiness. In the meantime, aware of your attachment to him, as I am, I beg you will no longer consider me in any other light than that of a sincere friend. To seduce innocence, indeed--but I will not dwell upon it; the love of woman, they say, is generous and forgiving; I hope yours will be so. But, Miss Goodwin, as I can approach you no longer in the character of a lover, I trust I may be permitted the privilege of visiting the family as a friend and acquaintance. Now that your decision against me is known, it will be contrary to the wishes of our folks at home; especially of my mother, whose temper, as I suppose you are aware, is none of the coolest; you will allow me, then, to visit you, but no longer as claimant for your hand.”
“I shall always be happy to see you, Mr. Woodward, but upon that condition.”
After he had token his leave, her parents, anxious to hear the result, came up to the drawing-room, where they found her in a kind of a reverie, from which their appearance startled her.
“Well, Alley,” said her mother, smiling, “is everything concluded between you?”
“Yes, mamma,” replied Alice, “everything is concluded, and finally, too.”
“Did he name the day?” said her father, smiling gravely.
Alice stared at him; then recollecting herself, she replied-- “I thought I told you both that this was a man I could never think of marrying. I don't understand him; he is either very candid or very hypocritical; and I feel it painful, and, besides, unnecessary in me to take the trouble of balancing the character of a person who loses ground in my opinion on every occasion I see him. Of course, I have discarded him, and I know very well that his mother will cast fire and sword between us as she did before; but to do Mr. Woodward justice, he proposes to stand aloof from her resentments, and wishes to visit us as usual.”
“Then it's all over between you and him?” said her mother.
“It is; and I never gave you reason to anticipate any other result, mamma.”
“No, indeed,” said her father, “you never did, Alice; but still I think it is generous in him to separate himself from the resentments of that woman, and as a friend we will be always glad to see him.”
“I know not how it is,” replied Alice; “but I felt that the expression of his eye, during our last interview, oppressed me excessively; it was never off me. There was a killing--a malignant influence in it, that thrilled through me with pain; but, perhaps, I can account for that. As it is, he has asked leave to visit us as usual, and to stand, with respect to me, in the light of a friend only. So far as I am concerned, papa, I could not refuse him a common privilege of civility; but, to tell you both the truth, I shall always meet him not only with reluctance, but with something almost amounting to fear.”
Woodward, now that he had learned his fate, and was aware that his brother stood between him and his expectations, experienced a feeling of vengeance against him and Alice, which he neither could, nor attempted to, restrain. The rage of his mother, too, when she heard that the latter had rejected him, and avowed her attachment to Charles, went beyond all bounds. Her son, however, who possessed a greater restraint upon his feelings, and was master of more profound hypocrisy and cunning, requested her to conceal the attachment of Alice to his brother, as a matter not to be disclosed on any account.
“Leave me to my resources,” said he, “and it will go hard or I will so manage Charles as to disentangle him from the consequences of her influence over him. But the families, mother, must not be for the present permitted to visit again. On the contrary, it is better for our purposes that they should not see each other as formerly, nor resume their intimacy. If you suffer your passions to overcome you, even in our own family, the consequence is that you prevent us both from playing our game as we ought, and as we shall do. Leave Charles to me; I shall make O'Connor of use, too; but above all things do not breathe a syllable to any one of them of my having been thrown off. I think, as it is, I have damped her ardor for him a little, and if she had not been obstinate and foolishly romantic, I would have extinguished it completely. As it is, I told her to leave the truth of what I mentioned to her respecting him, to time, and if she does I shall rest satisfied. Will you now be guided by me, my dear mother?”
“I will endeavor to do so,” she replied; “but it will be a terrible restraint upon me, and I scarcely know how I shall be able to keep myself calm. I will try, however; the object is worth it. You know if she dies without issue the property reverts to you.”
“Yes, mother, the object is worth much more than the paltry sacrifice I ask of you. Keep yourself quiet, then, and we will accomplish our purposes yet. I shall set instruments to work who will ripen our projects, and, I trust, ultimately accomplish them.”
“Why, what instruments do you intend to use?”
“I know the girl's disposition and character well. I have learned much concerning her from Casey, who is often there as a suitor for the fair hand of her favorite maid. Casey, however, is a man in whom I can place no confidence; he is too much attached to the rest of the family, and does not at all relish me. I will make him an unconscious agent of mine, notwithstanding. In the meantime, let nothing appear in your manner that might induce them to suspect the present position of affairs between us. They may come to know it soon enough, and then it will be our business to act with greater energy and decision.”
And so it was arranged between this precious mother and son.
Woodward who was quick in the conception of his projects, had them all laid even then; and in order to work them out with due effect, he resolved to pay a visit to our friend, Sol Donnel, the herb doctor. This hypocritical old villain was uncle to Caterine Collins, the fortune-teller, who had prognosticated to him such agreeable tiding's on the night of the bonfire. She, too, was to be made useful, and, so far as money could do it, faithful to his designs--diabolical as they were. He accordingly went one night, about the hour mentioned by Donnel, to the cabin of that worthy man; and knocking gently at the door, was replied to in a peevish voice, like that of an individual who had been interrupted in the performance of some act of piety and devotion.
“Who is there?” said the voice inside.
“A friend,” replied Woodward, in a low, cautious tone; “a friend, who wishes to speak to you.”
“I can't spake to you to-night,” replied Sol; “you're disturbin' me at my prayers.”
“But I wish to speak to you on particular business.”
“What business? Let me finish my padereens and go to bed like a vile sinner, as I am--God help me. Who are you?”
“I don't intend to tell you that just now, Solomon; do you wish me to shout it out to you, in order that the whole neighborhood may hear it? I have private business with you.”
“Well,” replied the other, “I think, by your voice and language, you're not a common man, and, although it's against my rule to open at this time o' night to any one, still I'll let you in--and sure I must only say my prayers aftherwards. In the manetime it's a sin for you or any one to disturb me at them; if you knew what the value of one sinful sowl is in the sight of God, you wouldn't do it--no, indeed. Wait till I light a candle.”
He accordingly lighted a candle, and in the course of a few minutes admitted Woodward to his herbarium. When the latter entered, he looked about him with a curiosity not unnatural under the circumstances. His first sensation, however, was one that affected his olfactory nerves very strongly. A combination of smells, struggling with each other, as it were, for predominance, almost overpowered him. The good and the bad, the pleasant and the oppressive, were here mingled up in one sickening exhalation--for the disagreeable prevailed. The whole cabin was hung about with bunches of herbs, some dry and withered, others fresh and green, giving evidence that they had been only newly gathered. A number of bottles of all descriptions stood on wooden shelves, but without labels, for the old sinner's long practice and great practical memory enabled him to know the contents of every bottle with as much accuracy as if they had been labelled in capitals.
“How the devil can you live and sleep in such a suffocating compound of vile smells as this?” asked Woodward.
The old man glanced at him keenly, and replied,-- “Practice makes masther, sir--I'm used to them; I feel no smell but a good smell; and I sleep sound enough, barrin' when I wake o' one purpose, to think of and repent o' my sins, and of the ungrateful world that is about me; people that don't thank me for doin' them good--God forgive them! _amin acheernah! _” “Why, now,” replied Woodward, “if I had a friend of mine that was unwell--observe me, a friend of mine--that stood between me and my own interests, and that I was kind and charitable enough to forget any ill-will against him, and wished to recover him from his illness through the means of your skill and herbs, could you not assist me in such a good and Christian work?”
The old fellow gave him a shrewd look and piercing glance, but immediately replied-- “Why, to be sure, I could; what else is the business of my whole life but to cure my fellow-cratures of their complaints?”
“Yes; I believe you are very fortunate in that way; however, for the present, I don't require your aid, but it is very likely I shall soon. There is a friend of mine in poor health, and if he doesn't otherwise recover, I shall probably apply to you; but, then, the party I speak of has such a prejudice against quacks of all sorts, that I fear we must substitute one of your draughts, in a private way, for that of the regular doctor. That, however, is not what I came to speak to you about. Is not Caterine Collins, the fortune-teller a niece of yours?”
“She is, sir.”
“Where and when could I see her? --but mark me, I don't wish to be seen speaking to her in public.”
“Why not? --what's to prevent you from chattin' wid her in an aisy pleasant way in the streets; nobody will obsarve any thing then, or think it strange that a gentleman should have a funny piece o' discoorse wid a fortune-teller.”
“I don't know that; observations might be made afterwards.”
“But what can she do for you that I can't? She's a bad graft to have anything to do wid, and I wouldn't recommend you to put much trust in her.”
“Why so?”
“Why, she's nothin' else than a schemer.”
Little did old Solomon suspect that he was raising her very highly in the estimation of his visitor by falling foul of her in this manner.
“At all events,” said Woodward, “I wish to see her; and, as I said, I came for the express purpose of asking you where and when I could see her--privately, I mean.”
“That's what I can't tell you at the present spakin',” replied Solomon. “She has no fixed place of livin', but is here to-day and away to-morrow. God help you, she has travelled over the whole kingdom tellin' fortunes. Sometimes she's a dummy, and spakes to them by signs--sometimes a gypsy--sometimes she's this and sometimes she's that, but not often the same thing long; she's of as many colors as the rainbow. But if you do wish to see her, there's a chance that you may to-morrow. A conjurer has come to town, and he's to open to-morrow, for both town and country, and she'll surely be here, for that's taking the bit out of her mouth.”
“A conjurer!”
“Yes, he was here before some time ago, about the night of that bonfire that was put out by the shower o' blood, but somehow he disappeared from the place, and he's now come back.”
“A conjurer--well, I shall see the conjurer myself to-morrow; but can you give me no more accurate information with respect to your niece?”
“Sarra syllable--as I tould you, she's never two nights in the same place; but, if I should see her, I'll let her know your wishes; and what might I say, sir, that you wanted her to do for you?”
“That's none of your affair, most sagacious Solomon--I wish to speak with her myself, and privately, too; and if you see her, tell her to meet me here to-morrow night about this hour.”
“I'll do so; but God forgive you for disturbin' me in my devotions, as you did. It's not often I'd give them up for any one; but sure out of regard for the proprietor o' the town I'd do that, and more for you.”
“Here,” replied Woodward, putting some silver into his hand, “let that console you; and tell your niece when you see her that I am a good paymaster; and, if I should stand in need of your skill, you shall find me so, too. Good-night, and may your prayers be powerful, as I know they come from a Christian heart, honest Solomon.”
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{
"id": "16004"
}
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11
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A Conjurer's Levee.
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We cannot form at this distance of time any adequate notion of the influence which a conjurer of those days exercised over the minds and feelings of the ignorant. It was necessary that he should be, or be supposed at least to be, well versed in judicial astrology, the use of medicine, and consequently able to cast a nativity, or cure any earthly complaint. There is scarcely any grade or species of superstition that is not associated with or founded upon fear. The conjurer, consequently, was both feared and respected; and his character appeared in different phases to the people--each phase adapted to the corresponding character of those with whom he had to deal. The educated of those days, with but few exceptions, believed in astrology, and the possibility of developing the future fate and fortunes of an individual, whenever the hour of his birth and the name of the star or planet under which he was born could be ascertained. The more ignorant class, however, generally associated the character of the conjurer with that of the necromancer or magician, and consequently attributed his predictions to demoniacal influence. Neither were they much mistaken, for they only judged of these impostors as they found them. In nineteen cases out of twenty, the character of the low astrologer, the necromancer, and the quack was associated, and the influence of the stars and the aid of the devil were both considered as giving assurance of supernatural knowledge to the same individual. This unaccountable anxiety to see, as it were, the volume of futurity unrolled, so far as it discloses individual fate, has characterized mankind ever since the world began; and hence, even in the present day, the same anxiety among the ignorant to run after spae-women, fortunetellers, and gypsies, in order to have their fortunes told through the means of their adroit predictions.
On the following morning the whole town of Rathfillan was in a state of excitement by the rumor that a conjurer had arrived, for the purpose not only of telling all their future fates and fortunes, but of discovering all those who had been guilty of theft, and the places where the stolen property was to be found. This may seem a bold stroke; but when we consider the materials upon which the sagacious conjurer had to work, we need not feel surprised at his frequent success.
The conjurer in question had taken up his residence in the best inn which the little town of Rathfillan afforded. Immediately after his arrival he engaged the beadle, with bell in hand, to proclaim his presence in the town, and the purport of his visit to that part of the country. This was done through the medium of printed handbills, which that officer read and distributed through the crowds who attended him. The bill in question was as follows: “To the inhabitants of Rathfillan and the adjacent neighborhood, the following important communications are made:-- “Her Zander Vanderpluckem, the celebrated German conjurer, astrologist, and doctor, who has had the honor of predicting the deaths of three kings, five queens, twenty-one princesses, and seven princes, all of royal blood, and in the best possible state of health at the time the predictions were made, and to all of whom he had himself the honor of being medical attendant and state physician, begs to announce his arrival in this town. He is the seventh son of the great and renowned conjurer, Herr Zander Vanderhoaxem, who made the stars tremble, and the devil sweat himself to powder in a fit of repentance. His influence over the stars and heavenly bodies is tremendous, and it is a well-known fact throughout the universe that he has them in such a complete state of terror and subjection, that a single comet dare not wag his tail unless by his permission. He travels up and down the milky way one night in every month, to see that the dairies of the sky are all right, and that that celebrated path be properly lighted; brings down a pail of the milk with him, which he churns into butyrus, an unguent so efficacious that it cures all maladies under the sun, and many that never existed. It can be had at five shillings a spoonful. He can make Ursa Major, or the Great Bear, dance without a leader, and has taught Pisces, or the Fishes, to live out of water--a prodigy never known or heard of before since the creation of _terra firma_. Such is the power of the great and celebrated Her Vanderpluckem over the stars and planets. But now to come nearer home: he cures all patients of all complaints. No person asking his assistance need ever be sick, unless when they happen to be unwell. His insight into futurity is such that, whenever he looks far into it, he is obliged to shut his eyes. He can tell fortunes, discover hidden wealth to any amount, and create such love between sweethearts as will be sure to end in matrimony. He is complete master of the fairies, and has the whole generation of them under his thumb; and he generally travels with the king of the fairies in his left pocket closed up in a snuffbox. He interprets dreams and visions, and is never mistaken; can foretell whether a child unborn will be a boy or a girl, and can also inform the parents whether it will be brought to the bench or the gallows. He can also foretell backwards, and disclose to the individual anything that shall happen to him or her for the last seven years. His philters, concocted upon the profound science of alchemistic philosophy, have been sought for by persons of the highest distinction, who have always found them to produce the very effects for which they were intended, to wit, mutual affection between the parties, uniformly ending in matrimony and happiness. Devils expelled, ghosts and spirits laid on the shortest notice, and at the most moderate terms. Also, recipes to farmers for good weather or rain, according as they may be wanted.
“(Signed,) Her Zander VANDERPLUCKEM,” “The Greatest Conjurer, Astrologer, and Doctor in the world.”
To describe the effect that this bill, which, by the way, was posted against every dead wall in the town, had upon the people, would be impossible. The inn in which he stopped was, in a short time, crowded with applicants, either for relief or information, according as their ills or wishes came under the respective heads of his advertisement. The room he occupied was upstairs, and he had a door that led into a smaller one, or kind of closet, at the end of it; here sat an old-looking man, dressed in a black coat, black breeches, and black stockings; the very picture of the mysterious individual who had appeared and disappeared so suddenly at the bonfire. He had on a full-bottomed wig, and a long white beard, depending from the lower part of his face, swept his reverend breast. A large book lay open before him, on the pages of which were inscribed cabalistic characters and strange figures. He only admitted those who wished to consult him, singly; for on no occasion did he ever permit two persons at a time to approach him. All the paraphernalia of astrology were exposed upon the same table, at one end of which he sat in an arm-chair, awaiting the commencement of operations. At length a good-looking country-woman, of about forty-five years, made her appearance, and, after a low courtesy, was solemnly motioned to take a seat.
“Well, Mrs. Houlaghan,” said he, “how do you do?”
The poor woman got as pale as death. “Heavenly Father,” thought she, “how does it happen that he comes to know my name!”
“Mrs. Houlaghan, what can I do for you? not that I need ask, for I could give a very good guess at it;” and this he added with a very sage and solemn visage, precisely as if he knew the whole circumstances.
“Why, your honor,” she replied--“but, blessed Father, how did you come to know my name?”
“That's a question,” he replied, solemnly, “which you ought not to ask me. It is enough that you see I know it. How is your husband, Frank, and how is your daughter, Mary? She's complaining of late--is she not?”
This private knowledge of the family completely overwhelmed her, and she felt unable to speak for some time.
“Do not be in a hurry, Mrs. Honlaghan,” said he, mildly; “reflect upon what you are about to say, and take your time.”
“It's a ghost, your reverence,” she replied--“a ghost that haunts the house.”
“Very well, Mrs. Houlaghan; the fee for laying a ghost is five shillings; I will trouble you for that sum; we conjurers have no power until we get money from the party concerned, and then we can work with effect.”
The simple woman, in the agitation of the moment, handed him the amount of his demand, and then collected herself to hear the response, and the means of laying the ghost.
“Well, now,” said he, “tell me all about this ghost, Mrs. Houlaghan. How long has it been troubling the family?”
“Why, then, ever since Frank lost the use of his sight, now goin' upon five months.”
“When does it appear?”
“Why, generally afther twelve at night; and what makes it more strange is, that poor Mary's more afeard o' me than she is of the ghost. She says it appears to her in her bedroom every night; but she knows I'm so timersome that she keeps her door always locked for fraid I'd see it, poor child.”
“Does it terrify her?”
“Not a bit; she says it does her no harm on earth, and that it's great company for her when she can't sleep.”
“Has Mary many sweethearts?”
“She has two: one o' them rather ould, but wealthy and well to do; her father and myself, wishin' to see her well settled, are doin' all we can to get her consent to marry him.”
“Who's the other?”
“One Brine Oge M'Gaveran, a good-lookin' vagabone, no doubt, but not worth a copper.”
“Is she fond of him?”
“Troth, to tell you the truth, I'm afeard she is; he has been often seen about the house in the evenin's.”
“Well, Mrs. Houlaghan, I will tell you how to lay this ghost.”
“God bless you, sir; poor Mary, although she purtends that the ghost is good company for her, is lookin' pale and very quare somehow.”
“Well, then, here is the receipt for laying the ghost: Marry her as soon as you possibly can to Brine Oge M'Gaveran--do that and the ghost will never appear again; but if you refuse to do it--I may lay that ghost of course--but another ghost, as like it as an egg is to an egg, will haunt your house until she is married to Brine Oge. You have wealth yourselves, and you can make Brine and her comfortable if you wish. She is your only child”--(“Blessed Father, think of him knowin' this!”) --“and as you are well to do in the world, it's both a sin and a scandal for you to urge a pretty young girl of nineteen to marry an old miserly runt of fifty. You know now how to lay the ghost, Mrs. Houlaghan--and that is what I can do for you; but if you do not marry her to Brine Oge, as I said, another ghost will certainly contrive to haunt you. You may now withdraw.”
A farmer, with a very shrewd and comic expression of countenance, next made his appearance, and taking his hat off and laying it on the floor with his staff across it, took his seat, as he had been motioned to do, upon the chair which Mrs. Houlaghan had just vacated.
“Well, my friend,” said the conjurer, “what's troubling you?”
“A crock o' butther, your honor.”
“How is that? explain yourself.”
“Why, sir, a crock o' butther that was stolen from me; and I'm tould for a sartinty that you can discover the thief o' the world that stole it.”
“And so I can. Do you suspect anybody?”
“Troth, sir, I can't say--for I live in a very honest neighborhood. The only two thieves that were in it--Charley Folliott and George Austin--were hanged not long ago, and I don't know anybody else in the country side that would stale it.”
“What family have you?”
“Three sons, sir.”
“How many daughters?”
“One, sir--but she's only a _girsha_” (a little girl).
“I suppose your sons are very good children to you?”
“Betther never broke bread, sir--all but the youngest.”
“What age is he?”
“About nineteen, sir, or goin' an twenty; but he's a, heart-scald to me and the family--although he's his mother's pet; the divil can't stand him for dress--and, moreover, he's given to liquor and card-playin', and is altogether goin' to the bad. Widin the last two or three days he has bought himself a new hat, a new pair o' brogues, and a pair o' span-new breeches--and, upon my conscience, it wasn't from me or mine he got the money to buy them.”
The conjurer looked solemnly into his book for some minutes, and then raising his head, fastened his cold, glassy, glittering eyes on the farmer with a glance that filled him with awe.
“I have found it out,” said he; “there are two parties to the theft--your wife and your youngest son. Go to the hucksters of the town, and ask them if they will buy any more butter like the last of yours that they bought, and, depend on it, you will find out the truth.”
“Then you think, sir, it was my wife and son between them that stole the butter?”
“Not a doubt of it, and if you tell them that I said so, they will confess it. You owe me five shillings.”
The farmer put his hand in his pocket, and placing the money before him, left the room, satisfied that there was no earthly subject, past, present, or to come, with which the learned conjurer was not acquainted.
The next individual that came before him was a very pretty buxom widow, who, having made the venerable conjurer a courtesy, sat down and immediately burst into tears.
“What is the matter with you, madam?” asked the astrologer, rather surprised at this unaccountable exhibition of the pathetic.
“O, sir, I lost, about fifteen months ago, one of the best husbands that ever broke the world's bread.”
Here came another effusion, accompanied with a very distracted blow of the nose.
“That must have been very distressing to you, madam; he must have been extremely fond of such a very pretty wife.”
“O sir, he doted alive upon me, as I did upon him--poor, darling old Paul.”
“Ah, he was old, was he?”
“Yes, sir, and left me very rich.”
“But what do you wish me to do for you?”
“Why, sir, he was very fond of money; was, in fact, a--a--kind of miser in his way. My father and mother forced me to marry the dear old man, and I did so to please them; but at the same time he was very kind in his manner to me--indeed, so kind that he allowed me a shilling a month for pocket money.”
“Well, but what is your object in coming to me?”
“Why, sir, to ask your opinion on a case of great difficulty.”
“Very well, madam; you shall have the best opinion in the known world upon the subject--that is, as soon as I hear it. Speak out without hesitation, and conceal nothing.”
“Why, sir, the poor dear man before his death--ah, that ever my darling old Paul should have been taken away from me! --the poor dear man, before his death--ahem--before his death--O, ah,”--here came another effusion--“began to--to--to--get jealous of me with a young man in the neighborhood that--that--I was fond of before I married my dear old Paul.”
“Was the young man in question handsome?”
“Indeed, sir, he was, and is, very handsome--and the impudent minxes of the parish are throwing their caps at him in dozens.”
“But still you are keeping me in the dark.”
“Well, sir, I will tell you my difficulty. When poor dear old Paul was dying, he called me to the bed-side one day, and says to me: 'Biddy,' says he, 'I'm going to die--and you know I am wealthy; but, in the meantime, I won't leave you sixpence.' 'It's not the loss of your money I am thinking of, my darling Paul,' says I, 'but the loss of yourself”--and I kissed him, and cried. 'You didn' often kiss me that way before,' said he--' and I know what you're kissing me for now.' 'No,' I said, 'I did not; because I had no notion then of losing you, my own darling Paul--you don't know how I loved you all along, Paul,' said I; 'kiss me again, jewel.' 'Now,' said he,' I'm not going to leave you sixpence, and I'll tell you why--I saw young Charley Mulvany, that you were courting before I married you--I saw him, I say, through the windy there, kiss you, with my own eyes, when you thought I was asleep--and you put your arms about his neck and hugged him,' said he. I must be particular, sir, in order that you may understand the difficulty I'm in.”
“Proceed, madam,” said the conjurer. “If I were young I certainly would envy Charley Mulvany--but proceed.”
“Well, sir, I replied to him: 'Paul, dear,' said I, 'that was a kiss of friendship--and the reason of it was, that poor Charley was near crying when he heard that you were going to die and to leave me so lonely.' 'Well,' said he, 'that may be--many a thing may be that's not likely--and that may be one of them. Go and get a prayer-book, and come back here.' Well, sir, I got a book and I went back. 'Now,' said he, 'if you swear by the contents of that book that you will never put a ring on man after my death, I'll leave you my property.' 'Ah, God pardon you, Paul, darling,' said I, 'for supposing that I'd ever dream of marrying again'--and I couldn't help kissing him once more and crying over him when I heard what he said. 'Now,' said he, 'kiss the book, and swear that you'll never put a ring on man after my death, and I'll leave you every shilling I'm worth.' God knows it was a trying scene to a loving heart like mine--so I swore that I'd never put a ring on man after his death--and then he altered his will and left me the property on those conditions.”
“Proceed, madam,” said the conjurer; “I am still in the dark as to the object of your visit.”
“Why, sir, it is to know--ahem--O, poor old Paul. God forgive me! it was to know, sir, O--” “Don't cry, madam, don't cry.”
“It was to know, sir, if I could ever think of--of--you must know, sir, we had no family, and I would not wish that the property should die with me; to know if--if you think I could venture to marry again?”
“This,” replied the conjurer, “is a matter of unusual importance and difficulty. In the first place you must hand me a guinea--that is my fee for cases of this kind.”
The money was immediately paid, and the conjurer proceeded: “I said it was a case of great difficulty, and so it is, but--” “I forgot to mention, sir, that when I went out to get the prayer-book, I found Charley Mulvany in the next room, and he said he had one in his pocket; so that the truth, sir, is, I--I took the oath upon a book of ballads. Now,” she proceeded, “I have strong reasons for marrying Charley Mulvany; and I wish to know if I can do so without losing the property.”
“Make your mind easy on that point,” replied the conjurer; “you swore never to put a ring on man, but you did not swear that a man would never put a ring on you. Go home,” he continued, “and if you be advised by me, you will marry Charley Mulvany without loss of time.”
A man rather advanced in years next came in, and taking his seat, wiped his face and gave a deep groan.
“Well, my friend,” said the conjurer, “in what way can I serve you?”
“God knows it's hard to tell that,” he replied--“but I'm troubled.”
“What troubles you?”
“It's a quare world, sir, altogether.”
“There are many strange things in it certainly.”
“That's truth, sir; but the saison's favorable, thank God, and there's every prospect of a fine spring for puttin' down the crops.”
“You are a farmer, then; but why should you feel troubled about what you call a fine season for putting down the crops?”
The man moved uneasily upon his chair, and seemed at a loss how to proceed; the conjurer looked at him, and waited for a little that he might allow him sufficient time to disclose his difficulties.
“There are a great many troubles in this life, sir, especially in married families.”
“There is no doubt of that, my friend,” replied the conjurer.
“No, sir, there is not. I am not aisy in my mind, somehow.”
“Hundreds of thousands are so, as well as you,” replied the other. “I would be glad to see the man who has not something to trouble him; but will you allow me to ask you what it is that troubles you?”
“I took her, sir, widout a shift to her back, and a betther husband never breathed the breath of life than I have been to her;” and then he paused, and pulling out his handkerchief, shed bitter tears. “I would love her still, if I could, sir; but, then, the thing's impossible.”
“O, yes,” said the conjurer; “I see you are jealous of her; but will you state upon what grounds?”
“Well, sir, I think I have good grounds for it.”
“What description of a woman is your wife, and what age is she?”
“Why, sir, she's about my own age. She was once handsome enough--indeed, very handsome when I married her.”
“Was the marriage a cordial one between you and her?”
“Why, sir, she was dotin' upon me, as I was upon her?”
“Have you had a family?”
“A fine family, sir, of sons and daughters.”
“And how long is it since you began to suspect her?”
“Why, sir, I--I--well, no matther about that; she was always a good wife and a good mother, until--” Here he paused, and again wiped his eyes.
“Until what?”
“Why, sir, until Billy Fulton, the fiddler, came across her.”
“Well, and what did Billy Fulton do?”
“He ran away wid my ould woman, sir.”
“What age is Billy Fulton?”
“About my own age, sir; but by no means so stout a man; he's a dancin' masther, too, sir; and barrin' his pumps and white cotton stockin's, I don't know what she could see in him; he's a poor light crature, and walks as if he had a hump on his hip, for he always carries his fiddle undher his skirt. Ay, and what's more, sir, our daughter, Nancy, is gone off wid him.”
“The devil she is. Why, did the old dancing-master run off with both of them? How long is it since this elopement took place?”
“Only three days, sir.”
“And you wish me to assist you?”
“If you can, sir; and I ought to tell you that the vagabone's son is gone off wid them too.”
“O, O,” said the conjurer, “that makes the matter worse.”
“No, it doesn't, sir, for what makes the matter worse is, that they took away a hundred and thirty pounds of my money along wid 'em.”
“Then you wish to know what I can do for you in this business?”
“I do, sir, i' you plaise.”
“Were you ever jealous of your wife before?”
“No, not exactly jealous, sir, but a little suspicious or so; I didn't think it safe to let her out much; I thought it no harm to keep my eye on her.”
“Now,” said the conjurer, “is it not notorious that you are the most jealous--by the way, give me five shillings; I can make no further communications till I am paid; there--thank you--now, is it not notorious that you are one of the most jealous old scoundrels in the whole country?”
“No, sir, barrin' a little wholesome suspicion.”
“Well, sir, go home about your business. Your daughter and the dancing master's son have made a runaway match of it, and your wife, to protect the character of her daughter, has gone with them. You are a miser, too. Go home now; I have nothing more to say to you, except that you have been yourself a profligate. Look at that book, sir; there it is; the stars have told me so.”
“You have got my five shillings, sir; but say what you like, all the wather in the ocean wouldn't wash her clear of the ould dancin'-masther.”
In the course of a few minutes a beautiful peasant girl entered the room, her face mantled with blushes, and took her seat on the chair as the others had done, and remained for some time silent, and apparently panting with agitation.
“What is your name, my pretty girl?” asked the conjurer.
“Grace Davoren,” replied the girl.
“And what do you wish to know from me, Miss Davoren?”
“O, don't call me miss, sir; I'm but a poor girl.”
The conjurer looked into his book for a few minutes, and then, raising his head, and fixing his eyes upon her, replied-- “Yes, I will call you miss, because I have looked into your fate, and I see that there is great good fortune before you.”
The young creature blushed again and smiled with something like confidence, but seemed rather at a loss what to say, or how to proceed.
“From your extraordinary beauty you must have a great many admirers, Miss Davoren.”
“But only two, sir, that gives me any trouble--one of them is a--” The conjurer raised his hand as an intimation to her to stop, and after poring once more over the book for some time, proceeded:-- “Yes--one of them is Shawn-na-Middogue; but he's an outlaw--and that courtship is at an end now.”
“Wid me, it is, sir; but not wid him. The sogers and autorities is out for him and others; but still he keeps watchin' me as close as he can.”
“Well, wait till I look into the book of fate again--yes--yes--here is--a gentleman over head and ears in love with you.”
Poor Grace blushed, then became quite pale. “But, sir,” said she, “will the gentleman marry me?”
“To be sure he will marry you; but he cannot for some time.”
“But will he save me from disgrace and shame, sir?” she asked, with a death-like face.
“Don't make your mind uneasy on that point;--but wait a moment till I find out his name in the great book of fatality;--yes, I see--his name is Woodward. Don't, however, make your mind uneasy; he will take care of you.”
“My mind is very uneasy, sir, and I wish I had never seen him. But I don't know what could make him fall in love wid a poor simple girl like me.”
This was said in the coquettish consciousness of the beauty which she knew she possessed, and it was accompanied, too, by a slight smile of self-complacency.
“Do you think I could become a lady, sir?”
“A lady! why, what is to prevent you? You are a lady already. You want nothing but silks and satins, jewels and gold rings, to make you a perfect lady.”
“And he has promised all these to me,” she replied.
“Yes; but there is one thing you ought to do for your own sake and his--and that is to betray Shaivn-na-Middogue, if you can; because if you do not, neither your own life, nor that of your lover, Mr. Woodward, will be safe.”
“I couldn't do that, sir,” replied the girl, “it would be treacherous; and sooner than do so, I'd just as soon he would kill me at wanst--still I would do a great deal to save Mr. Woodward. But will Mr. Woodward marry me, sir? because he said he would--in the coorse of some time.”
“And if he said so don't be uneasy; he is a gentleman, and a gentleman, you know, always keeps his word. Don't be alarmed, my pretty girl--your lover will provide for you.”
“Am I to pay you anything, sir?” she asked, rising.
“No, my dear, I will take no money from you; but if you wish to save Mr. Woodward from danger, you will enable the soldiers to, arrest Shawn-na-Middogue. Even you, yourself, are not safe so long as he is at large.”
She then took her leave in silence.
It is not to be supposed that among the crowd that was assembled around the inn door there were not a number of waggish characters, who felt strongly inclined to have, if possible, a hearty laugh at the great conjurer. No matter what state of society may exist, or what state of feeling may prevail, there will always be found a class of persons who are exceptions to the general rule. Whilst the people were chatting in wonder and admiration, not without awe and fear, concerning the extraordinary knowledge and power of the conjurer, a character peculiar to all times and all ages made his appearance, and soon joined them. This was one of those circulating, unsettled vagabonds, whom, like scum, society, whether agitated or not, is always sure to throw on the surface. The comical miscreant no sooner made his appearance than, like Liston, when coming on the stage, he was greeted with a general roar of laughter.
“So,” said he, “you have a conjurer above. But wait a while; by the powdhers o' delf Rantin' Rody's the boy will try his mettle. If he can look farther than his nose, I'm the lad will find it out. If he doesn't say I'll be hanged, he knows nothing about his business. I have myself half-a-dozen hangmen engaged to let me down aisy; it's a death I've a great fancy for, and, plaise God, I'm workin' honestly to desarve it. Which of you has a cow to steal? for, by the sweets o' rosin, I'm low in cash, and want a thrifle to support nather; for nather, my boys, must be supported, and it was never my intintion to die for want o' my vittles; aitin' and drinkin' is not very pleasant to most people, I know, but I was born wid a fancy for both.”
“Rantin' Rody, in airnest, will you go up and have your fortune tould?”
“But wait,” he proceeded; “wait, I say,--wait,--I have it.” And as he said so he went at the top of his speed down the street, and disappeared in Sol Donnel's cabin.
“By this and by that,” said one of them, “Rtn'tin' Rody will take spunk out of him, if it's in him.”
“I think he had better have notin' to do wid him,” said an old woman, “for fraid he'd rise the devil--Lord guard us! Sure it's the same man that was in this very town the night he was _riz_ before, and that the bonfire for Suil Balor (the eye of Balor, or the Evil Eye) Woodward was drowned by a shower of blood. Troth I wouldn't be in the same Woodward's coat for the wealth o' the world. As for Rantin' Rody, let him take care of himself. It's never safe to sport wid edged tools, and he'll be apt to find it so, if he attempts to put his tricks upon the conjurer.”
In the meantime, while that gentleman was seated above stairs, a female, tall, slim, and considerably advanced in years, entered the room and took her seat. Her face was thin, and red in complexion, especially about the point of a rather long nose, where the color appeared to be considerably deeper in hue.
“Sir,” said she, in a sharp tone of voice, “I'm told you can tell fortunes.”
“Certainly, madam,” he replied, you have been correctly informed.”
“You won't be offended, then, if I wish to ask you a question or two. It's not about myself, but a sister of mine, who is--ahem--what the censorious world is pleased to call an old maid.”
“Why did your sister not come herself?” he asked; “I cannot predict anything unless the individual is before me; I must have him or her, as the case may be, under my eye.”
“Bless me, sir! I didn't know that; but as I am now here--could you tell me anything about myself?”
“I could tell you many things,” replied the conjurer, who read old maid in every line of her face--“many things not very pleasant for you to reflect upon.”
“O, but I don't wish to hear anything unpleasant,” said she; “tell me something that's agreeable.”
“In the first place, I cannot do so,” he replied; “I must be guided by truth. You have, for instance, been guilty of great cruelty; and although you are but a young woman, in the very bloom of life--” Here the lady bowed to him, and simpered--her thin, red nose twisted into a gracious curl, as thanking him for his politeness.
“In the very prime of life, madam--yet you have much to be accountable for, in consequence of your very heartless cruelty to the male sex--you see, madam, and you feel too, that I speak truth.”
The lady put the spectre of an old fan up to her withered visage, and pretended to enact a blush of admission.
“Well, sir,” she replied, “I--I--I cannot say but that--indeed I have been charged with--not that it--cruelty--I mean--was ever in my heart; but you must admit, sir, that--that--in fact--where too many press, upon a person, it is the more difficult choose.”
“Unquestionably; but you should have, made a judicious selection--and that was because you were in no hurry--and indeed you need not be; you have plenty of time before you. Still, there is much blame attached to you--you have defrauded society of its rights. Why, now, you might have been the proud mother of a son or daughter at least five years old by this time, if it had not been for your own obduracy--excuse me.”
Up went the skeleton fan again with a wonderfully modest if not an offended simper at the notion of such an insinuation; but, said she in her heart, this is the most gentlemanly conjurer that ever told a fortune; quite a delightful old gentleman; he is really charming; I wish I had met him twenty years ago.”
“Well, sir,” she replied, “I see there is no use in denying--especially to you, who seem to know everything--the truth of the facts you have stated. There was one gentleman in particular whom I rejected--that is, conditionally--rather harshly; and do you know, he took the scarlet-fever soon afterwards and died of a broken-heart.”
“Go on, madam,” said he; “make a clean breast of it--so shall you enable me to compare the future with the past, and state your coming fortunes more distinctly.”
“Another gentleman, sir--a country squire--owes, I fear, his death to my severity; he was a hard drinker, but I gave him a month to reform--which sentence he took so much to heart that he broke his neck in a fox-chase from mere despair. A third individual--a very handsome young man--of whom I must confess I was a little jealous about his flirting with another young lady--felt such remorse that he absolutely ran away with and married her. I know, of course, I am accountable for all these calamities; but it cannot be helped now--my conscience must bear it.”
“You should not look back upon these things with too much remorse,” replied the conjurer; “forget them--bear a more relenting heart; make some man happy, and marry. Have you no person at present in your eye with whom you could share your charms and your fortune?”
“O, sir, you are complimentary.”
“Not at all, madam; speak to me candidly, as you perceive I do to you.”
“Well, then,” she replied, “there is a young gentleman with whom I should wish to enter into a--a domestic--that is--a matrimonial connection.”
“Pray what age is he?”
“Indeed, he is but young, scarce nineteen; but then he is very wild, and I--I--have--indeed I am of too kind a heart, sir. I have supplied his extravagance--for so I must call it--poor boy--but cannot exactly get him to accept a legitimate right over me--I fear he is attached elsewhere--but you know he is young, sir, and. not come to his ripe judgment yet. I read your handbill, sir; and if you could furnish me with a--something--ahem--that might enable me to gain, or rather to restore his affections--for I think he was fond of me some few months ago--I would not grudge whatever the payment might be.”
“You mean a philter?”
“I believe that is what it is called, sir.”
“Well, madam, you shall be supplied with a philter that never fails, on the payment ol twenty-one shillings. This, philter, madam, will not only make him fond of you before marriage, but will secure his affections during life, increasing them day by day, so that every month of your lives will be a delicious honeymoon. There is another bottle at the same price; it may not, indeed, be necessary for you, but I can assure you that it has made many families happy where there had been previously but little prospect of happiness; the price is the same--twenty-one shillings.”
Up went the spectral fan again, and out came the forty-two shillings, and, with a formal courtesy, the venerable old maid walked away with the two bottles of aqua pura in her pocket.
Now came the test for the conjurer's knowledge--the sharp and unexpected trial of his skill and sagacity. After the old maid had taken her leave, possessed of the two bottles, a middle-aged, large-sized woman walked in, and, after making a low courtesy, sat down as she had been desired. The conjurer glanced keenly at her, and something like a smile might be seen to settle upon his features; it was so slight, however, that the good woman did not notice it.
“Pray, what's the object of your visit to me, may I ask?”
“My husband, sir--he runn'd away from me, sure.”
“Small blame to him,” replied the conjurer. “If I had such a wife I would not remain a single hour in her company.”
“And is that the tratement you give a heart-broken and desarted crature like me?”
“Come, what made him run away from you?”
“In regard, sir, of a dislike he took to me.”
“That was a proof that the man had some taste.”
“Ay, but why hadn't he that taste afore he married me?”
“It was very well that he had it afterwards--better late than never.”
“I want you to tell me where he is.”
“What family have you?”
“Seven small childre that's now fatherless, I may say.”
“What kind of a man was your husband?”
“Why, indeed, as handsome a vagabone as you'd see in a day's travellin'.”
“Mention his name; I can tell you nothing till I hear it.”
“He's called Rantin' Rody, the thief, and a great schamer he is among the girls.”
“Ranting Rody--let me see,” and here he looked very solemnly into his book--“yes; I see--a halter. My good woman, you had better not inquire after him; he was born to be hanged.”
“But when will that happen, sir?”
“Your fate and his are so closely united, that, whenever he swings, you will swing. You will both hang together from the same gallows; so that, in point of fact, you need not give yourself much trouble about the time of his suspension, because I see it written here in the book of fate, that the same hangman who swings you off, will swing him off at the same moment. You'll 'lie lovingly together; and when he puts his tongue out at those who will attend his execution, so will you; and when he dances his last jig in their presence, so will you. Are you now satisfied?”
“Troth, and I'm very fond o' the vagabone, although he's the worst friend I ever had. But you won't tell me where he is? and I know why, because, with all your pretended knowledge, the devil a know you know.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Ay, cocksure.”
“Then I can tell you that he is sitting on the chair there, opposite me. Go about your business, Rody, and rant elsewhere; you may impose upon others, but not upon a man that can penetrate the secrets of human life as I can. Go now; there is a white wand in the corner,--my conjuring rod,--and if I only touched you with it, I could leave you a cripple and beggar for life. Go, I say, and tell Caterine Collins how much she and you gained by this attempt at disgracing me.”
Rody, for it was he, was thunderstruck at this discovery, and, springing to his feet, disappeared.
“Well, Rody,” said the crowd, “how did you manage? Did he know you?”
Rody was as white in the face as a sheet. “Let me alone,” he replied; “the conjurer above is the devil, and nothin' else. I must get a glass o' whiskey; I'm near faintin'; I'm as wake as a child; my strength's gone The man, or the devil, or whatsomever he is, knows everything, and, what is worse, he tould me I am to be hanged in earnest.”
“Faith, Rody, that required no great knowledge on his part; there's not a man here but could have tould you the same thing, and there's none of us a conjurer.”
Rody, however, immediately left them to discuss the matter among themselves, and went, thoroughly crestfallen, to give an account of his mission to Caterine Collins, who had employed him, and to reassume his own clothes, which, indeed, were by no means fresh from the tailor.
The last individual whose interview with the conjurer we shall notice was no other than Harry Woodward, our hero. On entering he took his seat, and looked familiarly at the conjurer.
“Well,” said he, “there was no recognition?”
“How could there?” replied the other; “you know the thing's impossible; even without my beard, nobody in the town or about it knows my face, and to those who see me in character, they have other things to think of than the perusal of my features.”
“The girl was with you?”
“She yes, and I feel that, unless we can get Shawn-na-Middogue taken off by some means or other, your life will not, cannot, be safe.”
“She won't betray him, then? But I need not ask, for I have pressed her upon that matter before.”
“She is very right in not doing so,” replied the conjurer; “because, if she did, the consequence would be destruction to herself and her family. In addition to this, however, I don't think it's in her power to betray him. He never sleeps more than one night in the same place; and since her recent conduct to him--I mean since her intimacy with you--he would place no confidence in her.”
“He certainly is not aware of our intimacy.”
“Of course he is not; you would soon know it to your cost if he were. The place of your rendezvous is somewhat too near civilization for him; you should, however, change it; never meet twice in the same place, if you can.”
“You are reaping a tolerably good harvest here, I suppose. Do they ever place you in a difficulty?”
“Difficulty! God help you; there is not an individual among them, or throughout the whole parish, with whose persons, circumstances, and characters I am not acquainted; but even if it were not so, I could make them give me unconsciously the very information they want--returned to them, of course, in a new shape. I make them state the facts, and I draw the inferences; nothing is easier; it is a trick that every impostor is master of. How do you proceed with Miss Goodwin?”
“That matter is hopeless by fair means--she's in love with that d----d brother of mine.”
“No chance of the property, then?”
“Not as affairs stand at present; we must, however, maintain our intimacy; if so, I won't despair yet.”
“But what do you intend to do? If she marries your brother the property goes to him--and you may go whistle.”
“I don't give it up, though--I bear a brain still, I think; but the truth is, I have not completed my plan of operations. What I am to do, I know not yet exactly. If I could break off the match between her and my brother, she might probably, through the influence of her parents and other causes, he persuaded into a reluctant marriage with Harry Woodward; time, however, will tell, and I must only work my way through the difficulty as well as I can. I will now leave you, and I don't think I shall be able to see you again for a week to come.”
“Before you go let me ask if you know a vagabond called Ranting Rody, who goes about through the country living no one knows how?”
“No, I do not know him; what is he?”
“He's nothing except a paramour of Caterine Collins's, who, you know, is a rival of ours; nobody here knows anything about him, whilst he, it appears, knows every one and everything.”
“He would make a good conjurer,” replied Woodward, smiling.
“If the fellow could be depended on,” replied the other, “he might be useful; in fact, I am of opinion that if he wished he could trace _Shawn-na-Middogue's_ haunts. The scoundrel attempted just now to impose upon me in the dress of a woman, and, were it not that I knew him so well, he might have got my beard stripped from my face, and my bones broken besides; but I feel confident that if any one could trace and secure the outlaw, he could--I mean with proper assistance. Think of this.”
“I shall find him out,” replied Woodward, “and sound him, at all events, and I think through Caterine Collins I may possibly secure him; but we must be cautious. Good-by; I wish you success!”
After which he passed through the crowd, exclaiming, “A wonderful man--an astonishing man--and a fearful man; that is if he be a man, which I very much doubt.”
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{
"id": "16004"
}
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12
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Fortune-telling
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Ever since the night of the bonfire Woodward's character became involved more or less in a mystery that was peculiar to the time and the superstitions of the period. That he possessed, the Evil Eye was whispered about; and what was still more strange, it was not his wish that such rumors should be suppressed. They had not yet, however, reached either Alice Goodwin or her parents. In the meantime the feelings of the two families were once more suspended in a kind of neutral opposition, each awaiting the other to make the first advance. Poor Alice, however, appeared rather declining in health and spirits, for, notwithstanding her firm and generous defence of Charles Lindsay, his brother, to a certain extent, succeeded in shaking her confidence in his attachment. Her parents; frequently asked her the cause of her apparent melancholy, but she only gave them evasive replies, and stated that she had not felt herself very well since Henry Woodward's last interview with her.
They now urged her to take exercise--against which, indeed, she always had a constitutional repugnance--and not to sit so much in her own room as she did; and in order to comply with their wishes in this respect, she forced herself to walk a couple of hours each day in the lawn, where she generally read a book, for the purpose, if possible, of overcoming her habitual melancholy. It was upon one of these occasions that she saw the fortune-teller, Caterine Collins, approach her, and as her spirits were unusually depressed for the moment, she felt no inclination to enter into any conversation with her. Naturally courteous, however, and reluctant to give offence, she allowed the woman to advance, especially as she could perceive from the earnestness of her manner that she was anxious to speak with her.
“Well, Caterine,” said she, “I hope you are not coming to tell my fortune to-day; I am not in spirits to hear much of the future, be it good or bad. Will you not go up to the house? They will give you something to eat.”
“Thank you, Miss Alice, I will go up by and by; but in the manetime, what fortune could any one tell you but good fortune? There's nothin' else before you; and if there is, I'm come to put you on your guard against it, as I will, plaise goodness. I heard what I'm goin' to mention to you on good autority, and, as I know it's true, I think it's but right you should know of it, too.” Alice immediately became agitated; but mingled with that agitation was a natural wish--perhaps it might be a pardonable curiosity, under the circumstances--to hear how what the woman had to disclose could affect herself. Being nervous, restless, and depressed, she was just in the very frame of mind to receive such an impression as might be deeply prejudicial to the ease of her heart--perhaps her happiness, and consequently her health.
“What is it that you think I should know, Caterine?”
Caterine, who looked about her furtively, as if to satisfy herself that there was no one present but themselves, said,-- “Now, Miss Goodwin, everything depends on whether you'll answer me one question truly, and you needn't be afeard to spake the truth to me.”
“Is it concerning myself?”
“It is, Miss Goodwin, and another, too, but principally yourself.”
“But what right have you, Caterine, to question me upon my own affairs?”
“No right, miss; but I wish to prevent you from, harm.”
“I thank you for your good wishes, Caterine; but what is it you would say?”
“Is it true, Miss Alice, that you and Mr. Woodward are coortin'?”
“It is not, Caterine,” replied Alice, uttering the disavowal with a good deal of earnestness; “there is no truth whatsoever in it; nothing can be more false and groundless--I wonder how such a rumor could have got abroad; it certainly could not proceed from Mr. Woodward.”
“It did not, indeed, Miss Alice; but it did from his brother, who, it seems, is very fond of him, and said he was glad of it; but indeed, miss, it delights my heart to hear that there is no truth in it. Mr. Woodward, God save us! is no fit husband for any Christian! woman.”
“Why so?” asked Alice, laboring under, some vague sense of alarm.
“Why, Heavenly Father! Miss Alice, sure it's well known he has the Evil Eye; it's in the family upon his mother's side.”
“My God!” exclaimed Alice, who became instantly as pale as death, “if that be true, Caterine, it's shocking.”
“True,” replied Caterine; “did you never I observe his eyes?”
“Not particularly.”
“Did you remark that they're of different colors? that one of them is as black as the devil's, and the other a gray?”
“I never observed that,” replied Alice, who really never had.
“Yes, and I could tell you more than that about him,” proceeded Caterine; “they say he's connected wid what's not good. Sure, when they got up a bonfire for him, doesn't all the world know that it was put out by a shower of blood; and that's a proof that he's a favorite wid the devil and the fairies.”
“I believe,” replied Alice, “that there is no doubt whatsoever about the shower of blood; but I should not consider that fact as proof that he is a favorite with either the devil or the fairies.”
“Ay, but you don't know, miss, that this is the way they have of showin' it. Then, ever since he has come to the country, Bet Harramount, the witch, in the shape of a white hare, is come back to the neighborhood, and the _Shawn-dhinne-dhuv_ is now seen about the Haunted House, oftener than he ever was. It's well known that the white hare plays about Mr. Woodward like a dog, and that she goes into the Haunted House, too, every night.”
“And what brought you to tell me all this, Caterine?” asked Alice.
“Why, miss, to put you on your guard; afraid you might get married to a man that, maybe, has sould himself to the devil. It's well known by his father's sarvints that he's out two or three nights in the week, and nobody can tell where he goes.”
“Are the servants your authority for that?”
“Indeed they are; Barney Casey knows a great deal about him. Now, Miss Alice, you're on your guard; have nothing to do wid him as a sweetheart; but above all things don't fall out wid him, bekaise, if you did, as sure as I stand here he'd wither you off o' the earth. And above all things again watch his eyes; I mane the black one, but don't seem to do so; and now good-by, miss; I've done my duty to you.”
“But about his brother, Caterine? He has not the Evil Eye, I hope?”
“Ah, miss, I could tell you something about him, too. They're a bad graft, these Lindsays; there's Mr. Charles, and it's whispered he's goin' to make a fool of himself and disgrace his family.”
“How is that, Caterine?”
“I don't know rightly; I didn't hear the particulars; but I'll be on the watch, and when I can I'll let you know it.”
“Take no such trouble, Caterine,” said Alice; “I assure you I feel no personal interest whatsoever in any of the family except Miss Lindsay. Leave me, Caterine, leave me; I must finish my book; but I thank you for your good wishes. Go up, and say I desired them to give you your dinner.”
Alice soon felt herself obliged to follow; and it was, indeed, with some difficulty she was able to reach the house. Her heart got deadly sick; an extraordinary weakness came over her; she became alarmed, frightened, distressed; her knees tottered under her, and she felt on reaching the hall-door as if she were about to faint. Her imagination became disturbed; a heavy, depressing gloom descended upon her, and darkened her flexible and unresisting spirit, as if it were the forebodings of some terrible calamity.
The diabolical wretch who had just left her took care to perform her base and heartless task with double effect. It was not merely the information she had communicated concerning Woodward that affected her so deeply, although she felt, as it were, in the Inmost recesses of her soul, that it was true, but that which went at the moment with greater agony to her heart was the allusion to Charles Lindsay, and the corroboration it afforded to the truth of the charge which Woodward had brought, with so much apparent reluctance, against him--the charge of having neglected and abandoned her for another, and that other a person of low birth, who, by relinquishing her virtue, had contrived to gain such an artful and selfish ascendancy over him. How could she doubt it? Here was a woman ignorant of the communication Woodward had made to her,--ignorant of the vows that had passed between them,--who had heard of his falsehood and profligacy, and who never would have alluded to them had she not been questioned. So far, then, Woodward, she felt, stood without blame with respect to his brother. And how could she suspect Caterine to have been the agent of that gentleman, when she knew now that her object in seeking an interview with herself was to put her on her guard against him? The case was clear, and, to her, dreadful as it was clear. She felt herself now, however, in that mood which no sympathy can alleviate or remove. She experienced no wish to communicate her distress to any one, but resolved to preserve the secret in her own bosom. Here, then, was she left to suffer the weight of a twofold affliction--the dread of Woodward, with which Caterine's intelligence had filled her heart, feeble, and timid, and credulous as it was upon any subject of a superstitious tendency--and the still deeper distress which weighed her down in consequence of Charles Lindsay's treachery and dishonor. Alas! poor Alice's heart was not one for struggles, nurtured and bred up, as she had been, in the very wildest spirit of superstition, in all its degrading ramifications. There was something in the imagination and constitution of the poor girl which generated and cherished the superstitions which prevailed in her day. She could not throw them off her mind, but dwelt upon them with a kind of fearful pleasure which we can understand from those which operated upon our own fancies in our youth. These prepare the mind for the reception of a thousand fictions concerning ghosts, witches, fairies, apparitions, and a long catalogue of nonsense, equally disgusting and repugnant to reason and common-sense. It is not surprising, then, that poor Alice's mind on that night was filled with phantasms of the most feverish and excited description. As far as she could, however, she concealed her agitation from her parents, but not so successfully as to prevent them from perceiving that she was laboring under some extraordinary and unaccountable depression. This unfortunately was too true. On that night she experienced a series of such wild and frightful visions as, when she was startled out of them, made her dread to go again to sleep. The white hare, the Black Spectre, but, above all, the fearful expression her alarmed fancy had felt in Woodward's eye, which was riveted upon her, she thought, with a baleful and demoniacal glance, that pierced and prostrated her spirit with its malignant and supernatural power; all these terrible images, with fifty other incoherent chimeras, flitted before the wretched girl's imagination during her feverish slumbers. Towards morning she sank into a somewhat calmer state of rest, but still with occasional and flitting glimpses of the same horrors.
So far the master-spirit had set, at least, a portion of his machinery in motion, in order to work out his purposes; but we shall find that his designs became deeper and blacker as he proceeded in his course.
In a few days Alice became somewhat relieved from the influence of these tumultuous and spectral phantasms which had run riot in her terrified fancy; and this was principally owing to the circumstance of her having prevailed upon one of the maid-servants, a girl named Bessy Mangan, Barney Casey's sweetheart, to sleep privately in her room. The attack had reduced and enfeebled her very much, but still she was slightly improved and somewhat relieved in her spirits. The shock, and the nervous paroxysm that accompanied it, had nearly passed away, and she was now anxious, for the sake of her health, to take as much exercise as she could. Still--still--the two leading thoughts would recur to her--that of Charles's treachery, and the terrible gift of curse possessed by his brother Henry; and once more her heart would sink to the uttermost depths of distress and terror. The supernatural, however, in the course of a little time, prevailed, as it was only reasonable to suppose it would in such a temperament as hers; and as her mind proceeded to struggle with the two impressions, she felt that her dread of Woodward was gradually gaining upon and absorbing the other. Her fear of him, consequently, was deadly; that terrible and malignant eye--notwithstanding its dark brilliancy and awful beauty, alas! too, significant of its power--was constantly before her imagination, gazing upon her with a fixed, determined, and mysterious look, accompanied by a smile of triumph, which deepened its satanity, if we may be allowed to coin a word, at every glance. It was not mere antipathy she felt for him now, but dread and horror. How, then, was she to act? She had pledged herself to receive his visits upon one condition, and to permit him to continue a friendly intimacy altogether apart from love. How, then, could she violate her word, or treat him with rudeness, who had always not only treated her with courtesy, but expressed an interest in her happiness which she had every reason to believe sincere? Thus was the poor girl entangled with difficulties on every side without possessing any means of releasing herself from them.
In a few days after this she was sitting in the drawing-room when Woodward unexpectedly entered it, and saluted her with great apparent good feeling and politeness. The surprise caused her to become as pale as death; she felt her very limbs relax with weakness, and her breath for a few moments taken away from her; she looked upon him with an expression of alarm and fear which she could not conceal, and it was with some difficulty that she was at length enabled to speak.
“You will excuse me, sir,” she said, “for not rising; I am very nervous, and have not been at all well for the last week or upwards.”
“Indeed, Miss Goodwin, I am very sorry to hear this; I trust it is only a mere passing indisposition; I think the complaint is general, for my sister has also been ailing much the same way for the last few days. Don't be alarmed, Miss Goodwin, it is nothing, and won't signify. You should mingle more in society; you keep too much alone.”
“But I do not relish society; I never mingle in it that I don't feel exhausted and depressed.”
“That certainly makes a serious difference; in such a case, then, I imagine society would do you more harm than good. I should not have intruded on you had not your mother requested me to come up and try to raise your spirits--a pleasure which I would gladly enjoy if I could.”
“I am much obliged to you, Mr. Woodward,” she replied; “I hope a short time will remove this unusual depression, and I must only have a little patience.”
“Just so, Miss Goodwin; a little time, as you say, will restore you to yourself.”
Now all this was very courteous and kind of Mr. Woodward, and might have raised her spirits were it not for the eye. From the moment he entered the apartment that dreaded instrument of his power was fixed upon her with a look so concentrated, piercing, and intense, that it gave a character of abstraction to all he said. In other words, she felt as if his language proceeded out of his lips unconsciously, and that some mysterious purport of his heart emanated from his eye. It appeared to her that he was thinking of something secret connected with herself, to which his words bore no reference whatsoever. She neither knew what to do nor what to say under this terrible and permeating gaze; it was in vain she turned away her eyes; she knew--she felt--that his was upon her--that it was drinking up her strength--that, in fact, the evil influence was; mingling with and debilitating her frame, and operating upon all her faculties. There was still, however, a worse symptom, and one which gave that gaze a significance that appalled her--this was the smile of triumph which she had seen playing coldly but triumphantly about his lips in her dreams. That smile was the feather to the arrow that pierced her, and that was piercing her at that moment--it was the cold but glittering glance of the rattlesnake, when breaking down by the poison of his eyes the power of resistance in his devoted victim.
“Mr. Woodward,” said she, after a long pause, “I am unable to bear an interview--have the goodness to withdraw, and when you go down-stairs send my mother up. Excuse me, sir; but you must perceive how very ill I have got within a few minutes.”
“I regret it exceedingly, Miss Goodwin. I had something to mention to you respecting that unfortunate brother of mine; but you are not now in a condition to hear anything unpleasant and distressing; and, indeed, it is better, I think, now that I observe your state of health, that you should not even wish to hear it.”
“I never do wish to hear it, sir; but have the goodness to leave me.”
“I trust my next visit will find you better. Good-by, Miss Goodwin! I shall send your mother up.”
[Illustration: PAGE 697-- One long, dark, inexplicable gaze] He withdrew very much after the etiquette of a subject leaving a crowned head--that is, nearly backwards; but when he came to the door he paused a moment, turning upon her one long, dark, inexplicable gaze, whilst the muscles of his hard, stony mouth were drawn back with a smile that contained in its expression a spirit that might be considered complacent, but which Alice interpreted as derisive and diabolical.
“Mamma,” said she, when her mother joined her, “I am ill, and I know not what to do.”
“I know you are not well, my love,” replied her mother, “but I hope you're not worse; how do you feel?”
“Quite feeble, utterly without strength, and dreadfully depressed and alarmed.”
“Alarmed, Alley! Why, what could alarm you? Does not Mr. Woodward always conduct himself as a gentleman?”
“He does, ma'am; but, nevertheless, I never wish to see him again.”
“Why, dear me! Alice, is it reasonable that you should give way to such a prejudice against that gentleman? Indeed I believe you absolutely hate him.”
“It is not personal hatred, mother; it is fear and terror. I do not, as I said, hate the man personally, because I must say that he never deserved such a feeling at my hands, but, in the meantime, the sight of him sickens me almost to death. I am not aware that he is or ever was immoral, or guilty of any act that ought to expose him to hatred; but, notwithstanding that, my impression, when conversing with him, is, that I am in the presence of an evil spirit, or of a man who is possessed of one. Mamma, he must be excluded the house, and forbidden to visit here again, otherwise my health will be destroyed, and my very life placed in danger.”
“My dear Alice, that is all very strange,” replied her mother, now considerably alarmed at her language, but still more so at her appearance; “why, God bless me, child! now that I look at you, you certainly do seem to be in an extraordinary state. You are the color of death, and then you are all trembling! Why is this, I ask again?”
“The presence of that man,” she replied, in a faint voice; “his presence simply and solely. That is what has left me as you see me.”
“Well, Alice, it is very odd and very strange, and it seems as if there was some mystery in it. I will, however, talk to your father about it, and we will hear what he shall say. In the meantime, raise your spirits, and don't be so easily alarmed. You are naturally nervous and timid, and this is merely a poor, cowardly conceit that has got into your head; but your own good sense will soon show you the folly of yielding to a mere fancy. Amuse yourself on the spinet, and play some brisk music that will cheer your spirits; it is nothing but the spleen.”
Woodward, in the meantime, having effected his object, and satisfied himself of his power over Alice, pursued his way home in high spirits. To his utter astonishment, however, he found the family in an uproar, the cause of which we will explain. His mother, whose temper neither she herself nor any other human being, unless her husband, when provoked too far, could keep under anything like decent restraint, had got into a passion, while he, Woodward, was making his visit; and while in a blaze of resentment against the Goodwins she disclosed the secret of his rejection by Alice, and dwelt with bitter indignation upon the attachment she had avowed for Charles--a secret which Henry had most dishonorably intrusted to her, but which, as the reader sees, she had neither temper nor principle to keep.
On entering the house he found his; mother and step-father at high feud. The I brows of the latter were knit, as was always the case when he found himself bent upon mischief. He was calm, however, which was another bad sign, for in him the old adage was completely reversed, “After a storm comes a calm,” whilst in his case it uniformly preceded it.
Woodward looked about him with amazement; his step-father was standing with his back to the parlor fire, holding the skirts of his coat divided behind, whilst his wife stood opposite to him, her naturally red face still naming more deeply with a tornado of indignation.
“And you dare to tell me that you'll consent to Charles's marriage with her?”
“Yes, my dear, I dare to tell you so. You have no objection that she should marry your son Harry there. You forgot or dissembled your scorn and resentment against her, when you thought you could make a catch of her property: a very candid and disinterested proceeding on your part, Well, what's the consequence? That's all knocked up; the girl won't have him, because she is attached to his brother, and because his brother is attached to her. Now that is just as it ought to be, and, please God, we'll have them married. And I now I take the liberty of asking you both to the wedding.”
“Lindsay, you're an offensive old dog, sir.”
“I might retort the compliment by changing the sex, my dear,” he replied, laughing! and nodding at her, with a face, from the nose down, rather benevolent than otherwise, but still the knit was between the brows.
“Lindsay, you're an unmanly villain, and a coward to boot, or you wouldn't use such language to a woman.”
“Not to a woman; but I'm sometimes forced to do so to a termagant.”
“What's the cause of all this?” inquired Woodward; “upon my honor, the language I hear is very surprising, as coming from a justice of quorum and his lady. Fie! fie! I am ashamed of you both. In what did it originate?”
“Why, the fact is, Harry, she has told us that Alice Goodwin, in the most decided manner, has rejected your addresses, and confided to you an avowal of her attachment to Charles here. Now, when I heard this, I felt highly delighted at it, and said we should have them married, and so we shall. Then your mother, in flaming indignation at this, enacted Vesuvius in a blaze, and there she stands ready for another eruption.”
“I wish you were in the bottom of Vesuvius, Lindsay; but you shall not have your way, notwithstanding.”
“So I am, my dear, every day in my life. I have a little volcano of my own here, under the very roof with me; and I tell that volcano that I will have my own way in this matter, and that this marriage must take place if Alice is willing; and I'm sure she is, the dear girl.”
“Sir,” said Woodward, addressing his step-father calmly, “I feel a good deal surprised that a thinking man, of a naturalise late temper as you are,--” “Yes, Harry, I am so.”
“Of such a sedate temper as you are, should not recollect the possibility of my mother, who sometimes takes up impressions hastily, if not erroneously--as the calmest of us too frequently do--of my mother, I say, considerably mistaking and unconsciously misrepresenting the circumstances I mentioned to her.”
“But why did you mention them exclusively to her?” asked Charles; “I cannot see your object in concealing them from the rest of the family, especially from those who were most interested in the knowledge of them.”
“Simply because I had nothing actually decisive to mention. I principally confined myself to my own inferences, which unfortunately my mother, with her eager habit of snatching at conclusions, in this instance, mistook for facts. I shall satisfy you, Charles, of this, and of other matters besides; but we will require time.”
“I assure you, Harry, that if your mother does not keep her temper within some reasonable bounds, either she or I shall leave the house--and I am not likely to be the man to do so.”
“This house is mine, Lindsay, and the property is mine--both in my own right; and you and your family may leave it as soon as you like.”
“But you forget that I have property enough to support myself and them independently of you.”
“Wherever you go, my dear papa,” said Maria, bursting into tears, “I will accompany you. I admit it is a painful determination for a daughter to be forced to make against her own mother; but it is one I should have died sooner than come to if she had ever treated me as a daughter.”
Her good-natured and affectionate father took her in his arms and kissed her.
“My own darling Maria,” said he, “I could forgive your mother all her domestic violence and outrage had she acted with the affection of a mother towards you. She has a heart only for one individual, and that is her son Harry, there.”
“As for me,” said Charles, “wherever my father goes, I, too, my dear Maria, will accompany him.”
“You hear that, Harry,” said Mrs. Lindsay; “you see now they are in a league--in a conspiracy against your happiness and mine;--but think of their selfishness and cunning--it is the girl's property they want.”
“Perish the property,” exclaimed Charles indignantly. “I will now mention a fact which I have hitherto never breathed--Alice Goodwin and I were, I may say, betrothed before ever she dreamed of possessing it; and if I held back since that time, I did so from the principles of a man of honor, lest she might imagine that I renewed our intimacy, after the alienation of the families, from mercenary motives.”
“You're a fine fellow, Charley,” said his father; “you're a fine fellow, and you deserve her and her property, if it was ten times what it is.”
“Don't you be disheartened, Harry,” said his mother; “I have a better wife in my eye for you--a wife that will bring you connection, and that is Lord Bilberry's niece.”
“Yes,” said her husband, ironically, “a man with fifty thousand acres of mountain. Faith, Harry, you will be a happy man, and may feed on bilberries all your life; but upon little else, unless you can pick the spare bones of an old maid who has run herself into an asthma in the unsuccessful sport of husband-hunting.”
“She will inherit her uncle's property, Lindsay.”
“Yes, she will inherit the heather and the bilberries. But go in God's name; work out that project; there is nobody here disposed to hinder you. Only I hope you will ask us to the wedding.”
“Mother,” said Woodward, affectionately taking her hand and giving it a significant squeeze; “mother, you must excuse me for what I am about to say”--another squeeze, and a glance which was very well understood--“upon my honor, mother, I must give my verdict for the present”--another squeeze--“against you. You--must be kinder to Charles and Maria, and you must not treat my father with such disrespect and harshness. I wish to become a mediator and pacificator in the family. As for myself, I care not about property; I wish to marry the girl I love. I am not, I trust, a selfish man--God forbid I should; but for the present”--another squeeze--“let me entreat you all to forget this little breeze; urge nothing, precipitate nothing; a little time, perhaps, if we have patience to wait, may restore us all, and everything else we are quarrelling about, to peace and happiness. Charles, I wish to have some conversation with you.”
“Harry,” said Lindsay, “I am glad you have spoken as you did; your words do you credit, and your conduct is manly and honorable.”
“I do believe, indeed,” said his unsuspecting brother, “that the best thing we could all do would be to put ourselves under his guidance; as for my part I am perfectly willing to do so, Harry. After hearing the good sense you have just uttered, I think you are entitled to every confidence from us all.”
“You overrate my abilities, Charles; but not, I hope, the goodness of an affectionate heart that loves you all. Charles, come with me for a few minutes; and, mother, do you also expect a private lecture from me by and by.”
“Well,” said the mother, “I suppose I must. If I were only spoken to kindly I could feel as kindly; however, let there be an end to this quarrel as the boy says, and I, as well as Charles, shall be guided by his advice.”
“Now, Charles,” said he, when they had gone to another room, “you know what kind! of a woman my mother is; and the truth is, until matters get settled, we will have occasion for a good, deal of patience with her; let us, therefore, exercise it. Like most hot-tempered women, she has a bad memory, and wrests the purport of words too frequently to a wrong meaning. In the account she gave you of what occurred between Alice Goodwin and me, she entirely did.”
“But what did occur between Alice Goodwin and you, Harry?”
“A very few words will tell it. She admitted that there certainly has been an attachment between you and her, but--that--that--I will not exactly repeat her words, although I don't say they were meant offensively; but it amounted, to this, that she now filled a different position in the eyes of the world; that she would rather the matter were not renewed; that if her mind had changed, she had good reason for justifying the change; and when I, finding that I had no chance myself, began to plead for you, she hinted to me that, in consequence of the feud that had taken place between the families, and the slanders that my mother had cast upon her honor and principles, she was resolved to have no further connection whatsoever with any one of the blood; her affections were not now her own.”
“Alas, Harry!” said Charles, “how few can bear the effects of unexpected prosperity. When she and I were both comparatively poor, she was all affection; but now that she has become an heiress, see what a change there is! Well, Harry, if she can be faithless and selfish, I can be both resolute and proud. She shall have no further trouble from me on that subject; only I must say, I don't envy her her conscience.”
“Don't be rash, Charles---we should judge of her charitably and generously; I don't think myself she is so much to blame. O'Connor Fardour, or Farther, or whatever you call him--” “O, Ferdora!”
“Yes, Ferdora; that fellow is at the bottom of it all; he has plied her well during the estrangement, and to some purpose. I never visit them that I don't find him alone with her. He is, besides, both frank and handsome, with a good deal of dash and insinuation in his address and manner, and, besides, a good property, I am told. But, in the meantime, I have a favor to ask of you; that is, if you think you can place confidence in me.”
“Every confidence, my dear Harry,” said Charles, clasping his hand warmly; “every confidence. As I said before, you shall be my guide and adviser.”
“Thank you, Charles. I may make mistakes, but I shall do all for the best. Well, then, will you leave O'Connor to me? If you do, I shall not promise much, because I am not master of future events; but this is all I ask of you--yes, there is one thing more--to hold aloof from her and her family for a time.”
“After what you have told me, Harry, that is an unnecessary request now; but as for O'Connor, I think he ought to be left to myself.”
“And so he shall in due time; but I must place him in a proper position for you first--a thing which you could not do now, nor even attempt to do, without meanness. Are you, then, satisfied to leave this matter in my hands, and to remain quiet until I shall bid you act?”
“Perfectly, Harry, perfectly; I shall be guided by you in everything.”
“Well, now, Charley, we will have a double triumph soon, I hope. All is not lost that's in danger. The poor girl is surrounded by a clique. Priests have interfered. Her parents, you know, are Catholics; so, you know, is O'Connor. Poor Alice, you know, too, is anything but adamant. And now I will say no more; but in requital for what I have said, go and send our patient mild mamma, to me. I really must endeavor to try something with her, in order to save us all from this kind of life she is leading us.”
When his mother entered he assumed the superior and man of authority; his countenance exhibited something unpleasant, and in a decisive and rather authoritative tone he said,-- “Mother, will you be pleased to take a seat?”
“You are angry with me, Harry--I know you are; but I could not restrain my feelings, nor keep your secret, when I thought of their insolence in requiting you--you, to whom the property would and ought to have come--” “Pray, ma'am, take a seat.”
She sat down--anxious, but already subdued, as was evident by her manner.
“I,” proceeded her son, “to whom the property would and ought to have come--and I to whom it will come--” “But are you sure of that?”
“Not, I am afraid, while I have such a mother as you are--a woman in whom I can place no confidence with safety. Why did you betray me to this silly family?”
“Because, as I said before, I could not help it; my temper got the better of me.”
“Ay, and I fear it will always get the better of you. I could now give you very agreeable information as to that property and the piece of curds that possesses it; but then, as I said, there is no placing any confidence in a woman of your temper.”
“If the property is concerned, Harry, you may depend your life on me. So help me, God, if ever I will betray you again.”
“Well, that's a solemn asseveration, and I will depend on it; but if you betray me to this family the property is lost to us and our heirs forever.”
“Do not fear me; I have taken the oath.”
“Well, then, listen; if you could understand Latin, I would give you a quotation from a line of Virgil-- '_Haeret lateri lethhalis arundo_.'
The girl's doomed--subdued--overcome; I am in the process of killing her.”
“Of killing her! My God, how? not by violence, surely--that, you know, would not be safe.”
“I know that; no--not by violence, but by the power of this dark eye that you see in my head.”
“Heavenly Father! then you possess it?”
“I do; and if I were never to see her again I don't think she could recover; she will merely wither away very gently, and in due time will disappear without issue--and then, whose is the property?”
“As to that, you know there can be no doubt about it; there is the will--the stupid; will, by which she got it.”
“I shall see her again, however--nay, in spite of them I shall see her time after time, and shall give her the Evil Eye, until the; scene closes--until I attend her funeral.”
“My mind is somewhat at ease,” replied his mother; “because I was alarmed lest you should have had recourse to any process that might have brought you within the operation of the law.”
“Make your mind easy on that point, my dear mother. No law compels a man to close his eyes; a cat, you know, may look on a king; but of one thing you may be certain--she dies--the victim is mine.”
“One thing is certain,” replied his mother, “that if she and Charles should marry, you are ousted from the property.”
“Don't trouble yourself about such a contingency; I have taken steps which I think will prevent that. I speak in a double sense; but if I find, after all, that they are likely to fail, I shall take others still more decisive.”
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{
"id": "16004"
}
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13
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Woodward is Discarded from Mr. Goodwin's Family
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--Other Particulars of Importance.
The reader sees that Harry Woodward, having ascertained the mutual affection which subsisted between his brother and Alice, resorted to such measures as were likely to place obstructions in the way of their meeting, which neither of them was likely to remove. He felt, now, satisfied that Charles, in consequence of the malignant fabrications which he himself had palmed upon him for truth, would, most assuredly, make no further attempt to renew their former intimacy. When Alice, too, stated to him, that if she married not Charles, whether he proved worthy of her or otherwise, she would never marry another, he felt that she was unconsciously advancing the diabolical plans which he was projecting and attempting to carry into effect. If she died without marriage or without issue, the property, at her death, according to his uncle's will, reverted, as we have said, to himself. His object, therefore, was to expedite her demise with as little delay as possible, in order that he might become master of the patrimony. With this generous principle for his guide, he made it a point to visit the Goodwins, and to see Alice as often as was compatible with the ordinary usages of society. Had Caterine Collins not put the unsuspecting and timid girl on her guard against the influence of the Evil Eye, as possessed by Woodward, for whom she acted as agent in the business, that poor girl would not have felt anything like what this diabolical piece of information occasioned her to experience. From the moment she heard it her active imagination took the alarm. An unaccountable terror seized upon her; she felt as if some dark doom was impending over her. It was in a peculiar degree the age of superstition; and the terrible influence of the Evil Eye was one not only of the commonest, but the most formidable of them all. The dark, significant, but sinister gaze of Harry Woodward was, she thought, forever upon her. She could not withdraw her imagination from it. It haunted her; it was fixed upon her, accompanied by a dreadful smile of apparent courtesy, but of a malignity which she felt as if it penetrated her whole being, both corporeal and mental. She hurried to bed at night with a hope that sleep might exclude the frightful vision which followed her; but, alas! even sleep was no security to her against its terrors. It was now that in her distempered dreams imagination ran riot. She fled from him, or attempted to fly, but feared that she had not strength for the effort; he followed her, she thought, and when she covered her face with her hands in order to avoid the sight of him, she felt him seizing her by the wrists, and removing her arms in order that he might pour the malignant influence of that terrible eye into her very heart. From these scenes she generally awoke with a shriek, when her maid, Sarah Sullivan, who of late slept in the same room with her, was obliged to come to her assistance, and soothe and sustain her as well as she could. She then lay for hours in such a state of terror and agitation as cannot be described, until near morning, WHen she generally fell into something like sound sleep. In fact, her waking moments were easy when compared with the persecution which the spirit of that man inflicted on her during her broken and restless slumbers. The dreadful eye, as it rested upon her, seemed as if its powerful but killing expression proceeded from the heart and spirit of some demon who sought to wither her by slow degrees out of life; and she felt that he was succeeding in his murderous and merciless object. It is not to be wondered at, then, that she dreaded the state of sleep more than any other condition of existence in which she could find herself. As night, and the hour of retiring to what ought to have been a refreshing rest returned, her alarms also returned with tenfold terror; and such was her apprehension of those fiend-like and nocturnal visits, that she entreated Sarah Sullivan to sleep with and awaken her the moment she heard her groan or shriek. Our readers may perceive that the innocent girl's tenure of life could not be a long one under such strange and unexampled sufferings.
The state of her health now occasioned her parents to feel the most serious alarm. She herself disclosed to them the fearful intelligence which had been communicated to her in such a friendly spirit by Caterine Collins, to wit, that Harry Woodward possessed the terrible power of the Evil Eye, and that she felt he was attempting to kill her by it; adding, that from the state of her mind and health she feared he had succeeded, and that certainly, if he were permitted to continue his visits, she knew that she could not long survive.
“I remember well,” said her father, “that when he was a boy of about six or seven he was called, by way of nickname, _Harry na Suil Glair_; and, indeed, the common report always has been that his mother possesses the evil eye against cattle, when she wishes to injure any neighbor that doesn't treat her with what she thinks to be proper and becoming respect. If her son Harry has the accursed gift it comes from her blood; they say there is some old story connected with her family that accounts for it, but, as I never heard it, I don't know what it is.”
“I agree with you,” said his wife; “if he has it at all, he may thank her for it. There is, I fear, some bad principle in her; for surely the fierceness and overbearing spirit of her pride, and the malignant calumnies of her foul and scandalous tongue, can proceed from nothing that's good.”
“Well, Martha,” observed her husband, “if the devilish and unaccountable hatred which she bears her fellow-creatures is violent, she has the satisfaction of knowing--and well she knows it--that it is returned to her with compound interest; I question if the devil himself is detested with such a venomous feeling as she is. Her own husband and children cannot like a bone in her skin.”
“And yet,” replied Alice, “you would have made this woman my mother-in-law! Do you think it was from any regard to us that she came here to propose a marriage between her son and me? No, indeed, dear papa, it was for the purpose of securing the property, which her brother left me, for him who would otherwise have inherited it. And do you imagine for a moment that Harry Woodward himself ever felt one emotion of personal affection for me? If you do you are quite mistaken. I knew and felt all along--even while he was assuming the part of the lover--that he actually hated, not only me, but every one of the family. His object was the property, and so was that of his mother; but I absolve all the other members of the family from any knowledge of, or participation in, their schemes. As it is, if you wish to see yourselves childless you will allow his, visits, or, if not, you will never permit his presence under this roof again. I fear, however, that it is now too late--you see that I am already on the brink of the grave, in consequence of the evil influence which the dreadful villain has gained over me, and, indeed,” she added, bursting into tears, “I have, at this moment, no hopes of recovery. My strength, both bodily and mental, is gone--I am as weak as an infant, and I see nothing before me but an early grave. I have also other sorrows, but even to you I will not disclose them--perhaps on my bed of death I may.”
The last words were scarcely uttered when she fainted. Her parents were dreadfully alarmed--in a moment both were in tears, but they immediately summoned assistance. Sarah Sullivan made her appearance, attended by others of the servants; the usual remedies were applied, and in the course of about ten or twelve minutes she recovered, and was weeping in a paroxysm bordering on despair when Harry Woodward entered the room. This was too much for the unfortunate girl. It seemed like setting the seal of death to her fate. She caught a glimpse of him. There was the malignant, but derisive look--one which he meant to be courteous, but which the bitter feeling within him overshadowed with the gloomy triumph of an evil spirit. She placed her hands over her eyes, gave one loud shriek, and immediately fell into strong convulsions.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Woodward, “what is the matter with Miss Goodwin? I am sincerely sorry to see this. Is not her health good?”
“Pray, sir,” replied her father, “how did you come to obtrude yourself here at such a moment of domestic distress?”
“Why, my dear sir,” replied Woodward, “of course you must know that I was ignorant of all this. The hall-door was open, as it generally is, so was the door of this room, and I came in accordingly, as I have been in the habit of doing, to pay my respects to the family.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Goodwin, “the hall-door is generally open, but it shall not be so in future. Come out of the room, Mr. Woodward; your presence is not required here.”
“O, certainly,” replied Woodward, “I feel that; and I assure you I would not by any means have intruded had I known that Miss Goodwin was unwell.”
“She is unwell,” responded her father; “very unwell; unwell unto death, I fear. And now, Mr. Woodward,” he proceeded, when they had reached the hall, “I beg to state peremptorily and decidedly that all intimacy and intercourse between you and our family must cease from this hour. You visit here no more.”
“This is very strange language, Mr. Goodwin,” replied the other, “and I think, as between two gentlemen, I am entitled to an explanation. I received the permission of yourself, your lady, and your daughter to visit here. I am not conscious of having done anything unbecoming a gentleman, that could or ought to deprive me of a privilege which I looked upon as an honor.”
“Well, then,” replied her father, “look into your own conscience, and perhaps you will find the necessary explanation there. I am master of my own house and my own motions, and now I beg you instantly to withdraw, and to consider this your last visit here.”
“May I not be permitted to call to-morrow to inquire after Miss Goodwin's health?”
“Assuredly not.”
“Nor to send a messenger?”
“By no means; and now, sir, withdraw; I must go in to my daughter, till I see what can be done for her, or whether anything can or not.”
Harry Woodward looked upon him steadily for a time, and the old man felt as if his very strength was becoming relaxed; a sense of faintness and terror came over him, and, as Woodward took his departure in silence, the father of Alice began to abandon all hopes of her recovery. He himself felt the effects of the mysterious gaze which Woodward had fastened on him, and entered the room, conscious of the fatal power of the Evil Eye.
Fit after fit succeeded each other for the space of, at least, an hour and a half, after which they ceased, but left her in such a state of weakness and terror that she might be said, at that moment, to hover between life and death. She was carried in her distracted father's arms to bed, and after they had composed her as well as they could, her father said,-- “My darling child, you may now summon strength and courage; that man, that bad man, will never come under this roof again. I have finally settled the point, and you have nothing further now, nor anything worse, to dread from him. I have given the villain his _nunc dimittis_ once and forever, and you will never see him more.”
“But I fear, papa,” she replied, feebly, “that, as I said before, it is now too late. I feel that he has killed me. I know not how I will pass this night. I dread the hours of sleep above all conditions of my unhappy existence. O, no wonder that the entrance of that man-demon to our house should be heralded by the storms and hurricanes of heaven, and that the terrible fury of the elements, as indicative of the Almighty's anger, should mark his introduction to our family. Then the prodigy which took place when the bonfires were lighted to welcome his accursed return--the shower of blood! O, may God support me, and, above all things, banish him from my dreams! Still, I feel some relief by the knowledge that he is not to come here again. Yes, I feel that it relieves me; but, alas! I fear that even the consciousness of that cannot prevent the awful impression that I think I am near death.”
“No, darling,” replied her mother, “don't allow that thought to gain upon you. We'll get a fairy-man or a fairy-woman, because they know the best remedies against everything of that kind, when a common leech or chirurgeon can do nothing.”
“No,” replied her father, “I will allow nothing of the kind under this roof. It's not a safe thing to have dealings with such people. We know that the Church forbids it. Perhaps it's a witch we might stumble on; and would it not be a frightful thing to see one of those who are leagued with the devil bringing their unconsecrated breaths about us this week, as it were, and, perhaps, burned the next? No, we will have a regular physician, who has his own character, as such, to look to and support by his honesty and skill, but none of those withered classes of hell that are a curse to the country.”
“Very well,” replied Mrs. Goodwin, “have your own way in it. I dare say you are right.”
“O, don't bring any fairy-women or fairy-men about me,” said Alice. “The very sight of them would take away the little life I have left.”
In the meantime Harry Woodward, who had a variety of plans and projects to elaborate, found himself, as every villain of his kind generally does, encompassed by doubt and apprehension of their failure. The reader will understand the condition of his heart and feelings when he advances further in this narrative. Old Lindsay, who was of a manly and generous disposition, felt considerable surprise that all intimacy should have been discontinued between his son Charles and Alice Goodwin. As for the property which she now possessed, he never once thought of it in connection with their former affection for each other. He certainly appreciated the magnanimity and disinterestedness of his son in ceasing to urge his claims after she had become possessed of such a fortune; and it struck him that something must have been wrong, or some evil agency at work, which prevented the Goodwins from reestablishing their former intimacy with Charles whilst they seemed to court that of his brother. Here was something strange, and he could not understand it. One. morning, when they were all seated at breakfast, he spoke as follows:-- “I can't,” he said, “comprehend the conduct of the Goodwins. Their daughter, if we are to judge from appearances, has discarded her accepted lover, poor Charles, here. Now, this doesn't look well. There seems to be something capricious, perhaps selfish, in it. Still, knowing the goodness of their hearts, as I do, I cannot but feel that there is something like a mystery in it. I had set my heart upon a marriage between Charles and Alice before ever she came into the property bequeathed to her. In this I was not selfish certainly. I looked only to their happiness. Yes, and my mind is still set upon this marriage, and it shall go hard with me or I will accomplish it.”
“Father,” said Charles, “if you regard or respect me, I entreat of you to abandon any such project. Ferdora O'Connor is now the favorite there. He is rich and I am poor; no, the only favor I ask is that you will never more allude to the subject in my hearing.”
“But I will allude to it, and I will demand an explanation besides,” replied Lindsay.
“Father,” observed Harry, “I trust that no member of this family is capable of an act of unparalleled meanness. I, myself, pleaded my brother's cause with that heartless and deceitful girl in language which could not be mistaken. And what was the consequence? Because I ventured to do so I have been forbidden to visit there again. They told me, without either preface or apology, that they will have no further intercourse with our family. Ferdora O'Connor is the chosen man.”
“It is false,” said his sister, her eyes sparkling with indignation as she spoke; “it is abominably false; and, father, you are right; seek an explanation from the Goodwins. I feel certain that there are evil spirits at work.”
“I shall, my dear girl,” replied her father; “it is only an act of justice to them. And if the matter be at all practicable, I shall have Charles and her married still.”
“Why not think of Harry?” said his wife; “as the person originally destined to receive the property, he has the strongest claim.”
“You are talking now in the selfish and accursed principles of the world,” replied Lindsay. “Charles has the claim of her early affection, and I shall urge it.”
“Very well,” said his wife; “if you succeed in bringing about a marriage between her and Charles, I will punish both you and him severely.”
“As how, madam?” asked her husband.
“Are you aware of one fact, Lindsay?”
“I am aware of one melancholy fact,” he replied, sarcastically.
“And, pray, what is it?” she inquired.
“Faith,” he replied, “that I am your husband.”
“O, yes--just so--that is the way I am treated, children; you see it and you hear it. But, now, listen to me; you know, Lindsay, that the property I brought you, as your unfortunate wife, was property in my own right; you know, too, that by our marriage settlement that property was settled on me, with the right of devising it to any of my children whom I may select for that purpose. Now, I tell you, that if you press this marriage between Charles and Alice Goodwin, I shall take this property into my own hands, shall make my will in favor of Harry, and you and your children may seek a shelter where you can find one.”
“Me and my children! Why, I believe you think you have no children but Harry here. Well, you may do as you like with your property; I am not so poor but I and my children can live upon my own. This house and place, I grant you, are yours, and, as for myself, I am willing to leave it to-day; a life of exclusion and solitude will be better than that which I lead with you.”
“Papa,” said Maria, throwing her arms about his neck and bursting into tears, “when you go I shall go; and wherever you may go to, I shall accompany you.”
“Father,” said Charles, in a choking voice, and grasping his hand as he spoke, “if you leave this house you shall not go alone. Neither I nor Maria shall separate ourselves from you. We will have enough to live on with comfort and decency.”
“Mother,” said Harry, rising up and approaching her with a face of significant severity; “mother, you have forced me to say--and heaven knows the pain with which I say it--that I am ashamed of you. Why will you use language that is calculated to alienate from me the affections of a brother and sister whom I love with so much tenderness? I trust you understand me when I tell you now that I identify myself with their feelings and objects, and that no sordid expectation of your property shall ever induce me to take up your quarrel or separate myself from them. Dispose of your property as you wish; I for one shall not earn it by sacrificing the best affections of the heart, nor by becoming a slave to such a violent and indefensible temper as yours. As for me, I shall not stand in need of your property--I will have enough of my own.”
They looked closely at each other; but that look was sufficient. The cunning mother thoroughly understood the freemason glance of his eye, and exclaimed,-- “Well, I see I am abandoned by all my children; but I will endeavor to bear it. I now leave you to yourselves--to meditate and put in practice whatever plot you please against my happiness. Indeed, I know what a consolation my death would be to you all.”
She then withdrew, in accordance with the significant look which Harry gave towards the door.
“Harry,” said Lindsay, holding out his hand, “you are not the son of my blood, but I declare to heaven I love you as well as if you were. Your conduct is noble and generous; ay, and as a natural consequence, disinterested; there is no base and selfish principle in you, my dear boy; and I honor and love you as if I were your father in reality.”
“Harry,” said Maria, kissing him, “I repeat and feel all that dear papa has said.”
“And so do I,” exclaimed Charles, “and if I ever entertained any other feeling, I fling it to the winds.”
“You all overrate me,” said Harry; “but, perhaps, if you were aware of my private remonstrances with my mother upon her unfortunate principles and temper, you would give me more credit even than you do. My object is to produce peace and harmony between you, and if I can succeed in that I shall feel satisfied, let my mother's property go where it may. Of course, you must now be aware that I separate myself from her and her projects, and identify myself, as I said, with you all. Still, there is one request I have to make of you, father, my dear father, for well I may call you so; and it is that you will not, as an independent man and a gentleman, attempt to urge this marriage, on which you seem to have set your heart, between Charles and Goodwin's daughter. You are not aware of what I know upon this subject. She and Ferdora O'Connor are about to be married; but I will not mention what I could mention until after that ceremony shall have taken place.”
“Well,” said his sister, “you appear to speak very sincerely, Harry, but I know and feel that there is some mistake somewhere.”
“Harry,” said Lindsay, “from what has occurred this morning, I shall be guided by you. I will not press this marriage, neither shall I stoop to seek an explanation.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Harry. “I advise you as I do because I would not wish to see our whole family insulted in your person.”
Maria and her brother Charles looked at each other, and seemed to labor under a strange and somewhat mysterious feeling. The confidence, however, with which Harry spoke evidently depressed them, and, as they entertained not the slightest suspicion of his treachery, they left the apartment each with a heavy heart.
Harry, from this time forward, associated more with his brother than he had done, and seemed to take him more into his confidence. He asked him out in all his sporting expeditions; and proposed that they should each procure a shooting dress of the same color and materials, which was accordingly done; and so strongly did they resemble each other, when dressed in them, that in an uncertain light, or at a distance, it was nearly impossible to distinguish the one from the other. In fact, the brothers were now inseparable, Harry's object being to keep Charles as much under his eye and control as possible, from an apprehension that, on cool reflection, he might take it into his head to satisfy himself by a personal interview with Alice Goodwin as to the incomprehensible change which had estranged her affection from him.
Still, although the affection of those brothers seemed to increase, the conduct of Harry was full of mystery. That the confidence he placed in Charles was slight and partial admitted of no doubt. He was in the habit, for instance, of going out after the family had gone to bed, as we have mentioned before; and it was past all doubt that he had been frequently seen accompanied, in his midnight rambles, by what was known in the neighborhood as the Black Spectre, or, by the common people, as the _Shan-dhinne-dhue_, or the dark old man. These facts invested his character, which, in spite of all his plausibility of manner, was unpopular, with something of great dread, as involving on his part some unholy association with the evil and supernatural. This was peculiarly the age of superstition and of a belief in the connection of both men and women with diabolical agencies; for such was the creed of the day.
One evening, about this time, Caterine Collins was on her way home to Rathfillan, I when, on crossing a piece of bleak moor adjacent to the town, a powerful young fellow, dressed in the truis, cloak, and barrad of the period, started up from a clump of furze bushes, and addressed her as follows:-- “Caterine,” said he, “are you in a hurry?”
“Not particularly,” she replied; “but in God's name, Shawn, what brings you here? Are you mad? or what tempts you to come within the jaws of the law that are gaping for you as their appointed victim? Don't you know you are an outlaw?”
“I will answer your first question first,” he replied. “What tempted me to come here? Vengeance--deep and deadly vengeance. Vengeance upon the villain who has ruined Grace Davoren. I had intended to take her life first; but I am an Irishman, and will not visit upon the head of the innocent girl, whom this incarnate devil has tempted beyond her strength, the crime for which he is accountable.”
“Well, indeed, Shawn, it would be only serving him right; but, in the meantime, you had better be on your guard; it is said that he fears neither God nor devil, and always goes well armed; so be cautious, and if you take him at all, it must be by treachery.”
“No,” said the outlaw, indignantly, “I'll never take him or any man by treachery. I know I am an outlaw; but it was the merciless laws of the country, and their injustice to me and mine, that made me so; I resisted them openly and like a man; but, bad as I am supposed to be, I will never stain either my name or my conscience by an act of cowardly treachery. I will meet this dark villain face to face, and take my revenge as a brave man ought. You say he goes well armed, and that is a proof that he feels his own guilt; yes, he goes well armed, you say; so do I, and it will not be the treacherous murderer that he will meet, but the open foe.”
“Well,” replied Caterine, “that is just like you, Shawn; and it is no wonder that the women were fond of you.”
“Yes,” said he, “but the girl that was dearer to me a thousand times than my own life has proved faithless, because there is a stain upon my name--a stain, but no crime, Caterine; a stain made by the law, but no crime. Had her heart been loyal and true, she would have loved me ten times more in consequence of my very disgrace--if disgrace I ought to call it; but instead of that--but wait--O, the villain! Well, I shall meet him, I trust, before long, and then, Caterine, ah, then!”
“Well, Shawn, if she has desalted you, I know one that loves you better than ever she did, and that would never desart you, as Grace Davoren has done.”
“Ah, Caterine,” replied the outlaw, sorrowfully, “I am past that now; my heart is broke--I could never love another. What proof of truth or affection could any other woman give me after the treachery of her who once said she loved me so well? She said, indeed, some time ago, that it was her father forced her to do it, but that was after she had seen him, for well I know she often told me a different story before the night of the bonfire and the shower of blood. Well, Caterine, that shower of blood was not sent for nothing. It came as the prophecy of his fate, which, if I have life, will be a bloody one.”
“Shawn,” replied Caterine, as if she had not paid much attention to his words, “Shawn, dear Shawn, there is one woman who would give her life for your love.”
“Ah,” said Shawn, “it's aisily said, at all events--aisily said; but who is it Caterine?”
“She is now speaking to you,” she returned. “Shawn, you cannot but know that I have long loved you; and I now tell you that I love you still--ay, and a thousand times more than ever Grace Davoren did.”
“You!” said Shawn, recoiling with indignation; “is it you, a spy, a fortune-teller, a go-between, and, if all be true, a witch; you, whose life and character would make a modest woman blush to hear them mentioned? Why, the curse of heaven upon you! how dare you think of proposing such a subject to me? Do you think because I'm marked by the laws that my heart has lost anything of its honesty and manhood? Begone, you hardened and unholy vagabond, and leave my sight.”
“Is that your language, Shawn?”
“It is; and what other language could any man with but a single spark of honesty and respect for himself use toward you? Begone, I say.”
“Yes, I will begone; but perhaps you may live to rue your words: that is all.”
“And, perhaps, so may you,” he replied. “Leave my sight. You are a disgrace to the name of woman.”
She turned upon her heel, and on the instant bent her steps towards Rathfillan House.
“Shawn-na-Middogue,” she said as she went along, “you talk about revenge, but wait till you know what the revenge of an insulted woman is. It is not an aisy thing to know your haunts; but I'll set them upon your trail that will find you out if you were to hide yourself in the bowels of the earth, for the words you used to me this night. _Dar manim_, I will never rest either night or day until I see you swing from a gibbet.”
Instead of proceeding to the little town of Rathfillan, she changed her mind and turned her steps to Rathfillan House, the residence, as our readers are aware, of the generous and kind-hearted Mr. Lindsay.
On arriving there she met our old acquaintance, Barney Casey, on the way from the kitchen to the stable. Observing that she was approaching the hall-door with the evident purpose of knocking, and feeling satisfied that her business could be with none of the family except Harry, he resolved to have some conversation with her, in order, if possible, to get a glimpse of its purport. Not, indeed, that he entertained any expectation of such a result, because he knew the craft and secrecy of the woman he had to deal with; but, at all events, he thought that he might still glean something significant even by her equivocations, if not by her very silence. He accordingly turned, over and met her.
“Well, Caterine, won't this be a fine night when the moon and stars comes out to show you the road home again afther you manage the affair you're bent on?”
“Why, what am I bent on?” she replied, sharply.
“Why, to build a church to-night, wid the assistance of Mr. Harry Woodward.”
“Talk with respect of your masther's stepson,” she replied, indignantly.
“And my sweet misthress's son,” returned Barney, significantly. “Why, Caterine, I hope you won't lift me till I fall. What did I say disrespectful of him? Faith, I only know that the wondher is how such a devil's scald could have so good and kind-hearted a son,” he added, disentangling himself from her suspicions, knowing perfectly well, as he did, that any unfavorable expression he might utter against that vindictive gentleman would most assuredly be communicated to him with comments much stronger than the text. This would only throw him out of Harry's confidence, and deprive him of those opportunities of probably learning, from their casual conversation, some tendency of his mysterious movements, especially at night; for that he was enveloped in mystery--was a fact of which he felt no doubt whatsoever. He accordingly resolved to cancel the consequences even of the equivocal allusion to him which he had made, and which he saw at a glance that Caterine's keen suspicions had interpreted into a bad sense.
“So you see, Katty,” he proceeded, “agra-machree that you wor, don't lift me, as I said, till I fall; but what harm is it to be fond of a spree wid a purty girl? Sure it's a good man's case; but I'll tell you more; you must know the misthress's wig took fire this mornin', and she was within an inch of havin' the house in flames. Ah, it's she that blew a regular breeze, threatened to make the masther and the other two take to their travels from about the house and place, and settle the same house and place upon Mr. Harry.”
“Well, Barney,” said Caterine, deeply interested, “what was the upshot?”
“Why, that Masther Harry--long life to him--parted company wid her on the spot; said he would take part wid the masther and the other two, and tould her to her teeth that he did not care a damn about the property, and that she might leave it as a legacy to ould Nick, who, he said, desarved it better at her hands than he did.”
“Well, well,” replied Caterine, “I never thought he was such a fool as all that comes to. Devil's cure to him, if she laves it to some one else! that's my compassion for him.”
“Well, but, Caterine, what's the news? When will the sky fall, you that knows so much about futurity?”
“The news is anything but good, Barney. The sky will fall some Sunday in the middle of next week, and then for the lark-catching. But tell me, Barney, is Mr. Harry within? because, if he is, I'd thank you to let him know that I wish to see him. I have a bit of favor to ask of him about my uncle Solomon's cabin; the masther's threatnin' to pull it down.”
Now, Barney knew the assertion to be a lie, because it was only a day or two previous to the conversation that he had heard Mr. Lindsay express his intention of building the old herbalist a new one. He kept his knowledge of this to himself, however.
“And so you want him to change the masther's mind upon the subject. Faith and you're just in luck after this mornin's skirmish--skirmish! no bedad, but a field day itself; the masther could refuse him nothing. Will I say what you want him for?”
“You may or you may not; but, on second thoughts, I think it will be enough to say simply that I wish to spake to him particularly.”
“Very well, Caterine,” replied Barney, “I'll tell him so.”
In a few minutes Harry joined her on the lawn, where she awaited him, and the following dialogue took place between them: “Well, Caterine, Casey tells me that you have something particular to say to me.”
“And very particular indeed, it is, Mr. Harry.”
“Well, then, the sooner we have it the better; pray, what is it?”
“I'm afeard, Mr. Woodward, that unless you have some good body's blessin' about you, your life isn't worth a week's purchase.”
“Some good body's blessing!” he replied ironically; “well, never mind that, but let me know the danger, if danger there be; at all events, I am well prepared for it.”
“The danger then is this--and terrible it is--that born devil, Shawn-na-Middogue, has got hold of what's goin' on between you and Grace Davoren.”
“Between me and Grace Davoren!” he exclaimed, in a voice of well-feigned astonishment. “You mean my brother Charles. Why, Caterine, that soft-hearted and softheaded idiot, for I can call him nothing else, has made himself a perfect fool about her, and what is worst of all, I am afraid he will break his engagement with Miss Goodwin, and marry this wench. Me! why, except that he sent me once or twice to meet her, and apologize for his not being able to keep his appointment with her, I know nothing whatsoever of the unfortunate girl, unless that, like a fool, as she is, it seems to me that she is as fond of him as he, the fool, on the other hand, is of her. As for my part, I shall deliver his messages to her no more--and, indeed, it was wrong of me ever to do so.”
The moon had now risen, and Caterine, on looking keenly and incredulously into his face, read nothing there but an expression of apparent sincerity and sorrow for the indiscretion and folly of his brother.
“Well,” she proceeded, “in spite of all you tell me I say that it does not make your danger the less. It is not your brother but yourself that he suspects, and whether right or wrong, it is upon you that his vengeance will fall.”
“Well, but, Caterine,” he replied, “could you not see Shawn-na-Middogue, and remedy that?”
“How, sir?” she replied.
“Why, by telling him the truth,” said the far-sighted villain, “that it is my brother, and not I, that was the intriguer with her.”
“Is that generous towards your brother, Mr. Woodward? No, sir; sooner than bring the vengeance of such a person as Shawn upon him, I would have the tongue cut out of my mouth, or the right arm off my body.”
“And I, Caterine,” he answered, retrieving himself an well as he could; “yes, I deserve to have my tongue cut out, and my right arm chopped off, for what I have said. O, no; if there be danger let me run the risk, and not poor, good, kind-hearted Charles, who is certainly infatuated by this girl. He is to meet her to-morrow night at nine o'clock, in the little clump of alders below the well, but I shall go in his place--that is, if I can prevail upon him to allow me--and endeavor once for all to put an end to this business: mark that I said, if he will allow me, although I scarcely think he will. Now, good-night, and many thanks for your good wishes towards myself and him. Accept of this, and good-night again.” As he spoke he placed some money in her unreluctant hand, and returned on his way home.
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{
"id": "16004"
}
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14
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Shawn-na-Middogue Stabs Charles Lindsay
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Shawn-na-Middogue Stabs Charles Lindsay in Mistake for his Brother Shawn-na-Middogue, though uneducated, was a young man of no common intellect. That he had been selected to head the outlaws, or rapparees, of that day, was a sufficient proof of this. After parting from Caterine Collins, on whom the severity of his language fell with such bitterness, he began to reflect that he had acted with great indiscretion, to say the least of it. He knew that if there was a woman in the barony who, if she determined on it, could trace him to his most secret haunts, she was that woman. He saw, too, that after she had left him, evidently in deep indignation, she turned her steps towards Rathfillan House, most probably with an intention of communicating to Harry Woodward the strong determinations of vengeance which he had expressed against him. Here, then, by want of temper and common policy, had he created two formidable enemies against himself. This, he felt, was an oversight for which he could scarcely forgive himself. He resolved, if possible, to repair the error he had committed, and, with this object in view, he hung about the place until her return should afford him an opportunity of making such an explanation as might soothe her into good humor and a more friendly feeling towards him. Nay, he even determined to promise her marriage, in order to disarm her resentment and avert the danger which, he knew, was to be apprehended from it. He accordingly stationed himself in the shelter of a ditch, along which he knew she must pass on her way home. He had not long, however, to wait. In the course of half an hour he saw her approach, and as she was passing him he said in a low, confidential voice,-- “Caterine!”
“Who is that?” she asked, but without exhibiting any symptoms of alarm.
“It's me,” he replied, “Shawn.”
“Well,” she replied, “and what is that to me whether it's you or not?”
“I have thought over our discourse a while ago, and I'm sorry for what I've said;--will you let me see you a part of the way home?”
“I can't prevent you from comin',” she replied, “if you're disposed to come--the way is as free to you as to me.”
They then proceeded together, and our readers must gather from the incidents which are to follow what the result was of Shawn's policy in his conversation with her on the way. It is enough to say that they parted on the best and most affectionate terms, and that a certain smack, very delicious to the lips of Caterine, was heard before Shawn bade her good-night.
Barney Casey, who suspected there was something in the wind, in consequence of the secret interview which took place between Caterine Collins and Harry, conscious as he felt that it was for no good purpose, watched that worthy gentleman's face with keen but quiet observation, in the hope of being able to draw some inference from its expression. This, however, was a vain task. The face was impassable, inscrutable; no symptom of agitation, alarm, or concealed satisfaction could be read in it, or anything else, in short, but the ordinary expression of the most perfect indifference. Barney knew his man, however, and felt aware, from former observations, of the power which Woodward possessed of disguising his face whenever he wished, even under the influence of the strongest emotions. Accordingly, notwithstanding all this indifference of manner, he felt that it was for no common purpose Caterine Collins sought an interview with him, and with this impression on his mind he resolved to watch his motions closely.
The next day Harry and Charles went out to course, accompanied by Barney himself, who, by the way, observed that the former made a point to bring a case of pistols and a dagger with him, which he concealed so as that they might not be seen. This discovery was the result of Barney's vigilance and suspicions, for when Harry was prepared to follow his brother, who went to put the dogs in leash, he said: “Barney, go and assist Mr. Charles, and I will join you both on the lawn.”
Barney accordingly left the room and closed the door after him; but instead of proceeding, as directed, to join Charles, he deliberately put his eye to the key-hole, and saw Harry secrete the pistols and dagger about his person. Each, also, brought his gun at the suggestion of Harry, who said, that although they went out merely to course, yet it was not improbable that they might get a random shot at the grouse or partridge as they went along. Upon all these matters Barney made his comments, although he said nothing upon the subject even to Charles, from whom he scarcely ever concealed a secret. That Harry was brave and intrepid even to rashness he knew; but why he should arm himself with such secrecy and caution occasioned him much conjecture. His intrigue with Grace Davoren was beginning to be suspected. _Shawn-na-Middoque_ might have heard of it. Caterine Collins was one of Woodward's agents--at least it was supposed from their frequent interviews that she was, to a certain degree, in his confidence; might not her request, then, to see him on the preceding night proceed from an anxiety, on her part, to warn him against some danger to be apprehended from that fearful freebooter? This was well and correctly reasoned on the part of Barney, and, with those impressions fixed upon his mind, he accompanied the two brothers on the sporting expedition of the day.
We shall not dwell upon their success, which was even better than they had expected. Nothing, however, occurred to render either pistols or dagger necessary; but Barney observed that, on their return home, Harry made it a point to come by the well where he and Grace Davoren were in the habit of meeting, and, having taken his brother aside, he pointed to the little dark clump of alders, which skirted a small grove, and, having whispered something to him which he could not hear, they passed on by the old, broken boreen, which we have described, and reached home loaded with game, but without any particular adventure. Barney's vigilance, however, was still awake, and he made up his mind to ascertain, if possible, why Harry had armed himself, for as yet he had nothing but suspicion on which to rest. He knew that whenever he went out at night or in the evening he always went armed; and this was only natural, for the country was in a dangerous and disturbed state, owing, as the report went, to the outrages against property which were said to have been committed by Shawn-na-Middogue and his rapparees. During his sporting excursions in the open day, however, he never knew him to go armed in this manner before, because, on such occasions he had always seen his pistols and dagger hanging against the wall, where he usually kept them. On this occasion, however, Woodward went like a man who felt apprehensive of some premeditated violence on the part of an enemy. Judging, therefore, from what he had seen, as well as from what he conjectured, Barney, as we said, resolved to watch him closely.
In the meantime, the state of poor Alice Goodwin's health was deplorable. The dreadful image of Harry Woodward, or, rather, the frightful power of his Satanic spirit, fastened upon her morbid and diseased imagination with such force, that no effort of her reason could shake it off. That dreadful eye was perpetually upon her and before her, both asleep and awake, and, lest she might have any one point on which to rest for comfort, the idea of Charles Lindsay attachment to Grace Davoren would come over her, only to supersede one misery by introducing another. In this wretched state she was when the calamitous circumstances, which we are about to relate, took place.
Barney Casey was a good deal engaged that evening, for indeed he was a general servant in his master's family, and was expected to put a hand to, and superintend, everything. He was, therefore, out of the way for a time, having gone to Rathfillan on a message for his mistress, whom he cursed in his heart for having sent him. He lost little time, however, in discharging it, and was just on his return when he saw Harry Woodward entering the old boreen we have described; and, as the night was rather dark, he resolved to ascertain--although he truly suspected--the object of this nocturnal adventure. He accordingly dogged him at a safe distance, and, in accordance with his suspicions, he found that Woodward directed his steps to the clump of alders which he had, on their return that day, pointed out to his brother. Here he (Barney) ensconced himself in a close thicket, in order to watch the event. Woodward had not been many minutes there when Grace Davoren joined him. She seemed startled, and surprised, and disappointed, as Casey could perceive by her manner, or rather by the tones of her voice; but, whatever the cause of her disappointment may have been, there was little time left for either remonstrances or explanation on the part of her lover. Whilst addressing her, a young and powerful man bounded forward, and, brandishing a long dagger--the dreaded middogue--plunged it into his body, and her companion fell with a groan. The act was rapid as lightning, and the moment the work of blood and vengeance had been accomplished, the young fellow bounded away again with the same speed observable in the rapidity of his approach. Grace's screams and shrieks were loud and fearful.
“Murdherin' villain of hell,” she shouted after Shawn--for it was he--“you have killed the wrong man--you have murdered the innocent This is his brother.”
Barney was at her side in a moment.
“Heavenly Father!” he exclaimed, shocked and astounded by her words, “what means this? Is it Mr. Charles?”
“O, yes,” she replied, not conscious that in the alarm and terror of the moment she had betrayed herself, or rather her paramour--“innocent Mr. Charles I'm afeard is murdhered by that revengeful villain; and now, Barney, what is to be done, and how will we get assistance to bring him home? But, cheerna above! what will become of me!”
“Mr. Charles,” said Barney, “is it possible that it is you that is here?”
“I am here, Barney,” he replied, with difficulty, “and, I fear, mortally wounded.”
“God forbid!” replied his humble but faithful friend--“I hope it is not so bad as you think.”
“Take this handkerchief,” said Charles, “tie it about my breast, and try and stop the blood. I feel myself getting weak.”
This Barney proceeded to do, in which operation we shall leave him, assisted by the unfortunate girl who was indirectly the means of bringing this dreadful calamity upon him.
Shaivn-na-Middogue. was not out of the reach of hearing when Grace shouted after him, having paused to ascertain, if possible, whether he had done his work effectually. That Harry Woodward was Grace's paramour, he knew; and that Charles was innocent of that guilt, he also knew. All that Caterine Collins had told him on the preceding night went for nothing, because he felt that Woodward had coined those falsehoods with a view to screen himself from his (Shawn's) vengeance. But in the meantime Grace's words, uttered in the extremity of her terror, assured him that there had been some mistake, and that one brother might have come to explain and apologize for the absence of the other. He consequently crept back within hearing of their conversation, and ascertained with regret the mistake he had committed. Shawn, at night, seldom went unattended by several of his gang, and on this occasion he was accompanied by about a dozen of them. His murderous mistake occasioned him to feel deep sorrow, for he was perfectly well acquainted with the amiable and generous character which Charles bore amongst his father's tenantry. His life had been, not only inoffensive, but benevolent; whilst that of his brother--short as was the time since his return to Rathfillan House--was marked by a very licentious profligacy,--a profligacy which he attempted in vain to conceal. Whilst Grace Davoren and Casey were attempting to staunch the blood which issued from the wound, four men, despatched by Shawn for the purpose, came, as if alarmed by Grace's shrieks, to the scene of the tragedy, and, after having inquired as to the cause of its occurrence, precisely as if they had been ignorant of it, they proposed that the only thing to be done, so as to give him a chance for life, was to carry him home without a moment's delay. He was accordingly raised upon their shoulders, and, with more sympathy than could be expected from such men, was borne to his father's house in apparently a dying state.
It is unnecessary to attempt any description of the alarm which his appearance there created. His father and Maria were distracted; even his mother manifested tokens of unusual sorrow, for after all she was his mother; and nothing, indeed, could surpass the sorrow of the whole family. The servants were all in tears, and nothing but sobs and wailings could be heard throughout the house. Harry Woodward himself put his handkerchief to his eyes, and seemed to feel a deep but subdued sorrow. Medical aid was immediately sent for, but such was his precarious condition that no opinion could be formed as to his ultimate recover+y.
The next morning the town of Rathfillan, and indeed the parish at large, were in a state of agitation, and tumult, and sorrow, as soon as the melancholy catastrophe had become known. The neighbors and tenants flocked in multitudes to learn the particulars, and ascertain his state. About eleven o'clock Harry mounted his horse, and, in defiance of the interdict that had been laid upon him, proceeded at a rapid pace to Mr. Goodwin's house, in order to disclose--with what object the reader may conjecture--the melancholy event which had happened. He found Goodwin, his wife, and Sarah Sullivan in the parlor, which he had scarcely entered when Mr. Goodwin got up, and, approaching him in a state of great alarm and excitement, exclaimed,-- “Good Heavens, Mr. Woodward! can this dreadful intelligence which we have heard be true?”
“O, you have heard it, then,” replied Woodward. “Alas! yes, it is too true, and my unfortunate brother lies with life barely in him, but without the slightest hope of recovery. As for myself I am in a state of absolute distraction; and were it not that I possess the consciousness of having done everything in my power as a friend and brother to withdraw him from this unfortunate intrigue, I think I should become fairly crazed. Miss Goodwin has for some time past been aware of my deep anxiety upon this very subject, because I deemed it a solemn duty on my part to let her know that ha had degraded himself by this low attachment to such a girl, and was consequently utterly unworthy of her affection. I could not see the innocence and purity imposed upon, nor her generous confidence placed on an unworthy object. This, however, is not a time to deal harshly by him. He will not be long with us, and is entitled to nothing but our forbearance and sympathy. Poor fellow! he has paid a heavy and a fatal penalty for his crime. Alas, my brother! cut down in the very prime of life, when there was still time enough for reformation and repentance! O, it is too much!”
He turned towards the window, and, putting his handkerchief to his eyes, did the pathetic with a very good grace.
“But,” said Mrs. Goodwin, “what were the exact circumstances under which the deplorable act of vengeance was committed?”
“Alas! the usual thing, Mrs. Goodwin,” replied Harry, attempting to clear his throat; “they met last night between nine and ten o'clock, in a clump of alders, near the well from which the inhabitants of the adjoining hamlet fetch their water. The outlaw, Shawn-na-Middogue, a rejected lover of the girl's, stung with jealousy and vengeance, surprised them, and stabbed my unfortunate brother, I fear, to death.”
“And do you think there is no hope?” she added, with tears in her eyes; “O, if he had only time for repentance!”
“Alas! madam, the medical man who has seen him scarcely holds out any hope; but, as you say, if he had time even to repent, there would be much consolation in that.”
“Well,” observed Goodwin, his eyes moist with tears, “after this day, I shall never place confidence in man. I did imagine that if ever there was an individual whose heart was the source of honor, truth, generosity, disinterestedness, and affection, your brother Charles was that man. I am confounded, amazed--and the whole thing appears to me like a dream; at all events, thank God, our daughter has had a narrow escape of him.”
“Pray, by the way, how is Miss Goodwin?” asked. Harry; “I hope she is recovering.”
“So far from that,” replied her father, “she is sinking fast; in truth we entertain but little hopes of her.”
“On the occasion of my last visit here you forbade me your house, Mr. Goodwin,” said Woodward; “but perhaps, now that you are aware of the steps I have taken to detach your daughter's affections from an individual whom I knew at the time to be unworthy of them, you may be prevailed on to rescind that stern and painful decree.”
Goodwin, who was kind-hearted and placable, seemed rather perplexed, and looked towards his wife, as if to be guided by her decision.
“Well, indeed,” she replied, “I don't exactly know; perhaps we will think of it.”
“No,” replied Sarah Sullivan, who was toasting a thin slice of bread for Alice's breakfast. “No; if you allow this man to come about the place, as God is to judge me, you will both have a hand in your daughter's death. If the devils from hell were to visit here, she might bear it; but at the present moment one look from that man would kill her.”
This remonstrance decided them.
“No, Mr. Woodward,” said Goodwin, “the truth is, my daughter entertains a strong prejudice against you--in fact, a terror of you--and under these circumstances, and considering, besides, her state of health, we could not think of permitting your visits, at least,” he added, “until that prejudice be removed and her health restored--if it ever shall be. We owe you no ill-will, sir; but under the circumstances we cannot, for the present, at least, allow you to visit us.”
“Well,” replied Woodward, “perhaps--and I sincerely trust--her health will be restored, and her prejudices against me removed, and when better times come about I shall look with anxiety to the privilege of renewing my intimacy with you all.”
“Perhaps so,” returned Mr. Goodwin, “and then we shall receive your visits with pleasure.”
Woodward then shook hands with him and his wife, and wished them a good morning.
On his way home worthy Suil Balor began to entertain reflections upon his prospects in life that he felt to be rather agreeable. Here was his brother, whom he had kindly sent to apologize to Grace Davoren for the impossibility from illness of his meeting her according to their previous arrangement; yes, we say he feigned illness on that evening, and prevailed on the unsuspecting young man to go in his stead, in order, as he said, to give her the necessary explanations for his absence. Charles undertook this mission the more willingly, as it was his firm intention to remonstrate with the girl on the impropriety of her conduct, in continuing a secret and guilty intrigue, which must end only in her own shame and ruin. But when Harry deputed him upon such a message he anticipated the very event which had occurred, or, rather, a more fatal one still, for, despite his hopes of Alice Goodwin's ill state of health, he entertained strong apprehensions that his stepfather might, by some accidental piece of intelligence, be restored to his original impressions on the relative position in which she and Charles stood. An interview between Mr. Lindsay and her might cancel all he had done; and if every obstruction which he had endeavored to place between their union were removed, her health might recover, their marriage take place, and then what became of his chance for the property? It is true he had managed his plans and speculations with great ability. Substituting Charles, like a villain as he was, in his own affair with Grace Davoren, he contrived to corroborate the falsehood by the tragic incident of the preceding night. Now, if this would not satisfy Alice of the truth of his own falsehood, nothing could. That Charles was the _intrigant_ must be clear and palpable from what had happened, and accordingly, after taking a serious review of his own iniquity, he felt, as we said, peculiarly gratified with his prospects. Still, it cannot be denied that an occasional shadow, not proceeding from any consciousness of guilt, but from an apprehension of disappointment, would cast its deep gloom across his spirit. With such terrible states of feeling the machinations of guilt, no matter how successful its progress may be, are from time to time attended; and even in his case the torments of the damned were little short of what he suffered, from a dread of failure, and its natural consequences--an exposure which would bar him out of society. Still, his earnest expectation was that the intelligence of the fate of her lover would, considering her feeble state of health, effectually accomplish his wishes, and with this consoling reflection he rode home.
His great anxiety now was, his alarm lest his brother should recover. On reaching Rathfillan House he proceeded to his bedroom, where he found his sister watching.
“My dear Maria,” said he, in a low and most affectionate voice, “is he better?”
“I hope so,” she replied, in a voice equally low; “this is the first sleep he has got, and I hope it will remove the fever.”
“Well, I will not stop,” said he, “but do you watch him carefully, Maria, and see that he is not disturbed.”
“O, indeed, Harry, you may rest assured that I shall do so. Poor, dear Charles, what would become of us all if we lost him--and Alice Goodwin, too--O, she would die. Now, go, dear Harry, and leave him to me.”
Harry left the room apparently in profound sorrow, and, on going into the parlor, met Barney Casey in the hall.
“Barney,” said he, “come into the parlor for a moment. My father is out, and my mother is upstairs. I want to know how this affair happened last night, and how it occurred that you were present at it. It's a bad business, Barney.”
“Devil a worser,” replied Barney, “especially for poor Mr. Charles. I was fortunately goin' down on my _kalie_ to the family of poor disconsolate Granua (Grace), when, on passing the clump of alders, I heard screams and shouts to no end. I ran to the spot I heard the skirls comin' from, and there I found Mr. Charles, lyin' as if dead, and Grace Davoren with her hands clasped like a mad woman over him. The strange men then joined us, and carried him home, and that's all I know about it.”
“But, can you understand it, Barney? As for me, I cannot. Did Grace say nothing during her alarm?”
“Divil a syllable,” replied Barney, lying without remorse; “she was so thunderstruck with what happened that she could do nothing nor say anything but cry out and scream for the bare life of her. They say she has disappeared from her family, and that nobody knows where she has gone to. I was at her father's to-day, and I know they are searchin' the country for her. It is thought she has made away with herself.”
“Poor Charles,” exclaimed his brother, “what an unfortunate business it has turned out on both sides! I thought he was attached to Miss Goodwin; but it would appear now that he was deceiving her all along.”
“Well, Mr. Harry,” replied Barney, dryly, or rather with some severity, “you see what the upshot is; treachery, they say, seldom prospers in the long run, although it may for a while. God forgive them that makes a practice of it. As for Master Charles, I couldn't have dreamt of such a thing.”
“Nor I, Barney. I know not what to say. It perplexes me, from whatever point I look at it. At all events, I hope he may recover, and if he does, I trust he will consider what has happened as a warning, and act upon better principles. May God forgive him!”
And so ended their dialogue, little, indeed, to the satisfaction of Harry, whom Barney left in complete ignorance of the significant exclamations by which Grace Davoren, in the alarm of the moment, had betrayed her own guilt, by stating that Shawn-na-Middogue had stabbed the wrong man.
Sarah Sullivan--poor, thoughtless, but affectionate girl--on repairing with the thin toast to her mistress's bedroom, felt so brimful of the disaster which had befallen Charles, that---now believing in his guilt, as she did, and with a hope of effectually alienating Alice's affections from him--she lost not a moment in communicating the melancholy intelligence to her.
“O, Miss Alice!” she exclaimed, “have you heard what has happened? O, the false fend treacherous villain! Who would believe it? To lave a beautiful lady like you, and take up with sich a vulgar vagabone! However, he has suffered for it. _Shawn-na-Middogue_ did for him.”
“What do you mean, Sarah?” said her mistress, much alarmed by such a startling-preface; “explain yourself. I do not understand, you.”
“But you soon will, miss. Shawn-na-Middogue found Mr. Charles Lindsay and Grace Davoren together last night, and has stabbed him to death; life's only in him; and that's the gentleman that pretended to love you. Devil's cure to the villain!”
She paused. The expression of her mistress's face was awful. A pallor more frightful than that of death, because it was associated with life, overspread her countenance. Her eyes became dim and dull; her features in a moment were collapsed, and resembled those of some individual struck by paralysis--they were altogether without meaning. She clasped and unclasped her hands, like one under the influence of strong hysterical agony; she laid herself back in bed, where she had been sitting up expecting her coffee, her eyes closed, for she had not physical strength even to keep them open, and with considerable difficulty she said, in a low and scarcely audible voice,--“My mother!”
Poor Sarah felt and saw the mischief she had done, and, with streaming eyes and loud sobbings, lost not a moment in summoning Mrs. Goodwin. In truth she feared that her mistress lay dying before her, and was immediately tortured with the remorseful impression that the thoughtless and indiscreet communication she had made was the cause of her death. It is unnecessary to describe the terror and alarm of her mother, nor of her father, when he saw her lying as it were between life and dissolution. The physician was immediately sent for, but, notwithstanding all his remedies, until the end of the second day, there appeared no change in her. Towards the close of that day an improvement was perceptible; she was able to speak and take some nourishment, but it was observed that she never once made the slightest allusion to the disaster which had befallen Charles Lindsay. She sank into a habitual silence, and, unless when forced to ask for some of those usual attentions which her illness required, she never ventured to indulge in conversation on any subject whatsoever. One thing, however, struck Sarah Sullivan, which was, that in all her startings, both asleep and awake, and in all her unconscious ejaculations, that which appeared to press upon her most was the unceasing horror of the Evil Eye. The name of Charles Lindsay never escaped her, even in the feverish agitation of her dreams, nor in those exclamations of terror and alarm which she uttered.
“O, save me! --save me from his eye--he is killing me! Yes, Woodward is a devil--he is killing me--save me--save me!”
Well had the villain done his work; and how his web of iniquity was woven out we shall see.
On leaving Barney, that worthy gentleman sought his mother, and thus addressed her:-- “Mother,” said he, apparently much moved, “this is a melancholy, and I trust in heaven it may not turn out a fatal, business. I'm afraid poor Charles's case is hopeless.”
“O, may God forbid, poor boy!” exclaimed Mrs. Lindsay; “for, although he always joined his father against me, still he was in other respects most obliging to every one, and inoffensive to all.”
“I know that, and I am sorry that this jade--and she is a handsome jade, they say--should have gained such a cursed influence over him. That, however, is not the question. We must think of nothing now but his recovery. The strictest attention ought to be paid to him; and as it has occurred to me that there is no female under this roof who understands the management of a sick bed, we ought, under these circumstances, to provide a nurse for him.”
“Well, indeed, that is true enough, Harry, and it is very kind and considerate of you to think of it; but who will we get? The women here are very ignorant and stupid.”
“I have been making inquiries,” he replied, “and I am told there is a woman in Rathfillan, named Collins, niece to a religious herbalist or herb doctor, who possesses much experience in that way. It is just such a woman we want.”
“Well, then, let her come; do you go and engage her; but see that she will not extort dishonest terms from you, because there is nothing but fraud and knavery among these wretches.”
Harry lost little time in seeming the services of Caterine Collins, who was that very day established as nurse-tender in Charles Lindsay's sick room.
Alice's illness was now such as left little expectation of her recovery. She was stated, and with good reason, to be in a condition absolutely hopeless; and nothing could exceed the regret and sorrow which were felt for the benevolent and gentle girl. We say benevolent, because, since her accession to her newly-acquired property, her charities to the poor and distressed were bountiful and generous, almost beyond belief; and even during her illness she constituted her father as the agent--and a willing one he was--of her beneficence. In fact, the sorrow for her approaching death was deep and general, and the sympathy felt for her parents such as rarely occurs in life.
Of course it is unnecessary to say that these tidings of her hopeless illness did not reach the Lindsays. On the second morning after Harry's visit he asked for a private interview with his mother, which was accorded to him.
“Mother,” said he, “you must pay the Goodwins another visit--a visit, mark you, of sympathy and condolence. You forget all the unpleasant circumstances that have occurred between the families. You forget everything but your anxiety for the recovery of poor, dear Alice.”
“But,” replied his mother, “I do not wish to go. Why should I go to express a sympathy which I do not feel? Her death is only a judicial punishment on them for having inveigled your silly old uncle to leave them the property which would have otherwise come to you as the natural heir.”
“Mother,” said her dutiful son, “you have a nose, and beyond that nose you never yet have been able to look with anything like perspicuity. If you don't visit them, your good-natured noodle of a husband will, and perhaps the result of that visit may cut us out of the property forever. At breakfast this morning you will propose the visit, which, mark you, is to be made in the name and on behalf of all the family. You, consequently, being the deputation on this occasion, both your husband and Maria will not feel themselves called upon to see them. You can, besides, say that her state of health precludes her from seeing any one out of her own family, and thus all risk of an explanation will be avoided. It is best to make everything safe; but that she can't live I know, because I feel that my power and influence are upon her, and that the force of this Evil Eye of mine has killed her. I told you this before, I think.”
“Even so,” said his mother; “it is only what I have said, a judicial punishment for their villany. Villany, Harry, never prospers.”
“Egad, my dear mother,” he replied, “I know of nothing so prosperous: look through life and you will see the villain thrive upon his fraud and iniquity, where the honest man--the man of integrity, who binds himself by all the principles of what are called honor and morality--is elbowed out of prosperity by the knave, the swindler, and the hypocrite. O, no, my dear mother, the two worst passports to independence and success in life are truth and honesty.”
“Well, Harry, I am a bad logician, and will not dispute it with you; but I am far from well, and I don't think I shall be able to visit them for two or three davs at least.”
“But, in the meantime, express your intention to do so--on behalf of the family, mark; assume your right as the proprietor of this place, and as its representative, and then your visit will be considered as the visit of the whole family. In the meantime, mark me, the girl is dead. I have accomplished that gratifying event, so that, after all, your visit will be a mere matter of form. When you reach their house you will probably find it the house of death.”
“And then,” replied his mother, “the twelve hundred a year is yours for life, and the property of your children after you. Thank God!”
That morning at breakfast she expressed her determination to visit the Goodwins, making it, she said, a visit from the family in general; such a visit, she added, as might be proper on their (the Lindsays) part, but yet such an act of neighborhood that, while it manifested sufficient respect for them, would preclude all hopes of any future intercourse between them.
Mr. Lindsay did not relish this much; but as he had no particular wish, in consequence of Charles's illness, to oppose her motives in making the visit, he said she might manage it as she wished--he would not raise a fresh breeze about it. He only felt that he was sincerely, sorry for the loss which the Goodwins were about to experience.
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{
"id": "16004"
}
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15
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The Banshee.--Disappearance of Grace Davoren.
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In the meantime it was certainly an unquestionable fact that Grace Davoren had disappeared, and not even a trace of her could be found. The unfortunate girl, alarmed at the tragic incident of that woful night, and impressed with a belief that Charles Lindsay had been murdered by Shawn-na-Middogue, had betaken herself to some place of concealment which no search on behalf of her friends could discover. In fact, her disappearance was involved in a mystery as deep as the alarm and distress it occasioned. But what astonished the public most was the fact that Charles, whose whole life had been untainted by a single act of impropriety, much less of profligacy, should have been discovered in such a heartless and unprincipled intrigue with the daughter of one of his father's tenants, an innocent girl, who, as such, was entitled to protection rather than injury at his hands.
Whilst this tumult was abroad, and the country was in an unusual state of alarm and agitation, Harry Woodward took, matters very quietly. That he seemed to feel deeply for the uncertain and dangerous state of his brother, who lay suspended, as it were, between life and death, was evident to every individual of his family. He frequently took Caterine Collins's place, attended him personally, with singular kindness and affection, gave him his drinks and decoctions with his own hand; and, when the surgeon came to make his daily visit, the anxiety he evinced in ascertaining whether there was any chance of his recovery was most affectionate and exemplary. Still, as usual, he was out at night; but the mystery of his whereabouts, while absent, could never be penetrated. On those occasions he always went armed--a fact which he never attempted to conceal. On one of these nights it so happened that Barney Casey was called upon to attend at the wake of a relation, and, as his master's family were apprised of this circumstance, they did not of course expect him home until a late hour. He left the wake, however, earlier than he had proposed to do, for he found it a rather dull affair, and was on his way home when, to his astonishment, or rather to his horror, he saw Harry Woodward--also on his way home--in close conversation with the supernatural being so well known by description as the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv_; or Black Spectre. Now, Barney was half cowardly and half brave--that is to say, had he lived in an enlightened age he would have felt little terror of supernatural appearances; but at the period of our story such was the predominance of a belief in ghosts, fairies, evil spirits, and witches, that he should have been either less or more than man could he have shaken off the prevailing superstitions, and the gross credulity of the times in which he lived. As it was, he knew not what to think. He remembered the character which had been whispered abroad about Harry Woodward, and of his intercourse with supernatural beings--he was known to possess the Evil Eye; and it was generally understood that those who happened to be endowed with that accursed gift were aided in the exercises of it by the powers of darkness and of evil. What, then, was he to do? There probably was an opportunity of solving the mystery which hung around the midnight motions of Woodward. If there was a spirit before him, there was also a human being, in living flesh and blood--an acquaintance, too--an individual whom he personally knew, ready to sustain him, and afford, if necessary, that protection which, under such peculiar circumstances, one fellow-creature has a right to expect from another. Now Barney's way home led him necessarily--and a painful necessity it was--near the Haunted House; and he observed that the place where they stood, for they had ceased walking, was about fifty yards above that much dreaded mansion. He resolved, however, to make the plunge and advance, but deemed it only good manners to give some intimation of his approach. He was now within about twenty yards from them, and made an attempt at a comic song, which, however, quivered off into as dismal and cowardly a ditty as ever proceeded from human lips. Harry and the Spectre, both startled by the voice, turned round to observe his approach, when, to his utter consternation, the Shan-dhinne-dhuv sank, as it were, into the earth and disappeared. The hair rose upon Barney's head, and when Woodward called out: “Who comes there?”
He could scarcely summon voice enough to reply: “It's me, sir,” said he; “Barney Casey.”
“Come on, Barney,” said Woodward, “come on quickly;” and he had scarcely spoken when Barney joined him.
“Barney,” said he, “I am in a state of great terror. I have felt ever since I passed that Haunted House as if there was an evil spirit in my company. The feeling was dreadful, and I am very weak in consequence of it. Give me you arm.”
“But did you see nothing, sir?” said Barney; “didn't it become visible to you?”
“No,” replied the other; “but I felt as if I was in the presence of a supernatural being, and an evil one, too.”
“God protect us, Mr. Harry! then, if you didn't see it I did.”
“You did!” replied the other, startled; “and pray what was it like?”
“Why, a black ould man, sir; and, by all accounts that ever I could hear of it, it was nothing else than the Shan-dhinne-dhuv. For God's sake let us come home, sir, for this, if all they say be true, is unholy and cursed ground we're standin' on.”
“And where did it disappear?” asked Woodward, leading him by a circuit from the spot where it had vanished.
“Just over there, sir,” replied Barney, pointing to the place. “But, in God's name, let us make for home as fast as we can. I'll think every minute an hour till we get safe undher our own roof.”
“Barney,” said Woodward, solemnly, “I have a request to make of you, and it is this--the common report is, that the spirit in question follows our family--I mean by my mother's side. Now I beg, as you expect my good will and countenance, that, for my sake, and out of respect for the family in general, you will never breathe a syllable of what you have seen this night. It could answer no earthly purpose, and would only send abroad idle and unpleasant rumors throughout the country. Will you promise this?”
“Of course I promise it,” replied Barney; “what object could I gain by repeatin' it?”
“None whatsoever. Well, then, be silent on the subject, and let us reach home as soon as we can.”
It would be difficult to describe honest Barney's feelings as they went along. He imagined that he felt Harry's arm tremble within his, and when he thought of the reports concerning the evil spirit, and its connection with Mrs. Lindsay's family, his sensations were anything but comfortable. He tossed and tumbled that night for hours in his bed before he was able to sleep, and when he did sleep the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv_ rendered his dreams feverish and frightful.
Precisely at this period, before Mrs. Lindsay had recovered from her indisposition, and could pay her intended visit to the Goodwins, a circumstance occurred which suggested to Harry Woodward one of the most remorseless and Satanic schemes that ever was concocted in the heart of man. He was in the habit occasionally of going down to the kitchen to indulge in a smoke and a piece of banter with the servants. One evening, whilst thus amusing himself, the conversation turned upon the prevailing superstitions of the day. Ghosts, witches, wizards; astrologers, fairies, leprechauns, and all that could be termed supernatural, or even related to or aided by it, were discussed at considerable length, and with every variety of feeling. Amongst the rest the Banshee was mentioned--a spirit of whose peculiar office and character Woodward, in consequence of his long absence from the country, was completely ignorant.
“The Banshee!” he exclaimed; “what kind of a spirit is that? I have never heard of it.”
“Why, sir,” replied Barney, who was present, “the Banshee--the Lord prevent us from hearin' her--is always the forerunner of death. She attends only certain families--principally the ould Milesians, and mostly Catholics, too; although, I believe, it's well known that she sometimes attends Protestants whose families have been Catholics or Milesians, until the last of the name disappears. So that, afther all, it seems she's not over-scrupulous about religion.”
“But what do you mean by attending families?” asked Woodward; “what description of attendance or service does she render them?”
“Indeed, Mr. Harry,” replied Barney, “anything but an agreeable attendance. By goxty, I believe every family she follows would be very glad to dispense with her attendance if they could.”
“But that is not answering my question, Casey.”
“Why, sir,” proceeded Barney, “I'll answer it. Whenever the family that she follows is about to have a death in it, she comes a little time before the death tikes place, sits either undher the windy of the sick bed or somewhere near the house, and wails and cries there as if her very heart would break. They say she generally names the name of the party that is to die; but there is no case known of the sick person ever recoverin' afther she has given the warnin' of death.”
“It is a strange and wild superstition,” observed Woodward.
“But a very true one, sir,” replied the cook; “every one knows that a Banshee follows the Goodwin family.”
“What! the Goodwins of Beech Grove?” said Harry.
“Yes, sir,” returned the cook; “they lost six children, and not one of them ever died that she did not give the warnin'.”
“If poor Miss Alice heard it,” observed Barney, “and she in the state she's in, she wouldn't live twenty-four hours afther it.”
“According to what you say,” observed Woodward, “that is, if it follows the family, of course it will give the warning in her case also.”
“May God forbid,” ejaculated the cook, “for it's herself, the darlin' girl, that 'ud be the bitther loss to the poor and destitute.”
This kind ejaculation was fervently echoed by all her fellow-servants; and Harry, having finished his pipe, went to see how his brother's wound was progressing. He found him asleep, and Caterine Collins seated knitting a stocking at his bedside. He beckoned her to the lobby, where, in a low, guarded voice, the following conversation took place between them: “Caterine, have you not a niece that sings well? Barney Casey mentioned her to me as possessing a fine voice.”
“As sweet a voice, sir, as ever came from a woman's lips; but the poor thing is delicate and sickly, and I'm afeard not long for this world.”
“Could she imitate a Banshee, do you think?”
“If ever woman could, she could. There's not her aquil at the keene, or Irish cry, livin'; she's the only one can bate myself at it.”
“Well, Caterine, if you get her to go to Mr. Goodwin's to-morrow night and imitate the cry of the Banshee, I will reward her and you liberally for it. You are already well aware of my generosity.”
“Indeed I am, Mr. Woodward; but if either you or I could insure her the wealth of Europe, we couldn't prevail on her to go by herself at night. Except by moonlight she wouldn't venture to cross the street of Rathfillan. As to her, you may put that out of the question. She's very handy, however, about a sick bed, and I might contrive, undher some excuse or other, to get her to take my place for a day or so. But here's your father. We will talk about it again.”
She then returned to the sick room, and Harry met Mr. Lindsay on the stairs going up to inquire after Charles.
“Don't go up, sir,” said he; “the poor fellow, thank God, is asleep, and the less noise about him the better.”
Both then returned to the parlor.
About eleven o'clock the next night Sarah Sullivan was sitting by the bedside of her mistress, who was then, fortunately for herself, enjoying, what was very rare with her, an undisturbed sleep after the terror and agitation of the day, when a low, but earnest and sorrowful wailing was heard, immediately, she thought, under the window. It rose and fell alternately, and at the close of every division of the cry it pronounced the name of Alice Goodwin in tones of the most pathetic lamentation and woe. The natural heat and warmth seemed to depart out of the poor girl's body; she felt like an icicle, and the cold perspiration ran in torrents from her face.
“My darling misthress,” thought she, “it's all over with you at last. There is the sign--the Banshee--and it is well for yourself that you don't hear it, because it would be the death of you at once. However, if I committed one mistake about Misther Charles's misfortune, I will not commit another. You shall never hear of this from me.”
The cry was then heard more distant and indistinct, but still loaded with the same mournful expression of death and sorrow; but in a little time it died away in the distance, and was then heard no more.
Sarah, though she had judiciously resolved to keep this awful intimation a secret from Miss Goodwin, considered it her duty to disclose it to her parents. We shall not dwell, however, upon the scene which occurred on the occasion. A belief in the existence and office of the Banshee was, at the period of which we write, almost universally held by the peasantry, and even about half a century ago it was one of the strongest dogmas of popular superstition. After the grief of the parents had somewhat subsided at this dreadful intelligence, Mr. Goodwin asked Sarah Sullivan if his daughter had heard the wail of this prophetic spirit of death; and on her answering in the negative, he enjoined, her never to breathe a syllable of the circumstance to her; but she told him she had come to that conclusion herself, as she felt certain, she said, that the knowledge of it would occasion her mistress's almost immediate death.
“At all events,” said her master; “by the doctor's advice we shall leave this place tomorrow morning; he says if she has any chance it will be in a change of air, of society, and of scenery. Everything here has associations and recollections that are painful, and even horrible to her. If she is capable of bearing an easy journey we shall set out for the Spa of Ballyspellan, in the county of Kilkenny. He thinks the waters of that famous spring may prove beneficial to her. If the Banshee, then, is anxious to fulfil its mission it must follow us. They say it always pays three visits, but as yet it has paid us only one.”
Mrs. Lindsay had now recovered from her slight indisposition, and resolved to pay the last formal visit to the Goodwins,--a visit which was to close all future intercourse between the families; and our readers are not ignorant of her motives for this, nor how completely and willingly she was the agent of her son Harry's designs. She went in all her pomp, dressed in satins and brocades, and attended by Barney Casey in full livery. Her own old family carriage had been swept of its dust and cobwebs, and put into requisition on this important occasion. At length they reached Beech Grove, and knocked at the door, which was opened by our old Mend, Tom Kennedy.
“My good man,” she asked, “are the family at home?”
“No, ma'am.”
“What! not at home, and Miss Goodwin so ill? --dying, I am told. Perhaps, in consequence of her health, they do not wish to see strangers. Go and say that Mrs. Lindsay, of Rathnllan House, is here.”
“Ma'am, they are not at home; they have left Beech Grove for some time.”
“Left Beech Grove!” she exclaimed; “and pray where are they gone to? I thought Miss Goodwin was not able to be removed.”
“It was do or die with her,” replied Tom. “The doctor said there was but one last chance--change of air, and absence from dangerous neighbors.”
“But you did not tell me where they are gone to.”
“I did not, ma'am, and for the best reason in life--because I don't know.”
“You don't know! Why, is it possible they made a secret of such a matter?”
“Quite possible, ma'am, and to the back o' that they swore every one of us upon the seven gospels never to tell any individual, man or woman, where they went to.”
“But did they not tell yourselves?”
“Devil a syllable, ma'am.”
“And why, then, did they swear you to secrecy?”
“Why, of course, ma'am, to make us keep the secret.”
“But why swear you, I ask again, to keep a secret which you did not know?”
“Why, ma'am, because they knew that in that case there was little danger of our committin' parjury; and because every saicret which one does not know is sure to be kept.”
She looked keenly at him, and added, “I'm inclined to think, sirrah, that you are impertinent.”
“Very likely, ma'am,” replied Tom, with great gravity. “I've a strong notion of that myself. My father before me was impertinent, and his last dying words to me were, 'Tom, I lay it as a last injunction upon you to keep up the principles of our family, and always to show nothing but impertinence to those who don't deserve respect.'”
With a face scarlet from indignation she immediately ordered her carriage home, but before it had arrived there the intelligence from another source had reached the family, together with the fact that the Banshee had been heard by Mr. Goodwin's servants under Miss Alice's window. Such, indeed, was the fact; and the report of the circumstance had spread through half the parish before the hour of noon next day.
The removal of Alice sank heavily upon the heart of Harry Woodward; it seemed to him as if she had gone out of his grasp, and from under the influence of his eye, for, by whatever means he might accomplish it, he was resolved to keep the deadly power of that eye upon her. He had calculated upon the voice and prophetic wail of the Banshee as being fatal in her then state of health; or was it this ominous and supernatural foreboding of her dissolution that caused them to fly from the place? He reasoned, as the reader may perceive, upon the principle of the Banshee being, according to the superstitious notions entertained of her, a real supernatural visitant, and not the unscrupulous and diabolical imitation of her by Catherine Collins. Still he thought it barely possible that the change of air and the waters of the celebrated spring might recover her, notwithstanding all his inhuman anticipations. His brother, also, according to the surgeon's last report, afforded hopes of convalescence. A kind of terror came over him that his plans might fail, because he felt almost certain that if Alice and his brother both recovered, Mr. Lindsay might, or rather would, mount his old hobby, and insist on having them married, in the teeth of all opposition on the part of either himself or his mother. This was a gloomy prospect for him, and one which he could not contemplate without falling back upon still darker schemes.
After the night on which Barney Casey had seen him and the Black Spectre together we need scarcely say that he watched Barney closely, nor that Barney watched him with as keen a vigilance. Whatever Woodward may have actually felt upon the subject of the apparition, Barney was certainly undecided as to its reality; or if there existed any bias at all, it was in favor of that reality. Why did Woodward's arm tremble, and why did the man, who was supposed ignorant of fear, exhibit so much terror and agitation on the occasion? Still, on the other hand, there appeared to be a conversation, as it were, between them, and a familiarity of manner considerably at variance with Woodward's version of the circumstances. Be this as it might, he felt it to be a subject on which he could, by no process of reasoning, come to anything like a definite conclusion.
Woodward now determined to consult his mother as to the plan of their future operations. The absence of Alice, and the possible chance of her recovery, rendered it necessary that some new series of projects should be adopted; but although several had occurred to him, he had not yet come to a definite resolution respecting the selection he would make. With this view he and his conscientious mother closeted themselves in her room, and discussed the state of affairs in the following dialogue: “Mother,” said he, “this escape of Miss Curds-and-whey is an untoward business. What, after all, if she should recover?”
“Recover!” exclaimed the lady; “why, did you not assure me that such an event was impossible--that you were killing her, and that she must die?”
“So I still think; but so long as the notion of her recovery exists, even only as a dream, so certainly ought we to provide against such a calamity.”
“Ah! Harry,” she exclaimed, “you may well term it a calamity, for such indeed it would be to you.”
“Well, but what do you think ought to be done, my dear mother? I am anxious to have both your advice and opinion upon our future proceedings. Suppose change of air--the waters of that damned brimstone spring, and above all things, the confidence she will derive from the consciousness that she is removed from me and out of my reach--suppose, I say, that all these circumstances should produce a beneficial effect upon her, then how do I stand?”
“Why, with very little hope of the property,” she replied; “and then what tenacity of life she has! Why, there are very few girls who would not have been dead long ago, if they had gone through half what she has suffered. Well, you wish to ask me how I would advise you to act?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, then, you have heard the old proverb: It is good to have two strings to one's bow. We shall set all consideration of her aside for a time, and turn our attention to another object.”
“What or who is that, mother?”
“You remember I mentioned some time ago the names of a neighboring nobleman and his niece, who lives with him. The man I allude to as Lord Bilberry, but is now Earl of Cockletown. He was raised to this rank for some services he rendered the government against the tories, who had been devastating the country, and also against some turbulent papists who were supposed to have privately encouraged them in their outrages against Protestant life and property. He was a daring and intrepid man when in his prime of life, and appeared to seek danger for its own sake. He is now an old man, although a young peer, and was always considered eccentric, which he is to the present day. Some people look upon him as a fool, and others as a knave; but in balancing his claims to each, it has never yet been determined on which side the scale would sink. He is the proprietor of a little fishing village on the coast, and on this account he assumed the title of Cockletown; and when he built himself a mansion, as they term it, he would have it called by no other name than that of Cockle Hall. It is true he laughs at the thing himself, and considers it a good joke.”
“And so it is,” replied her son; “but what about the lady, his niece?”
“Why, she is a rather interesting person.”
“Ahem! person!”
“Yes, about thirty-four or so; but she will inherit his property.”
“And have you any notion of what that may amount to?” asked her calculating son.
“I could not exactly say,” she replied; “but I believe it is handsome. A great deal of it is mountain, but they say there are large portions of it capable of being reclaimed.”
“But how can the estate go to her?”
“Simply because there is no other heir,” replied his mother; “they are the last of the family. It is not entailed.”
“Thirty-four!” ruminated Woodward. “Well, I have seen very fine girls at thirty-four; but in personal appearance and manner what is she like?”
“Why, perhaps a critical eye might not call her handsome; but the general opinion on that point is in her favor. Her manners are agreeable, so are her features; but it is said that she is fastidious in her lovers, and has rejected many. It is true most of them were fortune-hunters, and deserved no better success.”
“But what do you call me, mother?”
“Surely not a fortune-hunter, Harry. Is not there your granduncle's large property who is a bachelor, and you are his favorite.”
“But don't you know, mother, that, as respects my granduncle, I have confided that secret to you already?”
“I know no such thing, you fool,” she replied, looking at him with an expression in her odious eyes which could not be described; “I am altogether ignorant of that fact; but is there not the twelve hundred per annum which reverts to you on the demise of that dying girl?”
“True, my dear mother, true; you are right, I am a fool. Of course I never told you the secret of my disinheritance by the old scoundrel.”
“Ah, Harry, I fear you played your cards badly there. You knew he was religious, and yet you should become a seducer; but why make free with his money?”
“Why? Why, because he kept me upon the tight curb; but, as these matters are known only to ourselves, I see you are right. I am still to be considered his favorite--his heir--and am here only on, a visit.”
“Well, but, Harry, he must have dealt liberally with you on your departure from him?”
“He! Don't you know I was obliged to fly? --to take French leave, I assure you. I reached Rathfillan House with not more than twenty pounds in my pocket.”
“But how does it happen that you always appear to have plenty of money?”
“My dear mother, there is a secret there; but it is one which even you shall not know,--or come, you shall know it. Did you ever hear of a certain supernatural being which follows your family, which supernatural being is known by the name of the Black Spectre, or some such denomination which I cannot remember?”
“I don't wish to hear it named,” replied his mother, deeply agitated. “It resembles the Banshee, and never appears to any one of our family except as a precursor of his death by violence.”
Woodward started for a moment, and could not avoid being struck at the coincidence of the same mission having been assigned to the two spirits, and he reflected, with an impression that was anything but agreeable, upon his damnable suggestion of having had recourse to the vile agency of Caterine Collins in enacting the said Banshee, for the purpose of giving the last fatal blow to the almost dying Alice Goodwin. He felt, and he had reason to feel, that there was a mystery about the Black Spectre, which, for the life of him, he could not fathom. He was, however, a firm and resolute man, and after a moment or two's thought he declined to make any further disclosure on the subject, but reverted to the general topic of their conversation.
“Well, mother,” said he, “after all, your speculation may not be a bad one; but pray, what is the lady's name?”
“Riddle--Miss Riddle. She is of the Clan-Riddle family, a close relation to the Nethersides of Middle town.”
“And a devilish enigmatical name it is,” replied her son, “as is that of all her connections.”
“Yes, but they were always close and prudent people, who kept their opinions to themselves, and wrought their way in the world with great success, and without giving offence to any party. If you marry her, Harry, I would advise you to enter public life, recommend yourself to the powers that be, and, my word for it, you stand a great chance of having the title of Cockletown revived in your person.”
“Well, although the title is a ridiculous one, I should have no objection to it, notwithstanding; but there will certainly arise some difficulty when we come to the marriage settlements. There will be sharp lawyers there, whom we cannot impose upon; and you know, mother, I am without any ostensible property.”
“Yes, but we can calculate upon the death of cunning Alice, who, by her undue and flagitious influence over your uncle, left you so.”
“Ay, but such a calculation would never do either with her uncle or the lawyers. I think we have nothing to fall back upon, mother, but your own property. If you settle that upon me everything will go right.”
“And leave myself depending upon Lindsay? No, no,” replied this selfish and penurious woman; “never, Harry--never, never; you must wait until I die for that. But I can tell you what we can do; let us enter upon the negotiation--let us say for the time being that you have twelve hundred a-year, and, while the business is proceeding, what is there to prevent you from going to recruit your health at Balleyspellan, and kill out Alice Goodwin there, as well as if she remained at home? By this plan, before the negotiations are closed, you will be able to meet Miss Riddle with twelve hundred a-year at your back. Alice Goodwin! O, how I hate and detest her--ay, as I do hell!”
“The plan,” replied her son, “is an excellent one. We will commence operations with Lord Cockletown and Miss Riddle, in the first place; and having opened negotiations, as you say, I shall become unwell, and go for a short time to try what efficacy the waters of Ballyspellan may have on my health--or rather on my fortunes.”
“We shall visit them to-morrow,” said the mother.
“So be it,” replied the son; and to this resolution they came, which closed the above interesting dialogue between them. We say interesting, for if it has not been such to the reader, it was so at least to themselves.
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{
"id": "16004"
}
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16
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A House of Sorrow.
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--After which follows a Courting Scene.
The deep sorrow and desolation of spirit introduced by the profligate destroyer into the humble abode of peace and innocence is an awful thing to contemplate. In our chapter headed “The Wake of a Murderer” we have attempted to give a picture of it. The age, indeed, was one of licentiousness and profligacy. The reigning monarch, Charles the Second, of infamous memory, had set the iniquitous example to his subjects, and surrounded his court by an aristocratic crew, who had scarcely anything to recommend them but their imitation of his vices, and this was always a passport to his favor, whilst virtue, morality, and honor were excluded with contempt and derision. In fact, the corrupt atmosphere of his court carried its contagion throughout the empire, until the seduction of female innocence became the fashion of the day, and no man could consider himself entitled to a becoming position in society who had not distinguished himself by half a dozen criminal intrigues either with the wives or daughters of his acquaintances. When we contemplate for a moment the contrast between the abandoned court of that royal profligate, and that under which we have the happiness to live--the one, a sty of infamy, licentiousness, and corruption; the other, a well, undented of purity, virtue, and honor, to whose clear mind unadulterated waters nothing equivocal, or even questionable, dares to approach, much less the base or the tainted--we say that, on instituting this comparison and contrast, the secret of that love and affectionate veneration which we bear to our pure and highminded Queen, and the pride which we feel in the noble example which she and her Royal Consort have set us, requires no illustration whatsoever. The affection and gratitude of her people are only the meed due to her virtues and to his. We need not apologize to our readers for this striking contrast. The period and the subject of our narrative, as well as the melancholy scene to which we are about to introduce the reader, rendered it an impossibility to avoid it.
We now proceed to the humble homestead of Torley Davoren; a homestead which we have already described as the humble abode of peace and happiness. Barney Casey, who felt anxious to know from the parents of Grace Davoren whether any trace or tidings of her had been heard of, went to pay the heart-broken family a visit for that purpose.
On entering, he found the father seated at his humble hearth, unshaven, and altogether a man careless and negligent of his appearance. He sat with his hands clasped before him, and his heavy eyes fixed on the embers of the peat fire which smouldered on the hearth. The mother was at her distaff, and so were the other two females--to wit, her grandmother and Grace's sister. But the mother! gracious heaven, what a spirit of distress and misery breathed from those hopeless and agonizing features! There was not only natural sorrow there, occasioned by the disappearance of her daughter, but the shame which resulted from her fall and her infamy; and though last not least, the terrible apprehension that the hapless girl had rushed by suicidal means into the presence of an offended God, “unanointed, unaneled,” with all her sins upon her head. Her clothes were hanging from the branches of a large burdock* against the wall, and from time to time the father cast his eyes upon them with a look in which might be read the hollow but terrible expression of despair.
* The branches of the burdock, when it is cut, trimmed, and seasoned, are used by the humble classes to hang their clothes upon. They grow upwards towards the top of the stalk, and, in consequence of this, are capable of sustaining the heaviest garment.
Honest Barney felt his heart deeply moved by all this, and, sooth to say, his natural cheerfulness and lightness of spirit completely abandoned him at the contemplation of the awful anguish which pressed them down. There is nothing which makes such a coward of the heart as the influence of such a scene. He felt that he stood within a circle of misery, and that it was a solemn and serious task even to enter into conversation with them. But, as he had come to make friendly inquiries about the unfortunate girl, he forced himself to break this pitiable but terrible silence of despair.
“I know,” said he, with a diffident and melancholy spirit, “that it is painful to you all to make the inquiries that I wish to make; but still let me ask you if you have got any account of her?”
The mother's heart had been bursting-pent up as it were--and this allusion to her withdrew the floodgates of its sorrow; she spread out her arms, and fising up approached her husband, and throwing them about his neck, exclaimed, in tones of the most penetrating grief,-- “O, Torley, Torley, my husband, was she not our dearest and our best?”
The husband embraced her with a flood of tears.
“She was,” said he, “she was.” But immediately looking upon her sister Dora, he said, “Dora, come here--bring Dora to me,” and his wife went over and brought her to him.
“O, Dora dear,” said he, “I love you. But, darling, I never loved you as I loved her.”
“But was I ever jealous of that, father?” replied Dora, with tears. “Didn't we all love her? and did any one of you love her more than myself? Wasn't she the pride of the whole family? But I didn't care about her disgrace, father, if we had her back with us. She might repent; and if she did, every one would forgive their favorite--for sure she was every one's favorite; and above all, God would forgive her.”
“I loved her as the core of my heart,” said the grandmother; “but you spoiled her yourselves, and indulged her too much in dress and everything she wished for. Had you given her less of her own way, and kept her more from dances and merry-makings, it might be better for yourselves and her today; still, I grant you, it was hard to do it--for who, mavrone, could refuse her anything? O! God sees my heart how I pity you, her father, and you, too, her mother, above all. But, Torley, dear, if we only had her--if we only had her back again safe with us--then what darling Dora says might be true, and her repentance would wash away her shame--for every one loved her, so that they wouldn't judge her harshly.”
“I can bear witness to that,” said Barney; as it is, every one pities her, and but very few blame her. It is all set down to her innocence and want of experience, ay, and her youthful years. No; if you could only find her, the shame in regard of what I've said would not be laid heavily upon her by the people.”
“O,” exclaimed her father, starting up, “O, Granua, Granua, my heart's life! where are you from us? Was not your voice the music of our hearth? Did not your light laugh keep it cheerful and happy? But where are you now? O, will no one bring me back my daughter? Where is my child? she that was the light--the breakin' of the summer mornin' amongst us! But wait; they say the villain is recoverin' that destroyed her--well--he may recover from the blow of Shawn-na-Middogue, but he will get a blow from me that he won't recover from. I will imitate Morrissy--and will welcome his fate.”
“Aisy, Torley,” said Casey; “hould in a little. You are spakin' now of Masther Charles?”
“I am, the villain! warn't they found together?”
“I have one question to ask you,” proceeded Barney, “and it is this--when did you see or spake with Shawn-na-Middogue?”
“Not since that unfortunate night.”
“Well, all I can tell you is this--that Masther Charles had as much to do with the ruin of your daughter as the king of Jerusalem. Take my word for that. He is not the stuff that such a villain is made of, but I suspect who is.”
“And who do you suspect, Barney?”
“I say I only suspect; but, so long as it is only suspicion, I will mention no names. It wouldn't be right; and for that reason I will wait until I have betther information. But, after all,” he proceeded, “maybe nothing wrong has happened.”
The mother shook her head: “I know to the contrairy,” she replied, “and intended on that very night to bring her to an account about her appearance, but I never had the opportunity.”
The father here wrung his hands, and his groans were dreadful.
“Could you see Shawn-na-Middogue?” asked Barney.
“No,” replied Davoren; “he, too, has disappeared; and although he is hunted like a bag-fox, nobody can find either hilt or hair of him.”
“Might it not be possible that she is with him?” he asked again.
“No, Barney,” replied her mother, “we know Shawn too well for that. He knows how we loved her, and what we would suffer by her absence. Shawn, though driven to be an outlaw, has a kind heart, and would never allow us to suffer what we are sufferin' on her account. O, no! we know Shawn too well for that.”
“Well,” replied Barney, meditatively, “there's one thing I'm inclined to think: that whoever was the means of bringing shame and disgrace upon poor Granua will get a touch of his middogue that won't fail as the first did. Shawn now knows his man, and, with the help of God, I hope he won't miss his next blow. I must now go; and before I do, let me tell you that, as I said before, Masther Charles is as innocent of the shame brought upon poor Granua as the king of Jerusalem.”
There is a feeling of deep but silent sorrow which weighs down the spirit after the death of some beloved individual who is taken away from among the family circle. It broods upon, and casts a shadow of the most profound gloom over the bereaved heart; but let a person who knew the deceased, and is capable of feeling a sincere and friendly sympathy for the survivors, enter into this circle of sorrow; let him or her dwell upon the memory of the departed; then that silent and pent-up grief bursts out, and the clamor of lamentation is loud and vehement. It was so upon this occasion. When Barney rose to take his departure, a low murmur of grief assailed his ears; it gradually became more loud; it increased; it burst into irrepressible violence--they wept aloud; they flew to her clothes, which hung, as we said, motionless upon the stalk of burdock against the wall; they kissed them over and over again; and it was not until Barney, now deeply affected, succeeded in moderating their sorrow, that these strong and impassioned paroxysms were checked and subdued into something like reasonable grief. Having consoled and pacified them as far as it was in his power, he then took his departure under a feeling of deep regret that no account of the unfortunate girl had been obtained.
The next day Mrs. Lindsay and Harry prepared to pay the important visit. As before, the old family carriage was furbished up, and the lady once more enveloped in her brocades and satins. Harry, too, made it a point to appear in his best and most becoming habiliments; and, truth to tell, an exceedingly handsome and well-made young fellow he was. The dress of the day displayed his manly and well-proportioned limbs to the best advantage, whilst his silver-hilted sword, in addition to the general richness of his costume, gave him the manner and appearance of an accomplished cavalier. Barney's livery was also put a second time into requisition, and the coachman's cocked hat was freshly crimped for the occasion.
“Is it true, mother?” inquired Harry, as they went along, “that this old noodle has built his residence as much after the shape of a cockle-shell as was possible to be accomplished?”
“Perfectly true, as you will see,” she replied.
“But what could put such a ridiculous absurdity into his head?”
“Because he thought of the name before the house was built, and he got it built simply to suit the name. 'There is no use,' said he, 'in calling it Cockle Hall unless it resembles a cockle;' and, indeed, when you see it, you will admit the resemblance.”
“Egad,” said her son, “I never dreamed that fate was likely to cramp me in a cockleshell. I dare say there is a touch of sublimity about it. The associations are in favor of it.”
“No,” replied his mother, “but it has plenty of comfort and convenience about, it. The plan was his own, and he contrived to make it, notwithstanding its ludicrous shape, one of the most agreeable residences in the country. He is a blunt humorist, who drinks a good deal, and instead of feeling offence at his manner, which is rather rough, you will please him best by answering him exactly in his own spirit.”
“I am glad you gave me this hint,” said her son; “I like that sort of thing, and it will go hard if I don't give him as good as he brings.”
“In that case,” replied the mother, “the chances will be ten to one in your favor. Seem, above all things, to like his manner, because the old fool is vain of it, and nothing gratifies him so much.”
“But about the niece? What is the cue there, mother?”
“The cue of a gentleman, Harry--of a well-bred and respectful gentleman. You may humor the old fellow to the top of his bent; but when you become the gentleman with her, she will not misinterpret your manner with her uncle, but will look upon the transition as a mark of deference to herself. And now you have your instructions: be careful and act upon them. Miss Riddle is a girl of sense, and, they say, of feeling; and it is on this account, I believe, that she is so critical in scrutinizing the conduct and intellect of her lovers. So there is my last hint.”
“Many thanks, my dear mother; it will, I think, be my own fault if I fail with either uncle or niece, supported as I shall be by your eloquent advocacy.”
On arriving at Cockle Hall, Harry, on looking out of the carriage window, took it for granted that his mother had been absolutely bantering him. “Cockle Hall!” he exclaimed: “why, curse the hall I see here, good, bad, or indifferent. What did you mean, mother? Were you only jesting?”
“Keep quiet,” she replied, “and above all things don't seem surprised at the appearance of the place. Look precisely as if you had been in it ever since it was built.”
The appearance of Cockle Hall was, indeed, as his mother had very properly informed him, ludicrous in the extreme. It was built on a surface hollowed out of a high bank, or elevation, with which the roof of it was on a level. It was, of course, circular and flat, and the roof drooped, or slanted off towards the rear, precisely in imitation of a cockle-shell. There was, however, a complete _deceptio visus_ in it. To the eye, in consequence of the peculiarity of its position, it appeared to be very low, which, in point of fact, was not exactly the case, for it consisted of two stories, and had comfortable and extensive apartments”. There was a paved space wide enough for two carriages to pass each other, which separated it from the embankment that surrounded it. Altogether, when taken in connection with the original idea of its construction, it was a difficult thing to look at it without mirth. On entering the drawing-room, which Harry did alone--for his mother, having seen Miss Riddle in the parlor, entered it in order to have a preliminary chat with her--her son found a person inside dressed in a pair of red plush breeches, white stockings a good deal soiled, a yellow long-flapped waistcoat, and a wig, with a cue to it which extended down the whole length of his back,--evidently a servant in dirty lively. There was something _degagee_ and rather impudent in his manner and appearance, which Harry considered as in good keeping with all he had heard of this eccentric nobleman. Like master like man, thought he.
“Well,” said the servant, looking hardly at him, “what do you want?”
“You be cursed,” replied Harry; “don't be impertinent; do you think I'm about to disclose my business to you, you despicable menial? Why don't you get your stockings washed? But if you wish to know what I want, I want your master.”
The butler, footman, or whatever he might hive been, fixed a keen look upon him, accompanied by a grin of derision that made the visitor's gorge rise a good deal.
“My master,” said the other, “is not under this roof. What do you think of that?”
“You mean the old cockle is not in his shell, then,” replied Harry.
“Come,” said the other, with a chuckle of enjoyment, “curse me, but that's good. Who are you? --what are you? You are in good feathers--only give an account of yourself.”
Harry was a keen observer, but was considerably aided by what he had heard from his mother. The rich rings, however, which he saw sparkling on the fingers of what he had conceived to be the butler or footman, at once satisfied him that he was then addressing the worthy nobleman himself. In the meantime, having made this discovery, he resolved to act the farce out.
“Why should I give an account of myself to you, you cursed old sot? --you drink, sirrah: I can read it in your face.”
“I say, give an account of yourself; what's your business here?”
“Come, then,” replied Harry, “as you appear to be a comical old scoundrel, I don't care, for the joke's sake, if I do. I am coming to court Miss Riddle, ridiculous old Cockletown's niece.”
“Why are you coming to court her?”
“Because I understand she will have a good fortune after old Cockle takes his departure.”
“Eh, confound me, but that's odd; why, you are a devilish queer fellow. Did you ever see Lord Cockletown?”
“Not I,” replied Harry; “nor I don't care a curse whether I do or not, provided I had his niece secure.”
“Did you ever see the niece?”
“Don't annoy me, sirrah. No, I didn't; neither do I care if I never did, provided I secure old Cockle's money and property. If it could be so managed, I would prefer being married to her in the dark.”
The old peer walked two or three times through the room in a kind of good-humored perplexity, raising his wig and scratching his head under it, and surveying Woodward from time to time with a serio-comic expression.
“Of course you are a profligate, for that is the order of the day?”
“Why, of course I am,” replied Harry.
“Any intrigues--eh?”
“Indeed,” replied the other, pulling a long face, “I am ashamed to answer you on that subject. Intrigues! I regret to say only half a dozen yet, but my prospects in that direction are good.”
“Have you fought? Did you ever commit murder?”
“It can scarcely be called by that name. It was in tavern brawls; one was a rascally cockleman, and the other a rascally oyster-man.”
“How did you manage the oysterman with a knife, eh?”
“No, sirrah; with my sword I did him open.”
“Have you any expectation of being hanged?”
“Why, according to the life I have led, I think there is every probability that I may reach that honorable position.”
The old peer could bear this no longer. He burst out into a loud laugh, which lasted upwards of two minutes.
“Faith,” said Harry, “if you had such a prospect before you, I don't think you would consider it such a laughing matter.”
“Curse you, sir, do you know who I am?”
“Curse yourself, sir,” replied the other, “no, I don't; how should I, when I never saw you before?”
“Sir, I am Lord Cockletown.”
“And, sir, I am Harry Woodward, son--favorite son--to, Mrs. Lindsay of Rathfillan House.”
“What! are you a son of that old fagot?”
“Her favorite son, as I said; that old fagot, sir, is my mother.”
“Ay, but who was your father?” asked his lordship, with a grin, “for that's the rub.”
“That is the rub,” said Woodward, laughing; “how the devil can I tell?”
“Good again,” said his lordship; “confound me but you are a queer one. I tell you what, I like you.”
“I don't care a curse whether you do or not, provided your niece does.”
“Are you the fellow that has been abroad, and returned home lately?”
“I am the very fellow,” replied Woodward, with a ludicrous and good-humored emphasis upon the word fellow.
“There was a bonfire made for you on your return?”
“There was, my lord.”
“And there fell a shower of blood upon that occasion?”
“Not a doubt of it, my lord.”
“Well, you are a strange fellow altogether. I have not for a long time met a man so much after my own heart.”
“That is because our dispositions resemble each other. If I had the chance of a peerage, I would be as original as your lord-ship in the selection of my title; but I trust I shall be gratified in that, too; because, if I marry your niece, I will enter into public life, make myself not only a useful, but a famous man, and, of course, the title of Cockletown will be revived in my person, and will not perish with you. No, my lord, should I marry your niece, your title shall descend with your blood, and there is something to console you.”
“Come,” said the old peer, “shake hands. Have you a capacity for public business?”
“I was born for it, my lord. I feel that fact; besides, I have a generous ambition to distinguish myself.”
“Well,” said the peer, “we will talk all that over in a few days. But don't you admit that I am an eccentric old fellow?”
“And doesn't your lordship admit that I am an eccentric young fellow?”
“Ay, but, harkee, Mr. Woodward,” said the peer, “I always sleep with one eye open.”
“And I,” replied Harry, “sleep with both eyes open.”
“Come, confound me, that beats me, you must get on in life, and I will consider your pretensions to my niece.”
At this moment his mother and Miss Riddle entered the drawing-room, which, notwithstanding the comical shape of the mansion, was spacious, and admirably furnished. Miss Riddle's Christian name was Thomasina; but her eccentric uncle never called her by any other appellation than Tom, and occasionally Tommy.
“Mrs. Lindsay, uncle,” said the girl, introducing her.
“Eh? Mrs. Lindsay! O! how do you do, Mrs. Lindsay? How is that unfortunate devil, your husband?”
Now Mrs. Lindsay was one of those women who, whenever there was a selfish object in view, could not only suppress her feelings, but exhibit a class of them in direct opposition to those she actually felt.
“Why unfortunate, my lord?” she asked, smiling.
“Why, because I am told he plays second fiddle at home, and a devilish deal out of tune too, in general. You play first, ma'am; but they say, notwithstanding, that there's a plentiful lack of harmony in your concerts.”
“All,” she replied, “your lordship must still have your joke, I perceive; but, at all events, I am glad to see you in such spirits.”
“Well, you may thank your son for that. I say, Tom,” he added, addressing his niece, “he's a devilish good fellow; a queer chap, and I like him. Woodward, this is Tom Riddle, my niece. This scamp, Tom, is that woman's son, Mr. Woodward. He's an accomplished youth: I'll be hanged if he isn't. I asked him how many intrigues he has had, and he replied, with a dolorous face, only half a dozen yet. He only committed two murders, he says; and when I asked him if he thought there was any probability of his being hanged, he replied that, from a review of his past life, and what he contemplated in the future, he had little doubt of it.”
Harry Woodward was indeed, a most consummate tactician. From the moment Miss Riddle entered the room, his air and manner became that of a most polished gentleman; and after bowing to her when introduced, he cast, from time to time, a glance at her, which told her, by its significance, that he had only been gratifying her uncle by playing into his whims and eccentricities. In the meantime the heart of Mrs. Lindsay bounded with delight at the progress which she saw, by the complacent spirit of the old peer, honest and adroit Harry had made in his good opinion.
“Miss Riddle,” said he, “his lordship and I have been bantering each other; but although I considered myself what I may term, an able hand at it, yet I find I am no match for him.”
“Well, not exactly, I believe,” replied his lordship; “but, notwithstanding, you are one of the best I have met.”
“Why, my lord,” replied Woodward, “I like the thing; and, indeed, I never knew any one fond of it who did not possess a good heart and a candid disposition; so, you see, my lord, there is a compliment for each of us.”
“Yes, Woodward, and we both deserve it.”
“I trust Mr. Woodward,” observed his niece, “that you don't practise your abilities as a banterer upon our sex.”
“Never! Miss Riddle; that would be ungenerous and unmanly. There is nothing due to your sex but respect, and that, you know, is incompatible with banter.
“The wit that could wantonly sport with the modesty of woman degenerates into impudence and insult;” and he accompanied the words with a low and graceful bow.
This young fellow, thought Miss Riddle, is a gentleman.
“Yes, but, Mr. Woodward, we sometimes require a bantering; and, what is more, a remonstrance. We are not perfect, and surely it is not the part of a friend to overlook our foibles or our errors.”
“True, Miss Riddle, but it is not by bantering they will be reclaimed. A friendly remonstrance, delicately conveyed, is one thing, but the buffoonery of a banter is another.”
“What's that?” said the peer, “buffoonery! I deny it, sir, there is no buffoonery in banter.”
“Not, my lord, when it occurs between gentlemen,” replied Woodward, “but you know, with the ladies it is a different thing.”
“Ay, well, that's not bad; a proper distinction. I tell you what, Woodward, you are a clever fellow; and I'm not sure but I'll advocate your cause with Tom there. Tom, he tells me he is coming to court you, and he says he doesn't care a fig about either of us, provided he could secure your fortune. Ay, and, what's more, he says that if you and he are married, he hopes it will be in the dark. What do you think of that now?”
Miss Riddle did not blush, nor affect a burst of indignation, but she said what pleased both Woodward and his mother far better.
“Well, uncle,” she replied, calmly, “even if he did say so, I believe he only expressed in words what most, if not all, of my former lovers actually felt, but were too cautious to acknowledge.”
“I trust, Miss Eiddle,” said Harry, smiling graciously, “that I am neither so silly nor so stupid as to defend a jest by anything like a serious apology. You will also be pleased to recollect that, as an argument for my success, I admitted two murders, half a dozen intrigues, and the lively prospect of being hanged. The deuce is in it, if these are not strong qualifications in a lover, especially in a lover of yours, Miss Riddle.”
The reader sees that the peer was anything but a match for Woodward, who contrived, and with perfect success, to turn all his jocular attacks to his own account.
Miss Riddle smiled, for the truth was that Harry began to rise rapidly in her good opinion. His sprightliness was gentlemanly and agreeable, and he contrived, besides, to assume the look and air of a man who only indulged in it in compliment to her uncle, and, of course, indirectly to herself, with whom, it was but natural, he should hope to make him an advocate. Still the expression of his countenance, as he managed it, appeared to her to be that of a profound and serious thinker--one whose feelings, when engaged, were likely to retain a strong hold of his heart. That he should model his features into such an expression is by no means strange, when we reflect with what success hypocrisy can stamp upon them all those traits of character for which she wishes to get credit from the world.
“Come, Tom,” said his lordship, “it's time for luncheon; we can't allow our friends to go without refreshments. I say, Woodward, I'm a hospitable old fellow; did you ever know that before?”
“I have often heard it, my lord,” replied the other, “and I hope to have still better proof of it.” This was uttered with a significant, but respectful glance, at the niece, who was by no means displeased at it.
“Ay! ay!” said his lordship, laughing, “the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Well, you shall have an opportunity, and soon, too; you appear to be a blunt, honest fellow; and hang me but I like you.”
Miss Riddle now went out to order in the refreshments, but not without feeling it strange how her uncle and herself should each contemplate Woodward's character in so different a light--the uncle looking upon him as a blunt, honest fellow, whilst to her he appeared as a man of sense, and a perfect gentleman Such, however, was the depth of his hypocrisy, that he succeeded at once in pleasing both, and in deceiving both.
“Well, Woodward, what do you think of Tom?” asked his lordship.
“Why, my lord, that she is an admirable and lovely girl.”
“Well, you are right, sir; Tom is an admirable girl, and loves her old uncle as if he was her father, or maybe a great deal better; she will have all I am worth when I pop off, so there's something for you to think upon.”
“No man, my lord, capable of appreciate ing her could think of anything but herself.”
“What! not of her property?”
“Property, my-lord; is a very secondary subject when taken into consideration with the merits of the lady herself. I am no enemy to property, and I admit its importance as an element of happiness when reasonably applied, but I am neither sordid nor selfish; and I know how little, after all, it contributes to domestic enjoyment, unless accompanied by those virtues which constitute the charm of connubial life.”
“Confound me but you must have got that out of a book, Woodward.”
“Out of the best book, my lord--the book of life and observation.”
“Why, curse it, you are talking philosophy, though.”
“Only common sense, my lord.”
His lordship, who was walking to and fro in the room, turned abruptly round, looked keenly at him, and then, addressing Mrs. Lindsay, said,-- “Why, upon my soul, Mrs. Lindsay, we must try and do something with this fellow; he'll be lost to the world if we don't. Come, I say, we must make a public man of him.”
“To become a public man is his own ambition, my lord,” replied Mrs. Lindsay; “and although I am his mother, and may feel prejudiced in his favor, still I agree with your lordship that it is a pity to see such abilities as his unemployed.”
“Well, madam, we shall consider of it. What do you think, Woodward, if we made a bailiff of you?”
At this moment Miss Riddle entered the room just in time to hear the question.
“The very thing, my lord; and the first capture I should make would be Miss Riddle, your fair niece here.”
“Curse me, but the fellow's a cat,” said the peer, laughing. “Throw him as you will, he always falls upon his legs. What do you think, Tom? Curse me but your suitor here talked philosophy in your absence.”
“Only common sense, Miss Riddle,” said Harry. “Philosophy, it is said, excludes feeling; but that is not a charge which I ever heard brought against common sense.”
“I am an enemy neither to philosophy nor common sense,” replied his niece, “because I think neither of them incompatible with feeling; but I certainly prefer common sense.”
“There's luncheon announced,” said the peer, rubbing his hands, “and that's a devilish deal more comfortable than either of them. Come, Mrs. Lindsay; Woodward, take Tom with you.”
They then descended to the dining-room, where the conversation was lively and amusing, the humorous old peer furnishing the greater proportion of the mirth.
“Mrs. Lindsay,” said he, as they were preparing to go, “I hope, after all, that this clever son of yours is not a fortune-hunter.”
“He need not be so, my lord,” replied his mother, “and neither is he. He himself will have a handsome property.”
“Will have. I would rather you wouldn't speak in the future tense, though. Woodward,” he added, addressing that gentleman, “remember that I told you that I sleep with one eye open.”
“If you have any doubts, my lord, on this subject,” replied Woodward, “you may imitate me: sleep with both open.”
“Ay, as the hares do, and devil a bit they're the better for it; but, in the meantime, what property have you, or will you have? There is nothing like coming to the point.”
“My lord,” replied Woodward, “I respect Miss Riddle too much to enter upon such a topic in her presence. You must excuse me, then, for the present; but if you wish for precise information on the subject, I refer you to my mother, who will, upon a future occasion--and I trust it will be soon--afford you every satisfaction on this matter.”
“Well,” replied his lordship, “that is fair enough--a little vague, indeed--but no matter, your mother and I will talk about it. In the meantime you are a devilish clever fellow, and, as I said, I like you; but still I will suffer no fortune-hunter to saddle himself upon my property. I repeat it, I sleep with one eye open. I will be happy to see you soon, Mr. Woodward; but remember I will be determined on this subject altogether by the feelings of my niece Tom here.”
“I have already said, my lord,” replied Woodward, “that, except as a rational element in domestic happiness, I am indifferent to the consideration or influence of property. The prevailing motives with me are the personal charms; the character, and the well-known virtues of your niece. It is painful to me to say even this in her presence, but your lordship has forced it from me. However, I trust that Miss Riddle understands and will pardon me.”
“Mr. Woodward,” she observed, “you have said nothing unbecoming a gentleman; nothing certainly but that which you could not avoid saying.”
After the usual forms of salutation at parting, Harry and his mother entered the old carriage and proceeded on their way home.
“Well, Harry,” said his mother, “what do you think?”
“A hit,” he replied; “a hit with both, but especially with the niece, who certainly is a fine girl. If there is to be any opposition, it will be with that comical old buffoon, her uncle. He says he sleeps with one eye open, and I believe it. You told me it could not be determined whether he was more fool or knave; but, from all I have seen of him, the devil a bit of fool I can perceive, but, on the contrary, a great deal of the knave. Take my word for it, old Cockle-town is not to be imposed upon.”
“Is there no likelihood of that wretch, Alice Goodwin, dying?” said his mother.
“That is a case I must take in hand,” returned the son. “I shall go to Ballyspellan and put an end to her. After that we can meet old Cockletown with courage. I feel that I am a favorite with his niece, and she, you must have perceived, is a favorite with him, and can manage him as she wishes, and that is one great point gained--indeed, the greatest.”
“No,” replied his mother, “the greatest is the death of Alice Goodwin.”
“Be quiet,” said her worthy son; “that shall be accomplished.”
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{
"id": "16004"
}
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17
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Description of the Original Tory
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--Their Manner of Swearing We have introduced an Irish outlaw, or tory, in the person of Shawn-na-Middoque, and, as it may be necessary to afford the reader a clearer insight into this subject, we shall give a short sketch of the character and habits of the wild and lawless class to which he belonged. The first description of those savage banditti that has come down to us with a distinct and characteristic designation, is known as that of the wild band of tories who overran the South and West of Ireland both before the Revolution and after it. The actual signification of the word _tory_, though now, and for a long time, the appellative of a political party, is scarcely known except to the Irish scholar and historian. The term proceeds from the Irish noun _toir_, a pursuit, a chase; and from that comes its cognate, _toiree_, a person chased, or pursued--thereby meaning an outlaw, from the fact that the individuals to whom it was first applied were such as had, by their murders and robberies, occasioned themselves to be put beyond the protection of all laws, and, consequently, were considered outlaws, or tories, and liable to be shot down without the intervention of judge or jury, as they often were, wherever they could be seen or apprehended. We believe the word first assumed its distinct character in the wars of Cromwell, as applied to the wild freebooters of Ireland.
Tory-hunting was at one time absolutely a pastime in Ireland, in consequence of this desperate body of people having proved the common enemy of every class, without reference to either religious or political distinction. We all remember the old nursery song, which, however simple, is very significant, and affords us an excellent illustration of their unfortunate condition, and the places of their usual retreat.
“I'll tell you a story about Johnny Magrory, Who went to the wood and shot a tory; I'll tell you another about his brother. Who went to the wood and shot another.”
From this it is evident that the tories of the time of Cromwell and Charles the Second were but the lineal descendants of the thievish wood kernes mentioned by Spenser, or at least the inheritors of their habits. Defoe attributes the establishment of the word in England to the infamous Titus Oates.
“There was a meeting,” says he “(at which I was present), in the city, upon the occasion of the discovery of some attempt to stifle the evidence of the witnesses (about the Popish plot), and tampering with Bedlow and Stephen Dugdale. Among the discourse Mr. Bedlow said 'he had letters from Ireland; that there were some tories to be brought over hither, who were privately to murder Dr. Oates and the said Bedlow.' The doctor, whose zeal was very hot, could never hear any man after this talk against the plot, or against the witnesses, but he thought he was one of the tories, and called almost every man who opposed him in his discourse a tory--till at last the word became popular. Hume's account of it is not very much different from this.
“The court party,” says he, “reproached their antagonists with their affinity to the fanatical conventiclers of Scotland, who were known by the name of Whigs. * The country party found a resemblance between the courtiers and the Popish banditti in Ireland, on whom the appellation of tory was affixed. And after this manner these foolish terms of reproach came into public and general use.”
* The word _whig_ is taken from the fact, that in Scotland it was applied to milk that had become sour; and to this day milk that has lost its sweetness is termed by the Scotch, and their descendants in the north of Ireland, whigged milk.
It is evident, from Irish history, that the original tories, politically speaking, belonged to no party whatever. They were simply thieves, robbers, and murderers on their own account. Every man's hand was against them, and certainly their hands were against every man. The fact is, that in consequence of the predatory nature of Irish warfare, which plundered, burned, and devastated as it went along, it was impossible that thousands of the wretched Irish should not themselves be driven by the most cruel necessity, for the preservation of their lives and of those of their families, to become thieves and plunderers in absolute self-defence. Their habitations, such as they were, having been destroyed and laid in ruins, they were necessarily driven to seek shelter in the woods, caves, and other fastnesses of the country, from which they issued forth in desperate hordes, armed as well as they could, to rob and to plunder for the very means of life. Goaded by hunger and distress of every kind, those formidable and ferocious “wood kernes” only paid the country back, by inflicting on it that plunder and devastation which they had received at its hands. Neither is it surprising that they should make no distinction in their depredations, because they experienced, to their cost, that no “hosting,” on either or any side, ever made a distinction with them. Whatever hand was uppermost, whether in the sanguinary struggles of their rival chiefs, or in those between the Irish and English, or Anglo-Irish, the result was the same to them. If they were not robbed or burned out to-day, they might be to-morrow; and under such circumstances to what purpose could they be expected to exercise industrious or laborious habits, when they knew that they might go to bed in comfort at night, and rise up beggars in the morning? It is easy to see, then, that it was the lawless and turbulent state of the country that reduced them to such a mode of life, and drove them to make reprisals upon the property of others, in the absence of any safe or systematic way of living. There is no doubt that a principle of revenge and retaliation animated their proceedings, and that they stood accountable for acts of great cruelty and murder, as well as of robbery. The consequence necessarily was, that they felt themselves beyond the protection of all law, and fearfully distinct in the ferocity of their character from the more civilized population of the country, which waged an exterminating warfare against them under the sanction and by the assistance of whatever government existed.
It was about the year 1689 that they began to assume or to be characterized by a different designation--we mean that of rapparees; so called, it is said, from the fact of their using the half pike or short rapier; although, for our part, we are inclined to think that they were so termed from the word _rapio_, to plunder, which strikes us as the most appropriate and obvious. At all events it is enough to say that the _tories_ were absorbed in the rapparees, and their name in Ireland and Great Britain, except as a political class, was forgotten and lost in that of the rapparees, who long survived them.
Barney Casey was, as the reader must have perceived, a young fellow of good sense and very acute observation. He had been, since an early period of his youth, domesticated in the family of Mr. Lindsay, who respected him highly for his attachment and integrity. He had a brother, however, who, with his many good qualities, was idle and headstrong. His name was Michael, and, sooth to say, the wild charm of a freebooter's life, in addition to his own indisposition to labor for his living, were more than the weak materials of his character could resist. He consequently joined Shawn-na-Middogue and his gang, and preferred the dangerous and licentious life of a robber and plunderer to that of honesty and labor--precisely as many men connected with a seafaring life prefer the habits of the smuggler or the pirate to those of the more honorable or legitimate profession. Poor Barney exerted all his influence with his brother with a hope of rescuing him from the society and habits of hia dissolute companions, but to no purpose. It was a life of danger and excitement--of plans and projects, and changes, and chases, and unexpected encounters--of retaliation, and, occasionally, the most dreadful revenge. Such, however, was the state of society at that time, that those persons who had connected themselves with these desperate outlaws were by no means afraid to pay occasional visits to their own relatives, and from time to time to hold communication with them. Nay, not only was this the fact, but, what is still more strange, many persons who were related to individuals connected with this daring and unmanageable class were in the habit of attending their nightly meetings, sometimes for the purpose of preventing a robbery, or of killing a family whom they wished to suffer.
One night, during this period of our narrative, Barney's brother contrived to have secret interview with him for the purpose of communicating some information to him which had reached his ears from Shawn-na-Middogue, to the effect that Caterine Collins had admitted to him (Shawn), upon his promise of marrying her--a promise made only for the purpose of getting into her confidence, and making her useful as an agent to his designs--that she knew, she said, that it was not his brother Charles who had brought unfortunate Grace Davoren to ruin, but Harry Woodward, and, she added, when it was too late, she suspected something from his manner, of his intention to send Charles, on that disastrous night, in his stead. But Shawn, who knew Caterine and her connections well, recommended Michael Casey to apprise his brother that he could not keep too sharp an eye upon the movements of both, but, above all things, to try and induce him to set Woodward in such a way that he could repair the blow upon him, which, in mistake, he had dealt to his innocent brother. Now, although Barney almost detested Woodward, yet he was incapable of abetting Shawn's designs upon Suit Balor.
“No,” said he to his brother, “I would die first. It is true I do not like a bone in his body, but I will never lend myself to such a cowardly act as that; besides, from all I know of Shawn, I did not think he would stoop to murder.”
“Ay, but think of our companions,” replied hia brother, “and think too, of what a notion they have of it. Shawn, however, is a different man from most, if not all, of them--and he says he was urged on by a fit of fury when he found the man, that he thought the destroyer of Grace Davoren, speaking to her in such a lonely and suspicious place. It was his intention to have bidden him to stand on his guard and defend himself, but jealousy and revenge overcame him at the moment, and he struck the blow. Thank God that it failed; but you may take my word that the next won't--because Shawn now swears, that without preface or apology, or one moment's warning, he will stab him to the heart wherever he can meet him.”
“It's a bad life,” replied Barney, “that Shawn's leading; but, poor fellow, he and his resaved hard treatment--their house and place torn down and laid in rains, and instead of protection from government, they found themselves proclaimed outlaws. What could he and they do? But, Michael, it was a different thing with you. Our family were comfortable--too much so, indeed, for you; you got idle habits and a distaste for work, and so, rather than settle down to industry, you should join them.”
“Ay, and so would you, if you knew the life we lead.”
“That might be,” replied his brother, “if I didn't happen to think of the death you die.”
“As to that,” said Michael, “we have all made up our minds; shooting and hanging will get nothing out of us but the death-laugh at our enemies.”
“Ay, enemies of your own making,” said Barney; “but as to the death-laugh on the gallows, remember that that is at your own expense. It will be what we call on the wrong side of the mouth, I think. But in regard of these nightly meetings of yours, I would have no objection to see one of them. Do you think I would be allowed to join you for an hour or two, that I might hear and see what you say and do?”
“You may, Barney; but you know it isn't every one that would get that privilege; but in ordher to make sure, I'll spake to Shawn about it. Leave is light, they say; and as he knows you're not likely to turn a spy upon our hands, I'm certain he won't have any objection.”
“When and where will you meet next?” asked Barney.
“On the very spot where Shawn struck his middogue into the body of Masther Charles,” replied his brother. Shawn has some oath of revenge to make against Woodward, because he suspects that the villain knows where poor Granua Davoren is.”
“Well, on that subject he may take his own coorse,” replied Barney; “but as for me, Michael, I neither care nor will think of the murdher of a fellow-crature, no matther how wicked he may be, especially when I know that it is planned for him. As a man and a Christian, I cannot lend myself to it, and of coorse--but this is between ourselves--I will put Mr. Woodward on his guard.”
Those were noble sentiments, considering the wild and licentious period of which we write, and the dreadfully low estimate at which human life was then held.
“Act as you like,” replied Michael; “but this I can tell you, and this I do tell you, that if, for the safety of this villain, you take a single step that may bring _Shawn-na-Middogue_ into danger, if you were my brother ten times over I will not prevent him--Shawn I mean--from letting loose his vengeance upon you. No, nor upon Rathfillan House and all that it contains, you among the number.”
“I will do nothing,” replied Barney, firmly, “to bring Shawn or any of you into danger; but as sure as I have a Christian soul to be saved, and my life in my body, I will, as I said, put Mr. Harry Woodward upon his guard against him. So now, if you think it proper to let me be present at your meeting, knowing what you know, I will go, but not otherwise.”
“I feel, Barney,” said his brother, “that my mind is much hardened of late by the society I keep. I remember when I thought murder as horrible a thing as you do, but now it is not so. The planning and the plotting of it is considered only as a good joke among us.”
“But why don't you lave them, then?” said Barney. “The pious principles of our father and mother were never such as they practise and preach among you. Why don't you lave them, I say?”
“Don't you know,” replied Michael, “that that step would be my death warrant? Once we join them we must remain with them, let what may happen. No man laving them, unless he gets clear of the country altogether, may expect more than a week's lease of life; in general not so much. They look upon him as a man that has been a spy among them, and who has left them to make his peace, and gain a fortune from government for betraying them; and you know how often it has happened.”
“It is too true, Michael,” replied his brother, “for unfortunately it so happens that, whether for good or evil, Irishmen can never be got to stand by each other. Ay, it is true--too true. In the meantime call on me to-morrow with liberty from Shawn to attend your meeting, and we will both go there together.”
“Very well,” replied his brother, “I will do so.”
The next night was one of tolerably clear moonlight; and about the hour of twelve or one o'clock some twenty or twenty-five outlaws were assembled immediately adjoining the spot where Charles Lindsay was so severely and dangerously wounded. The appearance of those men was singular and striking. Their garbs, we need scarcely inform our readers, were different from those of the present day. Many--nay, most, if not all of them, were bitter enemies to the law, which rendered it penal for them to wear their glibs, and in consequence most of those present had them in full perfection around their heads, over which was worn the _barrad_ or Irish cap, which, however, was then beginning to fall into desuetude. There was scarcely a man of them on whose countenance was not stamped the expression of care, inward suffering, and, as it would seem, the recollection of some grief or sorrow which had befallen themselves or their families. There was something, consequently, determined and utterly reckless in their faces, which denoted them to be men who had set at defiance both the world and its laws. They all wore the _truis_, the brogue, and beneath the cloaks which covered them were concealed the celebrated Irish skean or mid-dogue, so that at the first glance they presented the appearance of men who were in a peaceful garb and unarmed. The persons of some of them were powerful and admirably symmetrical, as could be guessed from their well-defined outlines. They arranged themselves in a kind of circle around Shawn-na-Middogue, who stood in the centre as their chief and leader. A spectator, however, could not avoid observing that, owing to the peculiarity of their costume, which, in consequence of their exclusion from society, not to mention the poverty and hardship which they were obliged to suffer, their appearance as a body was wild and almost savage. In their countenances was blended a twofold expression, composed of ferocity and despair. They felt themselves excommunicated, whether justly or not, from the world and its institutions, and knew too well that society, and the laws by which it is regulated and protected, were hunting them like beasts of prey for their destruction. Perhaps they deserved it, and this consideration may still more strongly account for their fierce and relentless-looking aspect. There is, in the meantime, no doubt that, however wild, ferocious, and savage they may have appeared, the strong and terrible hand of injustice and oppression had much, too much, to do with the crimes which they had committed, and which drove them out of the pale of civilized life. Altogether the spectacle of their appearance there on that night was a melancholy, as well as a fearful one, and ought to teach statesmen that it is not by oppressive laws that the heart of man can be improved, but that, on the contrary, when those who project and enact them come to reap the harvest of their policy, they uniformly find it one of violence and crime. So it has been since the world began, and so it will be so long as it lasts, unless a more genial and humane principle of legislation shall become the general system of managing, and consequently, of improving society.
“Now, my friends,” said Shawn-na-Middogue, “you all know why we are here. Unfortunate Granua Davoren has disappeared, and I have brought you together that we may set about the task of recovering her, whether she is living or dead. Even her heart-broken parents would feel it a consolation to have her corpse in order that they might give it Christian burial. It will be a shame and a disgrace to us if she is not found, as I said, living or dead. Will you all promise to rest neither night nor day till she is found? In that case swear it on your skeans.”
In a moment every skean was out, and, with one voice, they said, “By the contents of this blessed iron, that has been sharpened for the hearts of our oppressors, we will never rest, either by night or by day, till we find her, living or dead”--every man then crossed himself and kissed his skean--“and, what is more,” they added, “we will take vengeance upon the villain that ruined her.”
“Hould,” said Shawn; “do you know who he is?”
“By all accounts,” they replied, “the man that you struck.”
“No!” exclaimed Shawn, “I struck the wrong man; and poor Granua was right when she screamed out that I had murdered the innocent. But now,” he added, “why am I here among you? I will tell you, although I suppose the most of you know it already: it was good and generous Mr. Lindsay's she-devil of a wife that did it; and it was her he-devil of a son, Harry Woodward, that ruined Granua Davoren. My mother happened to say that she was a heartless and tyrannical woman, that she had the Evil Eye, and that a devil, under the name of Shan-dhinne-dhuv, belonged to her family, and put her up to every kind of wickedness. This, which was only the common report, reached her ears, and the consequence was that because we were-behind in the rent only a single gale, she sent in her bailiffs without the knowledge of her husband, who was from home at the time, and left neither a bed under us nor a roof over us. At all events, it is well for her that she was a woman; but she has a son born in her own image, so far, at least, as a bad heart is concerned; that son is the destroyer of Granua Davoren; but not a man of you must raise his hand to him: he must be left to my vengeance. Caterine Collins has told me much more about him, but it is useless to mention it. The Evil Spirit I spoke of, the Shan-dhinne-dhuv, and he have been often seen together; but no matter for that; he'll find the same spirit badly able to protect him; so, as I said before, he must be left to my vengeance.”
“You mentioned Caterine Collins?” said one of them. “Caterine has friends here, Shawn. What is your opinion of her?”
“Yes,” observed another, “she has friends here; but, then, she has enemies too, men who have a good right to hate the ground she walks on.”
“Whatever my opinion of Caterine Collins may be,” said Shawn, “I will keep it to myself; I only say, that the man who injures her is no friend of mine. Isn't she a woman? And, surely, we are not to quarrel with, or injure a defenceless woman.”
By this piece of policy Shawn gained considerable advantage. His purpose was to preserve such an ascendency over that cunning and treacherous woman as might enable him to make her useful in working out his own designs, his object being, not only on that account, but for the sake of his own personal safety, to stand well with both her friends and her enemies.
Other matters were discussed, and plans of vengeance proposed and assented to, the details of which would afford our readers but slight gratification. After their projects had been arranged, this wild and savage, but melancholy group, dispersed, and so intimately were they acquainted with the intricacies of cover and retreat which then characterized the surface of the country, that in a few minutes they seemed rather to have vanished like spectres than to have disappeared like living men. Shawn, however, remained behind in order to hold some private conversation with Barney Casey.
“Barney,” said he, “I wish to speak, to you about that villain Woodward.”
“I don't at all doubt,” replied this honest and manly peasant, “that he is a villain; but at the same time, Shawn, you must remember that I am not a tory, and that I will neither aid nor assist you in your designs of murdher upon him. I received betther principles from my father and the mother who bore me; and indeed I think the same thing may be said of yourself, Shawn. Still and all, there is no doubt but that, unlike that self-willed brother of mine, you had heavy provocation to join the life you did.”
“Well, Barney,” replied Shawn, in a melancholy tone of voice, “if the same oppressions were to come on us again, I think I would take another course. My die, however, is cast, and I must abide by it. What I wanted to say to you, however, is this:--You are livin' in the same house with Woodward; keep your eye on him--watch him well and closely; he is plotting evil for somebody.”
“Why,” said Barney, “how do you know that?”
“I have it,” replied Shawn, “from good authority. He has paid three or four midnight visits to Sol, the herb docthor, and you know that a greater old scoundrel than he is doesn't breathe the breath of life. It has been long suspected that he is a poisoner, and they say that in spite of the poverty he takes on him, he is rich and full of money. It can be for no good, then, that Woodward consults him at such unseasonable hours.”
“Ay; but who the devil could he think of poisoning?” said Barney. “I see nobody he could wish to poison.”
“Maybe, for all that, the deed is done,” replied Shawn. “Where, for instance, is unfortunate Granua? Who can tell that he hasn't dosed her?”
“I believe him villain enough to do it,” returned the other; “but still I don't think he did. He was at home to my own knowledge the night she disappeared, and could know nothing of what became of her. I think that's a sure case.”
“Well,” said Shawn, “it may be so; but in the manetime his stolen visits to the ould herb docthor are not for nothing. I end, then, as I began--keep your eye on him; watch him closely--and now, good night.”
These hints were not thrown away upon Barney, who was naturally of an observant turn; and accordingly he kept a stricter eye than ever upon the motions of Harry Woodward. This accomplished gentleman, like every villain of his class, was crafty and secret in everything he did and said; that is to say, his object was always to lead those with whom he held intercourse, to draw the wrong inference from his words and actions. Even his mother, as the reader will learn, was not in his full confidence. Such men, however, are so completely absorbed in the management of their own plans, that the latent principle or motive occasionally becomes apparent, without any consciousness of its exhibition on their part. Barney soon had an opportunity of suspecting this. His brother Charles, after what appeared to be a satisfactory convalescence, began to relapse, and a fresh fever to set in. The first person to communicate the melancholy intelligence to Woodward happened to be Barney himself, who, on meeting him early in the morning, said,-- “I am sorry, Mr. Woodward, to tell you that Masther Charles is a great deal worse; he spent a bad night, and it seems has got very feverish.”
A gleam of satisfaction--short and transient, but which, however, was too significant to be misunderstood by such a sagacious observer as Barney--flashed across his countenance--but only for a moment. He recomposed his features, and assuming a look expressive of the deepest sorrow, said,-- “Good heavens, Casey, do you tell me that my poor brother is worse, and we all in such excellent spirits at what we considered his certain but gradual recovery?”
“He is much worse, sir; and the masther this morning has strong doubts of his recovery. He's in great affliction about him, and so are they all. His loss would be felt in the neighborhood, for, indeed, it's he that was well beloved by all who knew him.”
“He certainly was a most amiable and affectionate young fellow,” said Woodward, “and, for my part, if he goes from us through the means of that murdering blow, I shall hunt Shawn-na-Middogue to the death.”
“Will you take a friend's advice?” replied Barney: “we all of us wish, of coorse, to die a Christian death upon our beds, that we may think of the sins we have committed, and ask the pardon of our Saviour and inthersessor for them. I say, then, if you wish to die such a death, and to have time to repent of your sins, avoid coming across Shawn-na-Middogue above all men in the world. I tell you this as a friend, and now you're warned.”
Woodward paused, and his face became black with a spirit of vengeance.
“How does it happen, Casey,” he asked, “that you are able to give me such a warning? You must have some particular information on the subject.”
“The only information I have on the subject is this--that you are set down among most people as the man who destroyed Grace Davoren, and not your brother; Shawn believes this, and on that account, I say, it will be well for you to avoid him. He believes, too, that you have her concealed somewhere--although I don't think so; but if you have, Mr. Woodward, it would be an act of great kindness--an act becomin' both a gentleman and a Christian--to restore the unfortunate girl to her parents.”
“I know no more about her than you do, Casey. How could I? Perhaps my poor brother, when he is capable of it, may be able to afford us some information on the subject. As it is I know nothing of it, but I shall leave nothing undone to recover her if she be alive, or if the thing can be accomplished. In the meantime all I can think of is the relapse of my poor brother. Until he gets better I shall not be able to fix my mind upon anything else. What is Grace Davoren or Shaivn-nu-Middogue--the accursed scoundrel--to me, so long as my dear Charles is in a state of danger?”
“Now,” said he, when they parted “now to work earth and hell to secure Shaum-na-Middogue. He has got my secret concerning the girl Davoren, and I feel that while he is at large I cannot be safe. There is a reward for his head, whether alive or dead, but that I scorn. In the meantime, I shall not lose an hour in getting together a band who will scour the country along with myself, until we secure him. After that I shall be at perfect liberty to work out my plans without either fear of, or danger from, this murdering ruffian.”
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{
"id": "16004"
}
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18
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The Toir, or Tory Hunt.
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Harry Woodward now began to apprehend that, as the reader sees, either his star or that of _Shawn-na-Middogue_ must be in the ascendant. He accordingly set to work with all his skill and craft to secure his person and offer him up as a victim to the outraged laws of his country, and to a government that had set a price upon his head, as the leader of the outlaws; or, what came nearer to his wish, either to shoot him down with his own hand, or have him shot by those who were on the alert for such persons. The first individual to whom he applied upon the subject was his benevolent step-father, who he knew was a magistrate, and whose duty was to have the wretched class of whom we write arrested or shot as best they might.
“Sir,” said he, “I think after what has befallen my dear brother Charles that this murdering villain, Shawn-na-Middogue, who is at the head of the tories and outlaws, ought to be shot, or taken up and handed over to government.”
“Why,” asked Mr. Lindsay, “what has happened in connection with Shawn-na-Middogue and your brother?”
“Why, that it was from his hand he received the wound that may be his death. That, I think, is sufficient to make you exert yourself; and indeed it is, in my opinion, both a shame and a scandal that the subject has not been taken up with more energy by the magistracy of the country.”
“But who can tell,” replied Lindsay, “whether it was Shawn-na-Middogue that stabbed Charles? Charles himself does not know the individual who stabbed him.”
“The language of the girl, I think,” replied Woodward, “might indicate it. He was once her lover--” “But she named nobody,” replied the other; “and as for lovers, she had enough of them. If Shawn-na-Middogue is an outlaw now, I know who made him so. I remember when there wasn't a better conducted boy on your mother's property. He was a credit to his family and the neighborhood; but they were turned out in my absence by your unfeeling mother there, Harry; and the fine young fellow had nothing else for it but the life of an outlaw. Confound me if I can much blame him.”
“Thank you, Lindsay,” replied his wife; “as kind as ever to the woman who brought you that property. But you forget what the young scoundrel's mother said of me--do you? that I had the Evil Eye, and that there was a familiar or devil connected with me and my family?”
“Egad! and I'm much of her opinion,” replied her husband; “and if she said it, I give you my honor it is only what every one who knows you says, and what I, who know you best, say as well as they. Begone, madam--leave the room; it was your damned oppression made the boy a tory. Begone, I say--I will bear with your insolence no longer.”
He stood up as he spoke--his eye flashed, and the stamp of his foot made the floor shake. Mrs. Lindsay knew her husband well, and without a single syllable in reply she arose and left the room.
“Harry,” proceeded his stepfather, “I shall take no proceedings against that unfortunate young man--tory though he be; I would resign my magistracy sooner. Do not, therefore, count on me.”
“Well, sir,” said he, with a calm but black expression of countenance, “I will not enter into domestic quarrels; but I am my mother's son.”
“You are,” replied Lindsay, looking closely at him--“and I regret it. I do not like the expression of your face--it is bad; worse I have seldom seen.”
“Be that expression what it may, sir,” replied Woodward, “by the heavens above me I shall rest neither night nor day until I put an end to Shawn-na-Middogue.”
“In the meantime you shall have no assistance from me, Harry; and it ill becomes your mother's son--the woman whose cruelty to the family made him what he is--to attempt to hunt him down. On the contrary, I tell you as a friend to let him pass; the young man is desperate, and his vengeance, or that of his followers, may come on you when you least expect it. It is not his death that will secure you. If he dies through your means, he will leave those behind him who will afford you but short space to settle your last account.”
“Be the consequences what they may,” replied Woodward, “either he or I shall fall.”
He left the room after expressing this determination, and his step-father said,-- “I'm afraid, Maria, we don't properly understand Master Harry. I am much troubled by what has occurred just now. I fear he is a hypocrite in morals, and without a single atom of honorable principle. Did you observe the expression of his face? Curse me if I think the devil himself has so bad a one. Besides, I have heard something about him that I don't like--something which I am not going to mention to you; but I say that in future we must beware of him.”
“I was sorry, papa, to see the expression of his face,” replied Maria; “it was fearful; and above all things the expression of his eye. It made me feel weak whenever he turned it on me.”
“Egad, and it had something of the same effect on myself,” replied her father. “There is some damned expression in it that takes away one's strength. Well,” as I said, “we must beware of him.”
Woodward's next step was to pay a visit to Lord Cockletown, who, as he had gained his title in consequence of his success in tory-hunting, and capturing the most troublesome and distinguished outlaws of that day, was, he thought, the best and most experienced person to whom he could apply for information as to the most successful means of accomplishing his object. He accordingly waited on his lordship, to whom he thought, very naturally, that this exploit would recommend him. His lordship was in the garden, where Woodward found him in hobnailed shoes, digging himself into what he called his daily perspirations.
“Don't be surprised, Mr. Woodward,” said he, “at my employment; I am taking my every-day sweat, because I feel that I could not drink as I do and get on without it. Well, what do you want with me? Is it anything about Tom? Egad, Tom says she rather likes you than otherwise; and if you can satisfy me as to property settlements, and all that, I won't stand in your way; but, in the meantime, what do you want with me now? If it's Tom's affair, the state of your property comes first.”
“No, my lord, I shall leave all dealings of business between you and my mother. This is a different affair, and one on which I wish to have your lordship's advice and direction.”
“Ay, but what is it? Confound it, come to the point.”
“It is a tory-hunt, my lord.”
“Who is the tory, or who are the tories? Come, I'm at home here. What's your plan?”
“Why, simple pursuit. We have the _posse comitatus_.”
“The _posse comitatus! _--the posse devil; what do the tories care about the posse comitatus? Have you bloodhounds?”
“No, my lord, but I think we can procure them.”
“Because,” proceeded his lordship, “to go hunt a tory without bloodhounds is like looking for your grandmother's needle in a bottle of straw.”
“I am thankful to your lordship for that hint,” replied Harry Woodward; “but the truth is, I have been almost since my infancy out of the country, and am consequently, very ignorant of its usages.”
“What particular tory are you going to hunt?'”
“A fellow named Shawn-na-Middogue.”
[Illustration: PAGE 736-- _Shawn-na-Middogue_, your mother's victim] “Ah! _Shawn-na-Middogue_, your mother's victim? Don't hunt him. If you're wise you'll keep your distance from that young fellow. I tell you, Mr. Woodward, there will be more danger to yourself in the hunt than there will be to him. It's a well-known fact that it was your mother's severity to his family that made a tory of him; and, as I said before, I would strongly recommend you to avoid him. How many bloodhounds have you got?”
“Why, I think we can muster half a dozen.”
“Ay, but do you know how to hunt them?”
“Not exactly; but I suppose we may depend upon the instinct of the dogs.”
“No, sir, you may not, unless to a very limited extent. Those tories always, when pursued by bloodhounds, go down the wind whenever it is possible, and, consequently, leave very little trail behind them. Your object will be, of course, to hunt them against the wind; they will consequently have little chance of escape, unless, as they are often in the habit of doing, they administer a sop.”
“What is a sop, my lord?”
“A piece of raw beef or mutton, kept for twenty-four hours under the armpit until it becomes saturated with the moisture of the body; after this, administer it to the dog, and instead of attacking he will follow you over the world. The other sop resorted to by these fellows is the middogue, or skean, and, as they contrive to manage its application, it is the surer of the two. Should you like to see Tom?”
“Unquestionably, my lord. I intended before going to have requested the honor of a short interview.”
“Ay, of course, to make love. Well, I tell you that Tom, like her uncle, has her wits about her. Go up, then, you will find her in the withdrawing-room; and listen--I desire that you will tell her of your tory-hunting project, and ask her opinion upon it. Now, don't forget that, because I will make inquiries about it.”
Woodward certainly found her in what was then termed the withdrawing-room. She was in the act of embroidering, and received him with much courtesy and kindness.
“I hope your mother and family are all well, Mr. Woodward,” she said; “as for your sister Maria she is quite a stay-at-home. Does she ever visit any one at all?”
“Very rarely, indeed, Miss Riddle: but I think she will soon do herself the pleasure of calling upon you.”
“I shall feel much obliged, Mr. Woodward. From what I have heard, and the little I have seen of her, a most amiable girl You have had a chat with my kind-hearted, but eccentric uncle?”
“I have; and he imposed it on me as a condition that I should mention to you an enterprise on which I am bent.”
“An enterprise! Pray, what is it?”
“Why, a tory-hunt; I am going to hunt down Shawn-na-Middogue, as he is called, and I think it will be rendering the country a service to get rid of him.”
Miss Riddle's face got pale as ashes; and she looked earnestly and solemnly into Woodward's face.
“Mr. Woodward,” said she, “would you oblige me with one simple request? Do not hunt down Shawn-na-Middogue: my uncle and I owe him our lives.”
“How is that, Miss Riddle?”
“Do you not know that my uncle was a tory hunter?”
“I have certainly heard so,” replied Woodward; “and I am, besides, aware of it from the admirable instructions which he gave me concerning the best method of hunting them down.”
“Yes, but did he encourage you in your determination of hunting down Shawn-na-Middogue?”
“No, certainly; but, on the contrary, advised me to pass him by--to have nothing to do with him.”
“Did he state his reasons for giving you such advice?”
“He mentioned something with reference to certain legal proceedings taken by my mother against the family of Shawn-na-Middogue. But I presume my mother had her own rights to vindicate, and beyond that I know nothing of it. He nearly stabbed my brother to death, and I will leave no earthly means unattempted to shoot the villain down, or otherwise secure him.”
“Well, you are aware that my uncle was the most successful and celebrated tory-hunter of his day, and rendered important services to the government in that capacity--services which have been liberally rewarded.”
“I am aware of it, Miss Riddle.”
“But you are not aware, as I am, that this same Shawn-na-Middogue saved my uncle's life and mine on the night before last?”
“How could I, Miss Riddle?”
“It is a fact, though, and I beg you to mark it; and I trust that if you respect my uncle and myself, you will not engage in this cruel and inhuman expedition.”
“But your uncle mentioned nothing of this to me, Miss, Riddle.”
“He does not know it yet. I have been all yesterday thinking over the circumstance, with a view of getting his lordship to interfere with the government for this unfortunate youth; but I felt myself placed in circumstances of great difficulty and delicacy with respect to your family and ours. I hope you understand me, Mr. Woodward. I allude to the circumstances which forced him to become an outlaw and a tory, and it struck me that my uncle could not urge any application in his favor without adverting to them.”
“O, Miss Riddle, if you feel an interest in his favor, he shall experience no molestation from me.”
“The only interest which I feel in him is that of humanity, and gratitude, Mr. Woodward; but, indeed, I should rather say that the gratitude should not be common to a man who saved my uncle's life and mine.”
“And pray may I ask how that came about? At all events he has made me his friend forever.”
“My uncle and I were returning home from dinner,--we had dined at Squire Dawson's,--and on coming to a lonely part of the road we found our carriage surrounded by a party of the outlaws, who shouted out, 'This is the old tory-hunter, who got his wealth and title by persecuting us, and now we will pay him home for all,' 'Ay,' observed another, 'and his niece is with him, and we will have her off to the mountains.' The carriage was immediately surrounded, and I know not to what an extent their violence and revenge might have proceeded, when Shawn same bounding among them with the air of a man who possessed authority over them.
“'Stop,' said he; 'on this occasion they must go free, and on every occasion. Lord Cockletown, let him be what he may before, is of late a good landlord, and a friend to the people. His niece, too, is--' He then complimented me upon some trifling acts of kindness I had paid to his family when--hem--ahem--in fact, when they stood much in need of it.”
This was a delicate evasion of any allusion to the cruel conduct of his mother towards the outlaw's family.
“When,” she went on, “he had succeeded in restraining the meditated violence of the tories, he approached me--for they had already dragged me out, and indeed it was my screaming that brought him with such haste to the spot. 'Now, Miss Riddle,' said he, in a low whisper which my uncle could not hear, 'one good act deserves another; you were kind to my family when they stood sorely in need of it. You and your uncle are safe, and, what is more, will be safe: I will take care of that; but forget Shawn-na Middogue, the outlaw and tory, or if ever you mention his name, let it be in a spirit of mercy and forgiveness. Mr. Woodward, you will not hunt down this generous young man?”
“I would as soon hunt down my father, Miss Riddle, if he were alive. I trust you don't imagine that I can be insensible to such noble conduct.”
“I do not think you are, Mr. Woodward; and I hope you will allow the unfortunate youth to remain unmolested until my uncle, to whom I shall mention this circumstance this day, may strive to have him restored to society.”
We need scarcely assure our readers that Woodward pledged himself in accordance with her wishes, after which he went home and prepared such a mask for his face, and such a disguise of dress for his person, as, when assumed, rendered it impossible for any one to recognize him. Such was the spirit in which he kept his promise to Miss Riddle, and such the honor of every word that proceeded from his hypocritical lips.
In the meantime the preparations for the chase were made with the most extraordinary energy and caution. Woodward had other persons engaged in it, on whom he had now made up his mind to devolve the consequences of the whole proceedings. The sheriff and the _posse comitatas_, together with assistance from other quarters, had all been engaged; and as some vague intelligence of _Shawn-na-Midoque's_ retreat had been obtained, Woodward proceeded in complete disguise before daybreak with a party, not one of whom was able to recognize him, well armed, to have what was, in those days, called a tory-hunt.
The next morning was dark and gloomy. Gray, heavy mists lay upon the mountain-tops, from which, as the light of the rising sun fell upon them, they retreated in broken masses to the valleys and lower grounds beneath them. A cold, chilly aspect lay upon the surface of the earth, and the white mists that had descended from the mountain-tops, or were drawn up from the ground by the influence of the sun, were, although more condensed, beginning to get a warmer look.
Notwithstanding the secrecy with which this enterprise was projected it had taken wind, and many of those who had suffered by the depredations of the tories were found joining the band of pursuers, and many others who were friendly to them, or who had relations among them, also made their appearance, but contrived to keep somewhat aloof from the main body, though not at such a distance as might seem to render them suspected; their object being to afford whatever assistance they could, with safety to themselves and without incurring any suspicion of affinity to the unfortunate tories.
The country was of intricate passage and full of thick woods. At this distance of time, now that it is cleared and cultivated, our readers could form no conception of its appearance then. In the fastnesses and close brakes of those woods lay the hiding-places and retreats of the tories--“the wood kernes” of Spenser's day. A tory-hunt at that time, or at any time, was a pastime of no common, danger. Those ferocious and determined banditti had little to render life desirable. They consequently set but a slight value upon it. The result was that the pursuits after them by foreign soldiers, and other persons but slightly acquainted with the country, generally ended in disaster and death to several of the pursuers.
On the morning in question the tory-hunters literally beat the woods as if they had been in the pursuit of game, but for a considerable time with little effect. Not the appearance of a single tory was anywhere visible; but, notwithstanding this, it so happened that some one of their enemies occasionally dropped, either dead or wounded, by a shot from the intricacies and covers of the woods, which, upon being searched and examined, afforded no trace whatsoever of those who did the mischief. This was harassing and provocative of vengeance to the military and such wretched police as existed in that day. No search could discover a single trace of a tory, and many of those in the pursuit were obliged to withdraw from it--not unreluctantly, indeed, in order to bear back the dead and wounded to the town of Rathfillan.
As they were entering an open space that lay between two wooded enclosures, a white hare started across their path, to the utter consternation of those who were in pursuit. Woodward, now disguised and in his mask, had been for a considerable time looking behind him, but this circumstance did not escape his notice, and he felt, to say the least of it, startled at her second appearance. It reminded him, however, of the precautions which he had taken; and he looked back from time to time, as we have said, in expectation of something appertaining to the pursuit. At length he exclaimed, “Where are the party with the blood-hounds? Why have they not joined us and come up with us?
“They have started a wolf,” replied one of them, “and the dogs are after him; and some of them have gone back upon the trail of the wounded men.”
“Return for them,” said he; “without their assistance we can never find the trail of these accursed tories; but, above all, of Shawn-na-Middoque.”
In due time the dogs were brought up, but the trails were so various that they separated mostly into single hunts, and went at such a rapid speed that they were lost in the woods.
At length two of them who came up first, gave tongue, and the body of pursuers concentrated themselves on the newly-discovered trail, keeping as close to the dogs as they could. Those two had quartered the woods and returned to the party again when they fell upon the slot of some unfortunate victim who had recently escaped from the place. The pursuit now became energetic and full of interest, if we could forget the melancholy and murderous fact that the game pursued were human victims, who had nothing more nor less to expect from their pursuers than the savage wolves which then infested the forests--a price having been laid upon the heads of each.
After some time the party arrived at the outskirts of the wood, and an individual was seen bounding along in the direction of the mountains--the two dogs in full pursuit of him. The noise, the animation, and the tumult of the pursuit were now astounding, and rang long and loud over the surface of the excited and awakened neighborhood, whilst the wild echoes of their inhuman enjoyment were giving back their terrible responses from the hills and valleys around them. The shouting, the urging on of the dogs by ferocious cries of encouragement, were loud, incessant, and full of a spirit which, at this day, it is terrible to reflect upon. The whole country was alive; and the loud, vociferous agitation which disturbed it, resembled the influence of one of those storms which lash the quiet sea into madness. Fresh crowds joined them, as we have said, and the tumult still became louder and stronger. In the meantime, _Shawn-na-Middogue's_ case--it was he--became hopeless--for it was the speed of the fleetest runner that ever lived to that of two powerful bloodhounds, animated, as they were, by their ferocious instincts. Indeed, the interest of the chase was heightened by the manner and conduct of the dogs, which, when they came upon the trail of the individual, in question, yelped aloud with an ecstatic delight that gave fresh courage to the vociferous band of pursuers.
“Who can that man be?” asked one of them; “he seems to have wings to his feet.”
“By the sacred light of day,” exclaimed another, “it is no other than the famous _Shawn-na-Middogue_ himself. I know him well; and even if I did not, who could mistake him by his speed of foot?”
“Is that he?” said the mask; “then fifty pounds in addition to the government reward to the man who will shoot him down, or secure him, living or dead: only let him be taken.”
Just then four or five persons, friends of course to the unfortunate outlaw, came in before the dogs across the trail, in consequence of which the animals became puzzled, and lost considerable time in regaining it, whilst Shawn, in the meantime, was fast making his way to the mountains.
The reward, however, offered by the man in the black mask--for it was a black one--accelerated the speed of the pursuers, between whom a competition of terrible energy and action arose as to which of them should secure the public reward and the premium that were offered for his blood. Shawn, however, had been evidently exhausted, and sat down considerably in advance of them, on the mountain side, to take breath, in order to better the chance of effecting his escape; but whilst seated, panting after his race, the dogs gained rapidly upon him. Having put his hand over his eyes, and looked keenly down--for he had the sight of an eagle--the approach of the dogs did not seem at all to alarm him.
“Ah, thank God, they will have him soon,” said the mask, “and it is a pity that we cannot give them the reward. Who owns those noble dogs?”
“You will see that very soon, sir,” replied a man beside him; “you will see it very soon--you may see it now.”
As he uttered the words the dogs sprang upon Shawn, wagged their tails as if in a state of most ecstatic delight, and began to caress him and lick his face.
“Finn, my brave Finn!” he exclaimed, patting him affectionately, “and is this you? and Oonah, my darling Oonah, did the villains think that my best friends would pursue me for my blood? Come now,” said he, “follow me, and we will lead them a chase.”
During this brief rest, however, four of the most active of his pursuers, who knew what is called the lie of the country, succeeded, by passing through the skirt of the wood in a direction where it, was impossible to observe them, in coming up behind the spot where he had sat, and consequently, when he and his dogs, or those which had been once his, ascended its flat summit, the four men pounced upon him. Four against one would, in ordinary cases, be fearful odds; but Shawn knew that he had two stanch and faithful friends to support him. Quick as lightning his _middogue_ was into one of their hearts, and almost as quickly were two more of them seized by the throats and dragged down by the powerful animals that defended him. The fourth man was as rapidly despatched by a single blow, whilst the dogs were literally tearing out the throats of their victims. In the course of about ten minutes, what between Shawn's middogue and the terrible fangs and strength of those dreadful animals, the four men lay there four corpses. Shawn's danger, however, notwithstanding his success, was only increasing. His pursuers had now gained upon him, and when he looked around he found himself hemmed in, or nearly so. Speed of foot was everything; but, what was worst of all, with reference to his ultimate escape, four other dogs were making their way up the mountains--dogs to which he was a stranger, and he knew right well that they would hunt him with all the deadly instincts of blood. They were, however, far in the distance, and he felt little apprehension from them. Be this as it may, he bounded off accompanied by his faithful friends, and not less than twenty shots were fired after him, none of which touched him. The number of his pursuers, dogs included, almost made his heart sink; and would have done so, but that he was probably desperate and reckless of life. He saw himself almost encompassed; he heard the bullets whistling about him, and perceived at a glance that the chances of his escape were a thousand to one against him. With a rapid sweep of his eye he marked the locality. It also was all against him. There was a shoreless lake, abrupt and deep to the very edge, except a slip at the opposite side, lying at his feet. It was oblong, but at each end of it there was nothing like a pass for at least two or three miles. If he could swim across this he knew that he was safe, and that he could do so he felt certain, provided he escaped the bullets and the dogs of the pursuers. At all events he dashed down and plunged in, accompanied by his faithful attendants. Shot after shot was sent after him; and so closely did some of them reach him, that he was obliged to dive and swim under water from time to time, in order to save himself from their aim. The strange bloodhounds, however, which had entered the lake, were gaining rapidly on him, and on looking back he saw them within a dozen yards of him. He was now, however, beyond the reach of their bullets, unless it might be a longer shot than ordinary, but the four dogs were upon him, and in the extremity of despair he shouted out,--“Finn and Oonah, won't you save me?” Shame upon the friendship and attachment of man! In a moment two of the most powerful of the strange dogs were in something that resembled a death struggle with his brave and gallant defenders. The other two, however, were upon himself; but by a stab of his middogue he despatched one of them, and the other he pressed under water until he was drowned.
In the meantime, whilst the four other dogs were fighting furiously in the water, Shawn, having felt exhausted, was obliged to lie on his back and float, in order to regain his strength.
A little before this contest commenced, the black mask and a number of the pursuing party were standing on the edge of the lake looking on, conscious of the impossibility of their interference.
“Is there no stout man and good swimmer present,” exclaimed the mask, “who will earn the fifty pounds I have offered for the capture of that man?”
“Here am I,” said a powerful young fellow, the best swimmer, with the exception of Shawn-na-Middogue, in the province. “I am like a duck in the water; but upon my sowl, so is he. If I take him, you will give me the fifty pounds?”
“Unquestionably; but you know you will have the government reward besides.”
“Well, then, here goes. I cannot bring my carbine with me; but even so--we will have a tug for it with my skean.”
He threw off his coat and barrad, and immediately plunged in and swam with astonishing rapidity towards the spot where Shawn and the dogs--the latter still engaged in their ferocious contest--were in the lake. Shawn now had regained considerable strength, and was about to despatch the enemies of his brave defenders, when, on looking back to the spot on the margin of the lake where his pursuers stood, he saw the powerful young swimmer within a few yards of him. It was well for him that he had regained his strength, and such was his natural courage that he felt rather gratified at the appearance of only a single individual. “Shawn-na-Middogue,” said the young fellow, “I come to make you a prisoner. Will you fight me fairly in the water?”
“I am a hunted outlaw--a tory,” replied Shawn, “and will fight you the best way I can. If we were on firm earth I would fight you on your own terms. If there is to be a fight between us, remember that you are fighting for the government reward, and I for my life.”
“Will you fight me,” said the man, “without using your middogue?”
“I saw you take a skean from between your teeth as I turned round,” replied Shawn, “and I know now that you are a villain and a treacherous ruffian, who would take a cowardly advantage of me if you could.”
The fellow made a plunge at Shawn, who was somewhat taken by surprise. They met and grappled in the water, and the contest between them was, probably, one of the fiercest and most original that ever occurred between man and man. It was distinctly visible to the spectators on the shore, and the interest which it excited in them can scarcely be described. A terrible grapple ensued, but as neither of them wished to die by drowning, or, in fact, to die under such peculiar circumstances at all, there was a degree of caution in the contest which required great skill and power on both sides. Notwithstanding this caution, however, still, when we consider the unsubstantial element on which the battle between them raged--for rage it did--there were frightful alternatives of plunging and sinking between them.
Shawn's opponent was the stronger of the two, but Shawn possessed in activity what the other possessed in strength. The waters of the lake were agitated by their struggles and foamed white about them, whilst, at the same time, the four bloodhounds tearing each other beside them added to the agitation. Shawn and his opponent clasped each other and frequently disappeared for a very brief space, but the necessity to breathe and rise to the air forced them to relax the grasps and seek the surface of the water; so was it with the dogs. At length, Shawn, feeling that his middogue had got entangled in his dress, which the water had closely contracted about it, rendering it difficult, distracted as he was by the contest, to extricate it, turned round and swam several strokes from his enemy, who, however, pursued him with the ferocity of one of the bloodhounds beside them. This ruse was to enable Shawn to disengage his middogue, which he did. In the meantime this expedient of Shawn's afforded his opponent time to bring out his skean,--two weapons which differed very little except in name. They once more approached one another, each with the armed hand up,--the left,--and a fiercer and more terrible contest was renewed. The instability of the element, however, on which they fought, prevented them from using their weapons with effect. At all events they played about each other, offering and warding off the blows, when Shawn exclaimed,--having grasped his opponent with his right arm,-- “I am tired of this; it must be now sink or swim between us. To die here is better than to die on the gallows.”
As he spoke both sank, and for about half a minute became invisible. The spectators from the shore now gave them both over for lost; one of them only emerged with the fatal middogue in his hand, but his opponent appeared not, and for the best reason in the world: he was on his way to the bottom of the lake. Shawn's exhaustion after such a struggle now rendered his situation hopeless. He was on the point of going down when he exclaimed: “It is all in vain now; I am sinking, and me so near the only slip that is in the lake. Finn and Oonah, save me; I am drowning.”
The words were scarcely out of his lips when he felt the two faithful, powerful, and noble animals, one at each side of him--seeing as they did, his sinking state--seizing him by his dress, and dragging him forward to the slip we have mentioned. With great difficulty he got upon land, but, having done so, he sat down; and when his dogs, in the gambols of their joy at his safety, caressed him, he wept like an infant--this proscribed outlaw and tory. He was now safe, however, and his pursuers returned in a spirit of sullen and bitter disappointment, finding that it was useless to continue the hunt any longer.
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{
"id": "16004"
}
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19
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Plans and Negotiations.
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We have already said that Woodward was a man of personal courage, and without fear of anything either living or dead, yet, notwithstanding all this, he felt a terror of _Shawn-na-Middogue_ which he could not I overcome. The escape--the extraordinary escape of that celebrated young tory--depressed and vexed him to the heart. He was conscious, however, of his own villany and of his conduct to Grace Davoren, whom Shawn had loved, and, as Shakespeare says, “conscience makes cowards of us all.” One thing, however, afforded him some consolation, which was that his disguise prevented him from from being known as the principal person engaged in the attempt to hunt down the outlaw. He knew that after the solemn promise he had given Miss Riddle, any knowledge on her part of his participation in the pursuit of that generous but unfortunate young man would have so completely sunk him in her opinion, as an individual professing to be a man of honor, that she would have treated his proposals with contempt, and rejected him with disdain. At all events, his chief object now was to lose no time in prosecuting his suit with her. For this purpose he urged his mother to pay Lord Cockletown another visit, in order to make a formal proposal for the hand of his niece in his name, with a view of bringing the matter to an issue with as little delay as might be. His brother, who had relapsed, was in a very precarious condition, but still slightly on the recovery, a circumstance which filled him with alarm. He only went out at night occasionally, but still he went out, and, as before, did not return until about twelve, but much more frequently one, two, and sometimes three o'clock. Nobody in the house could understand the mystery of these midnight excursions, and the servants of the family, who were well aware of them, began to look on him with a certain undefined terror as a man whose unaccountable movements were associated with something that was evil and supernatural. They felt occasionally that the power of his eye was dreadful; and as it began to be whispered about that it was by its evil influence he had brought Alice Goodwin to the very verge of the grave for the purpose of getting at the property, which was to revert to him in case she should die without issue, there was not one of them who, on meeting him, either in or about the house, would run the risk of looking him in the face. In fact, they experienced that kind of fear of him which a person might be supposed to feel in the case of a spirit; and this is not surprising when we consider the period in which they lived.
Be this as it may, his mother got up the old carriage once more and set out on her journey to Cockle Hall--her head filled with many an iniquitous design, and her heart with fraud and deceit. On reaching Cockle Hall she was ushered to the withdrawing-room, where she found his lordship in the self-same costume which we have already described. Miss Eiddle was in her own room, so that she had the coast clear--which was precisely what she wanted.
“Well, Mrs. Lindsay, I'm glad to see you. How do you do, madam? Is your son with you?” he added, shaking hands with her.
“No, my lord.”
“O! an embassadress, then?”
“Something in that capacity, my lord.”
“Then I must be on my sharps, for I am told you are a keen one. But tell me--do you sleep with one eye open, as I do?”
“Indeed, my lord,” she replied, laughing, “I sleep as other people do, with both eyes shut.”
“Well, then, what's your proposal? --and, mark me, I'm wide awake.”
“By all accounts, my lord, you have seldom been otherwise. How could you have played your cards so well and so succassfully if you had not?”
“Come, that's not bad--just what I expected, and I like to deal with clever people. Did you put yourself on the whetstone before you came here? I'll go bail you did.”
“If I did not I would have little chance in dealing with your lordship,” replied Mrs, Lindsay.
“Come, I like that, too;--well said, and nothing but the truth. In fact it will be diamond cut diamond between us--eh?”
“Precisely, my lord. You will find me as sharp as your lordship, for the life of you.”
“Come, confound me, I like that best of all--a touch of my own candor;--we're kindred spirits, Mrs. Lindsay.”
“I think so, my lord. We should have been man and wife.”
“Egad, if we had I shouldn't have played second fiddle, as I'm told poor Lindsay does; however, no matter about that--even a good second is not so bad. But now about the negotiations--come, give a specimen of your talents. Let us come to the point.”
“Well, then, I am here, my lord, to propose, in the name of my son Woodward, for the hand of Miss Riddle, your niece.”
“I see; no regard for the property she is to have, eh?”
“Do you think me a fool, my lord? Do you imagine that any one of common sense would or should overlook such an element between parties who propose to marry? Whatever my son may do--who is deeply attached to Miss Riddle--I am sure I do not, nor will not, overlook it; you may rest assured of that, my lord.”
Old Cockletown looked keenly at her, and their eyes met; but, after a long and steady gaze, the eyes of the old peer quailed, and he felt, when put to an encounter with hers, that to which was attributed such extraordinary influence. There sparkled in her steady black orb a venomous exultation, mingled with a spirit of strong and contemptuous derision, which made the eccentric old nobleman feel rather uncomfortable. His eye fell, and, considering his age, it was decidedly a keen one. He fidgeted upon the chair--he coughed, hemmed, then looked about the room, and at length exclaimed, rather in a soliloquy,-- “Second fiddle! egad, I'm afraid had we been man and wife I should never have got beyond it. Poor Lindsay! It's confoundedly odd, though.”
“Well, Mrs. Lindsay--ahem--pray proceed, madam; let us come to the property. How does your son stand in that respect?”
“He will have twelve hundred a year, my lord.”
“I told you before, Mrs. Lindsay, that I--don't like the future tense--the present for me. What has he?”
“It can scarcely be called the future tense, my lord, which you seem to abhor so much. Nothing stands between him and it but a dying girl.”
“How is that, madam?”
“Why, my lord, his Uncle Hamilton, my brother, had a daughter, an only child, who died of decline, as her mother before her did. This foolish child was inveigled into an unaccountable affection for the daughter of Mr. Goodwin--a deep, designing, artful girl--who contrived to gain a complete ascendency over both father and daughter. For months before my niece's death this cunning girl, prompted by her designing family, remained at her sick bed, tended her, nursed her, and would scarcely allow a single individual to approach her except herself. In short, she gained such an undue and iniquitous influence over both parent and child, that her diabolical object was accomplished.”
“Diabolical! Well, I can see nothing diabolical in it, for so far. Affection and sympathy on the one hand, and gratitude on the other--that seems much more like the thing. But proceed, madam.”
“Why, my poor brother, who became silly and enfeebled in intellect by the loss of his child, was prevailed on by Miss Goodwin and her family to adopt her as his daughter, and by a series of the most artful and selfish manoeuvres they succeeded in getting the poor imbecile and besotted old man to make a will in her favor; and the consequence was that he left her twelve hundred a year, both to her and her issue, should she marry and have any; but in case she should have no issue, then, after her death, it was to revert to my son Woodward for whom it was originally intended by my brother. It was a most unprincipled and shameful transaction on the part of these Goodwins. Providence, however, would seem to have punished them for their iniquity, for Miss Goodwin is dying--at least, beyond all hope. The property, of course, will soon be in my son's possession, where it ought to have been ever since his uncle's death. Am I not right, then, in calculating on that property as his?”
“Why, the circumstances you speak of are recent; I remember them well enough. There was a lawsuit about the will?”
“There was, my lord.”
“And the instrument was proved strictly legal and valid?”
“The suit was certainly determined against us.”
“I'll tell you what, Mrs. Lindsay; I am certain that I myself would have acted precisely as your brother did. I know the Goodwins, too, and I know, besides, that they are incapable of reverting to either fraud or undue influence of any kind. All that you have told me, then, is, with great respect to you, nothing but mere rigmarole. I am sorry, however, to hear that the daughter, poor girl, is dying. I hope in God she will recover.”
“There is no earthly probability--nay, possibility of it--which is a stronger word--I know, my lord, she will die, and that very soon.”
“You know, madam! How the deuce can you know? It is all in the hands of God. I hope she will live to enjoy her property.”
“My lord, I visited the girl in her illness, and life was barely in her; I have, besides, the opinion of the physician who attended her, and of another who was called in to consult upon her state, and both have informed me that her recovery is hopeless.”
“And what opinion does your son, Woodward, entertain upon the subject?”
“One, my lord, in complete keeping with his generous character. He is as anxious for her recovery as your lordship.”
“Well, I like that, at all events; it is a good point in him. Yes, I like that--but, in the meantime, here are you calculating upon a contingency that may never happen. The calculation is, I grant, not overburdened with delicacy of feeling; but still it may proceed from anxiety for the settlement and welfare of your son. Not an improbable thing on the part of a mother, I grant that.”
“Well, then, my lord,” asked Mrs. Lindsay, “what is to be done? Come to the point, as you very properly say yourself.”
“In the first place bring me the written opinions of those two doctors. They ought to know her state of health best, and whether she is likely to recover or not. I know I am an old scoundrel in entering into a matrimonial negotiation upon a principle so inhuman as the poor lady's death; but still, if her demise is a certain thing, I don't see why men of the world should not avail themselves of I such a circumstance. Now, I wish to see poor Tom settled before I die; and, above all things, united to a gentleman. Your son Woodward, Mrs. Lindsay, is a gentleman, and what is more, I have reason to believe Tommy likes him. She speaks well of him, and there is a great deal in that; because I know that if she disliked him she would not conceal the fact. She has, occasionally, much of her old uncle's bluntness about her, and will not say one thing and think another; unless, indeed, when she has a design in it, and then she is inscrutable.”
“My own opinion is this, my lord: let my son wait upon Miss Riddle--let him propose for her--and if she consents, why the marriage settlements may be drawn up--at once and the ceremony performed.”
“Let me see,” he replied. “That won't do. I will never marry off poor Tommy upon a speculation which may never after all be realized. No, no--I'm awake there; but I'll tell you what--produce me those letters from the physician or physicians who attended her; then, should Tom give her consent, the settlements may be drawn up, and they can lie unsigned until the girl dies--and then let them be married. Curse me, I'm an old scoundrel again, however, as to that the whole world is nothing but one great and universal scoundrel, and it is nothing but to see Tom the wife of a gentleman in feeling, manners, and bearing, that I consent even to this conditional arrangement.”
“Well,” replied the lady, “be it so; it is as much as either of us can do under the circumstances.”
Ay, and more than we ought to do. I never was without a conscience; but of all the poor pitiful scoundrels of a conscience that ever existed, it was the greatest. But why should I blame it? It loved me too well; for, after some gentle rebukes when I was about to do a rascally act, it quietly withdrew all opposition and left me to my own will.”
“Ah, we all know you too well, my lord, to take your own report of your own character. However, I am glad that matters have proceeded so far. I shall do what your lordship wishes as to the opinions of the medical men. The lawyers, with our assistance, will manage the settlements.”
“Yes; but this arrangement must be kept a secret from Tom, because if she knew of it she would knock up the whole project.”
“She shall not from me, my lord.”
“Nor from me, I promise you that. But now for another topic. I am glad your son had nothing to do with the dreadful chase of that unfortunate Shawn-na-Middogue; he pledged his honor to Tom that he would rather protect than injure him.”
“So, my lord, he would, ever since his conversation with Miss Riddle on the subject.”
This, indeed, was very honestly said, inasmuch as it was she herself who had furnished him with the mask and other of the disguises.
“Well, I think so; and I believe him to be a gentleman, certainly. This unfortunate tory saved Tom's life and mine the other night; but, independently of that, Mrs. Lindsay, no son of yours should have anything to do in his pursuit or capture. You understand me. It is my intention to try what I can do to get him a pardon from government, and rescue him from the wild and lawless life he is leading.”
Mrs. Lindsay merely said,--“If my son Woodward could render you any assistance, I am sure he would feel great pleasure in doing so, notwithstanding that it was this same Shawn-na-Middogue who, perhaps, has murdered his brother, for he is by no means out of danger.”
“What--he? Shawn-na-Middogue! Have you any proof of that?”
“Not positive or legal proof, my lord, but! at least a strong moral certainty. However, it is a subject on which I do not wish to speak.”
“By the way, I am very stupid; but no wonder. When a man approaches seventy he can't be expected to remember everything. You will excuse me for not inquiring after your son's health; how is he?”
“Indeed, my lord, we know not what to say; neither does the doctor who attends him--the same, by the way, who attended Miss Goodwin. At present he can say neither yes or no to his recovery.”
“No, nor will not as long as he can; I know those gentry well. Curse the thing on earth frightens one of them so much as any appearance of convalescence in a patient. I had during my life about half a dozen fits of illness, and whenever they found that I was on the recovery, they always contrived to throw me back with their damned nostrums, for a month or six weeks together, that they might squeeze all they could out of me. O, devilish rogues! devilish rogues!”
Mrs. Lindsay now asked to see his niece, and the peer said he would send her down, after which he shook hands with her, and once more cautioned her against alluding to the arrangement into which they had entered touching the matrimonial affairs already discussed. It is not our intention to give the conversation between the two ladies, which was, indeed, not one of long duration. Mrs. Lindsay simply stated that she had been deputed by her son, Woodward, to have the honor of making a proposal in his name to her uncle, in which proposal she, Miss Riddle, was deeply concerned, but that her son himself would soon have the greater honor of pleading his own cause with the fair object of his most enthusiastic affection. To this Miss Riddle said neither yes nor no; and, after a further chat upon indifferent topics, the matron took her departure, much satisfied, however, with the apparent suavity of the worthy peer's fair niece.
It matters not how hard and iniquitous the hearts of mothers may be, it is a difficult thing to extinguish in them the sacred principle of maternal affection. Mrs. Lindsay, during her son Charles's illness, and whilst laboring under the apprehension that she was about to lose him, went to his sick room after her return from Lord Coccletown's, and, finding he was but slightly improving,--if improving at all,--she felt herself much moved, and asked him how he felt.
“Indeed, my dear mother,” he replied, “I can scarcely say; I hardly know whether I am better or worse.”
Harry was in the room at the time, having gone up to ascertain his condition.
“O, come, Charles,” said she, “you were always an affectionate son, and you must strive and recover. If it may give you strength and hope, I now tell you that the property which I intended to leave to Harry here, I shall leave to you. Harry will not require it; he will be well off--much better than you imagine. He will have back that twelve hundred a year when that puny girl dies. She is, probably, dead by this time, and he will, besides, become a wealthy man by marriage.”
“But I think, my dear mother, that Harry has the best claim to it; he is your firstborn, and your eldest son.”
“He will not require it,” replied his mother; “he is about to be married to Miss Riddle, the niece of Lord Cockle town.”
“Are you quite sure of that, mother?” asked Harry, with a brow as black as midnight.
“There is an arrangement made,” she replied; “the marriage settlements are to be drawn up, but left unsigned until the death of Alice Goodwin.”
Charles here gave a groan of agony, which, for the life of him, he could not suppress.
“She will not die, I hope,” said he; “and, mother, as for the property, leave it to Harry. I don't think you ought to change your contemplated arrangements on my account, even should I recover.”
“Yes, Charles, but I will--only contrive and live; you are my son, and as sure as I have life you will be heir to my property.”
“But Maria, mother,” replied the generous young man; “Maria--” and he looked imploringly and affectionately into her face.
“Maria will have an ample portion; I have taken care of that. I will not leave my property to those who are strangers to my blood, as a son-in-law must be. No, Charles, you shall have my property. As for Harry, as I said before, he won't stand in need of it.”
“Of course you saw Miss Riddle to-day, mother?” asked. Harry.
“I did.”
“Of course, too, you mentioned the matter to her?”
“To be sure I did.”
“And what did she say?”
“Why, I think she acted just as every delicate-minded girl ought. I told her you would have the honor of proposing to herself in person. She heard me, and did not utter a syllable either for or against you. What else should any lady do? You would not have her jump at you, would you? Nothing, however, could be kinder or more gracious than the reception she gave me.”
“Certainly not, mother; to give her consent before she was solicited would not be exactly the thing; but the uncle is willing?”
“Upon the conditions I said; but his niece is to know nothing of these conditions: so be cautious when you see her.”
“I don't know how it is,” replied Harry; “I have been thinking our last interview over; but it strikes me there is, notwithstanding her courtesy of manner, a hard, dry air about her which it is difficult to penetrate. It seems to me as if it were no easy task to ascertain whether she is in jest or earnest. Her eye is too calm and reflecting for my taste.”
“But,” replied his mother, “those, surely, are two good qualities in any woman, especially in her whom you expect to become your wife.”
“Perhaps so,” said he;'”but she is not my wife yet, my dear mother.”
“I wish she was, Harry,” observed his brother, “for by all accounts she is an excellent girl, and remarkable for her charity and humanity to the poor.”
His mother and Harry then left the room, and both went to her own apartment, where the following conversation took place between them: “Harry,” said she, “I hope you are not angry at the determination I expressed to leave my property to Charles should he recover?”
“Why should I, my dear mother?” he replied; “your property is your own, and of course you may leave it to whomsoever you wish. At all events, it will remain in your own family, and won't go to strangers, like that of my scoundrel old uncle.”
“Don't speak so, Harry, of my brother; silly, besotted, and overreached he was when he acted as he did; but he never was a scoundrel, Harry.”
“Well, well, let that pass,” replied her son; “but the question now is, What am I to do? What step should I first take?”
“I don't understand you.”
“Why, I mean whether should I start directly for Ballyspellan and put this puling girl out of pain, or go in a day or two and put the question at once to Miss Riddle, against whom, somehow, I feel a strong antipathy.”
“Ah, Harry, that's your grandfather all over; but, indeed, our family were full of strong antipathies and bitter resentments. Why do you feel an antipathy against the girl?”
“Who can account for antipathies, mother? I cannot account for this.”
“And perhaps on her part the poor girl is attached to you.”
“Well, but you have not answered my question. How am I to act? Which step should I take first--the quietus, of 'curds-and-whey,' or the courtship? The sooner matters come to a conclusion the better. I wish, if possible, to know what is before me: I cannot bear uncertainty in this or anything else.”
“I scarcely know how to advise you,” she replied; “both steps are of the deepest importance, but certainly which to take first is a necessary consideration. I am of opinion that our best plan is simply to take a day or two to think it over, after which we will compare notes and come to a conclusion.” And so it was determined.
We need scarcely assure our readers that honest and affectionate Barney Casey felt a deep interest in the recovery of the generous and kind-hearted Charles Lindsay, nor that he allowed a single day to pass without going, at least two or three times, to ascertain whether there was any appearance of his convalescence. On the day following that on which Mrs. Lindsay had declared the future disposition of her property he went to see Charles as usual, when the latter, after having stated to him that he felt much better, and the fever abating, he said,-- “Casey, I have rather strange news for you.”
“Be it good, bad, or indifferent, sir,” replied Barney, “you could tell me no news that would plaise me half so much as that there is a certainty of your gettin' well again.”
“Well, I think there is, Barney. I feel much better to-day than I have done for a long while--but the news, are you not anxious to hear it?”
“Why, I hope I'll hear it soon, Masther Charles, especially if it's good; but if it's not good I'm jack-indifferent about it.”
“It is good, Barney, to me at least, but not so to my brother Woodward.”
Barney's ears, if possible, opened and expanded themselves on hearing this. To him it was a double gratification: first, because it was favorable to the invalid, to whom he was so sincerely attached; and secondly, because it was not so to Woodward, whom he detested.
“My mother yesterday told me that she has made up her mind to leave me all her property if I recover, instead of to Harry, for whom she had originally intended it.”
Barney, on hearing this intelligence, was commencing to dance an Irish jig to his own music, and would have done so were it not that the delicate state of the patient prevented him.
“Blood alive, Masther Charles!” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers in a kind of wild triumph, “what are you lying there for? Bounce to your feet like a two-year ould. O, holy Moses, and Melchisedek the divine, ay, and Solomon, the son of St. Pettier, in all his glory, but that is news!”
“She told my brother Woodward, face to face, that such was her fixed determination.”
“Good again; and what did he say?”
“Nothing particular, but that he was glad it was to stay in the family, and not go to strangers, like our uncle's--alluding, of course, to his will in favor of dear Alice Goodwin.”
“Ay, but how did he look?” asked Barney.
“I didn't observe, I was rather in pain at the time; but, from a passing glimpse I got, I thought his countenance darkened a little; but I may be mistaken.”
“Well, I hope so,” said Barney. “I hope so--but--well, I am glad to find you are betther, Masther Charles, and to hear the good piece of fortune you have mentioned. I trust in God your mother will keep her word--that's all.”
“As for myself,” said Charles, “I am indifferent about the property; all that presses upon my heart is my anxiety for Miss Goodwin's recovery.”
“Don't be alarmed on that account,” said Casey! “they say the waters of Ballyspellan would bring the dead to life. Now, good-by, Masther Charles; don't be cast down--keep up your spirits, for something tells me that's there's luck before you, and good luck, too.”
After leaving him Barney began to ruminate. He had remarked an extraordinary change in the countenance and deportment of Harry Woodward during the evening before and the earlier part of that day. The plausible serenity of his manner was replaced by unusual gloom, and that abstraction which is produced by deep and absorbing thought. He seemed so completely wrapped up in constant meditation upon some particular subject, that he absolutely forgot to guard himself against observation or remark, by his usual artifice of manner. He walked alone in the garden, a thing he was not accustomed to do; and during these walks he would stop and pause, then go on slowly and musingly, and stop and pause again. Barney, as we have said before, was a keen observer, and having watched him from a remote corner of the garden in which he was temporarily engaged among some flowers, he came at once to the conclusion that Woodward's mind was burdened with something which heavily depressed his spirits, and occupied his whole attention.
“Ah,” exclaimed Barney, “the villain is brewing mischief for some one, but I will watch his motions if I should pass sleepless nights for it. He requires a sharp eye after him, and it will go hard with me or I shall know what his midnight wanderings mean; but in the meantime I must keep calm and quiet, and not seem to watch him.”
Whilst Barney, who was unseen by Woodward, having been separated from him by a fruit hedge over which he occasionally peeped, indulged in this soliloquy, the latter, in the same deep and moody meditation, extended his walk, his brows contracted, and dark as midnight.
“The damned hag,” said he, speaking unconsciously aloud, “is this the affection which she professed to bear me? Is this the proof she gives of the preference which she often expressed for her favorite son? To leave her property to that miserable milksop, my half-brother! What devil could have tempted her to this? Not Lindsay, certainly, for I know he would scorn to exercise any control over her in the disposition of her property, and as for Maria, I know she would not. It must then have been the milksop himself in some puling fit of pain or illness; and ably must the beggarly knave have managed it when he succeeded in changing the stern and flinty heart of such a she-devil. Yes, unquestionably that must be the true meaning of it; but, be it so for the present; the future is a different question. My plans are laid, and I will put them into operation according as circumstances may guide me.”
Whatever those plans were, he seemed to have completed them in his own mind. The darkness departed from his brow; his face assumed its usual expression; and, having satisfied himself by the contemplation of his future course of action, he walked at his usual pace out of the garden.
“Egad,” thought Barney, “I'm half a prophet, but I can say no more than I've said. There's mischief in the wind; but whether against Masther Charles or his mother, is a puzzle to me. What a dutiful son, too! A she-devil! Well, upon my sowl, if he weren't her son I could forgive him for that, because it hits her off to a hair--but from the lips of a son! O, the blasted scoundrel! Well, no matther, there's a sharp pair of eyes upon him; and that's all I can say at present.”
When the medical attendant called that day to see his patient he found, on examining Charles, and feeling his pulse, that he was decidedly and rapidly on the recovery. On his way down stairs he was met by Woodward, who said, “Well, doctor, is there any chance of my dear brother's recovery?”
“It is beyond a chance now, Mr. Wood-ward; he is out of danger; and although his convalescence will be slow, it will be sure.”
“Thank God,” said the cold-blooded hypocrite; “I have never heard intelligence more gratifying. My mother is in the withdrawing-room, and desired me to say that she wishes to speak with you. Of course it is about my brother; and I am glad that you can make so favorable a report of him.”
On going down he found Mrs. Lindsay alone, and having taken a seat and made his daily report, she addressed him as follows: “Doctor, you have taken a great weight off my mind by your account of my son's certain recovery.”
“I can say with confidence, as I have already said to his anxious brother, madam, that it is certain, although it will be slow. He is out of danger at last. The wound is beginning to cicatrize, and generates laudable pus. His fever, too, is gone; but he is very weak still,--quite emaciated,--and it will require time to place him once more on his legs. Still, the great fact is, that his recovery is certain. Nothing unless agitation of mind can retard it; and I do not see anything which can occasion that.”
“Nothing, indeed, doctor; but, doctor, I wish to speak to you on another subject. You have been attending Miss Goodwin during her very strange and severe illness. You have visited her, too, at Ballyspellan.”
“I have, madam. She went there by my directions.”
“How long is it since you have seen her?”
“I saw her three days ago.”
“And how was she?”
“I am afraid beyond hope, madam. She is certainly not better, and I can scarcely say she is worse, because worse she cannot be. The complaint is on her mind; and in that case we all know how difficult it is for a physician to minister to a mind diseased.”
“You think, then, she is past recovery?”
“Indeed, madam, I am certain of it, and I deeply regret it, not only for her own sake, but for that of her heart-broken parents.”
“My dear doctor--O, by the way, here is your fee; do not be surprised at its amount, for, although your fees have been regularly paid--” “And liberally, madam.”
“Well, in consequence of the favorable and gratifying report which you have this day made, you must pardon an affectionate mother for the compensation which she now offers you. It is far beneath the value of your skill, your anxiety for my son's recovery, and the punctuality of your attendance.”
“What! fifty pounds, madam! I cannot accept it,” said he, exhibiting it in his hand as he spoke.
“O, but you must, my dear doctor; nor shall the liberality of the mother rest here. Come, doctor, no remonstrance; put it in your pocket, and now hear me. You say Miss Goodwin is past all hope. Would you have any objection to write me a short note stating that fact?”
“How could I, madam?” replied the good-natured, easy man, who, of course, could never dream of her design in asking him the question. Still, it seemed singular and unusual, and quite out of the range of his experience. This consideration startled him into reflection, and something like a curiosity to ascertain why she, who, he felt aware, was of late at bitter feud with Miss Goodwin and her family--the cause of which was well known throughout the country--should wish to obtain such a document from him.
“Pardon me, madam; pray, may I inquire for what purpose you ask me to furnish such a document?”
“Why, the truth is, doctor, that there are secrets in all families, and, although this is not, strictly speaking, a secret, yet it is a thing that I should not wish to be mentioned out of doors.”
“Madam, you cannot for a moment do me such injustice as to imagine that I am capable of violating professional confidence. I consider the confidence you now repose in me, in the capacity of your family physician, as coming under that head.”
“You will have no objection, then, to write the note I ask of you?”
“Certainly not, madam.”
“But there is Dr. Lendrum, who joined you in consultation in my son's case, as well I believe, as in Miss Goodwin's. Do you think you could get him to write a note to me in accordance with yours? Speak to him, and tell him that I don't think he has been sufficiently remunerated for his trouble in the consultations you have had with him here.”
“I shall do so, madam, and I think he will do himself the pleasure of seeing you in the course of to-morrow.”
Both doctors could, with a very good conscience, furnish Mrs. Lindsay with the opinions which she required. She saw the other medical gentleman on the following day, and, after handing him a handsome douceur, he felt no hesitation in corroborating the opinion of his brother physician.
Having procured the documents in question, she transmitted them, enclosed in a letter, to Lord Cockletown, stating that her son Woodward, who had been seized by a pleuritic attack, would not be able, she feared, to pay his intended visit to Miss Biddle so soon as he had expected; but, in the meantime, she had the honor of enclosing him the documents she alluded to on the occasion of her last visit. And this she did with the hope of satisfying his lordship on the subject they had been discussing, and with a further hope that he might become an advocate for her son, at least until he should be able to plead his own cause with the lady herself, which nothing but indisposition prevented him from doing. The doctor, she added, had advised him to try the waters of the Spa of Ballyspellan for a short time, as he had little doubt that they would restore him to perfect health. She sent her love to dear Miss Riddle, and hoped ere long to have the pleasure of clasping her to her heart as a daughter.
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{
"id": "16004"
}
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20
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Woodward's Visit to Ballyspellan.
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After a consultation with his mother our worthy hero prepared for his journey to this once celebrated Spa, which possessed even then a certain local celebrity, that subsequently widened to an ampler range. The little village was filled with invalids of all classes; and even the farmers' houses in the vicinity were occupied with individuals in quest of health. The family of the Goodwins, however, were still in deep affliction, although Alice, for the last few days, was progressing favorably. Still, such was her weakness, that she was unable to walk unless supported by two persons, usually her maid and her mother or her father. The terrible influence of the Evil Eye had made too deep and deadly an impression ever, she feared, to be effaced; for, although removed from Woodward's blighting gaze, that eye was perpetually upon her, through the medium of her strong but diseased imagination. And who is there who does not know how strongly the force of imagination acts? On this subject she had now become a perfect hypochondriac. She could not shake it off, it haunted her night and day; and even the influence of society could scarcely banish the dread image of that mysterious and fearful look for a moment.
The society at Ballyspellan was, as the society in such places usually is, very much mixed and heterogeneous. Many gentry were there--gentlemen attempting to repair constitutions broken down by dissipation and profligacy; and ladies afflicted with a disease peculiar, in those days, to both sexes, called the spleen--a malady which, under that name, has long since disappeared, and is now known by the title of nervous affection. There was a large public room, in imitation of the more celebrated English watering-places, where the more respectable portion of the company met and became acquainted, and where, also, balls and dinners were occasionally held. Not a wreck of this edifice is now standing, although, down to the days of Swift and Delany, it possessed considerable celebrity, as is evident from the ingenious verses written by his friend to the Dean upon this subject.
The principal individuals assembled at it on this occasion were Squire Manifold, whose complaint, as was evident by his three chins, consisted in a rapid tendency to obesity, which his physician had told him might be checked, if he could prevail on himself to eat and drink with a less gluttonous appetite, and take more exercise. He had already had a fit of apoplexy, and it was the apprehension of another, with which he was threatened, that brought him to the Spa. The next was Parson Topertoe, whose great enemy was the gout, brought on, of course, by an ascetic and apostolic life. The third was Captain Culverin, whose constitution had suffered severely in the wars, but which he attempted to reinvigorate by a course of hard drinking, in which he found, to his cost, that the remedy was worse than the disease. There were also a great variety of others, among whom were several widows whose healthy complexions were anything but a justification for their presence there, especially in the character of invalids. Mr. Goodwin, his wife, and daughter, we need not enumerate. They lodged in the house of a respectable farmer, who lived convenient to the village, where they found themselves exceedingly snug and comfortable. In the next house to them lodged a Father Mulrenin, a friar, who, although he attended the room and drank the waters, was an admirable specimen of comic humor and robust health. There was also a Miss Rosebud, accompanied by her mother, a blooming widow, who had married old Rosebud, a wealthy bachelor, when he was near sixty. The mother's complaint was also the spleen, or vapors; indeed, to tell the truth, she was moved by an unconquerable and heroic determination to replace poor old Rosebud by a second husband. The last whom we shall enumerate, although not the least, was a very remarkable character of that day, being no other than Cooke, the Pythagorean, from the county of Waterford. He held, of course, the doctrines of Pythagoras, and believed in the transmigration of souls. He lived upon a vegetable diet, and wore no clothing which had been taken or made from the wool or skins of animals, because he knew that they! must have been killed before these _exuviae_ could be applied to human use. His dress, consequently, during the inclemency of winter and the heats of summer, consisted altogether of linen, and even his shoes were of vegetable fabric. Our readers, consequently, need not feel surprised at the complaint of the philosopher, which was a chronic and most excruciating rheumatism that racked every bone in his Pythagorean body. He was, however, like a certain distinguished teetotaler and peace preserver of our own city and our own day, a mild and benevolent man, whose monomania affected nobody but himself, and him it did affect through every bone of his body. He was attended by his own servants, especially by his own cook--for he was a man of wealth and considerable rank in the country--in order that he could rely upon their fidelity in seeing that nothing contrary to his principles might be foisted upon him. He had his carriage, in which he drove out every day, and into which and out of which his servants assisted him. We need scarcely assure our readers that he was the lion of the place, or that no individual there excited either so much interest or curiosity. Of the many others of various, but subordinate classes we shall not speak. Wealthy farmers, professional men, among whom, however, we cannot omit Counsellor Puzzlewell, who, by the way, had one eye upon Miss Rosebud and another upon the comely-widow herself, together with several minor grades down to the very paupers of society, were all there.
About this period it was resolved to have a dinner, to be followed by a ball in the latter part of the evening. This was the project of Squire Manifold, whose physician attended him like, or very unlike, his shadow, for he was a small thin man, with sharp eyes and keen features, and so slight that if put into the scale against the shadow he would scarcely weigh it up. The squire's wife, who was a cripple, insisted that he should accompany her husband, in order to see that he might not gorge himself into the apoplectic fit with which he was threatened. His first had a peculiar and melancholy, though, to spectators, a ludicrous effect upon him. He was now so stupid, and made such blunders in conversation, that the comic effect of them was irresistible; especially to to those who were not aware of the cause of it, but looked upon the whole thing as his natural manner. He had been, ever since his arrival at the accursed Spa, kept by Doctor Doolittle upon short commons, both as to food and drink; and what with the effect of the waters, and severe purgatives administered by the doctor, he felt himself in a state little short of purgatory itself. The meagre regimen to which he was so mercilessly subjected gave him the appetite of a shark, Indeed, the bill of fare prescribed for him was scarcely sufficient to sustain a boy of twelve years of age. In consequence of this he had got it into his head that the season was a season of famine, and on this calamitous dispensation of Providence he kept harping from morning to night. The idea of the dinner, however, was hailed by them all as a very agreeable project, for which the squire, who only thought of the opportunity it would give himself to enjoy a surfeit, was highly complimented. It was to be in the shape of a modern table d'hote: every gentleman was to pay for himself and such of his party as accompanied him to it. Even the Pythagorean relished the proposal, for although peculiar in his opinions, he was sufficiently liberal, and too much of a gentleman, to quarrel with those who differed from him. Mr. Goodwin, too, was a consenting party, and mentioned the subject to Alice in a cheerful spirit, and with a hope that she might be able to rally and attend it. She promised to do so if she could; but said it chiefly depended on the state of health in which she might find herself. Indeed, if ever a beautiful and interesting girl was to be pitied, she, most unquestionably, was an object of the deepest compassion.
It was not merely what she had to suffer from the Evil Eye of the demon Woodward, but from the fact which had reached her ears of what she considered the profligate conduct of his brother Charles, once her betrothed lover. This latter reflection, associated with the probability of his death, when joined to the terrible malady which Woodward had inflicted on her, may enable our readers to perceive what the poor girl had to suffer. Still she told her father that she would be present if her health permitted her, “especially,” she added, “as there was no possibility of Woodward being among the guests.”
“Why, my dear child,” said her father, “what could put such an absurd apprehension into your head?”
“Because, papa, I don't think he will ever let me out of his power until he kills me. I don't think he will come here; but I dread to return home, because I fear that if I do he will obtrude himself on me; and I feel that another gaze of his eye would occasion my death.”
“I would call him out,” replied the father, “and shoot him like a dog, to which honest and faithful animal it is a sin to compare the villain.”
“And then I might be left fatherless!” she exclaimed. “O, papa, promise me that you never will have recourse to that dreadful alternative.”
“But my darling, I only said so upon the supposition of your death by him.”
“But mamma!”
“Come, come, Alice, get up your spirits, and be able to attend this dinner. It will cheer you and do you good. We have been discussing soap bubbles. Give up thinking of the scoundrel, and you will soon feel yourself well enough. In about another month we will start for Killarney, and see the lakes and the magnificent scenery by which they are surrounded.”
“Well, dear papa, I shall go to this dinner if I am at all able; but indeed I do not expect to be able.”
In the meantime every preparation was made for the forthcoming banquet. It was to be on a large scale, and many of the neighboring gentry and their families were asked to it, The knowledge that Cooke, the Pythagorean, was at the Well had taken wind, and a strong curiosity had gone abroad to see him. This eccentric gentleman's appearance was exceedingly original, if not startling. He was, at least, six feet two, but so thin, fleshless, and attenuated, that he resembled a living skeleton. This was the more strange, inasmuch as in his earlier days he had been robust and stout, approaching even to corpulency. His dress was as remarkable as his person, if not more so. It consisted of bleached linen, and was exceedingly white; and so particular was he in point of cleanliness, that he put on a fresh dress every day. He wore a pair of long pantaloons that, unfortunately for his symmetry, adhered to his legs and thighs as closely as the skin; and as the aforesaid legs and thighs were skeletonic, nothing could be more ludicrous than his appearance in them. His vest was equally close; and as the hanging cloak which he wore over it did not reach far enough down his back, it was impossible to view him behind without convulsive laughter. His shoes were made of some description of foreign bark, which had by some chemical process been tanned into toughness, and on his head he wore a turban of linen, made of the same material which furnished his other garments. Altogether, a more ludicrous figure could not be seen, especially if a person happened to stand behind him when he bowed. Notwithstanding all this, however, he possessed the manners and bearing of a gentleman; the only thing remarkable about him, beyond what we have described, being a peculiar wildness of the eyes, accompanied, however, by an unquestionable expression of great benignity.
We leave the company at the Well preparing for the forthcoming dinner and return to Rathfillan House, where Harry Woodward is making arrangements for his journey to Ballyspellan, which now we believe goes by the name of Johnstown. Under every circumstance of his life he was a plotter and a planner, and had at all times some private speculation in view. On the present occasion, in addition to his murderous design upon Miss Goodwin, he resolved to become a wife-hunter, for, being well acquainted, as he was, with the tone and temper of English society at its most celebrated watering places, and. the matrimonial projects and intrigues which abound at them, he took it for granted that he might stand a chance of making a successful hit with a view to matrimony. One thing struck him, however, which was, that he had no horse, and could not go there mounted, as a gentleman ought. It is true his step-father had several horses, but not one of them beyond the character of a common hack. He resolved, therefore, to purchase a becoming nag for his journey, and with this object he called upon a neighboring farmer, named Murray, who possessed a very beautiful animal, rising four, and which he learned was to be disposed of.
“Mr. Murray,” said he, “I understand you have a young horse for sale.”
“I have, sir,” replied Murray; “and a better piece of flesh is not in the country he stands in.”
“Could I see him?”
“Certainly, sir, and try him, too. He is not flesh and bone at all, sir--devil a thing he is but quicksilver. Here, Paudeen, saddle Brien Boro for this gentleman. You won't require wings, Mr. Woodward; Brien Boro will show you how to fly without them.”
“Well,” replied Woodward, “trial's all; but at any rate, I'm willing to prefer good flesh and bone to quicksilver.”
In a few minutes the horse was brought out, saddled and bridled, and Woodward, who certainly was an excellent horseman, mounted him and tried his paces.
“Well, sir,” said Murray, “how do you like him?”
“I like him well,” said Woodward. “His temper is good, I know, by his docility to the bit.”
“Yes, but you haven't tried him at a ditch; follow me and I'll show you as pretty a one as ever a horse crossed, and you may take my word it isn't every horse could cross it. You have a good firm seat, sir; and I know you will both do it in sportsman-like style.”
Having reached the ditch, which certainly was a rasper, Woodward reined round the animal, who crossed it like a swallow.
“Now,” said Murray, “unless you wish to ride half a mile in order to get back, you must cross it again.”
This was accordingly done in admirable style, both by man and horse; and Woodward, having ridden him back to the farmyard, dismounted, highly satisfied with the animal's action and powers.
“Now, Mr. Murray,” said he, “what's his price?”
“Fifty guineas, sir; neither more nor less.”
“Say thirty and we'll deal.”
“I don't want money, sir,” replied the sturdy farmer, “and I won't part with the horse under his value. I will get what I ask for him.”
“Say thirty-five.”
“Not a cross under the round half hundred; and I'm glad it is not your mother that is buying him.”
“Why so?” asked Woodward; and his eye darkly sparkled with its malignant influence.
“Why, sir, because if I didn't sell him to her at her own terms, he would be worth very little in a few days afterwards.”
The observation was certainly an offensive one, especially when made to her son.
“Will you take forty for him?” asked Woodward, coolly.
“Not a penny, sir, under what I said. You are clearly a good judge of a horse, Mr. Woodward, and I wonder that a gentleman like you would offer me less than I ask, because you cannot but know that it is under his value.”
“I will give no more,” replied Woodward; “so there is an end to it. Let me see the horse's eyes.”
He placed himself before the animal, and looked steadily into his eyes for about five minutes, after which he said,-- “I think, Mr. Murray, you would have acted more prudently had you taken my offer. I bade you full value for the horse.”
To Murray's astonishment the animal began to tremble excessively; the perspiration was seen to flow from him in torrents; he appeared feeble and collapsed; and seemed scarcely able to stand on his limbs, which were shaking as if with terror under him.
“Why, Mr. Murray,” said Woodward, “I am very glad I did not buy him; the beast is ill, and will be for the dogs of the neighborhood in three days' time.”
“Until the last five minutes, sir, there wasn't a sounder horse in Europe.”
“Look at him now, then,” said Woodward; “do you call that a sound horse? Take him into the stable; before the expiration of three days you will be flaying him.”
His words were prophetic. In three days' time the fine and healthy animal was a carcass.
“Ah!” said the farmer, when he saw the horse lying dead before him, “this fellow is his mother's son. From the time he looked into the horse's eyes the poor beast sank so rapidly that he didn't pass the third day alive. And there are fifty guineas out of my pocket. The curse of God on him wherever he goes!”
Woodward provided himself, however, with another horse, and in due time set out for the Spa at Ballyspellan.
The dinner was now fixed for a certain day, and Squire Manifold felt himself in high spirits as often as he could recollect the circumstance--which, indeed, was but rarely, the worthy epicure's memory having nearly abandoned him. Topertoe, of the gout, and he were old acquaintances and companions, and had spent many a merry night together--both, as the proverb has it, being tarred with the same stick. Topertoe was as great a glutton as the other, but without his desperate voracity in food, whilst in drink he equalled if he did not surpass him. Manifold would have forgotten every thing about the dinner had he not from time to time been reminded of it by his companion.
“Manifold, we will have a great day on Thursday.”
“Great!” exclaimed Manifold, who in addition to his other stupidities, was as deaf as a post; “great--eh? What size will it be?”
“What size will it be? Why, confound it, man, don't you know what I'm saying?”
“No, I don't--yes, I do--you are talking about something great. O, I know now--your toe you mean--where the gout lies. They say, it begins at the great toe, and goes up to the stomach. I suppose Alexander the Great was gouty and got his name from that.”
“I'm talking of the great dinner we're I to have on Thursday,” shouted Topertoe. “We'll have a splendid feed then, my famous old trencherman, and I'll take care that Doctor Doolittle shall not stint you.”
“There won't be any toast and water--eh?”
“Devil a mouthful; and we are to have the celebrated Cooke, the Pythagorean.”
“Ay, but is he a good cook?”
“He's the celebrated Pythagorean, I tell you.”
“Pythagorean--what's that? I thought you said he was a cook. Does he understand venison properly? O, good Lord! what a life I'm leading! Toast and water--toast and water. But it's all the result of this famine. And yet they know I'm wealthy. I say, what's this your name is?”
“Never mind that--an old acquaintance. Hell and torments! what's this? O!”
“The weather's pleasant, Topertoe. I say, Topertoe, what's this your name is?”
“O! O!” exclaimed Topertoe, who felt one or two desperate twinges of his prevailing malady; “curse me, Manifold, but I think I would exchange with you; your complaint is an easy one compared to mine. You are a mere block, and will pop off without pain, instead of being racked like a soul in perdition as I am.”
“Your soul in perdition--well I suppose it will. But don't groan and scream so--you I are not there yet; when you are you will have plenty of time to groan and scream. As for myself, I will be likely to sleep it out there. I think, by the way, I had the pleasure of knowing you before; your face is familiar to me. What's this you call the man that attends sick people?”
“A doctor. O! O! Hell and torments! what is this? Yes, a doctor. O! O!”
“Ay, a doctor. Confound me, but I think my head's going around like a top. Yes, a--a--a--a doctor. Well, the doctor says that I and Parson Topertoe led a nice life of it--one a glutton and the other a drunkard. Do you know Topertoe? Because if you don't I do. He is a damned scoundrel, and squeezed his tithes out of the people with pincers of blood.”
“Manifold, your gluttony has brought you to a fine pass. Are you alive or not?”
“Eh? Curse all dry toast and water! But it's all the consequence of this year of famine. Pray, sir, what do you eat?”
“Beef, mutton, venison, fowl, ham, turbot, salmon, black sole, with all the proper and corresponding sauces and condiments.”
“O Lord! and no toast and water, beef tea, and oatmeal gruel? Heavens! how I wish this year of famine was past. It will be the death of me. I say, what's this your name is? Your face is familiar to me somehow. Could you aid me in poisoning the--the--what you call him--ay, the doctor?”
“Nothing more easily done, my dear Manifold. Contrive to let him take one of his own doses, and he's done for.”
“Wouldn't ratsbane do? I often think he's a rat.”
“In face and eyes he certainly looks very like one.”
“Are you aware, sir, that my wife's a cripple? She's paralyzed in her lower limbs.”
“I am perfectly aware of that melancholy fact.”
“Are you aware that she's jealous of me?”
“No, not that she's jealous of you now; but perfectly aware that she had good cause to be so.”
“Ay, but the devil of it is that the paralysis you speak of never reached her tongue.”
“I speak of--'twas yourself spoke of it.”
“She sent me here because it happens to be a year of famine--what is commonly called a hard season--and she stitched the little blasted doctor to me that I might die legitimately under medical advice. Isn't that very like murder--isn't it?”
“Ah, my dear friend, thank God that you are not a parson, having a handsome wife and a handsome curate, with the gout to support you and keep you comfortable. You would then feel that there are other twinges worse than those of the gout.”
“Ay, but is there anything wrong about your head?”
“Heaven knows. About a twelvemonth ago I felt as if there were two sprouts budding out of my forehead, but on putting up my hand I could feel nothing. It was as smooth as ever. It must have been hypochondriasis. The curate, though, is a handsome dog, and, like yourself, it was my wife sent me here.”
“Is your wife a cripple?”
“Faith, anything but that.”
“How is her tongue? No paralysis in that quarter?”
“On the contrary, she is calm and soft-spoken, and perfectly sweet and angelic in her manner.”
“But was it in consequence of the famine she sent you here? Toast and water! --toast and water! O Lord!”
This dialogue took place in Manifold's lodgings, where Topertoe, aided by a crutch and his servant, was in the habit of visiting him. To Manifold, indeed, this was a penal settlement, in consequence of the reasons which we have already stated.
The Pythagorean, as well as Topertoe, was also occasionally forced to the use of crutches; and it was certainly a strange and remarkable thing to witness two men, each at the extreme point of social indulgence, and each departing from reason and common-sense, suffering from the consequences of their respective errors; Manifold, a most voracious fellow, knocked on the head by an attack of apoplexy, and Cooke, the philosopher, suffering the tortures of the damned from a most violent rheumatism, produced by a monomania which compelled him to decline the simple enjoyment of reasonable food and dress. Cooke's monomania, however, was a rare one. In Blackwood's Magazine there appeared, several years ago, an admirable writer, whose name we now forget, under the title of a modern Pythagorean; but that was merely a _nom de guerre_, adopted, probably, to excite a stronger interest in the perusal of his productions. Here, however, was a man in whom the principle existed upon what he considered rational and philosophic grounds. He had gotten the philosophical blockhead's crotchet into his head, and carried the principle, in a practical point of view, much further than ever the old fool himself did in his life.
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{
"id": "16004"
}
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21
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The Dinner at Ballyspellan
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--The Appearance Woodward. --Valentine Greatrakes.
The Thursday appointed for the dinner at length arrived. The little village was all alive with stir and bustle, inasmuch as for several months no such important event had taken place. It was, in fact, a gala day; and the poorer inhabitants crowded about the inn to watch the guests arriving, and the paupers to solicit their alms. Twelve or one was then the usual hour for dinner, but in consequence of the large scale on which it was to take place and the unusual preparations necessary, it was not until the hour of two that the guests sat down to table. Some of the principal names we have already mentioned--all the males, of course, invalids--but, as we have said, there were a good number of the surrounding gentry, their wives and daughters, so that the fete was expected to come off with great eclat. Topertoe was dressed, as was then the custom, in full canonical costume, with, his silk cassock and bands, for he was a doctor of divinity; and Manifold was habited in the usual dress of the day--his falling collar exhibiting a neck whose thickness took away all surprise as to his tendency to apoplexy. The lengthy figure of the unsubstantial Pythagorean was cased in linen garments, almost snow-white, through which his anatomy might be read as distinctly as if his living skeleton was naked before them. Mrs. Rosebud was blooming and expanded into full flower, whilst Miss Rosebud was just in that interesting state when the leaves are apparently in the act of bursting out and bestowing their beauty and fragrance on the gratified senses of the beholder. Dr. Doolittle, who was a regular wag--indeed too much so ever to succeed in his profession--entered the room with his three-cocked hat under his arm, and the usual gold-headed cane in his hand; and, after saluting the company, looked about after Manifold, his patient. He saluted the Pythagorean, and complimented him upon his philosophy, and the healthful habits engendered by a vegetable diet, and so primitive a linen dress--a dress, he said, which, in addition to its other advantages, ought to be generally adopted, if only for the sake of its capacity for showing off the symmetry of the figure. He was himself a warm admirer of the principle, and begged to have the honor of shaking hands with the gentleman who had the courage to carry it out against all the prejudices of a besotted world. He accordingly seized the philosopher's hand, which was then in a desperately rheumatic state, as the little scoundrel well knew, and gave it such a squeeze of respect and admiration that the Pythagorean emitted a yell which astonished and alarmed the whole room.
“Death and torture, sir--why did you squeeze my rheumatic hand in such a manner?”
“Pardon me, Mr. Cooke--respect and admiration for your principles.”
“Well, sir, I will thank you to express what you may feel in plain language, but not in such damnable squeezes as that.”
“Pardon me, again, sir; I was ignorant that the rheumatism was in your hand; you know I am not your physician; perhaps if I were you could bear a friendly shake of it without all that agony. I very much regret the pain I unconsciously, and from motives of the highest respect, have put you to.”
“It is gone--do not mention it,” said the benevolent philosopher. “Perhaps I may try your skill some of these days.”
“I assure you, sir,” said Doolittle, “that I am forcing Mr. Manifold here to avail himself of your system--a simple vegetable diet.”
“O Lord!” exclaimed Manifold, in a soliloquy--for he was perfectly unconscious of what was going on--“toast and water, toast and water! That and a season of famine--what a prospect is before me! Doolittle is a rat, and I will hire somebody to give him ratsbane. Nothing but a vegetable diet, and be hanged to him! What's ratsbane an ounce?”
“You hear, sir,” said Doolittle, addressing the Pythagorean; “you perceive that I am adopting your system?”
“Mr. Doolittle,” replied Cooke, “from this day forth you are my physician--I intrust you with the management of my rheumatism; but, in the meantime, I think the room is devilishly cold.”
Captain Culverin now entered, swathed up, and, as was evident, somewhat tipsy.
“Eh! confound me, philosopher, your hand,” he exclaimed, putting out his own to shake hands with him.
“I can't, sir,” replied Cooke; “I am afflicted with rheumatism. You seem unwell, captain; but if you gave up spirituous liquors--such as wine and usquebaugh--you would find yourself the better for it.”
“What does all this mean?” asked Manifold. “At all events Doolittle's a rat. A vegetable diet, a year of famine, toast, and water--O Lord!”
Dinner, however, came, and the little waggish doctor could not, for the life of him, avoid his jokes. Cooke's dish of vegetables was placed for him at a particular part of the table; but the doctor, taking Manifold by the hand, placed him in the philosopher's seat, whom he afterwards set before a magnificent sirloin of beef--for, truth to speak, the little man acted as a kind of master of the ceremonies to the company at Ballyspellan.
“What's this?” exclaimed Manifold. “Perdition! here is nothing but a dish of asparagus before me! What kind of treatment is this? Were we not to have a great dinner, Topertoe? Alexander the Great!”
“And who placed me before a sirloin of beef?” asked the philosopher; “I, who follow the principles of the Great Pythagorean. I am nearly sick already with the fume of it. Good heavens! a sirloin of beef before a vegetarian.”
Of course Manifold and the philosopher exchanged places, and the dinner proceeded. Mr. and. Mrs. Goodwin were present, but Alice was unable to come, although anxious to do so in order to oblige her parents. It is unnecessary to describe the gastric feats of Manifold and Topertoe. The voracity of the former was astonishing, nor was that of the latter much less; and when the dishes were removed and the tables cleared for their compotations, the faces of both gentlemen appeared as if they were about to explode. The table was now supplied with every variety of liquor, and the conversation began to assume that convivial tone peculiar to such assemblies. The little doctor was placed between Manifold and the Pythagorean, who, by the way, was exceedingly short-sighted; and on the other side of him sat Parson Topertoe, who seemed to feel something like a reprieve from his gout. When the liquor was placed on the table, after dinner, the Pythagorean got to his feet, filled a large glass of water, and taking a gulp of it, leaving it about half full, he proceeded as follows: “Gentlemen: considering the state of morals in our unfortunate country, arising as it does from the use of intoxicating liquors and the flesh of animals, I feel myself called upon to impress upon the consciences of this respectable auditory the necessity of studying the admirable principles of the great philosopher whose simplicity of life in food and drink I humbly endeavor to imitate. Modern society, my friends, is all wrong, and, of course, is proceeding upon an erroneous and pernicious system--that of eating the flesh of animals and indulging in the use, or rather the abuse, of liquors, that heat the blood and intoxicate the brain into the indulgence of passion and the commission of crime.”
Here the little doctor threw a glass of usquebaugh--now called whiskey--into the half-emptied cup which stood before Cooke.
“A vegetable diet, gentlemen, is that which was appointed for us by Providence, and water like this our drink. And, indeed, water like this is delicious drink. The Spa of Ballyspellan stands unrivalled for strength and flavor, and its capacity of exhilarating the animal spirits is extraordinary. You see, gentlemen, how copiously I drink it; servant, fill my glass again--thank you.”
In the meantime, and before he touched it, the doctor whipped another glass of whiskey into it--an act which the Pythagorean, who was, as we have said, unusually tall, and kept his eye upon the company, could neither suspect nor see.
“It has been ignorantly said that the structure of the human mouth is an argument against me as to the quality of our food, and that the growth of grapes is a proof that wine was ordained to be drank by men. It is perfectly well known that a man may eat a bushel of grapes without getting drunk; because the pure vegetable possesses no intoxicating power any more than the water which I am now drinking--and delicious water it is!”
Here the doctor dug his elbow into the fat ribs of Topertoe, whose face, in the meantime, seemed in a blaze of indignation.
“I tell you what, philosopher, curse me, but you are an infidel.”
“I have the honor, sir,” he replied, “to be an infidel--as every philosopher is. The truth of what I am stating to you has been tested by philosophers, and it has been ascertained, that no quantity of grapes eaten by an individual could make him drunk.”
The doctor gave the parson another dig, and winked at him to keep quiet.
“Sir,” said the parson, unable, however, to restrain himself, “confound me if ever I heard such infidel opinions expressed in my life. Damn your philosophy; it is cursed nonsense, and nothing else.”
“A vegetable diet,” proceeded Cooke, “is a guarantee for health and long life--O Lord!” he exclaimed, “this accursed rheumatism will be the death of me.”
“What is he saying?” asked Manifold.
“He is talking philosophy,” replied the doctor, with a comic grin, “and recommending a vegetable diet and pure water.”
“A devilish scoundrel,” said Manifold. “He's a rat, too. Doolittle's a rat; but I'll poison him; yes, I'll dose him with ratsbane, and then I can eat, drink, and swill away. Is the philosopher's wife a cripple?”
“He has no wife,” replied Doolittle.
“And what the devil, then, is he a philosopher for? What on earth challenges philosophy in a husband so much as a wife,--especially if she's a cripple and has the use of her tongue?”
“Not being a married man myself,” replied the doctor, “I can give you no information on the subject; or rather I could if I would; but it would not be for your comfort:--ask Manifold.”
“Ay; but he says there's something wrong about his head--sprouts pressing up, or something that way. Ask Mrs. Rosebud will she hob or nob with me. Mrs. Rosebud,” he proceeded, addressing the widow, “hob or nob?”
Mrs. Rosebud, knowing that he was nothing more nor less than a gouty old parson, bowed to him very coldly, but accepted his challenge, notwithstanding.
“Mrs. Rosebud,” he added, “what kind of a man was old Rosebud?”
“His family name,” replied the widow, “was not Rosebud but Yellowboy; and, indeed, to speak the truth, my dear old Rosebud had all the marks and tokens of the original family name upon him, for he was as thin as the philosopher there, and as yellow as saffron. His mother, however, the night before he was born, dreamed that she was presented with a rosebud, and the name, being somewhat poetical, was adopted by himself and the family as a kind of set-off against the duck-foot color of the ancestral skin.”
The philosopher, in the meantime, finding himself interrupted, stood, with a complacent countenance, awaiting a pause in which he might proceed. At length he got an opportunity of resuming.
“The world,” he added, “knows but little of the great founder of so many systems and theories connected with human life and philosophy. It was he who invented the multiplication table, and solved the forty-seventh proposition of the first book of Euclid. It was he who, from his profound knowledge of music, first discovered the music of the spheres--a divine harmony, which, from its unbroken continuity, and incessant play in the heavenly bodies, we are incapable of hearing.”
“Where the deuce, then, is the use of it?” cried Captain Culverin; “it must be a very odd kind of music which we cannot hear.”
“The great Samian, sir, could hear it; but only in his heart and intellect, and after he had discovered the truthful doctrine of the metempsychosis, or transmigration of souls.”
“The transmigration of soles; why, my dear sir, doesn't every fishwoman understand that?” observed the captain. “Was the fellow a fisherman?”
“His great discovery, however, if mankind would only adopt it, was the healthful one of a vegetable diet, carried out by a fixed determination not to wear any dress made up from the skins or fleeces of animals that have been slain by man, but philosophically to confine himself to plain linen as I do. O Lord! this rheumatism will be the death of me. Pythagoras was one of the greatest philosophers.”
Here the doctor threw another glass of usquebaugh into the cup which stood before the Pythagorean, which act, in consequence of his great height and short sight, he did not perceive, but imagined that he was drinking the well water.
“Philosopher,” said Captain Culverin, “hob or nob, a glass with you.”
“With pleasure, captain,” said the Pythagorean, “only I wish you would adopt my principles--a vegetable diet and _aqua pura_.
“Upon my credit,” observed Father Mulrenin, “I think the _aqua pura_ is the best of it. It is blessed water, this well water, and it ought to be so, because the parson consecrated it. Hob or nob with me, Mr. Cooke.”
“With pleasure, sir,” replied Mr. Cooke, again; “and I do assure you, Father Mulrenin, that I think the parson's consecration has improved the water.”
“Sorra doubt of it,” replied the friar; “and I am sure the doctor there will support me in the article of the parson's consecration.”
“The great Samian,” proceeded Cooke, “the great Samian--” “My dear philosopher,” said the facetious friar, “never mind your great Samian, but follow up your principles and drink your water.”
The mischievous doctor had thrown another glass into his cup: “Drink your water, and set us all a philosophical example of sobriety.”
“That I always do,” said the philosopher, staggering a little; “that I always do: the water is delicious, and I think my rheumatism has departed from me. Mr. Manifold, hob or nob!”
“No,” replied Manifold, “confound me if I will. You are the fellow that eats nothing but vegetables, and drinks nothing but water. Do you think I will hob or nob with a water-drinking rascal like you? Do you think I will put my wine against your paltry water?”
“Don't call it paltry,” replied the Pythagorean; “it is delicious. You know not how it elevates the spirits and, so to speak, philosophizes the whole system of man. I am beginning to feel extremely happy.”
“I think so,” replied the friar; “but wasn't it a fact, as a proof of your metempsychosis, that the great author of your doctrine was at the siege of Troy some centuries before he came into the world as the philosopher Pythagoras?”
“Yes, sir,” replied his follower, “he fought for the Greeks in the character of Euphorbus, in the Trojan war, was Hermatynus, and afterwards a fisherman; his next transformation having been into the body of Pythagoras.”
“What an extraordinary memory he must have had,” said the friar. “Now, can you yourself remember all the bodies your soul has passed through? --but before I expect you to answer me,--hob or nob again,--this is famous water, my dear philosopher.”
“It is famous water, Father Mulrenin; and the parson's consecration has given it a power of exhilaration which is astonishing.” The doctor had thrown another glass of usquebaugh into his cup, of course unobserved.
“Why,” said the friar, “if I'm not much mistaken, you will feel the benefit of it. It is purely philosophical water, and fit for a philosopher like you to drink.”
The company now were divided into little knots, and the worthy philosopher found it necessary to take his seat. He felt himself in a state of mind which he could not understand; but the delicious flavor of the water still clung to him, and, owing to his shortness of sight, and the doctor's wicked wit,--if wit it could be called,--he continued drinking spirits and water until he became perfectly--or, in the ordinary phrase--blind drunk, and was obliged to be carried to bed.
In the meantime, a new individual had arrived; and, having ascertained from the servants that there was a great dinner on that day, he inquired if Mr. Goodwin and his family were present at it. He was informed that Mr. Goodwin and Mrs. Goodwin were there, but that Miss Goodwin was unable to come. He asked where Mr. Goodwin and Mrs. Goodwin resided, and, having been informed on this point, he immediately passed to the farmer's house where they lodged.
Now, it so happened that there was a neat garden attached to the house, in which was an arbor of willows where Miss Goodwin was in the habit of sitting, and amusing herself by the perusal of a book. It contained an arm-chair, in which she frequently reclined, sometimes after the slight exertion of walking; it also happened that she occasionally fell asleep. There were two modes of approach to the farmer's house--one by the ordinary pathway, and another much shorter, which led by a gate that opened into the garden. By this last the guide who pointed out the house to Woodward directed him to proceed, and he did so. On passing through, his eye caught the summer house, and he saw at a glance that Alice Goodwin was there, and asleep. She was, indeed, asleep, but it was a troubled sleep, for the demon gaze of the terrible eye which she dreaded, and which had almost blasted her out of life, she imagined was one more fixed upon her. Woodward approached with a stealthy step, and saw that, even although asleep, she was deeply agitated, as was evident by her moanings. He contemplated her features for a brief space.
“Ah,” he said to himself, “I have done my work. Although beautiful, the stamp of death is upon her. One last gaze and it will all be over. I am before her in her dream. My eye is upon her in her morbid and diseased imagination, but what will the consequence be when she awakens and finds it upon her in reality?”
As those thoughts passed through his mind, she gave a scream, and exclaimed,-- “O, take him away! take him away! he is killing me!” and as she uttered the words she awoke.
Now, thought he, to secure my twelve hundred a year; now, for one glance, with the power of hell in its blighting influence, and all is over; my twelve hundred is safe to me and mine forever.
On awakening from her terrible dream, the first object that presented itself to her was the fixed gaze of that terrific eye. It was now wrought up to such a concentration of malignity as surpassed all that even her imagination had ever formed of it. Fixed--diabolical in its aspect, and steady as fate itself--it poured upon the weak and alarmed girl such a flood of venomous and prostrating influence that her shrieks were too feeble to reach the house when calling for assistance. She seemed to have been fascinated to her own destruction. There the eye was fastened upon her, and she felt herself deprived of the power of removing her own from his.
“O my God!” she exclaimed, “I am lost--help, help; the murderous eye is upon me!”
“It is enough,” said Woodward; “good by, Miss Goodwin. I was simply contemplating your beauty, and I am sorry to see that you are in so weak a state. Present my compliments to your father and mother; and I think of me as a man whose affection you have indignantly spurned--a man, however, I whose eye, whatever his heart may be, is not to be trifled with.”
He then made her a low bow, and took his departure back through the garden.
“It is over,” said he; “_finitum est_, the property is mine; she cannot be saved now; I have taken her life; but no one can say that I have shed her blood. My precious mother will be delighted to hear this. Now, we will be free to act with old Cockletown and his niece; and if she does not turn out a good wife--if she crosses me in my amours---for amours I will have,--I shall let her, too, feel what my eye can do.”
Alice's screams, after his departure from the garden, brought out Sarah Sullivan, who, aided by another servant, assisted her between them to reach the house, where she was put to bed in such a state of weakness, alarm, and terror as cannot be described. Her father and mother were immediately sent for, and, on arriving at her bedside, found her apparently in a dying state. All she could find voice to utter was,-- “He was here--his eye was upon me in the summer house. I feel I am dying.”
Doctor Doolittle and Father Mulrenin were both sent for, but she had fallen into an exhausted slumber, and it was deemed better not to disturb her until she might gain some strength by sleep. Her parents, who felt so anxious about her health, and the faint hopes of her recovery, now made fainter by the incident which had just occurred, did not return to the assembly, and the consequence was that Woodward and they did not meet.
When the hour for the dance, however, arrived, the tables for refreshments were placed in other and smaller rooms, and the larger one in which they had dined was cleared out for the ball. The simple-hearted Pythagorean had slept himself sober, without being aware of the cause of his break-down at the dinner, and he now appeared among them in a gala dress of snow-white linen. He was no enemy to healthy amusements, for he could not forget that the great philosopher whom he followed had won public prizes at the Olympic games. He consequently frisked about in the dance with an awkwardness and a disregard of the graces of motion, which, especially in the jigs, convulsed the whole assembly, nor did any one among them laugh more loudly than he did himself. He especially addressed himself too, and danced with, Mrs. Rosebud, who, as she was short, fat, and plump, exhibited as ludicrous a contrast with the almost naked anatomical structure which frisked before her as the imagination could conceive.
“Upon my credit,” observed the Mar, “I see that extremes may meet. Look at the philosopher, how he trebles and capers it before the widow. Faith, I should not feel surprised if he made Mrs. Pythagoras of her before long.”
This, however, was not the worst of it, for what or who but the devil himself should tempt the parson, with his gout strong upon him, to select Miss Rosebud for a dance, whilst the philosophic rheumatist was frisking it as well as he could with her mother? The room was in an uproar. Miss Rosebud, who possessed much wicked humor, having, as the lady always has, the privilege, called for one of the liveliest tunes then known. The parson's attempt to keep time made the uproar still greater; but at length it ceased, for neither the philosopher nor the parson could hold out any longer, and each retired in a state of torture to his seat. The mirth having now subsided, a gentleman entered the room, admirably dressed, on whom the attention of the whole company was turned, He was tall, elegantly formed, and at a first glance was handsome. The expression of his eyes, however, was striking--startling. It was good--brilliant; it was bad and strange, and, to those who examined it closely, such as they had never witnessed before. Still he was evidently a gentleman: there could be no mistake about that. His manner, his dress, and his whole bearing, made them all feel that he was entitled to respect and courtesy. Little did they imagine that he was a murderer, and that he entered the room under the gratifying impression of his having killed Alice Goodwin. It was Harry Woodward. The evening was now advanced, but, after his introduction to the company, he joined in their amusements, and had the pleasure of dancing with both Mrs. Rosebud and her daughter; and after having concluded his dance with the latter, some tidings reached the room, which struck the whole company with a feeling of awe. It was at first whispered about, but it at length became the general topic of conversation. Alice Goodwin was dying, and her parents were in a state of distraction. Nobody could tell why, but it appeared she was at the last gasp, and that there was some mystery in her malady. Many speculations were broached upon the subject. Woodward preserved silence for a time, but just as he was about to make some observations with reference to her illness, a tall, handsome gentleman entered the room and bowed with much grace to the company.
Father Mulrenin started up, and, shaking hands with him, said,-- “I know now, sir, that you have got my letter.”
“I have got it,” replied the other, “and I am here accordingly.”
As he spoke, his eye glanced around the room, the most distinguished figure in which, beyond comparison, was that of Woodward, who instantly recognized him as the gentleman whom he had met on the morning of his departure from the hospitable roof of Mr. Goodwin, on his return home, and, we may add, between whom and himself that extraordinary trial of the power of will, as manifested by the power of the eye, took place so completely to his own discomfiture. They were both gentlemen, and bowed to each other very courteously, after which they approached and shook hands, and whilst the stranger held Woodward's hand in his during their short but friendly chat, it was observed that Woodward's face got as pale as death, and he almost immediately tottered towards a seat from weakness.
“Don't be alarmed,” said the stranger; “you now feel that the principle of good is always able to overcome the principle of evil.”
“Who or what are you?” asked Woodward, faintly.
“I am a plain country gentleman, sir; and something more, a man of wealth and distinction; but who, unlike my friend Cooke here, do not make myself ridiculous by absurd eccentricities, and the adoption of the nonsensical doctrines of Pythagoras, so utterly at variance with reason and Christian truth. You know, my dear Cooke, I could have cured you of your rheumatism had you possessed common-sense; but who could cure any man who guards his person against the elements by such a ludicrous and unsubstantial dress as yours?”
“I am in torture,” replied Cooke; “I was tempted to dance with a pretty woman, and now I am suffering for it.”
“As for me,” exclaimed Topertoe, “I am a match, and more than a match, for you in suffering. O, this accursed gout!”
“I suppose you brought it on by hard drinking, sir,” said the stranger. “If that be so, I shall not undertake to cure you unless you give up hard drinking.”
“I will do anything,” replied Topertoe, “provided you can allay my pain. I also was tempted to dance as well as the philosopher; and now the Christian parson and the pagan Pythagorean are both suffering for it.”
“What is all this about?” exclaimed Manifold. “O Lord! is he going to put them on a vegetable diet, relieved by toast and water--toast and water?”
The stranger paid but little attention to Manifold, because he saw by his face and the number of his chins that he was past hope; but turning towards Topertoe and the Pythagorean, he requested them both to sit beside each other before him. He then asked Topertoe where his gout affected him, and having been informed that it was principally in his great toe and right foot, he deliberately stripped the foot, and having pressed his hands upon it for about the space of ten minutes, he desired his patient to rise up and walk. This he did, and to his utter astonishment, without the slightest symptom or sensation of pain.
“Why, bless my soul!” exclaimed the parson, “I am cured; the pain is altogether gone. Let me have a bumper of claret.”
“That will do,” observed the stranger. “You are incurable. You will plunge once more into a life of intemperance and luxury, and once more your complaint, from which you are now free, will return to you. You will not deny yourself the gratification of your irrational and senseless indulgences, and yet you expect to be cured. As for me, I can only remove the malady of such persons as you for the present, or time being; but, so long as you return to the exciting cause of it, no earthly skill or power in man can effect a permanent cure. Now, Cooke, I will relieve you of your rheumatism; but unless you exchange this flimsy stuff for apparel suited to your climate and condition, I feel that I am incapable of rendering you anything but a temporary relief.”
He passed his hands over those parts of his limbs most affected by his complaint, and in a short time he (the philosopher) found himself completely free from his pains.
During those two most extraordinary processes Woodward looked on with a degree of wonder and of interest that might be truly termed intense. What the operations which took place before him could mean he knew not, but when the stranger turned round to the friar and said,--“Now bring me to this unhappy girl,” Woodward seized his hat, feeling a presentiment that he was going to the relief of Alice Goodwin, and with hasty steps proceeded to the farm house in which she and her parents lodged. He was now desperate, and resolved, if courtesy failed, to force one more annihilating glance upon her before the mysterious stranger should arrive. We need scarcely inform our readers that he was indignantly repulsed by the family; but he was furious, and in spite of all opposition forced his way into her bedroom, to which he was led by her groans--dying groans they were considered by all around her. He rushed into her bed-room, and fixed his eye upon her with something like the fury of hell in it. The poor girl on seeing him a second time fell back and moaned as if she had expired. The villain stood looking over her in a spirit of the most malignant triumph.
“It is done now,” said he; “there she lies--a corpse--and I am now master of my twelve hundred a year.”
He had scarcely uttered the words when he felt a powerful hand grasp him by the shoulder, and send him with dreadful violence to the other side of the room. On turning round to see who the person was who had actually twirled him about like an infant, he found the large, but benevolent-looking stranger standing at Alice's bedside, his finger upon the pulse and his eyes intently fixed upon her apparently lifeless features. He then turned round to Woodward, and exclaimed in a voice of thunder,-- “She is not dead, villain, and will not die on this occasion: begone, and leave the room.”
“Villain!” replied Woodward, putting his hand to his sword: “I allow no man to call me villain unpunished.”
The stranger contemptuously and indignantly waved his hand to him, as much as to say--presently, presently, but not now. The truth is, the loud tones of his voice had caused Alice to open her eyes, and instead of trading the dreaded being before her, there stood the symbol of benevolence and moral power, with his mild, but clear and benignant eye smiling upon her.
“My dear child,” said he, “look upon me and give me your hands. You shall, with the assistance of that God who has so mysteriously gifted me, soon be well, and free from the evil and diabolical influence which I has been for such selfish and accursed purposes exercised over you.”
He then took her beautiful but emaciated hands into his own, which were also soft and beautiful, and keeping his eyes fixed upon hers, he then, with that necessary freedom which physicians exercise with their patients, pressed his hands after a time upon her temples, her head, her eyes, and her heart, the whole family being present, servants and all. The effect was miraculous. In the course of twenty minutes the girl was recovered; her spirits--her health had returned to her. Her eyes smiled as she turned them with delight upon her father and mother.
“O, papa!” she exclaimed, smiling, “O, dear mamma, what can this mean? I am; cured, and what is more, I am no longer afraid of that vile, bad man. May the God of heaven be praised for this! but how will we thank--how can we thank the benevolent gentleman who has rescued me from death?”
“More thanks are due,” replied the stranger, smiling, “to Father Mulrenin here, who acquainted me in a letter, not only with your melancholy condition, but with the supposed cause of it. However, let your thanks be first returned to God, whose mysterious instrument I only am. Now, sir,” said he, turning to Woodward, “you laid your hand upon your sword. I also wear a sword, not for aggression but defence. You know we met before. I was not then aware of your personal history, but I am now. I have just returned from London, where I was at the court of his Majesty Charles the Second. While in London I met your granduncle, and from him I learned your history, and a bad one it is. Now, sir, I beg to inform you that your malignant and diabolical influence over the person of this young lady has ceased forever. As to the future, she is free from that influence; but if I ever hear that you attempt to intrude yourself into her presence, or to annoy her family, I will have you secured in the jail of Waterford in forty-eight hours afterwards, for other crimes that render you liable to the law.”
“And pray who are you?” asked Woodward, with a blank and crestfallen countenance, but still with a strong feeling of enmity and bitterness--a feeling which he could not repress. “Who are you who presume to dictate to me upon my conduct and course of life?”
“Who am I?” replied the stranger, assuming an air of incredible dignity. “Sir, my name is VALENTINE GREATRAKES, a person on whom God has bestowed powers which, apart from inspiration, have seldom for centuries ever been vouchsafed to man.”
Woodward got pale again. He had heard of his extraordinary powers of curing almost every description of malady peculiar to the human frame, and without another word slunk out of the room. On hearing his name Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin rushed to him, seized his hands, and with the enthusiasm of grateful hearts each absolutely wept upon his broad and ample bosom. He was at this period about forty-six; but seeing Alice's face lit up with joy and delight, he stooped down and kissed her as a father would a daughter who had recovered from the death struggle. “My dear child,” he said, “you are now saved; but you must remain here for some time longer, because I do not wish to part with you until I shall have completely confirmed the sanative influence with which God has enabled me to reinvigorate you and others. As for your selfish persecutor, he will trouble you no more. He knows now what the consequences would be if he attempt it.”
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{
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History of the Black Spectre.
Woodward returned to the public room, where he was soon followed by Father Mulrenin and Greatrakes, who were shortly joined by Mr. Goodwin; Mrs. Goodwin having remained at home with Alice. The dancing went on with great animation, and when the hour of supper arrived there was a full and merry table. The friar was in great glee, but from time to time kept his eye closely fixed upon Woodward, whose countenance and conduct he watched closely; It might have been about the hour of midnight, if not later, when, after a short lull in the conversation, Father Mulrenin addressed Mr. Goodwin as follows:-- “Mr. Goodwin, is there not a family in your neighborhood named Lindsay?”
“There is,” replied Goodwin; “and a very respectable family, too.”
“By the way, there is a very curious tradition, or legend, connected with the family of Mr. Lindsay's wife: have you ever heard of it?”
“That such a tradition, or legend, exists, I believe,” he replied, “but there are many versions of it--although I have never heard any of them distinctly; something I did hear about what is termed the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv_, or the Black Spectre.”
“Well, then,” proceeded the friar, “if the company has no objection to hear an authentic account of this fearful apparition, I will indulge them with a slight sketch of the narrative: “When Essex was over here in the Elizabethan wars--and a nice hand he made of them; not, God knows, that we ought to regret it, but I like a good general whether he is for us or against us--devil a doubt of that: well, when Essex was over here conducting them (with reverence be it spoken) it so happened that he had a scoundrel with him by name Hamilton--and a thorough scoundrel was he. O Lord! if I had lived in those days, and wasn't in Orders to tie my hands up--but no matter; this same scoundrel was one of the handsomest vagabonds in the English camp. Well and good; but, indeed, to tell God's truth, it was neither well nor good, because, as I said, the man was a first-rate, tiptop scoundrel; but you will find that he was a devilish sight more so before I have put a period to my little narration. Mr. Woodward, will you hob or nob? I think your name is Woodward?”
“With great pleasure, sir,” replied Woodward; “and you are right, my name is Woodward; but proceed with your narrative, for, I assure you, I feel very much interested in it, especially in that portion of it which relates to the Black Spectre. Though not a believer in supernatural appearances, I feel much gratification in listening to accounts of them. Pray proceed, sir.”
“Well sir, it so happened that this Hamilton, who had been originally a Scotch Redshank, became privately acquainted with a beautiful and wealthy orphan girl, a relation of the O'Neils; and it so happened again, that whether they made a throw on the dice for it or not, he won her affections. So far, however, there was nothing very particularly obnoxious in it, because we know that intermarriages between Catholics and Protestants may disarm the parties of their religious prejudices against each other; and although I cannot affirm the truth of what I am about to say from my own experience, still, I think I have been able to smell out the fact that little Cupid is of no particular religion, and can be claimed by no particular church; or rather I should say that he is claimed by all churches and all creeds. This Hamilton, as I said, was exceedingly handsome, but it seems from the tradition that it was by the beauty of his eyes that Eva O'Neil was conquered, just as the first Eve was by the eyes and tongue of the serpent. Not, God knows, that the great Eve was any great shakes, for she left the world in a nice plight by falling in love with a serpent; but upon my credit she was not the first woman, excuse the blunder, who fell in love with a serpent, and suffered accordingly. I appeal to Pythagoras there.”
“It is an allegory,” replied the Pythagorean, “and simply means that we are innocent so long as we are young, and that when we come to maturity we are corrupted and depraved by our passions.”
“How the sorra can you say that,” replied the friar, “when you know that Adam and Eve were created full-grown?”
“Pray go on with your tradition,” said Greatrakes, “and let us hear the history of the Black Spectre. I am not myself an infidel in the history of supernatural appearances, and I wish to hear you out.”
“Well, then,” replied the friar, “you shall. The villain proposed marriage to this beautiful young orphan, and as he was a handsome vagabone, as I have stated, he was accepted; but his eyes, above all things, were irresistible. They were married by a Protestant clergyman, and immediately afterwards by a Catholic priest, who was far advanced in years. The lady would submit to no marriage but a legal one. The marriage, however, was private; for Hamilton knew that Essex was aware of his having been during this event a married man, and that his wife, who was a distant relation of the Earl's, was still living. The marriage, however, came to Essex's ears, and Hamilton was called to account. He denied the marriage, the old priest having been now dead, and none but the Protestant clergyman of the parish being alive to bear testimony to the fact of the marriage. He endeavored to prevail upon the clergyman also to deny the marriage, which he refused to do, whereupon he was found murdered. His wife by this marriage having learned from Essex that Hamilton had most treacherously deceived her, fell into premature labor and died; but her last words were an awful curse upon him, and his children after him, to the last generation.
“'May the Eye that lured me to destruction,' she said, 'become a curse to you and your descendants forever! May it blight and kill all those whom it looks upon, and render it dreadful and dreaded to all those who will place confidence in you or your descendants!'”
“God knows I couldn't much blame her; it was her last Christian benediction to the villain who had destroyed her, and, setting-charity aside, I don't see how she could have spoken otherwise.
“When the proofs of the marriage, however, were about to be brought against him, the Protestant clergyman, who, on discovering his iniquity, was too honest to conceal it, and who felt bitterly the fraud that had been practised on him, was found murdered, as I have said, because he was now the only evidence left against Hamilton's crime. The latter did not, however, get rid of him by that atrocious and inhuman act. The spirit of that man haunts the family from that day to this; it is always a messenger of evil to them whenever he appears, and it matters not where they go or where they live, he is sure to follow them, and to fasten upon some of the family, generally the wickedest, of course, as his victim. Now, Mr. Woodward, what do you think of that family tradition?”
“I think of it,” replied Woodward, “with contempt, as I do of everything that proceeds from the lips of an ignorant and illiterate Roman Catholic priest.”
“Sir,” replied the friar, “I am not the inventor of this family tradition, nor of the crime which is said--however justly I know not--to have given rise to it; but this I do know, that no man having claims to the character of a gentleman would use such language to a defenceless man as you have just used to me. The legend is traditionary in your family, and I have only given it as I have heard it. If I were not a clergyman I would chastise you for your insolence; but my hands are bound up, and you well know it.”
“Friar,” said Greatrakes, “when you know that your hands are bound up, you should have avoided insulting any man. You should not have related a piece of family history--perhaps false from beginning to end--in the presence of a gentleman so intimately connected with that family as you knew him to be. It was no topic for a common room like this, and it was quite unjustifiable in you to have introduced it.”
“I feel, sir, that you are perfectly right,” replied the good-natured friar, “and I ask Mr. Woodward's pardon for having, without the slightest intention of offence to him, done so. You will recollect that he himself expressed an anxiety to hear it.”
“All I say upon the subject,” observed the Pythagorean, “is simply this, that Pythagoras himself could not have cured me of the rheumatism as my friend Valentine Greatrakes has done.”
“You will require no cure, and, what is better, no necessity for cure,” replied Greatrakes, smiling, “if you will have only common sense, my dear Cooke. Clothe yourself in warm and comfortable garments, and feed your miserable carcass with good beef and mutton, and, in addition to which, like myself and the friar here, take a warm tumbler of good usquebaugh punch to promote digestion.”
“I will never abandon my principles,” replied the philosopher. “Linen and vegetable diet forever.”
Manifold was asleep after his gorge,--a sleep from which he never awoke,--but Doctor Doolittle, anxious to secure Cooke as a patient, became quite eloquent upon the advantages of a vegetable diet, and of the Pythagorean system in general; after which the conversation of the night closed, and the guests departed to their respective lodgings.
The night was still an beautiful. The moon was about to sink, but still she emitted that faint and shadowy light which lends such calm, but picturesque beauty to the nocturnal landscape. Woodward was alone; but it would be difficult to find language in which to describe the bitterness of his feelings and the frightful sense of his disappointment on finding, not only that his infamous design upon the life of Alice Goodwin had been frustrated, but on feeling certain that she had been restored to perfect health before his eyes. This, however, was not the worst of it. He had calculated on killing her, and consequently of securing the twelve hundred a year, on the strength of which he and his mother could confidently negotiate with the old nobleman, who always slept with one eye open. In the venom and dark malignity of his heart he cursed Alice Goodwin, he cursed Valentine Greatrakes, he cursed the world, and he cursed God, or rather would have cursed him had he believed in the existence of such a being.
In this mood of mind he was proceeding to his lodgings, when he espied before him the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv_, or Black Spectre with the middogue in his hand. He stood and looked at it steadily.
“What is this?” said he, addressing the figure before him. “What pranks are you playing now? Do you think me a fool? What brought you here? and what do you mean by this pantomimic nonsense, Mr. Conjurer?”
The figure, of course, made no reply, except by gesture. It brandished the middogue, or dagger, however, and pointed it three times at his heart. The spot upon which this strange interview occurred was perfectly clear of anything that could conceal an individual. In fact it was an open common. Woodward, consequently, led astray by circumstances with which the reader will become subsequently acquainted, started forward with the intention of reaching the individual whom he suspected of indulging himself in playing with his fears, or rather with jocularly intending to excite them. He sprang forward, we say, and reached the spot on which the Black Spectre had stood, but our readers may judge of his surprise when he found that the spectre, or whatever it was, had disappeared, and was nowhere, or any longer, visible. Place of concealment there was none. He examined the ground about him. It was firm and compact, and without a fissure in which a rat could, conceal itself.
There is no power in human nature which enables the heart of man, under similar circumstances, to bear the occurrence of such a scene as we have described, unmoved. The man was hardened--an infidel, an atheist; but, notwithstanding all this, a sense of awe, wonder, and even, in some degree, of terror, came over his heart, which nearly unnerved him. Most atheists, however, are utter profligates, as he was; or silly philosophers, who, because they take their own reason for their guide, will come to no other conclusion than that to which it leads them. “It is simply a hallucination,” said he to himself, “and merely the result of having heard the absurd nonsense of what that ignorant and credulous old friar related tonight concerning my family. Still it is strange, because I am cool and sober, and in the perfect use of my senses. This is the same appearance which I saw before near the Haunted House, and of which I never could get any account. What if there should be--?”
He checked himself and proceeded to his lodgings, with an intention of returning home the next morning; which he did, after having failed in the murderous mission which he undertook to accomplish.
“Mother,” said he, after his return home, “all is lost: Alice Goodwin has been restored to perfect health by Valentine Greatrakes, and my twelve hundred a year is gone for ever. How can we enter into negotiations with that sharp old scoundrel, Lord Cockle-town, now? I assure you I had her at the last gasp, when Greatrakes came in and restored her to perfect health before my face. But, setting that aside for the present, is there such a being as what is termed the Black Spectre, mysteriously connected, if I may say so, with our family?”
His mother's face got pale as death.
“Why do you ask, Harry?” said she.
“Because,” he replied, “I have reason to think that I have seen it twice.”
“Alas! alas!” she exclaimed, “then the doom of the curse is upon you. It selects only one of every generation on which to work its vengeance. The third appearance of it will be fatal to you.”
“This is all contemptible absurdity, my dear mother. I don't care if I saw it a thousand times. How can it interfere with my fate?”
“It does not interfere,” she replied, “it only intimates it, and whatever the nature of the individual's death among our family may be, it shadows it out. What signs did it make to you?”
“It brandished what is called in this country a middogue, or Irish dagger, at my heart.”
His mother got pale again.
“Harry,” said she, “I would recommend you to leave the kingdom. Avoid the third warning!”
“Mother,” he replied, “this certainly is sad nonsense. I have no notion of leaving the kingdom in consequence of such superstitious stuff as this; all these things are soap bubbles; put your finger on them and they dissolve into nothing. How is Charles? for I have not yet seen him.”
“Improving very much, although not able yet to leave his room.”
Woodward walked about and seemed absorbed in thought.
“It is a painful thing, mother,” said he, “that Charles is so long recovering. Do you know that I am half inclined to think he will never recover? His wound was a dreadful one, and its consequences on his constitution will, I fear, be fatal.”
“I hope not, Harry,” she replied, “for ever since his illness I have found that my heart gathers about him with an affection that I have never felt for him before.”
“Your resolution, then, is fixed, I suppose, to leave him your property?”
“It is fixed; there is, or can be, no doubt about it. Once I come to a determination I am immovable. We shall be able to wheedle Lord Cockletown and his niece.”
Harry paused a moment, then passed out of the room, and retired to his own apartment.
Here he remained for hours. At the close of the evening he appeared in the withdrawing-room, but still in a silent and gloomy state.
The perfect cure of Miss Goodwin had spread like wildfire, and reached the whole country.
Greatrake's reputation was then at its highest, and the number of his cures was the theme of all conversation, Barney Casey had well marked Woodward since his return from Ballyspellan, and having heard, in connection with others, that Miss Goodwin had been cured by Greatrakes, he resolved to keep his eye upon him, and, indeed, as the event will prove, it was well he did so.
That night, about the hour of twelve o'clock, Barney, who had suspected that he (Woodward) had either murdered Grace Davoren in order to conceal his own guilt, or kept her in some secret place for the most unjustifiable purposes, remarked that, as was generally usual with him, he did not go to bed at the period peculiar to the habits of the family.
“There is something on my mind this night,” said Barney; “I can't tell what it is; but I think he is bent on some villainous scheme that ought to be watched, and in the name of God I will watch him.”
Woodward went out of the house more stealthily than usual, and took his way towards the town of Rathfillan. A good way in the distance behind him might be discovered another figure dogging his footsteps, that figure being no other than the honest figure of Barney Casey. On went Woodward unsuspicious that he was watched, until he reached the indescribable cabin of Sol Donnel, the old herbalist. The night had become dark, and Barney was able, without being seen, to come near enough to Woodward to hear his words and observe his actions. He tapped at the old man's window, which, after some delay and a good deal of grumbling, was at length opened to him. The hut consisted of only one room--a fact which Barney well knew.
“Who is there?” said the old herbalist. “Why do you come at this hour to deprive me of my rest? Nobody comes for any good purpose at such an hour as this.”
“Open your door, you hypocritical old sinner, and I will speak to you. Open your door instantly.”
“Wait, then; I will open it; to be sure--I will open it; because I know whoever you are that if there was not something extraordinary in it, it isn't at this hour you'd be coming to me.”
“Open the door I say, and then I shall speak to you.”
The window, which the old herbalist had opened, and, in the hurry of the moment, left unshut, remained unshut, and Barney, after Woodward had entered, stood close to it in order to hear the conversation which might pass between them.
“Now,” said Woodward, after he had entered the hut, “I want a dose from you. One of my dogs, I fear, is seized with incipient symptoms of hydrophobia, and I wish to dose him to death.”
“And what hour is this to come for such a purpose?” asked Sol Donnel. “It isn't at midnight that a man comes to me to ask for a dose of poison for a dog.”
“You are very right in that,” replied Woodward; “but the truth is, that I had an assignation with a girl in the town, and I thought that I might as well call upon you now as at any other time.”
The eye of the old sinner glistened, for he knew perfectly well that the malady of the dog was a fable.
“Well,” said he, “I can give you the dose, but what's to be the recompense?”
“What do you ask?” replied the other. “I will dose nothing under five pounds.”
“Are you certain that your dose will be sure to effect its purpose?” asked Woodward.
“As sure as I am of life,” replied the old sinner; “one glass of it would settle a man as soon as it would a dog;” and as he spoke he fastened his keen, glittering eyes upon Woodward. The glance seemed to say, I understand you, and I know that the dog you are about to give the dose to walks upon two legs instead of four.
“Now,” said Woodward after having secured the bottle, “here are your five pounds, and _mark me_----” he looked sternly in the face of the herbalist, but added not another word.
The herbalist, having secured the money and deposited it in his pocket, said, with a malicious grin, “Couldn't you, Mr. Woodward, have prevented yourself from going to the expense of five pounds for poisoning a dog, that you could have shot without all this expense?”
Woodward looked at him. “Your life,” said he, “will not be worth a day's purchase if you breathe a syllable of what took place between us this night. Sol Donnel, I am a desperate man, otherwise I would not have come to you. Keep the secret between us, for, if you divulge it, you may take my word for it that you will not survive it twenty-four hours. Now, be warned, for I am both resolute and serious.”
The herbalist felt the energy of his language and was subdued.
“No,” he replied, “I shall never breathe it; kill your dog in your own way; all I can say is, that half a glass of it would kill the strongest horse in your stable; only let me remark that I gave you the bottle to kill a dog!”
“Now,” thought Barney Casey, “what can all this mean? There is none of the dogs wrong. He is at some devil's work; but what it is I do not know; I shall watch him well, however, and it will go hard or I shall find out his purpose.”
As Woodward was about to depart he mused for a time, and at length addressed the herbalist.
“Suppose,” said he, “that I wish to kill this dog by slow degrees, would it not be a good plan to give him a little of it every day, and let him die, as it were, by inches?”
“That my bed may be made in heaven but it is a good thought, and by far the safest plan,” replied the herbalist, “and the very one I would recommend you. A small spoonful every day put into his coffee or her coffee, as the case may be, will, in the course of a fortnight or three weeks, make a complete cure.”
“Why, you old scoundrel, who ever heard of a dog drinking coffee?”
“I did,” replied the old villain, with another grin, “and many a time it is newly sweetened for them, too, and they take it until they fall asleep; but they forget to waken somehow. Taste that yourself, and you'll find that it is beautifully sweetened; because if it was given to the dog in its natural bitter state he might refuse to take it at all, or, what would be worse and more dangerous still, he might suspect the reason why it was given to him.”
The two persons looked each other in the face, and it would, indeed, be difficult to witness such an expression as the countenance of each betrayed. That of the herbalist lay principally in his ferret eyes. It was cruel, selfish, cunning, and avaricious. The eye of the other was dark, significant, vindictive, and terrible. In his handsome features there was, when contrasted with those of the herbalist, a demoniacal elevation, a satanic intellectuality of expression, which rendered the contrast striking beyond belief. The one appeared with the power of Apollyon, the god of destruction, conscious of that power; the other as his mere contemptible agent of evil-subordinate, low, villanous, and wicked.
Woodward, after a significant look, bade him good night, and took his way home.
Barney Casey, however, still dogged him stealthily, because he knew not whether the dose was intended for Grace Davoren or his brother Charles. Mrs. Lindsay had made no secret of her intention to leave her property to the latter, whose danger, and the state of whose health, had awakened all those affections of the mother which had lain dormant in her heart so long. The revivification of her affections for him was one of those capricious manifestations of feeling which can emanate from no other source but the heart of a mother. Independently of this, there was in the mind of Mrs. Lindsay a principle of conscious guilt, of hardness of heart, of all want of common humanity, that sometimes startled her into terror. She knew the villany of her son Woodward, and, after all, the heart of a woman and a mother is not like the heart of a man. There is a tendency to recuperation in a woman's and a mother's heart, which can be found nowhere else; and the contrast which she felt herself forced to institute between the generous character of her son Charles and the villany of Woodward broke down the hard propensities of her spirit, and subdued her very wickedness into something like humanity. Virtue and goodness, after all, will work their way, especially where a mother's feelings, conscious of the evil and conscious of the good, are forced to strike the balance between them. This consideration it was which determined Mrs. Lindsay, in addition to other considerations already alluded to, to come to the resolution of leaving her property to her son Charles. There is, besides, a want of confidence and of mutual affection in villany which reacts upon the heart, precisely as it did upon that of Mrs. Lindsay. She knew that her eldest son was in intention a murderer; and there is a terrible summons in conscience which sometimes awakens the soul into a sense of virtue and truth.
Be this as it may, Barney Casey's vigilance was ineffectual. From the night on which Woodward got the bottle from the herbalist, Charles Lindsay began gradually and slowly to decline. Barney's situation in the family was that of a general servant, in fact, a man of all work, and the necessary consequence was, that he could not contravene the conduct of Harry Woodward, although he saw clearly that, notwithstanding Charles's wound was nearly healed, his general health was getting worse.
Now, the benevolence and singular power of Valentine Greatrakes are historical facts which cannot be contradicted. After about a month from the time he cured Alice Goodwin he came to the town of Rathfillan, with several objects in view, one of which was to see Alice Goodwin, and to ascertain that her health was perfectly reestablished. But the other and greater one was that which we shall describe. Mr. Lindsay, having perceived that his son Charles's health was gradually becoming worse, though his wound was healed, and on finding that the physician who attended him could neither do anything for his malady, nor even account for it, or pronounce a diagnosis upon its character, bethought him of the man who had so completely cured Alice Goodwin. Accordingly, on Greatrakes's visit to Rathfillan, he waited upon him, and requested, as a personal favor, that he would come and see his dying son, for indeed Charles at that time was apparently not many days from death. This distinguished and wealthy gentleman at once assented, and told Mr. Lindsay that he “would visit his sen the next day.
“I may not cure him,” said he, “because there are certain complaints which cannot be cured. Such complaints I never attempt to cure; and even in others that are curable I sometimes fail. But wherever there is a possibility of cure I rarely fail. I am not proud of this gift; on the contrary, it has subdued my heart into a sense of piety and gratitude to God, who, in his mercy, has been pleased to make me the instrument of so much good to my fellow-creatures.”
Mr Lindsay returned home to his family in high spirits, and on his way to the house observed his stepson Woodward and Barney Casey at the door of the dog-kennel.
“I maintain the dog is wrong,” said Woodward, “and to me it seems an incipient case of hydrophobia.”
“And to me,” replied Barney, “it appears that his complaint is hunger, and that you have simply deprived him of his necessary food.”
At this moment Mr. Lindsay approached them, and exclaimed,-- “Harry, let your honest and affectionate heart cheer up. Valentine Greatrakes will be here to-morrow, and will cure Charles, as he cured Alice Goodwin, and then we will have them married; for if he recovers I am determined on it, and will abide no opposition from any quarter. Indeed, Harry, your mother is now willing that they should be married, and is sorry that she ever opposed it. Your mother, thank God, is a changed woman, and thank God the change is one that makes my very heart rejoice.”
“God be praised,” exclaimed Barney, “that is good news, and makes my heart rejoice nearly as much as yours.”
“Father,” said Woodward, “you have taken a heavy load off my mind. Charles is certainly very ill, and until Greatrakes comes I shall make it a point to watch and nurse-tend him myself.”
“It is just what I would expect from your kind and affectionate heart, Harry,” replied Lindsay, rather slowly though, who then passed into the house to communicate the gratifying intelligence to his wife and daughter.
The intensity of Woodward's malignity and villany was such that, as we have mentioned before, on some occasions he forgot himself into such a state of mind, and, what was worse, into such an expression of countenance, as, especially to Barney Casey, who so deeply suspected him, challenged observation. After Lindsay had gone he put his hand to his chin, and said, still with caution,-- “Yes, poor fellow, I will watch him myself this night; for if he happened to die before Greatrakes comes to-morrow, what an affliction would it not be to the family, and especially to myself, who love him so well. Yes, in order to sustain and support him, I will watch him and act as his nurse this night.”
There was, however, such an expression on his countenance as could not be mistaken even by a common observer, much less by such an acute one as Barney Casey, who had his eye upon him for such a length of time! His countenance, Barney saw plainly, was as dark as hell, and seemed to catch its inspiration from that damnable region.
“Barney,” said he, “I shall watch the sick bed, and nurse my brother Charles tonight, in order, if possible, to sustain him until Greatrakes cures him to-morrow.”
“Ah, it's you that is the affectionate brother,” replied Barney, who had read deliberate murder in his countenance. “But,” he exclaimed, after Woodward had gone, “if you watch him this night, I will watch you. You know now that he stands between you and your mother's property, and you will put him out of the way if you can. Yes, I will watch you well this night.”
The minute poisoned doses which he had contrived to administer to his brother were always followed by an excessive thirst. Now, Barney had, as we have often said, strong suspicions; but on this occasion he was determined to place himself in a position from which he could watch every movement of Woodward without being suspected himself. His usual sleeping place was in a low gallery below stairs; but it so happened that there was a closet beside Charles's bed in which there was neither bed nor furniture of any kind, with the exception of a single chair. The door between them had, as is usual, two panes of glass in; it, through which any person in the dark could see what happened in the room in which Charles slept.
Barney locked the door on the inside, and it was well that he did so, for in a short time Woodward came in, with a guilty and a stealthy pace, and having looked, like a murderer, about the room, he approached the closet door and tried to open it; but finding that it was locked his apprehensions vanished, and he deliberately, on seeing that his brother was asleep, took a bottle out of his pocket, and having poured about a wine-glassful of the poison into the small jug which contained the usual drink of the patient, he left the room, satisfied that, as soon as his brother awoke, he would take the deadly draught. When he departed, Barney came out, and having substituted another for it--for there was a variety of potions on the sick table--he, too, stealthily descended the stairs, and going to the dog-kennel deliberately administered the pernicious draught to the dog which Woodward had insisted was unwell. He happily escaped all observation, and accomplished his plan without either notice or suspicion. He stayed in the kennel in order to watch the effects of the potion upon the dog, who died in the course of about fifteen minutes after having received it.
“Now,” said Barney, “I think I have my thumb upon him, and it will go hard with me or I will make him suffer for this hellish intention to murder his brother. Mr. Greatrakes is a man of great wealth and high rank; he is, besides, a magistrate of the county, and, please God, I will disclose to him all that I have seen and suspect.”
Barney, under the influence of these feelings, went to bed, satisfied that he had saved the life of Charles Lindsay, at least for that night, but at the same time resolved to bring his murderous brother to an account for his conduct.
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{
"id": "16004"
}
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23
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Greatrakes at Work--Denouement
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Greatrakes was on his way from Birch Grove to Rathnllan House the next day when he was met by Barney Casey, who had been on the lookout for him. Barney, who knew not his person, was not capable of determining whether he was the individual whom he wanted or not. At all events he resolved at once to ascertain that fact. Accordingly, putting his hand to his hat, he said, with a respectful manner,-- “Pray, sir, are you the great Valentine Great Rooke, who prevents the people from dyin'?”
“I am Valentine Greatrakes,” he replied, with a smile; “but I cannot prevent the people from dying.”
“Begad, but you can prevent them from being sick, at any rate. I am myself sometimes subject to a colic, bad luck to it--(this was a lie, got up for the purpose of arresting the attention of Greatrakes)--and maybe if you would be kind enough to rub me down you would drive the wind out of me and cure me of it, for at least, by all accounts through the whole parish, it's a windy colic that haunts me.”
Greatrakes, who was a man of great goodnature, and strongly susceptible of humor, laughed very heartily at Barney's account of his miserable state of health.
“Well,” said he, “my good friend, let me tell you that the colic you speak of is one of the most healthy diseases we have. Don't, if you regard your constitution, and your health, ever attempt to get rid of it. Your constitution is a windy constitution, and that is the reason why you are graciously afflicted with a windy colic.”
It was, in fact, diamond cut diamond between the two. Barney, who had never had a colic in his life, shrugged his shoulders very dolefully at the miserable character of the sympathy which was expressed for him; and Greatrakes, from his great powers of observation, saw that every word Barney uttered with respect to his besetting malady was a lie.
At length Barney's countenance assumed an expression of such honest sincerity and feeling that Greatrakes was at once struck by it, and he kept his eye steadily fixed upon him.
“Sir,” said Barney, “I understand you are a distinguished gentleman and a magistrate besides?”
“I am certainly a magistrate,” replied Greatrakes; “but what is your object in asking the question, my good fellow?”
“I understand you are going to our Masther Charles Lindsay. Now, I wish to give you a hint or two concerning him. His brother--he of the Evil Eye--according to my most solemn and serious opinion, is poisoning him by degrees. I think he has been dosing him upon a small scale, so as to make him die off by the effects of poison, without any suspicion being raised against himself; but when his father told him yesterday that you were to come this day to cure him, his brother insisted that he should sit up with him, and nurse-tend him himself. I was aware of this, and from a conversation I heard him have with an old herbalist, named Sol Donnel, I had suspicions of his design against his brother's life. He strove to kill Miss Goodwin by the damnable force and power of his Evil Eye, and would have done so had not you cured her.”
“And are you sure,” replied Greatrakes, “that it is not his Evil Eye that is killing his brother?”
“I don't know that,” replied Barney; “perhaps it may be so.”
“No,” replied Greatrakes, “from all I have read and heard of its influence it cannot act upon persons within a certain degree of consanguinity.”
“I would take my oath,” said honest Barney, “that it is the poison that acts in this instance.”
He then gave him a description of Woodward's having poured the poison--or at least what he suspected to be such--into the drink which was usually left at the bedside of his brother, and of its effect upon the dog.
Greatrakes, on hearing this, drew up his horse, and looking Barney sternly in the face, asked him,-- “Pray, my good fellow, did Mr. Woodward ever injure or offend you?”
“No, sir,” replied Barney, “never in any instance; but what I say I say from my love for his brother, whose life, I can swear, he is tampering with. It is a weak word, I know, but I will use a stronger, for I say he is bent upon his murder by poison.”
“Well,” said Greatrakes, “keep your counsel for the present. I will study this matter, and examine into it; and I shall most certainly receive your informations against him; but I must have better opportunities for making myself acquainted with the facts. In the meantime keep your own secret, and leave the rest to me.”
When Greatrakes reached Rathfillan House the whole family attended him to the sick bed of Charles. Woodward was there, and appeared to feel a deep interest in the fate of his brother. Greatrakes, on looking at him, said, before he applied the sanative power which God had placed in his constitution,-- “This young man is dying of a slow and subtle poison, which some person under the roof of this house has been administering to him in small doses.”
As he uttered these words he fixed his eyes upon Woodward, whose face quailed and blanched under the power and significance of his gaze.
“Sir,” replied Lindsay, “with the greatest respect for you, there is not a single individual under this roof who would injure him. He is beloved by every one. The sympathy felt for him through the whole parish is wonderful--but by none more than by his brother Woodward.”
This explanation, however, came too late. Greatrakes's impressions were unchanged.
“I think I will cure him,” he proceeded; “but after his recovery let him be cautious in taking any drink unless from the hands of his mother or his father.”
He then placed his hands over his face and chest, which he kept rubbing for at least a quarter of an hour, when, to their utter astonishment, Charles pronounced himself in as good health as he had ever enjoyed in his lift.
“This, sir,” said he, “is wonderful; why, I am perfectly restored to health. As I live, this man must have the power of God about him to be able to effect such an extraordinary cure: and he has also cured my darling Alice. What can I say? Father, give him a hundred--five hundred pounds.”
Greatrakes smiled.
“You don't know, it seems,” he replied, “that I do not receive remuneration for any cures I may effect. I am wealthy and independent, and I fear that if I were to make the wonderful gift which God has bestowed on me the object of mercenary gain, it might be withdrawn from me altogether. My principle is one of humanity and benevolence. I will remain in Rathfillan for a fortnight, and shall see you again,” he added, addressing himself to Charles. “Now,” he proceeded, “mark me, you will require neither drinks nor medicine of any description. Whatever drinks you take, take them at the common table of the family. There are circumstances connected with your case which, as a magistrate of the county, I am I resolved to investigate.”
He looked sternly at Woodward as he uttered the last words, and then took his departure to Rathfillan, having first told Barney Casey to call on him the next day.
After Greatrakes had gone, Woodward repaired to the room of his mother, in a state of agitation which we cannot describe.
“Mother,” said he, “unless we can manage that old peer and his niece, I am a lost man.”
“Do not be uneasy,” replied his mother; “whilst you were at Ballyspellan I contrived to manage that. Ask me nothing about it; but every arrangement is made, and you are to be married this day week. Keep yourself prepared for a settled case.”
What the mother's arguments in behalf of the match may have been, we cannot pretend to say. We believe that Miss Riddle's attachment to his handsome person and gentlemanly manners overcame all objections on the part of her uncle, and nothing now remained to stand in the way of their union.
The next day Barney Casey waited upon Greatrakes, according to appointment, when the following conversation took place between them:-- “Now,” said Greatrakes, solemnly, “what is your name?”
As he put the question with a stern and magisterial air, his tablets and pencil in hand, which he did with the intention of awing Barney into a full confession of the exact truth--a precaution which Barney's romance of the windy colic induced him to take,--“I say,” he repeated, “what's your name?”
Barney, seeing the pencil and tablets in hand, and besides not being much, or at all, acquainted with magisterial investigations, felt rather blank, and somewhat puzzled at this query.
He accordingly resorted to the usage of the country, and commenced scratching a rather round bullet head.
“My name, your honor,” he replied; “my name, couldn't you pass that by, sir?”
“No,” said Greatrakes, “I cannot pass it by. In this business it is essential that I should know it.”
“Ay,” replied Barney, “but maybe you have some treacherous design in it, and that you are goin' to take the part of the wealthy scoundrel against the poor man; and even if you did, you wouldn't be the first magistrate who did it.”
Greatrakes looked keenly at him. The observation he expressed was precisely in accordance with the liberality of his own feelings.
“Don't be alarmed,” he added; “if you knew my character, which it is evident you do not, you would know that I never take the part of the rich man against the poor man, unless when there is justice on the part of the wealthy man, and crime, unjustifiable and cruel crime, on the part of the poor man, which, I am sorry to say, is not an unfrequent case. Now, I must insist, as a magistrate, that you give me your name.”
“Well, then,” replied the other, “I'm one Barney Casey, sir, who lives in Rathfillan House, as a servant to Mr. Lindsay, step-father to that murtherin' blackguard.”
Greatrakes then examined him closely, and made him promise to come to Rathfillan that night, in order that he might accompany him to the hut of old Sol Donnel, the herbalist.
“I am resolved,” said he, “to investigate this matter, and in my capacity of a magistrate to bring the guilty to justice.”
“Faith, sir,” replied Barney, “and I'm not the boy who is going to stand in your way in such a business as that. You know that it was I that put you up to it, and any assistance I can give you in it you may reckon on. Although not a magistrate, as you are, maybe I'm just as fond of justice as yourself. Of coorse I'll attend you to-night, and show you the devil's nest in which Sol Donnel and his blessed babe of a niece, by name Caterine Collins, live.”
Greatrakes took down the name of Caterine Collins, and after having arranged the hour at which Barney was to conduct him to Sol Donnel's hut, they separated.
About eleven o'clock that night Barney and Greatrakes reached the miserable-looking residence in which this old viper lived.
“Now,” said Greatrakes, addressing the herbalist, “my business with you is this: I have a bitter enemy who wants to establish a claim upon my property, and I wish to put him out of my way. Do you understand me? I am a wealthy man, and can reward you well.”
“I never talk of these things in the presence of a third party,” replied the herbalist, looking significantly at Barney, whom he well knew.
“Well,” replied the other, “I dare say you are right. Casey, go out and leave us to ourselves.”
There was a little hall in the house, which hall was in complete obscurity. Barney availed himself of this circumstance, opened the door and clapped it to as if he had gone out, but remained at the same time in the inside.
“No, sir,” replied Sol Donnel, ignorant of the trick which Barney had played upon him, “I never allow a third person to be present at any of those conversations about the strength and power of my herbs. Now, tell me, what it is that you want me to do for you.”
“Why, to tell you the truth,” replied Greatrakes, “I never heard of your name until within a few days ago, that you were mentioned to me by Mr. Henry Woodward, who told me that you gave him a dose to settle a dog that was laboring under the first symptoms of hydrophobia. Well, the dog is dead by the influence of the bottle you gave him; but now that we are by ourselves I tell you at once that I want a dose for a man who is likely, if he lives, to cut me out of a large property.”
“O, Cheernah!” exclaimed the old villain, “do you think that I who lives by curin' the poor for nothing, or next to nothing, could lend myself to sich a thing as that?”
“Very well,” replied the other, preparing to take his departure, “you have lost fifty pounds by the affair at all events.”
“Fifty pounds!” exclaimed the other, whilst his keen and diabolical eyes gleamed with the united spirit of avarice and villany. “Fifty pounds! well how simple and foolish some people are. Why now, if you had a dog, say a setter or a pointer, that from fear of madness you wished to get rid of, and that you had mentioned it to me, I could give you a bottle that would soon settle it; I don't go above a dog or the inferior animals, and no man that has his senses about him ought to ask me to do anything else.”
“Well, then, I tell you at once that, as I said, it is not for a dog, but for a worse animal, a man, my own cousin, who, unless I absolutely contrive to poison him, will deprive me of six thousand a year. Instead of fifty I shall make the recompense a hundred, after having found that your medicine is successful.”
The old villain's eye gleamed again at the prospect of such liberality.
“Well now,” said he, “see what it is for a pious man to forget his devotions, even for one day. I forgot to say my Leadan Wurrah this mornin', and that is the raison that your temptation has overcome me. You must call then to-morrow night, because I have nothing now, barrin' what 'ud excite the bowels, and it seems that isn't what you want; but if you be down here about this same hour to-morrow night, you shall have what will put your enemy out of the way.”
“That will do then,” replied Greatrakes, “and I shall depend on you.”
“Ay,” replied the old villain, “but remember that the act is not mine but your own. I simply furnish you with the necessary means--your own act will be to apply them.”
On leaving the hut, Greatrakes was highly gratified on finding that Barney Casey had overheard their whole conversation.
“You will serve as a corroborative evidence,” said he.
The herbalist, at all events, was entrapped, and not only his disposition to sell botanical poisons, but his habit of doing so, was clearly proved to the benevolent magistrate.
On the next night he got the poison, and having consulted with Casey, he said he would not urge the matter for a few days, as he wished, in the most private way possible, to procure further evidence against the guilty parties.
In the meantime, every preparation was made in both families for Woodward's wedding. The old peer, who had cross-examined his niece upon the subject, discovered her attachment to Woodward; and as he wished to see her settled before his death with a gentlemanly and respectable husband--a man who would be capable of taking care of the property which he must necessarily leave her, as she was his favorite and his heiress--and besides, he loved her as a daughter--he was resolved that Woodward and she should be united.”
“I don't care a fig,” said he, “whether this Woodward has property or not. He is a gentleman, respectably connected, of accomplished manners, handsome in person, and if he has no fortune, why you have; and I think the best thing you can do is to accept him without hesitation. The comical rascal,” said he, laughing heartily, “took me in so completely during our first interview, that he became a favorite with me.”
“I think well of him,” replied his firm-minded niece; “and even I admit that I love him, as far as a girl of such a cold constitution as mine may; but I tell you, uncle, that if I discovered a taint of vice or want of principle in his character, I could fling him off with contempt.”
“I wish to heaven,” replied the uncle, rather nettled, “that we could have up one of the twelve apostles. I dare say some of them, if they were disposed to marry, might come up to your mark.”
“Well, uncle, at all events I like him sufficiently to consent that he should become my husband.”
“Well, and is not that enough; bless my heart, could you wish to go beyond it?”
In the meantime, very important matters were proceeding, which bore strongly upon Woodward's destiny. Greatrakes had collected--aided, of course, by Barney Casey, who was the principal, but not the sole, evidence against him--such a series of facts, as, he felt, justified him in receiving informations against him.
At this crisis a discovery was made in connection with the Haunted House, which was privately, through Casey, communicated to Greatrakes, who called a meeting of the neighboring magistrates upon it. This he did by writing to them privately to meet him on a particular day at his little inn in Rathfillan. For obvious reasons, and out of consideration to his feelings, Mr. Lindsay's name was omitted. At all events the night preceding the day of Woodward's marriage with Miss Riddle had arrived, but two circumstances occurred on that evening and on that night which not only frustrated all his designs upon Miss Riddle, or rather upon her uncle's property, but--however, we shall not anticipate.
It was late in the evening when Miss Riddle was told by a servant that a young man, handsome and of fine proportions, wished to see her for a few minutes.
“Not that I would recommend you to see him,” said the serving-woman who delivered the message. “He is, to be sure, very handsome; but, then, he is one of those wild people, and armed with a great mid-dogue or dagger, and God knows what his object may be--maybe to take your life. As sure as I live he is a tory.”
“That may be,” replied Miss Riddle; “but I know, by your description of him, that he is the individual to whose generous spirit I and my dear uncle owe our lives: let him be shown in at once to the front parlor.”
In a few minutes she entered, and found Shawn before her.
“O Shawn!” said she, “I am glad to see you. My uncle is using all his interest to get you a pardon--that is, provided you are willing to abandon the wild life to which you have taken.”
“I am willing to abandon it,” he replied; “but I have one task to perform before I leave it. You have heard of the toir, or tory-hunt, which was made after me and others; but chiefly after me, for I was the object they wanted to shoot down, or rather that he, the villain, wanted to murder under the authority of those cruel laws that make us tories.”
“Who do you mean by he?” asked Miss Riddle.
“I mean Harry Woodward,” he replied. “He hunted me, disguised by a black mask.”
“But are you sure of that, Shawn?”
“I am sure of it,” he replied; “and it was not until yesterday that I discovered his villany. I know the barber in Rathfillan where the black mask was got for him, I believe, by his wicked mother.”
Miss Riddle, who was a strong-minded girl, paused, and was silent for a time, after which she said,-- “I am glad you told me this, Shawn. I spoke to him in your favor, and he pledged his honor to me previous to the terrible hunt you allude to, and of which the whole country rang, that he would never take a step to your prejudice, but would rather protect you as far as he could, in consequence of your having generously saved my dear uncle's life and mine.”
“The deeper villain he, then. He is upon my trail night and day. He ruined Grace Davoren, who has disappeared, and the belief of the people is that he has murdered her. He possesses the Evil Eye too, and would by it have murdered Miss Goodwin, of Beech Grove, in order to get back the property which his uncle left her, only for the wonderful power of Squire Greatrakes, who cured her. And, besides, I have raison to know that he will be arrested this very night for attempting to poison his brother. I am a humble young man, Miss Riddle, but I am afeard that if you marry him you will stand but a bad chance for happiness.”
“She was again silent, but, after a pause, she said-- “Shawn, do you want money?”
“I thank you, Miss Riddle,” he replied, “I don't want money: all I want is, that you will not be desaved by one of the most damnable villains on the face of the earth.”
There was an earnestness and force of truth in what the generous young tory said that could not be mistaken. He arose, and was about to take his leave, when he said,-- “Miss Riddle, I understand he is about to be married to you to-morrow. Should he become your husband, he is safe from my hand--and that on your account; but as it may not yet be too late to spake, I warn you against his hypocrisy and villany--against the man who destroyed Grace Davoren--who would have killed Miss Goodwin with his Evil Eye, in order to get back the property which his uncle left her, and who would have poisoned his own brother out of his way bekase his mother told him she had changed her mind in leaving it to him (Woodward), and came to the resolution of leaving it to his brother, and that was the raison why he attempted to poison him. All these things have been proved, and I have raison to believe that he will sleep--if sleep he can--in Waterford jail before to-morrow mornin'. But,” he added, with a look which was so replete with vengeance and terror, that it perfectly stunned the girl, “perhaps he won't, though. It is likely that the fate of Grace Davoren will prevent him from it.”
He did not give her time to reply, but instantly disappeared, and left her in a state of mind which our readers may very well understand.
She immediately went to her uncle's library, where the following brief dialogue occurred: “Uncle, this marriage must not and shall not take place.”
“What!” replied the peer; “then he is none of the twelve apostles.”
“You are there mistaken,” said she; “he is one of them. Remember Judas.”
“Judas! What the deuce are you at, my dear niece?”
“Why, that he is a most treacherous villain: that's what I'm at,” and her face became crimson with indignation.
“But what's in the wind? Don't keep me in a state of suspense. Judas! Confound it, what a comparison! Well, I perceive you are not disposed to become Mrs. Judas. You know me, however, well enough: I'm not going to press you to it. Do you think, my dear niece, that Judas was a gentleman?”
“Precisely such a gentleman, perhaps, as Mr. Woodward is.”
“And you think he would betray Christ?”
“He would poison his brother, uncle, because he stands between him and his mother's property, which she has recently expressed her intention of leaving to that brother--a fact which awoke something like compassion in my breast for Woodward.”
“Well, then, kick him to hell, the scoundrel. I liked the fellow in the beginning, and, indeed, all along, because he had badgered me so beautifully,--which I thought few persons had capacity to,--and in consequence, I entertained a high opinion of his intellect, and be hanged to him; kick him to hell, though.”
“Well, my dear lord and uncle, I don't think I would be capable of kicking him so far; nor do I think it will be at all necessary, as my opinion is, that he will be able to reach that region without any assistance.”
“Come, that's very well said, at all events--one of your touchers, as I call them. There, then, is an end to the match and marriage, and so be it.”
She here detailed at further length, the conversation which she had with Shawn-na-Middogue; mentioned the fact, which had somehow become well known, of his having wrought the ruin of Grace Davoren, and concluded by stating that, notwithstanding his gentlemanly manners and deportment, he was unworthy either the notice or regard of any respectable female.
“Well,” said the peer, “from, all you have told me I must say you have had a narrow escape; I did suspect him to be a fortune-hunter; but then who the deuce can blame a man for striving to advance himself in life? However, let there be an end to it, and you must only wait until a better man comes.”
“I assure you, my dear uncle, I am in no hurry; so let that be your comfort so far as I am concerned.”
“Well, then,” said the peer, “I shall write to him to say that the marriage, in consequence of what we have heard of his character, is off.”
“Take whatever steps you please,” replied his admirable niece; “for most assuredly, so far as I am concerned, it is off. Do you imagine, uncle, that I could for a moment think of marrying a seducer and a poisoner?”
“It would be a very queer thing if you did,” replied her uncle; “but was it not a fortunate circumstance that you came to discover his real character in time to prevent you from becoming the wife of such a scoundrel?”
“It was the providence of God,” said his niece, “that would not suffer the innocent to become associated with the guilty.”
Greatrakes, in the meantime, was hard at work. He and the other magistrates had collected evidence, and received the informations against Woodward, the herbalist, and the mysterious individual who was in the habit of appearing about the Haunted House as the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv_, or the Black Spectre. Villany like this cannot be long concealed, and will, in due time, come to light.
During the dusk of the evening preceding Woodward's intended marriage, an individual came to Mr. Lindsay's house and requested to see Mr. Woodward. That gentleman came down, and immediately recognized the person who had, for such a length of time, frightened the neighborhood as the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv_ or the Black Spectre. He was shown into the parlor, and, as there was no one present, the following dialogue took place, freely and confidentially, between them:-- “You must fly,” said the Spectre, or, in other words, the conjurer, whom we have already described,--“you must fly, for you are to be arrested this night. Our establishment for the forgery of bad notes must also be given up, and the Haunted House must be deserted. The magistrates, somehow, have smelled out the truth, and we must change our lodgings. We dodged them pretty well, but, after all, these things can't last long. On to-morrow night I bid farewell to the neighborhood; but you cannot wait so long, because on this very night you are to be arrested. It is very well that you sent Grace Davoren, at my suggestion, from the Haunted House to what is supposed to be the haunted cottage, in the mountains, where Nannie Morrissy soon joined her. I supplied them with provisions, and had a bed and other articles brought to them, according to your own instructions, and I think that, for the present, the safest place of concealment will be there.”
Woodward became terribly alarmed. It was on the eve of his marriage, and the intelligence almost drove him into distraction.
“I will follow your advice,” said he, “and will take refuge in what is called the haunted cottage, for this night.”
His mysterious friend now left him, and Woodward prepared to seek the haunted cottage in the mountains. Poor Grace Davoren was in a painful and critical condition, but Woodward had engaged Caterine Collins to attend to her: for what object, will soon become evident to our readers.
Woodward, after night had set in,--it was a mild night with faint moonlight,--took his way towards the cottage that was supposed to be haunted, and which, in those days of witchcraft and. superstition, nobody would think of entering. We have already described it, and that must suffice for our readers. On entering a dark, but level moor, he was startled by the appearance of the Black Spectre, which, as on two occasions before, pointed its middogue three times at his heart. He rushed towards it, but on arriving at the spot he could find nothing. It had vanished, and he was left to meditate on it as best he might.
We now pass to the haunted cottage itself. There lay Grace Davoren, after having given birth to a child; there she lay--the victim of the seducer, on the very eve of dissolution, and beside her, sitting on the bed, the unfortunate Nannie Morrissy, now a confirmed and dying maniac.
“Grace,” said Nannie, “you, like me, were ruined.”
“I was,” replied Grace, in a voice scarcely audible.
“Ay, but you didn't murder your father, though, as I did; that's one advantage I have over you--ha! ha! ha!”
“I'm not so sure of that, Nannie,” replied the dying girl; “but where's my baby?”
“O! yes, you have had a baby, but Caterine Collins took it away with her.”
“My child! my child! where is my child?” she exclaimed in a low, but husky voice; “where's my child? and besides, ever since I took that bottle she gave me I feel deadly sick.”
“Will I go for your father and mother--but above all things for your father? But then if he punished the villain that ruined you and brought disgrace upon your name, he might be hanged as mine was.”
“Ah! Nannie,” replied poor Grace; “my father won't die of the gallows; but he will of a broken heart.”
“Better to be hanged,” said the maniac, whose reason, after a lapse of more than a year, was in some degree returning, precisely as life was ebbing out, “bekase, thank God, there's then an end to it.”
“I agree with you, Nannie, it might be only a long life of suffering; but I wouldn't wish to see my father hanged.”
“Do you know,” said Nannie, relapsing into a deeper mood of her mania,--“do you know that when I saw my father last he wouldn't nor didn't spake to me? The house was filled with people, and my little brother Frank--why now isn't it strange that I feel somehow as if I will never wash his face again nor comb his white head in order to prepare him for mass? --but whisper, Grace, sure then I was innocent and had not met the destroyer.”
The two unhappy girls looked at each other, and if ever there was a gaze calculated to wring the human heart with anguish and with pity, it was that gaze. Both of them were, although unconsciously, on the very eve of dissolution, and it would seem as if a kind of presentiment of death had seized upon both at the same time.
“Nannie,” said Grace, “do you know that I'm afeard we're both goin' to die?”
“And why are you afeard of it?” asked Nannie. “Many a time I would 'a given the world to die.”
“Why,” replied Grace, who saw the deep shadows of death upon her wild, pale, but still beautiful countenance,--“why Nannie, you have your wish--you are dying this moment.”
Just as Grace spoke the unfortunate girl seemed as if she had been stricken by a spasm of the heart. She gave a slight start--turned up her beautiful, but melancholy eyes to heaven, and exclaimed, as if conscious of the moment that had come,-- “Forgive me, O God!” after which she laid herself calmly down by the side of Grace and expired. Grace, by an effort, put her hand out and felt her heart, but there was no pulsation there--it did not beat, and she saw by the utter lifelessness of her features that she was dead, and had been relieved at last from all her sorrows.
“Nannie,” she said, “your start before me won't be long. I do not wish to live to show a shamed face and a ruined character to my family and the world. Nannie, I am coming; but where is my child? Where is that woman who took it away? My child! Where is my child?”
Whilst this melancholy scene was taking place, another of a very different description was occurring near the cottage. Two poachers, who were concealed in a hazel copse on the brow of a little glen beside it, saw a woman advance with an infant, which, by its cries, they felt satisfied was but newly born.
Its cries, however, were soon stilled, and they saw her deposit it in a little grave which had evidently been prepared for it. She had covered it slightly with a portion of clay, but ere she had time to proceed further they pounced upon her.
“Hould her fast,” said one of them, “she has murdered the infant. At all events, take it up, and I will keep her safe.”
This was done, and a handkerchief, the one with which she had strangled it, was found tightly tied about its neck. That she was the instrument of Woodward in this terrible act, who can doubt? In the meantime both she and the dead body of the child were brought back to Rathfillan, where, upon their evidence, he was at once committed to prison, the handkerchief having been kept as a testimony against him, for it was at once discovered to be her own property.
During all this time Grace Davoren lay dying, in a state of the most terrible desolation, with the dead body of Nannie Morrissy on the bed beside her. What had become of her child, and of Caterine Collins, she could not tell. She had, however, other reflections, for the young, but guilty mother was not without strong, and even tender, domestic affections.
“O!” she exclaimed, in her woful solitude and utter desolation, “if I only had the forgiveness of my father and mother I could die happy; but now I feel that death is upon me, and I must die alone.”
A footstep was heard, and it relieved her. “Oh! this is Caterine,” she said, “with the child.”
The door opened, and the young tory, Shawn-na-Middogue, entered. He paused for a moment and looked about him.
“What is this?” said he, looking at the body of Nannie Morrissy; “is it death?”
“It is death,” replied Grace, faintly; “there is one death, but, Shawn, there will soon be another. Shawn, forgive me, and kiss me for the sake of our early love.”
“I am an outlaw,” replied the stern young tory; “but I will never kiss the polluted lips of woman as long as she has breath in her body.”
“But Caterine Collins has taken away my child, and has not returned with it.”
“No, nor ever will,” replied the outlaw. “She was the instrument of your destroyer. But I wish you to be consoled, Grace. Do you see that middogue? It is red with blood. Now listen. I have avenged you; that middogue was reddened in the heart of the villain that wrought your ruin. As far as man can be, I am now satisfied.”
“My child!” she faintly said; “my child! where is it?”
Her words were scarcely audible. She closed her eyes and was silent. The outlaw looked closely into her countenance, and perceived at once that death was there. He felt her pulse, her heart, but all was still.
[Illustration: PAGE 774-- Kiss you for the sake of our early love] “Now,” said he, “the penalty you have paid for your crime has taken away the pollution from your lips, and I will kiss you for the sake of our early love.”
He then kissed her, and rained showers of tears over her now unconscious features. The two funerals took place upon the same day; and, what was still more particular, they were buried in the same churchyard. Their unhappy fates were similar in more than one point. The selfish and inhuman seducer of each became the victim of his crime; one by the just and righteous vengeance of a heart-broken and indignant father, and the other by the middogue of the brave and noble-minded outlaw. Who the murderer of Harry Woodward, or rather the avenger of Grace Davoren, was, never became known. The only ears to which the outlaw revealed the secret were closed, and her tongue silent for ever.
The body of Woodward was found the next morning lifeless upon the moors; and when death loosened the tongues of the people, and when the melancholy fate of Grace Davoren became known, there was one individual who knew perfectly well, from moral conviction, who the avenger of her ruin was.
“Uncle,” said Miss Riddle, while talking with him on the subject, “I feel who the avenger of the unfortunate and beautiful Grace Davoren is.”
“And who is he, my dear niece?”
“It shall never escape my lips, my lord and uncle.”
“Egad, talking of escapes, I think you have had a very narrow one yourself, in escaping from that scoundrel of the Evil Eye.”
“I thank God for it,” she replied, and this closed their conversation.
There is little now to be added to our narrative. We need scarcely assure our readers that Charles Lindsay and Alice Goodwin were in due time made happy, and that Ferdora O'Connor, who had been long attached to Maria Lindsay, was soon enabled to call her his beloved wife.
The devilish old herbalist, and his equally devilish niece, together with the conjurer and forger, who had assumed the character of the Black Spectre, were all hanged, through the instrumentality of Valentine Greatrakes, who had acquired so many testimonies of their villainy and their crimes as enabled him, in conjunction with the other magistrates of the county, to obtain such a body of evidence against them as no jury could withstand. It was, probably, well for Woodward that the middogue of the outlaw prevented him from sharing the same fate, and dying a death of public disgrace.
Need we say that honest Barney Casey was rewarded by the love of Sarah Sullivan, who, soon after their marriage, was made housekeeper in Mr. Lindsay's family; and that Barney himself was appointed to the comfortable situation of steward over his property?
Lord Cockletown exercised all his influence with the government of the day to procure a pardon for Shawn-na-Middogue, but without effect. He furnished him, however, with a liberal sum of money, with which he left the country, but was never heard of more.
Miss Riddle was married to a celebrated barrister, who subsequently became a judge.
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"id": "16004"
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One evening in the beginning of the eighteenth century--as nearly as we can conjecture, the year might be that of 1720--some time about the end of April, a young man named _Lamh Laudher_ O'Rorke, or Strong-handed O'Eorke, was proceeding from his father's house, with a stout oaken cudgel in his hand, towards an orchard that stood at the skirt of a country town, in a part of the kingdom which, for the present, shall be nameless. Though known by the epithet of _Lamh Laudher_, his Christian name was John; but in those time(s) Irish families of the same name were distinguished from each other by some indicative of their natural position, physical power, complexion, or figure. One, for instance, was called _Parra Ghastha_, or swift Paddy, from his fleetness of foot; another, _Shaun Buie_, or yellow Jack, from his bilious look; a third, _Micaul More_, or big Michael, from his uncommon size; and a fourth, _Sheemus Ruah_, or red James, from the color of his hair. These epithets, to be sure, still occur in Ireland, but far less frequently now than in the times of which we write, when Irish was almost the vernacular language of the country. It was for a reason similar to those just alleged, that John O'Rorke was known as _Lamh Laudher_ O'Rorke; he, as well as his forefathers for two or three generations, having been remarkable for prodigious bodily strength and courage. The evening was far advanced as O'Rorke bent his steps to the orchard. The pale, but cloudless sun hung over the western hills, and sun upon the quiet gray fields that kind of tranquil radiance which, in the opening of summer, causes many a silent impulse of delight to steal into the heart. Lamh Laudher felt this; his step was slow, like that of a man who, without being capable of tracing those sources of enjoyment which the spirit absorbs from the beauties of external nature, has yet enough of uneducated taste and feeling within him, to partake of the varied feast which she presents.
As he sauntered thus leisurely along he was met by a woman rather advanced in years, but still unusually stout and muscular, considering her age. She was habited in a red woollen petticoat that reached but a short distance below the knee, leaving visible two stout legs, from which dangled a pair of red garters that bound up her coarse blue hose. Her gown of blue worsted was pinned up, for it did not meet around her person, though it sat closely about her neck. Her grizzly red hair, turned up in front, was bound by a dowd cap without any border, a circumstance which, in addition to a red kerchief, tied over it, and streaming about nine inches down the back, gave to her _tout ensemble_ a wild and striking expression. A short oaken staff, hooked under the hand, completed the description of her costume. Even on a first glance there appeared to be something repulsive in her features, which had evidently been much exposed to sun and storm. By a closer inspection one might detect upon their hard angular outline, a character of cruelty and intrepidity. Though her large cheek-bones stood widely asunder, yet her gray piercing eyes were very near each other; her nose was short and sadly disfigured by a scar that ran tranversely across it, and her chin, though pointed, was also deficient in length. Altogether, her whole person had something peculiar and marked about it--so much so, indeed, that it was impossible to meet her without feeling she was a female of no ordinary character and habits.
Lamh Laudher had been, as we have said, advancing slowly along the craggy road which led towards the town, when she issued from an adjoining cabin and approached him. The moment he noticed her he stood still, as if to let her pass and uttered one single exclamation of chagrin and anger.
“_Ma shaughth milia mollach ort, a calliagh! _ My seven thousand curses on you for an old hag,” said he, and haying thus given vent to his indignation at her appearance, he began to retrace his steps as if unwilling to meet her.
“The son of your father needn't lay the curse upon us so bitterly all out, Lamh Laudher!” she exclaimed, pacing at the same time with vigorous steps until she overtook him.
The young man looked at her maimed features, and as if struck by some sudden recollection, appeared to feel regret for the hasty malediction he had uttered against her. “Nell M'Collum,” said he, “the word was rash; and the curse did not come from my heart. But, Nell, who is there that doesn't curse you when they meet you? Isn't it well known that to meet you is another name for falling in wid bad luck? For my part I'd go fifty miles about rather than cross you, if I was bent on any business that my heart 'ud be in, or that I cared any thing about.”
“And who brought the bad luck upon me first?” asked the woman. “Wasn't it the husband of the mother that bore you? Wasn't it his hand that disfigured me as you see, when I was widin a week of bein' dacently married? Your father, Lamh Laudher was the man that blasted my name, and made it bitther upon tongue of them that mintions it.”
“And that was because he wouldn't see one wid the blood of Lamh Laudher in his veins married to a woman that he had reason to think--I don't like to my it, Nelly--but you know it is said that there was darkness, and guilt, too, about the disappearin' of your child. You never cleared that up, but swore revenge night and day against my father, for only preventin' you from bein' the ruination of his cousin. Many a time, too, since that, has asked you in my own hearing what became of the boy.”
The old woman stopped like one who had unexpectedly trod with bare foot upon something sharp enough to pierce the flesh to the bone, and even to grate against it. There was a strong, nay, a fearful force of anguish visible in what she felt. Her brows were wildly depressed from their natural position, her face became pale, her eyes glared upon O'Rorke as if he had planted a poisoned arrow in her breast, she seized him by the arm with a hard pinching grip, and looked for two or three minutes in his face, with an appearance of distraction. O'Rorke, who never feared man, shrunk from her touch, and shuddered under the influence of what had been, scarcely without an exception, called the “bad look.” The crone held him tight, however, and there they stood, with their eyes fixed upon each other. From the gaze of intense anguish, the countenance of Nell M'Collum began to change gradually to one of unmingled exultation; her brows were raised to their proper curves, her color returned, the eye corruscated with a rapid and quivering sense of delight, the muscles of the mouth played for a little, as if she strove to suppress a laugh. At length O'Rorke heard a low gurgling sound proceed from her chest; it increased; she pressed his arm more tightly, and in a loud burst of ferocious mirth, which she immediately subdued into a condensed shriek that breathed the very luxury of revenge, she said-- “_Lamh Laudher Oge_, listen--ax the father of you, when you see him, what has become _of his own child_--of the first that ever God sent him; an' listen again--when he tells me what has become of mine, I'll tell him what has become of his, Now go to Ellen--but before you go, let me _cuggher_ in your ear that I'll blast you both. I'll make the _Lamh Laudhers, Lamh Lhugs_. I'll make the strong arm the weak arm afore I've done wid 'em.”
She struck the point of her stick against the pavement, until the iron ferrule with which it was bound dashed the fire from the stones, after which she passed on, muttering threats and imprecations as she left him.
O'Rorke stood and looked after her with sensations of fear and astonishment. The age was superstitious, and encouraged a belief in the influence of powers distinct from human agency. Every part of Ireland was filled at this time with characters, both male and female, precisely similar to old Nell M'Collum. . The darkness in which this woman walked, according to the opinions of a people but slightly advanced in knowledge and civilization, has been but feebly described to the reader. To meet her, was considered an omen of the most unhappy kind; a circumstance which occasioned the imprecation of Lamh Laudher. She was reported to have maintained an intercourse with the fairies, to be capable of communicating the blight of an evil eye, and to have carried on a traffic which is said to have been rather prevalent in Ireland at the time we speak of--namely, that of kidnapping. The speculations with reference to her object in perpetrating the crimes were strongly calculated to exhibit the degraded state of the people at that period. Some said that she disposed of the children to a certain class of persons in the metropolis, who subsequently sent them to the colonies, when grown, at an enormous profit. Others maintained that she never carried them to Dublin at all, but insisted that, having been herself connected with the fairies, she possessed the power of erasing, by some secret charm, the influence of baptismal protection, and that she consequently acted as agent for the “gentry” to whom she transferred them. Even to this day it is the opinion in Ireland, that the “good people” themselves cannot take away a child, except through the instrumentality of some mortal residing with them, who has been baptized; and it is also believed that no baptism can secure children from them, except that in which the priest has been desired to baptize them with an especial view to their protection against fairy power.
Such was the character which this woman bore; whether unjustly or not, matters little. For the present it is sufficient to say, that after having passed on, leaving Lamh Laudher to proceed in the direction he had originally intended, she bent her steps towards the head inn of the town. Her presence here produced some cautious and timid mirth of which they took care she should not be cognizant. The servants greeted her with an outward show of cordiality, which the unhappy creature easily distinguished from the warm kindness evinced to vagrants whose history had not been connected with evil suspicion and mystery. She accordingly tempered her manner and deportment towards them with consummate skill. Her replies to their inquiries for news were given with an appearance of good humor; but beneath the familiarity of her dialogue there lay an ambiguous meaning and a cutting sarcasm, both of which were tinged with a prophetic spirit, capable, from its equivocal drift, of being applied to each individual whom she addressed. Owing to her unsettled life, and her habit of passing from place to place, she was well acquainted with local history. There lived scarcely a family within a very wide circle about her, of whom she did not know every thing that could possibly be known; a fact of which she judiciously availed herself by allusions in general conversations that were understood only by those whom they concerned. These mysterious hints, oracularly thrown out, gained her the reputation of knowing more than mere human agency could acquire, and of course she was openly conciliated and secretly hated.
Her conversation with the menials of the inn was very short and decisive.
“Sheemus,” said she to the person who acted in the capacity of waiter, “where's Meehaul Neil?”
“Troth, Nell, dacent woman,” replied the other, “myself can't exactly say that. I'll be bound he's on the _Esker_, looking afther the sheep, poor crathurs, durin' Andy Connor's illness in the small-pock. Poor Andy's very ill, Nell, an' if God hasn't sed it, not expected; glory be to his name!”
“Is Andy ill?” inquired Nell; “and how long?”
“Bedad, going on ten days.”
“Well,” said the woman, “I knew nothin' about that; but I want to see Meehaul Neil, and I know he's in the house.”
“Faix he's not, Nelly, an' you know I wouldn't tell you a lie about it.”
“Did you get the linen that was stolen from your masther?” inquired Nell significantly, turning at the same time a piercing glance on the waiter; “an' tell me,” she added, “how is Sally Lavery, and where is she?”
“It wasn't got,” he replied, in a kind of stammer; “an' as to Sally, the nerra one o' me knows any thing about her, since she left this.”
“Sheemus,” replied Nell, “you know that Meehaul Neil is in the house; but I'll give you two choices, either to bring me to the speech of him, or else I'll give your masther the name of the thief that stole his linen; ay! the name of the thief that resaved it. I name nobody at present; an' for that matther, I know nothin'. Can't all the world tell you that Nell M'Cullum knows nothin'!”
“_Ghe dhevin_, Nelly,” said the waiter, “maybe Meehaul is in the house unknownst to me. I'll try, any how, an' if he's to the fore, it won't be my fault or he'll see you.”
Nell, while the waiter went to inform Meehaul, took two ribbons out of her pocket, one white and the other black, both of which she folded into what would appear to a bystander to be a simple kind of knot. When the innkeeper's son and the waiter returned to the hall, the former asked her what the nature of her business with him might be. To this she made no reply, except by uttering the word husht! and pulling the ends, first of the white ribbon, and afterwards of the black. The knot of the first slipped easily from the complication, but that of the black one, after gliding along from its respective ends, became hard and tight in the middle.
“_Tha sha marrho! _ life passes and death stays,” she exclaimed. “Andy Connor's dead, Meehaul Neil; an' you may tell your father that he must get some one else to look afther his sheep. Ay! he's dead! --But that's past. Meehaul, folly me; it's you I want, an' there's no time to be lost.”
She passed out as she spoke, leaving the waiter in a state of wonder at the extent of her knowledge, and of the awful means by which, in his opinion, she must have acquired it.
Meehaul, without uttering a syllable, immediately walked after her. The pace at which she went was rapid and energetic, betokening a degree of agitation and interest on her part, for which he could not account. As she had no object in bringing him far from the house, she availed herself of the first retired spot that presented itself, in order to disclose the purport of her visit. “Meehaul Neil,” said she, “we're now upon the Common, where no ear can hear what passes between us. I ax have you spirit to keep your sister Ellen from shame and sorrow?” The young man started, and became strongly excited at such a serious prelude to what she was about to utter.
“_Millia diououl! _ woman, why do you talk about shame or disgrace comin' upon any sister of mine?” What villain dare injure her that regards his life? My sisther! Ellen Neil! No, no! the man that 'ud only think of that, I'd give this right hand a dip to the wrist in the best blood of his heart.”
“Ay, ay! it's fine spakin': but you don't know the hand you talk of. It's one that you had better avoid than meet. It's the strong hand, an' the dangerous one when vexed. You know Lamh Laudher Oge?”
Meelmul started again, and the crone could perceive by his manner that the nature of the communication she was about to make had been already known to him, though not, she was confident, in so dark and diabolical a shape as that in which she determined to put it.
“Lamh Laudher Oge!” he exclaimed; “surely you don't mane to say that he has any bad design upon Ellen! It's not long since I gave him a caution to drop her, an' to look out for a girl fittin' for his station. Ellen herself knows what he'll get, if we ever catch him spakin' to her again. The day will never come that his faction and ours can be friends.”
“You did do that, Meehaul,” replied Nell, “an' I know it; but what 'ud you think if he was so cut to the heart by your turnin' round upon his poverty, that he swore an oath to them that I could name, bindin' himself to bring your sister to a state of shame, in order to punish you for your words? That 'ud be great glory over a faction that they hate.”
“Tut, woman, he daren't swear such an oath; or, if he swore it fifty times over on his bare knees, he'd ate the stones off o' the pavement afore he'd dare to act upon it. In the first place, I'd prepare him for his coffin, if he did; an' in the next, do you think so inanely of Ellen, as to believe that she would bring disgrace an' sorrow upon herself and her family? No, no, Nell; the old _dioul's_ in you, or you're beside yourself, to think of such a story. I've warned her against him, and so did we all; an' I'm sartin' this minute, that she'd not go a single foot to change words with him, unknownst to her friends.”
The old woman's face changed from the expression of anxiety and importance that it bore, to one of coarse glee, under which, to those who had penetration sufficient to detect it, lurked a spirit of hardened and reckless ferocity.
“Well, well,” she replied, “sure I'm proud to hear what you tell me. How is poor Nanse M'Collum doin' wid yez? for I hadn't time to see her a while agone. I hope she'll never be ashamed or afraid of her aunt, any how. I may say, I'm all that's left to the good of her name, poor girshah.”
“What 'ud ail her?” replied Meehaul; “as long a' she's honest an' behaves herself, there's no fear of her. Had you nothing elsa to say to me, Nell?”
The same tumultuous expression of glee and malignity again lit up the features of the old woman, as she looked at him, and replied, with something like contemptuous hesitation, “Why, I don't know that. If you had more sharpness or sinse I might say--Meehaul Neil,” she added, elevating her voice, “what do you think I could say, this sacred moment! Your sister! Why she's a good girl! --true enough that: but how long she may be so's another affair. Afeard! Be the ground we stand on, man dear, if you an' all belongin' to you, had eyes in your heads for every day in the year, you couldn't keep her from young Lamh Laudher. Did you hear anything?”
“I'd not believe a word of it,” said Meehaul calmly, and he turned to depart.
“I tell you it's as true as the sun to the dial,” replied Nell; “and I tell you more, he's wid her this minnit behind your father's orchard! Ay! an' if you wish you may see them together wid your own eyes, an' sure if you don't b'lieve me, you'll b'lieve them. But, Meehaul, take care of him; for he has his fire-arms; if you meet him don't go empty-handed, and I'd advise you to have the first shot.”
“Behind the orchard,” said Meehaul, astonished; “where there?”
“Ay, behind the orchard, where they often war afore. Where there? Why, if you want to know that, sittin' on one of the ledges in the Grassy Quarry. That's their sate whenever they meet; an' a snug one it is for them that don't like their neighbors' eyes to be upon them. Go now an' satisfy yourself, but watch them at a distance, an', as you expect to save your sister, don't breathe the name of Nell M'Collum to a livin' mortal.”
Meehaul Neil's cheek flushed with deep resentment on hearing this disagreeable intelligence. For upwards of a century before there had subsisted a deadly feud between the Neils and Lamh Laudhers, without either party being able exactly to discover the original fact from which their enmity proceeded. This, however, in Ireland, makes little difference. It is quite sufficient to know that they meet and fight upon every possible opportunity, as hostile factions ought to do, without troubling themselves about the idle nonsense of inquiring why they hate and maltreat each other. For this reason alone, Meehaul Neil was bitterly opposed to the most distant notion of a marriage between his sister and young Lamh Laudher. There were other motives also which weighed, with nearly equal force, in the consideration of this subject. His sister Ellen was by far the most beautiful girl of her station in the whole country,--and many offers, highly advantageous, and far above what she otherwise could have expected, had been made to her. On the other hand, Lamh Laudher Oge was poor, and by no means qualified in point of worldly circumstances to propose for her, even were hereditary enmity out of the question. All things considered, the brother and friends of Ellen would rather have seen her laid in her grave, than allied to a comparatively poor young man, and their bitterest enemy.
Meehaul had but little doubt as to the truth of what Nell M'Collum told him. There was a saucy and malignant confidence in her manner, which, although it impressed him with a sense of her earnestness, left, nevertheless, an indefinite feeling of dislike against her on his mind. He knew that her motive for disclosure was not one of kindness or regard for him or for his family. Nell M'Collum had often declared that “the wide earth did not carry a bein' she liked or loved, but one--not even excepting herself, that she hated most of all.” This however was not necessary to prove that she acted rather from the gratification of some secret malice, than from the principle of benevolence. The venomous leer of her eye, therefore, and an accurate knowledge of her character, induced him to connect some apprehension of approaching evil with the unpleasant information she had just given him.
“Well,” said Meehaul, “if what you say is true, I'll make it a black business to Lamh Laudher. I'll go directly and keep my eye on them; an' I'll have my fire-arms, Nell; an' by the life that's in me, he'll taste them if he provokes me; an Ellen knows that.” Having thus spoken he left her.
The old woman stood and looked after him with a fiendish complacency.
“A black business, will you?” she exclaimed, repeating his words in a soliloquy;--“do so--an' may all that's black assist you in it! Dher Chiernah, I'll do it or lose a fall--I'll make the Lamh Laudhers the Lamh Lhugs afore I've done wid 'em. I've put a thorn in their side this many a year, that'll never come out; I'll now put one in their marrow, an' let them see how they'll bear that. I've left _one_ empty chair at their hearth, an' it 'll go hard wid me but I'll lave another.”
Having thus expressed her hatred against a family to whom she attributed the calamities that had separated her from society, and marked her as a being to be avoided and detested, she also departed from the Common, striking her stick with peculiar bitterness into the ground as she went along.
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In the mean time young Lamh Laudher felt little suspicion that the stolen interview between him and Ellen Neil was known. The incident, however, which occurred to him on his way to keep the assignation, produced in his mind a vague apprehension which he could not shake off. To meet a red-haired woman, when going on any business of importance, was considered at all times a bad omen, as it is in the country parts of Ireland unto this day; but to meet a female familiar with forbidden powers, as Nell M'Collum was supposed to be, never failed to produce fear and misgiving in those who met her. Mere physical courage was no bar against the influence of such superstitions; many a man was a slave to them who never knew fear of a human or tangible enemy. They constituted an important part of the popular belief! for the history of ghosts and fairies, and omens, was, in general, the only kind of lore in which the people were educated; thanks to the sapient traditions of their forefathers.
When Nell passed away from Lamh Laudher, who would fain have flattered himself that by turning back on the way, until she passed him, he had avoided meeting her, he once more sought the place of appointment, at the same slow pace as before. On arriving behind the orchard, he found, as the progress of the evening told him, that he had anticipated the hour at which it had been agreed to meet. He accordingly descended the Grassy Quarry, and sat on a mossy ledge of rock, over which the brow of a little precipice jutted in such a manner as to render those who sat beneath, visible only from a particular point. Here he had scarcely seated himself when the tread of a foot was heard, and in a few minutes Nanse M'Collum stood beside him.
“Why, thin, bad cess to you, Lamh Laudher,” she exclaimed, “but it's a purty chase I had afther you.”
“Afther me, Nanse? and what's the commission, _cush gastha_ (lightfoot)?”
“The sorra any thing, at all, at all, only to see if you war here. Miss Ellen sent me to tell you that she's afeard she can't come this evenin', unknownst to them.”
“An' am I not to wait, Nanse?”
“Why, she says she--_will_ come, for all that, if she can; but she bid me take your stick from you, for a rason she has, that she'll tell yourself when she sees you.”
“Take my stick! Why Nanse, _ma colleen baun_, what can she want with my stick? Is the darlin' girl goin' to bate any body?”
“Bad cess to the know _I_ know, Lamh Laudher, barrin' it be to lay on yourself for stalin' her heart from her. Why thin, the month's mether o' honey to you, soon an' sudden, how did you come round her at all?”
“No matter about that, Nanse; but the family's bitther against me? --eh?”
“Oh, thin, in trogs, it's ill their common to hate you as they do; but thin, you see, this faction-work will keep yees asundher for ever. Now gi' me your stick, an' wait, any way, till you see whether she comes or not.”
“Is it by Ellen's ordhers you take it, Nanse?”
“To be sure--who else's? but the divil a one o' me knows what she means by it, any how--only that I daren't go back widout it.”
“Take it, Nanse; she knows I wouldn't refuse her my heart's blood, let alone a bit of a kippeen.”
“A bit of a kippeen! Faix, this is a quare kippeen! Why, it would fell a bullock.”
“When you see her, Nanse, tell her to make haste, an' for God's sake not to disappoint me. I can't rest well the day I don't meet her.”
“Maybe other people's as bad, for that matter; so good night, an' the mether o' honey to you, soon an' sudden! Faix, if any body stand in my way now, they'll feel the weight of this, any how.”
After uttering the last words, she brandished the cudgel and disappeared.
Lamh Laudher felt considerably puzzled to know what object Ellen could have had in sending the servant maid for his staff. Of one thing, however, he was certain, that her motive must have had regard to his own safety; but how, or in what manner, he could not conjecture. It is certainly true some misgivings shot lightly across his imagination, on reflecting that he had parted with the very weapon which he usually brought with him to repel the violence of Ellen's friends, should he be detected in an interview with her. He remembered, too, that he had met unlucky Nell M'Collum, and that the person who deprived him of his principal means of defence was her niece. He had little time, however, to think upon the subject, for in a few minutes after Nanse's departure, he recognized the light quick step of her whom he expected.
The figure of Ellen Neil was tall, and her motions full of untaught elegance and natural grace. Her countenance was a fine oval; her features, though not strictly symmetrical, were replete with animation, and her eyes sparkled with a brilliancy indicative of a warm heart and a quick apprehension. Flaxen hair, long and luxuriant, decided, even at a distant glance, the loveliness of her skin, than which the unsunned snow could not be whiter. If you add to this a delightful temper, buoyant spirits, and extreme candor, her character, in its strongest points, is before you.
On reaching the bottom of the Grassy Quarry, as it was called, she peered under the little beetling cliff that overhung the well-known ledge on which Lamh Laudher sat.
“I declare, John,” said she, on seeing him, “I thought at first you weren't here.”
“Did you ever know me to be late! --” said John, taking her by the hand, and placing her beside him; “and what would you a' done, Ellen, if I hadn't been here?”
“Why, run home as if the life was lavin' me, for fear of seein' something.”
“You needn't be afeard, Ellen, dear; nothing could harm you, at all events. However, puttin' that aside, have you any betther tidin's than you had when we met last?”
“I wish to heaven I had, John! but indeed I have far worse; ay, a thousand times worse. They have all joined against me, an' I'm not to see or speak to you at all.”
“That's hard,” replied Lamh Laudher, drawing his breath tightly; “but I know where it comes from. I think your father might be softened a little, ay, a great deal, if it wasn't for your brother Meehaul.”
“Indeed, Lamh Laudher, you're wrong in that; my father's as bitther against you as he is. It was only on Tuesday evenin' last that they told me, one an' all they would rather see me a corpse than your wife. Indeed an' deed, John, I doubt it never can be.”
“There,” replied John, “I see plain enough that they'll gain you over at last. That will be the end of it: but if you choose to break the vows and promises that passed between us, you may do so.”
“Oh! Lamh Laudher,” said Ellen, affected at the imputation contained in his last observation; “don't you treat me with such suspicion. I suffer enough for your sake, as it is. For nearly two years, a day has hardly passed that my family hasn't wrung the burnin' tears from my eyes on your account. Haven't I refused matches that any young woman in my station of life ought to be I proud to accept?”
“You did, Ellen, you did; but still I know how hard it is for you to hould out against the persecution you suffer at home. No, no, Ellen dear, I never doubted you for one minute. All I wondher at is, that such a girl as you ever could think of one so humble as I am, compared to what you'd have a right to expect an' could get.”
“Well, but if I'm willin' to prefer you, John?” said Ellen, with a smile.
“One thing I know, Ellen,” he replied, “an' that is, that I'm far from bein' worthy of you; an' I ought, if I had a high enough spirit, to try to turn you against me, if it was only that you might marry a man that 'ud have it in his power to make you happier than ever I'll be able to do; any way, than ever it's likely I'll be able to do.”
“I don't think, John, that ever money or the wealth of the world made a man an' wife love one another yet, if they didn't do it before; but it has often put their hearts against one another.”
“I agree wid you in that, Ellen; but you don't know how my heart sinks when I think of your an' my own poverty. My poor father, since the strange disappearance of little Alice, never was able to raise his head; and indeed my mother was worse. If the child had died, an' that we knew she slept with ourselves, it would be a comfort. But not to know what became of her--whether she was drowned or kidnapped--that was what crushed their hearts. I must say that since I grew up, we're improvin'; an' I hope, God willin', now that my father laves the management of the farm to myself, we'll still improve more an' more. I hope it for their sakes, but--more, if possible, for yours. I don't know what I wouldn't do to make you happy, Ellen. If my life could do it, I think I could lay it down to show the love I bear you. I could take to the highway and rob for your sake, if I thought it would bring me means to make you happy.”
Ellen was touched by his sincerity, as well as by the tone of manly sorrow with which he spoke. His last words, however, startled her, when she considered the vehement manner in which he uttered them.
“John,” said she, alarmed, “never, while you have life, let me hear a word of that kind out of your lips. No--never, for the sake of heaven above us, breathe it, or think of it. But, I'll tell you something, an' you must hear it, an' bear it too, with patience.”
“What is it, Ellen! If it's fair an' manly, I'll be guided by your advice.”
“Meehaul has threatened to--to--I mane to say, that you musn't have any quarrel with him, if he meets you or provokes you. Will you promise this?”
“Meenaul has threatened to strike me, has he? An' I, a Lamh Laudher, am to take a blow from a Neil, an' to thank him, I suppose, for givin' it.”
Ellen rose up and stood before him.
“Lamh Laudher,” said she, “I must now try your love for me in earnest. A lie I cannot tell no more than I can cover the truth. My brother has threatened to strike you, an' as I said afore, you must bear it for his sister's sake.”
“No, _dher Chiernah_, never. That, Ellen, is goin' beyant what I'm able to bear. Ask me to cut off my right hand for your sake, an' I'll do it; ask my life, an' I'll give it: but to ask a Lamh Laudher to bear a blow from a Neil--never. What! how could I rise my face afther such a disgrace? How could I keep the country wid a Neil's blow, like the stamp of a thief upon my forehead, an' me the first of my own faction, as your brother is of his. No--never!”
“An' you say you love me, John?”
“Betther than ever man loved woman.”
“No, man--you don't,” she replied; “if you did, you'd give up something for me. You'd bear that for my sake, an' not think it much. I'm beginin' to believe, Lamh Laudher, that if I was a poor portionless girl, it wouldn't be hard to put me out of your thoughts. If it was only for my own sake you loved me, you'd not refuse me the first request I ever made to you; when you know, too, that if I didn't think more of you than I ought, I'd never make it.”
“Ellen, would you disgrace me? Would you wish me to bear the name of a coward? Would you want my father to turn me out of the house? Would you want my own faction to put their feet upon me, an' drive me from among them?”
“John,” she replied, bursting into tears, “I do know that it's a sore obligation to lay upon you, when everything's taken into account; but if you wouldn't do this for me, who would you do it for? Before heaven, John, I dread a meetin' between you an' my brother, afther what he tould me; an' the only way of preventin' danger is for you not to strike him. Oh, little you know what I have suffered these two days for both your sakes! Lamh Laudher Oge, I doubt it would be well for me if I had never seen your face.”
“Anything undher heaven but what you want me to do, Ellen.”
“Oh! don't refuse me this, John. I ask it, as I said, for both your sake, an' for my own sake. Meehaul wouldn't strike an unresistin' man. I won't lave you till you promise; an' if that won't do, I'll go down on my. knees an' ask you for the sake of heaven above, to be guided by me in this.”
“Ellen, I'll lave the country to avoid him, if that'll plase you.”
“No--no--no, John: that doesn't plase me. Is it to lave your father an' family, an' you the staff of their support? Oh, John, give me your promise. Here on my two knees I ask it from you, for my own, for your own, and for the sake of God above us! I know Meehaul. If he got a blow from you on my account, he'd never forgive it to either you or me.”
She joined her hands in supplication to him as she knelt, and the tears chased each other like rain down her cheeks. The solemnity with which she insisted on gaining her point staggered Lamh Laudher not a little.
“There must be something undher this,” he replied, “that makes you set your heart on it so much. Ellen, tell me the truth; what is it?”
“If I loved you less, John, an' my brother too, I wouldn't care so much about it. Remember that I'm a woman, an' on my knees before you. A blow from you would make him take your life or mine, sooner than that I should become your wife. You ought to know his temper.”
“You know, Ellen, I can't at heart refuse you any thing. I will not strike your brother.”
“You promise, before God, that no provocation will make you strike him.”
“That's hard, Ellen; but--well, I do; before God, I won't--an' it's for your sake I say it. Now, get up, dear, get up. You have got me to do what no mortal livin' could bring me to but yourself. I suppose that's what made you send Nanse M'Collum for my staff?”
“Nancy M'Collum! When?”
“Why, a while ago. She tould me a quare enough story, or rather no story at all, only that you couldn't come, an' you could come, an' I was to give up my staff to her by your ordhers.”
“She tould you false, John. I know nothing about what you say.”
“Well, Ellen,” replied Lamh Laudher, with a firm seriousness of manner, “you have brought me into danger. I doubt, without knowin' it. For my own part, I don't care so much. Her unlucky aunt met me comin' here this evenin', and threatened both our family and yours. I know she would sink us into the earth if she could. Either she or your brother is at the bottom of this business, whatever it is. Your brother I don't fear; but she is to be dreaded, if, all's true that's said about her.”
“No, John--she surely couldn't have the heart to harm, you an' me. Oh, but I'm light now, since you did what I wanted you. No harm can come between you and Meehaul; for I often heard him say, when speakin' about his faction fights, that no one but a coward would, strike an unresistin' man. Now come and see me pass the Pedlar's Cairn, an' remember that you'll thank me for what I made you do this night. Come quickly--I'll be missed.”
They then passed on by a circuitous and retired path that led round the orchard, until he had conducted her in safety beyond the Pedlar's Cairn, which was so called from a heap of stones that had been loosely piled together, to mark the spot as the scene of a murder, whose history, thus perpetuated by the custom of every passenger casting a stone upon the place, constituted one of the local traditions of the neighborhood.
After a tender good-night, given in a truly poetical manner under the breaking light of a May moon, he found it necessary to retrace his steps by a path which wound round the orchard, and terminated in the public entrance to the town. Along this suburban street he had advanced but a short way, when he found himself overtaken and arrested by his bitter and determined foe, Meehaul Neil. The connection betwixt the promise that Ellen had extorted from him and this rencounter with her brother flashed upon him forcibly: he resolved, however, to be guided by her wishes, and with this purpose on his part, the following dialogue took place between the heads of the rival factions. When we say, however, that Lamh Laudher was the head of his party, we beg to be understood as alluding only to his personal courage and prowess; for there were in it men of far greater wealth and of higher respectability, so far as mere wealth could confer the latter.
“Lamh Laudher,” said Meehaul, “whenever a Neil spakes to you, you may know it's hot in friendship.”
“I know that, Meehaul Neil, without hearin' it from you. Spake, what have you to say?”
“There was a time,” observed the other, “when you and I were enemies only because our cleaveens were enemies but now there is, an' you know it, a blacker hatred between us.”
“I would rather there was not, Meehaul; for my own part, I have no ill-will against either you or yours, all you know that; so when you talk of hatred, spake only for yourself.”
“Don't be mane, man,” said Neil; “don't make them that hates you despise you into the bargain.”
Lamh Laudher turned towards him fiercely, and his eye gleamed with passion; but he immediately recollected himself, and simply said-- “What is your business with me this night, Meehaul Neil?”
“You'll know that soon enough--sooner, maybe, than you wish. I now ask you to tell me, if you are an honest man, where you have been?”
“I am as honest, Meehaul, as any man that ever carried the name of Neil upon him, an' yet I won't tell you that, till you show me what right you have to ask me.”
“I b'lieve you forget that I'm Ellen Neil's brother: now, Lamh Laudher, as her brother, I choose to insist on your answering me.”
“Is it by her wish?”
“Suppose I say it is.”
“Ay! but I won't suppose that, till you lay your right hand on your heart, and declare as an honest man, that--tut, man--this is nonsense. Meehaul, go home--I would rather there was friendship between us.”
“You were with Ellen, this night in the! Grassy Quarry.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“I saw you both--I watched you both; you left her beyond the Pedlar's Cairn, an' you're now on your way home.”
“An' the more mane you, Meehaul, to become a spy upon a girl that you know is as pure as the light from heaven. You ought to blush for doubtin' sich a sister, or thinkin' it your duty to watch her as you do.”
“Lamh Laudher, you say that you'd rather there was no ill-will between us.”
“I say that, God knows, from my heart out.”
“Then there's one way that it may be so. Give up Ellen; you'll find it for your own interest to do so.”
“Show me that, Meehaul.”
“Give her up, I say, an' then I may tell you.”
“Meehaul, good-night. Go home.”
They had now entered the principal street of the town, and as they proceeded in what appeared to be an earnest, perhaps a friendly conversation, many of their respective acquaintances, who lounged in the moonlight about their doors, were not a little surprised at seeing them in close conference. When Lamh Laudher wished him good night, he had reached an off street which led towards his father's house, a circumstance at which he rejoiced, as it would have been the means, he hoped, of terminating a dialogue that was irksome to both parties. He found himself, however, rather unexpectedly and rudely arrested by his companion.
“We can't part, Lamh Laudher,” said Meehaul seizing him by the collar, “'till this business is settled--I mane till you promise to give my sister up.”
“Then we must stand here, Meehaul, as long as we live--an' I surely won't do that.”
“You must give her up, man.”
“Must! Is it must from a Neil to a Lamh Laudher? You forgot yourself, Meehaul: you are rich now, an' I'm poor now; but any old friend can tell you the differ between your grandfather an' mine. Must, indeed!”
“Ay; must is the word, I say; an' I tell you that from this spot you won't go till you swear it, or this stick--an' it's a good one--will bring you to submission.”
“I have no stick, an' I suppose I may thank you for that.”
“What do you mane?” said Neil; “but no matter--I don't want it. There--to the divil with it;” and as he spoke he threw it over the roof of the adjoining house.
“Now give up my sister or take the consequence.”
“Meehaul, go home, I say. You know I don't fear any single man that ever breathed; but, above all men on this earth, I wish to avoid a quarrel with you. Do you think, in the mean time, that even if I didn't care a straw for your sister, I could be mane enough to let myself be bullied out of her by you, or any of your faction? Never, Meehaul; so spare your breath, an' go home.”
Several common acquaintances had collected about them, who certainly listened to this angry dialogue between the two faction leaders with great interest. Both were powerful men, young, strong, and muscular. Meehaul, of the two, was taller, his height being above six feet, his strength, courage, and activity, unquestionably very great. Lamh Laudher, however, was as fine a model of physical strength, just proportion, and manly beauty as ever was created; his arms, in particular, were of terrific strength, a physical advantage so peculiar to his family as to occasion the epithet by which it was known. He had scarcely uttered the reply we have I written, when Meehaul, with his whole! strength, aimed a blow at his stomach, which the other so far turned aside, as to bring it I higher up on his chest. He staggered back, after receiving it, about seven or eight yards, but did not fall. His eye literally blazed, and for a moment he seemed disposed to act! under the strong impulse of self-defence. The solemnity of his promise to Ellen, however, recurred to him in time to restrain his uplifted arm. By a strong and sudden effort he endeavored to compose himself, and succeeded. He approached Meehaul, and with as much calmness as he could assume, said-- “Meehaul, I stand before you an' you may strike, but I won't return your blows: I have reasons for it, but I tell you the truth.”
“You won't fight?” said Meehaul, with mingled rage and scorn.
“No,” replied the other, “I won't fight you.”
A murmur of “shame” and “coward” was heard from those who had been drawn together by their quarrel.
“_Dher ma chorp_,” they exclaimed with astonishment, “but Lamh Laudher's afeard of him! --the _garran bane's_ in him, now that he finds he has met his match.”
“Why, hard fortune to you, Lamh Laudher, will you take a blow from a Neil? Are you goin' to disgrace your name?”
“I won't fight him,” replied he to whom they spoke, and the uncertainty of his manner was taken for want of courage.
“Then,” said Meehaul, “here, before witnesses, I give you the coward, that you may carry the name to the last hour of your life.”
He inflicted, when uttering the words, a blow with his open hand on Lamh Laudher's cheek, after which he desired the spectators to bear witness to what he had done. The whole crowd was mute with astonishment, not a murmur more was heard; but they looked upon the two rival champions, and then upon each other with amazement. The high-minded young man had but one course to pursue. Let the consequence be what it might, he could not think for a moment of compromising the character of Ellen, nor of violating his promise, so solemnly given; with a flushed cheek, therefore, and a brow redder even with shame than indignation, he left the crowd without speaking' a word, for he feared that by indulging in any further recrimination on the subject, his resolution might give way under the impetuous resentment which he curbed in with such difficulty.
Meehaul Neil paused and looked after him, equally struck with surprise and contempt at his apparent want of spirit.
“Well,” he exclaimed to those who stood about him, “by the life within me, if all the parish had sworn that Lamh Laudher Oge was a coward, I'd not a b'lieved them!”
“Faix, Misther Neil, who would, no more, than yourself?” they replied; “devil the likes of it ever we seen! The young fellow that no man could stand afore five minutes!”
“That is,” replied others, “bekase he never met a man that would fight him. You see when he did, how he has turned out. One thing any how is clear enough--after this he can never rise his head while he lives.”
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{
"id": "16007"
}
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Meehaul now directed his steps homewards, literally stunned by the unexpected cowardice of his enemy. On approaching his father's door, he found Nell M'Collum seated on a stone bench, waiting his arrival. The moment she espied him she sprang to her feet, and with her usual eagerness of manner, caught the breast of his coat, and turning him round towards the moonlight, looked eagerly into his face.
“Well,” she inquired, “did he show his fire-arms? Well? What was done?”
“Somebody has been making a fool of you, Nell,” replied Meehaul; “he had neither fire-arms, nor staff, nor any thing else; an' for my part, I might as well have left mine at home.”
“Well, but, _douol_, man, what was done? Did you smash him? Did you break his bones?”
“None of that, Nell, but worse; he's disgraced for ever. I struck him, an' he refused to fight me; he hadn't a hand to raise.
“No! _Dher Chiernah_, he had not; an' he may thank Nell M'Collum for that. I put the weakness over him. But I've not done wid him yet. I'll make that family curse the day they crossed Nell M'Collum, if I should go down for it. Not that I have any ill will to the boy himself, but the father's heart's in him, an' that's the way, Meehaul, I'll punish the man that was the means of lavin' me as I am.”
“Nell, the devil's in your heart,” replied Meehaul, “if ever he was in mortal's. Lave me, woman: I can't bear your revengeful spirit, an' what is more, I don't want you to interfere in this business, good, bad, or indifferent. You bring about harm, Nell; but who has ever known you to do good?”
“Ay! ay!” said the hag, “that's the cuckoo song to Nell; she does harm, but never does good! Well, may my blackest curse wither the man that left Nell to hear that, as the kindest word that's spoke either to her or of her! I don't blame you. Meehaul--I blame nobody but him for it all. Now a word of advice before you go in; don't let on to Ellen that you know of her meetin' him this night;--an' reason good,--if she thinks you're watchin' her, she'll be on her guard--'ay, an' outdo you in spite of your teeth. She's a woman--she's a woman. Good night, an' mark him the next time betther.”
Meehaul himself--had come to the same determination and from the same motive.
The consciousness of Lamh Laudher's public disgrace, and of his incapability to repel it, sank deep into his heart. The blood in his veins became hot and feverish when he reflected upon the scornful and degrading insult he had just borne. Soon after his return home, his father and mother both noticed the singularly deep bursts of indignant feeling with which he appeared to be agitated. For some time they declined making any inquiry as to its cause, but when they saw at length the big scalding tears of shame and rage start from his flashing eyes, they could no longer restrain their concern and curiosity.
“In the name of heaven, John,” said they, “what has happened to put you in such a state as you're in?”
“I can't tell you,” he replied; “if you knew it, you'd blush with burnin' shame--you'd curse me in your heart. For my part, I'd rather be dead fifty times over than livin', after what has happened this night.”
“An' why not tell us, Lamh Laudher?”
“I can't father; I couldn't stand upright afore you and spake it. I'd sink like a guilty man in your presence; an' except you want to drive me distracted, or perjured, don't ask me another question about it. You'll hear it too soon.”
“Well, we must wait,” said the father; “but I'm sure, John, you'd not do anything unbecomin' a man. For my part, I'm not unasy on your account, for except to take an affront from a Neil, there's nothing you would do could shame me.”
This was a' fresh stab to the son's wounded pride, for which he was not prepared. With a stifled groan he leaped to his feet, and rushing from the kitchen, bolted himself up in his bed-room.
His parents, after he had withdrawn, exchanged glances.
“That went home to him,” said the father; “an' as sure as death, the Neils are in it, whatever it is. But by the crass that saved us, if he tuck an affront from any of them, without payin' them home double, he is no son of mine, an' this roof won't cover him another night. Howsomever we'll see in the morn-in', plase God!”
The mother, who was proud of his courage and prowess, scouted with great indignation the idea of her son's tamely putting up with an insult from any of the opposite faction.
“Is it he bear an affront from a Neil! arrah, don't make a fool of yourself, old man! He'd die sooner. I'd stake my life on him.”
The night advanced, and the family had retired to bed; but their son attempted in vain to sleep. A sense of shame overpowered him keenly. He tossed and turned, and groaned, at the contemplation of the disgrace which he knew would be heaped on him the following day. What was to be done? How was he to wipe it off? There was but one method, he believed, of getting his hands once more free; that was to seek Ellen, and gain her permission to retract his oath on that very night. With this purpose he instantly dressed, himself, and quietly unbolting his own door, and that of the kitchen, got another staff, and passed out to seek her father's inn.
The night had now become dark, but mild and agreeable; the repose of man and nature was deep, and save his own tumultuous thoughts every thing breathed an air of peace and rest. At a quick but cautious pace he soon reached the inn, and without much difficulty passed into the garden, from which he hoped to be able to make himself known to Ellen. In this, to his great mortification, he was disappointed; the room in which she slept, being on the third story, presented a window, it is true, to the garden; but how was he to reach it, or hold a dialogue with her, even should she recognize him, without being overheard by some of the family? All this might have occurred to him at home, had he been sufficiently cool for reflection. As it was, the only method of awakening her that he could think of was to throw up several handsful of small pebbles against the window. This he tried without any effect. Pebbles sufficiently large to reach the window would have broken the glass, so that he felt himself compelled to abandon every hope of speaking to her that night. With lingering and reluctant steps he left the garden, and stood for some time before the front of the house, leaning against an upright stone, called the market cross. Here he had not been more than two minutes, when he heard footsteps approaching, and on looking closely through the darkness, he recognized the figure of Nell M'Collum, as it passed directly to the kitchen window. Here the crone stopped, peered in, and with caution gave one of the panes a gentle tap. This was responded to by one much louder from within, and almost immediately the door was softly opened. From thence issued another female figure, evidently that of Nanse M'Collum, her niece. Both passed down the street in a northern direction, and Lamh Laudher, apprehensive that they were on no good errand, took off his shoes, lest his footsteps might be heard, and dogged them as they went along. They spoke little, and that in whispers, until they had got clear of the town, when, feeling less restraint, the following dialogue occurred to them:-- “Isn't it a quare thing, aunt, that she should come back to this place at all?”
“Quare enough, but the husband's comin' too--he's to folly her.”
“He ought to know that he needn't come here, I think.”
“Why, you fool, how do you know that? Sure the town must pay him fifty guineas, if he doesn't get a customer, and that's worth comin' for. She must be near us by this time. Husht! do you hear a car?”
They both paused to listen, but no car was audible.
“I do not,” replied the niece; “but isn't it odd that he lets her carry the money, an' him trates her so badly'?”
“Why would it be odd? Sure, she takes betther care of it, an' puts it farther than he does. His heart's in a farden, the nager.”
“Rody an' the other will soon spare her that trouble, any way,” replied the niece. “Is there no one with her but the carman?”
“Not one--hould you tongue--here's the gate where the same pair was to meet us. Who is this stranger that Rody has picked up? I hope he's the thing.”
“Some red-headed fellow. Rody says he is honest. I'm wondherin', aunt, what 'ud happen if she'd know the place.”
“She can't, girshah--an' what if she does? She may know the place, but will the place know her? Rody's friend says the best way is to do for her; an' I'm afeard of her, to tell you the truth--but we'll settle that when they come. There now is the gate where we'll sit down. Give a cough till we try if they're------whist! here they are!”
The voices of two men now joined the conversation, but in so low a tone, that Lamh Laudher could not distinctly hear its purport.
[Illustration: PAGE 91-- With stealthy pace he crept over] The road along which they traveled was craggy, and full of ruts, so that a car could be heard in the silence of night at a considerable distance. On each side the ditches were dry and shallow; and a small elder hedge, which extended its branches towards the road, afforded Lamh Laudher the obscurity which he wanted. With stealthy pace he crept over and sat beneath it, determined to witness whatever incident might occur, and to take a part in it, if necessary. He had scarcely seated himself when the car which they expected was heard jolting about half a mile off along the way, and the next moment a consultation took place in tones so low and guarded, that every attempt on his part to catch its purport was unsuccessful. This continued with much earnestness, if not warmth, until the car came within twenty perches of the gate, when Nell exclaimed-- “If you do, you may--but remimber I didn't egg you on, or put it into your hearts, at all evints. Maybe I have a child myself livin'--far from me--an' when I think of him, I feel one touch of nature at my heart in favor of her still. I'm black enough there, as it is.”
“Make your mind asy,” said one of them, “you won't have to answer for her.”
The reply which was given to this could not be heard.
“Well,” rejoined,Nell, “I know that. Her comin' here may not be for my good; but--well, take this shawl, an' let the work be quick. The carman must be sent back with sore bones to keep him quiet.”
The car immediately reached the spot where they sat, and as it passed, the two men rushed from the gate, stopped the horse, and struck the carman to the earth. One of them seized him while down, and pressed his throat, so as to prevent him from shouting. A single faint shriek escaped the female, who was instantly dragged off the car and gagged by the other fellow and Nanse M'Collum.
Lamh Laudher saw there was not a moment to be lost. With the speed of lightning he sprung forward, and with a single blow laid him who struggled with the carman prostrate. To pass then to the aid of the female was only the work of an instant. With equal success he struck down the villain with whom she was struggling. Such was the rapidity of his motions, that he had not yet had time even to speak; nor indeed did he wish at all to be recognized in the transaction. The carman, finding himself freed from his opponent, bounced to his legs, and came to the assistance of his charge, whilst Lamh Laudher, who had just flung Nanse M'Collum into the ditch, returned in time to defend both from a second attack. The contest, however, was a short one. The two ruffians, finding that there was no chance of succeeding, fled across the fields; and our humble hero, on looking for Nanse and her aunt, discovered that they also had disappeared. It is unnecessary to detail the strong terms in which the strangers expressed their gratitude to Lamh Laudher.
“God's grace be upon you, whoever you are, young man!” exclaimed the carman; “for wid His help an' your own good arm, it's my downright opinion that you saved us from bein' both robbed an' murthered.”
“I'm of that opinion myself,” replied Lamh Laudher.
“There is goodness, young man, in the tones of your voice,” observed the female; “we may at least ask the name of the person who has saved our lives?”
“I would rather not have my name mentioned in the business,” he replied; “a woman, or a devil, I think, that I don't wish to cross or provoke, has had a hand in it. I hope you haven't been robbed?” he added.
She assured him, with expressions of deep gratitude, that she had not.
“Well,” said he, “as you have neither of you come to much harm, I would take it as the greatest favor you could do me, if you'd never mention a word about it to any one.”
To this request they agreed with some hesitation. Lamh Laudher accompanied them into the town, and saw them safely in a decent second-rate inn, kept by a man named Luke Connor, after which he returned to his father's house, and without undressing, fell into a disturbed slumber until morning.
It is not to be supposed that the circumstances attending the quarrel between him and Meehaul Neil, on the preceding night, would pass off without a more than ordinary share of public notice. Their relative positions were too well known not to excite an interest corresponding with the characters they had borne, as the leaders of two bitter and powerful factions: but when it became certain that Meehaul Neil had struck Lamh Laudher Oge, and that the latter refused to fight him, it is impossible to describe the sensation which immediately spread through the town and parish. The intelligence was first received by O'Rorke's party with incredulity and scorn. It was impossible that he of the Strong Hand, who had been proverbial for courage, could all at once turn coward, and bear the blow from a Neil! But when it was proved beyond the possibility of doubt or misconception, that he received a blow tamely before many witnesses, under circumstances of the most degrading insult, the rage of his party became incredible. Before ten o'clock the next morning his father's house was crowded with friends and relations, anxious to hear the truth from his own lips, and all, after having heard it, eager to point out to him the only method that remained of wiping away his disgrace, namely, to challenge Meehaul Neil. His father's indignation knew no bounds; but his mother, on discovering the truth, was not without that pride and love which, are ever ready to form an apology for the feelings and errors of an only child.
“You may all talk,” she said; “but if Lamh Laudher Oge didn't strike him, he had good reasons for it. How do you know, an' bad cess to your tongues, all through other, how Ellen Neil would like him after weltin' her brother? Don't ye think she has the spirit of her faction in her as well as another?”
This, however, was not listened to. The father would hear of no apology for his son's cowardice but an instant challenge. Either that or to be driven from his father's roof the only alternatives left him.
“Come out here,” said the old man, for the son had not left his humble bed-room, “an' in presence of them that you have brought to shame and disgrace, take the only plan that s left to you, an' send him a challenge.”
“Father,” said the young man, “I have too much of your own blood in me to be afraid of any man--but for all that, I neither will nor can fight Meehaul Neil.”
“Very well,” said the father, bitterly, “that's enough. _Dher Manim_, Oonagh, you're a guilty woman; that boy's no son of mine. If he had my blood in him, he couldn't act as he did. Here, you intherloper, the door's open for you; go out of it, an' let me never see the branded face of you while you live.” The groans of the son were audible from his bed-room.
“I will go, father,” he replied, “an' I hope the day will come when you'll all change your opinion of me. I can't, however, stir out till I send a message a mile or so out of town.”
The old man in the mean time, wept as if his son had been dead; his tears, however, were not those of sorrow, but of shame and indignation.
“How can I help it,” he exclaimed, “when I think of the way that the Neils will clap their wings and crow over us! If it was from any other family he tuck it so inanely, I wouldn't care so much; but from them! Oh, Chiernah! it's too bad! Turn out, you villain!”
A charge of deeper disgrace, however, awaited the unhappy young man. The last harsh words of the father had scarcely been uttered, when three constables came in, and inquired if his son were at home.
“He is at home,” said the father, with tears in his eyes, “and I never thought he would bring the blush to my face as he did by his conduct last night.”
“I am sorry,” said the principal of them, “for what has happened, both on your account and his. Do you know this hat?”
“I do know it,” replied the old man; “it belongs to John. Come out here,” said he, “here's Tom Breen wid your hat.”
The son left his room, and it was evident from his appearance that he had not undressed at all during the night. The constables immediately observed these circumstances, which they did not fail to interpret to his disadvantage.
“Here is your hat,” said the man who bore it; “one would think you were travelin' all night, by your looks.”
The son thanked him for his civility, got clean stockings, and after arranging his dress, said to his father-- “I'm now ready to go, father, an' as I can't do what you want me to do, there's nothing for me but to leave the country for a while.”
“He acknowledged it himself,” said the father, turning to Breen; “an' in that case, how could I let the son that shamed me live undher my roof?”
“He's the last young man in the country I stand in,” said Breen, “that any one who knew him would suspect to be guilty of robbery. Upon my soul, Lamh Laudher More, I'm both grieved an' distressed at it. We're come to arrest him,” he added, “for the robbery he committed last night.”
“Robbery!” they exclaimed with one voice.
“Ay,” said the man, “robbery, no less--an' what is more, I'm afraid there's little doubt of his guilt. Why did he lave his hat at the place where the attempt was first made? He must come with us.”
The mother shrieked aloud, and clapped her hands like a distressed woman; the father's brow changed from the flushed hue of indignation, and became pale with apprehension.
“Oh! no, no,” he exclaimed, “John never did that. Some qualm might come over him in the other business, but--no, no--your father knows you're innocent of robbery. Yes, John, my blood is in you, and there you're wronged, my son. I know you too well, in spite of all I've said to you, to believe that, my true-hearted boy.”
He grasped his son's hand as he spoke.
And his mother at the same moment caught him in her arms, whilst both sobbed aloud. A strong sense of innate dignity expanded the brow of young Lamh Laudher. He smiled while his parents wept, although his sympathy in their sorrow brought a tear at the same time to his eye-lids. He declined, however, entering into any explanation, and the father proceeded-- “Yes! I know you are innocent, John; I can swear that you didn't leave this house from nine o'clock last night up to the present minute.”
“Father,” said Lamh Laudher, “don't swear that, for it would not be true, although you think it would. I was out the greater part of last night.”
His father's countenance fell again, as did those of his friends who were present, on hearing what appeared to be almost an admission of his guilt.
“Go,” said the old man, “go; naburs, take him with you. If he's guilty of this, I'll never more look upon his face. John, my heart was crushed before, but you're likely to break it out an' out.”
Lamh Laudher Oge's deportment, on hearing himself charged with robbery, became dogged and sullen. The conversation, together with the sympathy and the doubt it excited among his friends, he treated with silent indignation and scorn. He remembered that on the night before, the strange woman assured him she had not been robbed, and he felt that the charge was exceedingly strange and unaccountable.
“Come,” said he, “the sooner this business is cleared up the better. For my part, I don't know what to make of it, nor do I care much how it goes. I knew since yesterday evening, that bad luck was before me, at all events, an' I suppose it must take its course, an' that I must bear it.”
The father had sat down, and now declined uttering a single word in vindication of his' son. The latter looked towards him, when about to pass out, but the old man waved his hand with sorrowful impatience, and pointed to the door, as intimating a wish that he should forthwith depart from under his roof. Loaded with twofold disgrace, he left his family and his friends, accompanied by the constables, to the profound grief and astonishment of all who knew him.
They then conducted him before a Mr. Brooldeigh, an active magistrate of that day, and a gentleman of mild and humane character.
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On reaching Brookleigh Hall, Lamh Laudher found the strange woman, Nell M'Collum, Connor's servant maid, and the carman awaiting his arrival. The magistrate looked keenly at the prisoner, and immediately glanced with an expression of strong disgust at Nell M'Collum. The other female surveyed Lamh Laudher with an interest evidently deep; after which she whispered something to Nell, who frowned and shook her head, as if dissenting from what she had heard. Lamh Laudher, on his part surveyed the features of the female with an earnestness that seemed to absorb all sense of his own disgrace and danger.
“O'Rorke,” said the magistrate, “this is a serious charge against you. I trust you may be able effectually to meet it.”
“I must wait, your worship, till I hear fully what it is first,” replied Lamh Laudher, “afther that I'm not afraid of clearin' myself from it.”
The woman then detailed the circumstances of the robbery, which it appeared took place at the moment her luggage was in the act of being removed to her room, after which she added, rather unexpectedly--“And now your worship, I have plainly stated the facts; but I must, in conscience, add, that although this woman,” turning to Nell M'Collum, “is of opinion that the young man before you has robbed me, yet I cannot think he did.”
“I'll swear, your worship,” said Nell, “that on passin' homewards last night, seein' a car wid people about it, at Luke Connor's door, I stood behind the porch, merely to thry if I knew who they wor. I seen this Lamh Laudher wid a small oak box in his hands, an' I'll give my oath that it was open, an' that he put his hands into it, and tuck something out.”
“Pray, Nell, how did it happen that you yourself were abroad at so unseasonable an hour?” said the magistrate.
“Every one knows that I'm out at quare hours,” replied Nell; “I'm not like others. I know where I ought to be, at all times; but last night, if your worship wishes to hear the truth, I was on my way to Andy Murray's wake, the poor lad that was shepherd to the Neils.”
“And pray, Nell,” said his worship, “how did you form so sudden an acquaintance with this respectable looking woman?”
“I knew her for years,” said Nell; “I've seen her in other parts of the country often.”
“You were more than an hour with her last night--were you not?” said his worship.
“She made me stay wid her,” said Nell, “bekase she was a stranger, an' of coorse was glad to see a face she know, afther the fright she got.”
“All very natural, Nell; but in the mean time, she might easily have chosen a more respectable associate. Have you actually lost the sum of six hundred pounds, my good madam?”
“I have positively lost so much,” replied the woman, “together with the certificate of my marriage.”
“And how did you become acquainted with Nell M'Collum?” he inquired.
The stranger was silent, and blushed deeply at this question; but Nell, with more presence of mind, went over to the magistrate, and whispered something which caused him to start, look keenly at her, and then at the plaintiff.
“I must have this confirmed by herself” he said in reply to Nell's disclosure, “otherwise I shall be much more inclined to consider you the thief than O'Rorke, whose character has been hitherto unimpeachable and above suspicion.”
He then beckoned the woman over to his desk, and after having first inquired if she could write, and being replied to in the affirmative, he placed a slip of paper before her, on which was written--“Is that unhappy woman called Nell M'Collum, your mother?”
“Alas! she is, sir,” replied the female, with a deep expression of sorrow. The magistrate then appeared satisfied. “Now,” said he, addressing O'Rorke, “state, fairly and honestly what you have to say in reply to the charge brought against you.”
“Please your worship,” said the young man, “you hear the woman say that she brings no charge against me; but I can prove on oath, that Nell M'Collum and her niece, Nanse M'Collum, along with two men that I don't know, except that one was called Rody, met at Franklin's gate, with an intention of robing, an' it's my firm belief, of murdering this woman.”
He then detailed with great earnestness the incidents and conversation of the preceding night.
“Sir,” replied Nell, with astonishing promptness, “I can prove by two witnesses, that, no longer ago than last night, he said he would take to the high-road, in ordher to get money to enable him to marry Ellen Neil. Yes, you villain, Nanse M'Collum heard every word that passed between you and her in the grassy quarry; an' Ellen, your worship, can prove it too, if she's sent for.”
This had little effect on the magistrate, who at no time placed any reliance on Nell's assertions; he immediately, however, dispatched a summons for Nanse M'Collum.
The carman then related all that he knew, every word of which strongly corroborated what Lamh Laudher had said. He concluded by declaring it to be his opinion, that the prisoner was innocent, and added, that, according to the best of his belief, the box was not open when he left it in the plaintiff's sleeping-room above stairs.
The magistrate again looked keenly and suspiciously towards Nell. At this stage of the proceedings, O'Rorke's father and mother, accompanied by some of their friends, made their appearance. The old man, however, declined to take any part in the vindication of his son. He stood sullenly silent, with his arms folded and his brows knit, as much in indignation as in sorrow. The grief of the mother was louder, for she wept audibly.
Ere the lapse of many minutes, the constable returned, and stated that Nanse was not be found.
“She has not been at her master's house since morning,” he observed, “and they don't know where she is, or what has become of her.”
The magistrate immediately despatched two of the constables, with strict injunctions! to secure her, if possible.
“In the mean time,” he added, “I will order you, Nell M'Collum, to be strictly confined, until I ascertain whether she can be produced or not. Your haunts may be searched with some hope of success, while you are in durance; but I rather think we might seek for her in vain, if you were at liberty to regulate her motions. I cannot expect,” he added, turning to the stranger, “that you should prosecute one so nearly related to you, even if you had proof, which you have not; but I am almost certain, that she has been someway or other concerned in the robbery. You are a modest, interesting woman, and I regret the loss you have sustained. At present there are no grounds for committing any of the parties charged with the robbery. This unhappy woman I commit only as a vagrant, until her niece is found, after that we shall probably be able to see somewhat farther into this strange affair.”
“Something tells' me, sir,” replied the stranger, “that this young man is as innocent of the robbery as the child unborn. It's not my intention ever to think of prosecuting him. What I have done in the matter was against my own wishes.”
“God in heaven bless you for the words!” exclaimed the parents of O'Rorke, each pressing her hand with delight and gratitude. The woman warmly returned their greetings, but instantly felt her bosom heave with a hysterical oppression under which she sank into a state of insensibility. Lamh Laudher More and his wife were proceeding to bring her towards the door for air, when Nell M'Collum insisted on a prior right to render her that service. “Begone, you servant of the devil,” exclaimed the old man, “your wicked breath is bad about any one else; you won!t lay a hand upon her.”
“Don't let her, for heaven's sake!” said his wife; “her eye will kill the woman!”
“You are not aware,” said the magistrate, “that this woman is her daughter?”
“Whose daughter, please your honor,” said the old man indignantly.
“Nell M'Collum's,” he returned.
“It's as false as hell!” rejoined O'Rorke, “beggin' your honor's pardon for sayin' so. I mean it's false for Nell, if she says it. Nell, sir, never had a daughter, an' she knows that; but she had a son, an' she knows best what became of him.”
Nell, however, resolved not to be deterred from getting-the stranger into her own hands. With astonishing strength and fury she attempted to drag the insensible creature from O'Rorke's grasp; but the magistrate, disgusted at her violence, ordered two of the persons present to hold her down.
At length the woman began to recover.
She sobbed aloud, and a copious flow of tears drenched her cheeks. Nell ordered her to tear herself from O'Rorke and his wife:-- “Their hands are bad about you,” she exclaimed, “and their son has robbed you, Mary. Lave them, I say, or it will be worse for you.”
The woman paid her no attention; on the contrary, she laid her head on the bosom of O'Rorke's wife, and wept as if her heart would break.
“God help me!” she exclaimed with a bitter sense of her situation, “I am an unhappy, an' a heart-broken woman! For many a year I have not known what it is to have a friendly breast to weep on.”
She then caught O'Rorke's hand and kissed it affectionately, after which she wept afresh; “Merciful heaven!” said she'--“oh, how will I ever be able to meet my husband! and such a husband! oh, heavens pity me!”
Both O'Rorke and his wife stood over her in tears. The latter bent her head, kissed the stranger, and pressed her to her bosom. “May God bless you!” said O'Rorke himself solemnly; “trust in Him, for he can see justice done to you when man fails.”
The eyes of Nell glared at the group like those of an enraged tigress: she stamped her feet upon the floor, and struck it repeatedly with her stick, as she was in the habit of doing, when moved by strong and deadly passions.
“You'll suffer for that, Mary,” she exclaimed; “and as for you, Lamh Laudher More, my debt's not paid to you yet. Your son's a robber, an I'll prove it before long; every one knows he's a coward too.”
Mr. Brookleigh felt that there appeared to be something connected with the transactions of the preceding night, as well as with some of the persons who had come before him, that perplexed him not a little. He thought that, considering the serious nature of the charge preferred against young O'Rorke, he exhibited an apathy under it, that did not altogether argue innocence. Some unsettled suspicions entered his mind, but not with sufficient force to fix with certainty upon any of those present, except Nell and Nanse M'Collum who had absconded. If Nell were the woman's mother, her anxiety to bring the criminal to justice appeared very natural. Then, again, young O'Rorke's father, who seemed to know the history of Nell M'Collum, denied that she ever had a daughter. How could he be certain that she had not, without knowing her private life thoroughly? These circumstances appeared rather strange, if not altogether incomprehensible; so much so, indeed, that he thought it necessary, before they separated, to speak with O'Rorke's family in private. Having expressed a wish to this effect, he dismissed the other parties, except Nell, whom he intended to keep confined until the discovery of her niece.
“Pray,” said he to the father of our humble hero, “how do you know, O'Rorke, that Nell M'Collum never had a daughter?”
“Right well, your honor. I knew her since she was a child; an' from that day to this she was never six months from this town at a time. No, no--a son she had, but a daughter she never had.”
“Let me ask you, young man, on what business were you abroad last night? I expect you will answer me candidly?”
“It's no matther,” replied young Lamh Laudher gloomily, “my character's gone. I cannot be worse, an' I will tell no man how I spent it, till I have an opportunity of clarin' myself.”
“If you spent it innocently,” returned the magistrate, “you can have no hesitation in making the disclosure we require.”
“I will not mention it,” said the other; “I was disgraced, an' that is enough. I think but little of the robbery.”
Brookleigh understood him; but the last assertion, though it exonerated him in the opinion of a man who knew something about character, went far in that of his friends who were present to establish his guilt.
They then withdrew; and it would have been much to young Lamh Laudher's advantage if this private interview had never taken place.
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The next morning O'Rorke and his wife! waited upon Mr. Brookleigh to state, that in their opinion it would be more judicious to liberate Nell M'Collum, provided he kept a strict watch upon all her motions. The magistrate instantly admitted both the force and ingenuity of the thought; and after having appointed three persons to the task of keeping her under surveillance, he set her at large.
This was all judicious and prudent; but in the mean time, common rumor, having first published the fact of young Lamh Laudher's cowardice, found it an easy task to associate his name with the robbery. His very father, after their last conference with the magistrate, doubted him; his friends, in the most sympathetic terms, expressed their conviction of his guilt, and the natural consequence resulting from this was, that he found himself expelled from his paternal roof, and absolutely put out of caste. The tide of ill-fame, in fact, set in so strongly against him, that Ellen, startled as she had been by his threat of taking to the highway, doubted him. The poor young man, in truth, led a miserable life. Nanse M'Collum had not been found, and the unfavorable rumor was still at its height, when one morning the town arose and found the walls and streets placarded with what was in those days known as the fatal challenge of the DEAD BOXER!
This method of intimating his arrival had always been peculiar to that individual, who was a man of color. No person ever discovered the means by which he placarded his dreadful challenge. In an age of gross superstition, numerous were the rumors and opinions promulgated concerning this circumstance. The general impression was, that an evil spirit attended him, by whose agency his advertisements were put up at night; A law, it is said, then existed, that when a pugilist arrived in any town, He might claim the right to receive the sum of fifty guineas, provided no man in the town could be found to accept his challenge within a given period. A champion, if tradition be true, had the privilege of fixing only the place, not the mode and regulations of battle. Accordingly the scene of contest uniformly selected by the Dead Boxer was the church-yard of the town, beside a new made grave, dug at his expense. The epithet of the Dead Boxer had been given to him, in consequence of a certain fatal stroke by which he had been able to kill every antagonist who dared to meet him; precisely on the same principle that we call a fatal marksman a dead shot; and the church-yard was selected, and the grave prepared, in order to denote the fatality incurred by those who went into a contest with him. He was famous, too, at athletic sports, but was never known to communicate the secret of the fatal blow; he also taught the sword exercises, at which he was considered to be a proficient.
On the morning after his arrival, the town in which we have laid the scene of this legend felt the usual impulse of an intense curiosity to see so celebrated a character. The Dead Boxer, however, appeared to be exceedingly anxious to gratify this natural propensity. He walked out from the head inn, where he had stopped, attended by his servant, merely, it would appear, to satisfy them as to the very slight chance which the stoutest of them had in standing before a man whose blow was so fatal, and whose frame so prodigiously Herculean.
Twelve o'clock was the hour at which he deemed proper to make his appearance, and as it happened also to be the market-day of the town, the crowd which followed him was unprecedented. The old and young, the hale and feeble of both sexes, all rushed out to see, with feelings of fear and wonder, the terrible and far-famed Dead Boxer. The report of his arrival had already spread far and wide into the country, and persons belonging to every class and rank of life might be seen hastening on horseback, and more at full speed on foot, that they might, if possible, catch an early glimpse of him. The most sporting characters among the nobility and gentry of the country, fighting-peers, fire-eaters, snuff-candle squires, members of the hell-fire and jockey clubs, gaugers, gentlemen tinners, bluff yeomen, laborers, cudgel-players, parish pugilists, men of renown within a district of ten square miles, all jostled each other in hurrying to see, and if possible to have speech of, the Dead Boxer. Not a word was spoken that day, except with reference to him, nor a conversation introduced, the topic of which was not the Dead Boxer. In the town every window was filled with persons standing to get a view of him; so were the tops of the houses, the dead walls, and all the cars, gates, and available eminences within sight of the way along which he went. Having thus perambulated the town, he returned to the market-cross, which, as we have said, stood immediately in front of his inn. Here, attended by music, he personally published his challenge in a deep and sonorous voice, calling upon the corporation in right of his championship, to produce a man in ten clear days ready to undertake battle with him as a pugilist, or otherwise to pay him the sum of fifty guineas out of their own proper exchequer.
Having thus thrown down his gauntlet, the musicians played a dead march, and there was certainly something wild and fearful in the association produced by these strains of death and the fatality of encountering him. This challenge he repeated at the same place and hour during three successive days, after which he calmly awaited the result.
In the mean time, certain circumstances came to light, which not only developed many cruel and profligate traits in his disposition, but also enabled the worthy inhabitants of the town to ascertain several facts relating to his connections, which in no small degree astonished them. The candid and modest female whose murder and robbery had been planned by Nell M'Collum, resided with him as his wife; at least if he did not acknowledge her as such, no person who had an opportunity of witnessing her mild and gentle deportment, ever for a moment conceived her capable of living with him in any other character, his conduct to her, however, was brutal in the extreme, nor was his open and unmanly cruelty lessened by the misfortune of her having lost the money which he had accumulated. With Nell M'Collum he was also acquainted, for he had given orders that she should be admitted to him whenever she deemed it necessary. Nell, though now at large, found her motions watched with a vigilance which no ingenuity on her part, could baffle. She knew this, and was resolved by caution to overreach those who dogged her so closely. Her intimacy with the Dead Boxer threw a shade of still deeper mystery around her own character and his. Both were supposed to be capable of entering into evil communion with supernatural beings, and both, of course, were looked upon with fear and hatred, modified, to be sure, by the peculiarity of their respective situations.
Let not our readers, however, suppose that young Lamh Laudher's disgrace was altogether lost in the wide-spread fame of the Dead Boxer. His high reputation for generous and manly feeling had given him too strong a hold upon the hearts of all who know him, to be at once discarded by them from public conversation as an indifferent person. His conduct filled them with wonder, it is true; but although the general tone of feeling respecting the robbery was decidedly in his favor, yet there still existed among the public, particularly in the faction that was hostile to him, enough of doubt, openly expressed, to render it a duty to avoid him; particularly when this formidable suspicion was joined to the notorious fact of his cowardice in the rencounter with Meehaul Neil. Both subjects were therefore discussed with probably an equal interest; but it is quite certain that the rumor of Lamh Laudher's cowardice would alone have occasioned him, under the peculiar circumstances which drew it forth, to be avoided and branded with contumely. There was, in fact, then in existence among the rival factions in Ireland much of the military sense of honor which characterizes the British army at this day; nor is this spirit even yet wholly exploded, from our humble countrymen. Poor Lamh Laudher was, therefore, an exile from his father's house, repulsed and avoided by all who had formerly been intimate with him.
There was another individual, however, who deeply sympathized in all he felt, because she knew that for her sake it had been incurred; we allude to Ellen Neil. Since the night of their last interview, she, too, had been scrupulously watched by her relations. But what vigilance can surpass the ingenuity of love? Although her former treacherous confidant had absconded, yet the incident of the Dead Boxer's arrival had been the means of supplying her with a friend, into whose bosom she felt that she could pour out all the anxieties of her heart. This was no other than the Dead Boxer's wife; and there was this peculiarity in the interest which she took in Ellen's distress, that it was only a return of sympathy which Ellen felt in the unhappy woman's sufferings. The conduct of her husband was indefensible; for while he treated her with shameful barbarity, it was evident that his bad passions and his judgment were at variance, with respect to the estimate which he formed of her character. In her honesty he placed every confidence, and permitted her to manage his money and regulate his expenses; but this was merely because her frugality and economic habits gratified his parsimony, and fostered one of his strongest passions, which was avarice. There was something about this amiable creature that won powerfully upon the affections of Ellen Neil; and in entrusting her with the secret of her love, she she felt assured that she had not misplaced it. Their private conversations, therefore, were frequent, and their communications, unreserved on both sides, so far as woman can bestow confidence and friendship on the subject of her affections or her duty. This intimacy did not long escape the prying eyes of Nell M'Collum, who soon took means to avail herself of it for purposes which will shortly become evident.
It was about the sixth evening after the day on which the Dead Boxer had published his challenge, that, having noticed Nell from a window as she passed the inn, he dispatched a waiter with a message that she should be sent up to him. Previous to this the hag had been several times with his wife, on whom she laid serious injunctions never to disclose to her husband the relationship between them. The woman had never done so, for in fact the acknowledgement of Nell, as her mother, would have been to, any female whose feelings had not been made callous by the world, a painful and distressing task. Nell was the more anxious on this point, as she feared that such a disclosure would have frustrated her own designs.
“Well, granny,” said he, when Nell entered, “any word of the money?”
Nell cautiously shut the door, and stood immediately fronting him, her hand at some distance from her side, supported by her staff, and her gray glittering eyes fixed upon him with that malicious look which she never could banish from her countenance.
“The money will come,” she replied, “in good time. I've a charm near ready that'll get a clue to it. I'm watchin' him--and I'm watched myself--an' Ellen's watched. He has hardly a house to put his head in; but _nabockish! _ I'll bring you an' him together--ay, _dher manim_, an' I'll make him give you the first blow; afther that, if you don't give him one, it's your own fau't.” “Get the money first, granny. I won't give him the blow till _it_ is safe.”
“Won't you?” replied the beldame; “ay, _dher Creestha_, will you, whin you know what. I have to tell you about him an'--an'----” “And who, granny?”
“_Diououl_, man, but I'm afeard to tell you, for fraid you'd kill me.”
“Tut, Nelly; I'd not strike an Obeah-wo-man,” said he, laughing.
“I suspect foul play between him an'--her.”
“Eh? Fury of hell, no!”
“He's very handsome,” said the other, “an' young--far younger than you are, by thirteen--” “Go on--go on,” said the Dead Boxer, interrupting her, and clenching his fist, whilst his eyes literally glowed like live coals, “go on--I'll murder him, but not till--yes, I'll murder him at a blow--I will; but no--not till you secure the money first. If I give him the blow--THE BOX--I might never get it, granny. A dead man gives back nothing.”
“I suspect,” replied Nell, “_arraghid_--that is the money--is in other hands. Lord presarve us! but it's a wicked world, blackey.”
“Where is it!” said the Boxer, with a vehemence of manner resembling that of a man who was ready to sink to perdition for his wealth. “Devil! and furies! where is it?”
“Where is it?” said the imperturbable Nell; “why, manim a yeah, man, sure you don't think that I know where it is? I suspect that your landlord's daughter, his real sweetheart, knows something about it; but thin, you see, I can prove nothing; I only suspect. We must watch an' wait. You know she wouldn't prosecute him.”
“We will watch an' wait--but I'll finish him. Tell me, Nell--fury of hell, woman--can it be possible--no--well--I'll murder him, though; but can it be possible that she's guilty? eh? She wouldn't prosecute him--No--no--she would not.”
“She is not worthy of you, blackey. Lord save us! Well, troth, I remimber whin you wor in Lord S--'s, you were a fine young man of your color. I did something for the young lord in my way then, an' I used to say, when I called to see her, that you wor a beauty, barrin' the face. Sure enough, there was no lie in that. Well, that was before you tuck to the fightin'; but I'm ravin'. Whisper, man. If you doubt what I'm sayin', watch the north corner of the orchard about nine to-night, an' you'll see a meetin' between her an' O'Rorke. God be wid you! I must go.”
“Stop!” said the Boxer; “don't--but do get a charm for the money.”
“Good-by,” said Nell; “_you_ a heart wid your money! No; _damnho sherry_ on the charm ever I'll get you till you show more spunk. You! My curse on the money, man, when your disgrace is consarned!”
Nell passed rapidly, and with evident indignation out of the room; nor could any entreaty on the part of the Dead Boxer induce her to return and prolong the dialogue.
She had said enough, however, to produce in his bosom torments almost equal to those of the damned. In several of their preceding dialogues, she had impressed him with a belief that young Lamh Laudher was the person who had robbed his wife; and now to the hatred that originated in a spirit of avarice, she added the deep and deadly one of jealousy. On the other hand, the Dead Boxer had, in fact, begun to feel the influence of Ellen Neil's beauty; and perhaps nothing would have given him greater satisfaction than the removal of a woman whom he no longer loved, except for those virtues which enabled him to accumulate money. And now, too, had he an equal interest in the removal of his double rival, whom, besides, he considered the spoliator of his hoarded property. The loss of this money certainly stung him to the soul, and caused his unfortunate wife to suffer a tenfold degree of persecution and misery. When to this we add his sudden passion for Ellen Neil, we may easily conceive what she must have endured. Nell, at all events, felt satisfied that she had shaped the strong passions of her savage dupe in the way best calculated to gratify that undying spirit of vengeance which she had so long nurtured against the family of Lamh Laudher. The Dead Boxer, too, was determined to prosecute his amour with Ellen Neil, not more to gratify his lawless affection for her than his twofold hatred of Lamh Laudher.
At length nine o'clock arrived, and the scene must change to the northern part of Sheemus Neil's orchard. The Dead Boxer threw a cloak around him, and issuing through the back door of the inn, entered the garden, which was separated from the orchard only by a low clipped hedge of young whitethorn, in the middle of which stood of a small gate. In a moment he was in the orchard, and from behind its low wall he perceived a female proceeding to the north side muffled like himself in a cloak, which he immediately recognized to be that of his wife. His teeth became locked together with the most deadly resentment; his features twitched with the convulsive spasms of rage, and his nostrils were distended as if his victims stood already within his grasp. He instantly threw himself over the wall, and nothing but the crashing weight of his tread could have saved the lives of the two unsuspecting persons before him. Startled, however, by the noise of his footsteps, Lamh Laudher turned round to observe who it was that followed them, and immediately the massy and colossal black now stripped of his cloak--for he had thrown it aside--stood in their presence. The female instinctively drew the cloak round her face, and Lamh Laudher was about to ask why he followed them, when the Boxer approached him in an attitude of assault.
With a calmness almost unparalleled under the circumstances, Lamh Laudher desired the female by no means to cling to him.
“If you do,” said he, “I am murdered where I stand.”
“No,” she shrieked, “you shall not. Stand back, man, stand back, if you murder him I will take care you shall suffer for it. Stand back. Lamh Laudher never injured you.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the Boxer, in reply; “why, what is this! Who have we here?”
Ellen, for it was she, had already thrown back the cloak from her features, and stepped forward between them.
“Well, I am glad it is you,” said the black, “and so may he. Come, I shall conduct you home.”
He caught her arm as he spoke, and drew her over to his side like an infant.
“Come, my pretty girl, come; I will treat you tenderly, and all I shall ask is a kiss in return. Here, young fellow,” said he to Lamh Laudher, with a sense of bitter triumph, “I will show you that one black kiss is worth two white ones.”
Heavy, hard, and energetic was the blow which the Dead Boxer received upon the temple, as the reply of Lamh Laudher, and dead was the crash of his tremendous body on the earth. Ellen looked around her with amazement.
“Come,” said she, seizing her lover's arm, and dragging him onward: “gracious heavens! I hope you haven't killed him. Come, John, the time is short, and we must make the most of it. That villain, as I tould you before, is a villain. Oh! if you knew it! John, I have been the manes of your disgrace and suffering, but I am willing to do what I can to remedy that. In your disgrace, Ellen will be ready, in four days from this, to become your wife. John, come to meet me no more. I will send that villain's innocent wife to your aunt Alley's, where you now live'. I didn't expect to see you myself; but I got an opportunity, and besides she was too unwell to bring my message, which was to let you know what I now tell you.”
John, ere he replied, looked behind him at the Dead Boxer, and appeared as if struck with some sudden thought.
“He is movin',” said he, “an' on this night I don't wish to meet him again; but--yes, Ellen, yes--God bless you for the words you've said; but how could you for one minute doubt me about the robbery?”
“I did not, John--I did not; and if I did, think of your own words at our meetin' in the Quarry; it was a small suspicion, though--no more. No, no; at heart I never doubted you.”
“Ellen,” said John, “hear me. You never will become my wife till my disgrace is wiped away. I love you too well ever to see you blush for your husband. My mind's made up--so say no more. Ay, an' I tell you that to live three months in this state would break my heart.”
“Poor John!” she exclaimed, as they separated, and the words were followed by a gush of tears, “I know that there is not one of them, in either of the factions, so noble in heart and thought as you are.”
“Ill prove that soon, Ellen; but never till my name is fair and clear, an' without spot, can you be my wife. Good night, dearest; in every thing but that I'll be guided by you.”
They then separated, and immediately the Dead Boxer, like a drunken man, went tottering, rather crest-fallen, towards the inn. On reaching his own room, his rage appeared quite ungovernable; he stormed, stamped, and raved on reflecting that any one was able to knock him down. He called for brandy and water, with a curse to the waiter, swore deeply between every sip, and, ultimately dispatched another messenger for Nell M'Collum.
“That Obeah woman's playing on me,” he exclaimed; “because my face is black, she thinks me a fool. Furies! I neither know what she is, nor who the other is. But I will know.”
“Don't be too sure of that,” replied Nell, gliding into the apartment--“You can say little, blackey, or think little, avourneen, that I'll not know. As to who she is, you needn't ax--she won't be long troublin' you; an' in regard to myself, I'm what you see me. Arra, _dher ma chuirp_, man alive, I could lave you in one night that a boy in his first _breestha_ (small clothes) could bate the marrow out of you.”
“Where did you come from now, granny?”
“From her room; she's sick--that was what prevented her from meetin' Lamh Laudher.”
“Granny, do you know who she is? I'm tired of her--sick of her.”
“You know enough about her to satisfy you. Wasn't she a beautiful creature when Lady S------ tuck her into the family, an' reared her till she was fit to wait upon herself. Warn't you then sarvant to the ould lord, an' didn't I make her marry you, something against her will, too; but she did it to plase me. That was before 'buildin' churches' druv you out of the family, an' made you take to the fightin' trade.”
“Granny, you must bring this young fellow across me. Blood! woman, do you know what he did? He knocked me down, granny--struck me senseless! Fury of hell! Me! Only for attempting to kiss his sweetheart!”
“Ha!” said Nell, bitterly, “keep that to yourself, for heaven's sake! _Dher ma chuirp_, man, if it was known, his name would be higher up than ever. Be my sowl, any how, that was the Lamh Laudher blow, my boy, an' what that is, is well known. The devil curse him for it!”
“Granny, you must assist me in three things. Find a clue to the money--bring this fellow in my way, as you promised--and help me with the landlord's daughter.”
“Is there nothin' else?”
“What?”
“She's sick.”
“Well, let her die, then; I don't care.”
“In the other things I will help you,” said Nell; “but you must clear your own way there. I can do every thing but that. I have a son myself, an' my hands is tied against blood till I find him out. I could like to see some people withered, but I can't kill.”
“Well, except her case, we understand one another. Good night, then.”
“You must work that for yourself. Good night.”
|
{
"id": "16007"
}
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6
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None
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In the mean time a circumstance occurred which scarcely any person who heard it could at first believe. About twelve o'clock the next day the house of Lamh Laudher More was surrounded with an immense crowd, and the whole town seemed to be in a state of peculiar animation and excitement. Groups met, stood, and eagerly accosted each other upon some topic that evidently excited equal interest and astonishment.
LAMH LAUDHER OGE HAD CHALLENGED THE DEAD BOXER.
True. On that morning, at an early hour, the proscribed young man waited upon the Sovereign of the town, and requested to see him. Immediately after his encounter with the black the preceding night, and while Ellen Neil offered to compensate him for the obloquy she had brought upon his name, he formed the dreadful resolution of sending him a challenge. In very few words he stated his intention to the Sovereign, who looked upon him as insane.
“No, no,” replied that gentleman; “go home, O'Rorke, and banish the idea out of your head; it is madness.”
“But I say yes, yes, with great respect to you, sir,” observed Lamh Laudher. “I've been banished from my father's house, and treated with scorn by all that know me, because they think me a coward. Now I'll let them know I'm no coward.”
“But you will certainly be killed,” said,the Sovereign.
“That's to be seen,” observed the young man; “at all events, I'd as soon be killed as livin' in disgrace. I'll thank you, sir, as the head of the town, to let the black know that Lamh Laudher Oge will fight him.”
“For heaven's sake, reflect a moment upon the----” “My mind's made up to fight,” said the other, interrupting him. “No power on earth will prevent me, sir. So, if you don't choose to send the challenge, I'll bring it myself.”
The Sovereign shook his head, as if conscious of what the result must be.
“That is enough,” said he; “as you are fixed on your own destruction, the challenge will be given; but I trust you will think better of it.”
“Let him know, if you please,” added Lamh Laudher, “that on to-morrow at twelve o'clock we must fight.”
The magistrate nodded, and Lamh Laudher immediately took his leave. In a short time the intelligence spread. From the sovereign it passed to his clerk, from the clerk to the other members of the corporation, and, ere an hour, the town was in a blaze with the intelligence.
“Did you hear what's reported?” was the general question.
Lamh Laudher Oge has challenged the Dead Boxer!
The reader already knows how bitterly public opinion had set in against our humble hero; but it would be difficult to describe, in terms sufficiently vivid, the rapid and powerful reaction which now took place in his favor. Every one pitied him, praised him, remembered his former prowess, and after finding some palliative for his degrading interview with Meehaul Neil, concluded with expressing a firm conviction that he had undertaken a fatal task. When the rumor had reached his parents, the blood ran cold in their veins, and their natural affection, now roused into energy, grasped at an object that was about to be violently removed from it. Their friends and neighbors, as we have stated, came to their house for the purpose of dissuading their son against so rash and terrible an undertaking.
“It musn't be,” said they, “for whatever was over him wid Meehaul Neil, we know now he's no coward, an' that's enough. We musn't see him beat dead before our eyes, at all events, where is he?”
“He's at his aunt's,” replied the father; “undher this roof he says he will never come till his name is cleared. Heavens above! For him to think of fighting a man that kills every one he fights wid!”
The mother's outcries were violent, as were those of his female relations, whilst a solemn and even mournful spirit brooded upon the countenances of his own faction. It was resolved that his parents and friends should now wait upon, and by every argument and remonstrance in their power, endeavor to change the rashness of his purpose: The young man received them with a kind but somewhat sorrowful, spirit. The father, uncovered, and with his gray locks flowing down upon his shoulders, approached him, extended his hand, and with an infirm voice said-- “Give me your hand, John. You're welcome to your father's heart an' your father's roof once more.”
The son put his arms across his breast, and bowed his head respectfully, but declined receiving his father's hand.
“Not, father--father dear--not till my name is cleared.”
“John,” said the old man, now in tears, “will you refuse me? You are my only son, my only child, an' I cannot lose you. Your name is cleared.”
“Father,” said the son, “I've sworn--it's now too late. My heart, father, has been crushed by what has happened lately. I found little charity among my friend's. I say, I cannot change my mind, for I've sworn to fight him. And even if I had not sworn, I couldn't, as a man, but do it, for he has insulted them that I love better than my own life. I knew you would want to persuade me against what I'm doin'--an' that was why I bound myself this mornin' by an oath.”
The mother, who had been detained a few minutes behind them, now entered, and on hearing that he had refused to decline the battle, exclaimed-- “Who says that Lamh Laudher Oge won't obey his mother? Who dare say it? Wasn't he ever and always an obedient son to me an' his father? I won't believe that lie of my boy, no more than I ever believed a word of' what was sed against him. _Shawn Oge aroon_, you won't refuse me, _avillish_. What 'ud become of me, _avich ma chree_, if you fight him? Would you have the mother's heart broken, an' our roof childless all out? We lost one as it is--the daughter of our heart is gone, an' we don't know how--an' now is your father an' me to lie down an' die in desolation widout a child to shed a tear over us, or to put up one prayer for our happiness?”
The young man's eyes filled with tears; but his cheek reddened, and he dashed them hastily aside.
“No, my boy, my glorious boy, won't refuse to save his mother's heart from breakin'; ay, and his gray-haired father's too--he won't kill us both--my boy won't,--nor send us to the grave before our time!”
“Mother,” said he, “if I could I--Oh! no, no. Now, it's too late--if I didn't fight him, I'd be a perjured man. You know,” he added, smiling, “there's something in a Lamh Laudher's blow, as well as in the Dead Boxer's. Isn't it said, that a Lamh Laudher needn't strike two blows, when he sends his strength with one.”
He stretched out his powerful arm, as he spoke, with a degree of pride, not unbecoming his youth, spirit, and amazing strength and activity.
“Do not,” he added, “either vex me, or sink my spirits. I'm sworn, an' I'll fight him. That's my mind, and it will not change.”
The whole party felt, by the energy and decision with which he spoke the last words, that he was immovable. His resolution filled them with melancholy, and an absolute sense of death. They left him, therefore, in silence, with the exception of his parents, whose grief was bitter and excessive.
When the Dead Boxer heard that he had been challenged, he felt more chagrin than satisfaction, for his avarice was disappointed; but when he understood from those members of the corporation who waited on him, that Lamh Laudher was the challenger, the livid fire of mingled rage and triumph which blazed in his large bloodshot eyes absolutely frightened the worthy burghers.
“I'm glad of that,” said he--“here, Joe, I desire you to go and get a coffin made, six feet long and properly wide--we will give him room enough; tehee! tehee! tehee! --ah! tehee! tehee! tehee! I'm glad, gentlemen. Herr! agh! tehee! tehee! I'm glad, I'm glad.”
In this manner did he indulge in the wild and uncouth glee of a savage as ferocious as he was powerful.
“We have a quare proverb here, Misther Black,” said one of the worthy burghers, “that, be my sowl, may be you never heard!”
“Tehee! tehee! agh! What is that?” said the Boxer, showing his white teeth and blubber lips in a furious grin, whilst the eyes which he fastened on the poor burgher blazed up once more, as if he was about to annihilate him.
“What is it, sar?”
“Faith,” said the burgher, making towards the door, “I'll tell you that when I'm the safe side o' the room--devil a ha'porth bar-rin' that neither you nor any man ought to reckon your chickens before they are hatched. Make money of that;” and after having discharged this pleasantry at the black, the worthy burgher made a hasty exit down stairs, followed at a more dignified pace by his companions.
The Dead Boxer, in preparing for battle, observed a series of forms peculiar to himself, which were certainly of an appalling character. As a proof that the challenge was accepted, he ordered a black flag, which he carried about with him, to wave from a window of the inn, a circumstance which thrilled all who saw it with an awful certainty of Lamh Laudher's death. He then gave order for the drums to be beaten, and a dead march to be played before him, whilst he walked slowly up the town and back, conversing occasionally with some of those who immediately surrounded him. When he arrived nearly opposite the market-house, some person pointed out to him a small hut that stood in a situation isolated from the other houses of the street.
“There,” added his informant, “is the house where Lamh Laudher Oge's aunt lives, and where he himself has lived since he left his father's.”
“Ah!” said the black, pausing, “is he within, do you think?”
One of the crowd immediately inquired, and replied to him in affirmative.
“Will any of you,” continued the boxer, “bring me over a half-hundred weight from the market crane? I will show this fellow what a poor chance he has. If he is so strong in the arm and active as is reported, I desire he will imitate me. Let the music stop a moment.”
The crowd was now on tiptoe, and all necks were stretched over the shoulders of those who stood before them, in order to see, if possible, what the feat could be which he intended to perform. Having received the half-hundred weight from the hands of the man who brought it, he approached the widow's cottage, and sent in a person to apprize _Lamh Laudher_ of his intention to throw it over the house, and to request that he would witness this proof of his strength. Lamh Laudher delayed a few minutes, and the Dead Boxer stood in the now silent crowd, awaiting his appearance, when accidentally glancing into the door, he started as if stung by a serpent. A flash and a glare of his fierce blazing eyes followed.
“Ha! damnation! true as hell!” he exclaimed, “she's with him! Ha! --the Obeah woman was right--the Obeuh woman was right. Guilt, guilt, guilt! Ha!”
With terror and fury upon his huge dark features, he advanced a step or two into the cottage, and in a voice that resembled the under-growl of an enraged bull, said to his wife, for it was she--“You will never repeat this--I am aware of you; I know you now! Fury! prepare yourself; I say so to both. Ha!” Neither she nor Lamh Laudher had an opportunity of replying to him, for he ran in a mood perfectly savage to the half-hundred weight, which he caught by the ring, whirled it round him two or three times, and, to the amazement of the mob who were crowded about him, flung it over the roof of the cottage.
Lamh Laudher had just left the cabin in time to witness the feat, as well as to observe more closely the terrific being in his full strength and fury, with whom he was to wage battle on the following day. Those who watched his countenance, observed that it blanched for a moment, and that the color came and went upon his cheek.
“Now, young fellow,” said the Boxer, “get behind the cabin and throw back the weight.”
Lamh Landher hesitated, but was ultimately proceeding to make the attempt, when a voice from the crowd, in tones that were evidently disguised, shouted-- “Don't be a fool, young man; husband your strength, for you will want it.”
The Dead Boxer started again--“Ha!” he exclaimed, after listening acutely, “fury of hell! are you there? ha! I'll grasp you yet, though.”
The young man, however, felt the propriety of this friendly caution. “The person who spoke is right,” said he, “whoever he is. I will husband, my strength,” and he passed again into the cabin.
The boxer's countenance exhibited dark and flitting shadows of rage. That which in an European cheek would have been the redness of deep resentment, appeared, on his, as the scarlet blood struggled with the gloomy hue of his complexion, rather like a tincture that seemed to borrow its character more from the darkness of his soul, than from the color of his skin. His brow, black and lowering as a thunder-cloud, hung fearfully over his eyes, which he turned upon Lamh Laudher when entering the hut, as if he could have struck him dead with a look. Having desired the drums to beat, and the dead march to be resumed, he proceeded along the streets until he arrived at the inn, from the front of which the dismal flag of death flapped slowly and heavily in the breeze. At this moment the death-bell of the town church tolled, and the sexton of the parish bustled through the crowd to inform him that the grave which he had ordered to be made was ready.
The solemnity of these preparations, joined to the almost superhuman proof of bodily strength which he had just given, depressed every heart, when his young and generous adversary was contrasted with him. Deep sorrow for the fate of Lamh Laudher prevailed throughout the town; the old men sighed at the folly of his rash and fatal obstinacy, and the females shed tears at the sacrifice of one whom all had loved. From the inn, hundreds of the crowd rushed to the church-yard, where they surveyed the newly made grave with shudderings and wonder at the strangeness of the events which had occurred in the course of the day. The death music, the muffled drums, the black flag, the mournful tolling of the sullen bell, together with the deep grave that lay open before them, appeared rather to resemble the fearful pageant of a gloomy dream, than the reality of incidents that actually passed before their eyes. Those who came to see the grave departed with heaviness and a sad foreboding of what was about to happen; but fresh crowds kept pouring towards it for the remainder of the day, till the dusky shades of a summer night drove them to their own hearths, and left the church-yard silent.
The appearance of the Dead Boxer's wife in the house where Lamh Laudher resided, confirmed, in its worst sense, that which Nell M'Collum had suggested to him. It is unnecessary to describe the desolating sweep of passion which a man, who, like him, was the slave of strong resentments, must have suffered. It was not only from motives of avarice and a natural love of victory that he felt anxious to fight: to these was now added a dreadful certainty that Lamh Laudher was the man in existence who had inflicted on him an injury, for which nothing but the pleasure of crushing him to atoms with his hands, could atone. The approaching battle therefore, with his direst enemy, was looked upon by the Dead Boxer as an opportunity of glutting his revenge. When the crowd had dispersed, he called a waiter, and desired him to inquire if his wife had returned. The man retired to ascertain, and the Boxer walked backwards and forwards in a state of mind easily conceived, muttering curses and vows of vengeance against her and Lamh Laudher. After some minutes he was informed that she had not returned, upon which he gave orders that on the very instant of her appearance at the inn, she should be sent to him. The waiter's story in this instance was incorrect; but the wife's apprehension of his violence, overcame every other consideration, and she resolved for some time to avoid him. He had, in fact, on more than one occasion openly avowed his jealousy of her and O'Rorke, and that in a manner which made the unhappy woman tremble for her life. She felt, therefore, from what had just occurred at Widow Rorke's cabin, that she must separate herself from him, especially as he was susceptible neither of reason nor remonstrance. Every thing conspired to keep his bad passions in a state of tumult. Nell M'Collum, whom he wished to consult once more upon the recovery of his money, could not be found. This, too, galled him; for avarice, except during the whirlwind of jealousy, was the basis of his character--the predominant passion of his heart. After cooling a little, he called for his servant, who had been in the habit of acting for him in the capacity of second, and began, with his assistance, to make preparations for to-morrow's battle.
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Nothing now could exceed the sympathy which was felt for young Lamh Laudher, yet except among his immediate friends, there was little exertion made to prevent him from accelerating his own fate. So true is it that public feeling scruples not to gratify its appetite for excitement, even at the risk or actual cost of human life. His parents and relations mourned him as if he had been already dead. The grief of his mother had literally broken down her voice so much, that from hoarseness, she was almost unintelligible. His aged father sat and wept like a child; and it was in vain that any of their friends attempted to console them. During the latter part of the day, every melancholy stroke of the death bell pierced their hearts; the dead march, too, and the black flag waving, as if in triumph over the lifeless body of their only son, the principal support of their declining years, filled them with a gloom and terror, which death, in its common shape, would not have inspired. This savage pageant on the part, of the Dead Boxer, besides being calculated to daunt the heart of any man who might accept his challenge, was a cruel mockery of the solemnities of death. In this instance it produced such a sensation as never had been felt in that part of the country. An uneasy feeling of wild romance, mingled with apprehension, curiosity, fear, and amazement, all conspired to work upon the imaginations of a people in whom that quality is exuberant, until the general excitement became absolutely painful.
Perhaps there was not one among his nearest friends who felt more profound regret for having been the occasion of his disgrace, and consequently of the fate to which he had exposed him, than Meehaul Neil. In the course of that day he sent his father to old Lamh Laudher, to know if young O'Rorke would grant him an interview, the object of which was to dissuade him from the battle.
“Tell him,” said the latter, with a composure still tinged with a sorrowful spirit, “that I will not see him to-day. To-morrow I may, and if I don't, tell him, that for his sister's sake, he has my forgiveness.”
The introduction of the daughter's name shortened the father's visit, who left him in silence.
Ellen, however, had struggles to endure which pressed upon her heart with an anguish bitter in proportion to the secrecy rendered necessary by the dread of her relations. From the moment she heard of Lamh Laudher's challenge, and saw the funeral appendages with which the Dead Boxer had darkened the preparations for the fight, she felt her heart sink, from a consciousness that she had been indirectly the murderess of her lover. Her countenance became ghastly pale, and her frame was seized with a tremor which she could hardly conceal. She would have been glad to have shed tears, but tears were denied her. Except the Boxer's wife, there was no one to whom she could disclose her misery; but alas! for once, that amiable creature was incapable of affording her consolation. She herself, felt distress resulting from both the challenge, and her husband's jealousy, almost equal to that of Ellen.
“I know not how it is,” said she, “but I cannot account for the interest I feel in that young man. Yes, surely, it is natural, when we consider that I owe my life to him. Still, independently of that, I never heard his voice, that it did not fall upon my heart like the voice of a friend. We must, if possible, change his mind,”, she added, wiping away her tears; “for I know that if he fights that terrible man, he will be killed.”
At Ellen's request, she consented to see Lamh Laudher, with a view of entreating him, in her name, to decline the fight. Nor were her own solicitations less urgent. With tears and grief which could not be affected, she besought him not to rush upon certain death--said that Ellen could not survive it--pleaded the claims of his aged parents, and left no argument untouched that could apply to his situation and conduct. Lamh Laudher, however, was inexorable, and she relinquished an attempt that she felt to be ineffectual. The direction of her husband's attention so unexpectedly to widow Rorke's I cabin, at that moment, and his discovery of her interview with Lamh Laudher, determined her, previously acquainted as she had been with his jealousy, to keep out of his reach, until some satisfactory explanation could be given. Ellen, however, could not rest; her grief had so completely overborne all other considerations, that she cared little, now, whether her friends perceived it or not. On one thing, she was fixed, and that was, to prevent Lamh Laudher from encountering the Dead Boxer. With this purpose she wrapped herself in a cloak about ten o'clock, and careless whether she was observed or not, went directly towards his aunt's house. About two-thirds of the way had probably been traversed, when a man, wrapped up in a cloak, like herself, accosted her in a low voice, not much above a whisper.
“Miss Neil,” said he, “I don't think it would be hard to guess where you are going.”
“Who are you that asks?” said Ellen. “No matter; but if you happen to see young O'Rorke to-night, I have a message to send him that may serve him.”
“Who are you?” again inquired Ellen. “One that cautions you to beware of the Dead Boxer; one that pities and respects his unfortunate wife; and one who, as I said, can serve O'Rorke.”
“For God's sake, then, if you can, be quick; for there's little time to be lost,” said Ellen.
“Give him this message,” replied the man, and he whispered half a dozen words into her ear.
“Is that true?” she asked him; “and may he depend upon it?”
“He may, as there's a God above me. Good night!” He passed on at a rapid pace. When Ellen entered his aunt's humble cabin, Lamh Laudher had just risen from his knees. Devotion, or piety if you will, as it is in many cases, though undirected by knowledge, may be frequently found among the peasantry associated with objects that would appear to have little connection with it. When he saw her he exclaimed with something like disappointment:-- “Ah! Ellen dear, why did you come? I would rather you hadn't crossed me now, darling.”
His manner was marked by the same melancholy sedateness which we have already described. He knew the position in which he stood, and did not attempt to disguise what he felt. His apparent depression, however, had a dreadful effect upon Ellen, who sat down on a stool, and threw back the hood of her cloak; but the aunt placed a little circular arm-chair for her somewhat nearer the fire. She declined it in a manner that argued something like incoherence, which occasioned O'Rorke to, glance at her most earnestly. He started, on observing the wild lustre of her eye, and the woebegone paleness of her cheek.
“Ellen,” said he, “how is this? Has any thing frightened you? Merciful mother! aunt, look at her!”
The distracted girl sank before him on her knees, locked her hands together, and while her eyes sparkled with an unsettled light, exclaimed-- “John! --John! --Lamh Laudher Oge--forgive me, before you die! I have murdered you!”
“Ellen love, Ellen”-- “Do you forgive me? do you? Your blood is upon me, Lamh Laudher Oge!”
“Heavens above! Aunt, she's turned! Do I forgive you, my heart's own treasure? How did you ever offend me, my darling? You. know you never did. But if you ever did, my own Ellen, I do forgive you.”
“But I murdered you--and that was because my brother said he would do it--an' I got afraid, John, that he might do you harm, an' afraid to tell you too--an'--an' so you promise me you won't fight the Dead Boxer? Thank God! thank God! then your blood will not be upon me!”
“Aunt, she's lost,” he exclaimed; “the brain of my _colleen dhas_ is turned!”
“John, won't you save me from the Dead Boxer? There's nobody able to do it but you, Lamh Laudher Oge!”
“Aunt, aunt, my girl's destroyed,” said John, “her heart's broke! Ellen!”
“But to-morrow, John--to-morrow--sure yo' won't fight him to-morrow? --if you do--if you do he'll kill you--an' 'twas I that--that”---- O'Rorke had not thought of raising her from the posture in which she addressed him, so completely had he been overcome by the frantic vehemence of her manner. He now snatched her up, and placed her in the little arm-chair alluded to; but she had scarcely been seated in it, when her hands became clenched, her head sank, and the heavy burthen of her sorrows was forgotten in a long fit of insensibility.
Lamh Laudher's distraction and alarm prevented him from rendering her much assistance; but the aunt was more cool, and succeeded with considerable difficulty in restoring her to life. The tears burst in thick showers from her eyelids, she drew her breath vehemently and rapidly, and, after looking wildly around her, indulged in that natural grief which relieves the heart by tears. In a short time she became composed, and was able to talk collectedly and rationally.
This, indeed, was the severest trial that Lamh Laudher had yet sustained. With all the force of an affection as strong and tender as it was enduring and disinterested, she urged him to relinquish his determination to meet the Dead Boxer on the following day. John soothed her, chid her, and even bantered her, as a cowardly girl, unworthy of being the sister of Meehaul Neil, but to her, as well as to all others who had attempted to change his purpose, he was immovable. No; the sense of his disgrace had sunk too deep into his heart, and the random allusions just made by Ellen herself to the Dead Boxer's villainy, but the more inflamed his resentment against him.
On finding his resolution irrevocable, she communicated to him in a whisper the message which the stranger had sent him. Lamh Laudher, after having heard it, raised his arm rapidly, and his eye gleamed with something like the exultation of a man who has discovered a secret that he had been intensely anxious to learn. Ellen could now delay no longer, and their separation resembled that of persons who never expected to meet again. If Lamh Laudher could at this moment have affected even a show of cheerfulness, in spite of Ellen's depression it would have given her great relief. Still, on her part, their parting was a scene of agony and distress which no description could reach, and on his, it was sorrowful and tender; for neither felt certain that they would ever behold each other in life again.
A dark sunless morning opened the eventful day of this fearful battle. Gloom and melancholy breathed a sad spirit over the town and adjacent country. A sullen breeze was abroad, and black clouds drifted slowly along the heavy sky. The Dead Boxer again had recourse to his pageantries of death. The funeral bell tolled heavily during the whole morning, and the black flag flapped more dismally in the sluggish blast than before. At an early hour the town began to fill with myriads of people. Carriages and cars, horsemen and pedestrians, all thronged in one promiscuous stream towards the scene of interest. A dense multitude stood before the inn, looking with horror on the death flag, and watching for a glimpse of the fatal champion. From this place hundreds of them passed to the house of Lamh Laudher More, and on hearing that the son resided in his aunt's they hurried towards her cabin to gratify themselves with a sight of the man who dared to wage battle with the Dead Boxer. From this cabin, as on the day before, they went to the church-yard, where a platform had already been erected beside the grave. Against the railings of the platform stood the black coffin intended for Lamh Laudher, decorated with black ribbons that fluttered gloomily in the blast. The sight of this and of the grave completed the wonder and dread which they felt. As every fresh mass of the crowd arrived, low murmurs escaped them, they raised their heads and eyes exclaiming-- “Poor Lamh Laudher! God be merciful to him!”
As the morning advanced, O'Rorke's faction, as a proof that they were determined to consider the death of their leader as a murder, dressed themselves in red ribbons, a custom occasionally observed in Ireland even now, at the funerals of those who have been murdered. Their appearance passing to and fro among the crowd made the scene with all its associations absolutely terrible. About eleven o'clock they went in a body to widow Rorke's, for the purpose of once more attempting to dissuade him against the fight. Here most unexpected intelligence awaited them--_Lamh Laudher Oge_ had disappeared. The aunt stated that he had left the house with a strange man, early that morning, and that he had not returned. Ere many minutes the rumor was in every part of the town, and strong disappointment was felt, and expressed against him in several round oaths, by the multitude in general. His father, however, declared his conviction that his son would not shrink from what he had undertaken, and he who had not long before banished him for cowardice, now vouched for his courage. At the old man's suggestion, his friends still adhered to their resolutions of walking to the scene of conflict in a body. At twenty minutes to twelve o'clock, the black flag was removed from the inn window, the muffled drums beat, and the music played the same dead march as on the days of uttering the challenge. In a few minutes the Dead Boxer, accompanied by some of the neighboring gentry, made his appearance, preceded by the flag. From another point, the faction of Lamb Laudher fluttering in blood-red ribbons, marched at a solemn pace towards the church-yard. On arriving opposite his aunt's, his mother wept aloud, and with one voice all the females who accompanied her, raised the Irish funeral cry. In this manner, surrounded by all the solemn emblems of death, where none was dead, they slowly advanced until they reached the platform. The Dead Boxer, attended by his own servant, as second, now ascended the stage, where he stood for a few minutes, until his repeater struck twelve. That moment he began to strip, which having done, he advanced to the middle of the stage, and in a deep voice required the authorities of the town to produce their champion. To this no answer was returned, for not a man of them could account for the disappearance of Lamh Laudher. A wavy motion, such as passes over the forest top under a low blast, stirred the whole multitude; this was the result of many feelings, but that which prevailed amongst them was disappointment. A second time the Dead Boxer repeated the words, but except the stir and hum which we have described, there was not a voice heard in reply. Lamh Laudher's very friends felt mortified, and the decaying spirit of Lamh Laudher More rallied for a moment. His voice alone was heard above the dead silence,-- “He will come, back,” said he, “my son will come; and I would now rather see him dead than that he should fear to be a man.”
He had scarcely spoken, when a loud cheer, which came rapidly onward, was heard outside the church-yard. A motion and a violent thrusting aside, accompanied by a second shout, “he's here!” gave intimation of his approach. In about a minute, to the manifest delight of all present, young Lamh Laudher, besmeared with blood, leaped upon the platform. He looked gratefully at the crowd, and in order to prevent perplexing inquiries, simply said-- “Don't be alarmed--I had a slight accident, but I'm not the worse of it.”
The cheers of the multitude were now enough to awaken the dead beneath them; and when they had ceased, his father cried out-- “God support you, boy--you're my true son; an' I know you'll show them what the Lamh Laudher blood an' the Lamh Laudher blow is.”
The young man looked about him for a moment, and appeared perplexed.
“I'm here alone,” said he; “is there any among you that will second me?”
Hundreds immediately volunteered this office; but there was one who immediately sprung upon the stage, to the no small surprise of all present--it was Meehaul Neil. He approached Lamh Laudher and extended his hand, which was received with cordiality.
“Meehaul,” said O'Rorke, “I thank you for this.”
“Do not,” replied the other; “no man has such a right to stand by you now as I have. I never knew till this mornin' why you did not strike me the last night we met.”
The Dead Boxer stood with his arms folded, sometimes looking upon the crowd, and occasionally glaring at his young' and fearless antagonist. The latter immediately stripped, and when he “stood out erect and undaunted upon the stage, although his proportions were perfect, and his frame active and massy, yet when measured with the Herculean size of the Dead Boxer, he appeared to have no chance.
“Now,” said he to the black, “by what rules are we to fight?”
“If you consult me,” said the other, “perhaps it is best that every man should fight as he pleases. You decide that. I am the challenger.”
“Take your own way, then,” said O'Rorke; “but you have a secret, black--do you intend to use it?”
“Certainly, young fellow.”
“I have my secret, too,” said Lamh Laudher; “an' now I give you warning that I will put it in practice.”
“All fair; but we are losing time,” replied the man of color, putting himself in an attitude. “Come on.”
Their seconds stood back, and both advanced to the middle of the stage. The countenance of the black, and his huge chest, resembled rather a colossal statue of bronze, than the bust of a human being. His eye gleamed at Lamh Laudher with baleful flashes of intense hatred. The spectators saw, however, that the dimensions of Lamh Laudher gained considerably by his approximation to the black. The dusky color of the Boxer added apparently to his size, whilst the healthful light which lay upon the figure of his opponent took away, as did his elegance, grace, and symmetry, from the uncommon breadth and fulness of his bust.
Several feints were made by the black, and many blows aimed, which Lamh Laudher, by his natural science and activity, parried; at length a blow upon the temple shot him to the boards with great violence, and the hearts of the spectators, which were all with him, became fearfully depressed.
O'Rorke, having been raised, shook his head as if to throw off the influence of the blow. Neil afterwards declared that when coming to the second round, resentment and a sense of having suffered in the opinion of the multitude by the blow which brought him down, had strung his muscular power into such a state of concentration, that his arms became as hard as oak. On meeting again he bounded at the Boxer, and by a single blow upon the eye-brow felled him like an ox. So quickly was it sent home, that the black had not activity to guard against it; on seeing which, a short and exulting cheer rose from the multitude. We are not now giving a detailed account of this battle, as if reporting it for a newspaper; it must suffice to say, that Lamh Laudher was knocked down twice, and the Dead Boxer four times, in as many rounds. The black, on coming to the seventh round, laughed, whilst the blood trickled down his face. His frame appeared actually agitated with inward glee, and indeed a more appalling species of mirth was never witnessed.
It was just when he approached Lamh Laudher, chuckling hideously, his black visage reddened with blood, that a voice from the crowd shouted-- “He's laughing--the blow's coming--O'Rorke, remember your instructions.”
The Boxer advanced, and began a series of feints, with the intention of giving that murderous blow which he was never known to miss. But before he could put his favorite stratagem in practice, the activity of O'Rorke anticipated his _ruse_, for in the dreadful energy of his resentment he not only forgot the counter-secret which had been, confided to him, but every other consideration for the moment. With the spring of a tiger he leaped towards the black, who by the act was completely thrown off his guard. This was more than O'Rorke expected. The opportunity, however, he did not suffer to pass; with the rapidity of lightning he struck the savage on the neck, immediately under the ear. The Dead Boxer fell, and from his ears, nostrils, and mouth the clear blood sprung out, streaking, in a fearful manner, his dusky neck and chest. His second ran to raise him, but his huge woolly head fell from side to side with an appearance of utter lifelessness. In a few minutes, however, he rallied, and began to snort violently, throwing his arms and limbs about him with a quivering energy, such as, in strong men who die unwasted by disease, frequently marks the struggle of death. At length he opened his eyes, and after fastening them upon his triumphant opponent with one last glare of hatred and despair, he ground his teeth, clenched his gigantic hands, and stammering out, “Fury of hell! I--I--damnation!” This was his last exclamation, for he suddenly plunged again, extended his shut fist towards Lamh Laudher, as if he would have crushed him even in death, then becoming suddenly relaxed, his head fell upon his shoulder, and after one groan, he expired on the very spot where he had brought together the apparatus of death for another.
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When the spectators saw and heard what had occurred, their acclamations rose to the sky; cheer after cheer pealed from the graveyard over a wide circuit of the country. With a wild luxury of triumph they seized O'Rorke, placed him on their shoulders, and bore him in triumph through every street in the town. All kinds of mad but good-humored excesses were committed. The public houses were filled with those who had witnessed the fight, songs were sung, healths were drank, and blows given. The streets, during the remainder of the day, were paraded by groups of his townsmen belonging to both factions, who on that occasion buried their mutual animosity in exultation for his victory.
The worthy burghers of the corporation, who had been both frightened and disgusted at the dark display made by the Dead Boxer previous to the tight, put his body in the coffin that had been intended for Lamh Laudher, and without any scruple, took it up, and went in procession with the black flag before them, the death bell again tolling, and the musicians playing the dead march, until they deposited his body in the inn.
After Lamh Laudher had been chaired by the people, and borne throughout every nook of the town, he begged them to permit him to go home. With a fresh volley of shouts and hurras they proceeded, still bearing him in triumph towards his father's house, where they left him, after a last and deafening round of cheers. Our readers can easily fancy the pride of his parents and friends on receiving him.
“Father,” said he, “my name's' cleared. I hope I have the Lamh Laudher blood in me still. Mother, you never doubted me, but you wor forced to give way.”
“My son, my son,” said the father, embracing him, “my noble boy! There never was one of your name like you. You're the flower of us all!”
His mother wept with joy and pressed him repeatedly to her heart; and all his relations were as profuse as they were sincere in their congratulations.
“One thing troubles us,” observed his parents, “what will become of his wife? John dear,” said his mother, “my heart aches for her.”
“God knows and so does mine,” exclaimed the father; “there is goodness about her.”
“She is freed from a tyrant and a savage,” replied their son, “for he was both, and she ought to be thankful that she's rid of him. But you don't know that there was an attempt made on my life this mornin'.”
On hearing this, they were all mute with astonishment.
“In the name of heaven how, John?” they inquired with one voice.
[Illustration: PAGE 110-- He made a stab at my neck] “A red-haired man came to my aunt's,” he continued, “early this mornin', an' said if I wanted to hear something for my good, I would follow him. I did so, an' I observed that he eyed me closely as we went along. We took the way that turns up the Quarry, an' afther gettin' into one of the little fir groves off the road, he made a stab at my neck, as I stooped to tie my shoe that happened to be loose. As God would have it, he only tore the skin above my forehead. I pursued the villain on the spot, but he disappeared among the trees, as if the earth had swallowed him. I then went into Darby Kavanagh's, where I got my breakfast; an' as I was afraid that you might by pure force prevent me from meetin' the black, I didn't stir out of it till the proper time came.”
This startling incident occasioned much discussion among his friends, who of course were ignorant alike of the person who had attempted his assassination, and of the motives which could have impelled him to such a crime. Several opinions were advanced upon the circumstance, but as it had failed, his triumph over the Dead Boxer, as unexpected as it was complete, soon superseded it, and many a health was given “to the best man that ever sprung from the blood of the Lamh Laudhers!” for so they termed him, and well had he earned the epithet. At this moment an incident occurred which considerably subdued their enjoyment. Breen, the constable, came to inform them that Nell McCollum, now weltering in her blood, and at the point of death, desired instantly to see them.
Our readers have been, no doubt, somewhat surprised at the sudden disappearance of Nell. This artful and vindictive woman had, as we have stated, been closely dogged through all her turnings and windings, by the emissaries of Mr. Brookleigh. For this haunt where she was in the habit of meeting her private friends. The preparations, however, for the approaching fight, and the tumult it excited in the town, afforded her an opportunity of giving her spies the slip. She went, on the evening before the battle, to a small dark cabin in one of the most densely inhabited parts of the town, where, secure in their privacy, she found Nanse M'Collum, who had never left the town since the night of the robbery, together with the man called Rody, and another hardened ruffian with red hair.
“_Dher ma chuirp_,” said she, without even a word of precious salutation, “but I'll,lay my life that Lamh Laudher bates the black. In that case he'd be higher up wid the town than ever. He knocked him down last night.”
“Well,” said Rody, “an' what if he does? I would feel rather satisfied at that circumstance. I served the black dog for five years, and a more infernal tyrant never existed, nor a milder or more amiable woman than his wife. Now that you have his money, the sooner the devil gets himself the better.”
“To the black _diouol_ wid yourself an' your Englified _gosther_,” returned Nell indignantly; “his wife! _Damno' orth_, don't make my blood boil by speaking a word in her favor. If Lamh Laudher comes off best, all I've struv for is knocked on the head. _Dher Chiernah_, I'll crush the sowl of his father or I'll not die happy.”
“Nell, you're bittherer than soot, and blacker too,” observed Rody.
“Am I?” said Nell, “an' is it from the good crathur that was ready, the other night, to murdher the mild innocent woman that he spakes so well of, that we hear sich discoorse?”
“You're mistaken there, Nelly,” replied Body; “I had no intention of taking away her life, although I believe my worthy comrade here in the red hair, that I helped out of a certain gaol once upon a time, had no scruples.”
“No, curse the scruple!” said the other.
“I was in the act of covering her eyes and mouth to prevent her from either knowing her old servant or making a noise,--but d---- it, I was bent to save her life that night, rather than take it,” said Rody.
“I know this friend of yours, Rody, but a short time,” observed Nell; “but if he hasn't more spunk in him than yourself, he's not worth his feedin'.”
“Show me,” said the miscreant, “what s to be done, life or purse--an' here's your sort for both.”
“Come, then,” said Nell, “by the night above us, we'll thry your mettle.”
“Never heed her,” observed Nanse; “aunt, you're too wicked an' revengeful.”
“Am I?” said the aunt. “I tuck an oath many a year ago, that I'd never die till I'd put sharp sorrow into Lamh Laudher's sowl. I punished him through his daughter, I'll now grind the heart in him through his son.”
“An' what do you want to be done inquired the red man.
“Come here, an' I'll tell you that,” said Nell.
A short conversation took place between them, behind a little partition which divided the kitchen from two small sleeping rooms, containing a single bed each.
“Now,” said Nell, addressing the whole party, “let us all be ready to-morrow, while the whole town's preparin' for the fight, to slip away as well disguised as we can, out of the place; by that time you'll have your business done, an' your trifle o' money earned;” she directed the last words to the red-haired stranger.
“You keep me out of this secret?” observed Body.
“It's not worth knowin',” said Nell; “I was only thryin' you, Rody. It's nothing bad. I'm not so cruel as you think. I wouldn't take the wide world an' shed blood wid my own hands. I tried it once on Lamh Laudher More, an' when I thought I killed him hell came into me. No; that I may go _below_ if I would!”
“But you would get others to do it, if you could,” said Rody.
“I need get nobody to do it for me,” said the crone. “I could wither any man, woman, or child, off o' the earth, wid one charm, if I wished.”
“Why don't you wither young Lamh Laudher then?” said Rody.
“If they fight to-morrow,” replied Nell; “mind I say if they do--an' I now tell you they won't--but I say if they do--you'll see he'll go home in the coffin that's made for him--an' I know how that'll happen. Now at eleven we'll meet here if we can to-morrow.”
The two men then slunk out, and with great caution proceeded towards different directions of the town, for Nell had recommended them to keep as much asunder as possible, least their grouping together might expose them to notice. Their place of rendezvous was only resorted to on urgent and necessary occasions.
The next morning, a little after the appointed hour, Nell, Rody, and Nanse McCollum, were sitting in deliberation upon their future plans of life, when he of the red hair entered the cabin.
“Well,” said Nell starting up--“what was done? show me?”
The man produced a dagger slightly stained with blood.
“_Damno orrum! _” exclaimed the aged fury, “but you've failed--an' all's lost if he beats the black.”
“I did fail,” said the miscreant. “Why, woman if that powerful active fellow had got me in his hands, I'd have tasted the full length of the dagger myself. The d----l's narrow escape I had.”
“The curse of heaven light on you, for a cowardly dog!” exclaimed Nell, grinding her teeth with disappointment. “You're a faint-hearted villain. Give me the dagger.”
“Give me the money,” said the man.
“For what? no, consumin' to the penny; you didn't earn it.”
“I did,” said the fellow, “or at all evints attempted it. Ay, an' I must have it before I lave this house, an' what is more, you must lug out my share of the black's prog.”
“You'll get nothing of that,” said Rody; “it was Nell here, not you, who took it.”
“One hundred of it on the nail, this minnit,” said the man, “or I bid you farewell, an' then look to yourselves.”
“It's not mine,” said Rody; “if Nell shares it, I have no objection.”
“I'd give the villain the price of a rope first,” she replied.
“Then I am off,” said the fellow, “an' you'll curse your conduct.”
Nell flew between him and the door, and in his struggle to get out, she grasped at the dagger, but failed in securing it. Rody advanced to separate them, as did Nanse, but the fellow by a strong effort attempted to free himself. The three were now upon him, and would have easily succeeded in preventing his escape had it not occurred to him that by one blow he might secure the whole sum. This was instantly directed at Rody, by a back thrust, for he stood behind him. By the rapid change of their positions, however, the breast of Nell M'Collum received the stab that was designed for another.
A short violent shriek followed, as she staggered back and fell.
“Staunch the blood,” she exclaimed, “staunch the blood, an' there may be a chance of life yet.”
The man threw the dagger down, and was in the act of rushing out, when the door opened, and a posse of constables entered the house. Nell's face became at once ghastly and horror-stricken, for she found that the blood could not be staunched, and that, in fact, eternity was about to open upon her.
“Secure him!” said Nell, pointing to her murderer, “secure him, an' send quick for Lamh Laudher More. God's hand is in what has happened! Ay, I raised the blow for him, an' God has sent it to my own heart. Send, too,” she added, “for the Dead Boxer's wife, an' if you expect heaven, be quick.”
On receiving Nell's message the old man, his son, wife, and one or two other friends, immediately hurried to the scene of death, where they arrived a few minutes after the Dead Boxer's wife.
Nell lay in dreadful agony; her face was now a bluish yellow, her eye-brows were bent, and her eyes getting dead and vacant.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “Andy Hart! Andy Hart! it was the black hour you brought me from the right way. I was innocent till I met you, an' well thought of; but what was I ever since? an' what am I now?”
“You never met me,” said the red-haired stranger, “till within the last fortnight.”
“What do you mean, you unfortunate man?” asked Rody.
“Andy Hart is my name,” said the man, “although I didn't go by it for some years.”
“Andy Hart!” said Nell, raising herself with a violent jerk, and screaming, “Andy Hart! Andy Hart! stand over before me. Andy Hart! It is his father's voice. Oh God! Strip his breast there, an' see if there's a blood-mark on the left side.”
“I'm beginnin' to fear something dreadful,” said the criminal, trembling, and getting as pale as death; “there is--there is a blood-mark on the very spot she mentions--see here.”
“I would know him to be Andy Hart's son, God rest him!” observed Lamh Laudher More, “any where over the world. Blessed mother of heaven! --down on your knees, you miserable crature, down on your knees for her pardon! You've murdhered your unfortunate mother!”
The man gave one loud and fearful yell, and dashed himself on the floor at his mother's feet, an appalling picture of remorse. The scene, indeed, was a terrible one. He rolled himself about, tore his hair, and displayed every symptom of a man in a paroxysm of madness. But among those present, with the exception of the mother and son, there was not such a picture of distress and sorrow, as the wife of the Dead Boxer. She stooped down to raise the stranger up; “Unhappy man,” said she, “look up, I am your sister!”
“No,” said Nell, “no--no--no. There's more of my guilt. Lamh Laudher More, I stand forrid, you and your wife. You lost a daughter long ago. Open your arms and take her back a blameless woman. She's your child that I robbed you of as one punishment; the other blow that I intended for you has been struck here. I'm dyin'.”
A long cry of joy burst from the mother and daughter, as they rushed into each other's arms. Nature, always strongest in pure minds, even before this denouement, had, indeed, rekindled the mysterious flame of her own affection in their hearts. The father pressed her to his bosom, and forgot the terrors of the sound before him, whilst the son embraced her with a secret consciousness that she was, indeed, his long-lost sister.
“We couldn't account,” said her parents, “for the way we loved you the day we met you before the magistrate; every word you said, Alice darling, went into our hearts wid delight, an' we could hardly ever think of your voice ever since, that the tears didn't spring to our eyes. But we never suspected, as how could we, that you were our child.”
She declared that she felt the same mysterious attachment to them, and to her brother also, from the moment she heard the tones of his voice on the night the robbery was attempted.
“Nor could I,” said Lamh Laudher Oge, “account for the manner I loved you.”
Their attention was now directed to Nell, who again spoke.
“Nanse, give her back the money I robbed her of. There was more of my villainy, but God fought against me, an'--here--. You will find, it along with her marriage certificate, an' the gospel she had about her neck, when I kidnapped her, all in my pocket. Where's my son? Still, still, bad as I am, an' bad as he is, isn't he my child? Amn't I his mother? put his hand in mine, and let me die as a mother 'ud wish!”
Never could there be a more striking contrast witnessed than that between the groups then present; nor a more impressive exemplification of the interposition of Providence to reward the virtuous and punish the guilty even in this life.
“Lamh Laudher More,” said she, “I once attempted to stab you, only for preventin' your relation from marryin' a woman that you knew Andy Hart had ruined. You disfigured my face in your anger too; that an' your preventing my marriage, an' my character bein' lost, whin it was known what he refused to marry me for, made me swear an oath of vengeance against you an' yours. I may now ax your forgiveness, for I neither dare nor will ax God's.”
“You have mine--you have all our forgiveness,” replied the old man; “but, Nell, ax God's, for it's His you stand most in need of--ax God's!”
Nell, however, appeared to hear him not.
“Is that your hand in mine, avick?” said she, addressing her son.
“It is--it is,” said the son. “But, mother, I didn't, as I'm to stand before God, aim the blow at you, but at Rody.”
“Lamh Laudher!” said she, forgetting herself, “I ax your forgive----.”
Her head fell down before she could conclude the sentence, and thus closed the last moments of Nell M'Collum.
After the lapse of a short interval, in which Lamh Laudher's daughter received back her money, the certificate, and the gospel, her brother discovered that Rody was the person who had, through Ellen Neil, communicated to him the secret that assisted him in vanquishing the Dead Boxer, a piece of information which saved him from prosecution. The family now returned home, where they found Meehaul Neil awaiting their arrival, for the purpose of offering his sister's hand and dowry to our hero. This offer, we need scarcely say, was accepted with no sullen spirit. But Lamh Laudher was not so much her inferior in wealth as our readers may suppose. His affectionate sister divided her money between him and her parents, with whom she spent the remainder of her days in peace and tranquility. Our great-grandfather remembered the wedding, and from him came down to ourselves, as an authentic tradition, the fact that it was an unrivalled one, but that it would never have taken place were it not for the terrible challenge of the Dead Boxer.
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{
"id": "16007"
}
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1
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THE BRIDE OF LONE.
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"Eh, Meester McRath? Sae grand doings I hae na seen sin the day o' the queen's visit to Lone. That wad be in the auld duke's time. And a waefu' day it wa'."
"Dinna ye gae back to that day, Girzie Ross. It gars my blood boil only to think o' it!"
"Na, Sandy, mon, sure the ill that was dune that day is weel compensate on this. Sooth, if only marriages be made in heaven, as they say, sure this is one. The laird will get his ain again, and the bonnyest leddy in a' the land to boot."
"She _is_ a bonny lass, but na too gude for him, although her fair hand does gie him back his lands."
"It's only a' just as it sud be."
"Na, it's no all as it sud be. Look at they fules trying to pit up yon triumphal arch! The loons hae actually gotten the motto 'HAPPINESS' set upside down, sae that a' the blooming red roses are falling out o' it. An ill omen that if onything be an ill omen. I maun rin and set it right."
The speakers in this short colloquy were Mrs. Girzie Ross, housekeeper, and Mr. Alexander McRath, house-steward of Castle Lone.
The locality was in the Highlands of Scotland. The season was early summer. The hour was near sunset. The scene was one of great beauty and sublimity. The occasion one of high festivity and rejoicing.
The preparations were being completed for a grand event. For on the morning of the next day a deep wrong was to be made right by the marriage of the young and beautiful Lady of Lone to the chosen lord of her heart.
Lone Castle was a home of almost ideal grandeur and loveliness, situated in one of the wildest and most picturesque regions of the Highlands, yet brought to the utmost perfection of fertility by skillful cultivation.
The castle was originally the stronghold of a race of powerful and warlike Scottish chieftains, ancestors of the illustrious ducal line of Scott-Hereward. It was strongly built, on a rocky island, that arose from The midst of a deep clear lake, surrounded by lofty mountains.
For generations past, the castle had been but a picturesque ruin, and the island a barren desert, tenanted only by some old retainer of the ancient family, who found shelter within its huge walls, and picked up a scanty living by showing the famous ruins to artists and tourists.
But some years previous to the commencement of our story, when Archibald-Alexander-John Scott succeeded his father, as seventh Duke of Hereward, he conceived the magnificent, but most extravagant idea of transforming that grim, old Highland fortress, perched upon its rocky island, surrounded by water and walled in by mountains--into a mansion of Paradise and a garden of Eden.
When he first spoke of his plan, he was called visionary and extravagant; and when he persisted in carrying it into execution, he was called mad.
The most skillful engineers and architects in Europe were consulted and their plans examined, and a selection of designs and contractors made from the best among them. And then the restoration, or rather the transfiguration, of the place was the labor of many years, at the cost of much money.
Fabulous sums were lavished upon Lone. But the Duke's enthusiasm grew as the work grew and the cost increased. All his unentailed estates in England were first heavily mortgaged and afterwards sold, and the proceeds swallowed up in the creation of Lone.
The duchess, inspired by her husband, was as enthusiastic as the duke. When his resources were at an end and Lone unfinished she gave up her marriage settlements, including her dower house, which was sold that the proceeds might go to the completion of Lone.
But all this did not suffice to pay the stupendous cost.
Then the duke did the maddest act of his life. He raised the needed money from usurers by giving them a mortgage on his own life estate in Lone itself.
The work drew near to its completion.
In the meantime the duke's agents were ransacking the chief cities in Europe in search of rare paintings, statues, vases, and other works of art or articles of virtu to decorate the halls and chambers of Lone; for which also the most famous manufacturers in France and Germany were elaborating suitable designs in upholstery.
Every man directing every department of the works at Lone, whether as engineer, architect, decorator, or furnisher, every man was an artist in his own speciality. The work within and without was to be a perfect work at whatever cost of time, money, and labor.
At length, at the end of ten years from its commencement, the work was completed.
And for the sublimity of its scenery, the beauty of its grounds, the almost tropical luxuriance of its gardens, the magnificence of its buildings, the splendor of its decorations, and the luxury of its appointments, Lone was unequalled.
What if the mad duke had nearly ruined himself in raising it?
Lone was henceforth the pride of engineers, the model of architects, the subject of artists, the theme of poets, the Mecca of pilgrims, the eighth wonder of the world.
Lone was opened for the first time a few weeks after its completion, on the occasion of the coming of age of the duke's eldest son and heir, the young Marquis of Arondelle, which fell upon the first of June.
A grand festival was held at Lone, and a great crowd assembled to do honor to the anniversary. A noble and gentle company filled the halls and chambers of the castle, and nearly all the Clan Scott assembled on the grounds.
The festival was a grand triumph.
Among the thousands present were certain artists and reporters of the press, and so it followed that the next issue of the _London News_ contained full-page pictures of Castle Lone and Inch Lone, with their terraces, parterres, arches, arbors and groves; Loch Lone, with its elegant piers, bridges and boats; and the surrounding mountains, with their caves, grottoes, falls and fountains.
Yes, the birthday festival was a perfect triumph, and the fame of Lone went forth to the uttermost ends of the earth. The English Colonists at Australia, Cape of Good Hope, and New Zealand, read all about it in copies of the _London News_, sent out to them by thoughtful London friends. We remember the day, some years since, when we, sitting by our cottage fire, read all about it in an illustrated paper, and pondered over the happy fate of those who could live in paradise while still on earth. Five years later, we would not have changed places with the Duke of Hereward.
But this is a digression.
The duke was in his earthly heaven; but was the duke happy, or even content?
Ah! no. He was overwhelmed with debt. Even Lone was mortgaged as deeply as it could be--that is, as to the extent of the duke's own life interests in the estate. Beyond that he could not burden the estate, which was entailed upon his heirs male. Besides his financial embarrassments, the duke was afflicted with another evil--he was consumed with a fever too common with prince and with peasant, as well as with peer--the fever of a land hunger.
The prince desires to add province to province; the peer to add manor to manor; the peasant to own a little home of his own, and then to add acre to acre.
The Lord of Lone glorying in his earthly paradise, wished to see it enlarged, wished to add one estate to another until he should become the largest land-owner in Scotland, or have his land-hunger appeased. He bought up all the land adjoining Lone, that could be purchased at any price, paying a little cash down, and giving notes for the balance on each purchase. Thus, in the course of three years, Lone was nearly doubled in territorial extent.
But the older creditors became clamorous. Bond, and mortgage holders threatened foreclosure, and the financial affairs of the "mad duke," outwardly and apparently so prosperous, were really very desperate. The family were seriously in danger of expulsion from Lone.
It was at this crisis that the devoted son came to the help of his father--not wisely, as many people thought then--not fortunately, as it turned out. To prevent his father from being compelled to leave Lone, and to protect him from the persecution of creditors, the young Marquis of Arondelle performed an act of self-sacrifice and filial devotion seldom equalled in the world's history. He renounced all his own entailed rights, and sold all his prospective life interest in Lone. His was a young, strong life, good for fifty or sixty years longer. His interest brought a sum large enough to pay off the mortgage on Lone and to settle all others of his father's outstanding debts.
Thus peaceable possession of Lone might have been secured to the family during the natural life of the duke. At the demise of the duke, instead of descending to his son and heir, it would pass into the possession of other parties, with whom it would remain as long the heir should live.
Thus, I say, by the sacrifice of the son the peace of the father might have been secured--for a time. And all might have gone well at Lone but for one unlucky event which finally set the seal on the ruin of the ducal family.
And yet that event was intended as an honor, and considered as an honor.
In a word the Queen, the Prince Consort, and the royal family, were coming to the Highlands. And the Duke of Hereward received an intimation that her majesty would stop on her royal progress and honor Lone with a visit of two days. This was a distinction in no wise to be slighted by any subject under any circumstances, and certainly not by the duke of Hereward.
The Queen's visit would form the crowning glory of Lone. The chambers occupied by majesty would henceforth be holy ground, and would be pointed out with reverence to the stranger in all succeeding generations.
In anticipation of this honor the "mad" Duke of Hereward launched out into his maddest extravagances.
He had but ten days in which to prepare for the royal visit, but he made the best use of his time.
The guest chambers at Lone, already fitted up in princely magnificence, had new splendors added to them. The castle and the grounds were adorned and decorated with lavish expenditure. The lake was alive with gayly-rigged boats. Triumphal arches were erected at stated intervals of the drive leading from the public road, across the bridge connecting the shore with the island, and--maddest extravagance of all--the ground was laid out and fitted up for a grand tournament after the style of the time of Richard Coeur de Lion, to be held there during the queen's visit--that fatal visit spoken of in the early part of this chapter.
Yes, fatal! --for a hundred thousand pounds sterling, won by the son's self-sacrifice, which should have gone to satisfy the clamorous creditors of the duke, was squandered in extravagant preparations to royally entertain England's expensive royal family.
A second time Lone was the scene of unparalleled display, festivity, and rejoicing. Once more all the country round about was assembled there; again the artists and reporters of the London press were among the crowd; and again full-page pictures of the ceremonies attending the queen's reception and entertainment were published in the illustrated papers, and the fame of that royal visit went out to the uttermost parts of the earth.
But mark this: Every footman that waited at the grand state-dinner table was a bailiff in disguise, in charge of the plate and china, which, together with all the fabulous riches of art, literature, science and _virtu_ collected at Lone had been taken in execution, by the officers secretly in possession.
The royal party, with their retinue, left Lone on the afternoon of the third day.
And then the crash came? The blow was sudden, overwhelming and utterly destructive.
The shock of the fall of Lone was felt from one end of the kingdom to the other.
For the last time a crowd gathered around Castle Lone. But they came not as festive guests but as a flock of vultures around a carcass, bent on prey. For the last time artists and reporters came not to illustrate the triumphs, but to record the downfall of the great ducal house of Scott-Hereward; to make sketches, take photographs and write descriptions of the magnificent and splendid halls and chambers, picture-galleries and museums, before they should be dismantled by the rapacious purchasers who flocked to the vendue of Lone, to profit by the ruin of the proprietor.
And for the last time illustrations of Lone and its glories went forth over every part of the world where the English language is spoken, or the English mails penetrate.
Another heavy blow fell upon the doomed duke. Even while the grand vendue was still in progress the duchess died of grief.
When all was over, and the good duchess was laid in the family vault, the duke and the young marquis disappeared from Lone and none knew whither they went. Some said that they had gone to Australia; some that they were in America; some that they were on the Continent. Others declared that they had hidden themselves in the wilderness of London, where they were living in great poverty and obscurity, and even under assumed names.
Opinions and rumors differed also concerning the character and conduct of the young marquis. Many called him a devoted son, filled with the spirit of heroic self-sacrifice. Many others affirmed that he was a hypocrite and a villain, addicted to drinking, gambling, and other vices and even cited times, places, and occasions of his sinning.
There never lived a man of whom so much good and so much evil was said as of the young Marquis of Arondelle. A stranger coming into the neighborhood of Lone, would hear these opposite reports and never be able to decide whether the absent and self-exiled young nobleman was a model of virtue or a monster of vice.
But there was one whose faith in him was firm as her faith in Heaven.
Rose Cameron was the daughter of a Highland shepherd, living about ten miles north of Ben Lone. No court lady in the land was fairer than this rustic Highland beauty. Her form was tall, fine, and commanding. Her step was stately and graceful as the step of an antelope. Her features were large, regular, and clear cut, as if chiseled in marble, yet full of blooming and sparkling life as ruddy health and mountain air could fill them. Her hair was golden brown, and clustered in innumerable shining ringlets closely around her fair open forehead and rounded throat. Her eyes were large, and clear bright blue. Her expression full of innocent freedom and joyousness.
Rumor said that the fast young Marquis of Arondelle, while deer-stalking from his hunting lodge in the neighborhood of Ben Lone, had chanced to draw rein at the gate of Rob. Cameron's sheiling, and had received from the shapely hand of the beautiful shepherdess a cup of water, and had been so suddenly and forcibly smitten by her Juno-like beauty, that thenceforth his visits to his hunting lodge became very frequent, both in season and out of season, and that he was a very dry soul, whose thirst could be satisfied by nothing but the spring water that spouted close by the shepherd's sheiling, dipped up and offered by the hands of the beautiful shepherdess.
Much blame was cast by the rustic neighbors upon all parties concerned--first of all, upon the young marquis, who they declared "meant nae guid to the lass," and then to the old shepherd, who they said, "suld tak mair care o' his puir mitherless bairn," and lastly, to the girl, who, as they affirmed, "suld guide hersel' wi' mair discretion."
None of these criticisms ever came to the ears of the parties concerned: they never do, you know.
Besides the lovers seemed to be infatuated with each other, and the shepherd seemed to be blind to what was going on in his sheiling. To be sure, he was out all day with his sheep, while his lass was alone in the sheiling. Or, if by sickness _he_ was forced to stay home, then _she_ was out all day with the sheep alone.
Gossip said that the young marquis visited the handsome shepherdess in her sheiling, and met her by appointment, when she was out with her flock.
And as the occasion grew, so grew the scandal, and so grew indignation against the marquis and scorn of the shepherdess.
"He'll nae mean to marry the quean! If she were my lass, I'd kick him out, an' he were twenty times a markis!" said the shepherd's next neighbor, and many approved his sentiment. These were among the detractors of the young nobleman.
But he had warm defenders--who affirmed that the Marquis of Arondelle would never seek a peasant girl to win her affections, unless he intended to make her his marchioness--which was an idea too preposterous to be entertained for an instant--therefore there could be no truth in these rumors.
And at length, when the great thunderbolt fell that destroyed Lone and banished the ducal family, there were not wanting "guid neebors" who taunted Rose Cameron with such words as these: "The braw young markis hae made a fule o' ye, lass. Thoul't ne'er see him mair. And a guid job, too. Best ye'd ne'er see him at a'!"
But the handsome shepherdess betrayed no sign of mortification or doubt. When such prognostics were uttered, she crested her queenly head with a smile of conscious power, and looked as though--"she could, an if she would,"--tell more about the Marquis of Arondelle, than any of these people guessed.
Meanwhile, princely Lone passed into the possession of Sir Lemuel Levison, a London banker of enormous wealth. He had not always been Sir Lemuel Levison. But he had once been Lord Mayor of London, and for some part that he had taken in a public demonstration or a royal pageant, (I forget which,) he had been knighted by her Majesty.
He was, at this time, a tall, spare, fair-faced, gray-haired and gray bearded man of sixty-five. He was a widower, with "one only daughter," the youngest and sole survivor of a large family of children.
This daughter, Salome, had never known a mother's love nor a father's care. She was under three years old when her mother passed away.
Then her father, hating his desolate home, broke up his establishment on Westbourne Terrace, London, and placed his infant daughter under the care of the nuns in the Convent of the Holy Nativity in France.
Here Salome Levison passed the days of her dreamy childhood and early youth. Her father seldom found time to visit her at her convent school, and she never went home to spend her holidays. She had no home to go to.
When Salome was eighteen years of age, the Superior of the convent wrote to Sir Lemuel Levison, enclosing a letter from his daughter that considerably startled the absorbed banker and forgetful father. He had not seen his daughter for two years, and now these letters informed him that she wished to become a Nun of the Holy Nativity, and to enter upon her novitiate immediately! But that being a minor, she could not do so without his consent.
His sole surviving child! The sole heiress of his enormous wealth! On whom he depended, to make a home for him in his declining years, when he should have made a few more millions of millions upon which to retire!
And now this long neglected daughter had found consolation in devotion, and wished to take the vail which was to hide her forever from the world!
Sir Lemuel Levison hastened to France, and brought his daughter back to England. He took apartments at a quiet London hotel, and looked about for a suitable country-seat to purchase.
At this time Lone was advertised. He went thither with the crowd.
He saw Lone, liked it, wanted it, and determined to "pay for it and take it."
He stopped the vandalish dismantling of the premises by outbidding everybody else and purchasing all the furniture, decorations, plate, pictures, statues, vases, mosaics, and everything else, and ordering them to be left in their old positions.
He then engaged the house-steward, the housekeeper, and as many more of the servants of the late proprietor as he could induce to remain at Lone.
And when the princely castle was cleared of its crowds, and once more restored to order, beauty and peace, Sir Lemuel Levison went back to London to bring his daughter home.
Salome, submissive to her father's will, yet disappointed in her wish to take the vail, met every event in life with apathy.
Even when the splendors of Lone broke upon her vision she regarded them with an air of indifference that amused, while it mortified, her father.
"I see how it is, my girl," he said. "You have renounced the world, and are pining for the convent. But you know nothing of the world. Give it a fair trial of three years. Then you will be twenty-one years old, of legal age to act for yourself, with some knowledge of that which you would ignorantly renounce; and then if you persist in your desire to take the vail--well! I shall then have neither the power nor the wish to prevent you," added the wise old banker, who felt perfectly confident that at the end of the specified time his daughter would no longer pine to immure herself in a convent.
Salome, grateful for this concession, and feeling perfectly self-assured that she would never be won by the world, kissed her father, and roused herself to be as much of a comfort and solace to him as she might be in the three years of probation. And she took her place at the head of her father's magnificent establishment at Lone with much of gentle quiet and dignity.
And now it is time to give you some more accurate knowledge of the outward appearance and the inner life of this motherless, convent-reared girl, who, though a young and wealthy heiress, was bent on forsaking the world and taking the vail. In the first place, she was not beautiful at all in repose. There can be no physical beauty without physical health. And Salome Levison partook of the delicate organization of her mother, who had passed away in early womanhood, and of her brothers and sisters, who had gone in infancy or childhood.
Salome, when still and silent, was, at first sight plain. She was rather below the medium height, slight and thin in form, pale and dark in complexion, with irregular features, and quiet, downcast, dark-gray eyes, whose long lashes cast shadows upon pallid cheeks, and which were arched with dark eyebrows on a massive forehead, shaded with an abundance of dark brown hair, simply parted in the middle, drawn back and wound into a rich roll. Her dress was as simple as her station permitted it to be.
Altogether she seemed a girl unattractive in person and reserved in speech.
The very opposite of the handsome shepherdess of Ben Lone.
And yet when she looked up or smiled, her face was transfigured into a wondrous beauty; such intellectual and spiritual beauty as that perfect piece of flesh and blood never could have expressed. And she was a "sealed book." Yet the hour was at hand when the "sealed book" was to be opened--when her dreaming soul, like the sleeping princess in the wood, was to be awakened by the touch of holy love to make the beauty of her person and the glory of her life.
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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2
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AN IDEAL LOVE.
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A few weeks after their settlement at Lone, Sir Lemuel Levison returned to London on affairs connected with his final retirement from active business.
Salome was left at the castle, with the numerous servants of the establishment, but otherwise quite alone. She had neither governess, companion, nor confidential maid. She suffered from this enforced solitude. She had seen all the splendors of the interior of Lone, and there was nothing new to discover--except--yes, there was Malcom's Tower, which tradition said was the most ancient portion of the castle, whose foundations had been dug from the solid rock, hundreds of feet below the surface of the lake.
The tower had been restored with the rest of the castle, but had never been fitted up for occupation.
Salome determined to spend one morning in exploring the old tower from foundation to top.
She summoned the housekeeper to her presence, and made known her purpose.
"Macolm's Watch Tower, Miss! Weel, then, it's naething to see within, forbye a few auld family portraits and sic like, left there by the auld duke; but there'll be an unco' foine view frae the top on a braw day like this," said Dame Ross, as she detached a bunch of keys from her belt, and signified her readiness to attend her young mistress.
I need not detail the explorations of the young lady from the horrible dungeon of the foundation--up the narrow, winding steps, cut in the thickness of the outer wall, which was perforated on the inner side by doorways on each landing, leading into the strong, round stone rooms or cells on each floor, lighted only by long narrow slits in the solid masonry. All the lower cells were empty.
But when they reached the top of the winding steps and opened the door of the upper cell, the housekeeper said: "Here are deposited some o' the relics left by the auld duke until such time as he shall be ready to tak' them awa'."
Salome followed her into the room and suddenly drew back in surprise.
She saw standing out from the gloom, the form of a young man of majestic beauty and grace.
A second look showed her that this was only a full-length life-sized portrait--but of whom?
Her gaze became riveted on the glorious presence.
The portrait represented a young man of about twenty-five years of age, tall, finely formed, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, with a well-turned, stately head, a Grecian profile, a fair, open brow, dark, deep blue eyes, and very rich auburn hair and beard. He wore the picturesque highland dress--the tartan of the Clan Scott.
But it was not the dress, the form, the face that fascinated the gaze of the girl. It was the air, the look, the SOUL that shone through it all!
A sun ray, glancing through the narrow slit in the solid wall, fell directly upon the fine face, lighting it up as with a halo of glory!
"It is the face of the young St. John! Nay, it is more divine! It is the face of Gabriel who standeth in the presence of the Lord! But it expresses more of power! It is the face of Michael rather, when he put the hosts of hell to flight! Oh! a wondrously glorious face!" said the rapt young enthusiast to herself, as she gazed in awe-struck silence on the portrait.
"Ye are looking at that picture, young leddy? Ay it weel deserves your regards! It is a grand one!" said Dame Ross, proudly. " _Who is it? One of the young princes? _" inquired Salome, in a low tone, full of reverential admiration.
"Ane o' the young princes? Gude guide us! Nae, young leddy; I hae seen the young princes ance, on an unco' ill day for Lone! And I dinna care if I never see ane mair. But they dinna look like that," said the housekeeper, with a deep sigh.
"Who is it, then?" whispered Salome, still gazing on the portrait with somewhat of the rapt devotion with which she had been wont to gaze on pictured saint, or angel, on her convent walls. "Who is it, Mrs. Ross?"
"Wha is it? Wha suld it be, but our ain young laird? Our ain bonny laddie? Our young Markis o' Arondelle? Oh, waes the day he ever left Lone!" exclaimed Dame Girzie, lifting her apron to her eyes.
"The Marquis of Arondelle!" echoed Salome, catching her breath, and gazing with even more interest upon the glorious picture.
Even while she gazed, the ray that had lighted it for a moment was withdrawn by the setting sun, and the picture was swallowed up in sudden darkness.
"The Marquis of Arondelle," repeated Salome in a low reverent tone, as if speaking to herself.
"Ay, the young Markis o' Arondelle; wae worth the day he went awa'!" said the housekeeper, wiping her eyes.
Salome turned suddenly to the weeping woman.
"I have heard--I have heard--" she began in a low, hesitating voice, and then she suddenly stopped and looked at the dame.
"Ay, young leddy, nae doubt ye hae heard unco mony a fule tale anent our young laird; but if ye would care to hear the verra truth, ye suld do so frae mysel. But come noo, leddy. It is too dark to see onything mair in this room. We'll gae out on the battlements gin ye like, and tak' a luke at the landscape while the twilight lasts," said Dame Girzie.
Salome assented with a nod, and they climbed the last steep flight of stairs, cut in the solid wall, and leading from this upper room to the top of the watch-tower.
They came out upon a magnificent view.
The bright, long twilight of these Northern latitudes still hung luminously over island, lake and mountain.
While Salome gazed upon it Dame Girzie said: "All this frae the tower to the horizon, far as our eyes can reach, and far'er, was for eight centuries the land of the Lairds of Lone. And noo! a' hae gane frae them, and they hae gane frae us, and na mon kens where they bide or how they fare. Wae's me!"
"It was indeed a household wreck," said Salome, with sigh of sincere sympathy.
"Ye may say that, leddy, and mak' na mistake."
"What is that lofty mountain-top that I see on the edge of the horizon away to the north, just fading in the twilight?" inquired Salome, partly to divert the dame from her gloomy thoughts.
"Yon? Ay. Yon will be, Ben Lone. It will be twenty miles awa', gin it be a furlong. Our young laird had a braw hunting lodge there, where in the season he was wont to spend weeks thegither wi' his kinsman, Johnnie Scott, for the young laird was unco' fond of deer stalking, and sic like sport. I dinna ken wha owns the lodge now, or whether it went wi' the lave of the estate," said Dame Girzie, with a deep sigh.
"It is growing quite chilly up here," said Salome, shivering, and drawing her little red shawl more closely around her slight frame. "I think we will go down now, Mrs. Ross. And if you will be so good as to come to me after tea, this evening, I shall like to hear the story of this sorrowful family wreck," she added, as she turned to leave the place.
That evening, as the heiress sat in the small drawing room appropriated to her own use, the housekeeper rapped and was admitted.
And after seating herself at the bidding of her young mistress, Girzie Ross opened her mouth and told the true story of the fall of Lone, as I have already told to my readers.
"And this devoted son actually sacrificed all the prospects of his whole future life, in order to give peace and prosperity to his father's declining days," murmured Salome, with her eyes full of tears and her usually pale cheeks, flushed with emotion.
"He did, young leddy, like the noble soul, he was," said Dame Girzie.
"I never heard of such an act of renunciation in my life," murmured Salome.
"And the pity of it was, young leddy, that it was a' in vain," said the housekeeper.
"Yes, I know. Where is he now?" inquired the young girl, in a subdued voice.
"I dinna ken, leddy. Naebody kens," answered Girzie Ross, with a deep sigh, which was unconsciously echoed by the listener.
Then Dame Ross not to trespass on her young mistress's indulgence, arose and respectfully took her leave.
Salome fell into a deep reverie. From that hour she had something else to think about, beside the convent and the vail.
The portrait haunted her imagination, the story filled her heart and employed her thoughts. That night she dreamed of the self-exiled heir, a beautiful, vague, delightful dream, that she tried in vain to recall on the next morning.
In the course of the day she made several attempts to ask Mrs. Girzie Ross a simple question. And she wondered at her own hesitation to do it. At length she asked it: "Mrs. Ross, is that portrait in the tower very much like Lord Arondelle?"
"Like him, young leddy? Why, it is his verra sel'! And only not sae bonny because it canna move, or smile, or speak. Ye should see him _alive_ to ken him weel," said the housekeeper, heartily.
That afternoon Salome went up alone to the top of the tower, and spent a dreamy, delicious hour in sitting at the feet of the portrait and gazing upon the face.
That evening, while the housekeeper attended her at tea, she took courage to make another inquiry, in a very low voice: "Is Lord Arondelle engaged, Mrs. Ross?"
She blushed crimson and turned away her head the moment she had asked the question.
"Engaged? What--troth-plighted do you mean, young leddy?"
"Yes," in a very low tone.
"Bless the lass! nay, nor no thought of it," answered the housekeeper.
"I was thinking that perhaps it would be well if he were not, that is all," explained Salome, a little confusedly.
That night, as she undressed to retire to bed, she looked at herself in the glass critically for the first time in her life.
It was not a pretty face that was reflected there. It was a pale, thin, dark face, that might have been redeemed by the broad, smooth forehead, shaped round by bands of dark brown hair, and lighted by the large, tender, thoughtful gray eyes, had not that forehead worn a look of anxious care, and those eyes an expression of eager inquiry.
"But then I am so plain--so very, very plain," she said to herself, as if uttering the negation of some preceding train of thought.
And with a deep sigh she retired to rest.
The next day Girzie Ross herself was the first to speak of the young marquis.
"I hae been thinking, young leddy, what garred ye ask me gin the young laird, were troth plighted. And I mistrust ye must hae heard these fule stories anent his hardship, having a sweetheart at Ben Lone. There's nae truth in sic tales, me leddy. No that I'm denying she's a handsome hizzy, this Rose Cameron; but she's nae one to mak' the young laird forget his rank. Ye'll no credit sic tales, me young leddy."
"I have heard no tales of the sort," said Salome, looking up in surprise.
"Ay, hae ye no? Aweel, then, its nae matter," said the dame.
"But what tales are there, Mrs. Ross?" uneasily inquired the heiress. And then she instantly perceived the indiscretion of her question, and regretted that she had asked it.
"Ou aye, it's just the fule talk o' thae gossips up by Ben Lone. They behoove to say that's its na the game that draws the young laird sae often to Ben Lone; but just Rab Cameron's handsome lass, Rose, and she _is_ a handsome quean as I said before; but nae 'are to mak' the young master lose his head for a' that! Sae ye maun na beleiv' a word of it, me young leddy," said Dame Girzie.
And she hastened to change the subject.
"Ah! what a power beauty is! It can make a prince forget his royal state, and sue to a peasant girl," sighed Salome to herself. "I wonder--I wonder, if there _is_ any truth in that report? Oh, I hope there is not, for his own sake. I wonder where he is--what he is doing? But that is no affair of mine. I have nothing at all to do with it! I wonder if I shall ever meet him. I wonder if he would think me very ugly? Nonsense, what if he should? He is nothing to me. I--I _do_ wonder if a young man so noble in character, so handsome in person as he is, ever could like a girl without any beauty at all, even if she--even if she--Oh, dear! what a fool I am! I had better never have come out of the convent. I will think no more about him," said Salome, resolutely taking up a volume of the "Lives of the Saints," and turning to the page that related how-- "St. Rosalie, Darling of each heart and eye, From all the youth of Italy Retired to God."
"That is the noblest love and service, after all," she said--"the noblest, surely, because it is Divine!"
And she resolved to emulate the example of the young and beautiful Italian virgin. She, too, would retire to God. That is, she would enter her convent as soon as her three probationary years should be passed.
But though she so resolved to devote herself to Heaven in this abnormal way, the natural human love that now glowed in her heart, would not be put down by an unnatural resolve.
Days and nights passed, and she still thought of the banished heir all day, and dreamed of him all night--the more intensely as well as purely perhaps, because she had never looked upon his living face.
To her he was an abstract ideal.
Later in the month her father returned to Lone--on business of more importance than that which had hurried him away.
He had only retired from one phase of public life to enter upon another.
There was to be a new Parliament. And at the solicitations of many interested parties, and perhaps also at the promptings of his own late ambition, Sir Lemuel Levison consented to stand for the borough of Lone. In the absence of the young Marquis of Arondelle there was no one to oppose him, and he was returned by an almost unanimous vote.
Early in February, Sir Lemuel Levison took his dreaming daughter and went up to London to take his seat in the House of Commons at the meeting of Parliament.
He engaged a sumptuously furnished house on Westbourne Terrace, and invited a distant relative, Lady Belgrave, the childless widow of a baronet, to come and pass the season with him and chaperone his daughter on her entrance into society.
Lady Belgrade was sixty years old, tall, stout, fair-complexioned, gray-haired, healthy, good-humored, and well-dressed--altogether as commonplace and harmless a fine lady as could be found in the fashionable world.
Salome had never seen her, scarcely ever heard of her before the day of her arrival at Westbourne Terrace.
Salome met Lady Belgrade with courtesy and kindness, but with much indifference.
Lady Belgrade, on her part, met her young kinswoman with critical curiosity.
"She is not pretty, not at all pretty, and one does not like to have a plain girl to bring out. She is not pretty, and what is worse than all, she seems _to know it_. And she can only grow pretty by believing that she is so. A girl with such a pair of eyes as hers can always get the reputation of beauty if she can only be made to believe in herself," was Lady Belgrade's secret comment; but-- "What beautiful eyes you have, my dear!" she said with effusion, as she kissed Salome on both cheeks.
The girl smiled and blushed with pleasure, for this was the first time in all her life that she had been credited with any beauty at all.
Lady Belgrade was partly right and partly wrong.
A girl with such a physique as Salome could never be pretty, never be handsome, but, with such a soul as hers, might grow beautiful.
At her Majesty's first drawing-room, Salome Levison was presented at court, where she attracted the attention, only as the daughter of Sir Lemuel Levison, the new Radical member for Lone, and as the sole heiress of the great banker's almost fabulous wealth.
Then under the experienced guidance of Lady Belgrade, she was launched into fashionable society. And society received the young expectant of enormous wealth, as society always does, with excessive adulation.
Salome was admired, followed, flattered, feted, as though she had been a beauty as well as an heiress. She was petted at home and worshiped abroad. Her father gave unlimited pocket-money in form of bank-cheques, to be filled up at her own discretion. For she was his only daughter, and he wished to get her in love with the world and out of conceit of a convent. And surely the run of his bank, and of all the fine shops of London, would do that, he thought, if anything could.
But Salome remained a "sealed book" to the wealthy banker, and a great trial to the fashionable chaperon who had her in training. Salome _would not_ grow pretty, in spite of all that could be done for her. Salome would not make a sensation, for all her father's wealth and her own expectations. She remained quiet, shy, silent, dreamy, even in the gayest society, as in the Highland solitudes, with one worship in her soul--the worship of that self-devoted son--that self-banished prince, whose "counterfeit presentment" she had seen in the tower at Lone, and who had become the idol of her religion.
But all this did not hinder the heiress from receiving some very matter of fact and highly eligible offers of marriage; for though Salome, in the holiness of her dreams, was almost unapproachable, the banker was not inaccessible. And it was through her father that Salome, in the course of the season, had successively the coronet of a widowed earl, the title of a duke's younger son, and the fortune of a baronet who was just of age, laid at her feet.
She rejected them all--to her father's great disappointment and disturbance.
"I fear--I do much fear that her mind still runs on that convent. She does nothing but dream, dream, dream, and absolutely ignore homage that would turn another girl's head. I wish she were well married, or--I had almost said ill married! anything is better than the convent for my only surviving child! If she will not accept an earl or a baronet, why cannot her perversity take the form of any other girl's perversity? Why can she not fall in love with some penniless younger son, or some dissipated captain in a marching regiment? I am sure even under such circumstances I should not perform the part of the 'cruel parent' in the comedies! I should say, 'Bless you my children,' with all my heart! And I should enrich the impecunious young son, or reform the tipsy soldier. Anything but the convent for my only child!" concluded the banker, with a sigh.
But Salome had ceased to think of the convent. She thought now only of the missing marquis.
The offers of marriage that had been made to Salome, rejected though they were, had this good effect upon her mind. They encouraged her to think more hopefully of herself. Salome was too unworldly, too pure, and holy, to suspect that these offers had been made her from any other motive than personal preference. It was possible, then, that she might be loved. If other men preferred her, so also might he on whom she had fixed. And now it had come to this with the dreaming girl--she resolved to think no more of retiring to a convent, but to live in the world that contained her hero; to keep herself free from all engagements for his sake, to give _herself_ to him, if possible, if not to give his land back to him some day, at least. So in her secret soul she consecrated herself in a pure devotion to a man she had never seen, and who did not even know of her existence.
When Parliament rose at the end of the London season, Sir Lemuel Levison took his daughter on an extended Continental tour, showing her all the wonders of nature, and all the glories of art in countries and cities. And Salome was interested and instructed, of course. Yet the greatest value her travels had for her was in the possibility of their bringing her to a meeting with the missing heir. It had been said that the mad duke and his son were somewhere on the Continent. A wide field! Yet, on the arrival of Sir Lemuel and Miss Levison at any city, Salome's first thought was this: "Perhaps they are living here, and I shall see him."
But she was always disappointed. And at the end of a seven months' sojourn on the Continent, Sir Lemuel Levison brought his daughter back to London, only in time for the meeting of Parliament.
Only two years of Salome's probation was left--only two more seasons in London. Her father's anxiety increased.
He sent for her chaperone again, and opened his house in Westbourne Terrace to all the world of fashion. Again the young heiress was followed, flattered, feted as much as if she had been a beauty as well. Again she received and rejected several eligible offers of marriage. And so the second season passed.
Sir Lemuel Levison took his daughter to Scotland, and invited a large company to stay with them at Lone, thinking that, after all, more matches were made in the close daily intercourse of a country house, than in the crowded ball-rooms of a London season.
But though the banker's daughter received two or three more eligible offers of marriage, she politely declined them all, and stole away as often as she could to worship the pictured image in the old tower.
Her chaperone was in despair.
"How many good men and brave has she refused, do you know, Lemuel?" inquired Lady Belgrade.
"Seven, to my certain knowledge," angrily replied the banker.
"Perhaps she likes some one you know nothing about," suggested the dowager.
"She does not; I would let her marry almost any man rather than have her enter a convent, as she is sure to do when she is of age. I would let her marry any one; aye, even Johnnie Scott, who is the most worthless scamp I know in the world."
"And pray who is Johnnie Scott!"
"Oh, a handsome rascal; is sort of kinsman and hanger-on of the young Marquis of Arondelle; he used to be. I don't know anything more about him."
"Perhaps he _is_ the man."
"Oh, no, he is not. There is no man in the convent. Well, we go up to London again in February. It will be her last season. If she does not fall in love or marry before May, when she will be twenty-one years of age, she will immure herself in a convent, as I am pledged not to prevent her."
The conversation ended unsatisfactorily just here.
In the beginning of February Sir Lemuel Levison, with his daughter and her chaperone, went up to London for her third season. They established themselves again in the sumptuous house on Westbourne Terrace, and again entered into the whirl of fashionable gayeties.
It was quite in the beginning of the season that Sir Lemuel and Miss Levison received invitations to a dinner party at the Premier's.
It was to be a semi-political dinner, at which were to be entertained certain ministers, members of Parliament, with their wives, and leading journalists.
Sir Lemuel accepted for himself and Miss Levison. On the appointed day they rendered themselves at the Premier's house, where they were courteously welcomed by the great minister and his accomplished wife.
After the usual greetings had been exchanged with the guests that were present, and while Sir Lemuel and Miss Levison were conversing with their hostess, the Premier came up with a stranger on his right arm.
Salome looked up, her heart gave a great bound and then stood still.
The original of the portrait in the tower, the self-devoted son, the self-exiled heir, the idol of her pure worship, the young Marquis of Arondelle stood before her.
And while the scene swam before her eyes, the Premier bowed, and presenting him, said: "Sir Lemuel, let me introduce to you, Mr. John Scott of the _National Liberator_. Mr. Scott, Sir Lemuel Levison, our new member for Lone."
Mr. John Scott!
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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3
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THE RUINED HEIR.
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Where, meanwhile, was the "mad" duke with his loyal son?
Various reports had been circulated concerning them, so long as they had been remembered. Some had said that they had emigrated to Australia; others that they had gone to Canada; others again that they were living on the Continent. All agreed that wherever they were, they must be in great destitution.
But now, three years had passed since the fall of Lone and the disappearance of the ruined ducal family, and they were very nearly forgotten.
Meanwhile where were they then?
They were hidden in the great wilderness of London.
On leaving Lone, the stricken duke, crushed equally under domestic affliction and financial ruin, and failing both in mind and body, started for London, tenderly escorted by his son.
It was the last extravagance of the young marquis to engage a whole compartment in a first-class carriage on the Great Northern Railway train, that the fallen and humbled duke might travel comfortably and privately without being subjected to annoyance by the gaze of the curious, or comments of the thoughtless.
On reaching London they went first to an obscure but respectable inn in a borough, where they remained unknown for a few days, while the marquis sought for lodgings which should combine privacy, decency and cheapness, in some densely-populated, unfashionable quarter of the city, where their identity would be lost in the crowd, and where they would never by any chance meet any one whom they had ever met before.
They found such a refuge at length, in a lodging-house kept by the widow of a curate in Catharine street, Strand.
Here the ruined duke and marquis dropped their titles, and lived only under their baptismal name and family names.
Here Archibald-Alexander-John Scott, Duke of Hereward and Marquis of Arondelle in the Peerage of England, and Baron Lone, of Lone, in the Peerage of Scotland, was known only as old Mr. Scott.
And his son Archibald-Alexander-John Scott, by courtesy Marquis of Arondelle, was known only as young Mr. John Scott.
Now as there were probably some thousands of "Scotts," and among them, some hundreds of "John Scotts," in all ranks of life, from the old landed proprietor with his town-house in Belgravia, to the poor coster-monger with his donkey-cart in Covent Garden, in this great city of London, there was little danger that the real rank of these ruined noblemen should be suspected, and no possibility that they should be recognized and identified. They were as completely lost to their old world as though they had been hidden in the Australian bush or New Zealand forests.
Here as Mr. Scott and Mr. John Scott, they lived three years.
The old duke, overwhelmed by his family calamity, gradually sank deeper and deeper into mental and bodily imbecility.
Here the young marquis picked up a scanty living for himself and father by contributing short articles to the columns of the _National Liberator_, the great organ of the Reform Party.
He wrote under the name of "Justus." After a few months his articles began to attract attention for their originality of thought, boldness of utterance, and brilliancy of style.
Much speculation was on foot in political and journalistic circles as to the author of the articles signed "Justus." But his incognito was respected.
At length on a notable occasion, the gifted young journalist was requested by the publisher of the _National Liberator_, to write a leader on a certain Reform Bill then up before the House of Commons.
This work was so congenial to the principles and sentiments of the author, that it became a labor of love, and was performed, as all such labors should be, with all the strength of his intellect and affections.
This leader made the anonymous writer famous in a day. He at once became the theme of all the political and newspaper clubs.
And now a grand honor came to him.
The Premier--no less a person--sent his private secretary to the office of the _National Liberator_ to inquire the name and address of the author of the articles by "Justus," with a request to be informed of them if there should be no objection on the part of author or publisher.
The private secretary was told, with the consent of the author, what the name and address was.
"Mr. John Scott, office of the _National Liberator_."
Upon receiving this information, the Premier addressed a note to the young journalist, speaking in high terms of his leader on the Reform Bill, predicting for him a brilliant career, and requesting the writer to call on the minister at noon the following day.
The young marquis was quite as much pleased at this distinguished recognition of his genius as any other aspiring young journalist might have been.
He wrote and accepted the invitation.
And at the appointed hour the next day he presented himself at Elmhurst House, the Premier's residence at Kensington.
He sent up his card, bearing the plain name: "Mr. John Scott."
He was promptly shown up stairs to a handsome library, where he found the great statesman among his books and papers.
His lordship arose and received his visitor with much cordiality, and invited him to be seated.
And during the interview that followed it would have been difficult to decide who was the best pleased--the great minister with this young disciple of his school, or the new journalist with this illustrious head of his party.
This agreeable meeting was succeeded by others.
At length the young journalist was invited to a sort of semi-political dinner at Elmhurst House, to meet certain eminent members of the reform party.
This invitation pleased the marquis. It would give him the opportunity of meeting men whom he really wished to know. He thought he might accept it and go to the dinner as plain Mr. John Scott, of the _National Liberator_, without danger of being recognized as the Marquis of Arondelle.
For in the days of his family's prosperity he had been too young to enter London society.
And in these days of his adversity he was known to but a limited number of individuals in the city, and only by his common family name.
On the appointed evening, therefore, he put on his well-brushed dress-suit, spotless linen, and fresh gloves, and presented himself at Elmhurst House as well dressed as any West End noble or city nabob there.
He was shown up to the drawing-room by the attentive footman, who opened the door, and announced: "Mr. John Scott."
And the young Marquis of Arondelle entered the room, where a brilliant little company of about half a dozen gentlemen and as many ladies were assembled.
The noble host came forward to welcome the new guest. His lordship met him with much cordiality, and immediately presented him to Lady ----, who received him with the graceful and gracious courtesy for which she was so well known.
Finally the minister took the young journalist across the room toward a very tall, thin, fair-skinned, gray-haired old gentleman, who stood with a pale, dark-eyed, richly-dressed young girl by his side.
They were standing for the moment, with their backs to the company, and were critically examining a picture on the wall--a master-piece of one of the old Italian painters.
"Sir Lemuel," said the host, lightly touching the art-critic on the shoulder.
The old gentleman turned around.
"Sir Lemuel, permit me to present to you Mr. John Jones--I beg pardon--Mr. John Scott, of the _National Liberator_--Mr. Scott, Sir Lemuel Levison, our member for Lone," said the minister.
Sir Lemuel Levison saw before him the young Marquis of Arondelle, whom he had know as a boy and young man for years in the Highlands, and of whom, indeed, he had purchased his life interest in Lone. But he gave no sign of this recognition.
The young marquis, on his part, had every reason to know the man who had succeeded, not to say supplanted, his father at Lone Castle. But by no sign did he betray this knowledge.
The recognition was mutual, instantaneous and complete. Yet both were gravely self-possessed, and addressed each other as if they had never met before.
Then the banker called the attention of the young lady by his side: "My daughter."
She raised her eyes and saw before her the idol of her secret worship, knowing him by his portrait at Lone. She paled and flushed, while her father, with old-fashioned formality, was saying: "My daughter, let me introduce to your acquaintance, Mr. John Scott of the _National Liberator_. You have read and admired his articles under the signature of Justus, you know! --Mr. Scott, my daughter, Miss Levison."
Both bowed gravely, and as they looked up their eyes met in one swift and swiftly withdrawn glance.
And before a word could be exchanged between them the doors were thrown open and the butler announced: "My lady is served."
"Sir Lemuel, will you give your arm to Lady ----, and allow me to take Miss Levison in to dinner?" said the noble host, drawing the young lady's hand within his arm.
"Mr. John Scott" took in Lady Belgrave.
At dinner Miss Levison found herself seated nearly opposite to the young marquis. She could not watch him, she could not even lift her eyes to his face, but she could not chose but listen to every syllable that fell from his lips. It was the cue of some of the leading politicians present to draw out this young apostle of the reform cause. And of course they proceeded to do it.
The young journalist, modest and reserved at first, as became a disciple in the presence of the leaders of the great cause, gradually grew more communicative, then animated, then eloquent.
Among his hearers, none listened with a deeper interest than Salome Levison. Although he did not address one syllable of his conversation to her, nor cast one glance of his eyes upon her, yet she hung upon his words as though they had been the oracles of a prophet.
If the high ideal honor and reverence in which she held him, could have been increased by any circumstance, it must have been from the sentiments expressed, the principles declared in his discourse.
She saw before her, not only the loyal son, who had sacrificed himself to save his father, but she saw also in him the reformer, enlightener, educator and benefactor of his race and age.
Of all the men she had met in the great world of society, during the three years that she had been "out," she had not found his equal, either in manly beauty and dignity, or in moral and intellectual excellence.
_His_ brow needs no ducal coronet to ennoble it! _His_ name needs no title to illustrate it. The "princely Hereward!" "If all the men of his race resembled him, they well deserved this popular soubriquet. And whether this gentleman calls himself Mr. Scott or Lord Arondelle, I shall think of him only as the 'princely Hereward.'" mused Salome, as she sat and listened to the music of his voice, and the wisdom of his words.
She was sorry when their hostess gave the signal for the ladies to rise from the table and leave the gentlemen to their wine.
They went into the drawing-room, where the conversation turned upon the subject of the brilliant young journalist. No one knew who he was. Scott, though a very good name, was such a common one! But the noble host's endorsement was certainly enough to pass this gifted young gentleman in any society. The ladies talked of nothing but Mr. Scott, and his perfection of person, manner and conversation, until the entrance of the gentlemen from the dining-room.
The host and the member for Lone came in arm in arm, and a little in the rear of the other guests, and lingered behind them.
"This most extraordinary young man, this Mr. Scott--you have known him some time, my lord?" said Sir Lemuel Levison, in a low tone.
"Ay, probably as long as you have, Sir Lemuel," replied the Premier, with a peculiarly intelligent smile.
"Ah, yes! I see! Your lordship has possibly detected my recognition of this young gentleman," said Sir Lemuel.
"Of course. And I, on my part, knew him when I first saw him again after some years."
"His name was common enough to escape detection."
"Yes, but his face was not, my dear sir. The profile of the 'princely Hereward' could never be mistaken. Our first meeting was purely accidental. He was pointed out to me one evening at a public meeting, as the 'Justus' of the '_National Liberator_.' I looked and recognized the Marquis of Arondelle. Nothing surprises or _should_ surprise a middle-aged man. Therefore, I was not in the least degree moved by what I had discovered. I sent, however, to the office of the _Liberator_ to inquire the address, not of the Marquis of Arondelle, but of the writer, under the signature of 'Justus.' Received for answer that it was Mr. John Scott, office of the _Liberator_. I wrote to Mr. John Scott, and invited him to call on me. That was the beginning of my more recent acquaintance with this gifted young gentleman. Why he has chosen to drop his title I cannot know. He has every right to be called by his family name, only, if he so pleases. And, Sir Lemuel, we must regard his pleasure in this matter. Not even to my wife have I betrayed him," said the Premier, as they passed into the drawing-room.
"Umph, umph, umph," grunted the banker, who, surfeited with wealth though he was, could think of but one cause to every evil in the world, and that the want of money, and of but one remedy for that evil, and that was--plenty of money. "Umph, umph, umph! It is his poverty has made him drop the title that he cannot support. If he would only marry my girl now, it would all come right."
The entrance of the tea-service occupied the guests for the next half hour, at the end of which the little company broke up and took leave.
Salome Levison went home more thoughtful and dreamy than ever before--more out of favor with herself, more in love with her "paladin," more resolved never to marry any man except he should be John Scott, Marquis of Arondelle.
She almost loathed the hollow world of fashion in which she lived. Yet she went more into society than ever, though she enjoyed it so much less. She had a powerful motive for doing so. She attended all the balls, parties, dinners, concerts, plays, and operas to which she was invited, only with the hope of meeting again with him whose image had never left her heart since it first met her vision.
But she never was gratified. She never saw him again in society. John Scott was unknown to the world of fashion.
The season drew to its close. Constant going out, day after day, and night after night, would have weakened much stronger health than that possessed by Salome Levison. And, when added to this was constant longing expectation, and constant sickening disappointment, we cannot wonder that our pale heroine grew paler still.
Her chaperone declared herself "worn out" and unable to continue her arduous duties much longer.
Sir Lemuel Levison was puzzled and anxious.
"I cannot see what has come to my girl! She goes out all the time; she accepts every invitation; gives herself no rest; yet never seems to enjoy herself anywhere. She grows paler and thinner every day, and there is a hectic spot on her cheeks and a feverish brightness in her eyes that I do not like at all. I have seen them before, and I have too much reason to know them! I do believe she is fretting herself into a decline for her convent. I do believe she only goes out as a sort of penance for her imaginary sins! Poor child! I must really have a talk and come to an understanding with her!" said the anxious father to himself, as he mused on the condition of his daughter.
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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4
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SALOME'S CHOICE.
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Sir Lemuel Levison was taking his breakfast in bed. The London season was near its close. Parliament sat late at night, and often all night. Sir Lemuel, a punctual and diligent member of the House, seldom returned home before the early dawn.
So Sir Lemuel was taking his breakfast in bed, and "small blame to him."
It was a very simple breakfast of black tea, dry toast, fresh eggs, and cold ham.
"Take these things away now, Potts. Go and find Miss Levison's maid, and tell her to let her mistress know that I wish to see my daughter here, before she goes out," said the banker, as he drained and set down his tea-cup.
"Yes, Sir Lemuel," respectfully answered the servant, as he lifted the breakfast tray and bore it off.
"Umph! that is the manner in which I have to manoeuvre for an interview with my own daughter, before I can get one," grumbled the banker, as he lay back on his pillow and took up a newspaper from the counter-pane.
Before he had time to read the morning's report of the night's doings at the House, Salome entered the room.
The banker darted a swift keen look at her, that took in her whole aspect at a glance.
She was dressed for a drive. She wore a simple suit of rich brown silk, with hat, vail and gloves to match, white linen collar and cuffs, and crimson ribbon bow on her bosom, and a crimson rose in her hat. Her face was pale and clear, but so thin that her broad, fair forehead looked too broad beneath its soft waves of dark hair, and her deep gray eyes seemed too large and bright under their arched black eyebrows.
"You wished to see me, dear papa?" she said, gently.
"Yes, my love. But--you are going out? Of course you are. You are always going out, when you are not gone. I hope, however, that I have not interfered with any very important engagement of yours, my dear?" said the banker, half impatiently, half affectionately.
"Oh, no, papa, love! I was only going with Lady Belgrade to a flower-show at the Crystal Palace. I will give it up very willingly if you wish me to do so," said Salome, gently, stooping and pressing her lips to his, and then seating herself on the side of his bed.
"I do not wish you to do so, my child. I shall be going out myself in a couple of hours. But I want to have a little conversation with you. I suppose a few minutes more or less will make no difference in your enjoyment of the flower-show."
"None whatever, papa, dear."
"Humph! Salome, now that I look at you well, I do not believe you care a penny for the flower-show. Come, tell me the truth, girl. Do you care one penny to go to the flower-show?" he inquired, looking keenly into her pensive face.
"No, papa, dear," she answered, in a very low tone.
"Humph! I thought not. Now do you care for _any_ of the shows, plays, balls, and other tom-fooleries that occupy you day and night? I pause for a reply, my daughter."
"No, papa, I do not," she answered, in a still lower tone.
"Then why the deuce do you go to them?" demanded the banker.
His daughter's soft, gray eyes sank beneath his scrutinizing gaze, but she did not answer. How _could_ she confess that she went out into company daily and nightly only in the hope of seeing again the one man to whom she had given her unsought heart, and for whose presence her very soul seemed famishing.
"What is it that you _do_ care for, then, Salome?" demanded her father, varying his question.
Her head sank upon her bosom, but still she did not answer. How could she tell him that she cared only for a man who did not care for her.
"This is unbearable!" burst forth the banker. "Here you are with every indulgence that affection can yield you, every luxury that money can give you, and yet you are not well nor content. What ails you girl? Are you pining after your convent? Set fire to it. Are you pining after your convent, I ask you, Salome?"
"Indeed, _no_, papa!"
"What!" demanded her father, starting up at her reply and gazing with doubt into her pale, earnest face.
"I am not thinking of the convent, dear papa. Indeed I had forgotten all about it. If it will give you any pleasure to hear it, dear papa, let me tell you that I have quite given up all ideas of entering a convent," added Salome, with a pensive smile.
"What!" exclaimed the banker, starting up in a sitting position and bending toward his daughter as if in doubt whether to gaze her through and through or to catch her to his heart.
She met that look and understood her father's love for his only child, and reproached herself for having been so blind to it for these three years past.
"Dearest papa," she said, with tender earnestness, "I have no longer the slightest wish or intention of ever entering a convent. And I wonder now how I ever could have been so insane as to think I could live all my life contentedly in a convent, or so selfish as to forget that by doing so I should leave my father alone in the world!"
"My darling child! Is this truly so? Are these really your thoughts?" exclaimed the banker, with such a look of delight as Salome had not believed possible in so aged a face.
"Really and truly, my father! And does it give you so much pleasure?"
"Pleasure my daughter! It gives me the greatest joy! Hand me my dressing-gown, my dear. I must get up. I cannot lie here any longer. You have put new life into me!"
Salome handed him his gown, socks, and slippers, and then went to clear off his big easy-chair, which was burdened with his yesterday's dress suit, and draw it up for his use.
And in a few minutes the banker, wrapped in his gown, with his feet in his slippers, was seated comfortably in his arm-chair.
"Now, shall I ring for Potts, papa, dear?" inquired Salome.
"No, my love, I don't want Potts, I want you. Sit down near me, Salome, and listen to me. You have made me very happy this morning, my darling; and now I wish to make you happy; you are not so now; but I am your father; you are my only child; all that I have will be yours; but in the meantime, you are not happy. What can I do, my beloved child, to make you so?" said the banker, drawing her to his side and kissing her tenderly, and then releasing her.
"Papa, dear, I should be a most ungrateful daughter if I were not happy," answered the girl.
"Then you _are_ a very thankless child, my little Salome, for you are very far from happy," said her father, gravely shaking his head, yet looking so tenderly upon her as to take all rebuke from his words.
Salome dropped her eyes under his searching, loving gaze.
"My child, I know that I have the power to bless you, if you will only tell me how. Tell me, my dear," persisted her father.
But still she dropped her eyes and hung her head.
"If your mother were here, you could confide in her. You cannot confide in your father, my poor, motherless girl, and he cannot blame you," said Sir Lemuel, sadly.
"Father, dear father, I _do_ love you; and I will confide in you," said Salome, earnestly.
For just then a mighty power of faith and love arose in her soul, casting out fear, casting out doubt, subduing pride and reserve.
"What is it, then, my love? Have you formed any attachment of which you have hesitated to tell me? Hesitate no longer, my dearest Salome. Tell me all about it. It is nothing to be ashamed of. Love is natural. Love is holy. Oh, it is your mother that should be telling you all this, my poor girl, not your awkward, blundering old father," suddenly said the banker, breaking off in his discourse as his daughter hid her crimson face upon his shoulder.
"My dear, gentle father, no mother could be tenderer than you," murmured Salome.
"Tell me all, then, my darling. It is the first wish of my heart to see you happily married. And no trifling obstacle shall stand in the way of its accomplishment. _Who is he, Salome? _" he inquired, in a low whisper, as he passed his hand around her neck.
She did not answer, but she kissed and fondled his hand.
"You cannot bring yourself to tell me yet? Well, take your own time, my love. You will tell me some time or another," he continued, returning her soft caresses.
"Yes, I will tell you sometime, dear, good, tender father. But now--when do we leave town papa?"
"In less than three weeks, my dear."
"And where do we go?"
"To Lone Castle, if you like; if not, anywhere you prefer, my dear."
"Then we _will_ go to Lone, if you please, papa."
"Certainly, my dear."
"Papa?"
"Yes, love."
"Will you do something for me before we leave town?"
"I will do anything on earth that you wish me to do for you, my dear," said the banker, looking anxiously toward her.
She hesitated for a few moments, and then said: "Papa, I want you to give just such a semi-political dinner party as that given by the Premier in the beginning of the season."
"What! my little, pale Salome taking an interest in politics!" exclaimed the banker, in droll surprise.
"Yes, papa; and turning politician on a small, womanish scale. You will give this semi-political dinner?"
"Why of course I will! Whom shall we invite?"
"Papa, the very same party to a man, whom we met at the Premier's dinner."
"Let me see. Who was there? Oh! there were three members of Parliament and their wives; two city magnates and their daughters; you and myself, Lady Belgrade, and--and the Marquis of--John--Mr. John Scott, I mean."
"Yes, papa, that was the company. Send the invitations out to-day, for this day week please--if no engagement intervenes to prevent you."
"Very well, my dear. You see to it. I leave it all in your hands. Now you may ring for Potts, my dear. I have to dress and go down to the House. I am chairman of a committee there, that meets at two. And you, my love, must be off to your flower-show. You must not keep Lady Belgrade waiting."
Salome touched the bell, and on the entrance of the valet, she kissed her father's hand and retired.
"Now I wonder," mused the old gentleman, "who it is she wants to meet again, out of that dinner company? It cannot be either of the old M.P.'s or their wives; nor the two elderly city magnates, or their tall daughters; that disposes of ten out of the fourteen invited guests. The remainder included Lady Belgrade, myself, Salome herself, and--Lord, bless my soul, alive!" burst forth the banker, with such a start, that his valet, who was brushing his hair, begged his pardon, and said that he did not mean it.
"Lord, bless my soul alive," mentally continued the banker, without paying the slightest attention to the apologizing servant. "The Marquis of Arondelle! He was the fourteenth guest, and the only young man present! And upon my word and honor, the very handsomest and most attractive young fellow I ever saw in all the days of my life! Come!" he added to himself, as the full revelation of the truth burst upon his mind; "_that_ can be easily enough arranged. If he is the sensible, practical man I take him to be, he will get back his estates and the very best little wife that ever was wed into the bargain; and my girl will be a marchioness, and in time a duchess. But stay--what is that I heard up at Lone about the young marquis and a handsome shepherdess? Chut! what is that to us? That is probably a slander. The marquis is a noble young fellow; and I will bring him home with me this evening. I will not wait a week until that dinner comes off. We cannot afford to lose so much time at the end of the season," mused the banker, through all the time his valet was dressing him.
And now we must glance back to that evening when John Scott, Marquis of Arondelle, first met Salome Levison. He had met many statuesque, pink and white beauties in his young life; and he had admired each and all with all a young man's ardor. But not one of them had touched his heart, as did the first full gaze of those large, soft gray eyes that were lifted to his and immediately dropped as the old banker had presented him to-- "My daughter, Miss Levison."
She was not statuesque. She was not pink and white. She was not at all handsome, or even pretty; yet something in the pale, sweet, earnest face, something in the soft clear gray eyes touched his heart even before he was presented to her. But when she lifted those eloquent eyes to his face, there was such a world of sympathy, appreciation and devotion in their swift and swiftly-withdrawn gaze, that her soul seemed then and there to reveal itself to his soul.
He never again met the full gaze of those spirit eyes. He never exchanged a word with her after the first few formal words of greeting. He had only bowed to her, in taking leave that evening.
Yet those eyes had haunted him in their meek appealing tenderness ever since. He did not meet her anywhere by accident, and he did not try to meet her by design. He only thought of her constantly. But what had he to do with the banker's wealthy heiress, the future mistress of Lone? If he were so unwise as to seek her acquaintance, the world would be quick to ascribe the most mercenary motives to his conduct. But like weaker minded lovers, he comforted himself by writing such transcendental poetry as "The Soul's Recognition," "The Meeting of the Spirits," "What Those Eyes Said," etc. He did not publish these. After having relieved his mind of them, he put them away to keep in his portfolio. So you see the handsome, "princely" Hereward was as much in love with our pale, gray-eyed girl as She could possibly be with him.
And so with the young marquis also the season passed slowly and heavily away, until the day came when into his den at the office of the _Liberator_ walked Sir Lemuel Levison.
His heart really beat faster, although it was only her father who entered.
He arose, and placed a chair for his visitor.
"Lord Arondelle, you _know_ I knew you when I met you at Lord P.'s dinner-party, and I saw that you knew me. It was not my business to interfere with your incognito, and so I met you as you met me--as a stranger. But surely here and now we may meet as friends without disguise," said the banker, as he slowly sank into his seat.
"We must do so, Sir Lemuel, since we are _tete-a-tete_. It would be idle and useless to do otherwise," replied the young marquis, courteously.
"And now, my young friend, you are wondering what has brought me here," continued the banker.
"I am at least most grateful to any circumstance that gives me the pleasure of your company, Sir Lemuel," courteously replied the young marquis.
"Well, my lord, I come to beg you to waive ceremony, and go home with me to dinner this evening. I hope you have no engagement to prevent you from coming," added Sir Lemuel, with more earnestness than the occasion seemed to call for.
"I have no engagement to prevent me," answered the young man frankly, but slowly and thoughtfully, for he was wondering not only at the invitation but at the suddenness and earnestness with which it was given.
"Then I _hope_ you will come?" said the banker.
"You are very kind, Sir Lemuel. Yes, thanks, I will come," said the marquis.
"So happy! Will you allow me to call for you--at--at your lodgings?"
"Thanks, Sir Lemuel, if you will kindly call _here_ at your own hour, it will be more directly in your way home, and you will find me ready to accompany you."
"Quite right. I will be here at seven. Good morning."
And with this the banker went away.
"He wants me to make an article about something, I suppose," mused the young man when the elder had gone. "I will go. I will see that sweet girl again, even if I never see her afterwards."
The temptation was certainly very strong. And so, at the appointed hour, when the banker called at the office of the _National Liberator_ he found the young gentleman in evening dress ready to accompany him home.
Salome Levison was dressed for dinner, and seated in the drawing-room with her chaperone, Lady Belgrade.
Salome was certainly not expecting any guest. But she intended to go to the opera that evening with Lady Belgrade, to hear the last act of Norma. Luckily for Sir Lemuel's plan, it was not a peremptory engagement, and could easily be set aside.
On this evening she was beautifully dressed. She wore a delicate tea-rose tinted rich silk skirt, with an over skirt of point lace, looped up with tea-rose buds, a tea-rose in her dark hair, a necklace of opals set in diamonds, and bracelets of the same beautiful jewels. Refined, elegant, and most interesting she certainly looked.
Meanwhile, the banker came home, and himself conducted the unexpected guest to the drawing-room.
"Mr. John Scott, my dear," said Sir Lemuel, bringing the young gentleman up to his daughter.
The young marquis caught the sudden lighting up of those soft, gray eyes, and the sudden flushing of those delicate cheeks.
It was but for an instant; for even as he bowed before her, her eyes fell and her color faded.
It was but for an instant, yet in that glance those eyes had again revealed her soul to his.
The young marquis was not a vain man. He could not at once believe the evidence of his own consciousness. But he found it rather more awkward to sit down and open a conversation with this pale, shy girl, than he ever had in his palmiest days to make himself agreeable to the brightest beauty that ever honored Castle Lone with a visit.
For once the presence of a chaperone was not unwelcome to a pair of young people secretly in love with each other.
Lady Belgrade chattered of the weather, the opera the park, and what not, and relieved the embarrassment of the lovers during the interval in which Sir Lemuel Levison had gone to change his dress.
The young marquis seldom spoke to Salome, but when he did, his voice sank to a low, tender, reverential tone that thrilled her inmost spirit. She replied to him only in soft monosyllables, but her drooping eyelids, and kindling cheeks, told him all he wished to know. He might have wondered more at the interest he had seemed to excite in a girl he had met but once before, had he not had a corresponding experience himself. He knew that he himself had been deeply impressed by this sweet, shy, pale girl, on the first meeting of her soft gray eyes, with their soul of love shining through them.
He did not know that this "soul of love" had first been awakened in her, by hearing his story and seeing his portrait, and that it was which so powerfully attracted him--for love creates love.
Sir Lemuel Levison hurried over his toilet, and soon entered the drawing-room.
Dinner was immediately announced.
"Mr. Scott, will you take my daughter to the table?" said the banker, as he gave his own arm to Lady Belgrade.
It was an elegant little dinner for four, arranged upon a round table. There was no possibility of estrangement, in so small a party as that.
Sir Lemuel talked gayly, and without effort, for he was very happy. Lady Belgrade chattered, because she was spiritually a magpie. And as both constantly appealed to "Mr. Scott," or to Salome, it was impossible for either of the lovers to relapse into awkward silence. The conversation was general and lively.
Sir Lemuel Levison and Lady Belgrade would have talked in the most flattering manner of "Mr. Scott's" leaders, if that young gentleman had not laughingly waived off all such direct compliments.
When dinner was over, Lady Belgrade gave the signal, and arose from the table. Salome followed her, and left the two gentlemen to their wine.
"It afflicts me to have to call you Mr. Scott, my lord," said Sir Lemuel, when he found himself alone with his guest.
"Then call me John, as you used to do when I rode upon your foot in my childhood, and when I used to come to you in all my worst scrapes in boyhood--I shall never resume my title, Sir Lemuel," replied the young man.
"Never!" exclaimed the banker.
"Never, Sir Lemuel. A pauper lord is rather a ridiculous object. I will never be one."
"You _could_ not be one. I won't hear you say such things about yourself. See here, John. Do you know why I bought Lone when I knew it was to be sold?"
"I suppose because you wanted it."
"Now what did I want with Lone? I, an old widower, without family, except one little girl at school? I did not want Lone. I wanted you to have it. But I knew that if I did not buy it some one else would. And--I had this only daughter, who would have Lone after me. And I thought perhaps--But then you disappeared, you know, and no one on earth could tell for three years what had become of you, when you suddenly turned up as Mr. John Scott at the Premier's dinner."
The banker paused, and ran his hand through his gray hair.
The young man looked at him with curiosity and interest.
"Plague take it all! her mother, if she has one, could manage this matter so much better than I can," muttered the banker, as he poured out a glass of wine and drank it. "Well, Lord Arondelle--I will give myself the pleasure of calling you so while we are _tete-a-tete_ 'over the walnuts and wine.' Lord Arondelle, there is my daughter; what do you think of her?" he demanded, bending down his gray brows and fixing his keen blue eyes scrutinizingly upon the young man's face which flushed at the suddenness of the question. But he quickly recovered himself, and replied in a low, reverent tone: "I think Miss Levison the loveliest young creature I have ever had the happiness to know."
"You do! So do _I_! I think so too. And the man who gets my girl to wife will get a pearl of price."
"I truly believe that," said the young man, with an involuntary sigh.
"That is right! Ahem! Bother it! a woman could do this so much better than such a blundering old fellow as I! Well, there! Salome has, in the three years since her first entrance into society, refused half a score of eligible men. She is, and always has been, perfectly free from any such engagement. If you are equally free, my dear marquis--(If I could only be her mother for three seconds)--Ahem! if you are equally free, and if you admire my girl as you say you do, and if you can win her affections--she--she shall be yours, and I will settle Lone upon her. There, her mother would have done this better, I know. So much better that you would have proposed to my daughter without ever dreaming that the suggestion came from our side. But as for me, I have flung my girl at your head, nothing less!" grumbled the banker.
"My dear Sir Lemuel," said the young man, with some emotion, as he left his seat and came and stood by the banker's chair, leaning affectionately over him; "when I first met your lovely daughter, I was so deeply impressed by her rare sweetness, gentleness, intelligence--ah! Heaven knows what it was! It was something more than all these. In a word, I was so deeply impressed by her perfect loveliness, that had I been as really the heir of Lone as I was the Marquis of Arondelle, I should at once have cultivated her further acquaintance, and, before this, have laid my heart and hand, titles and estates, at her feet."
"Well, well, my boy? Well, my dear lad, why didn't you do it?" inquired the banker, with tears rising to his kind eyes.
"I have just told you, because I was a ruined man," said the marquis with mournful dignity. " 'A ruined man?'" echoed the banker, with almost angry earnestness. " _I_ know that you are _not_ a ruined man! And you know, even better than I do, because you have more brains than I have; YOU know that no young man, sound in body and sound in mind, can be ruined by any financial calamity that can fall upon him. You love my daughter, you say. Well, then, you have my authority to ask her to be your wife. There, what do you say?"
The young marquis sat down and covered his face with his hand for one thoughtful moment, and then replied: "This is a happiness so unexpected that it seems unreal. Sir Lemuel, do you really appreciate the fact that I am a man without a shilling that I do not earn by my labor?"
"I really appreciate the fact, and most highly appreciate the fact that you are Marquis of Arondelle, and to be Duke of Hereward--and that you are personally as noble in nature as you are fortunately noble in descent. And although my first motive in favoring this marriage is the pure desire for yours and for my daughter's happiness, still I assure you, my lord, I am keenly alive to its eligibility in a mere worldly point of view. Your ancient historical title is, (to speak as a man of the world,) much more than an equivalent for my daughter's expectations. But it is not, as I said before, as a highly eligible, conventional marriage that I most desire it, but as a marriage that I feel sure will secure the happiness of yourself and my daughter, whom I shall, nevertheless, be very proud to see, some day, Duchess of Hereward. Come, now, I never saw a gallant young man hesitate so long. I shall grow angry presently."
"Sir Lemuel," said the marquis, with some irrepressible emotion, "were I now really the Duke of Hereward, and the owner of Lone, and were your lovely daughter as dowerless as I am penniless at this moment, and did you give her to me, my deepest gratitude would be due you, and you have it now. When may I see Miss Levison and put my fate to the test?"
"That's right. Upon my word, my boy, if I were a galvanic foreigner instead of a staid Englishman, I should jump up and embrace you. Consider yourself embraced. When shall you see her? We will go into the dining room now and get a cup of tea from the ladies; after which, you shall see her as soon and as often as you please. And after you win her, as I am sure you will, we will have a blithe wedding and you and your bride will do the Continent for a wedding-tour, and then come back and spend the Autumn at Lone. We two old papas, the duke and myself, will join you there, and everything will be quite as it used to be in the old days."
"Ah! my poor father!" sighed the young man.
"What of the duke, my dear boy? You told me he was well," said the banker, anxiously.
"Yes, he is well in body, better in body than he has been for years; but I think that is only because his mind is failing."
"I am very sorry to hear that! In what respect does this failure show itself--in loss of memory?"
"In partial loss of memory; but chiefly in a hallucination that possesses him. He thinks that he is still the master of Lone as well as the Duke of Hereward. He thinks that he lives in London, and in the most Objectionable part of London, only to gratify my 'eccentric whim' of being a journalist. And he daily and hourly urges me to return with him to Lone!"
"In the name of Heaven, then gratify him! Take him to Lone as my guest, until you can keep him there as your own. Let him be happy in the illusion that he is still its master. I will see that the servants there, who are most of them his own old people, do not say or do anything to dispel the illusion! Come, my son-in-law, that is to be, will you take your father at once to Lone?"
For all answer the young marquis grasped and wrung the hand of his old friend.
"But will you do it?" persisted the banker, who wanted to be satisfied on that point.
"I will think of it. I will think most gratefully of your kind invitation, Sir Lemuel. And now shall we join the ladies?"
"Certainly," said the banker.
They went into the drawing-room.
Lady Belgrade was presiding over the tea urn.
Salome, who was seated near her, looked up and saw him. Again the marquis noted the sudden, beautiful lighting up of those soft, gray eyes, as they were lifted for a moment to his face. Again they fell beneath his glance, as her pale cheeks flushed up. He could not be mistaken. This sweet girl whom he loved, loved him in return.
"I was just about to send for you. You lingered long at table, Sir Lemuel," said Lady Belgrade, as the two gentlemen bowed and seated themselves.
"Oh, important political and journalistic matters to discuss," said Sir Lemuel. ("Only they were _not_ discussed,") he added, mentally.
"So I supposed," said Lady Belgrade, as she handed him a cup of tea, which he immediately passed to his guest.
After tea, when the service was removed, Sir Lemuel challenged Lady Belgrade for a game of chess, and told his daughter to show Mr. Scott those chromoes of the Madonnas of Raphael which had arrived in the last parcel from Paris.
Salome flushed to the edges of her dark hair as she arose, glanced shyly at her guest for an instant, and walked to the other end of the drawing-room.
There, on a gilded stand, under a brilliant gasolier, lay a large and handsome volume, which Salome indicated as the one referred to by her father.
The marquis brought two chairs to the stand, and they sat down to go over the book.
Meanwhile, the banker and the dowager commenced their game of chess. But from time to time, each looked furtively in the direction of the young people. _They_ were looking at the Madonnas of Raphael, and, once in a while, shyly into each other's eyes. All that Sir Lemuel saw there pleased him. All that Lady Belgrade saw there _dis_pleased her.
At length she put her hand over that of her antagonist, and stopped his move while she said: "Sir Lemuel, a conflagration may be arrested by stamping out a spark of fire."
"Whatever do you mean, my lady!" inquired the perplexed banker.
"An inundation may be prevented by stopping up a small leak."
"I am more mystified than ever!"
"Look at Salome and Mr. Scott, then," said her ladyship, solemnly.
"Well, what of them? They seem to be very happy and very well pleased with each other."
"Ah! that is it, and worse may come of it."
"What worse can come of it?"
"Sir Lemuel, this Mr. Scott, you must remember, is nothing but an adventurer, who only gains an entrance into respectable circles on account of his journalistic reputation. He is probably also a pauper, but being a very handsome and attractive man, he is certainly a very dangerous, and likely to be a very successful fortune-hunter."
"You mean he may try to marry my heiress?"
"Yes, Sir Lemuel."
"He has my full consent to do so."
"Sir Lemuel!"
"Listen, my good lady, I have a secret to tell you. That gentleman whom we have known as Mr. John Scott only, is really Archibald-Alexander-John Scott, Marquis of Hereward."
A woman of the world is hardly ever "taken aback." Lady Belgrade gave no exclamation. But she caught her breath and stared at the speaker.
"It is as I have told you. He is the Marquis of Arondelle. He is going to marry my daughter. He will get back Lone through her. And she will be Marchioness of Arondelle, and in due time Duchess of Hereward."
"You--don't--say--so!" breathed her ladyship, slowly.
"And now, you know how to manage it. You must aid the young couple as much as you can by giving them as much as possible of each other's society."
"Yes, I see," said her ladyship. "And now--don't look toward them again."
The banker nodded intelligently. And they gave their attention to the game.
And the two young people seemed to find inexhaustible interest in the volume they were bending over.
It was eleven o'clock before the young marquis arose to take leave.
"I have asked Miss Levison to ride with me in the Park to-morrow, and she has kindly consented--with your approbation, Sir Lemuel," said the young man.
"Certainly, Mr. Scott. I consider horseback riding one of the most healthful of exercises," said the banker, heartily.
The young marquis then bowed and took his leave.
Lady Belgrade gathered up her embroidery work and bade them good-night.
"My girl, what do you think of Mr. Scott?" asked the banker, when he was left alone with his daughter.
"Oh, papa," she breathed in an embarrassed manner.
"Do you know who he really is, my dear?"
"Yes, papa, I knew him when I first met him at the Premier's dinner. I knew him by his portrait that I saw at Castle Lone!"
"Oh, you did!" said the banker, musing.
His daughter looked at him for a moment, and then suddenly threw herself into his arms, clasped his neck and kissed him fervently, exclaiming, with her face radiant with delight: "Oh, papa! this is all your doing! I understand it all, dear papa! Bless you! bless you! bless you, my own, own dear papa! You have made your child so happy!"
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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5
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ARONDELLE'S CONSOLATION.
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On the next day, at the appointed hour, Salome came down to the drawing-room dressed for her ride.
She wore a rich habit of dark blue summer-cloth, fastened with small gold buttons, fine, tiny white linen cuffs and collar, dark blue gloves, dark blue velvet hat with a short, white ostrich plume secured by a small gold butterfly, and she carried in her hand a slender ivory-handled riding-whip, set with a sapphire. Her dress was neat, elegant, and appropriate; and her face was for the moment radiant and beautiful from inward joy.
In due time, the young marquis presented himself, and the lovers went forth for their ride.
It is not necessary to linger over this courtship, in which "the course of true love" ran so smooth as to seem monotonous to all but the lovers themselves.
The ride was followed by the small dinner party. And after that the young marquis became a daily visitor at Elmthorpe House, where he was ever received with fatherly affection by Sir Lemuel, and with subdued delight by Salome.
The lovers had come to a mutual understanding for days before the marquis made a formal proposal for Miss Levison's hand.
But it happened one evening that they found themselves alone in the drawing-room. They were seated at a table, loaded with books of engravings, photographs, and so forth.
Salome was turning over the pages of Dore's Milton.
"Close the volume, now, Miss Levison," Lord Arondelle said at length, uttering the formal words with a tone and look of such reverential tenderness as to seem a caress.
Salome shut the book, and looked up to read the open volume of his eloquent face; but her eyes instantly sank beneath the gaze of ardent passion that met them.
"Listen to me, Salome, my beloved; for I love you, and have loved you ever since the first moment when I met the beautiful spirit beaming through your sweet eyes--'Sweetest eyes were ever seen!' Dear eyes! look on me!"
Salome, for all her profound and ardent affections, was still a very shy maiden. She wished to raise her eyes to his; she wished to pour her heart out to him; to let him have the comfort of knowing how perfectly she loved him, how utterly she was his own. But she could not look at him, she could not speak to him as yet. Her dark eyelashes drooped to her crimson cheeks.
"My beloved, do you hear me? I am telling you how I have loved you since I first met your heavenly eyes. This is no lover's rhapsody, my own, for your eyes are heavenly in their spiritual beauty. And they have haunted me, Salome, like the eyes of a guardian angel ever since they first looked upon me. Daily they would have drawn me to your side but for my wrecked and ruined state," he said, with a half suppressed sigh.
His look, his tone, and, more than all, his allusion to the calamity of his house, reached her soul, and broke the spell of reserve by which she was bound.
"Oh, do not say that you are ruined!" she cried, in a voice thrilled and thrilling with profound emotion. "Do not think that you are ruined. _You_ could _never_ be ruined. _Nothing_ could ruin _you_. It is not in the power of fate to ruin a man like YOU. And if you loved me when you first met my eyes it was because you read in them the soul that was created yours! And if these eyes have haunted you ever since it was because this soul has been always longing, yearning, aspiring towards yours!" And she dropped her face in her hands and wept for pure joy.
"Salome, Salome, can this be indeed true? Can I have been so blessed? Am I indeed so happy? Then is this abundant compensation for all that I have lost in this world! Heavenly consolation for all I have suffered on earth! Speak again, oh, my dearest! Tell me once more, for I can scarcely realize my happiness! Speak again, beloved, for your words are life to me!" he exclaimed, with profound emotion.
"Yes, I will tell you all!" she said, wiping away her joyful tears and looking up. "I will tell you everything for it is your right! You have made me so happy to-day! I loved you from the beginning. First, I loved the magnanimous, self-sacrificing man who, at the age of twenty-one years, with a brilliant future before him, could renounce all his prospects to give peace to his father's latter years. I loved you then, Lord Arondelle, before I knew what manner of man you looked!"
"How blessed, how surely blessed I am in hearing you," he breathed, in a low and reverent tone.
"Afterward I saw your portrait in Malcolm's Tower at Lone," she continued, in a soft voice. "And I saw a beauty and a grandeur in the face and form that seemed the fitting manifestation of a soul like yours. And I loved you more than ever. My mornings were passed in the tower near the glory of that picture. But I gazed on it so hopelessly! You were missing, you were lost to your world! And then I was so plain, so pale, and dark and gray-eyed. If I should ever be so fortunate as to meet you, I thought you would never be likely to love me!"
"My consolation! You are most lovely from your spirit, and now you _know_ that I loved you from my first meeting with you," he breathed, in a low, earnest tone, pouring his whole soul's devotion through the gaze that he fixed on her face.
Again her eyes drooped as she murmured: "If I am lovely in the very least, it must be that my love for you has made me so; for, even then, when I had only heard your story and seen your portrait, I loved you so, that I could not think of marriage with any other man."
"And that was the reason why you refused so many excellent offers?" he inquired, with a smile.
"Perhaps that was the reason," she replied, lowly bending her head.
"Tell me more, my consolation! I thirst for your words; they are as the words of life to me," he murmured, eagerly.
She continued, still speaking in a low, thrilling voice: "At last--at last--at last--after three long years of waiting, longing, aspiring, I met you face to face. Oh!" she exclaimed, and as she spoke her hand for the first time went out to meet his, which closed upon it with a close clasp, and her eyes lifted themselves to his in a full blaze of love that seemed to blend their spirits into one.
"Oh! if in that moment you loved me, it must have been because you read my soul, for in that moment I consecrated my life to you for acceptance or rejection. I recorded a vow in heaven to be no man's wife unless I could be yours; but to live unmarried so that when, in the course of nature, my dear father should pass to the higher life and leave me Castle Lone, I might be free to transfer it to its rightful owner."
"Ah! my beloved! you would have been capable of such an act of renunciation as that! But I could not have accepted the sacrifice, Salome."
"In that case I should have made a will and bequeathed it to you, and then prayed to the Lord to take me from the earth, that you might have it all the sooner. But let that pass. Thanks be to Heaven, there is no need of that. It would have been sweet to die for you, but it is so much sweeter to _live_ for you, dearest!" she said, lifting up a face in which rosy blushes, radiant smiles, and beaming eyes were blended in dazzling beauty.
"Oh! angel of my destiny, what can I render you for all the blessings you have brought me?" exclaimed her lover, clasping her to his bosom in a close embrace.
"Your love--your love! which will crown me a queen among women!" she whispered, softly.
The morning succeeding this scene, Lord Arondelle called and asked for a private interview with Sir Lemuel Levison.
He was invited up into the library, where he found the banker alone among his books.
"Good morning, Arondelle. Glad to see you. Take this chair," said the old gentleman, rising, shaking hands with his visitor, and placing a seat for him.
The young marquis returned the hearty shake of the banker's hand, and took the offered chair.
"Now, I suppose that you have come to tell me that you have taken up the girl I flung at your head about a month ago?" said the banker, rubbing his hands.
"No, nothing of the sort," replied the young marquis, effectually declining to understand the jest of his host. "I do not remember that you ever flung any girl at my head. I came, Sir Lemuel, to tell you that I am so happy as to have won Miss Levison's consent to be my wife, if we have your approbation," he added, with a bow.
"Humph! It amounts to about the same thing. Well, my dear boy, you have my consent and blessing on two conditions."
"Name them, Sir Lemuel."
"The first is, that you can assure me on your honor that you really do love my daughter. I would not give her to an emperor who did not love her as she deserves to be loved," said the banker, emphatically.
"Love her!" repeated the young man, in a deep and earnest tone. "Love is scarcely the word, nor adoration, nor worship! She is the soul of my soul! She lives in my life, and my life is the larger, higher, holier for her!"
"Humph! I don't understand one word of what you are talking about, but I suppose it means that you really do love Salome. So the first condition will be fulfilled," said the banker, with a smile.
"And the second, sir. What is the second?"
"The second is, that the marriage shall take place within a month from this time."
"Agreed, sir. The sooner the better. The sooner I may call your lovely daughter mine, the sooner I shall be the most blessed among men," exclaimed the young marquis, earnestly clapping his palm into the open hand of the banker, and shaking it heartily.
"There! well, the second condition will be fulfilled. And now I will tell you what I never told you in so many words before, namely, that on the day Salome Levison becomes Marchioness of Arondelle, I will give her Lone as a marriage portion. There, now, not a word more upon that subject. I will send a message to my attorney to meet us here to-morrow morning," said the banker, rising and ringing the bell.
"You will let me thank--" began the marquis.
"No, I won't!" exclaimed the banker, cutting short the young gentleman's acknowledgements. "Excuse me now half a minute, I want to write a line," he added, as he hastily scribbled off a note.
A footman entered in answer to the bell.
"Take this to the office of the Messrs. Prye, Lincoln's Inn Fields, and wait an answer," said Sir Lemuel, handing the folded note to the man, who bowed and retired.
"Prye must meet us here to-morrow morning to see to the marriage settlements. And I must see to Prye! Even lawyers may be hurried if they be well paid for making haste!" concluded the banker, rubbing his hands. "But now go and find Salome, and tell her it is all right! She has not got a stern father to ruffle the course of her true love, but a spooney old fellow who spreads out his hands over your heads and says: 'Bul-less you, my chee-ild-der-en!'"
Lord Arondelle smiled at the dry banker's imitation of the heavy stage-father, but made no comment.
"Yes, go see Salome; and then go to the duke, your father, and acquaint him with the result of your proposal. I take it for granted that you had his grace's authority for making it."
"I had, sir. He told me to be guided by my own judgment."
"Well tell him all about the settlements as I have told them to you. Agree to any amendment he may propose, for I will make it all right."
"That is allowing a very large margin, indeed. I thank you, Sir Lemuel; but I must reflect before taking advantage of it."
"Well, well; perhaps the duke will meet my solicitor here to-morrow morning in regard to the settlements. I consider the fact that he has steadily declined every invitation I have sent him to come to us on any occasion. Still, I hope he may be induced to honor us with his presence to-morrow in the interest of these marriage settlements, and to remain and dine with us in honor of this betrothal," said the banker.
"I hope you will kindly continue to excuse my father, sir. His age, his infirmities, his failing mind and body, will, I trust, be his sufficient apologies," said the young marquis gravely.
"You think that he will not come, then!"
"I fear that he cannot."
"I'm sorry for that. However, tell him all that I have told you, and agree to any alterations in the settlements that he may see fit to suggest. There! Go to Salome! Go to Salome! I must be off to the House," said the conscientious M.P. rising, and putting an end to the interview.
It was subsequently arranged that the marriage should be celebrated at Castle Lone on that day three weeks.
Two weeks out of the three, Sir Lemuel Levison remained in town to give his daughter and her chaperon an opportunity of getting up as good a trousseau as could be prepared in so short a time. But jewellers, milliners, and dressmakers may be hurried as well as lawyers, when they are well paid to make haste. And so, in two weeks, the banker's heiress, the future Marchioness of Arondelle and Duchess of Hereward, had a trousseau as magnificent and splendid as if it had been in preparation for two years. When it was all carefully packed and sent down to Lone, Sir Lemuel Levison and his household prepared to follow.
On the day before their departure a very curious thing happened.
Sir Lemuel was waiting in his library, when a footman entered and laid a card before him. It was not a visiting card, but a business card. And it bore the name of a firm: Dazzle and Sparkle, jewellers, Number Blank, Bond street.
"What is the meaning of this?" inquired the banker.
"If you please, sir, the person who brought it directed me to say, that he craves to speak with you on the most important business," answered the man.
"Important to himself most likely, and not in the least so to me. Well, show him up," said Sir Lemuel.
The servant withdrew and, after a few moments, reappeared and announced: "Mr. Dazzle, of Dazzle and Sparkle, Bond street."
A little, round-bodied, bald-headed man entered the library.
Sir Lemuel Levison received him with some surprise, but with much politeness.
"I have come, sir, on a little business," began the visitor, who forthwith proceeded and explained his business at length.
It seemed that the imbecile Duke of Hereward, being well pleased with his son's marriage, and imagining himself still to be the master of Lone and of a princely revenue, went to Messrs. Dazzle and Sparkle, and ordered a splendid set of diamonds for his prospective daughter-in-law.
The firm, who, as well as all the world of London, had heard of the forthcoming marriage between the son of the pauper duke and the daughter of the wealthy banker, gravely accepted the order, pondered over it, and finally determined to lay the whole matter before the banker himself.
"You have acted with much discretion, Mr. Dazzle. Fill the duke's order, and hold me responsible for the amount. And say nothing of the affair," was the banker's answer to the tradesman, who bowed and left the room.
The next morning Sir Lemuel Levison, his daughter, her chaperon, and their household, went down to Castle Lone.
Active preparations were at once commenced for the wedding, which was to take place at Lone on the Tuesday of the following week.
The first thing that Salome did on reaching the castle was to have the portrait of the Marquis of Arondelle brought down from the tower and mounted in state between the two lofty front windows of her favorite sitting-room.
Among the servants at Lone, none received the bride elect with more effusive love than the old housekeeper, Girzie Ross.
"Eh, me leddy! Heaven, sent ye to redeem Lone. My benison on ye, me leddy! and my ban on yon hizzie, wha hae been makin' sic' an ado, ever sin the report o' your betrothal has been noised about!" said the dame.
"But who are you talking about, my dear Mrs. Ross?" inquired Salome.
"Ou just that handsom hizzie, Rosy Cameron, wha will hae it that she, her vera sel', is troth-plighted to our young laird--the jaud!" replied the housekeeper.
"But, Mrs. Ross, surely that must be a mistake of yours. No girl could have the impertinence to say such a false thing of Lord Arondelle," exclaimed Salome, in disgust and abhorrence of the very idea presented.
"Indeed, then, my young lady, _she_ ha' the impertinence to say just that thing--not in a whisper and in a corner, but loudly in the vera castle court, to whilk she cam yestreen, sae noisily that I was fain to threaten her wi' the constable before I could get shet o' her," said the housekeeper nodding her head.
"What can the girl mean by it? What excuse can she possibly have to justify such a mad charge?" inquired Salome, in a painful anxiety that she could neither conquer nor yet explain to herself. She did not doubt the honor of her promised husband. She would have died rather than doubt him. Why, then, should this sudden anguish wring her heart. "What excuse can she have, Mrs. Ross?" repeated Salome.
"Eh, me leddy, wha kens? Boys will be boys. And whiles the best o' them will be wild where a bonny lassie is concerned. No that's I'm saying sic a thing anent our young laird. But ye ken he used to be unco fond o' the sport o' deer stalking up by Ben Lone, where this handsome hizzie, Rose Cameron, bides wi' her owld feyther. And I e'en think the young laird, may whiles, hae putten a speak on the lass. Nae mair nor less than just that," said the housekeeper as she left the room to look after some important household work.
A few minutes after her exit, Sir Lemuel Levison entered.
Finding his daughter almost in tears, he naturally inquired: "What on earth is the matter with you, my child?"
"Nothing, papa! At least nothing that should trouble me!"
"But what is it?"
"Well then, papa, dear, here has been a foolish girl--_very_ foolish, I think she must be, going about, intruding even into the Castle, and telling all that will listen to her, that _she_ is betrothed to the Marquis of Arondelle."
"Oh! Just as I feared!" muttered the banker, in a tone that instantly riveted the attention of his daughter. " _What_ did you fear, my father?" she inquired, fixing her eyes upon his face.
The banker hesitated.
His daughter repeated her question: "_What_ did you fear, my dear father?"
"Why, just what has happened, my love!" impatiently answered the banker. "That this silly report would reach your ears and give you uneasiness. It _has_ reached you; but do not, I beseech you, let it trouble you!"
"There is no truth in it of course, papa?" said Salome, in a tone of entreaty.
"No, no, at least none that need concern you. Lord bless my soul, girl, young men will be young men! Arondelle is now about twenty-five years of age. And he was not brought up in a convent, as you were. He has lived for a quarter of a century in the world! Surely, you do not expect that a young man should live as long as that without ever admiring a pretty face, and even telling its owner so, do you?"
"I never once thought about that, at all, papa," said Salome, in a mournful tone.
"No, I'll warrant you didn't! Well, don't think anything more of it now. And don't expect too much of human nature. In this year of grace there are no saints left alive! Believe that, and accept it, my girl!"
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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6
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A HORRIBLE MYSTERY ON THE WEDDING DAY.
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On the day before the wedding all the preparations were completed.
The grounds around the castle, paradisial in their own natural beauty under this heavenly blue sky of June, were adorned with all that art and taste and wealth could bring to enhance their attractions in honor of the occasion.
Triumphal arches of rare exotic flowers were erected at intervals along the avenue leading from the castle courtyard down to the bridge that spanned Loch Lone from the island, to the mountain hamlet on the main land. The bridge itself was canopied with evergreens, and starred with roses. Every house in the little hamlet of Lone was so wreathed and festooned with flowers as to look like a fairy bower. The little gothic church, said to be coeval in history with the castle itself, was decorated within and without as for an Easter or Christmas festival. And the only inn of the place, an antiquated but most comfortable public house, known for centuries as the "Hereward Arms," was almost covered with flags, banners and bushes, in honor of the presence of the Duke of Hereward, and the Marquis of Arondelle, especially, and of other noble guests who had arrived there to assist at the wedding of the next day.
Yes, the expectant bridegroom and his aged father were at the Hereward Arms. Etiquette did not admit of their being guests at the Castle on the day before the expected marriage. And much ado had the young marquis to keep the duke quietly at the inn. The old man enjoying his pleasing hallucination of being still the proprietor of Lone, and the possessor of a princely revenue, fretted against the delay that detained him at the Hereward Arms, when he was so anxious to go on to Castle Lone. And his son did not venture to leave him until late at night, when he left him in bed and asleep.
Then the young marquis walked out and crossed the evergreen covered bridge leading to the Castle grounds. He knew that custom did not sanction his visit to his bride-elect on the night before their wedding, but he could at least gaze on the walls that sheltered her, while he rambled over the rich lawns, parterres, shrubberies, and terraces.
Within the Castle, meanwhile, all the arrangements for the morning's festivity were completed.
Halls, drawing-rooms, parlors, chambers, and dining-rooms, all sumptuously furnished and beautifully decorated, were ready for the wedding guests.
In the dining-room the luxurious wedding-breakfast was set. The service was of solid gold and finest Sevres china; the viands comprised every foreign and domestic delicacy fitting the feast.
In the drawing-room the magnificent bridal presents were displayed--coronets, necklaces, earrings, brooches, bracelets, rings, of pearls, diamonds, opals, emeralds, sapphires, and amethysts; jewel caskets, dressing cases, work boxes, and writing desks, of ormolu, of malachite, of pearl, and of ivory, of silver, and of gold; illuminated prayer-books and Bibles, with antique covers and clasps set with precious stones; tea and dinner sets of solid gold; camel's hair and Cashmere shawls and scarfs; sets of lace in Honiton, Brussels, Valencia. Irish point and old point--on to an endless list of the most splendid offerings.
"The wealth of Ormus and of Ind" seemed to load the tables in costly gifts to the banker's daughter, and marquis' bride.
In the bride's own luxurious dressing-room, the elegant bridal costume was displayed. It consisted of a fine point-lace dress over a trained-skirt of rich white satin, a full-length vail of priceless cardinal point-lace; white kid boots, embroidered with small pearls; white kid gloves, trimmed at the wrists with lace; wreath and bouquet of orange flowers; necklace and pendant earrings and bracelets of rich Oriental pearls, set with diamonds. These jewels were the imaginary gift of the mad duke to the bride-elect of his son, and were paid for, as has been already explained, by the bride's own father. A sentiment of tender reverence for the unfortunate old duke had inspired Salome to select these jewels from all the others that had been lavished upon her, to wear on her wedding day.
To the credit of the good banker's delicacy and discretion let it be said, that not even Salome knew but that this elegant gift had been given by the duke in reality as it was in intention.
The Castle was now full of guests, friends of the bride and of her father's family. The eight young ladies who were to attend her to the altar, had arrived early in the afternoon, each chaperoned by her mother, aunt, or some matronly friend. These had all been shown to their separate apartments.
They assembled again at the seven o'clock dinner in the family dining-room, and afterwards made a little tour of inspection through the rooms, looking with approval and admiration upon the sumptuous wedding-breakfast table, set in the great dining-room, and with surprise and enthusiasm at the splendid wedding presents displayed in the drawing-room. Finally, after a social cup of tea, they separated and retired to their several rooms, that they might be up in good time the next morning.
When Salome entered her own bed-chamber, she found the old housekeeper, Girzie Ross, awaiting her.
"I took the liberty, me leddy, to come to see ye, gin ye hae ony commands for me the night," said the dame, courtesying.
"No, Mrs. Ross, I have no orders to give. All is done, as I understand. If there be anything left undone, you will use you own discretion about it. I can thoroughly trust you," said Salome.
"Guid-night, then, me leddy. And a guid rest and a blithe waking till ye," said the dame, courtesying again, and turning to leave the room.
"One moment, Mrs. Ross, if you please," said the young lady, gently arresting her steps.
"Ay, me leddy, as mony as ye'll please," promptly replied the dame, returning to her place.
"I wish to ask you a question," began Salome, in a slow and hesitating manner. "Have you seen or heard anything more of that girl, Mrs. Ross?"
"Meaning that ne'er-do-weel light o' love Rose Cameron, me leddy!" inquired the housekeeper.
"Yes, Rose Cameron. There have been such crowds of people on the island today to inspect the decorations, that I thought--I thought--" "As that handsome jaud might be amang 'em, me leddy? Ou, ay, and sae she waur! But when I caught her prowling about here, I sent Mr. McRath to warn her off the place, and threaten her wi' the constable gin she didna gang!" said the housekeeper.
"But that was cruel, Mrs. Ross."
"Na, na, me leddy. It waur unco well dune! She was after no guid prowling about here, and making an excuse o' luking at the deekorated grounds. She didna care for the sight a bodle! Aweel she's gane, and a guid riddance."
"What does the girl look like, Mrs. Ross?"
"Eh, leddy, she's a strapping wench! tall and broad-shouldered, and full-breasted, with a handsome head that she carries unco high, and big, bold blue eyes, and a heap o' long, red hair. That's Rosy Cameron, me leddy."
This was a rather rough portrait of the Juno-like Highland beauty; but then, it was drawn by an enemy, you know.
"But dinna fash yersel' about yon hizzie ony mair, me young leddy. She'll na be permitted to trouble ye," concluded the housekeeper.
"That will do, Mrs. Ross. Thanks. But pray do not let anyone be harsh with that poor girl. If she is a little crazy, she is all the more to be pitied. Good-night," said Salome, thus gently dismissing her talkative attendant.
"Guid night, me young leddy. Guid rest and blithe waking to ye," repeated the old woman, as she courtesied and left the room.
"Poor girl!" mused Salome. "I cannot help sympathizing with her tonight. What if Arondelle who is so courteous to all, were courteous to her also. And she, unused to courtesy in her rude Highland home, mistook such gentle courtesy for preference, for love, and gave him her love in return? He would not be in the least to be blamed, while she would be much to be pitied. What a cruel sight these wedding preparations must be to her! What a miserable night this must be for her! I must see to that poor girl's welfare," concluded Salome.
A low rap at her door disturbed her.
"Come in."
Her maid entered.
"What is it, Janet?"
"If you please, Miss, Sir Lemuel's man has just brought me a message for you. Sir Lemuel requests, Miss, that you will come to his room before you retire."
"Dear papa, I will go at once. You need not wait for me here, Janet. Just turn the lights down low--they make the room so warm--and leave the windows partly open, and then go to bed, my girl, I shall not want you again tonight," said Salome, as she passed out of the chamber and went down to the long hall, at the opposite extremity of which was her father's room.
She entered silently, and found the banker wrapped in his gray silk dressing-gown and seated in his large resting-chair.
"Come and sit by me, my dear. I only wanted to have a little talk with you tonight," he said, holding out his hand to her.
She went up to him, clasped and kissed the out-stretched hand, and then seated herself, not on the chair by his side, for that would not have brought her near enough to him, but on the footstool at his feet, so that she could lay her head upon his knees.
"Salome, my darling, I have not been a good father to you," he said, sadly, as he ran his long white fingers through the tresses of the little dark-haired head that lay upon his knees.
"Oh, papa! the best and dearest papa that ever lived!" she answered, drawing his hand to her lips and kissing it fondly.
"No, no; I have not been a good father to you, my poor motherless child. I feel it to-night. I left you fourteen years in a foreign convent, and scarcely ever saw you. Was that being a good father to you, my child?"
"Yes, dear, it was. I had to be educated. And the nuns did their whole duty by me, did they not?" said Salome, soothingly.
"They sent me home a sweet and lovely child, who in the three years that she has been my greatest blessing and comfort has made me feel and know how much I lost in banishing her from my presence so long--fourteen years! --a time never to be redeemed!" said the banker, with a sigh.
"Yes, papa, dear. It can and shall be redeemed. For now you know I shall live with you as long as you live. My marriage will not deprive you of your daughter, but give you a dear and noble son. You know it is settled that after our brief wedding we shall return to Lone, and you and the duke, and Arondelle and myself, will all live here together until the meeting of Parliament in February, and then we shall go up to London together. So cheer up, papa. All the coming years shall compensate for all we have lost in the past," said Salome, gayly caressing him. " 'The coming years?' Ah, my darling! do you forget that I am quite an old man to be your father? You were the child of my old age, Salome! I was nearly fifty when you were born. I am nearly seventy now!" " _Dear father! _" murmured Salome, caressing him with ineffable tenderness.
"Do not let me sadden you, my darling. I would not be a day younger. It is well to be old. It is well to have lived a long time in this world, for it is a good world. But good as it is, it is but rudimentary. It is to the human being only what the soil is to the seed--the germinating bed; the full and perfect world is beyond. Young Christians believe this. Aged Christians know it. There, brighten up! And think that this marriage of yours and Arondelle's if it be as true as I feel assured it is--will be not for time only but for all eternity! Believe this and be happier than you were ever before! There now, my darling! I called you in here to make my little confession. I have received absolution. Now go to your rest. Good night," said the banker, bending and kissing her forehead.
"Dear, dearest father! bless your daughter before she goes," said Salome, in a voice thrilling with emotion, as she raised from her seat and knelt at her father's feet.
The old man laid his hand upon her bowed head and solemnly invoked a blessing upon her.
"May the Lord look down on you, my daughter. May He give you health and grace to bear your burdens and do your duties as wife and mother, and save and bless you and yours, now and ever more, for Christ's dear sake. AMEN."
She arose in silence from her knees, put her arms around his neck, kissed him, and glided from the room.
And now a terrible and mysterious thing happened to the bride-elect.
The lights had been turned very low in the hall. The household had all retired to rest. The stillness and the sense of darkness awed her as she glided noiselessly along in the deep shadows. Suddenly she saw the form of a man approaching from the direction of her own room. He might be some belated servant on some legitimate business for one of the guests, yet he startled her. She looked intently toward him, but in the obscure light she could only see that he was a tall man in dark clothing, and with a very white face. She shrank back in the shadow of the wall as he swiftly and silently approached her.
Then with amazement she recognized the face and form of her betrothed husband. But the face was deadly pale, and the form was shaking as with an ague fit.
"ARONDELLE! _You here! _" she exclaimed, starting towards him.
But she met only the empty air, the form had vanished.
In unbounded amazement she stared all around to see where it could have gone, and in what part of the darksome hall she herself then stood.
She found herself opposite to the entrance of a long, narrow passage opening from the hall and leading to the door of a staircase communicating with the dungeons of Malcolm's Tower.
She looked down that passage. It was black as the mouth of Hades!
A nameless terror seized her, and she fled precipitately down the hall, nor stopped until she had reached her own room, rushed in, and shut and bolted the door. Then she sank down into the nearest chair, feeling cold as ice, and trembling from head to foot.
Her maid had over-acted her instructions, and had not only turned the lights low, but had turned them out entirely.
There was no need of artificial light, however; for the windows were open and the room was flooded with the brilliant moonshine of these northern latitudes.
Salome did not know or care how the room was lighted. She sat there thrilled with awe of what she had just experienced.
Had she really seen the marquis? --or his spirit? Or had she been the victim of an optical illusion?
If she had seen the marquis, what could have brought him secretly into the house and up into the hall of the bed-rooms, at that hour of the night? And why did he not answer her, when she called him?
It surely could not have been the marquis whom she saw! He never would have crept into the house and up to their private-rooms, at that hour of the night, or fled from her, when she called him?
What was it then that she had seen in the likeness of her lover?
Was it the disembodied spirit of Arondelle? _Could_ the spirit of a living man appear in one place, while the body of the man was present in another? She had heard and read of such wonders, yet she could not accept them as facts.
No, this was no spirit.
What then? Had she been the subject of an optical illusion? She had heard of those wonders also!
But no! This was too real, too solid, too substantial for an optical illusion!
Was the form she had seen possibly that of some other person, some guest of the house, who had lost his way.
No, and a thousand noes! She knew every guest staying at the castle, and knew that not one of them bore the slightest resemblance to the Marquis of Arondelle.
No, the form that she had seen in the murky hall seemed that of her betrothed husband, or it was his spirit.
She could not tell which, nor could she test the question now. The house was full of wedding guests, who were now most probably sound asleep in their beds. And the household all had long since retired. She could not rouse them only to satisfy her own doubts without any other practical result. For what if the intruder were Lord Arondelle? He was not in the least an objectional guest. And in the morning he would explain his strange presence.
By this time Salome had reasoned herself into some degree of calmness. But she was still too much excited to feel sleepy or to think of retiring to bed.
The mid-summer night was warm and close, even there in the Highlands--or in her nervous condition it seemed to her to be so. She wanted more air. She went to the window, and seated herself in an easy-chair, and looked out.
A heavenly night!
The deep-blue sky was spangled with myriads of sparkling stars. The full harvest moon was at the zenith and pouring down a flood of silvery radiance over mountain, lake and island.
Right opposite the window was the elegant little bridge that spanned the lake between the island and the mountain, at the base of which stood the little Gothic church with the cottages of the hamlet clustered around it.
A beautiful scene!
This morning it had been gay and noisy with a rejoicing crowd come to inspect the decorated grounds, and to triumph over the approaching marriage of their disinherited young lord, with the present heiress of his lost estate.
To-morrow this scene would be even more gay and more noisy, with a greater and more rejoicing crowd. For all the Clan Scott were to gather here to do honor to the nuptials of their hereditary chieftain.
But to-night the beautiful scene was holy in its solitude and stillness.
Hark!
A sound of voices beneath the window.
Salome started, and drew back. And the next moment, paralyzed by consternation and despair, she overheard the following conversation: "_Hist! _ are you there, Rose?" inquired a dear familiar voice.
"Ay, I'm here, me laird! After being turnit frae the castle like a thief, or a beggar, or a dog! after being threatened wi' a constable and a prison if I ever showed my face here; but once mair I hae come agen, in obedience to your bidding! Come creeping, creeping, creeping ander the castle wa', by night, like ony puir cat afeared o' scauding water! Ay, me laird, I'm here, mair fule I!" replied a woman's voice.
"Hush, Rose! Do not say so, my girl. And do not call me 'lord;' I am your slave and not your 'lord,' my lady queen! You know I love you--you only of all women."
"Luve me? Ou, ay, sae ye tell me. But this gran' wedding is coming unco near to be naething but a jest. How far will ye carry the jest? Up till the altar railings? Into the bridal chamber? It's deceiving and fuling me, ye are, me laird! But I'll tell ye weel! Ye sail no marry yon girl, I say! Gin ye gae sae far as to lead her to the kirk mesel' will meet you at the altar and forbid the marriage. And _then_ see wha will put me out!"
"Hush, hush, you wild Highland witch, and listen to me. I shall not marry that girl! How can I, when I am married to you? I have had an object in letting this thing go on thus far. My plans could not all be accomplished until to-night. But to-night something will happen that will put all thoughts of marrying and giving in marriage effectually out of the heads of all parties concerned, I will warrant. And to-morrow, you and I will be far away from this place--together, and never to part again. Wait here for me, my love; I shall not be long away. But on your life, do not stir, or speak, or scarcely breathe until you see me again."
"How long will you be gone?"
"Perhaps an hour. Perhaps two hours. You can be patient?"
"Ay, I can be patient."
Here the low, whispering voice ceased. And Salome?
Before that conversation was half through, Salome had fallen back in her chair in a deadly swoon.
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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7
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THE MORNING'S DISCOVERY.
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When Miss Levison recovered her consciousness it was broad daylight. The rising sun glancing over the top of the Eastern mountain sent arrows of golden light in through the window at which she sat.
Music filled the morning air!
Salome passed her hands over her eyes, and gazed around. So long and deep had been her swoon that, for the time, she had utterly lost her memory, and now found difficulty in trying to recover it. Bewildered, she looked about, and listened to the strange, wild music sounding under her window--a sort of morning serenade or reveille, it seemed.
Next her eyes fell upon her magnificent bridal array, displayed on stands near the elegant dressing-table.
Then she remembered that this was her wedding-day, and a flush of joy lighted up her face.
But it passed in a moment.
What was this that lay so heavy at her heart! Was it the remnant of an evil dream?
What had happened? Something must have happened! Else why should she find herself seated in that easy-chair at the open window, and see that her bed had not been occupied?
Then, slowly, she recollected the events of the previous night--her retirement to her chamber; her talk there with the housekeeper about Rose Cameron, the "handsome hizzie," who had been haunting the premises and giving trouble all that day; the message from her father; her affecting interview with him in his bedroom; her return to her own apartment through the dimly-lighted, deserted hall, where she met the pale and spectral form of Lord Arondelle, who vanished as she called to him! her terrified flight into her own chamber!
All these incidents she clearly remembered.
Then her excited vigil in the easy-chair, by the open window, and the two voices that broke upon it--that of her betrothed husband and that of a woman--of this same Rose Cameron, whose name had been so disreputably connected with Lord Arondelle's; who then and there claimed to be his wife and was not contradicted!
There! that was the weight that lay so heavy at her heart!
"And yet it must have been a dream!" she said to herself. Of course she had fallen asleep there in the easy-chair, and with her thoughts running on the apparition she had met in the hall, and on the country people's gossip about Lord Arondelle and Rose Cameron, she had had that evil dream. Unquestionably it was only a dream! Lord Arondelle could never play so base a part as he had seemed to do in her dream! She reproached herself for having even involuntarily been the subject of it.
And yet! and yet! the weight lay heavy at her heart, and although this was a warm June morning, she shivered as though it had been January.
She arose to close the window.
Then-- What a magnificent and beautiful scene burst upon her vision! The eastern horizon was ablaze with glory. Lovely morning clouds, soft, transparent white, tinted with rose, violet and gold, tempered the dazzling splendor of the rising sun, and half vailed the opal-hued mountain tops, and even hung upon the emerald mountain side. Morning sky, rosy clouds, and opal mountains, were all reflected as by a mirror in the clear water of the lake below.
The hamlet at the foot of the mountain was gay with flags and banners and festoons of flowers. The bridge spanning the lake and connecting the hamlet with the island, was grand with triumphal arches. The lake was alive with gayly-trimmed pleasure-boats of every description. The island, with its groves, shrubberies, parterres, arbors, terraces, statues, was decorated with flags and banners, innumerable colored lamps and floral mottoes and devices.
The streets of the hamlet, the bridge and the island was each alive with a merry crowd of tenantry and peasantry in their picturesque holiday suits, coming to see the wedding pageant.
Gayer than all was the gathering of the Clan Scott, in their brilliant tartans, and with their national music to do honor to the nuptials of the heir of their chief.
As Miss Levison looked and listened, the shadows of the night vanished from her mind as clouds before the sun!
How strange the thought that the evil dream should have troubled her at all! But the dream had seemed as real as any waking experience. But then, again, dreams often do seem so! She would think no more of it, except to repent having been so unjust to Lord Arondelle, even though it was but in an involuntary dream.
It was as yet very early in the morning--not seven o'clock. Her serenaders had waked her betimes, and the country people had clearly determined to lose not one hour of that festive day. But Miss Levison was still shivering in the mild June morning. She thought she would ask for a cup of coffee to warm her.
She rang her bell.
Her maid entered the room, courtesied, and stood waiting "Janet, tell the housekeeper to send me a strong, hot cup of coffee," she said.
"Yes, Miss. If you please, Miss, my lord's gentleman is below with a note and a parcel for you, Miss." "Very well, Janet. Do you bring it up and ask the man to wait. There may be answer," replied Miss Levison, as the rose clouds rolled over her clear, pale cheeks.
The girl courtesied and withdrew.
"To think of my being so wicked as to have such a dream about him--_him_!" she said to herself, as again she shivered with cold.
Presently the housekeeper entered with a tiny cup of coffee on a small silver tray in her hand, and with many cordial congratulations on her lips.
Fortunately the lace curtains of the bed were down, so that she could not see that it had not been slept in, and annoy her young mistress with exclamations and questions.
"Eh, me young leddy! a blithe bridal morn ye hae got; and a braw sight on the ramparts of a' the Scotts, wi' their tartans and bag-pipes, come to do ye honor!" said the housekeeper, as she held the tray to her mistress.
Miss Levison drank the coffee, returned the cup, and then inquired: "Where is Janet? I sent her with a message; she should have returned by this time."
"Ou, aye, sae she should. She's clacking her clavvers wi' yon lad frae the 'Hereward Arm.' But here she is now, me young leddy," answered the housekeeper, as the maid entered the room and placed in her mistress' hand a note and a small parcel, tied up in white paper with narrow white ribbon, and sealed with the Hereward crest.
Miss Levison opened the note and read: "HEREWARD ARMS INN, Tuesday Morning.
"I greet you, my only beloved, on this our bridal morning--the commencement of a long and happy union for both of us! Yes, a long union, for it will stretch into eternity, and a happy one, for come what will, we shall be happy in each other. I send you the richest jewel that has ever been in our possession, the only one which has survived the wreck of our fortunes. It has been preserved more on account of its traditionary interest than for its intrinsic value. Tradition tells us that at the taking of Jerusalem, in the first crusade, this jewel was snatched from the turban of Saladin, the Sultan, in single combat, by our wild crusading ancestor, Ranulph d' Arondelle. It adorned his own hemlet at the siege of St. Jean d' Acre, some years later. In short, it has been handed down from father to son through six centuries and sixteen generations. It has "in the thickest carnage blazed" on battle-fields, and in the maddest merriment flashed in festive scenes. Yet it is an offering all too poor for my great love to make, or your great worth to receive. But take it as the best I have to give.
"ARONDELLE."
She read this note with tearful eyes, roseate cheeks' and smiling lips. And then she untied the white ribbon and opened the white paper. It first disclosed a golden casket about four inches square, richly chased and bearing the Hereward arms set in small precious stones. The tiny key was in the lock. She opened it and found, lying on a bed of rich white satin, a large, burning, blazing ruby heart--the famous ruby of the Hereward, said to be the largest in the world. Miss Levison had read of this jewel as one of the most valuable among precious stones. She had heard also, what evidently the young marquis did not think worth while to tell her in connection with its history, namely, that it had been held as an amulet of such power that it was believed the ducal house of Hereward would never be without a male heir as long as it possessed that priceless ruby heart. Miss Levison supposed this to be the reason why it had been preserved by the old duke from the total wreck of his fortune. And the marquis had given it to her! Well, that was not giving it out of the family, since she was to be his wife. While offering it he had undervalued the royal gift. But how highly she appreciated it, rating it far above all the other jewels that blazed upon her table.
"And to think I should have had such an evil dream about him, and even suffered myself to be troubled by it!" she said, pressing his note to her lips.
Then she shivered so hardly that her old housekeeper exclaimed: "Me dear young leddy, ye hae surely taken cauld. Let me order a fire kindled here."
"Nonsense, Mrs. Ross--a fire on this warm summer morning? I could not bear it. Besides if I shiver with cold one moment, I glow with heat the next," said Miss Levison, smiling.
"Ay; I am sair afeard ye's gaun to be ill, wi' all thae shivers and glows," replied the dame, shaking her head.
"Nonsense again, Mrs. Ross, dear woman. I am well enough. Now, Janet, did you tell his lordship's messenger to wait?"
"Yes, Miss." Miss Levison drew a little writing-stand to her side, opened the desk, took out materials and penned the following note: "LONE CASTLE, Tuesday.
"MY MOST BELOVED AND HONORED: Your right royal gift is beyond all price for richness, beauty, traditional interest, and symbolism, and as such I shall hold it above all other gifts, and cherish it to the end of my life. But it is not only to speak of your invaluable gift I write; it is also to ask you to do a strange thing to please me this morning. It is now eight o'clock. We are appointed to meet at the church at eleven. Will you meet me _here_ first at half-past nine? I wish to tell you something before we go to the altar. It is nothing important that I have to tell you--you will probably only laugh at it; but I must get it off my mind; for it weighs there like a sin. Come and receive my little confession, and give absolution to YOUR OWN SALOME."
She enveloped and directed this note, and gave it to Janet, with orders to hand it to Lord Arondelle's man.
When the girl had left the room, Miss Levison turned to the housekeeper and inquired: "Has my father's bell rung yet, do you know?"
"Na, me young leddy, it has na rung yet. Sir Lemuel's man, Mr. Peter, is down-stairs, waiting for the summons."
"Perhaps he had better call his master," suggested Miss Levison.
"Na, Miss, sae I tauld him; but he said his orders were no to call his master the morn', but to wait till he heard his bell ring. He's waiting for that e'en noo."
"Very well, Mrs. Ross. Papa was up late last night, I know, and is probably tired this morning. So we must let him sleep as long as possible. But as soon as his bell rings, be sure to take him up a cup of coffee."
"Verra weel, Miss." "And, Mrs. Ross, I hope that all our guests are cared for, and served in their own rooms with tea and toast, or coffee and muffins, as they choose?"
"Ou, ay, me dear young leddy, I hae ta'en care of a' that. And what will I bring yersel', Miss, before ye begin to dress?"
"Nothing; I have had a cup of coffee. That is sufficient for the present."
"Neathing but ae wee bit cup o' coffee, my dear young leddy?"
"No; I have no appetite. I suppose no girl ever did have on her wedding morning," said Miss Levison, shivering and then flushing.
The housekeeper contemplated her young mistress with growing anxiety.
"I am sure ye are no weel," she ventured again to suggest.
"I am quite well, my dear Mrs. Ross. Do not disturb yourself. But go now and send Janet and Kitty to me. I must begin to dress."
The housekeeper left the room, and was soon replaced by the lady's maid and the upper house-maid.
"Is my bath ready, Kitty?"
"Yes, Miss; and I have poured six bottles of ody collone intil it," said the girl, with a very self-approving air.
"You needn't have done that," said Miss Levison, with an amused smile, "but you meant well, and I thank you."
She took her customary morning bath, and slipping on a soft, white, cashmere wrapper, placed herself in the hands of her maidens to be dressed for the altar.
Janet combed, and brushed and arranged the shining dark brown hair. Kitty laced the dainty white velvet boots. Janet arrayed her in her bridal robes, and Kitty clasped the costly jewels around her neck and arms. One placed the bridal vail and wreath upon her head, while the other drew the pretty pearl-embroidered gloves upon her hands.
At length her toilet was complete, and she stood up, beautiful in her youth, love, and joy, and imperial in her array.
She wore a long trained dress of the richest white satin, trimmed with deep point lace flounces, headed with trails of orange flower buds; an over-dress of fine cardinal point lace, looped up with festoons of orange buds; a point lace berthe and short sleeve ruffles; a necklace, pendant, and bracelets of pearls set in diamonds, white kid gloves, embroidered with fine white silk; white satin boots worked with pearls. On her head the rich, full orange flower wreath. And over all, like mist over frost and snow, fell the long bridal vail of finest point lace, softening the whole effect.
"The young ladies, your bridesmaids, bid me tell you, Miss, that they are quite ready to come to you, when you are so to receive them," said Kitty, as she placed the bouquet of orange flowers in its jewelled holder, and handed it to her mistress.
"Very well. I will send for them in good time," answered Miss Levison, glancing at the little golden clock upon the mantel-piece, and noticing that it was nearly half-past nine, the hour at which she expected Lord Arondelle. "But now, Kitty, my good girl, go and inquire if my father is up, and return and let me know. I would like to see him in his room."
The house-maid courtesied and went out, and after a few minutes' absence returned running.
"If you please, Miss, Sir Lemuel hasn't rung his bell yet, and Mr. Peters says, with his duty to you, Miss, as it is so late, hadn't he better call his master?"
"By no means! Let Mr. Peters obey his master's orders not to disturb him until his bell rings," answered the young lady.
"Yes, Miss; and if you please, Miss, here is a card, and his lordship, Lord Arondelle, is down stairs asking for you, Miss," said the girl, laying the pasteboard in question before her young mistress.
"Lord Arondelle! Yes, I expected his lordship. Where is he?"
"Mr. McRath showed him into the library, Miss." "Quite right. None of our guests have left their rooms yet?"
"No, Miss, they be all busy a dressing of themselves, as I think."
"Ah! then go before me and open the door, and tell his lordship that I shall be with him in a moment," said Miss Levison.
The girl dropped another courtesy and preceded her mistress down stairs. In going down the great upper hall, Miss Levison passed the door of the dark, narrow passage at right angles with the hall, and leading to the tower stairs, where she had seen the apparition of the night before. She shivered and hurried on. She paused a moment before the door leading to the ante-room of her father's bed-chamber, and listened to hear if he were stirring; but all within seemed as still as death. She went on and descended the stairs and reached the library-door, just as Kitty opened it and said: "Miss Levison, my lord," and retired to give place to the young lady.
Miss Levison entered the library.
Lord Arondelle, in his wedding dress, stood by the central book-table. As his costume was the regulation uniform of a gentleman's full dress, it needs no description here. Gentlemen array themselves much in the same style for a dinner or a ball, a wedding or a funeral--the only difference to mark the occasion being in the color of the gloves.
Lord Arondelle advanced to meet his bride.
"My love and queen! this meeting is a grace granted me indeed! How beautiful you are!" he exclaimed, taking both her hands and carrying them to his lips. "But you are shivering, sweet girl! You are cold!" he added anxiously, as he looked at her more attentively.
"I have been shivering all the morning. I sat at my open window late last night and got a little chilled; but it is nothing," she answered, smiling.
"You shall not do such suicidal things, when I have the charge of you, my little lady," he said, half jestingly, half seriously, as he led her to a sofa and seated her on it, taking his own seat by her side.
"Come, now," he gayly continued, "was that indiscreet star-gazing which has resulted in a cold the little sin for which you wish me to give you absolution?"
"No, my lord. My sin was an evil dream."
"A dream!"
"Ay, a dream."
"But a dream cannot be a sin!"
"Hear it, and then judge. But first--tell me--were you in the castle late last night?" she gravely inquired.
He paused and gazed at her before he replied: "_I_ in the castle late last night? Why, most certainly not! Why ever should you ask me such a question, my love?"
"Because if you were not in the castle last night--" "Well?"
"I met your 'fetch,' as the country people would call it."
"My--I beg your pardon."
"Your 'fetch,' your double, your spectre, your spirit, whatever you may call it."
"Whatever do you mean, Salome?"
"Shall I tell you all about it?"
"Of course--yes, do."
Miss Levison began and related all the circumstances in detail of her night visit to her father's room, and her meeting with an appearance which she took to be that of her betrothed husband, but which, on being called by her, instantly vanished.
Lord Arondelle mused for awhile. Miss Levison gazed on him in anxious suspense for a few minutes, and then inquired: "What do you think of it?"
"My love, if I were a transcendental visionary, I might say, that at the hour you saw my image before you, my thoughts, my mind, my spirit, whatever you choose to call my inner self, was actually with you, and so became visible to you; but--" he paused.
"But--what?" she inquired.
"Not being a transcendentalist or a visionary, I am forced to the conclusion that what you thought you saw, was, really nothing but an optical illusion!"
"You think that?"
"Indeed I do!"
"I assure you, that the image seemed as real, as substantial, and as solid to me then as you do now."
"No doubt of it! Optical illusions always seem very real--perfectly real."
"It was an optical illusion then! That is settled! And now!" exclaimed Salome. Then she paused.
"Yes, and now! About the sinful dream! What did you dream of? Throwing me over at the last moment and marrying a handsomer man?" gayly inquired the young marquis.
"I will tell you presently what I dreamed; but first tell me, were you in our grounds last night?" she gravely inquired.
"Yes, my little lady; but how did you know of it?" inquired the young marquis in surprise.
"I did not know it. Were you under my window?" she asked, in a low, tremulous tone.
"Yes, love. How came you to suspect me?" he inquired, more than ever astonished.
"I did not suspect you. Had you a companion with you?" she murmured.
"No, Salome. Certainly not. Why, sweet, do you ask me?"
"I thought I heard your voice speaking to some one who answered you under my window."
"But, love, there was no one with me. I was quite alone. And I did not speak at all--not even to myself. I am not in the habit of soliloquizing."
"Please tell me, if you can, at what hour you were under my window."
"It was between ten and eleven o'clock. I was walking in the grounds, and I went under your wall and looked up. I saw three shadows pass the lighted windows, which I took to be those of yourself and your attendants, and then suddenly the lights were turned off and all was dark. I knew then that you had retired to rest, and of course I turned away and walked back to the hamlet. But, love, instead of telling the little story you promised, it seems that you have put me through a very sharp examination," said his lordship, laughing. "Now, what do you mean by it? There is something behind all this," he added, gravely.
"Of course there is something behind. Did I not tell you that I had a confession to make concerning a wicked dream? Listen, Lord Arondelle. At the time you stood under my window and saw the light turned off, and supposing that I had gone to rest, you turned away and left the grounds, at that time I had _not_ gone to rest, but had gone to my father's room, in returning from which I experienced that strange optical illusion. My nerves must have been strangely disordered, for when I reached my own chamber again, and finding it quite dark, opened the window and sat down to look out upon the moonlit lake, I immediately fell asleep, and had a terrible, and a terribly real and distinct dream--a dream, dear, that nearly overturned my reason, I do believe."
"What was it, love?" he inquired.
She told him without the least reserve.
He listened to her with interest, and then laughed aloud.
"The idea of your having such a dream about me as that! I do not wonder it weighed upon your mind. Yes, it was very wicked of you, my sinful child--very. But since you sincerely repent, I freely absolve you. _Benedicite! _" Salome looked and listened to him with surprise; for as she spoke of dreaming that he called Rose Cameron his wife, he not only laughed at that idea, but really appeared as if the very existence of the girl was unknown to him.
Then Salome ventured another question: "Do you know any one of the name of Rose Cameron?"
"No, not personally. I believe one of our shepherds, up at Ben Lone, has a very handsome daughter of that name, but I have never seen her," said the young marquis, with an open sincerity that carried conviction with it.
Salome was amazed, but convinced. What could have started the false reports concerning the young marquis and the handsome shepherdess? Clearly Rose's own hallucination. She had seen the marquis somewhere, without having been seen by him; she had fallen in love with him, and had partly lost her reason and imagined all the rest, she thought.
"And so you have never even looked upon the beauty of that dream?" she said, with a smile.
"Never even looked upon her," assented the marquis.
"Then I do, in downright earnest, beg your pardon for my dream," said Salome, gravely.
"But I have already given you absolution, my erring daughter? _Benedicite! Benedicite! _" replied the marquis still laughing.
At that moment there was a light rap at the library door, followed by the entrance of a footman who placed a small, twisted note in the hands of Miss Levison. She opened it and read: "MY DEAR CHILD: It is after ten o'clock. We go to church at eleven. Sir Lemuel has not yet rung his bell. His valet having received his orders last night not to call him this morning, has declined to do so. What is to be done under these circumstances? Send me a verbal message by the bearer. Your loving Aunt, "SOPHIE BELGRADE."
"My father not yet risen!" exclaimed Salome in surprise. "He must have overslept himself with fatigue. Tell Lady Belgrade, with my thanks, that I will go to my father's room and waken him," she added, turning to the footman, who bowed and went to deliver his message.
"I hope Sir Lemuel is quite well?" said the young marquis, earnestly.
"He is quite well. My father regulates his habits so well as to live in perfect harmony with the laws of life and health. If he fatigues himself over night, he always takes a compensating rest in the morning. That is what he is doing now. But I think he is sleeping even longer than he intended to do, so I really must arouse him now, if we are to keep our appointment with the minister. Good-by, until we meet at the church, Lord Arondelle," she said, as she floated from the room in her bridal robe, and vail.
"Who says that she is not beautiful, belies her? She is lovely in person and in spirit," murmured the young marquis, as he took up his hat to leave the house.
|
{
"id": "16039"
}
|
8
|
A HORRIBLE DISCOVERY.
|
In order not to attract the attention of the crowds of people who swarmed in the village, on the bridge, and on the island, Lord Arondelle had driven over to the castle in a closed cab that now waited at the gates to take him back again.
He left the library and went out into the great hall.
The hall porter, an elderly, stout, and important-looking functionary, slowly arose from his chair to honor the young marquis by opening the doors with his own official hands instead of leaving that duty to the footman.
And Lord Arondelle was just in the act of passing out when his steps were suddenly arrested.
A WILD AND PIERCING SHRIEK RANG THROUGH THE HOUSE, STARTLING ALL ITS ECHOES!
It was followed by a dead silence, and then by the sound of many hurrying feet and terrified exclamations.
"Salome! my bride! Oh, what has happened!" thought the startled young marquis, rushing back into the hall and up the stairs.
In the upper hall he found a crowd of terrified people, all hurrying in one direction--toward the bedroom of the banker.
"The dear old gentleman has got a fit, I fear, and his daughter has discovered him in it," was the next thought that flashed upon the mind of the marquis as, without waiting to ask questions, he rushed through and distanced the crowd, and reached the door of the banker's bedroom, which was blocked up by men and women, wedding guests, and servants, some questioning and exclaiming, some weeping and wailing, some standing in panic-stricken silence.
"What has happened?" cried the young marquis pushing his way with more violence than ceremony through all that impeded his entrance into the chamber.
No one answered him. No one dared to do so.
"It is Lord Arondelle--let his lordship pass," said one of the wedding guests, recognizing the expectant bridegroom as he entered the room.
An awe-struck group of persons was gathered around some object on the floor; they made way in silence for the approach of the marquis.
He passed in and looked down.
HORROR UPON HORRORS! There lay the dead body of the banker, full-dressed as on the evening before, but with his head crushed in and surrounded by a pool of coagulated blood! The face was marble white; the eyes were open and stony, the jaws had dropped and stiffened into death. Across the body lay the swooning form of his daughter, with her bridal vail and robes all dabbled in her father's blood.
"HEAVEN OF HEAVENS! Who has done this?" cried the marquis, a cold sweat of horror bursting from his pallid brow as he stared upon this ghastly sight!
A dozen voices answered him at once, to the effect that no one yet knew.
"Run! run! and fetch a doctor instantly! Some of you! any of you who can go the quickest!" he cried, as he stooped and lifted the insensible form of his bride and laid her on the bed--the bed that had not been occupied during the night. Evidently from these appearances, the banker had been murdered before his usual hour of retiring.
"Who has gone for a doctor?" inquired Lord Arondelle, in an agony of anxiety, as he bent over the unconscious form of his beloved one.
"I have despatched Gilbert, yer lairdship. He will mak' unco guid haste," answered the steward, who stood overcome with grief as he gazed upon the ghastly corpse of his unfortunate master.
"My lord," said Lady Belgrade, who stood by too deeply awed for tears, and up to this moment for action either--"my lord, you had better go out of the room for the present, and take all these men with you, and leave Miss Levison to the care of myself and the women. This is all unspeakably horrible! But our first care should be for her. We must loosen her dress, and take other measures for her recovery."
"Yes, yes! Great Heaven! yes! Do all you can for her! This is maddening!" groaned the marquis, smiting his forehead as he left the bedside, yielding his place to the dowager.
"Do try to command yourself, Lord Arondelle. This is, indeed, a most awful shock. It would have been awful at any time, but on your wedding day it comes with double violence. But do summon all your strength of mind, for _her_ sake. Think of her. She came to this room in her bridal dress to call her father, that he might get ready to take her to the altar, to give her to you, and she found him here murdered--weltering in his blood. It was enough to have killed her, or unseated her reason forever," said the lady, as she busied herself with unfastening the rich, white, satin bodice of the wedding robe.
"Oh, Salome! Salome! that I could bear this sorrow for you! Oh, my darling, that all my love should be powerless to save you from a sorrow like this!" cried the young man, dropping his head upon his clenched hands.
"My lord," continued Lady Belgrade, who was now applying a vial of sal ammonia to her patient's nostrils: "my dear Lord Arondelle, rouse yourself for her sake! She has no father, brother, or male relative to take direction of affairs in this awful crisis of her life. You, her betrothed husband, should do it--must do it! Rouse yourself at once. Look at this stupefied and gaping crowd of people! Do not be like one of them. Something must be done at once. Do WHAT OUGHT TO BE DONE!" she cried with sudden vehemence.
"I know what should be done, and I will do it," said the young man, in a tone of mournful resolution. Then turning to the crowd that filled the chamber of horror, he said: "My friends we must leave this room for the present to the care of Lady Belgrade and her female attendants."
Then to the dowager he said: "My lady, let one of your maids cover that body with a sheet and let no one move it by so much as an inch, until the arrival of the coroner. As soon as it is possible to do so, you will of course have Miss Levison conveyed to her own chamber. But when you leave this room pray lock it up, and place a servant before the door as sentry, that nothing may be disturbed before the inquest."
Lastly addressing the stupefied house-steward, he said: "McRath, come with me. The castle doors must all be closed, and no one permitted to learn the arrival of a police force, which must be immediately summoned."
So saying, after a last agonized gaze upon the insensible form of his bride, he left the room of horrors, followed by the house-steward and all the male intruders.
The news of the murder spread through the castle and all over the island, carrying consternation with it. Yet the wedding guests outside, who were quite at liberty to go, showed no disposition to do so. They had come to take part in a joyous wedding festival--they remained, held by the strange fascination of ghastly interest that hangs over the scene of a murder--and such a murder!
So, the crowd, instead of diminishing, greatly increased. Peasants from the hills around, who, having had no wedding garments, had forborne to appear at the feast, now came in their tattered plaids, impelled by an eager curiosity to gaze upon the walls of the castle, and see and hear all they could concerning the mysterious murder that had been perpetrated within it.
The country side rang with the terrible story. And soon the telegraph wires flashed it all over the kingdom.
The coroner hastened to the castle, inspected the corpse, and ordered that everything should remain untouched. He then empanelled a jury for the inquest, whose first session was held in the chamber of death, from which the suffering daughter of the deceased banker had been tenderly removed.
Such among the guests who were not detained as witnesses, found themselves at liberty to depart. But very few availed themselves of the privilege. They preferred to stop and see the end of the inquest.
Skillful and experienced detectives were summoned by telegraph from Scotland Yard, London, and arrived at the castle about midnight.
The house was placed in charge of the police while the investigation was pending.
But the materials for the formation of a decided verdict seemed very meagre.
A careful examination of the body showed that the banker had been killed by one mortal blow inflicted by a blunt and heavy instrument that had crushed in the skull. The instrument was searched for, and soon found in a small but very heavy bronze statuette of Somnes that used to stand on the bedroom mantel-piece; but was now picked up from the carpet, crusted with blood and gray hair. But the miscreant who had held that deadly weapon, and dealt that mortal blow, could not be detected.
Investigation further brought to light that an extensive robbery had been committed. From the banker's person his diamond-studded gold watch, chain, and seals, his gold snuff-box, set with emeralds, a heavy cornelian seal ring set in gold, and his diamond studs and sleeve buttons were taken. A patent safe, which stood in his room, and contained valuable documents as well as a large amount of money, had been broken open, the documents scattered, and the money carried off.
Yet no trace of the robber could be found.
The broken safe was the only piece of "professional" burglary to be seen anywhere about the house. The fastenings on every door and every window were intact.
The most plausible theory of the murder was, that some burglar, or burglars, attracted and tempted by the rumor of almost fabulous treasure then in the castle in the form of wedding offerings to the bride, had gained access to the building, and penetrated to the upper chambers, where, finding the banker still up and awake, they had killed him by one fell blow, to prevent discovery.
True, the priceless wedding presents had not been disturbed. They still blazed in their open caskets upon the drawing-room table--a splendid spectacle. But then they had been guarded all through the night by two faithful men-servants armed with revolvers and seated at the table under a lighted chandelier. It was supposed that the robbers, seeing this lighted and guarded room, had crept past it and mounted to the banker's chamber to pursue their nefarious purpose there; that simple robbery was their first intention, but being seen by the watchful banker, they had instantly killed him to prevent his giving the alarm.
For no alarm had been given!
Every inmate of the house who was examined testified to having passed a quiet night, undisturbed by any noise.
The hall porter and footmen whose duty it was to see to the closing of the castle at night, and the opening of it in the morning, testified to having fastened every door at eleven o'clock on the previous night, and to having found them still fastened at six in the morning.
How, then, did the murderers and robbers gain access to the house, since there was no sign of a broken lock or bolt to be seen anywhere, except in the safe in the banker's room.
Suspicion seemed to point to some inmate of the castle, who must have let the miscreants in.
Yes, but what inmate?
No member of the small family, of course; no visitor, certainly; no servant, probably! Yet, for want of another subject, suspicion fell upon Peters, the valet. He was always the last to see his master at night, and the first to see him in the morning. He had a pass-key to the ante-room of his master's chamber. It was believed to be a very suspicious circumstance, also that he had so persistently declined to call his master that morning, asserting as he did to the very last that Sir Lemuel had given orders that he should not be disturbed until he rang his bell.
This story of the valet was doubted. It was suspected that he might have been in league with the robbers and murderers, might have admitted them to the house that night after the family had retired, and concealed them until the hour came for the commission of their crime; and that he made excuses in the morning not to call his master so as to prevent as long as possible the discovery of the murder, and give the murderers time to get off from the scene of their awful crime.
The valet was not openly accused by any one. The officers of the law were too discreet to permit that to be done.
But he was detained as a witness, and subjected to a very severe examination.
Peters was a very tall, very spare, middle-aged man, with a slight stoop in his shoulders, with a thin, flushed face, sharp features, weak, blue eyes, and scanty red hair and whiskers, dressed with foppish precision. He looked something like a fool; but as little like the confederate of robbers and murderers as it was possible to imagine.
Witness testified that his name was Abraham Peters, that he was born in Drury Lane, London, and was now forty years of age; that he had been in the service of Sir Lemuel Levison for the last five years; that he loved and honored the deceased banker, and had every reason to believe that his master valued him also. He said that it was his service every night to assist his master in undressing and getting to bed, and every morning in getting up and dressing.
A juror asked the witness whether he was in the habit of waiting every morning for his master's bell to ring before going to his room.
The witness answered that he was not; that he had standing orders to call his master every morning at seven o'clock, except otherwise instructed by Sir Lemuel.
Another juror inquired of the witness whether he had received these exceptional instructions on the previous night.
The witness answered that he had received such; that his master had sent him with a message to his daughter, Miss Levison, requesting her to come to his room, as he wished to have a talk with her. He delivered his message through Miss Levison's maid, and returned to his master's room. But when Miss Levison was announced Sir Lemuel dismissed him with permission to retire to bed at once, and not to call his master in the morning, but to wait until Sir Lemuel should ring his bell.
"I left Miss Levison with her father, your honor, and that was the last time as ever I saw my master alive," concluded the valet, trembling like a leaf.
"I presume that Miss Levison will be able to corroborate this part of your testimony. Where _is_ Miss Levison? Let her be called," said the coroner.
The family physician, who was present at the inquest, arose in his place and said: "Miss Levison, sir, is not now available as a witness. She is lying in her chamber, nearly at the point of death, with brain fever."
"Lord bless my soul, I am sorry to hear that! But it is no wonder, poor young lady, after such a shock," said the kind-hearted coroner.
"But here, sir," continued the doctor, "is a witness who, I think, will be able to give us some light."
|
{
"id": "16039"
}
|
9
|
AFTER THE DISCOVERY.
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"Sir, if you please, I request that this witness be immediately placed under examination," said Lord Arondelle, who sat, with pale, stern visage, among the spectators, now addressing the coroner.
"Yes, certainly, my lord. Let the man be called," answered the latter.
A short, stout, red-haired and freckle-faced boy, clothed in a well-worn suit of gray tweed, came forward and was duly sworn.
"What is your name, my lad?" inquired the coroner's clerk.
"Cuddie McGill, an' it please your worship," replied the shock-headed youth.
"Your age?"
"Anan?"
"How old are you?"
"Ou, ay, just nineteen come St. Andrew's Eve, at night."
"Where do you live?"
"Wi' my maister, Gillie Ferguson, the saddler, at Lone."
"Well now, then, what do you know about this case?" inquired the clerk, who, pen in hand, had been busily taking down the unimportant, preliminary answers of the witness under examination.
"Aweel, thin your worship, I ken just naething of ony account; but I just happen speak what I saw yestreen under the castle wa', and doctor here, he wad hae me come my ways and tell your honor; its naething just," replied Cuddie McGill, scratching his shock head.
"But tell us what you saw."
"Aweel, then, your worship, I had been hard at wark a' the day, and could na get awa to see the wedding deecorations. But after my wark was dune and I had my bit aitmeal cake and parritch, I e'en cam' my way over the brig to hae a luke at them."
"Well, and what did you see besides the decorations?"
"An it please your worship, as I cam through the thick shrubbery I spied a lassie, standing under the balcony on the east side o' the castle wa'."
"At what hour was this?"
"I dinna ken preceesely. It may hae been ten o'clock; for I ken the moon was about twa hours high."
"Ay, well; go on."
"I hid mysel' in the firs and watchit the lassie; for I said to mysel' it wair a tryste wi' her lad, and I behoove to find out wha they were. Sae I watchit the lassie. And presently a tall gallant cam' up till her, and they spake thegither. I could na hear what they said. But anon the tall mon went his ways, and the lassie bided her lane under the balcony. I wondered at that. And I waited to see the end. I waited, it seemed to me, full twa hour. The moon was weel nigh overhead, when at lang last the gallant cam' on wi' anither tall mon. And they passed sae nigh that I heard their talk. Spake the gallant: 'I would na hae had it happened for a' we hae gained.' Said the ither ane: 'It could na be helpit. The auld mon skreekit. He would hae brocht the house upon us, and we hadna stappit his mouth.' And the twa passit out o' hearing, and sune cam' to the lassie under the balcony. And the three talkit thegither, but I just couldna hear a word they spake. And sae I went my ways home, wondering what it a' meant. But I thocht nae muckle harm until the morn when I heerd o' the murder."
"Would you know the tall man again if you were to see him?" inquired the coroner.
"Na, for ye ken I could na see a feature o' his face."
"Would you know the girl again?"
"Na. I could na see the lass ony mair than the gallant."
"Nor the third man?"
"Na, nor the ither ane."
"Did you hear any name or any place spoken of between the parties?"
"Na, na name, na pleece. I hae tuld your honor all I heerd. I heerd no mair than I hae said," replied the witness.
And the severest cross-examination could not draw anything more from him.
The officials put their heads together and talked in whispers.
This last witness gave, after all, the nearest to a clue of any they had yet received.
The notes of the testimony were put in the hands of the London detective then present.
"Allow me to remind you, sir," said Lord Arondelle, "that this interview testified to by the last witness, was said to have taken place between ten and twelve at night, and that there is a train for London which stops at Lone at a quarter past twelve. Would it not be well to make inquiries at the station as to what passengers, if any, got on at Lone?"
"A good idea. Thanks, my lord. We will summon the agent who happened to be on duty at that hour," said the coroner.
And a messenger was immediately dispatched to Lone to bring the railway official in question.
In the interim, several of the household servants were examined, but without bringing any new facts to light.
After an absence of two hours, the messenger returned accompanied by Donald McNeil, the ticket-agent who had been in the office for the midnight train of the preceding day.
He was a man of middle age and medium size, with a fair complexion, sandy hair and open, honest countenance. He was clothed in a suit of black and white-checked cloth.
He was duly sworn and examined. He gave his name as Donald McNeil, his age forty years, and his home in the hamlet of Lone.
"You are a ticket-agent at the Railway Station at Lone?" inquired the coroner's clerk.
"I am, sir."
"You were on duty at that station last night, between twelve midnight and one, morning?"
"I was, sir."
"Does the train for London stop at Lone at that hour?"
"The up-train stops at Lone, at a quarter past twal, sir, and seldom varies for as muckle as twa minutes."
"It stopped last night as usual, at a quarter past twelve?"
"It did, sir, av coorse."
"Did any passengers get on that train from Lone?" " _One_ passenger did, sir; whilk I remarked it more particularly, because the passenger was a young lass, travelling her lane, and it is unco seldom a woman tak's that train at that hour, and never her lane."
"Ah! there was but one passenger, then, that took the midnight train from Lone for London?"
"But one, sir."
"And she was a woman?"
"A young lass, sir."
"Did she take a through ticket?"
"Ah, sir, to London."
"What class?"
"Second-class."
"Had she luggage?"
"An unco heavy black leather bag, sir, that was a'."
"How do you know the bag was heavy?"
"By the way she lugged it, sir. The porter offered to relieve her o' it, but she wad na trust it out o' her hand ae minute."
"Ah! Was it a large bag?"
"Na, sir, no that large, but unco heavy, as it might be filled fu' o' minerals, the like of whilk the college lads whiles collect in the mountains. Na, it was no' large, but unco heavy, and she wad na let it out o' her hand ae minute."
"Just so. Would you know that young woman again if you were to see her?"
"Na, I could na see her face. She wore a thick, dark vail, doublit over and over her face, the whilk was the moir to be noticed because the nicht was sae warm."
"You say her face was concealed. How, then, did you know her to be a young woman?"
"Ou, by her form and her gait just, and by her speech."
"She talked with you, then?"
"Na, she spak just three words when she handed in the money for her ticket: 'One--second-class--through.'"
"Would you recognize her voice again if you should hear it?"
"Ay, that I should."
"How was this young woman dressed?"
"She wore a lang, black tweed cloak wi' a hood till it, and a dark vail."
A few more questions were asked, but as nothing new was elicited the witness was permitted to retire.
Other witnesses were examined, and old witnesses were recalled hour after hour and day after day, without effect. No new light was thrown upon the mystery.
No one, except Cuddie McGill, the saddler's apprentice, could be found who had seen the suspicious man and woman lurking under the balcony.
Certainly Lord Arondelle remembered the "dream" Miss Levison had told him of the two persons whom she mistook to be himself and Rose Cameron talking together under her window. But Miss Levison was so far incapable of giving evidence as to be lying at the point of death with brain fever. So it would have been worse than useless to have spoken of her dream, or supposed dream.
The coroner's inquest sat several days without arriving at any definite conclusion.
The most plausible theory of the murder seemed to be that a robbery had been planned between the valet and certain unknown confederates, who had all been tempted by the great treasures known to be in the castle that night in the form of costly bridal presents; that no murder was at first intended; that the confederates had been secretly admitted to the castle through the connivance of the valet; that the strong guard placed over the treasures in the lighted drawing-room had saved them from robbery; that the robbers, disappointed of their first expectations, next went, with the farther connivance of the valet, to the bedchamber of Sir Lemuel Levison, for the purpose of emptying his strong box; that being detected in their criminal designs by the wakeful banker, they had silenced him by one fatal blow on the head; that they had then accomplished the robbery of the strong box, and of the person of the deceased banker; and had been secretly let out of the castle by the valet.
Finally, it was thought that the man and the woman discovered under the balcony by Cuddie McGill on the night of the murder, were confederates in the crime, and the woman was the midnight passenger to whom Donald McNeil sold the second-class railway ticket to London, and that the heavy black bag she carried contained the booty taken from the castle.
On the evening of the third day of the unsatisfactory inquest a verdict was returned to this effect.
That the deceased Sir Lemuel Levison, Knight, had come to his death by a blow from a heavy bronze statuette held in the hands of some person unknown to the jury. And that Peters, the valet of the deceased banker, was accessory to the murder.
A coroner's warrant was immediately issued, and the valet was arrested, and confined in jail to await the action of the grand jury.
An experienced detective officer was sent upon the track of the mysterious, vailed woman, with the heavy black bag, who on the night of the murder had taken the midnight train from Lone to London.
Then at length the coroner's jury adjourned, and Castle Lone was cleared of the law officers and all others who had remained there in attendance upon the inquest.
And the preparations for the funeral of the deceased banker were allowed to go on.
In addition to the long train of servants there remained now in the castle but seven persons: The young lady of the house, who lay prostrate and unconscious upon the bed of extreme illness or death; Lady Belgrade, who in all this trouble had nearly lost her wits; the Marquis of Arondelle, who had been requested to take the direction of affairs; the old Duke of Hereward, who had been brought to the castle in a helpless condition; the family physician, who had turned over all his other patients to his assistant, and was now devoting himself to the care of the unhappy daughter of the house; and lastly the family solicitor, and his clerk, who were down for the obsequies.
Beside these, the undertaker and his men came and went while completing their preparations for the funeral.
There had been some talk of embalming the body, and delaying the burial, until the daughter of the deceased banker should view her father's face once more; but the impossibility of restoring the crushed skull to shape rendered it advisable that she should not be shocked by a sight of it. So the day of the funeral was set.
But before that day came, another important event occurred at Lone Castle. It was not entirely unexpected. The old Duke of Hereward, since his arrival at the castle, had sunk very fast. He had been carefully guarded from the knowledge of the tragedy which had been enacted within its walls. He knew nothing of the murder of Sir Lemuel Levison, or even of the banker's presence in the castle. His failing mind had gone back to the past, and he fondly imagined himself, as of yore, the Lord of Lone and of all its vast revenues. The presence and attendance of all his old train of servants, who, as I said before, had been kindly retained in the service of the banker's family, helped the happy illusion in which the last days of the old duke were passed, until one afternoon, just as the sun was sinking out of sight behind Ben Lone, the old man went quietly to sleep in his arm-chair, and never woke again in this world.
A few days after this, in the midst of a large concourse of friends, neighbors and mourners, the mortal remains of Archibald-Alexander-John Scott, Duke of Hereward and Marquis of Arondelle, in the peerage of England, and Lord of Lone and Baron Scott, in the peerage of Scotland, were laid side by side with those of Sir Lemuel Levison, Kt., in the family vault of Lone.
The reading of the late banker's will was deferred until his daughter and sole heiress should be in a condition to attend it.
And the family solicitor took it away with him to London to keep until it should be called for.
The crisis of Salome's illness passed safely. She was out of the imminent danger of death, though she was still extremely weak.
The family physician returned to his home and his practice in the village of Lone, and only visited his patient at the castle morning and evening.
Now, therefore, besides the train of household servants, there remained at the castle but three inmates--Salome Levison, reduced by sorrow and illness to a state of infantile feebleness of mind and body; Lady Belgrade, nearly worn out with long watching, fatigue, and anxiety; and the young Marquis of Arondelle, whom we must henceforth designate as the Duke of Hereward, and whom even the stately dowager, who was "of the most straitest sect, a Pharisee" of conventional etiquette, nevertheless implored to remain a guest at the castle until after the recovery of the heiress, and the reading of the father's will.
The young duke who wished nothing more than to be near his bride, readily consented to stay.
But Salome's recovery was so slow, and her frame so feeble, that she seemed to have re-entered life through a new infancy of body and mind.
Strangely, however, through all her illness she seemed not to have lost the memory of its cause--her father's shocking death. Thus she had no new grief or horror to experience.
No one spoke to her of the terrible tragedy. She herself was the first to allude to it.
The occasion was this: On the first day on which she was permitted to leave her bedchamber and sit for awhile in an easy resting chair, beside the open window of her boudoir, to enjoy the fresh air from the mountain and the lake, she sent for the young duke to come to her.
He eagerly obeyed the summons, and hastened to her side.
He had not been permitted to see her since her illness, and now he was almost overwhelmed with sorrow to see into what a mere shadow of her former self she had faded.
As she reclined there in her soft white robes, with her long, dark hair flowing over her shoulders, so fair, so wan, so spiritual she looked, that it seemed as if the very breeze from the lake might have wafted her away.
He dropped on one knee beside her, and embraced and kissed her hands, and then sat down next her.
After the first gentle greetings were over, she amazed him by turning and asking: "Has the murderer been discovered yet?"
"No, my beloved, but the detectives have a clue, that they feel sure will lead to the discovery and conviction of the wretch," answered the young duke, in a low voice.
"Where have they laid the body of my dear father?" she next inquired in a low hushed tone.
"In the family vault beside those of my own parents," gravely replied the young man.
"Your own--_parents_, my lord? I knew that your dear mother had gone before, but--your father--" "My father has passed to his eternal home. It is well with him as with yours. They are happy. And we--have a common sorrow, love!"
"I did not know--I did not know. No one told me," murmured Salome, as she dropped her face on her open hands, and cried like a child.
"Every one wished to spare you, my sweet girl, as long as possible. Yet I _did_ think, they had told you of my father's departure, else I had not alluded to it so suddenly. There! weep no more, love! Viewed in the true light, those who have passed higher are rather to be envied than mourned."
Then to change the current of her thoughts he said: "Can you give your mind now to a little business, Salome?"
"Yes, if it concerns you," she sighed, wiping her eyes, and looking up.
"It concerns me only inasmuch as it affects your interests, my love. You are of age, my Salome?"
"Yes, I was twenty-one on my last birthday."
"Then you enter at once upon your great inheritance--an onerous and responsible position."
"But you will sustain it for me. I shall not feel its weight," she murmured.
"There are thousands in this realm, my love, good men and true, who would gladly relieve me of the dear trust," said the duke, with a smile. "We must, however, be guided by your father's will, which I am happy to know is in entire harmony with your own wishes. And that brings me to what I wished to say. Kage, your late father's solicitor, is in possession of his last will. He could not follow the custom, and read it immediately after the funeral, because your illness precluded the possibility of your presence at its perusal. But he only waits for your recovery and a summons from me to bring it. Whenever, therefore, you feel equal to the exertion of hearing it, I will send a telegram to Kage to come down," concluded the duke.
"My father's last will!" softly murmured Salome. "Send the telegram to-day, please. To hear his last will read will be almost like hearing from him."
"There is beside the will a letter from your father, addressed to you, and left in the charge of Kage, to be delivered with the reading of the will, in the case of his, the writer's, sudden death," gravely added the duke.
"A letter from my dear father to me? A letter from the grave! No, rather a letter from Heaven! Telegraph Mr. Kage to bring down the papers at once, dear John," said Salome, eagerly, as a warm flush arose on her pale, transparent cheek.
"I will do so at once, love; for to my mind, that letter is of equal importance with the will--though no lawyer would think so," said the duke.
"You know its purport then?"
"No, dearest, not certainly, but I surmise it, from some conversations that I held with the late Sir Lemuel Levison."
As he spoke the door opened and Lady Belgrade entered the room, saying softly, as she would have spoken beside the cradle of a sick baby: "I am sorry to disturb your grace; but the fifteen minutes permitted by the doctor have passed, and Salome must not sit up longer."
"I am going now, dear madam," said the duke, rising.
He took Salome's hand, held it for a moment in his, while he gazed into her eyes, then pressed it to his lips, and so took his morning's leave of her.
The same forenoon he rode over to the Lone Station, and dispatched a telegram to the family solicitor, Kage.
|
{
"id": "16039"
}
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10
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THE LETTER AND ITS EFFECT.
|
Mr. Kage arrived at Lone, within twenty-four hours after having received the duke's telegram. He reached the castle at noon and had a private interview with the duke in the library, when it was arranged that the will and the letter should be read the same afternoon in the presence of the assembled household.
"The letter also? Is not that a private one from the father to his daughter?" inquired the duke.
"No, your grace. There are reasons why it must be public, which you will recognize when you hear it read," answered the lawyer.
"Then I fear I have been mistaken in my private thoughts concerning it. Pray, will it give us any clue to the perpetrators of the murder?"
"None whatever! It certainly was not a violent death that the banker anticipated for himself when he prepared that letter to be delivered in the event of his sudden decease."
"Has any clue yet been found to the murderer?"
"None that I have heard of."
"Or to the mysterious woman who was supposed to have carried off the booty?"
"None, Detective Keightley called on me yesterday for some information regarding the stolen property, and I furnished him with a photograph of that snuff-box given to Sir Lemuel Levison by the Sultan of Turkey--the gold one richly set with precious stones. Sir Lemuel had it photographed by my advice, for identification in case of its being stolen. And he left several duplicate copies with me. I gave one to Keightley. But the man could give me no information in return. The missing woman seemed lost in London. And the proverbial little needle in the haystack might be as easily found," said the lawyer.
The announcement of luncheon put an end to the interview.
The two gentlemen passed on into the smaller dining-room where Lady Belgrade awaited them. She received the solicitor politely and invited him to the table.
After the three were seated and helped to what they preferred, her ladyship turned to the lawyers and said: "My niece understands that you have a letter for her, left in your charge by her father. She wishes you to send it to her immediately. Her maid is here waiting to take it."
"Pardon me, my dear lady, the letter must remain in my possession until after the reading of the will, when, for certain reasons, it must be read, as the will, in the presence of the household. Pray explain this to Miss Levison, and tell her that I shall be ready to read and deliver both at five o'clock this afternoon, if that will meet her convenience," said the lawyer, respectfully.
"That will suit her; but I hope the forms will not occupy more than an hour. Miss Levison is still extremely feeble, and ought not to sit up longer," said the dowager.
"It will not require more than half an hour, madam," replied Mr. Kage.
Lady Belgrade gave the message to the maid for her mistress. And when the girl retired, the conversation turned upon the proceedings of the London detectives in pursuit of the unknown murderers.
At the appointed hour the household servants were all assembled in the dining-room. At the head of the long table sat the family attorney and his clerk. Before them lay a japanned tin box, secured by a brass padlock. It contained the last will, the letter, and other documents appertaining to the deceased banker's estate. They were only waiting for the entrance of Miss Levison and her friends. No one else was expected. There was not the usual crowd of poor relatives who "crop up" at the reading of almost every rich man's will. The late Sir Lemuel Levison had no poor relations whatever. His people were all rich, and all scattered over Europe and America, at the head of banks, or branches of banks, in every great capital, of the almost illustrious house of "Levison, Bankers."
The assembled household had not to wait long. The door opened and the young lady of Lone entered, supported on each side by the Duke of Hereward and the dowager, Lady Belgrade.
Her fair, transparent, spiritual face looked whiter than ever, in contrast to her deep black crape dress, as she bowed to the lawyer, and passed to her seat at the table.
The duke and the dowager seated themselves on either side of her.
"Are you quite ready, Miss Levison, to hear the will of the late Sir Lemuel Levison?" inquired the attorney.
"I am quite ready, Mr. Kage, thanks," replied the young lady, in a low voice, and speaking with an effort.
The attorney unlocked the box, took out the will, unfolded and proceeded to read it.
The document was dated several years back. It was neither long nor complex. After liberal bequests to each one of his household servants, rich keepsakes to his dear friends, an annuity to the dowager Lady Belgrade, and a princely endowment to found an orphan asylum and children's hospital in the heart of London, he bequeathed the residue of his vast estates, both real and personal, without reserve and without conditions, to his only and beloved child, Salome.
After the reading of the will was finished, the attorney arose, came around to where the ladies sat, and congratulated Miss Levison and Lady Belgrade, on their rich inheritance.
"How could he do it?" thought the unconventional and weeping heiress. "Oh, how could he congratulate me on an inheritance which came, and could only have come, through my dear father's decease!" Then in a voice broken with emotion, she said: "Thanks, Mr. Kage. Will you please now to read my dear papa's letter? --since you _are_ to read it aloud, I think," she added.
"Such was the deceased Sir Lemuel's direction, my dear Miss Levison," said the lawyer. And returning to his place at the head of the table, he took the letter from the japanned box, opened it, and said: "This letter from my late honored client to his daughter was committed by the late Sir Lemuel Levison to my charge to be retained and read after the will, in the event of a circumstance which has already occurred--I mean the sudden and unexpected death of the writer. The letter will explain itself."
Here the lawyer cleared his throat, and began to read: "ELMHURST HOUSE, Kensington, London, "Monday, May 1st, 18--.
"MY DEAREST ONLY CHILD: Blessings on your head! Nothing could have made me happier, than has your betrothal to so admirable a young man as the Marquis of Arondelle. Had I possessed the privilege of choosing a husband for you, and a son-in-law for myself, from the whole race of mankind, I should have chosen him above all others. But, my dearest Salome, the satisfaction I enjoy in your prospects of happiness is shadowed by one faint cloud. It is not much, my love; it is only the consciousness of my age and of the precarious state of my health. I may not live to see you united to the noble husband of your choice. Therefore it is that I have urged your speedy marriage with what your good chaperon, Lady Belgrade, evidently considers indecorous haste. She must continue to think it indecorous, because unreasonable. I cannot, and will not, darken your sunshine of joy, by giving to you _now_ the real reason of my precipitation--the extremely precarious state of my health. Yet, in the event of my being suddenly taken from you, I must prepare this letter to be delivered to you after my death, that you may know my last wishes. If I live to see you wedded to the good Lord Arondelle, this paper shall be torn up and destroyed; if not, if I should be suddenly snatched away from you before your wedding-day, this letter will be read to you, after my will shall have been read, in the presence of your betrothed husband, your good chaperon and your assembled household, that you and they and all may know my last wishes concerning you, and that none shall dare to blame you for obeying them, even though in doing so you have to pursue a very unusual course. My wish, therefore, is that your marriage with Lord Arondelle may not be delayed for a day upon account of my death; but that it take place at the time fixed or as soon thereafter as practicable. In giving these directions, I feel sure that I am consulting the wishes of Lord Arondelle, the best interests of yourself, and the happiness of both. Follow my directions, therefore, my dearest daughter, and may the blessing of our Father in Heaven rest upon you and yours, is the prayer of "Your devoted father, LEMUEL LEVISON."
During the reading of the letter the face of Salome was bathed in tears and buried in her pocket-handkerchief.
The duke sat by her, with his arm around her waist, supporting her.
At the end of the reading, without looking up, she stretched out her hand and whispered softly: "Give me my dear father's letter now."
The attorney, who was engaged in re-folding the documents and restoring them to the japanned box, left his seat, and came to her side, and placed the letter in her hands.
"Thanks, Mr. Kage," she said, wiping her eyes and looking up. "But now will you tell me if you know what my dear father meant by writing of the precarious state of his health? He seemed to enjoy a very vigorous and green old age."
"Yes, he '_seemed_' to do so, my dear young lady; but it was all seeming. He was really affected with a mortal malady, which his physicians warned him might prove fatal at any moment," gravely replied the lawyer.
"And he never hinted it to us!"
"He did not wish to sadden your young life with a knowledge of his affliction."
"My own dear papa! My dear, dear papa! loving, self-sacrificing to the end of his earthly life! never thinking of his own happiness--always thinking of mine or of others! My dear, dear father!" murmured the still weeping daughter.
"He thought of your happiness, and of the happiness of your betrothed husband, my dear young lady, when he committed that letter to my care, to be delivered to you in case of his sudden death, and when he charged me to urge with all my might, your compliance with its instructions. And now permit me to add, my dear Miss Levison, that to obey your father's will in this matter would be the very best and wisest course you could pursue."
"Thanks, Mr. Kage; I know that you are a faithful friend to our family; but--I must have a little time to recover," murmured Salome, faintly.
"Here, you may remember my dear Salome, that when I told you of this letter in the possession of Mr. Kage, I said that I thought I knew its purport from certain conversations I had held with your late father. He had hinted to me the dangerous condition of his health, and he had expressed a hope that no accident to himself should be permitted to postpone our marriage; and then he told me that he had left a letter with his solicitor to be read in case of his sudden death, and that the letter would explain itself. He concluded by begging me if anything should happen to him to necessitate the delivery of that letter to you, to urge upon you the wisdom and policy of following its direction. He could not have given me a commission I should be more anxious or earnest in executing. My dear Salome, will you obey your good father's wishes? Will you give me at once a husband's right to love and cherish you?" he added in a low whisper.
"Oh, give me a little time," she murmured--"give me a little time. There is nothing I wish more than to do as my dear father directed me, and as you wish me; but my heart is so wounded and bleeding now, I am still so weak and broken-spirited. Give me a little time, dear John, to recover some strength to overcome my sorrow."
Here she broke down and wept.
"I think we had best take her back to her room," said Lady Belgrade, rising.
Mr. Kage locked up the documents in the japanned box, put the key in his pocket-book, and consigned the box to the care of his clerk.
Lady Belgrade dismissed the assembled servants to their several duties, and then, assisted by Lord Arondelle, led the bereaved and suffering girl from the room.
The lawyer and his clerk, who were to dine and sleep at the castle, were left alone.
The lawyer rang and asked for a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses, and lighted his cigar, to pass away the time until the dinner hour.
The next morning Mr. Kage and his clerk went back to London.
It now became an anxious question, whether the marriage of the young Duke of Hereward and the heiress of Lone should proceed according to her father's wishes.
Mr. Kage, the family attorney, urged it: Dr. McWilliams, the family physician, urged it: above all the expectant bridegroom, the Duke of Hereward; only the bride-elect, Salome, and her chaperon, Lady Belgrade, objected to it.
Salome, ill and nervous from the severe shock she had received, could decide upon nothing hastily and pleaded for a short delay.
Lady Belgrade argued etiquette and conventionalities--the impropriety of the daughter's marriage so soon after the father's murder.
Meanwhile the summer had merged into early autumn; the season of the Highlands was over, and the cold Scotch mists were driving summer visitors to the South coast, or to the Continent.
The climate was telling heavily upon the delicate organization of Salome Levison. She contracted a serious cough.
Then the family physician, (so to speak,) "put down his foot" with professional authority so stern as not to be contested or withstood.
"This is a question of life or death, my lady," he said to the dowager--"a question of life and death, ye mind! And not of conventionality and etiquette! Let conventionality and etiquette go to the D., from whom they first came. This girl must die, or she must marry immediately, and go off with her husband to the islands of the Grecian Archipelago. That is all that can save her. And as for you, my laird duke," continued the honest Scotch doctor, breaking into dialect as he always did whenever he forgot himself under strong excitement, "as for you, me laird duke, if ye dinna overcome the lassie's scruples, and marry her out of hand, the de'il hae me but I'll e'en marry her mysel', and tak' her awa to save her life! Now, then will I tak' her mysel' or will you?"
"I will take her!" said the young duke, smiling. Then turning to the dowager, he added, gravely: "Lady Belgrade, this marriage must and shall take place immediately. You must add your efforts to mine to overcome your niece's scruples. Your ladyship has been working against me heretofore. I hope now, after hearing what the doctor has said, that you will work with me."
"Of course, if the child's life and health are in question: and, indeed, this climate is much too severe for her, and she certainly does need rousing; and as it has been three months now since Sir Lemuel Levison's funeral, I don't see--But, of course, after all, it is for you and Salome to decide as you please;" answered Lady Belgrade, in a confused and hesitating manner, for when the dowager went outside of her conventionalities she lost herself.
Salome Levison was again besieged by the pleadings of her lover, the counsels of her solicitor, and the arguments of her physician, all with the co-operation of her chaperon.
"I do not see what else can be done, my dear," she said to her protegee. "The ceremony can be performed as quietly as possible, and you two can go away, and the world be no wiser."
"As if I cared for the world! I will do this in obedience to my dear father's directions and my betrothed husband's wishes, and I do not even think of the world," gravely replied Salome.
"Now, then, to the details, my dear. What day shall we fix? And shall the ceremony be preformed here at the castle or at the church at Lone?"
"Oh, not here! not here! I could not bear to be married here, or at the Lone church either. No, Lady Belgrade. We must go up to our town house in London, and be married quietly at St. Peter's in Kensington, where I used to attend divine service with my dear papa," said Salome, becoming agitated.
"Very well, my love. But don't excite yourself. We will go. And the sooner the better. These horrid Scotch mists are aggravating my rheumatism beyond endurance," concluded the dowager.
It was now the last week in September. But so diligently did the dowager, and the servants under her orders exert themselves both at Castle Lone and in London, that before the first of October, Miss Levison, with her chaperon and their attendants, were all comfortably settled in the luxurious town-house in the West End.
The Duke of Hereward took lodgings near the home of his bride-elect.
As the marriage settlements had been executed, and the bridal paraphernalia prepared for the first marriage day set three months before, there was really nothing to do in the way of preparation for the wedding, and no reason for even so much as a week's delay. An early day was therefore set. It was decided that the ceremony should be performed without the least parade.
Since her departure from Castle Lone and her arrival at their town house, the change of scene and of circumstances, and the preliminaries of her wedding and her journey, had the happiest effects upon Miss Levison's health and spirits.
She recovered her cheerfulness, and even acquired a bloom she had never possessed before. And her attendants took care to keep from her all that could revive her memory of the tragedy at Lone.
One morning the Duke of Hereward came to the house and asked to see Lady Belgrade alone.
The dowager received him in the library.
"Has Miss Levison seen the morning papers?" he inquired, as soon as the usual greetings were over.
"No, they have not yet come," answered her ladyship.
"Thank Heaven! Do not let her see them on any account! I would not have her shocked. The truth is," he added, in explanation of his words to the wondering dowager, "I have important news to tell you. The mysterious vailed woman, supposed to be connected with the robbery and murder at Lone Castle, has been found and arrested. The stolen property has been discovered in her possession. And she--you will be infinitely shocked--she proves to be Rose Cameron, the daughter of one of our shepherds, living near Ben Lone."
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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11
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THE VAILED PASSENGER.
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We must return to the night of the murder, and to the man and woman whom Salome Levison heard, and did not merely "dream" that she heard, conversing under her balcony at midnight.
When left alone in her dark and silent hiding-place, the woman waited long and impatiently. Sometimes she crept out from her shadowy nook, and stole a look up to the casements of the castle, but they were all dark and silent, and closely shut, save one immediately above her head, which stood open, though neither lighted nor occupied.
She had waited perhaps an hour when stealthy footsteps were heard approaching, and not one, but two men came up whispering in hurried and agitated tones. She caught a few words of their troubled talk.
"You have betrayed me! I never meant, under any circumstances, that you should have done such a deed!" said one.
"It was necessary to our safety. We should have been discovered and arrested," said the other.
"You have brought the curse of Cain upon my head!" groaned the first speaker.
"Come, come, my lord, brace up! No one intended what has happened. It was an accident, a calamity, but it is an accomplished fact, and 'what is done, is done,' and 'what is past remedy is past regret.' If the old man hadn't squealed--" "Hush! burn you! the girl will hear!" whispered the first speaker, as they approached the woman under the balcony.
"Rose, here; don't speak. Take this bag; be very careful of it; do not let it for a moment go out of your sight, or even out of your hand. Go to Lone station. The train for London stops there at 12:15. Take a second-class ticket, keep your face covered with a thick vail until you get to London, and to the house. I will join you there in a few days," said the first speaker, earnestly.
"Why canna ye gae now, my laird?" impatiently inquired the girl.
"It would be dangerous, Rose."
"I'm thinking it is laughing at me ye are, Laird Arondelle. You'll bide here and marry yon leddy," said the girl, tossing her head.
"No, on my soul! How can I, when I have married you? Have you not got your marriage certificate with you?"
"Ay, I hae got my lines, but I dinna like ye to bide here, near your leddy, whiles I gang my lane to London."
"Rose, our safety requires that you should go alone to London. You cannot trust me; yet see how much I trust you. You have in that bag, which I have confided to your care, uncounted treasures. Take it carefully to London and to the house on Westminster Road. Conceal it there and wait for me."
"Who is yon lad that cam' wi' ye frae the castle?" inquired the girl, pointing to the other man who had withdrawn apart.
"He is one of the servants of the castle, who is in my confidence. Never mind him. Hurry away now, my lass. You have just time to cross the bridge and reach the station, to catch the train. You are not afraid to go alone?"
"Nay, I'm no feared. But dinna be lang awa' yersel', my laird, or I shall be thinking my thoughts about yon leddy," said the girl, as she folded the dark vail around and around the hat, and without further leave-taking, started off in a brisk walk toward the bridge.
She passed through the castle grounds and over the bridge, and went on to the station, without having met another human being.
She secured her ticket, as has been related, and when the train stopped, she took her place on a second-class car.
Being very much of an animal, and very much fatigued, she could not be kept awake even by the excitement of her novel and perilous position, but, holding on to her booty, and lulled by the swift motion of the train, she fell asleep, and slept until eight o'clock next morning, when she was awakened by the stopping of the train and the bustle of the arrival at Euston Square Station. Her first thought was for the safety of her bag. With a start of dismay she missed it from her lap, where she had been holding it so tightly.
"An' it 's yer little valise yer a looking for, my dear, there it be at yer feet, where it fell, with a crash, while ye slept. An' there was anything in it would break, sure it 's broken entirely," said a kindly man, pointing to the bag upon the floor.
She hastily picked it up.
"Oh! if any one had known what it contains, would it have been left there in safety all the time I slept?" she asked herself, as her hands closed tightly upon her recovered treasure.
But the passengers were all leaving the train, and so she got out with the rest.
She was too cunning to take a cab from the station. She left it on foot and walked a mile or two, making many turns, before, at length she hailed a "four wheeler," hired it and directed the cabman to drive to Number ---- Westminster Road.
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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12
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THE HOUSE ON WESTMINSTER ROAD.
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An hour's ride through some of the most crowded streets of London brought her to her destination--a tall, dingy, three-storied brick house, in a block of the same.
She paid and dismissed the cab at the door, and then went up and rang the bell.
It was answered by an old woman, in a black skirt, red sack, white apron, and white cap.
"Well, to be sure, ma'am, you have taken me unexpected; but I'm main glad to see you so soon. Come in, and I'll make you comfortable in no time," said the woman, with kindly respect, as she held the door wide open for her mistress.
"Any one been here sin' we left Mrs. Rogers?" inquired the traveller.
"No, ma'am--no soul. It is very lonely here without you. Let me take your bag, ma'am. It do seem heavy," said Mrs. Rogers, as she held out her hand and took hold of the handle of the satchel.
"Na, I thank ye. It's na that heavy neither," exclaimed the girl, nervously jerking back the bag, and following her conductor into the house and up stairs.
An unlikely house to be the shelter of thieves and the receptacle of stolen goods. There was a look of sober respectability about its dinginess that might have appertained to a suburban doctor with a large family and a small practice. An old oil cloth, whole, but with its pattern half washed off, covered the narrow hall--an old stair-carpet of originally good quality, but now thread-bare in places, covered the steps. This was all that could be seen from the open door by any chance caller. But upstairs all was very different.
As the girl reached the landing, the old woman opened a door on her left and ushered her into a bright, glaring room, filled up with cheap new furniture, in which blinding colors and bad taste predominated. Carpets, curtains, chair and sofa covers, and hassocks, all bright scarlet; cornices, mirrors, and picture frames, (framing cheap, showy pictures,) all in brassy looking gilt. Through this sitting-room the girl passed into a bedroom, where, also, the furniture was in scarlet and gilt, except the white draperied bed and the dressing-table. Here the girl threw herself down in an easy-chair saying: "I'll just bide here a bit and wash my face and hands, while ye'll gae bring my breakfast."
"Yes, ma'am. What would you like to have?" inquired the woman.
"Ait meal parritch, fust of a', to begin wi' twa kippered herrings; a sausage; a beefsteak; twa eggs; a pot o' arange marmalade; a plate of milk toast, some muffins, and some fresh rolls," concluded the girl.
"Anything more, ma'am?" dryly inquired Mrs. Rogers.
"Nay--ay! Ye may bring me a mutton chop, wi' the lave."
"Tea or coffee, ma'am?"
"Baith, and mak' haste wi' it," answered the girl.
The old woman, smiling to herself, went out.
The girl being left alone, fastened both doors of her room, hung napkins over the key-holes, drew close the scarlet curtains of her windows, and then sat down on the floor and opened the bag and turned out its contents on the carpet.
Fortunatus! what a sight! Well might her fellow-passenger have heard a crash when the bag slipped from her lap to the bottom of the car!
About twelve little canvas bags filled with coins, and marked variously on the sides--£50, £100, £500, £1,000.
She gazed at the treasure in a sort of rapture of possession! How fast her heart beat! She did not think that there was so much money in the whole world! She began to count the bags, and add up their marked figures, to try to estimate the amount. There were two bags marked one thousand, four marked five hundred, three marked one hundred, and three marked fifty pounds--in all twelve little canvas bags containing altogether four thousand four hundred and fifty pounds.
What a mine of wealth! How she gloated over it! She longed to cut open the little canvas bags and spread the whole glittering mass of gold and silver on the carpet before her, that she might gaze upon it--not as a miser to hoard it, but as a vain beauty to spend it. How many bonnets and dresses and shawls and laces and jewels this money would buy? How she longed to lay it out! But she dared not do it yet. She dared not even open the canvas bags. She must conceal her riches.
She began to put the bags back in the satchel.
In doing so, she perceived that she had not half emptied it--there was something in each of the buttoned pockets on the inside. She opened the pockets and turned out their contents.
Rainbows and sunbeams and flashes of lightning!
Her eyes were dazzled with splendor. There was set in a ring a large solitaire diamond in which seemed collected all the light and color of the sun! There was a watch in a gold hunting case, thickly studded with precious stones, and bearing in the center of its circle the initials of the late owner, set in diamonds, and which was suspended to a heavy gold chain. There was a snuff-box of solid gold encrusted with pearls, opals, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, amethysts and sapphires, in a design of Oriental beauty and splendor.
There were also diamond studs and diamond sleeve-buttons--each a large solitaire of immense value, and there were other jewels in the form of seals, lockets, and so forth; and all those delighted her woman's eyes and heart. But, above all, the golden box, set with all sorts of flaming precious stones, with its splendid colors and blazing fires dazzled her sight and dazed her mind.
"I _will_ keep this for mysel'," she said, as she put it in the bosom of her dress--"I will, I _will_, I WILL! He shall na hae this again. I'll tell him it was lost or sto'en."
Then she opened the satchel and began to put away the other jewels, until she took up the watch, looked at it longingly, put it in the bag, took it out again, and finally, without a word, slipped it into her bosom beside the box.
Next she trifled with the temptation of the diamond ring. She slipped it on and off her finger. She had large beautiful hands in perfect proportion to her large beautiful form, and the ring that had fitted the banker's long thin finger fitted her round white one perfectly. So, she took the jewelled box from her bosom, opened it, put the diamond ring in it, then closed and returned it to its hiding place.
Finally retaining the box, the watch and the rings, she replaced all the jewels and the money-bags in the satchel, and put the satchel for the present between the mattresses of her bed. While thus engaged she heard her old attendant moving about in the next room, and she knew that she was setting the table for her breakfast.
So she hastened to smooth the bed again, and snatch the napkins off the keyholes, and unlock the doors lest her very caution should excite suspicion.
Then at length she took time to wash the railroad dust from her face, and brush it from her hair.
And finally she passed into her sitting-room where she found the table laid for her single breakfast.
Presently her housekeeper entered bringing one tray on which stood tea and coffee with their accompaniments, and followed by a young kitchen maid with another tray on which stood the bread, butter, marmalade, meat, fish, etc., with _their_ accompaniments.
When all these were arranged upon the table, Rose Cameron sat down and fell to.
Being a very perfect animal, she was blessed with an excellent appetite and a healthy digestion. She was therefore, a very heavy feeder; and now bread, butter, fish, meat, marmalade disappeared rapidly from the scene, to the great amusement of the housekeeper and kitchen maid, who had never seen "a lady" eat so ravenously.
When the breakfast service was removed, she went back into her bedroom, locked the door, and covered the keyholes as before, and took the satchel from between the mattresses, and opened it to gloat over her treasures; for she quite considered them as her own. Again she was "tempted of the devil." She thought of the fine shops in London, and the fine ready-made dresses she could buy with the very smallest of these bags of money.
"Why should I no'? What's his is mine! I'll e'en tak the wee baggie, and gae till the fine shops," she said to herself. And selecting one of the fifty pound bags, she replaced the others in the satchel, and put the satchel in its hiding place.
She got ready for her expedition by arraying herself in a cheap, dark-blue silk suit, and a straw hat with a blue feather. Then she carefully locked her bedroom door, and took the key with her when she left the house.
Her ambition did not take any very high flights, although she did believe herself to be a countess. She knew nothing of the splendid shops of the West End. She only knew the Borrough and St. Paul's churchyard, both of which she thought, contained the riches and splendors of the whole world. She went to the nearest cab-stand, took a cab, and drove to St. Paul's churchyard, (in ancient times a cemetery, but now a network of narrow, crowded streets, filled with cheap, showy shops.) She spent the best part of the day in that attractive locality.
When she returned, late in the afternoon, the canvas bag was empty and the cab was full, for Rose Cameron, the country girl, ignorant of the world, but having a saving faith in the dishonesty of cities, refused to trust the dealers to send the goods home, but insisted on fetching them herself.
She displayed her purchases--mostly gaudy trash--to the wondering eyes of Mrs. Rogers, and then, tired out with her long night's journey and her whole day's shopping, she ate a heavy supper and went to bed. Such excesses never seemed to over-task her fine digestive organs or disturb her sleep. After an unbroken night's rest she awoke the next morning with a clear head and a keen appetite, and rang for the housekeeper to bring her a cup of tea to her bedside.
While waiting for her tea she wondered if her "guid mon" would arrive during the next twenty-four hours.
And that revived in her mind the memory of her supposed rival. During the preceding day she had been so absorbed in the contemplation of her newly-acquired treasures in jewelry and money that she had scarcely thought of what might then be going on at Castle Lone.
Now she wondered what happened there; whether the marriage had failed to take place; but, of course, she said to herself, it had failed. Lord Arondelle would never commit bigamy--but _how_ had it failed? What had been made to happen to prevent it from going on? And what had the bride and her friends said or thought?
Above all, why had Lord Arondelle, married to herself as she fully believed him to be, _why_ had Lord Arondelle allowed the affair to go so far, even to the wedding-morning, when the wedding-feast was prepared, and the wedding guests arrived?
It must have been done to mortify and humiliate those city strangers who sat in his father's seat, she thought.
Oh, but she would have given a great deal to have seen her hated rival's face on that wedding-morning when no wedding took place?
No doubt "John" would tell her all about it when he arrived. And oh! How impatient she became for his arrival!
Her reflections were interrupted by the entrance of the housekeeper with a cup of tea in one hand and the _Times_ in the other.
"Good morning, ma'am. And hoping you find yourself well this morning! Here is your tea, ma'am. And here is the paper, ma'am. There's the most hawful murder been committed, ma'am, which I thought you might enjoy along of your tea," said the worthy woman, as she drew a little stand by the bedside and placed the cup and the newspaper upon it.
"A murder?" listlessly repeated Rose Cameron, rising on her elbow, and taking the tea-cup in her hand.
"Ay, ma'am, the most hawfullest murder as ever you 'eard of, on an' 'elpless old gent, away up at a place in Scotland called Lone!"
"EH!" exclaimed Rose Cameron, starting, and nearly letting fall her tea-cup.
"Yes, ma'am, and the most hawfullest part of it was, as it was done in the night afore his darter's wedding-day, and his blessed darter herself was the first to find her father's dead body in the morning."
"Gude guide us!" exclaimed Rose Cameron, putting down her untasted tea, and staring at the speaker in blank dismay.
"You may read all about it in the paper, ma'am," said the housekeeper.
"When did it a' happen?" huskily inquired the girl, whose face was now ashen pale.
"On the night before last, ma'am. The same night you were traveling up to London by the Great Northern. And bless us and save us, the poor bride must have found her poor pa's dead body just about the time you arrived at home here, ma'am, for the paper says it was ten o'clock."
"Ou! wae's me! wae's me! wae's me!" cried Rose, covering her ashen-pale face with her hands and sinking back on her pillow.
"Oh, indeed I'm sorry I told you anything about it, ma'am, if it gives you such a turn. I _did_ hope it would amuse you while you sipped your tea. But la! there! some ladies do be _so_ narvy!"
"An' that's the way the braw wedding was stappit!" cried Rose, without even hearing the words of her attendant.
"Yes, ma'am," replied Mrs. Rogers, not understanding the allusion of the speaker, "_that_ was the way the wedding was stopped, in course. No wedding could go on after _that_, you know, ma'am, anyhow, let alone the bride falling into a fit the minute she saw the bloody corpse of her murdered father, and being of a raving manyyack ever since. Instead of a wedding and a feast there will be an inquest and a funeral."
"Was--there--a--robbery?" inquired Rose Cameron in a low, faint, frightened tone.
"Ay, ma'am, a great robbery of money and jewelry, and no clue yet to the vilyuns as did it! But won't you drink your tea, ma'am?"
"Na, na, I dinna need it now. Ou! this is awfu'! Wae worth the day!" exclaimed the horror-stricken girl, shivering from head to foot as with an ague.
"Indeed, I am very sorry I told you anything about it, ma'am. But I thought it would interest you. I didn't think it would shock you. But, indeed, if I were you, I wouldn't take on so about people I didn't know anything about. And you didn't know anything about _them_. You haven't even asked the names," urged the worthy woman.
"Na, na, I did na ken onything anent them; but it is unco awfu'!" said Rose, in hurried, tremulous tones.
Not for all her hidden treasures would she have had it suspected that she even remotely knew anything about the murder or the man who was murdered.
"And yet you take on about them. Ah! your heart is too tender, ma'am. If you are going to take up everybody else's crosses as well as your own, you'll never get through this world, ma'am. Take an old woman's word for that."
"Thank'ee, Mrs. Rogers. Noo, please gae awa and leave me my lane. I'll ring for ye if I want ye," said Rose, nervously.
"Very well, ma'am. I'll go and see after your breakfast."
"Oh, onything at a'! The same as yestreen. Only gae awa!" exclaimed the excited girl, too deeply moved now even to care what she should eat for breakfast.
When the housekeeper had left her alone she gave way to the emotions of horror and fear which prudence had caused her to restrain in the presence of the woman. She wept, and sobbed, and cried out, and struck her hands together. She was, in truth, in an agony of terror.
For now she understood the hidden meaning of her lover's words, when on the night of the murder he had said to her, under the balcony, "Something will happen to-night that will put all thoughts of marrying and giving in marriage out of the heads of all concerned." And she comprehended also how the meaning of the fragmentary conversation she had overheard between her lover and his companion, as they approached her from the house: "You have brought the curse of Cain upon me." "It could not be helped." "If the old man had not squealed out," and so forth.
Sir Lemuel Levison had been robbed and murdered, and she--Rose Cameron--had been accessory to the robbery and the murder! She had lain in wait under the balcony while the burglars went in and slaughtered the old banker, and emptied his money chest. She had received the booty, and carried it off, and brought it to London. She had it even then in her possession!
She was liable to discovery, arrest, trial, conviction, execution.
With a cry of intense horror she covered up her head under the bedclothes and shook as with a violent ague. She had suspected, and indeed, she had known by circumstance and inference, that the money and jewels contained in the bag she had brought from Castle Lone, had been taken from the house, but she had tried to ignore the fact that they had been stolen. But now the knowledge was forced upon her.
She had been accessory both before and after the facts to the crime of robbery and murder, and she was subject to trial and execution. It all now seemed like a horrible nightmare, from which she tried in vain to wake.
While she shivered and shook under the bedclothes, the housekeeper came up and opened the door and said: "Mr. Scott have come, ma'am. Will he come up?"
"Ay, bid him come till me at ance!" cried the agitated woman, without uncovering her head.
A few minutes passed and the door opened again and her lover entered the room still wearing his travelling wraps.
"Rose, my lass, what ails you?" he inquired, approaching the bed, and seeing her shaking under the bedclothes.
"It's in a cauld sweat, I am, frae head to foot," she answered.
"You have got an ague! Your teeth are chattering!" said Mr. Scott, stooping over her.
"Keep awa' frae me! Dinna come nigh me!" she cried, cuddling down closer under the clothing. She had not yet uncovered her face or looked at him.
"What is the meaning of all this, Rose?" he inquired, in a tone of displeasure.
"Speer that question to yoursel'! no' to me!" she answered, shuddering.
"Look at me!" said the man, sternly.
"I canna look at you! I winna look at you! I hae ta'en an awfu' scunner till ye!"
"What have I done to you, you exasperating woman, that you should behave to me in this insolent manner?" demanded the man.
"What hae ye dune till me, is it? Ye hae hanggit me! nae less!" cried the girl, with a shudder. " _Hanged_ you? Whatever do you mean? Are ye crazy, girl?"
"Ay, weel nigh!"
"But what do you mean by saying that I have hanged you? Come, I insist on knowing!"
"Oh, then I just ken a' anent the murder up at Lone Castle! Ye hae drawn me in till a robbery and murder, without me kenning onything anent it until a' was ower, and me with the waefu' woodie before me!"
"Rose, if I understand you, it seems that you think I was in some sort concerned in the death of Sir Lemuel Levison?"
"Ay, that is just what I _be_ thinking!" said the shuddering girl.
"Then you do me a very foul and infamous injustice, Rose! Look at me! Do I look like an assassin? Look at me, I say!" sternly insisted the man.
"I canna luke at ye! I winna luke at ye! I hae lukit at ye ower muckle for my ain gude already!" cried the girl, cowering under the clothes.
"See here, lass? I say that you are utterly wrong! I had no connection whatever with the death of the banker! I would not have hurt a hair of his gray head for all that he was worth! Come! I answer you seriously and kindly, although your grotesque and horrible suspicion deserves about equally to be laughed at or punished. Come, look into my face now and see whether I am not telling you the truth."
"And sae ye did na do the deed?" she inquired at length, uncovering her head and showing a pale affrighted face.
"My poor lass, how terrified you have been! No, of course, I did not. But how came you to know anything about that horrible affair?"
Rose took up the morning paper and put it in his hands.
"Ah! confound the press!" muttered the man between his teeth.
"What did ye say?"
"These papers, with their ghastly accounts of murders, are nuisances, Rose!"
"Ay sae they be! But ye didna do the deed?"
The man made a gesture of impatience.
"Aweel, then sin ye had na knowledge o' the deed until after it was done, what did ye mean by saying that something wad happen, wad pit a' thoughts o' marriage and gi'eing in marriage out the heads o' a' concerned? --when ye spak till me under the balcony that same night?"
"I meant--I meant," said the man, hesitating, "that I would let the preparations for the wedding go on to the very altar, and then before the altar I would reject the bride! I had heard something about her."
"Ah! I thought ye did it a' for spite!"
"But Rose, I never thought you were such an utter coward as I have found you out to be to-day!" said the man reproachfully.
"Ay' I can staund muckle; but I canna staund murder!"
"It is not even certain that there has been any murder committed. The coroner's jury have not yet brought in their verdict. Many people think that the old man fell dead with a sudden attack of heart-disease, and in falling, struck his head upon the top of that bronze statuette, which was found lying by him."
"Ay! and that wad be likely eneuch! for na robber wou'd gae to kill a man wi' siccan a weepon as that," said Rose, who had begun to recover her composure.
Then the man began to question her in his turn: "You brought the satchel safely?"
"Ay, I brought it safely."
"Where is it?"
"Lock the door and I'll get it."
The man locked the door. While his back was turned, Rose jumped out of bed and slipped on a dressing-gown. Then she put her hand in between the mattresses and drew out the bag.
"Have you examined its contents?" inquired the man.
"Na, I hanna opened it once," replied the girl, unhesitatingly telling a falsehood.
"Oh! then I have a surprise for you. Sir Lemuel Levison was my banker. He had my money, and also my jewels, in his charge. He delivered them to me last night a few minutes before I brought them out and gave them to you. You know I wished you to take them to London because--I meant to reject Miss Levison at the altar, and after that, of course, I could not return to the castle for anything. Don't you see?"
"Ay, I see! But stap! stap! Noo you mind me about the bag. When you brought out the bag that night, I heard you and a man talking. You said to the man, 'You hae brocht the curse o' Cain upon me.' Noo, an ye had naething to do wi' the murder, what did ye mean by that?"
The man's face grew very dark. "She cross-questions me," he muttered to himself. Then controlling his emotions, he affected to laugh, and said: "How you do twist and turn things, Rose! One would think you were interested in convicting me. But I had rather think that you are a little cracked on this subject. I never used the words you think you heard. The servant had brought me the wrong walking-stick, one that was too short for me, and so I said, 'You have brought that cursed cane to me.'"
"Ou, _that_ indeed!" said the credulous girl, "But what did _he_ mean when he said, 'It could na be helpit. The auld man squealed?'"
"I don't know what he meant, nor do I know whether he used those words. Probably he did not; and you mistook him as you have mistaken me. But I am really tired of being so cross-questioned, Rose. Look me in the face, and tell me whether you really believe me to be guilty or not?" he said, in his most frank and persuasive manner.
"Na, na, I canna believe ony ill o' ye, Johnnie Scott," replied the girl.
And, in fact, the man had such magnetic power over her that he could make her believe anything that he wished.
"Now let us look into this satchel," he said, proceeding to open it.
He took out the bags of money.
"There is one bag gone! fifty pounds gone!" he exclaimed.
"Na, that canna be, gin it was in the bag. I hanna opened it ance," said the girl, unhesitatingly.
The man paid no attention to her words, but took out the jewels and began to examine them.
"Confound it! The watch and chain are gone, and the solitaire diamond ring is gone, and--" here the man broke out into a volley of curses forcible enough to right a ship in a storm, and said: "The jewel snuff-box, worth ten times all the other jewels put together, is gone! How is this, Rose?"
"I dinna ken. How suld I ken? I took the bag frae your hands, and I put it back intil your hands, e'en just as I took it, without ever once seeing the inside o' it," boldly replied the girl.
A volley of curses from the man followed, and then he inquired: "Was the bag out of your possession at any time since you received it?"
"Na, not ance."
"Then that infernal valet has taken the lion's share of the prog! I wish I had him by the throat!" exclaimed the man, with a torrent of imprecations.
"What do ye mean by a' that?" inquired Rose.
"I mean, that servant I believed in has robbed me, that is all," said the man.
With her recovered spirits Rose had regained her appetite. She now rang the bell loudly.
The housekeeper answered it. " _Is_ breakfast ready?" inquired the hungry creature.
"Yes, madam; and I will put in on the table just as soon as you are ready for it," answered the old woman.
"Put it on now, then," replied the girl.
The housekeeper left the room.
Rose made a hasty toilet while her husband was washing the railway dust from his face and head.
And then both went into the adjoining parlor, where the morning meal was by this time laid.
After breakfast the man went out.
The woman remained in the house. She was in a very unenviable state of mind. She was not yet quite easy on the subject of the murder at Lone Castle. For although her husband and herself might have no connection with the crime, still they had undoubtedly been lurking secretly about the house on the very night of its perpetration, and therefore might get into great trouble. And, besides, she was frightened at having secreted the costly watch and chain, snuff-box, and other jewels, from her Scott, and then told him a falsehood about them. What if he should find her out in her dishonesty and duplicity?
She did not dream of giving up her stolen property. She would risk all for the possession of that precious golden box, whose brilliant colors and blazing jewels fascinated her very soul; but where could she securely hide it from her husband's search? At that moment it was with the watch and the diamond ring under the bolster of her bed. But there it was in danger of being discovered, should a search be made.
She went into her bedroom and looked about for a hiding-place.
At length she found one which she thought would be secure.
The gilt cornice at the top of her bedroom window was hollow. She climbed up on top of her dressing bureau, and reaching as far as she could she pushed first the snuff-box, (which also contained the diamond ring,) and then the watch and chain, far into the hollow part of the cornice, over the window.
There she thought they would be perfectly safe.
The next few days passed without anything occurring to disturb the peace of this misguided peasant girl.
Every morning the man who called himself Lord Arondelle, but who was known at the house he occupied only as Mr. Scott, and who professed to be the husband of the young woman--went out in the morning and remained absent until evening.
Every day the girl, known to her servants as Mrs. Scott, spent in dressing, going out riding in a cab, and freely spending the money that her husband lavished upon her, and in gormandizing in a manner that must have destroyed the digestive organs of any animal less sound and strong than this "handsome hizzie" from the Highlands.
On the Monday of the week following the tragedy at Castle Lone, however, Mr. Scott came home in the evening in a state of agitation and alarm.
"Where is that satchel with the money?" he inquired as he entered the bedroom of his wife.
She stared at him in astonishment, but his looks so frightened her that she hastened to produce the bag.
He took from it a little bag of gold marked £500, and threw it in her lap, saying: "There, take that!" And before she could utter a word, he hurried out of the room.
She ran down stairs after him, calling: "John! John! what ails you? What hae fashed ye sae muckle?"
But he banged the hall door and was gone.
"That's unco queer!" said Rose, as she retraced her steps, up stairs, feeling a vague anxiety creeping upon her.
"He'll be back sune. He has na gane a journey, for he has na ta'en e'en sa mickle as a change o' linnen, or a second collar," she said, as she regained her room, and sank down breathless into a chair.
The bag of gold he had left her next attracted her attention. £500--ten times as much as she had ever possessed in her life. The contemplation of this fortune drove all speculations about the movements of "John" out of her head. "John" was always queer and uncertain, and _would_ go off suddenly sometimes and be gone for days.
"I winna fash mysel' anent him! He may tak' his ain gait, and I'll tak' mine!" she said to herself, as she resolved to go out the very next day and buy what her heart had long been set upon--a cashmere shawl!
The next morning's papers however contained news from Lone, which, had Rose taken the trouble to look at them, must have thrown some light upon the sudden departure of Mr. Scott.
They contained this telegraphic item, copied from the evening papers: "The coroner's inquest that has been sitting at Lone, returned last night a verdict of murder against Peters, the valet of the late Sir Lemuel Levison, and against some person or persons unknown. The valet has been arrested and committed to gaol to await the action of the grand jury. It is said that he is very much depressed in spirits, and it is supposed that he will make a full confession, and save himself from the extreme penalty of the law by giving up the names of his confederates in the crime, and turning Queen's evidence against them."
Rose did not read the papers at all. They did not interest that fine animal.
She went shopping that day, and bought a blazing scarlet cashmere shawl. Mr. Scott did not return in the evening, but she was not troubled. She had a roast pheasant, champagne, and candied fruits for supper, and she was happy.
She went shopping the next day, and bought a flashing set of jewels.
Mr. Scott did not return in the evening, but she had another luxurious supper, and was still happy. In this way a week passed, and still Mr. Scott did not come back. But Rose shopped and gormandized and enjoyed her healthy animal life.
Then she felt tempted to wear her gold watch and chain when she dressed to go abroad. So one morning she put it on, and went out. She had not the slightest suspicion of the danger to which she exposed herself by wearing it. She was not afraid of any one finding it in her possession, except her husband. So she wore it proudly day after day.
One morning, about ten days after the departure of "Mr. Scott," the postman left a letter for her. It was a drop-letter. She opened it and read.
It was without date or signature, and merely contained these lines: "Business detains me from you longer than I had expected to stay. Do not be anxious. I will return or send very soon."
Rose was not anxious. She was enjoying herself. Now after shopping and eating and drinking all day, she went to the theatre at night. The theatre--one of the humblest in the city--was a new sensation to her, and her first visit to one was so delightful that she resolved to repeat it every evening.
"I shanna fash mysel' anent Johnnie ony mair. He'll come hame when he gets ready," she said in her heart.
But weeks grew into months, and "Johnnie" did not come home.
Rose's five hundred pounds had sunk down to fifty pounds, and then indeed she did begin to grow impatient for the return of her husband. Suppose the money should give out before he came back?
One day, while she was disturbing herself by these questions, she went out shopping as usual. When she had made her purchases she looked at her watch, and found that it had stopped. She was too ignorant to know what was the matter with it. She only knew that when she wound it up it would not go.
So she asked the dealer from whom she had bought her goods to direct her to a watchmaker.
The dealer gave her the address of a jeweller not far off.
She took her watch to "Messrs. North and Simms, Watchmakers and Jewellers," and asked an elderly man behind the counter, who happened to be one of the firm, if he could make her watch "gae" while she waited for it in the shop. And she detached it from its chain and handed it to him.
Mr. North received the rich, diamond-studded, gold repeater, and looked at the tawdry, ignorant, vain creature that presented it, with astonishment.
Then he examined the initials set in diamonds, and a change came over his face. He went to his desk, taking the watch with him. He drew out a small drawer, took from it a photograph, and compared it with the watch in his hand. Then he placed both together in the drawer and locked it and beckoned a young man from the opposite counter, scribbled a few words on a card and sent him out with it.
Rose, who had watched all these movements without the least suspicion of their meaning, now moved toward the jeweller and said: "Aweel then, hae ye lookit at my watch and can ye na mak it ga?"
"The spring is broken, Miss, and it will take a little time to repair it. You can leave it with me, if you please," replied Mr. North.
"Indeed, then, and I'm nae sic a fule! I'll na leave it with you at a'. If you canna mak it gae just gie it till me," she said.
Now Mr. North did not wish his customer to leave his shop yet a while. The truth was that photographs of the late Sir Lemuel Levison's watch and snuff-box, in the possession of his legal steward, had been copied and the copies distributed by London directory to every jeweller in the city, as a means of discovering the stolen property, and finally detecting the criminals.
Messrs. North and Simms had received a copy of each.
And when Rose presented the rich watch to be repaired, Mr. North had at first suspected and then identified the article as the missing watch of the late Sir Lemuel Levison. And he had locked it in the drawer with the photographs, and dispatched a messenger to the nearest police station for an officer.
His object now was to detain Rose Cameron until the arrival of that officer.
"Will you look at something in my line this morning, Miss?" he inquired.
"Na. Gi'e me my watch, and I will gae my ways home," she answered.
"I have a set of diamonds here that once belonged to the Empress Josephine. They are very magnificent. Would you not like to see them?"
"Ou, ay! an empress's diamonds? ay, indeed I wad!" cried the poor fool, vivaciously.
Mr. North drew from his glass case a casket containing a fine set of brilliants, which probably the Empress Josephine had never even heard of, and displayed it before the wondering eyes of the Highland lass.
While she was gazing in rapt admiration upon the blazing jewels, the messenger returned, accompanied by a policeman in plain clothes.
"Excuse me, Miss, I wish to speak to a customer," said the jeweller, as he met the officer and silently took him up to the farther end of the shop to his desk, opened a little drawer and showed him the watch and the photographs.
Then they conferred together for a short time. The jeweller told the policeman how the watch had fallen into his hands; but that the pretended owner, finding that he could not repair it while she waited, had refused to leave it, and insisted on taking it home with her.
"Give it to her. Let her take it home. She can then be followed and her residence ascertained. I think, without doubt, that we have now got a certain clue to the perpetrators of the robbery and murder at Castle Lone."
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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13
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A SURPRISE FOR MRS. SCOTT.
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"Will ye gie me my watch or no?" exclaimed Rose, growing impatient of the whispered colloquy between the jeweller and the policeman in plain clothes, although she was quite unsuspicious of its subject.
"Here it is, madam," said the jeweller, with the utmost politeness, as he came and placed the watch in her hand.
She attached it to her chain and then left the shop.
The policeman sauntered carelessly toward the door and kept his eye covertly upon her.
She got into a four-wheeled cab and drove off.
The policeman hailed a "Hansom," sprang into it, and directed the driver to keep the first cab in sight and follow it to its destination.
Rose, as it was now late in the afternoon, and she was longing for her turbot, green-turtle soup, and roast pheasants and champagne, drove directly home.
Her housekeeper met her at the door with good news.
"A letter from the master, ma'am. The postman brought it soon after you left home," she said, putting another "drop" letter in the hand of her mistress.
"Is dinner ready?" inquired Rose, who was more interested in her meals than in her lover.
"Just ready, ma'am," replied the housekeeper.
"Put it on the table directly, then," said Rose, as she ran up stairs to her own room.
She threw herself into a chair and opened the letter to read it, at her ease.
It was without date and very short. It only informed her that the writer was still detained by "circumstances beyond his control," and enjoined her to wait patiently in her house on Westminster Road, until she should see him.
It was also without signature.
"And there's nae money in it. I dinna ken why he should write to me at a', if he will send me nae money," was the angry comment of Rose, as she impatiently threw the letter into the fire.
Her "improved" circumstances had not taught the peasant girl any refinement of manners. She did not think it at all necessary to change her dress, or even to wash her face after her dusty drive. But when dinner was announced, she went to the table as she had come into the house. And she enjoyed her dinner as only a young person with a perfectly healthful and intensely sensual organization could. She lingered long over her dessert of candied fruits, creams, jellies, and light wines. And when the housekeeper came in at length with the strong black coffee, she made the woman sit down and gossip with her about London life.
While they were so employed, "the boy in buttons," whose duty it was to attend the street door and answer the bell, entered the room and said: "A gemman down stairs axing to see the missus. I told 'im 'er was at dinner, and mussent be disturbed at meals, which 'e hanswered, and said as 'is business were most himportant, and 'e must see you whether or no, ma'am, which I beg yer parding for 'sturbing yer agin horders."
"It will be a mon frae Johnnie Scott. He'll be fetching me a message or some money. Gae tell him to come in," said Rose, in hopeful excitement.
"Must I bring the gemman up here, missus?" inquired Buttons.
"Ay, ye fule! Where else? Wad ye ask the gentlemon intil the kitchen? And we had na that money rooms to choose fra!" said Rose, impatiently.
And indeed, in that great empty old house, she had but three to her own use--the tawdry scarlet parlor, which was also her dining room; the equally tawdry scarlet chamber; and the dressing-room behind it.
The boy vanished and soon reappeared, ushering in the policeman in plain clothes.
"You will be coming frae Mr. Scott, wi' a message?" said Rose, without rising to receive him.
"No, mum; haven't the pleasure of that gent's acquaintance, though I would like to enjoy it. I come to _Mrs._ Scott, however, and on particular unpleasant business. What is your full name, mum?" gruffly inquired the policeman, approaching her.
"And what will my name be to you, ye rude mon? And wha ga'ed ye commission to force yersel, on my company at my dinner?" indignantly inquired Rose.
"My commission, as you call it, mum, lies in this warrant, which authorizes me to make a thorough search of these premises for property stolen from Lone Castle on the night of the first of June last."
As the policeman spoke, Rose stared at him with eyes that grew larger, and a face that grew whiter every minute. And as she stared, she suddenly recognized the visitor as the man she had seen in the jeweller's shop, talking with the proprietor while the latter was pretending to be examining the watch she had put in his hand for repairs.
And now the whole truth burst upon her. The watch had been recognized by the jeweller, who perhaps had seen it in Sir Lemuel Levison's possession, or perhaps had had it in his own for cleaning, and he had sent for this policeman in plain clothes, who had followed her home, "spotted" the house, and then taken out a search-warrant. Fright and rage possessed her soul. And oh! in the midst of all, how she cursed her own folly in secreting those dangerous jewels in the house, and her madness in wearing the watch abroad.
"I hope you will submit quietly to the necessary search, mum. It will be the better for you," said the officer.
Then rage got the better of fright in Rose Cameron's distracted bosom.
"I'll tear your e'en out, first, ye--" here followed a volley of expletives not fit to be reported here--"before ye s' all bring me to sic an open shame! Search my house, will ye? Ye daur!" and here the handsome Amazon struck an attitude of resistance.
The policeman went to the front window, threw it up, and beckoned to some persons below.
In two minutes, the sound of footsteps was heard upon the stairs, the door was opened, and a couple of officers entered the room.
Rose Cameron gazed at them in terror and defiance.
"Mrs. Scott, you are my prisoner. We arrest you on the charge of complicity in the murder of Sir Lemuel Levison, and the robbery of Castle Lone!" said the first policeman, laying his hand on the girl's shoulder.
"Tak' yer claws affen me, ye de'il!" exclaimed Rose, springing from under his hand, and then shrinking, shuddering, into the nearest chair.
"Perkins, look after this woman, while I direct the search of the house. You come with me, Thompson. We will go through this room now," said the first policeman, putting his hand on the lock of the chamber door.
"Ye sell na gae into my bedroom, ye de'il! It is na decent for a strange mon to gae into a leddy's chamber!" cried Rose, springing before him to bar his entrance.
"Never mind her, Mr. Pryor; I'll take care of her," said the man called Perkins, as with a firm hand he laid hold of his prisoner, and forced her, screaming, scratching, and resisting with all her might from the door.
"Excuse me, my girl, but this is a murder case, and we must not stand upon politeness to the fair sex; here," added Perkins, as he forced her down upon her chair and held her there so firmly that all she could do was to spit, glare, and rail at him.
"Oh, my dear, good lady, do be quiet. You are in the hands of the law, which I believe you to be as innersent as the dove unborn; but it will be the best for you to submit quietly," said the housekeeper, who had hitherto sat in appalled silence, taking note of the proceedings.
"I will na submit to ony sic indignity," screamed Rose, with an additional torrent of very objectionable language.
Meantime officers Pryor and Thompson passed into the bedroom and began the search. Bureau and bureau drawers, wardrobes, boxes, caskets, cases, were opened, ransacked, and their contents turned out, but no sign of the stolen property was discovered. Closets, wash-stands, and chair cushions next underwent a thorough examination, with a similar result. Then the bed was pulled to pieces, and the mattresses were closely scrutinized, to detect any sign of a recent ripping and re-sewing of any part of the seams through which the stolen jewels might have been pushed in among the stuffing, but evidently the mattresses had not been tampered with.
Then the two officers of the law stopped and looked at each other.
"Before proceeding further in our search, we must be sure as the stolen goods are not in this room," said Pryor.
"I don't know where they can be concealed in this room," said Thompson.
"We must apply our infallible square inch rule, now. Take the inside of this room from floor to ceiling, and search in succession _every square inch of it_. No matter whether the part under review seems a likely or an unlikely, or even a possible or an impossible place of concealment, search it whether or no. Stolen goods are often found in impossible places, or in what seems to be such," said Pryor.
The search was re-commenced on the new principle, and following the square inch system into an impossible place, they at last came upon the stolen treasure, hidden in the hollow of the cornice at the top of the scarlet window curtains, near the bedstead.
"Here we are! all right! The jewel snuff box, and the solitaire diamond ring. The watch and chain will be found upon her person. This will be sufficient for to-day. We must close and seal these rooms, and place a couple of men on guard here before we take the girl to the station-house," said Pryor, as he carefully bestowed the recovered jewels in the deep breast-pocket of his coat.
The two officers returned to the parlor, where they found Perkins sitting by the prisoner, who was now pallid and quiet, merely because she had raged herself into a state of exhaustion.
"Go and fetch a close cab, Thompson. And you, good woman, fetch your missus' hat and wraps, and whatever else you may think she will need to go to the Police Station-House, and spend the night there. I will also trouble you for that watch and chain, my dear," said Pryor, turning lastly to his prisoner.
"I will na gie my bonny watch! And I will na gae to your filthy station-house, ye--!"
Whew! Inspector Pryor was used to storms of abuse from female prisoners, and could stand them well on most occasions; but now he turned as from a shower of fire, and walked rapidly to the window, while Perkins forcibly took from her the watch and chain, and put them for the present into his own pocket.
Thompson came in to announce the cab, and the housekeeper entered with her mistress's hat and shawl, and a small bundle tied up in a handkerchief.
But Rose stormed and wept, and utterly refused either to put on the hat and shawl, or to enter the cab. Nor could any amount of pursuasion or threats move her obstinacy until she found that the officers of the law were about to take her by force, and without her proper out-door dress.
Then, indeed, she yielded to the coaxing of her housekeeper, and allowed the old woman to prepare her for her compulsory drive.
When she was ready, Inspector Pryor would have escorted her down stairs, but she shook off his hand with angry scorn, and with an expletive that made even his case-hardened ears burn and tingle again.
"If I maun gae, I will gae; but I willna hae your filthy hand on me, ye beastly de'il!" she added, as she reached the cab. She paused an instant, with her foot upon the step, and looked up and down the street, as if she contemplated for a moment a flight for liberty and life; but probably she did not like the prospect of the hue and cry, the pursuit and recapture sure to ensue, for the next instant she stepped into the cab.
That night Rose Cameron passed in the Police Station-House of the Westminster precinct. She had slept in much less comfortable, if more respectable quarters, when she lived in the Highland hut at the foot of Ben Lone.
The officers who had her in charge overlooked all her viciousness in consideration of her youth and beauty, and afforded her every indulgence which their own duty and her safe-keeping permitted. They gave her a cell and a clean cot to herself; and one of them, to whom she gave a sovereign, went out at her orders and bought for her a luxurious and abundant supper.
And Rose--a perfect animal, as I beg leave to remind you--ate heartily and slept soundly, notwithstanding her perils and terrors.
The next morning Rose Cameron was taken before the sitting magistrate of the Police Court at Vincent Square.
The two witnesses from Lone, McNeil, the saddler, who had seen her lurking under the window of the castle at midnight on the night of the murder; and Ferguson, the railway clerk, who had sold her the ticket for the twelve-fifteen express to London, had been summoned by telegraph on the day before, had come up by the night train, and were now in court ready to identify the prisoner. Sir Lemuel Levison's house-steward, also summoned by telegraph, was there to identify the stolen jewels which were produced in court. The examination was brief and conclusive. McNeil and Ferguson swore to the woman as being Rose Cameron, and also as being the very woman they had each seen on the night of the murder, under the suspicious circumstances already mentioned.
And McRath swore to the watch and chain, the jewelled snuff-box, and the solitaire diamond ring as the property of his deceased master, worn upon his person on the same night of the murder.
The three policemen swore to finding the stolen property in the possession of the prisoner.
Rose Cameron was incapable of inventing a plausible defence.
When asked how this property came into her possession, she said she had picked up the watch and chain found upon her person, on the sidewalk, on Westminster Road, where she supposed the owner must have dropped it, and as she did not know who the owner might be, she had kept it, to her sorrow. But as for the gold snuff-box and the solitaire diamond ring, she did not know anything about them; she had never seen them in her life, until they were drawn out of the hollow cornice by Inspector Pryor, and where they must have been hidden by somebody else.
This explanation was not received. And before the morning was over, Rose Cameron was remanded to her cell in the police station-house to wait until she could be taken back to Scotland for trial.
When she reached her cell, she gave herself up to a passion of hysterical weeping and sobbing.
She was interrupted by a visit from her friendly housekeeper.
"My poor, dear, injured lady, I was here early this morning to see you, but could not get in," said the woman, after the first exciting greetings were over.
"Sit ye down. Dinna staund, and tire yersel'," said the poor creature, glad to see any familiar face.
"Oh, my good young lady, you were always very kind to me. And I never can believe as you've had anything to do with what you are accused of," said the good woman, weeping.
"And sae I hadna. I dinna ken onything anent it. As for yon braw boxie, I ne'er set een on it, na, nor the fine ring, till the policeman pu'ed it doon frae the tap o' the window curtain. And the fine watch, they fund on me, and said belongit to Sir Lemuel Levison; that watch waur gied to me by a gude freend," said Rose, wiping the great tears from her stormy eyes.
"I will believe it, my good young lady. I can very well believe it. I see how you have been imposed upon by bad people; but do you keep a stiff upper lip, madam, and don't be in no ways cast down, and your innercence will come like pure gold from the furniss, as the saying is. And now, my dear young lady, I have some news for you, as will help to divert your mind from your troubles, I hope," said the well-meaning woman, soothingly.
"Is it about Johnnie Scott? Is it about my gude mon?" eagerly inquired Rose.
"No, my dear young lady, it is not about him. You remember the marriage that was broken off, for the time between the young Marquis of Arondelle and the heiress of Lone?"
"Yes! broken off by the murder of the bride's feyther, the nicht before the wedding day--the murder o' Sir Lemuel Levison, wi' whilk I now staund accusit. Ou, aye, I mind it! I am na likely to forget it!" sharply answered Rose Cameron.
"Well, my dear young lady, the marriage is on again." " _Eh! _" exclaimed Rose Cameron, springing up.
"Yes, my dear young lady. You know I always take time to look over the morning papers that are left at the house for you, and this morning I read that a grand marriage would take place at St. George's, Hanover Square, between the young Duke of Hereward--he who was Marquis of Arondelle before his father's death--and the heiress of the late Sir Lemuel Levison. And how, after the ceremony, there would be a breakfast at the bride's house, and then how the happy pair would set out for their wedding tower."
While the well-meaning housekeeper was speaking, Rose Cameron was staring at her in dumb amazement.
"I brought the paper in my pocket, ma'am, thinking, under all the circumstances, it would interest you and help to make you forget your own troubles. Would you like to read it for yourself?"
"Yes! gie me the paper," cried Rose, snatching it from the housekeeper before the latter could hand it.
"Where's the place? Where's the place?" cried the impatient young woman, wildly turning the pages.
"Here it is ma'am. At the top of the 'FASHIONABLE NEWS,'" said the landlady, pointing out the item.
Rose pounced upon it, and read aloud: "The marriage of His Grace, the Duke of Hereward, with Miss Levison, only daughter and heiress of the late Sir Lemuel Levison, will be celebrated at twelve, noon, to-day, at St. George's, Hanover Square. After the ceremony the noble party will adjourn to Elmhurst House, Westbourne Terrace, the home of the bride, to partake of the wedding breakfast, after which the happy pair will leave town by the tidal train for Dover, _en route_ for their continental tour."
Rose Cameron threw down the paper and sprang to her feet with the bound of a tigress.
"Oh, the villain! Oh, the shamfu', fause, leeing villain! This wad be the important business that kept him awa' frae me! This wad be the reason why he got me lockit up in prison here--for I ken weel that he pit the dogs o' the law on my track noo, if I dinna ken before--to keep me fra getting out to ban his marriage noo, as I wad ha banned it then hadna something else dune it for me. But it isna too late yet! I'll ban his wedding travels, gin I couldna ban his wedding! I'll bring him down to disgrace and shame afore a' his graund wedding guests--the fause-hearted, leeing, shamefu' villain! I will pu' him down frae his grandeur yet, gin ye will only help me!" exclaimed Rose Cameron, pouring out this torrent of words, as she strode up and down the narrow floor of her cell with the stride of an enraged lioness.
"My dear, good young lady, I don't know, the least in the world, why you should get so excited over the young duke's marriage," said the housekeeper, gazing in amazement and terror upon the face of the infuriated young creature.
"Why suld I get excited o'er it, indeed?" exclaimed Rose, stopping suddenly in her furious stride, and confronting her unoffending visitor with a scowl of rage.
"Come now; come now;" murmured the woman, soothingly, for she began to fear that she was in the presence, and in the power, of a lunatic.
"Dinna yo ken then, ye auld fule, that the Dooke o' Hareward is my ain gude mon?" imperiously demanded Rose.
"Oh, her poor head! Her poor head is going, and no wonder, poor lass!" murmured the old woman, compassionately.
"But how suld ye ken?" cried Rose, scornfully throwing herself down into her seat again. "He ca'ed himsel' Mr. John Scott. Mr. John Scott! And mysel' Mrs. John Scott. And sae ye kenned us, and nae itherwise."
"Poor girl! Poor girl!" murmured the housekeeper. "She's far gone! Far gone! Poor girl!"
"Puir girl, is it? It will be puir dooke before a' is ended! I'll hae him hanggit for trigomy, or what e'er ye ca' the marryin' o' twa wives at ance. Twa wives! Ou! I'll nae staund it! I'll nae staund it!" cried Rose, suddenly bounding to her feet.
"Come now! Come now! my dear, good young lady," said the housekeeper, coaxingly.
"Ye'll nae believe it! Ye'll nae believe he's my ain gude mon wha has marrit the heiress the morn? Look here, then! And look here! And look here!" continued the girl, impetuously, as she took a small morocco letter-case from her bosom and opened it, and took out one after another--a parchment, a letter, and a photograph.
"Yes, dear, I'll look at anything you like," said the housekeeper, with a sigh, for she thought she was only humoring a lunatic.
"Here's my marritge lines. And I was marrit here, in Lunnun town, at a kirk ye ca' St. Margaret's, by a minister ca'ed Smith. It's a' doon here in the lines. Look for yoursel'. Ye can read. See! Here will be my name, Rose Cameron. And here will be my gudeman's--de'il ha'e him! --Archibald-Alexander-John Scott, Marquis of Arondelle. And here will be the minister's name at the fut--James Smith; and the witnesses--John Jones, clerk, and Ann Gray, (she waur an auld body in a black bonnet and shawl). Noo! is that a' richt and lawfu'?" demanded Rose, triumphantly.
"Indeed, ma'am, it looks so!" said the perplexed housekeeper. And these indiscreet words burst from her lips, almost without her own volition--"But the idea of the young Marquis of Arondelle marrying of you in downright earnest is beyond belief! It is, indeed!"
"And what for nae?" cried Rose, angrily. "What for nae, wad he nae marry me, if he lo'ed me? He wad na hae me without marritge ye suld ken."
"No offence, my dear young madam. None at all. I was only astonished, that's all," said the housekeeper, deprecatingly, though she wondered and doubted whether all she heard and saw was truth.
"And, here! See here! Here is a letter I got frae him sune after the wedding. Ye ken the Dooke o' Harewood was Markiss o' Arondelle time when he married me?"
"Yes, so it seems," said the housekeeper.
"Aweel then, see here. This letter begins--'_My ain dear Wifie_,' ye mind? --'_My ain dear Wifie_'--and gaes on wi' a lot o' luve, and a' that, whilk I need na read, till ye. And it ends, look here--'_Your devoted husband_--ARONDELLE.' There! what do ye think o' that?"
"I'm so astonished, ma'am, I don't know what to think."
"But ye ken weel noo, that my gude mon wha ca'ed himsel' John Scott, was the Markiss o' Arondelle, and is noo the Dooke of Harewood?"
"Yes, ma'am, I know that! --that is, if I'm awake and not dreaming," added the woman.
"And ye ken weel that the Dooke of Harewood hae get me lappet up here in prison sae I canna get out to prevent him ha'eing his wicked will, in marrying the heiress o' Lone?"
"I know that, too, ma'am--that is, if I'm not dreaming, as I said before," answered the bewildered old woman.
"Aweel, noo, I canna get out to forestal this graund wickedness. The shamefu' villain took gude care to prevent that, but I can circumvent him, for a' that, gin ye will help me, Mrs. Brown. Will ye?"
"You may be sure o' that, my poor young lady; for if things be as they seem, you have suffered much wrong," earnestly answered the woman.
"Aweel, then, tak' my marritge lines, my letter, and this likeness o' my laird--and may the black de'il burn him in--" "Oh, my dear child, don't say that. It is dreadful. Tell me what I am to do with these papers and this picture."
"First of a', ye'll be very carefu' o' 'em, and be sure to bring them back safe to me."
"Yes, surely, my dear; but what am I to do with them?"
"Ye'll get a cab, and tak' the papers and the picture to the bride's house, and ask to see the bride alone, on a matter o' life and death. And ye maun tak' nae denial. Ye maun see her, and tell her anent mysel' here, betrayed into prison sae I canna come to warn her. And show her my marritge lines, and my letter, and my laird's pictur'--the foul fien' fly awa' wi' him! --and tell her, gin she dinna believe them, to gae to the auld kirk o' St. Margaret's, Wes'minster, and look at the register, and see the minister, Mr. Smith, and the clerk, Mr. Jones, and the auld bodie, Mrs. Gray, and she'll find out anent it! Will ye do this for me?"
"Yes, I will, my dear child."
"Here is a half-sovereign then to pay for the cab hire. And, oh! be sure ye tak' unco gude care o' my papers! They's a' my fortun', ye ken."
"Yes, indeed, I know how important they are to you, and I will bring them back safe," said the housekeeper, as she put the marriage certificate, the letter, the portrait, and the money in her pocket, and arose to leave the cell.
"And noo, we'll see, an' I dinna bring ye to open shame, ye graund de'il!" exclaimed Rose.
"I don't blame your anger, my poor dear, but don't use bad words. And now I am off. Good-day to you until I see you again," said the woman, as she left the cell.
Mrs. Brown was a good woman, but she did delight in hearing and retailing gossip, and in making and seeing a sensation; so she rather enjoyed her errand to Westbourne Terrace. She was also a brave woman, so she did not shrink from meeting the high-born bridegroom and the bride with her overwhelming revelations.
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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14
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THE SECOND BRIDAL MORN.
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We must return to Elmhurst House and take up the thread of Salome's destiny, where we left it on the morning on which the young Duke of Hereward had called on Lady Belgrade and informed her ladyship of the arrest of the mysterious, vailed passenger, and implored her to keep all the papers announcing that arrest, or in any manner referring to the tragedy at Castle Lone, from the sight of the bereaved daughter and betrothed bride.
"And so the mysterious vailed woman had been discovered, and she turns out to be Rose Cameron!" repeated Lady Belgrade, reflectively. Then, after a pause, she said: "I wonder who was her confederate in that atrocious crime--or, rather, who was her master in it? for she is too weak and simple to have been anything but a blind tool, poor creature!"
"You knew her, then?" said the duke.
"Only by report while I was staying at Castle Lone. But the report came from the tenantry, who had known her from childhood--a handsome, ignorant, vain and credulous fool of a peasant girl, more likely to become the victim of some godless man, than the confederate of murderers. Did _you_ know her, duke?" meaningly inquired the lady, as she remembered the reports in circulation at Castle Lone, that connected the name of the handsome shepherdess with that of the young nobleman.
"No, I never saw the girl in my life. I have heard her beauty highly praised by some of the late companions of my hunting expeditions at Ben Lone; but I had no opportunity of judging for myself; and, moreover, I always discouraged such conversation among my comrades. But there, that is quite enough of the unhappy girl. I mentioned her arrest not as a most important fact only, but in order to warn you not to let our dear Salome get a sight of the daily papers, until you have looked over them, and assured yourself that they contain no reference to this arrest."
"I see the wisdom of your warning, and I will endeavor to be guided by it; but it may be difficult to do so. My very sequestration of the papers may excite Salome's suspicions."
"Then lose them; tear them; but do not let her see any part of them which may contain any reference to this girl. I thank Heaven that to-morrow I shall be able to take her out of the country and guard her peace and safety with my own head and hand. I shall take care also to keep her away until the trial and conviction of the criminals shall be over and done with, so that she may not be in any way harassed or distressed by the proceedings."
"Yes, that will be very wise. If she were in England or Scotland during the time of the trial, she might be subpoenaed as a witness for the prosecution. She was the first, poor child, to discover the dead body of her father, you know," said Lady Belgrade.
"I do not forget that circumstance, or what distress it may yet cause her," replied the young duke.
And very soon after he took leave and went away.
Lady Belgrade's task in keeping the day's papers from the sight of Salome Levison was easier than she had anticipated.
Salome, deeply interested and absorbed in the final preparations for her marriage, did not even think of the newspapers, much less ask for them.
The bridal day dawned, once more, for the heiress of Lone.
Salome, with her attendant, was up early. The young girl, since her departure from Lone Castle, the scene of her father's murder, and her arrival at Elmhurst House, and occupations with her wedding preparations, had wonderfully recovered her health and spirits.
Yet on this, her bridal day, she arose with a heavy heart. A vague dread of impending evil weighed upon her spirits.
This occasion might well have brought back vividly cruelly to her memory, that fatal bridal morn when, going to invoke her father's presence and blessing on her marriage, she found him lying stiff and stark in the crimson pool of his own curdled blood. She had no father here on earth, now, to give her to the man she loved, and to bless her union with him.
That, in itself might have been enough to account for the gloom that darkened her wedding day. But that was not all. For, though her father was not visibly present here on earth, she knew that he watched and blessed her from his eternal home. No! but her prophetic soul was darkened by the shadow of some approaching misfortune.
Margaret, her new maid, brought her a cup of coffee in her chamber. After she had drank it, she went sadly in her dressing-room, to make her toilet for the altar.
Margaret was her only attendant and dresser.
Salome was still in the deepest mourning for her murdered father. In leaving it off, for the marriage altar only, she had resolved to replace it only by such a simple dress as might have been worn by any portionless bride in the middle class of society.
She wore a plain white tulle dress, over a lustreless white silk, an Illusion vail, a wreath of orange buds, and white kid gloves and gaiters. She wore no jewels of any sort.
Her bridesmaids, only two in number, were dressed like herself, except that they wore no vails, and that their wreaths were of white rose buds.
At eleven o'clock in the morning, a handsome but very plain coach drew up before the gate of Elmhurst Terrace.
The bride, attended by her two bridesmaids and Lady Belgrade, entered it, and was driven off quietly to St. George's, Hanover square.
No invitations had been issued for the wedding, except to the nearest family connections of the bride and bridegroom.
But unfortunately the news of the approaching marriage had crept out, and got into the morning papers, and consequently the street before the church, the churchyard, and the church itself, were crowded with spectators.
Way was made for the small bridal procession, which was met at the entrance by the bridegroom's party, consisting of himself, his "best man," and his second groomsman.
There, with reverential tenderness, the young Duke of Hereward greeted his bride. And the small procession passed up the central aisle, and formed before the altar.
Around them stood the nearest friends of the two families.
Behind them, extending back to the farthest extremity of the church, crowded a miscellaneous mass of spectators.
This must have happened through the oversight of those parties whose duty it was to have had the church doors closed and guarded, so that the marriage of the so recently and cruelly orphaned daughter might be as private and decorous as it was intended to be.
Baron Von Levison, the head of the Berlin branch of the great European banking firm of Levison, had come over to act the part of father to his orphan niece, and stood near the chancel to give her away.
The Bishop of London, assisted by two clergymen, all in their sacred robes of office, stood within the chancel to perform the marriage ceremony.
After the short preliminary exhortation, the ceremony was commenced. The bride was very pale, paler than she had ever been, even in those dread days when she stood always face to face with death. In making the responses her voice faltered, fainted, and died away with every new effort. No one would have thought from her look, tone or manner, that she was giving her hand, where her heart had so long and so entirely been bestowed. She seemed rather like a victim forced unwillingly to the altar by despotism or by necessity, than a happy bride about to be united to the man of her choice.
At length the trial was over. The benediction was pronounced, and the young husband sealed the sacred rites by a kiss on the cold lips of his youthful wife.
Friends crowded around with congratulations; but all who took the hand of Salome, Duchess of Hereward, felt its icy chill even through her glove and theirs.
"No wonder poor child," they said to themselves; "she is thinking of her father, murdered on her first appointed wedding-day."
But it was not that. Salome had too clear a spiritual insight not to know that her father was more alive than he had been while on earth, and that he was bending down and blessing her, even there.
No; but the dark shadow of the approaching ill drew nearer and nearer. She could not know what it was. She could only feel it coming and chilling and darkening her soul.
After a few minutes passed in the vestry, during which the marriage of Archibald-Alexander-John Scott, Duke of Hereward, and Salome Levison was duly registered and signed and witnessed, the newly-married pair were at liberty to return home.
The young duke handed his youthful duchess into his own handsomely appointed carriage.
Baron Von Levison took her vacated place in the carriage with Lady Belgrade and the bridesmaids.
The few invited guests, being only the nearest family connections of the bride and bridegroom, got into their carriages and followed to the bride's residence on Westbourne Terrace, where the wedding breakfast awaited.
There were now no decorated halls and drawing-rooms, no bands of music, no display of splendid bridal presents, no parade whatever.
To be sure, an elegant breakfast-table was laid for the guests. It was decorated only with fragrant white flowers from the home conservatory, furnished with white Sevres china and silver, and provided with a luxurious and dainty repast. That was all. All magnificence and splendor of display was carefully avoided in the feast as in the ceremony.
Only ten in all sat down to the table, viz., the bride and bridegroom, two bridesmaids, two groomsmen, Lady Belgrade, Baron Von Levison, the Bishop of London, and the Rector of St. George's.
A graver wedding party never was brought together. Even the youthful bridesmaids and groomsmen, expected to be "the life of the company," were awed into silence by the preponderance of age and clerical dignity in the little assembly, for the bishop was not ready with his usual harmless little jest, and the rector did not care to take precedence over his superior.
The conversation was serious rather than merry, and the speeches earnest rather than witty.
Near the end of the breakfast, the bride's health was proposed by the first groomsman in a complimentary speech, which was acknowledged in a few appropriate remarks by her nearest relative, the Baron Von Levison. The bridegroom's health was then proposed by the baron, and acknowledged by a deep and silent bow from the duke.
Then the health of the bridesmaids, the clergy, Lady Belgrade, and the Baron Von Levison were duly honored.
And then the young bride arose, courtesied to her guests, and attended by her bridesmaids, retired to change her wedding dress for a traveling suit.
"How deadly pale she looks! Is my niece really happy in this marriage?" inquired the Baron Von Levison, in a low tone, of Lady Belgrade, as the guests left the table.
"She is very happy in this marriage, which she has set her heart on for years. In a word, this young wife is madly in love with her husband. But you must consider what an awful shock she had on her first appointed wedding-day, and how it must recur to her mind in this," answered the dowager.
"Ah, to be sure! to be sure! poor child! poor child!" muttered the German head of the family.
Meanwhile the young Duchess of Hereward reached her apartments.
Her dresser, Margaret, was in attendance. Her travelling suit of black bombazine, trimmed with black crape, was laid out. With the assistance of her maid she slowly divested herself of her white vail and robes, and put on the black travelling dress. A black sack and a black felt hat, both deeply trimmed with crape, and black gloves, completed her toilet.
When she was quite ready she kissed her two bridesmaids and said: "Leave me alone now for a few minutes, dear girls, and wait for me in the drawing-room. I will join you very soon."
The young ladies returned her kisses and retired.
Then Salome dismissed her maid, that Margaret should prepare to accompany her mistress.
Finally, as soon as she found herself alone, she sank on her knees to pray, that, if possible, this dark shadow might be permitted to pass away from her soul; that light and strength and grace might be given her to do all her duties and bear all her burdens as Christian wife and neighbor; that she and her husband might be blessed with true and eternal love for each other, for their neighbor, and above all for their Lord.
As she finished her prayer, and arose from her knees, her maid re-entered the room, dressed to attend her mistress on her journey.
The girl did not forget to honor the bride with her new title.
"I beg pardon, your grace," she said, "but there is a strange-looking old woman down stairs who says she is a widow from Westminster Road, and that she must see your grace on a matter of life and death, before you start on your wedding tour."
"I do not know any such person," said the young duchess, slowly, while that vague shadow of impending calamity gathered over her spirit more darkly and heavily than before.
"Thomas, the hall footman, brought me the message from the woman, your grace, and I went down to see her myself before troubling you. I thought she might be only a bolder begger than usual. But she is no begger, your grace. She looks respectable," answered the girl.
"Go to the woman and explain to her that I have no time to see her now, and ask her if she cannot intrust her business to you to be brought to me," said the duchess.
The maid courtesied and left the room.
"What is it? What is it? Why does every unusual event strike such deadly terror to my heart?" inquired the bride, as she sank, pale and trembling, into her resting-chair.
In a few minutes the door opened and Margaret re-appeared.
"I beg your grace's pardon, but the old woman is very obstinate and persistent. She will not tell me her business. She says it is with your grace alone; that it concerns your grace most of all; that it is a matter of more importance than life or death; and that--indeed I beg your pardon, your grace--but I do not like to deliver the rest of her message, it seems so impertinent," said the girl, blushing and casting down her eyes.
"Nevertheless, deliver it. I will excuse you. The impertinence will not be yours," said the bride, as a cold chill struck her heart.
"Then, your grace, she seized me by the two shoulders and looked me straight in the face, and said--'Tell your mistress, if she would save herself from utter ruin, she will see me and hear what I have to tell her, before she sees the Duke of Hereward again!'" answered the girl, in a low tone. "' _Before I see the Duke of Hereward again_.' Ah, what is it? What is it?" murmured the bewildered bride to herself. Then she spoke to Margaret. "Bring the woman up here. I will see her at once."
Once more the girl obediently left the room.
The young bride covered her pale face with her hands, and trembled with dread of--she knew not what!
A few minutes passed. The door opened again, and Margaret re-appeared, ushering in Rose Cameron's housekeeper.
Salome looked up.
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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15
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THE CLOUD FALLS.
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When Rose Cameron's emissary entered the bride's chamber, the young duchess arose from her chair, but almost instantly sank back again, overpowered by an access of that mysterious foreshadowing of approaching calamity which had darkened her spirit during the whole of this, her bridal day.
And it was better, perhaps, that this should be so, as it prepared her to sustain the shock which might otherwise have proved fatal to one of her nervous and sensitive organization.
She looked up from her resting-chair, and saw, standing, courtesying before her, a weary, careworn, elderly woman, in a rusty black bonnet, shawl, and gown. No very alarming intruder to contemplate.
The woman, on her part, instead of the proud and insolent beauty she had expected to see, in all the pomp and pride of her bridal day and her new rank, beheld a fair and gentle girl, still clothed in the deepest mourning for her murdered father.
And her heart, which had been hardened against the supposed triumphant rival of the poor peasant girl, now melted with sympathy.
And she, who had persistently forced her way into the bride's chamber, with the grim determination to spring the news upon her without hesitation or compassion, now cast about in her simple mind how to break such a terrible shock with tenderness and discretion.
"You look very much fatigued. Pray sit down there and rest yourself, while you talk to me," said the young duchess, gently, and pointing to a chair near her own.
"Ay, I am tired enough in mind and body, my lady, along of not having slept a wink all last night on account of--what I'll tell you soon, my lady. So I'll even take you at your kind word, my lady, and presume to sit down in your ladyship's presence," sighed the woman, slowly sinking into the indicated seat, and then adding: "I know as ladyship is not exactly the right way to speak to a duke's lady as is a duchess; but I don't know as I know what is."
"You must say 'your grace' in speaking to the duchess," volunteered Margaret, in a low tone.
"Never mind, never mind," said the bride, with a slight smile. "I am quite ready to hear whatever you may have to say to me. What can I do for you?"
The visitor hesitated and moaned. All her eager desire to overwhelm Rose Cameron's rival with the shameful news of her bridegroom's previous marriage and living wife had evaporated, leaving only deep sympathy and compassion for the sweet young girl, who looked so kindly, and spoke so gentle. Yet deeply she felt that, even for this gentle girl's sake, she must reveal the fatal secret! It was dreadful enough and humiliating enough to have had the marriage ceremony read over herself and an already married man, the husband of a living woman; but it would be infinitely worse, it would be horrible and shameful, to let her go off in ignorance, believing herself to be that man's wife--to travel with him over Europe.
All this, the honest woman from Westminster Road knew and felt, yet she had not the courage now to shock that gentle girl's heart by telling the news which must stop her journey.
"Please excuse me; but I must really beg you to be quick in telling me what I can do to serve you. My time is limited. Within an hour we have to catch the tidal train to Dover. And--I have much to do in the interim," said the young duchess, speaking with gentle courtesy to this poor, shabby woman in the rusty widow's weeds.
"Ah, my lady--grace, I mean! there is no need of being quick! When you hear all I have to tell you--to my sorrow as well as yours, my grace! --your hurry will all be over; and you will not care about catching the tidal train--not if you are the lady as I take my--_your_ grace to be!"
"What do you mean?" inquired Salome, in low, tremulous tones.
"My lady--grace, I mean! will you send your maid away? What I have to tell you, must be told to you alone," whispered the visitor.
"Margaret, you may retire. I will ring when I want you," said the young duchess.
And her maid, disgusted, for her curiosity had been strongly aroused, left the room and closed the door. And, as Margaret had too much self-respect to listen at the key-hole, she remained in ignorance of what passed between the young duchess and the uncanny visitor.
"Your strange words trouble me," said Salome, as soon as she found herself alone with her visitor.
"Ay, my lady, your grace, I know it. And I am sorry for it. But I cannot help it. And, indeed, I'm very much afeared as I shall trouble you more afore I am done."
"Then pray proceed. Tell me at once all you have to tell. And permit me to remind you that my time is limited," urged the young duchess.
"Ay, madam, my lady--grace, I mean. But grant me your pardon if I repeat that there is indeed no hurry. You will not take the tidal train to Dover. Not if you be the Christian lady as I take you for," gravely replied the visitor.
"I must really insist upon your speaking out plainly and at once," said Salome, with more of firmness than she had as yet exhibited, although her pale cheeks grew a shade paler.
"My lady--your grace, I should say--when I started to come here this morning, to bring you the news I have to tell, my heart was _that_ full of anger against him and you, for the deep wrongs done to one I know and love, that I did not care how suddenly I told it, or how awfully it might shock you. But now that I see you, dear lady--grace, I mean--I do hate myself for having of such a tale to tell. But, for all that--for your sake as well as for hers, I must tell it," said the woman, solemnly.
"For Heaven's sake, go on! What is it you have to tell me?" inquired the bride, in a fainting voice.
"Well, then, your lady, my grace--Oh, dear! I know that ain't the right way to speak, but--" "No matter! no matter! Only tell me what you have to tell and have done with it!" said Salome, impatiently at last.
"Well, then--I beg ten thousand pardons, my lady, but did your ladyship ever hear tell, up your way in Scotland, of a very handsome young woman of the lower orders, by the name of Rose Cameron?"
"Yes, I have heard of such a girl," answered the bride, in a low tone, averting her face.
"I thought your ladyship must have heard of her. And now--I beg a million of pardons, my lady--but did your ladyship ever happen to hear of a certain person's name mentioned alongside of hers?"
"I decline to answer a question so improper. What can such a question have to do with your present business?" inquired the bride, with more of gentle dignity than we have ever known her to assume.
"It has a great deal to do with it, your ladyship. It has everything to do with it, as I shall soon prove to your grace. Take no offence, dear lady. I won't use any name to trouble you. And I won't say anything but what I can prove. Will you let me go on on them terms, your ladyship?" humbly inquired the messenger.
"Yes, yes, if you only WILL be quick. I _wish_ you to go on. I believe you to mean well, though I do not exactly know what you really _do_ mean," said Salome, nervously.
"Well, then, my lady, if you ever heard of this handsome Highland peasant girl, called Rose Cameron, you must have heard that she lived long of her old father, a shepherd, dwelling at the foot of Ben Lone, near by where--a--a certain person had his shooting-lodge. My dear lady, it is the same wicked old story as we hear over and over again, and a many times too often. Well, the young man--a certain person, I mean--while at his shooting-box, foot of Ben Lone, happened to see this handsome lass, and fell in love with her at first sight, as certain persons sometimes do with young peasant girls as they oughtn't to marry. But mayhap your ladyship have heard all this before."
Salome had heard it all before; and now, in silence and sadness, she was wondering what she had to hear more; but certainly not expecting to hear the degrading revelation her visitor had still to make.
"Well, my lady," resumed the visitor, "a certain person courted handsome Rose Cameron a long time, trying to coax her to accept of his heart without his hand, after the manner of certain persons, to poor and pretty young girls. But the handsome peasant was as proud as a princess, and so she was. And she would see him hanged first, and so she would, before she would degrade herself for him, especially as she wasn't overmuch in love with him herself, but only pleased with his preference, and proud to show him off. She didn't worship him at all. She worshiped herself, my lady. And she could take care of herself and keep him in his place, even while she sort of encouraged his attentions. That was the secret of her power over him, my lady. She would neither take him on his terms nor let him go. And the more she resisted him the more he fell down and worshiped her, until, at length, he was ready to give up everything for her sake, and offer her marriage. That was what she really wanted to fetch him to, for she was ambitious as well as honest--that she was! Are you listening to me, my lady?"
"I am listening," breathed the bride, in a faint voice.
She had turned her chair around, so that her weary head could rest upon the corner of the dressing-table, where she now leaned, face downward, on her spread hands.
"Well, my lady, when she had fetched him to that pass as to offer her marriage, she took him at his word, and he brought her up to London. And they were married, sure enough, in the old church at St. Margaret's near by where I live, in Westminster."
"It is false! It is false! It is false as--Oh! Heaven of Heavens!" cried Salome, wildly, throwing back her head and hands, and then dropping them again with a low, heart-broken moan.
"I am cut to the soul, my lady, to say this; but I must say it, even for your sake, my lady, and I only say what I can easy prove," spoke the woman, humbly.
"Go on, go on," moaned Salome, without lifting her head.
"Well, my lady, after their marriage, they came to my house to live, which this was the way of it; I had a three-story brick house on Westminster Road, and I took lodgers. But what between getting only a few lodgers, and them being bad pay, I got myself over head and ears in debt, and was in danger of being sold up by my creditors, when a certain person, as called hisself Mr. John Scott, come and took the whole house right offen my hands just as it was, and engaged me as his housekeeper, telling of me as he was just married, and was agoing to bring home his wife. Well, my lady, he advanced me money to pay my debts, and then he fetched Mrs. John Scott, which was no other than Rose Cameron, my lady, as I soon after found out from herself. Well, he fetches Mrs. John Scott to look at the first floor which he was agoing to refit complete for her, and according to her taste. Well, your ladyship, she, having of a very glarish sort of her own, she chooses furniture all scarlet and gold, enough to put your eyes out. And when all was fixed up onto that first floor, then he brought her home sure enough."
Without lifting her face, Salome murmured some words in so low and smothered a tone that they were inaudible to her visitor.
"I beg pardon, my lady. What did you please to say?" inquired the woman, bending toward the bowed head of the bride.
"I asked how long ago was it?" she repeated, in a faint voice.
"Just about a year, my lady."
"Go on."
"Well, then, my lady, first along he seemed very fond of her, seemed to doat on her, and loaded her with dresses, and trinkets, and sweetmeats, and nick-nacks of all sorts, and never came home without bringing of her something. And she never got anything very nice but what she would call me up and give me some; for she made quite a companion of me, my lady. But after a few weeks, Mr. John Scott was frequent away from home for days together. But this didn't trouble Mrs. John Scott much. I soon saw as she wasn't that deep in love with him as she couldn't live without him. And so he kept her well supplied with finery and dainties, or with the money to get them, he might go off as often, and stay as long as he liked. She lived an idle, easy, merry life, and frequent went to the play-house, and took me. 'And all was merry as a marriage bell,' as the old saying says, until this summer, when Mr. John Scott went off, and stayed longer then he ever stayed before. Well, my lady, while he was still away, one morning in last June, Mrs. John Scott takes up the _Times_ to look over. She didn't often look over the papers, and when she did it was only to see what was going to be played at the theatres. But _that_ morning her eyes happened to light down on something in the paper as put her into a perfect fury. She was so beside herself as to let out a good deal that she meant to have kept in. And by her own goings on I found out that it was the announcement of the marriage, that was to come off in two days at Lone Castle, between the young Marquis of Hereward and the daughter and heiress of Sir Lemuel Levison, as had set her on fire. I tried my best to quiet her, and even asked her what it was to her? She said she would soon let 'em all know what it was to her. I begged her to explain. But she would give me no satisfaction. She seemed all cock-a-whoop, begging your ladyship's pardon, to go somewhere and do something. And that same night she packed her carpet-bag and off she went. I asked her what I should say to Mr. John Scott if he should come home before she did. And she told me never to mind. I shouldn't have any call to say anything. _She_ should see him before _I_ could. And so off she went that same night."
"What night was that?" slowly and faintly breathed Salome, without lifting her fallen head.
"Two nights before--before the marriage was to have been, my lady," answered the woman, in a low and hesitating tone.
"Proceed, please."
"And now, my lady, I must tell you what happened at Lone, as I received it from her own lips this very morning, before I came here. She went down to Scotland by the night express of the Great Northern, and arrived at Lone early in the morning of the day before the wedding-day that should have been. She found great preparations going on for the marriage of the markis and the heiress. She went over to the castle with the crowd of the country people who gathered there to see the grand decorations for the wedding. But she saw nothing of the bride or of the bridegroom; and, moreover, she was warned off with threats by the servants of the castle. But at length, towards night-fall, my lady, she saw Mr. John Scott, as he called himself, hanging about the Hereward Arms, and she 'went for him,' as the saying is. But he drew her apart from the crowd. And there she charged him with perfidy, and threatened to appear at the church the next day with her marriage lines and forbid the banns. He did all he could to quiet her, said that she was deceived and mistaken, and that he could not marry any one, being already married to herself, and that if she would meet him that night at the castle, just under the balcony, near Malcolm's Tower, he would explain everything to her satisfaction." " _It was no dream, then! _ Oh, Heaven! it was no dream! And my own senses witness against him!" exclaimed Salome again, throwing up her face and hands with a cry of anguish, and then dropping them, as before, upon the table in an attitude of abject despair.
"My lady, this is too much for you! too much!" said the compassionate woman, weeping over the distress she had caused.
"No, no; go on, go on; I will hear it all. My own senses, pitying Heaven! my own senses bear witness to it," moaned Salome, in a smothered voice.
"Ah, my lady, it grieves me deeply to go on, as you bid me. They met, Mr. John Scott, as he called himself, and Rose Cameron, at the time and place agreed on--at midnight at Castle Lone, under the balcony near Malcolm's Tower. And there, my lady, he repeated to her that he was not going to marry anybody, reminding her that he was already married to herself; and he explained that something would happen before morning, which would put all thoughts of marrying and giving in marriage out of the heads of all parties concerned. And then he--" A groan of anguish burst from the almost breaking heart of the wretched bride, as she lifted a face convulsed and deathly white with her soul's great agony.
"My lady! oh, my lady!" exclaimed the woman, in much alarm.
"I heard it all! I heard it all!" cried Salome, as if speaking to herself and unconscious of the presence of a hearer. "I heard it all! I heard it all! Yea! my own senses were witnesses of my own dishonor and despair!" she groaned, as she threw her arms and her head violently forward upon the table.
"My lady, for mercy's sake, my lady!" exclaimed the widow, standing up and bending over her.
"Oh, what a hell! what a hell is this world we live in! And what devils walk to and fro upon the earth! --devils beautiful and deceitful as the fallen archangel himself!" moaned Salome, all unconscious of the words.
"Ah, my dear lady, for goodness' sake, now don't talk so, that's a darling," coaxed the good woman.
"DO NOT HEED ME! Go on! go on! Give me the death-blow at once, and have done with it!" cried Salome, lifting her blanched and writhen face and wringing hands, and then dashing them down again.
The appalled visitor seemed stricken dumb.
"Go on, go on," moaned the poor bride in a half smothered tone.
"Lord help me! I have forgotten where I was! I wish it had befallen anybody but me to have this here hard duty to do! Where was I again? Ah! under the balcony. My lady, he told her to wait there for him until he came back. And he went away, and was gone an hour or more. Then he came back, and another man along of him. The night was so still, she heard them coming before they got in sight. And she heard them a talking in a low voice. And Mr. John Scott he seemed awful put out about something or other as the other man had done agin his orders. And he said, hoarse like, 'I wouldn't have had it done, no, not for all we have got by it!' And the other one said, 'It couldn't be helped. The old man squealed, and we had to squelch him.' Says Mr. John Scott: 'You've brought the curse of Cain upon me!' Says t'other one, 'It was chance. What's done is done, and can't be undone. What's past remedy is past regret. And what can't be cured must be endured. The old man squealed, and had to be squelched, or he'd have brought the house about our ears--'" "Oh, my father! my dear father! my poor, murdered father! And _you_! oh _you_! with the beauty and glory of the archangel, and the cruelty and deceit of the arch fiend, I can never look upon your face again--never! The sight would blast me like a flame of fire," raved Salome, throwing back her head, wringing her hands, and gasping as if for breath of life.
"Ah, my dear lady, I know how hard it is! Pardon me, my lady, but I feel a mother's heart in my bosom for you. Try to be patient, sweet lady, and do not despair. You are so young yet, hardly more than a child you seem. You have a long life before you yet. And if you be good, as I am sure you will be, it will be a happy life, in which these early sorrows will pass away like morning mists," said the woman, soothingly.
"Oh, never more for me will morning dawn! Eternal night rests on my soul! For myself I do not care! But, oh, my ruined archangel!" she wailed, burying her face in her hands.
A dead silence fell between the two, until Salome, without changing her position, murmured; "Go on to the end; I will not interrupt you again. Oh, that I could wake from this night-mare! --or--expire in it! Go on and finish."
"My lady, while the two men were speaking, they came in sight of the woman who was waiting under the balcony. Then Mr. John Scott says: 'Hush! my girl will hear us.' And they hushed, but it was too late--she had heard them. Mr. John Scott came up to her in a hurry, and put a small but heavy bag in her hand, saying that she must take it and take care of it, and never let it go out of her possession, and that she must hurry back to Lone Station and catch the midnight express train back to London, and that he himself would follow her, and join her at home the next night."
"And all that, too, was proved--yes, proved by the mouths of two witnesses at the inquest, though they did not either of them recognize the man or the woman," moaned Salome.
"Mrs. John Scott returned to my house about breakfast time the next morning, my lady, bringing that bag with her, which I noticed she wouldn't let out of her sight, no, nor even out of her hand, while I was near her. She wouldn't answer any of my questions, or give me any satisfaction then, even so far as to tell me where she had been, or if she had seen Mr. John Scott. So I knew nothing until the next morning, when I got the _Times_. I don't in general care about reading the papers myself, but opened it that morning to see if there was anything in it about the grand wedding at Lone. And oh! My lady, I saw how the wedding had been stopped on account of--on account--of what happened to Sir Lemuel Levison that night, my lady, as I don't like to talk of it, or even t think of it. But when Mrs. John Scott rang her bell that morning, my lady, I took up the paper with her cup of tea, which she always took in bed. And oh, my lady, when she came to know what had happened at Lone, she went off into the very worst hysterics I ever saw. I was struck all of a heap! I couldn't imagine why she should take it so awfully to heart as that. But that's neither here nor there. I know _now_ why she took it so to heart. In the midst of all the hubbub, Mr. John Scott returned. And she fairly flew at him! She said, among other bitter, things, that he would bring her to the gallows yet! And she charged him with what she had overheard. But somehow or other he laughed at her, and explained it all away to her satisfaction. He could always make her believe whatever he pleased. If he had told her the rainbow was only a few yards of striped Leamington ribbon, she would have believed him! He didn't stay more than an hour, and was off again in a hurry. We didn't see him again until the last of the week. It was the news of the coroner's verdict on the Lone murder case was telegraphed to London, when he came rushing in at the door and up the stairs like a mad-man. And in ten minutes he came rushing down stairs again and out of the street door like a madman, but he carried the heavy little bag off with him in his hand. And he has never been back since. But, from time to time, he wrote to her, and sent her money, and told her that business still kept him away. But, mind you, my lady, his letters were all without date or signature, and were drop letters, now from one London post-office, and now from another, so that she never knew where to address him. Not that she cared. As long as her money lasted she was, perfectly satisfied. She lived comfortably, and she amused herself, and often went to the play and took me with her, and all went merry again until yesterday, when, all on a sudden, the police made a descent on the house, and arrested Mrs. John Scott on a charge of being implicated in the robbery and murder at Castle Lone, and proceeded to search the house, where they found the watch-chain, snuff-box, and other valuable property belonging to the late Sir Lemuel Levison!"
"Great Heaven! they found these things in the house rented by--by--" Salome could say no more, but ended with a groan that seemed to rend body and soul apart.
"They found the stolen jewels there, my lady. My unhappy mistress denied all knowledge of them, but her words availed her nothing. She was carried off to prison that same night. This morning she was taken before the sitting magistrate, and examined, and remanded to prison, until she can be carried back to Scotland for trial. Neither she nor I know at what hour she may be removed, or by what train she may be taken to Scotland. She may be gone now, for aught I know."
"Where is the poor creature now confined?" inquired Salome, in a dying voice.
"In the Westminster police station-house, my lady, if she has not been already removed. But I must tell your ladyship--your grace, I mean--how I happen to come to you now. I was at the West End this morning, my lady, and in returning to the city I passed St. George's Church, Hanover Square, and I saw the pageant of your wedding. And when I got back to Westminster and looked into the station-house to see my unfortunate mistress, and to help her mind often her own troubles, I told her about the wedding of the Duke of Hereward with the heiress of Sir Lemuel Levison, at St. George's Church, my lady. She went off into the most terrible fit of excitement I ever seen her in yet, and I have seen her in some considerable ones, now I do assure your ladyship. And in her raving and tearing, my lady, I first heerd that Mr. John Scott and the young Marquis of Arondelle and the Duke of Hereward was all one and the same gentleman, and he was the lawful husband of Rose Cameron. My lady, I thought her troubles had turned her head, and so I did not believe a word she said. And, my lady, I do not expect _you_ to believe _me_ without proof, any more than I believed _her_."
"Oh, Heaven of Heavens! I have the proof! I have the proof in the evidence of my own senses, too fatally discredited until now. But if you have further proof, give it me at once," groaned Salome.
"Here is the marriage certificate. Look at that first, my lady, if you please," said Mrs. Brown, putting the document in her hands.
Salome gazed at it with beclouded vision, but she saw that it was a genuine certificate of marriage between Archibald-Alexander-John Scott, Marquis of Arondelle, and, Rose Cameron, signed by James Smith, Rector of St. Margaret's Church, Westminster, and witnessed by John Thomas Price, Sexton, and Ann Gray, Pew-opener.
"The man must have been mad! mad! to have done this, in the first instance, and then--done what he has just this morning," moaned Salome, as she returned the certificate to the woman.
"My lady, he thought as he had got Rose Cameron lagged, he would never be found out. Here, my lady, is the first letter he wrote to her after they were married. I reckon it is a foolish love-letter enough, not worth reading; but what I want you to notice is, his handwriting, and the way he commences his letter--'My Darling Wife,' and the way he ends it--'Your Devoted Husband, Arondelle.'"
"I recognize the handwriting, and I note the signature. I do not wish to read the letter," muttered Salome, waving it away.
"Well, then, my lady, here is a photograph of his grace, given to his wife a few days before their marriage," said the widow, offering a small card.
Salome took it, looked at it, and dropped it with a long, low wail of anguish.
It was a duplicate of one presented to herself by the Duke of Hereward, from the same negative.
Silence again fell between the lady and her visitor until it was broken by a rap at the door, and the voice of the maid without, saying: "Beg pardon, your grace, but Lady Belgrade desires me to say that you have but fifteen minutes to catch the train."
"Very well," replied the young duchess; but her voice sounded strangely unlike her own.
"Your ladyship will not go on your bridal tour?" said the visitor, imploringly.
"No, I shall not go on a bridal tour. How can I? --I am not a bride. I am not a wife. I am not the Duchess of Hereward. I am just Salome Levison, as I was before that false marriage ceremony was performed over me! But do you be discreet. Say nothing below stairs of what has passed between us here," said Salome, speaking now with such amazing self-control that no one could have guessed the anguish and despair of her soul but for the marble whiteness and rigidity of her face.
"Be sure I shall not say one word, my lady," answered Mrs. Brown.
There was another low rap at the door, and again the voice of the maid was heard: "Please your grace, what shall I say to Lady Belgrade?"
"Tell her ladyship that I am nearly ready," answered the young duchess. "And, Margaret," she added, "show this good woman out. And then, do not return here until I ring."
The visitor courtesied and went to the door, where she was met by the maid, who conducted her down stairs.
Salome locked and double-locked and bolted the doors leading from her apartments to the front corridor, and then she retreated to her dressing-room, alone with her terrible trial.
Who can conceive the mortal agony suffered by that young, overburdened heart and overtasked brain.
Who can estimate the force of the conflict that raged in her bosom, between her passion and her conscience? Between her love and her duty? Between what she knew of her worshiped husband, from daily association, and what she had just heard proved upon him by overwhelming testimony, confirmed also by the evidence of her own too long discredited senses!
He--her Apollo--her ideal of all manly excellence--her archangel, as in the infatuation of her passion she had called him--he a bigamist, and an accomplice in the murder of her father!
It was incredible! incomprehensible! maddening!
Or surely it was some awful nightmare dream, from which she must soon awake.
What should she do? How meet again the people below?
She would not look upon _his_ face again. She could not. She felt that to do so would be perdition.
In the darkness of her despair a great temptation assailed her.
But we must leave her alone to wrestle with the demon, while we join the wedding-party below.
|
{
"id": "16039"
}
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16
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VANISHED.
|
After the withdrawal of the bride and her attendant from the breakfast-table, the bridegroom and his friends remained a few moments longer, and then joined Lady Belgrade and the bridesmaids in the drawing-room.
They passed some fifteen or twenty minutes in pleasant social chat upon the event of the morning, the state of the weather, and the political, financial, or fashionable topics of the day.
In half an hour they felt disposed to yawn, and some surreptitiously consulted their watches.
Then one of the bridesmaids, at the request of Lady Belgrade, sat down to the piano and condescended to favor the company with a very fine wedding march.
Three quarters of an hour passed, and then the Baron Von Levison--(Paul Levison, the head of the great Berlin branch of the banking-house of "Levison," had been ennobled in Germany, as his brother had been knighted in England)--Baron Von Levison then inquired of the bridegroom what train he intended to take.
"The tidal train, which leaves London Bridge Station at three-thirty," answered the duke.
"Then your grace should leave here in fifteen minutes, if you wish to catch that train," said the baron.
The bridegroom spoke aside to Lady Belgrade.
"Had we not better send and see if Salome is ready? We have but little time to lose."
"Yes," said her ladyship, who immediately rang the bell, and dispatched a message to the young duchess's dressing-maid.
A few minutes elapsed, and an answer was returned to the effect that her grace would be ready in time to catch the train.
The travelling carriage was at the door, and all the lighter luggage, such as dressing-bags, extra shawls and umbrellas, were put in it.
And they waited full fifteen minutes, without seeing or hearing from the loitering bride.
"I will go up to Salome myself," said Lady Belgrade, impatiently.
"No, pray do not hurry her; if we miss this train we can take the next, and though we cannot catch the night-boat from Dover to Calais, we can stop at the 'Lord Warden' and cross the Channel to-morrow morning," urged the duke.
"At least I will send another message to her, and let her know that the time is more than up," said her ladyship.
And again she rang the bell and sent a servant with a message to the lady's maid.
Full ten minutes passed, and then Margaret, the maid, came herself to the drawing-room door, begged pardon for her intrusion, and asked to speak with Lady Belgrade.
Lady Belgrade went out to her.
"What is it? The time is up! This delay is perfectly disgraceful. They will never be able to catch the tidal train now--never!" said her ladyship in a displeased tone.
"If you please, my lady, I am afraid something has happened," said the girl, in a frightened tone.
"What do you mean?" inquired the dowager, sharply.
"If you please, my lady, I went up and found all the doors leading from the corridor into her grace's suite of apartments locked fast. I knocked and called, at first softly, then loudly, but received no answer. I listened, my lady, but I heard no sound nor motion in the rooms."
"I will go up myself," said Lady Belgrade, uneasily.
And she hurried, as fast as her age and her size would permit, to the part of the house comprising the apartments of the duchess. Three doors opened from the corridor, relatively, into the boudoir, bed-room, and dressing-room, which were also connected by communicating doors within.
Lady Belgrade rapped and called at each in succession, but in vain. There was no response.
"She has fainted in her room! That is what has happened! This day of fatigue and excitement has been too much for her, in the delicate state of her health. Every one noticed how ill she looked when she came up stairs. Margaret, there is a back door, you are aware, leading from your lady's bath-room down to the flower garden. Go around and go up the back stairs and see if that door is open--if so, enter the rooms by it and open this," said her ladyship, never ceasing, while she talked, to rap at and shake the door at which she stood.
Margaret flew to obey, and made such good haste, that in about two minutes she was heard within the rooms hurrying to open the closed door. In two seconds bolts were withdrawn, keys turned, and the door was opened.
"How is she?" quickly demanded the dowager, as she stepped into the dressing-room.
"My lady, I haven't seen her grace. If you please, perhaps she is in her chamber," replied the maid.
Lady Belgrade bustled into the bed-room, looking all around for the bride, then into the boudoir, calling on her name.
"Salome! Salome, my dear! Where are you?" No answer; all in the luxurious rooms still and silent as the grave.
"This is very strange! She _may_ be in the garden," said her ladyship, passing quickly into the bath-room, and descending the stairs that led directly into a small flower-garden enclosed by high walls.
The garden was now dead and sear in the late October frost. No sign of the missing girl was there.
"This is very strange! Can she have gone down into the drawing-room, after all? I will see. There is no possibility of catching the tidal train now. It is already three o'clock; the train leaves London Bridge Station at three thirty, and it is a good hour's ride from Kensington!" said Lady Belgrade, speaking more to herself than to her attendant, as she came out of the rooms.
"Shall I go through the house and inquire if any one has seen her grace, my lady?" respectfully suggested Margaret.
"Yes; but first shut and lock that garden door of your lady's bath-room. It is not safe to leave it open," replied Lady Belgrade, as she again descended the stairs.
As she entered the drawing-room, the young Duke of Hereward came to meet her.
"I hope nothing is the matter. Salome was not looking strong this morning. And this delay? I trust that she is well?" he said, in an anxious, inquiring tone.
"Salome is not in her apartments. I have sent a servant to seek her through the house. Her delay has made you miss the train, your grace," said Lady Belgrade, in visible annoyance.
"That does not much matter, so that the delay has not been caused by her indisposition," said the young duke, earnestly.
"No indisposition could possibly excuse such eccentricity of conduct at such a time. Salome is moving somewhere about the house, according to her crazy custom," said Lady Belgrade.
"I really cannot hear that sweet girl so cruelly maligned, even by her aunt," said the duke, with a deprecating smile.
As they spoke, the Baron Von Levison appeared and said: "I should have been very glad to have seen you off, duke, and to have thrown a metaphorical old shoe after you; but your bride seems to have taken so long to tie her bonnet strings, that she has made you miss your train. And now you can't go until the night express, and I really can't wait to see you off by that. I have an appointment at the Bank of England at four. God bless you, my dear duke. Make my adieux to my niece, and tell her that if the men of her family had been as unpunctual as the women seem to be, they never would have established banks all over Europe."
And with a hearty shake of the bridegroom's hand, and a deep bow to Lady Belgrade, the Baron Von Levison took leave.
His example was followed by the bishop and the rector, who now came up and expressed regret at the inconvenience the bridegroom would experience by having missed his train, but agreed that it was much better to know that fact before starting for it, and having the long drive to London Bridge Station and back again for nothing. And they extolled the comfort of the night express, and the elegance of accommodations to be found at the Lord Warden Hotel. And upon the whole, they concluded that his grace had not missed much, after all, in missing the "tidal."
Then again they wished much happiness to attend the married life of the young couple, and so bade adieux and departed.
There now remained of the wedding guests only the two bridesmaids and the groomsmen.
These were grouped near one of the bay-windows, and engaged in a subdued conversation.
The Duke of Hereward and Lady Belgrade still stood near the door, waiting for news of the lingering bride.
To them, at length, came the maid, Margaret, with pallid face and frightened air.
"If you please, my lady, we have searched all over the house and inquired of everybody in it. But no one has seen her grace, nor can she be found."
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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17
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THE LOST LADY OF LONE.
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"Cannot be found? Whatever do you mean, girl? You cannot mean to say that the Duchess of Hereward is not in this house?" demanded Lady Belgrade, in amazement.
"I beg pardon, my lady; but we have made a thorough search of the premises, without being able to find her grace," respectfully answered the maid.
"Oh, but this is ridiculous! The duchess is in some of the rooms; she must be! Go and renew your search, and tell her grace, when you find her, that she has made the duke miss the tidal train; but that we are waiting for her here," commanded the lady.
The girl went, very submissively, on her errand.
Lady Belgrade dropped wearily into her chair, muttering: "I do think servants are so idiotic. They can't find her because she happens to be out of her own room. I would go and hunt her up myself, but really the fatigue of this day has been too much for me."
The Duke of Hereward did not reply. He walked restlessly up and down the floor, filled with a vague uneasiness, for which he could not account to himself--for surely, he reflected, Salome must be in the house somewhere; it could not possibly be otherwise; and there were a dozen simple reasons why she might be missed for a few minutes; doubtless she would soon appear, and smile at their impatience.
Ay, but the minutes were fast growing into hours, and Salome did not re-appear.
The maid returned once more from her fruitless search.
"Indeed, I beg your pardon, my lady; but we cannot find her grace, either in the house or in the garden," she said, with a very solemn courtesy.
"Now this is really beyond endurance! I suppose I must go and look for her myself," answered Lady Belgrade, rising in displeasure.
"Will you let me accompany your ladyship?" gravely inquired the duke.
Lady Belgrade hesitated for a few moments, and then said: "Well,--yes, you may come. We will go down stairs first."
They descended to the first floor, and went through the dining-room, sitting-room, library and little parlors; but without finding her they sought.
Then they ascended to the next floor and went through the picture-gallery, the music-room, the dancing-saloon, the hall, and lastly, the three drawing-rooms, in case that she might have returned there while they were absent. But their search was still without success.
Then they ascended to the upper floors, and looked all through the handsome suites of private apartments, but still without discovering a trace of the missing bride.
And so all over the house, from basement to attic, and from central hall to garden wall, they went searching in vain for the lost one.
The dowager and the duke returned to the drawing-room and looked each other in the face.
The dowager was stupefied with bewilderment. The duke was pale with anxiety.
The mystery was growing serious and alarming.
"What do you think of it, Lady Belgrade?" inquired the duke.
"I cannot think at all. I am at my wit's end," answered the lady. "What do _you_ think?" she inquired, after a moment's pause.
"I think--that we had better call the servants up, one at a time, and put them separately through a strict examination," answered the duke.
Lady Belgrade rang the bell.
A footman appeared in answer to it.
"Examine him first, your grace," said the lady.
The duke put the young man through a strict catechism, without satisfactory results. John was the hall footman, whose business it was to answer the street-door bell and announce visitors. And he assured his grace that no one had entered or left the house that morning, to _his_ knowledge, except the wedding party and their attendants.
The hall-porter was next summoned and examined, and his report was found to correspond exactly to that of the footman.
The butler was sent for and questioned, but could throw no light on the mystery of the lady's disappearance.
The pantry footman was next called up. His duty was to wait on the butler and attend the servants' door, to take in provisions delivered there. And the first plausible clue to the mystery of Salome's disappearance was received from him.
"Yes, my lady," he said, "there have been a stranger to the servants' door this morning--an elderly old widow woman, my lady, dressed in black, and werry much in earnest about seeing her grace; would take no denial, my lady, on no account; which compelled me to go to her grace's lady's-maid, Miss Watson, my lady, and send a message to her grace," said the young footman.
"Did the duchess see this strange visitor?" inquired the duke.
"Miss Watson come down and seen her first, your grace, and told her how she mustn't disturb the duchess. But the visitor was so dead set on seeing her grace, and used such strong language about it, that at last Miss Watson took up her message and in a few minutes come back and took up the visitor."
"She did? And what next?" inquired Lady Belgrade.
"Please, my lady, there was nothing next. In about an hour Miss Margaret brought the elderly old lady down, and I showed her out of the servants' door."
"Did she leave the house alone?" inquired the duke.
"Yes, your grace, just as she came, alone."
"Go and tell Margaret Watson to come here," said Lady Belgrade.
The man bowed and retired.
In a few minutes the girl made her appearance again.
"How is it, Watson, that you did not mention the visitor you showed up into your lady's room this morning?" inquired Lady Belgrade, in a severe tone.
"If you please, my lady, I did not think the visitor signified anything," meekly answered the maid.
"How could you tell _what_ signified at a time like this?"
"I beg pardon, my lady; but it was the time itself that made me forget the visitor."
"Who was she? What time did she come? What did she want?" sharply demanded the lady.
"Please, my lady, she said her name was Smith, or Jones, or some such common name as that. I think it was Jones, my lady. And she lived on Westminster Road--or it might have been Blackfriars Road. Least-ways it was one of those roads leading to a bridge because I remember it made me think of the river."
"Extremely satisfactory! At what hour did this Mrs. Smith or Jones, from Westminster or Blackfriars, come?" inquired Lady Belgrade.
"Just as her grace went up to her room to change her dress. She had just finished changing it when the woman was admitted."
"And now! what did the woman want of the duchess?"
"I do not know, my lady. Her business was with her grace alone. And she requested to have me sent out of the room. I did not see the woman again, until her grace called me to show her, the woman, out again."
"And you did so?"
"Yes, my lady. And I have not seen the woman since. And--I have not seen her grace since, either, my lady."
"You may go now," answered Lady Belgrade.
And the girl withdrew.
The Duke of Hereward and Lady Belgrade were once more left alone together.
Again their eyes met in anxious scrutiny.
"What do you think now, Duke?" inquired her ladyship.
"I think the disappearance of the duchess is connected with the visit of that strange woman. She may have been an unfortunate beggar, who, with some story of extreme distress, so worked upon Salome's sympathies as to draw her away from home, to see for herself, and give relief to the sufferers. Or--I shudder to think of it--she may have been a thief, or the companion of thieves, and with just such a story, decoyed the duchess out for purposes of plunder. This does not certainly seem to be a probable theory of the disappearance, but it does really seem the only possible one," concluded the duke, in a grave voice.
And though he spoke calmly, his soul was shaken with a terrible anxiety that every moment now increased.
"But is it at all likely that Salome, even with all her excessive benevolence, could have been induced to leave her home at such a time as this, even at the most distressing call of charity? Would she not have given money and sent a servant?" inquired Lady Belgrade.
"Under normal conditions she would have done as you say. But remember, dear madam, that Salome is not in a normal condition. Remember that it is but three months since she suffered an almost fatal nervous shock in the discovery of her father's murdered body on her own wedding morning. Remember that it is scarcely six weeks since her recovery from the nearly fatal brain fever that followed--if indeed she has ever fully recovered. _I_ do not believe that she has, or that she will until I shall have taken her abroad, when total change of scene, with time and distance, may restore her," sighed the duke.
"I thought she was looking very well for the last few weeks," said Lady Belgrade.
"Yes, until within the last few days, in which she seems to have suffered a relapse, easily accounted for, I think, by the association of ideas. The near approach of her wedding day brought vividly back to her mind the tragic events of her first appointed wedding morning, and caused the illness that has been noticed by all our friends this day. The excitement of the occasion has augmented this illness. Salome has been suffering very much all day. Every one noticed it, although, with the self-possession of a gentlewoman, she went calmly through the ceremonies at the church, and through the breakfast here. But I think she must have broken down in her room, and while in that state of nervous prostration she must have become an easy dupe to that beggar, or thief, whichever her strange visitor may have been," said the duke; and while he spoke so calmly on such an anxious and exciting subject, he, too, under circumstances of extreme trial and suspense, exhibited the self-possession and self-control which is the birthright of the true gentleman no less than of the true gentlewoman.
"It may be as you think. It would be no use to question the servants further. They know no more than we do. We can do nothing more now but wait, with what patience we may, for the return of that eccentric girl," said Lady Belgrade, with a deep sigh, as she settled herself down in her chair.
Another hour passed--an hour of enforced inactivity, yet of unspeakable anxiety. Three hours had now elapsed since the mysterious disappearance of the bride; and yet no news of her came.
"She does not return! This grows insupportable!" exclaimed Lady Belgrade, at length, losing all patience, and starting up from her chair.
"She _may_ be detained by the sick bed, or the death bed, of some sufferer who has sent for her," replied the duke, huskily, trying to hope against hope.
"As if she would so absent herself on her wedding day, on the eve of her wedding tour!" exclaimed the lady, beginning to walk the floor in a thoroughly exasperated state of mind.
"Of course she would not, in her normal mental condition; but, as I said before--" "Oh, yes, I know what you said before. You insinuated that Salome may be insane from the latent effects of her recent brain fever, developed by the excitement of the last few days. And, Heaven knows, you may be right! It looks like it! Mysteriously gone off on her wedding day, in the interim between the wedding breakfast and the wedding tour! Gone off alone, no one knows where, without having left an explanation or a message for any one. What can have taken her out? Where can she be? Why don't she return? And night coming on fast. If she does not return within half an hour, you will miss the next train also, Duke," exclaimed Lady Belgrade, pausing in her restless walk, and throwing herself heavily into her chair again.
"Perhaps," said the Duke, in great perplexity, "we had better have the lady's maid up again, and question her more strictly in regard to the strange visitor's name and address; for I feel certain that the disappearance of the duchess is immediately connected with the visit of that woman. If we can, by judicious questions, so stimulate the memory of the girl as to obtain accurate information about the name and residence, we can send and make inquiries."
For all answer, Lady Belgrade arose and rung the bell for about the twentieth time that afternoon.
And Margaret Watson was again called to the drawing-room and questioned.
"Indeed, if you please, my lady, I am very sorry. I would give anything in the world if I could only remember exactly what the old person's name was, and where she lived. But indeed, my lady, what with being very much engaged with waiting on her grace, and packing up the last little things for the journey, and getting together the dressing-bags and such like, and having of my mind on them and not on the woman, and no ways expecting anything like this to happen, I wasn't that interested in the visitor to tax my memory with her affairs. But I know her name was a common one, like Smith or Jones, and I _think_ it was Jones. And I know she said she lived on Westminster Road or Blackfriars Road, or some other road leading over a bridge, which I remember because it made me think about the river. But I couldn't tell which," said the girl in answer to the cross-questioning.
"And is that all you can tell us?" inquired Lady Belgrade.
"I beg pardon, my lady, but that is all I can remember," meekly replied the girl.
"Then you might as well remember nothing. You can go!" said Lady Belgrade, in deep displeasure.
The girl retired, a little crestfallen.
"Is there any other fool you would like to have called up and cross-examined, Duke?" sarcastically inquired the lady.
The duke made a gesture of negation. And the lady relapsed into painful silence.
And now another weary, weary hour crept by without bringing news of the lost one.
The watchers seemed to "possess their souls" in patience, if not "in peace." There was really nothing to be done but to wait. There was no place where inquiries could be made. At this time of the year nearly all the fashionable world of London was out of town. Nor at any time had Salome any intimate acquaintances to whom she would have gone. Nor would it have been expedient just yet to apply to the detective police for help to search abroad for one who might of herself return home at any moment.
The Duke of Hereward and Lady Belgrade could only wait it in terrible anxiety, though with outward calmness, for what the night might bring forth.
But in what a monotonous and insensible manner all household routine continues, "in well regulated families," through the most revolutionary sort of domestic troubles.
The first dinner bell had rung; but neither of the anxious watchers had even heard it.
The groom of the chambers came in and lighted the gas in the drawing-rooms, and retired in silence.
Still the watchers sat waiting in a state of intense, repressed excitement.
The second dinner bell rang. And almost immediately the butler appeared at the door, and announced, with his formula: "My lady is served," and then: "Will your grace join me at dinner?" courteously inquired Lady Belgrade, thinking at the same time of the unparalleled circumstance of the bridegroom dining without his bride upon his wedding day--"Will your grace join me at dinner?" she repeated, perceiving that he had not heard, or at least had not answered her question.
"I beg pardon. Pray, excuse me, your ladyship. I am really not equal--" "I see! I see! Nor am I equal to going through what, at best, would be a mere form," said her ladyship. Then turning toward the waiting butler, she said--"Remove the service, Sillery. We shall not dine to-day."
The man bowed and withdrew.
And the two watchers, whose anxiety was fast growing into insupportable anguish, waited still, for still, as yet, they could do nothing else but wait and control themselves.
"Your grace has missed the last train," said Lady Belgrade, at length, as the little cuckoo clock on the mantel shelf struck ten.
"Yes the night express leaves London Bridge station for Dover at ten-thirty, and it is a full hour's drive from Kensington," replied the duke.
And both secretly thanked fortune that the wedding guests had all departed before the bride's mysterious absence from the house at such a time had become known; and they knew not but that "the happy pair had left by the tidal train for Dover, _en route_ for their continental tour,"--as per wedding programme. And both silently hoped that the household servants would not talk.
The time crept wearily on. The clock struck eleven.
"I cannot endure this frightful suspense one moment longer! I never heard of such a case in all the days of my life! A bride to vanish away on her bridal day! Duke of Hereward you are her husband! WHAT IS TO BE DONE?" exclaimed Lady Belgrade, starting up from her seat and giving full sway to all the repressed excitement of the last few hours.
"My dear lady," said the duke, controlling his own emotions by a strong effort of will, and speaking with a calmness he did not feel--"My dear lady, the first thing you should do, should be to command yourself. Listen to me, dear Lady Belgrade. I have waited here in constrained quietness, hoping for our Salome's return from moment to moment, and fearing to expose her to gossip by any indiscreet haste in seeking her abroad. But I can wait no longer. I must commence the search abroad at once. I shall go immediately to a skillful detective, whom I know from reputation, and put the case in his hands. What seems to us so alarming and incomprehensible, may be to a man of his experience simple and clear enough. We are too near the fact to see it truly in its proper light. This man I understand to be faithful and discreet, one who may be intrusted with the investigation of the most delicate affairs. I will employ him immediately, in the confidence that no publicity will be given to this mystery. In the meanwhile, my dear Lady Belgrade, I counsel you to call the household servants all together. Do not inform them of the nature of my errand out, but caution them to silence and discretion as to the absence of their lady. You will allow me to confide this trust to you?"
"Assuredly, Duke! And let me tell you that these servants are all so idolatrously devoted to their mistress, that they would never breathe, or suffer to be breathed in their presence, one syllable that could, in the remotest degree, reflect upon her dignity," said the lady.
"I will return within an hour, madam," replied the duke, as he bowed and left the room.
He went directly to the nearest police station at Church Court, Kensington.
He asked to see Detective Collinson of the force.
Fortunately, Detective Collinson was at the office, and soon made his appearance.
The duke asked for a private interview.
The detective invited him to sit down in an empty side-room.
There the duke put the case of the missing lady in his hands, giving him all the circumstances supposed to be connected with her disappearance.
The detective exhibited not the slightest surprise at the hearing of this unprecedented story, nor did he express any opinion. Detectives never are surprised at anything that may happen at any time to anybody, nor have they ever any opinions to venture in advance.
Mr. Collinson said he would take the case and give it his undivided attention, but would promise nothing else.
The Duke of Hereward, obliged to be contented with this answer, arose to leave the room. In passing out he met the chief, who had not been present when he first entered.
"Oh, I beg your grace's pardon, but I consider this meeting very fortunate," said that officer, respectfully touching his hat.
"Upon what ground?" gravely inquired the duke.
"Your grace is wanted as a witness for the Crown, on the trial of John Potts and Rose Cameron, charged with the murder of the late Sir Lemuel Levison. The girl, who was arrested at a house in Westminster Road a few days ago, has been sent down to Scotland, and the trial will commence, on the day after to-morrow, at the Assizes now open at Bannff. But, according to the newspaper report, we thought your grace to be now on your way to Paris, and we were just about to dispatch a special messenger to you. So your grace will perceive how fortunate this meeting turns out to be."
"Yes, I perceive," said the duke, dryly.
"And your grace will not be inconvenienced, I hope," said the chief, as he bowed and placed a folded paper in the duke's hand.
It was a subpoena commanding the recipient, under certain pains and penalties, to render himself at the Town Hall of Bannff as a witness for the Crown, in the approaching trial of John Potts, alias Abraham Peters, and Rose Cameron.
|
{
"id": "16039"
}
|
18
|
THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS
|
When the emissary of Rose Cameron had gone, the young Duchess of Hereward, in a whirlwind of long-repressed excitement, slammed, locked and bolted all the doors leading from her apartments into the hall, and then fled into her dressing-room and cast herself head long down upon the floor in the collapse of utter, infinite despair--despair in all its depth of darkness, without its benumbing calmness!
Her soul was shaken by a tempest of warring passions! Amazement, indignation, grief, horror, raged through her agonized bosom!
It was well that no human eye beheld her in this deep degradation of woe! For in the madness of her anguish, she rolled on the floor, and tore the clothing from her shoulders and the dark hair from her head! She uttered such groans and cries as are seldom heard on this earth--such as perhaps fill the murky atmosphere of hell. She impiously called on Heaven to strike her dead as she lay! She was indeed on the very brink of raving insanity.
There was but one thought that held her reason on its throne--the necessity of immediate flight and escape--escape from the man whom she had just vowed at the altar to love, honor, and obey until death--the man whom she had worshiped as an archangel!
The man? --the fiend, rather!
What had she just now found him proved to be?
Yes _proved_ to be, beyond the merciful possibility of a saving doubt! --proved to be by the most overwhelming and convicting testimony, corroborated also by the evidence of her own eyes and ears, too long discredited for his sake.
Her eyes had seen him lurking stealthily in the dark hall, near her father's bedroom door, late on the night of that father's murder. She had spoken to him, and at the sound of her voice he had shrunk silently out of sight.
Yet she had discredited the evidence of her own eyes, and persuaded herself that she had been the subject of an optical illusion.
Her ears had heard a part of his midnight conversation with his female confederate under the balcony--had heard his prediction that something would happen that night to prevent the marriage that he promised her should never take place--a prediction so awfully fulfilled in the morning by the discovery of the dead body of her murdered father! She had fainted at the sound of his voice, uttering such treacherous and cruel words; yet on her return to consciousness she had disbelieved the evidence of her own ears, and convinced herself that she had been the victim of a nightmare dream!
Yes! she had disallowed the direct evidence of her own senses rather than believe such diabolical wickedness of her idol! But now the evidence of her own eyes and ears was corroborated by the most complete and convincing testimony--the conversation under the balcony, as reported by Rose Cameron's messenger, corresponded exactly with the conversation overheard by herself at the time and place it was said to have occurred, but which she dismissed from her mind as an evil dream! This corroborating testimony proved it to be an atrocious reality! And the man to whom she had given her hand that morning was an accomplice in the murder of her father! unintentionally perhaps, for the witness testified to the horror he expressed on learning from his confederate that a murder had been committed: "The old man squealed and we had to squelch him!" How she shuddered at the memory of these horrible words!
But this man was not her husband, after all! Although a marriage ceremony had been performed between them by a bishop, he was not her husband, but the husband of Rose Cameron. She had overwhelming and convincing proof of this also!
The letters written to Rose Cameron, calling her his dear wife, and signing himself her devoted husband "Arondelle," were in the handwriting of the Duke of Hereward! She could have sworn to that handwriting, under any circumstances.
And the photograph shown as the likeness of Rose Cameron's husband, was a duplicate of one in her own possession, given her by the duke himself.
And, above all, the certificate of marriage between them, signed by the officiating clergyman and witnessed by the officers of the church, was unquestionably genuine, regular, and legal!
No! there was not one merciful doubt to found a hope of his innocence upon! It was amazing, stupefying, annihilating, but it was true. Her idol was a fiend, glorious in personal beauty, diabolical in spirit, as the fallen archangel Lucifer, Son of the Morning!
He was deeply, atrociously, insanely guilty!
Yes, insanely! for how could he have acted so recklessly, as well as so criminally, if he had not been insane? Would he not have known that swift discovery and disgrace were sure to follow the almost open commission of such base crimes? And if no feeling of honor or conscience could have deterred him, would not the fear of certain consequences have done so?
_His_ insanity was _her_ only rational theory of the case! But his supposed insanity did not vindicate him to her pure and just mind. For he was not an insane _man_ so much as an insane devil! He had only been mad in his recklessness, not in his crimes.
Then quickly through her storm-tossed soul passed the thought that both sacred and profane history recorded instances of crimes committed by righteous and honorable men. Amazing truth! She remembered the piety and the _sin_ of David, when he stole the wife of Uriah, and betrayed that loyal servant and brave soldier to a treacherous and bloody death! She remembered the loyalty and the _treason_ of that chivalrous young Scottish prince who headed a fratricidal rebellion, in which his father and his king was slain, and who, as James IV., lived a life of remorse and penance, until, in his turn, he was slain on the fatal field of Flodden. She thought of these, and other instances, in which it might seem as if an angel and a devil lived together, animating one man's body. This would, of course, produce inconsistency of conduct, insanity of mind.
But among all the harrowing thoughts that hurried through her tortured mind, one feeling was predominant--the necessity of instant flight. There was no other cause for her to pursue. The bridal train was awaiting her down stairs. Soon they would send to summon her again. How could she meet them? What could she say to them? How could she ever look upon the face of the Duke of Hereward and _live_?
She must fly at once. No, there was no time to write a note and leave it pinned on her dressing-table cushion. Besides, what could she say in her note? Nothing; or nothing that she would say.
She must go and make no sign. She forced herself to rise from the floor and commence hurried preparations for immediate flight.
In all the tumult of her soul, some intuition guided her through her hasty arrangements to take the most effectual means to elude pursuit and baffle discovery.
She took off her handsome mourning dress of black silk and crape that she had put on to travel in, and she packed it, with the black felt hat, vail, sack and gloves that belonged to the suit, in one of her trunks, which she carefully locked.
Then from some receptacle of her left-off colored dresses, she selected a dark-gray silk suit, with sack, hat, vail and gloves to match. And in that she dressed herself.
Then she reflected.
"They will think that I went away in my mourning dress, which they will miss. If they describe me, they will describe a lady in deep mourning. If any one comes in pursuit, they will look for a young woman in black, and pass me by, because I shall wear gray and keep my vail down."
Then she concealed in her bosom all the cash she had in hand, being about fifteen hundred pounds in Bank of England notes, which she had previously drawn out for her own private uses during her bridal tour. This she thought would go far to meet the unknown expenses of her future. She also took her diamonds. She might have to sell them, she thought, for support.
Then, when she was quite ready, dressed in the dark gray suit, sack, hat, vail and gloves, and with a small valise in her hand, she went into her bath-room, and to the back door at the head of the private stairs leading down to the little garden of roses that was her own favorite bower.
She watched for a few seconds, to be sure that no one was in sight, and then she slipped swiftly down the stairs and crossed the garden to a narrow back door, which she quickly opened and passed through, shutting it after her. It closed with a spring and cut off her re-entrance there, even if she had been disposed to turn back.
But she was not.
She glanced nervously up and down the lane at the back of the garden wall, but saw no one there.
Then she walked rapidly away, and turned into a narrow street, keeping her gray vail doubled over her face all the time.
She purposely lost herself in a labyrinth of narrow streets, getting farther and farther from her home, before she ventured near a cab-stand.
At length she hailed a closed cab, engaged it, entered it, closed all the blinds, and directed the driver to take her to the Brighton, Dover, and South Coast Railway Station at London Bridge, and promised him a half-sovereign if he would catch the next train.
Yes! after a few moments of rapid reflection, as to whither she would go, she resolved to leave London by that very same tidal-train on which she and her husband were to have commenced their bridal tour, for there, of all places, she felt that she would be safest from pursuit; that, of all directions, would be the last in which they would think of seeking her!
And while they should be waiting and watching for her at Elmhurst House, she would be speeding towards the sea coast, and by the time they should discover her flight, she would be on the Channel, _en voyage_ for Calais.
Beyond this she had no settled plan of action. She did not know where she would go, or what she should do, on reaching France.
She only longed, with breathless anxiety, to fly from England, from the Duke of Hereward, and all the horrors connected with him. She felt that she was not his wife, could never have been his wife, and that the mockery of a marriage ceremony, which had been performed for them by the Bishop of London that morning, at St. George's Hanover Square, had made the duke a felon and not a husband!
If she should remain in England she might even be called upon, in the course of events, to take a part in his prosecution. And guilty as she believed him to be, she could not bring herself to do that!
No! she must fly from England and conceal herself on the Continent!
But where?
She knew not as yet!
Her mind was in a fever of excitement when she reached London Bridge.
She paid and discharged her cab, giving the driver the promised half sovereign for catching the train.
Then, with her thick vail folded twice over her pale face, and her little valise in her hand, she went into the station, made her way to the office and bought a first-class ticket.
Then she went to the train, and stopping before one of the first carriages called a guard to unlock the door and let her enter.
"Oh, you can't have a seat in this compartment, Miss," said a somewhat garrulous old guard, coming up to her. "This whole carriage is reserved for a wedding party--the Duke and Duchess of Hereward, as were married this morning, and their graces' retinue, which they are expected to arrive every minute, Miss. But you can have a seat in _this_ one, Miss. It is every bit as good as the other," concluded the old man, leading the way to a lady's carriage some yards in advance.
"Reserved for a wedding party--reserved for the Duke and Duchess of Hereward and their retinue!"
How her heart fainted, almost unto death, with a new sense of infinite disappointment and regret at what might have been and what was! Reserved for the Duke and Duchess of Hereward! Ah, Heaven!
"Here you are, Miss!" said the guard, opening the door of an empty carriage.
"How long will it be before the train starts?" inquired the fugitive in a low voice.
The guard looked at his big silver watch and answered: "Time'll be up in three minutes, Miss." "But if the--the--wedding party should not arrive before that?" hesitatingly inquired Salome.
"Train starts all the same, Miss! Can't even wait for dukes and duchesses. 'Gin the law!" answered the old guard, as he touched his hat and closed and locked the door.
Salome sank back in her deeply-cushioned seat, thankful, at least, that she was alone in the carriage.
And in three minutes the tidal train started.
|
{
"id": "16039"
}
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19
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SALOME'S REFUGE.
|
Salome was scarcely sane. Married that morning, with the approval and congratulations of all her friends, by one of the most venerable fathers of the church, to one of the most distinguished young noblemen in the peerage, who was also the sole master of her heart, and-- Flying from her bridegroom this afternoon as from her worst and most hated enemy!
She could not realize her situation at all.
All seemed a horrible nightmare dream, from which she was powerless to arouse herself; in which she was compelled to act a painful part, until some merciful influence from without should awaken and deliver her!
In this dream she was whirled onward toward the South Coast, on that clear, autumnal afternoon.
In this dream she reached Dover, and got out at the station amid all the confusion attending the arrival of the tidal train, and the babel of voices from cabmen, porters, hotel runners, and such, shouting their offers of: "Carriage, sir!"
"Carriage, ma'am!"
"Steamboat!"
"Calais steamer!"
"Lord Warden's!"
"Victoria!" and so forth.
Acting instinctively and mechanically, she made her way to the steamboat.
There seemed to be an unusually large number of people going across.
She saw no one among the passengers, whom she recognized; but still she kept her vail folded twice across her face, as she passed to a settee on deck.
She was scarcely seated before the boat left the pier.
Wind and tide was against her, and the passage promised to be a slow and rough one.
And soon indeed the steamer began to roll and toss amid the short, crisp waves of Dover Straits, now whipped to a froth by wind against tide.
Most of the passengers succumbed and went below.
Now, whether intense mental pre-occupation be an antidote to sea-sickness, we cannot tell. But it is certain that Salome did not suffer from the violent motion of the boat. She was indeed scarcely conscious of it.
She sat upon the deck, wrapped in a large shepherd's plaid shawl, with her gray vail thickly folded over her face, which was turned toward the west, where the setting sun was sinking below the ocean horizon, and drawing down after him a long train of glory from over the troubled waters.
But it is doubtful if Salome even saw this, or knew what hour, what season it was!
A rough night followed. Wrapped in her shawl, absorbed in her dream, Salome remained on deck, unaffected by the weather, and indifferent to its consequences, although more than once the captain approached and kindly advised her to go below.
It was after midnight when the boat reached her pier at Calais.
In the same dream Salome left her seat and landed among the sea-sick crowd.
In the same dream she allowed the custom-house officers to tumble out the contents of her little valise, and satisfied, without cavil, all their demands, and answered without hesitation all the questions put to her by the officials.
In the same dream she made her way to a carriage on the railway train just about to start for Paris.
There were three other occupants of the carriage, which was but dimly lighted by two oil lamps. Salome did not look toward them, but doubled her vail still more closely over her face as she sat down in a corner and turned toward the window, on the left side of her seat.
The night was so dark that she could see but little, as the train flashed past what seemed to be but the black shadows of trees, fields, farm-houses, groves, villages, and lonely chateaux.
A weird midnight journey, through a strange land to an unknown bourne.
Occasionally she stole a glance through her thick vail toward her three fellow passengers, who sat opposite to her, on the back seat--three silent, black-shrouded figures who sat mute and motionless as watchers of the dead.
Very terrifying, but very appropriate figures to take part in her nightmare dream.
She turned her eyes away from those silent, shrouded, mysterious figures, and prayed to awake.
She could not yet.
But as she peered out through the darkness of the night, and saw the black shadows of the roadway flying behind her as the train sped southward, her physical powers gradually succumbed to fatigue, and her waking dream passed off in a dreamless sleep.
She slept long and profoundly. She slept through many brief stoppages and startings at the little way stations. She slept until she was rudely awakened by the uproar incident upon the arrival of the train at a large town.
She awoke in confusion. Day was dawning. Many passengers were leaving the train. Many others were getting on it.
She rubbed her eyes and looked around in amazement and terror. She did not in the least know where she was, or how she had come there.
For during her deep and dreamless sleep she had utterly forgotten the occurrences of the last twenty-four hours.
Now she was rudely awakened, bewildered, and frightened to find herself in a strange scene, amid alarming circumstances, of which she knew or could remember nothing; connected with which she only felt the deep impression of some heavy preceding calamity. She saw before her the three silent, black, shrouded forms of her fellow-passengers, but their presence, instead of enlightening, only deepened and darkened the gloomy mystery.
She pressed her icy fingers to her hot and throbbing temples, and tried to understand the situation.
Then memory flashed back like lightning, revealing all the desolation of her storm-blasted, wrecked and ruined life.
With a deep and shuddering groan she threw her hands up to her head, and sank back in her seat.
"Is Madame ill? Can we do anything to help her?" inquired a kindly voice near her.
In her surprise Salome dropped her hands, and at the same time her vail fell from before her face.
Suddenly she then saw that the three mute, shrouded forms before her were Sisters of Mercy, in the black robes of their order, and knew that they had only maintained silence in accordance with their decorous rule of avoiding vain conversation.
Even now the taller and elder of the three had spoken only to tender her services to a suffering fellow-creature.
The fugitive bride and the Sister of Mercy looked at each other, and at the instant uttered exclamations of surprise.
In the sister, Salome recognized a lay nun of the Convent of St. Rosalie, in which she had passed nearly all the years of her young life, and in which she had received her education, and to which it had once been her cherished desire to return and dedicate herself to a conventual service.
In Salome the nun saw again a once beloved pupil, whom she, in common with all her sisterhood, had fondly expected to welcome back to her novitiate.
"Sister Josephine! You! Is it indeed you! Oh, how I thank Heaven!" fervently exclaimed the fugitive.
"Mademoiselle Laiveesong! You here! My child! And alone! But how is that possible?" cried the good sister in amazement.
Before Salome could answer the guard opened the door with a party of passengers at his back. But seeing the compartment already well filled by the three Sisters of Mercy and another lady, he closed the door again and passed down the platform to find places for his party elsewhere.
The incident was little noticed by Salome at the time, although it was destined to have a serious effect upon her after fate.
In a few minutes the train started.
"My dear child," recommenced Sister Josephine, as soon as the train was well under way--"my dear child, how is it possible that I find you here, alone on the train at midnight! Were you going on to Paris, and alone? Was any one to meet you there?"
"Dear, good Sister Josephine, ask me no questions yet. I am ill--really and truly ill!" sighed Salome.
"Ah! I see you are, my dear child. Ill and alone on the night train! Holy Virgin preserve us!" said the sister, devoutly crossing herself.
"Ask me no questions yet, dear sister, because I cannot answer them. But take me with you wherever you go, for wherever that may be, there will be peace and rest and safety, I know! Say, will you take me with you, good Sister Josephine?" pleaded Salome.
"Ah! surely we will, my child. With much joy we will. We--(Sister Francoise and Sister Felecitie--Mademoiselle Laiveesong,)" said Sister Josephine, stopping to introduce her companions to each other.
The three young persons thus named bowed and smiled, and pressed palms, and then sat back in their seats, while the elder Sister, Josephine, continued: "We have come up from Fontevrau, and are now going straight on to our convent. With joy we will take you with us, my dear child. Our holy mother will be transported to see you. Does she expect you, my dear child?" inquired the sister, forgetting her tacit promise to ask no more questions.
"No, no one expects me," sighed the fugitive, in so faint a voice that the good Sister forbore to make any more inquiries for the moment.
The train rushed onward. Day was broadening. The horizon was growing red in the east.
The party travelled on in silence for some ten or fifteen minutes, and then, Sister Josephine growing impatient to have her curiosity satisfied, made a few leading remarks.
"And so you were coming to us unannounced by any previous communication to our holy mother? And coming alone on the night train! You possess a noble courage, my child, but the adventure was hazardous to a young and lovely unmarried woman. The Virgin be praised we met you when we did!" said the Sister, devoutly crossing herself.
"Amen, and amen, to that!" sighed Salome.
"Our holy mother will be overjoyed to see you. You are sure she does not expect you, my dear child?"
"No, Sister, she does not expect me, unless she has the gift of second sight. For I did not expect myself to return to St. Rosalie, to-day, or ever. When I took my place in this carriage at midnight, I did not know how far I should go, or where I should stop. I took a through ticket to Paris; but I did not know whether I should stop at Paris, or go on to Marseilles, or Rome, or St. Petersburg, or New York, or where!" moaned the fugitive.
"The holy saints protect us, my child! What wild thing is this you are saying?" exclaimed Sister Josephine, making the sign of the cross.
"No matter what I say now, good Sister, I will tell our holy mother all. Is la Mere Genevieve now your lady superior?" softly inquired the fugitive.
"Yes, surely, my child. And she will be transported to behold her best beloved pupil again. You are sure that she will be taken by surprise?" said the good, simple minded Sister, still innocently angling for a farther explanation.
"Yes, I feel sure that I shall surprise our good mother if I do _not_ delight her; for, as I told you before, I gave her no intimation of any intended visit. I repeat that when I set foot upon this train, I had no fixed plan in my mind. I did not know where I should go. My meeting with you is providential. It decides me, nay, rather let me say, it directs me to seek rest and peace and safety there where my happy childhood and early youth were passed, and where I once desired to spend my whole life in the service of Heaven. I, too, fervently praise the Virgin for this blessed meeting. I too thank the Mother of Sorrows for being near me in my sorrow and in my madness!" murmured Salome, in a low, earnest tone.
"Holy saints, my child! What can have happened to you to inspire such words as these?" exclaimed Sister Josephine in alarm.
"Never mind what, good Sister. You shall hear all in time. I am forced by fate to keep a promise that I made and might have broken. That is all."
"Ah, my dear child, I comprehend sorrow and despair in your words; but I do not comprehend your words!" sighed Sister Josephine.
"When I left your convent three years ago, I promised did I not, that after I should have become of age and be mistress of my fate, I would return, dedicate my life to the service of Heaven, and spend the remainder of it here? Did I not?" inquired Salome, in a low voice.
"You did, you did, my child. And for a long time we looked for you in vain. And when you did not come, or even write to us, we thought the world had won you, and made you forget your promise," sighed Sister Josephine crossing herself.
The two youthful Sisters followed her example, sighed and crossed themselves.
There was a grave pause of a few minutes, and then the voice of Salome was heard in solemn tones: "The world won me. The world broke me and flung me back upon the convent, and forced me to remember and keep my promise. I return now to dedicate myself to the service of Heaven, at the altar of your convent, if indeed Heaven will take a heart that earth has crushed!"
She sighed.
"It is the world-crushed, bleeding heart that is the sweetest offering to all-healing, all-merciful Heaven," said Sister Josephine, tenderly lifting the hand of Salome and pressing it to her bosom.
Again a solemn silence fell upon the little party.
Salome was the first to break it.
"It seems to me we have come a very long way, since we left the last station. Are we near ours?" she inquired, in a voice sinking with fatigue.
"We will be at our station in a very few minutes. A comfortable close carriage will meet us there to convey us to St. Rosalie," said Sister Josephine, soothingly.
Salome sank wearily back in her corner seat. The short-lived energy that enabled her to talk was dying out. Her hands and feet were cold as ice. Her head was hot as fire. Her frame was faint almost to swooning.
The train sped on. The party in the carriage fell into silence that lasted until the train "slowed," and stopped at a little way station.
"Here we are!" said Sister Josephine, rising to leave the carriage with her companions.
The guard opened the door.
Sister Josephine led the way out, and then took the hand of the half fainting Salome, to help her on.
The two other sisters followed. A close carriage, with an aged coachman on the box, awaited them. The old man did not leave his seat; but Sister Josephine opened the door and helped Salome into the carriage, and placed her comfortably on the cushions in a corner of the back seat, and then sat down beside her.
The two younger sisters followed and placed themselves on the front seat.
The aged coachman, who knew his duty, did not wait for orders, but turned immediately away from the station, and drove off just as the train started again on its way to Paris.
They entered a country road running through a wood--a pleasant ride, if Salome could have enjoyed it--but she leaned back on her cushions, with closed eyes, fever-flushed cheeks, and fainting frame. The sisters, seeing her condition, refrained from disturbing her by any conversation.
They rode on in perfect silence for about a mile, when they came to a high stone wall, which ran along on the left-hand side of their road, while the thick wood continued on their right-hand side. The road here ran between the wood and the wall of the convent grounds.
|
{
"id": "16039"
}
|
20
|
SALOME'S PROTECTRESS.
|
"We have arrived. Welcome home, my dear child," said Sister Josephine, as the carriage drew up before the strong and solid, iron-bound, oaken gates of the convent.
The aged coachman blew a shrill summons upon a little silver whistle that he carried in his pocket for the purpose.
The gates were thrown wide open and the carriage rolled into an extensive court-yard, enclosed in a high stone wall, and having in its centre the massive building of the convent proper, with its chapel and offices.
A straight, broad, hard, rolled, gravelled carriage-way led from the gates through the court-yard and up to the main entrance of the building. This road was bordered on each side by grass-plots, now sear in the late October frosts, and flower-beds, from which the flowers had been removed to their winter quarters in the conservatories. Groups of shade trees, statues of saints, and fountains of crystal-clear water adorned the grounds at regular intervals. In the rear of the convent building was a thicket of trees reaching quite down to the back wall.
The carriage rolled along the gravelled road, crossing the court-yard, and drew up before the door of the convent.
Sister Josephine got out and helped Salome to alight.
The sun was just rising in cloudless glory.
"See, my child," said Sister Josephine, cheerily pointing to the eastern horizon; "see, a happy omen; the sun himself arises and smiles on your re-entrance into St. Rosalie."
Salome smiled faintly, and leaned heavily upon the arm of her companion as they went slowly up the steps, passed through the front doors, and found themselves in a little square entrance hall, surrounded on three sides by a bronze grating, and having immediately before them a grated door, with a little wicket near the centre.
Behind this wicket sat the portress, a venerable nun, whom age and obesity had consigned to this sedentary occupation. " _Benedicite_, good Mother Veronique! How are all within the house?" inquired Sister Josephine, going up to the wicket.
"The saints be praised, all are well! They are just going in to matins. You come in good time, my sisters! But who is she whom you bring with you?" inquired the old nun, nodding toward Salome, even while she detached a great key from her girdle, and unlocked the door, to admit the party.
"Why, then, Mother Veronique, don't you see? An old, well-beloved pupil come back to see our holy mother? Don't you recognize her? Have you already forgotten Mademoiselle Laiveesong, who left us only three years ago?" inquired Sister Josephine, as she led Salome into the portress' parlor, followed by the two younger sisters, Francoise and Felecitie.
"Ah! ah! so it is! Mademoiselle Salome come back to us!" joyfully exclaimed the old nun, seizing and fondling the hands of the visitor, and gazing wistfully into her flushed and feverish face. "Yes, yes, I remember you! Mademoiselle Laiveesong! Mademoiselle, the rich banker's heiress! I am very happy to see you, my dear child! And our holy mother will be filled with joy! She has gone to matins now, but will soon return to give you her blessing. Ah! ah! Mademoiselle Salome! _Mais Helas! _ How ill she looks! Her hands are ice! Her head is fire! Her limbs are withes! She is about to faint!" added Mother Veronique, aside to Sister Josephine.
"She is just off a long and fatiguing journey. She is tired and hungry, and needs rest and refreshment. That is all," answered the sister, drawing the arm of the fainting girl through her own, and supporting her as she led her from the portress' parlor.
"Ah! ah! is this so? The dear child! Take her in and rest and feed her, my sisters! And when matins are over, bring her to our venerable mother, whose soul will be filled with rapture to see her," twaddled the old nun, until the party passed in from her sight.
Sister Josephine led Salome to her own cell, and made her loosen her clothes and lie down on the cot-bed, while Sister Francoise and Sister Felecitie went to the refectory and brought her a plate of biscuit and a glass of wine and water.
Wine was not the proper drink for Salome, in her flushed and feverish condition. But she was both faint and thirsty, and the wine, mixed with water, seemed cool and refreshing, and she quaffed it eagerly.
But she refused the biscuits, declaring that she could not swallow. And so she thanked her kind friends for their attention, and sank back on her pillow and closed her eyes, as if she would go to sleep.
The sisters promised to bring the mother abbess to her bedside as soon as the matins should be over. And so they left her to repose, and went silently away to the chapel to take their accustomed places, and join, even at the "eleventh hour," in the morning worship.
But did Salome sleep?
Ah! no. She lay upon that cot-bed with her hands covering her eyes, as if to shut out all the earth. She might shut out all the visible creation, but she could not exclude the haunting images that filled her mind. She could not banish the forms and faces that floated before her inner vision--the most venerable face of her dear, lost father, the noble face of her once beloved--ah! still too well beloved Arondelle!
The music of the matin hymns softened by distance, floated into her room, but failed to soothe her to repose.
At length the sweet sounds ceased.
And then-- The abbess entered the cell so softly that Salome, lying with closed eyes on the cot, remained unconscious of the presence standing beside her, looking down upon her form.
The abbess was a tall, fair, blue-eyed woman, upon whose serene brow the seal of eternal peace seemed set. She was about fifty years of age, but her clear eyes and smooth skin showed how tranquilly these years had passed. She was clothed in the well-known garb of her order--in a black dress, with long, hanging sleeves, and a long, black vail. Her face was framed in with the usual white linen bands, her robe confined at the waist by a girdle, from which hung her rosary of agates; and her silver cross hung from her neck.
The abbess was a lady of the most noble birth, connected with the royal house of Orleans.
In the revolution which had driven Louis Philippe from the throne, her father and her brother had perished. Her mother had passed away long before. She remained in the convent of St. Rosalie, where she was being educated.
And when, early in the days of the Second Empire, her fortune was restored to her, instead of leaving the cloister, where she had found peace, for the world, where she had found only tribulation, she took the vail and the vows that bound her to the convent forever, and devoted her means to enriching and enlarging the house. The convent had always supported itself by its celebrated academy for young ladies. It had also maintained a free school for poor children. But now the heiress of the noble house of de Crespignie added a Home for Aged Women, an asylum for Orphan Girls and Nursery for Deserted Infants. And all these were placed under the charge of the Sisters of Mercy.
Of the fifty years of this lady's life, forty had been spent in the convent where she had lived as pupil, novice, nun and abbess. Her cloistered life had been passed in active good works, if nurturing infancy, educating orphans, cheering age, and ordering and governing an excellent academy for young ladies, can be called so.
And whatever such a life may have brought to others, it brought to this princess of the banished Orleans family perfect peace.
She stood now looking down with infinite pity on the stricken form and face of her late pupil. She saw that some heavy blow from sorrow had crushed her. And she did not wonder at this.
For to the apprehension of the abbess, the world from which her late pupil had returned was full of tribulation, as the convent was full of peace.
She stood looking down on her a moment, and then murmured, in tones of ineffable tenderness: "My child!"
"Mother Genevieve! My dear mother!" answered Salome, clasping her hands and looking up.
The abbess drew a chair to the side of the cot, sat down, and took the hand of her pupil, saying: "You have come back to us, my child. I thought you would. You are most welcome."
"Oh, mother! mother! I am _driven_ back to you for shelter from a storm of trouble!" exclaimed Salome, in great excitement, her cheeks burning, and her eyes blazing with the fires of fever.
"We will receive you with love and cherish you in our hearts--_unquestioned_--for, my child, you are too ill to give us any explanation now," said the abbess, gently, laying her soft, cool hand upon the burning brow of the girl.
"Oh! mother, mother, let me talk now and unburden my heavy heart! You know not how it will relieve me to do so to _you_. I could not do so to any other. Let me tell you, dear mother, while I may, before it shall be too late. For I am going to be very ill, mother; and perhaps I may die! Oh Heaven grant I may be permitted to die!" fervently prayed Salome, clasping her hands.
"Hush, hush, my poor, unhappy child. I know not what your sorrow has been, but it cannot possibly justify you in your sinful petition. Life, my child, is the greatest of boons, since it contains within it the possibility of eternal bliss. We should be deeply thankful for simple _life_, whatever may be its present trials, since it holds the promise of future happiness," said the gentle abbess.
"Oh, mother, my life is wrecked--is hopelessly wrecked!" groaned Salome.
"Nay, nay, only storm-tossed on the treacherous seas of the world. Here is your harbor, my child. Come into port, little, weary one!" said the abbess, with a tender, cheerful smile.
"Oh, mother, your wayward pupil has wandered far, far from your teachings! She has become a heathen--an idolator! Yes, she set up unto herself an idol, and she worshiped it as a god, until at last, IT FELL! --IT FELL! AND CRUSHED HER UNDER ITS RUINS!" said Salome, growing more and more excited and feverish.
"It is well for us, my child, when our earthly idols do fall and crush us, else we might go on to perdition in our fatal idolatry. Yes, my child, it is well that your idol has fallen, even though you lie buried and bleeding under its ruins; for our fraternity, like the good Samaritan of the parable, will raise you up and dress your wounds, and set you on your feet again, and lead you in the right path--the path of peace and safety."
"Mother, mother, will you now hear my story, my confession?" said Salome, earnestly.
"My child, I would rather you would defer it until you are better able to talk."
"Mother, mother, I have the strength of fever on me now; but my mind is growing confused. Let me speak while I may!"
"Speak on, then, my dear child, but don't exhaust yourself."
"Mother, though I have failed, through very shame of broken promises, to write to you lately, yet you must have heard from other sources of my father's tragic death?"
"I heard of it, my child. And I have daily remembered his soul in my prayers."
"And you heard, good mother, of how I forgot all my promises to devote myself to a religious life, and how I betrothed myself to the Marquis of Arondelle, who is now the Duke of Hereward?"
"You yielded to the expressed wishes of your father, my child, as it was natural you should do."
"I yielded to the inordinate and sinful affections of my own heart, and I have been punished for it."
"My poor child!"
"Listen, mother! Yesterday morning, at St. George's church, Hanover Square, in London, I was married by the Bishop of London to the Duke of Hereward. Yesterday afternoon I received secret but unquestionable proof that the duke was an already married man when he met me first, and that his wife was living in London!"
"Holy saints, Mademoiselle! What is this that you are telling me?" exclaimed the astonished abbess. "Surely, surely she is growing delirious with fever," she muttered to herself.
"I am telling you a terrible truth, my mother! Listen, and I will tell you everything, even as I know it myself!" said Salome, earnestly.
The abbess no longer opposed her speaking, although it was evident that her illness was hourly increasing.
And Salome told the terrible story of her sorrows, commencing with the first appointed wedding-day at Castle Lone, and ending with the second wedding-day at Elmhurst House, and her own secret flight from her false bridegroom, just as it is known to our readers.
The deeply shocked abbess heard and believed, and frequently crossed herself during the recital.
As Salome proceeded with what she called her confession, her fever and excitement increased rapidly. Toward the end of her recital her thoughts grew confused and wandered into the ravings of a brain fever.
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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21
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THE BRIDEGROOM.
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According to his promise given to Lady Belgrade, the Duke of Hereward returned to Elmthorpe House to make his report.
He found the dowager waiting for him where he had left her, in the back drawing-room.
He greeted her only by a silent bow, and she questioned him only by a mute look.
"I have placed the case in the hands of Setter, confidentially, of course. He will commence secret investigations to-night," he said.
"This morning, you mean, Duke. It is now two o'clock," remarked the dowager.
"Is it, indeed, so late?"
"So early you should say. Yes, it is. But what thinks the detective of this affair?"
"He is inclined to think as we do, that our dear Salome has been decoyed away by some tale of extreme distress, and for purposes of robbery," answered the young duke, pressing his white lips firmly together in his effort to control all expression of the anguish that was secretly wringing his heart.
"And what does he think of the chances of finding her soon and finding her safe?" inquired the dowager.
The duke slowly shook his head.
"Well, and what does that mean?" asked the lady.
"It means that Detective Setter cannot form an opinion, or will not commit himself to the expression of one at present. And now, dear Lady Belgrade, as it is after two o'clock, I must bid you good-night--" "Good-morning, rather," interrupted the dowager.
"And return to my lodgings," continued the duke, passing his hand across his forehead, like one "dazed" with trouble.
"I beg you will do nothing of the sort, Duke," said Lady Belgrade, hastily interposing. "You have left your lodgings for a wedding tour. You are not expected back there. Your people think that you are far from London with your bride. In the name of propriety, let them think so still. Do not go back there to-night, and wake them all up, and start a nine days' wonder of scandal. Stay where you are, Duke, quietly, until we recover our Salome. When we do, you can both leave for Paris. All the world will know nothing of this distressing affair, which, if it were to come to their knowledge, would be exaggerated, perverted, turned and twisted out of all its original shape, into some horrid story of scandal. Remember now, how few people know anything about it--only you, I, the detective necessarily taken into your confidence, and the servants, for whose discretion I can answer. Remain quietly here, therefore, that all gossip may be stopped."
The duke resumed his seat, but did not immediately answer.
"Do you not think my counsel good?" inquired the lady.
"Very good. Thanks, Lady Belgrade. I will follow your advice. There is another reason why I should do so, but with which you are not acquainted. In the absorption of my thoughts with the subject of our Salome, I totally forgot to tell you that I have just been subpoenaed as a witness for the crown, in the approaching trial of John Potts and Rose Cameron for the murder of Sir Lemuel Levison. The case will come on at the Assizes at Banff on Thursday next. I must leave for Scotland to-morrow," said the young duke.
"Why--you surprise me very much! When was the subpoena served upon you?" inquired the dowager.
"In a chance recounter at the police-office, where I went to find the detective, and where I also found a sheriff's officer holding a subpoena for me, which he was about to send across the channel by a special messenger--supposing me to be in Paris. So you see, my dear Lady Belgrade, my wedding tour would have been stopped at Paris, if not nearer."
"That is well; for now, if the wedding tour is delayed, it will be known to be a legal necessity, which in no way reflects upon the wedding party. And now, my dear Duke, since you consent to stay all night, let me advise you to retire to rest. You will find your valet waiting your orders in the cedar suite of rooms, to which I had your dressing case and boxes taken."
"Thanks, Lady Belgrade. Your ladyship anticipates everything."
"I certainly anticipated the necessity of your remaining here all night, as soon as I found that you could not leave London. And now, Duke, I must really send you to bed. I am exhausted. I must lie down, even if I do not sleep," said the dowager, as she arose and touched the bell.
The Duke of Hereward raised her hand to his lips, bowed, and left the room.
Lady Belgrade followed his example.
And the weary groom of the chambers entered, in answer to the bell, to turn off the gas and fasten up the rooms.
The young duke knew where to find the cedar suite--a sumptuous set of apartments finished and fitted up in the costly and fragrant wood which gave them their name.
He found his servant waiting in the dressing-room.
His grace's valet was no fine gentleman from Paris, as full of accomplishments as of vices; but a simple and honest young man from the estate. The extra gravity which young James Kerr put into his manner of waiting, alone testified of the reverential sympathy he felt for his beloved master.
The duke threw off the travelling coat that he had assumed for his journey and had worn up to this moment; and he took the wadded silk dressing gown, handed him by his valet, and having put it on, he dropped into an easy resting-chair, and ordered Kerr to lower the gas and then leave the room for the night.
The young Duke of Hereward did not retire to bed that night. As soon as he found himself alone in the half-darkened rooms, he arose from his chair and began to walk restlessly up and down the floor, relieving the pent-up anguish of his bosom by such deep groans as had required all his self-control to suppress while he was in the presence of others.
Thus walking and groaning in great agony of mind, he passed the few remaining dark hours of the morning.
At daylight he sank exhausted into his easy-chair. But even then he neither "slumbered nor slept," but passed the time in waiting and longing for the rising sun, that he might go out and renew his search for his lost bride.
The sun had scarcely risen when he rang for his valet.
The young man appeared promptly.
The duke made a hasty toilet, and then called his servant to attend him down stairs.
None of the household were yet astir.
But, by the direction of the duke, Kerr unlocked, unbolted and unbarred the street door to let his master out.
"Close and secure the house after me, James, for it will be hours yet before the household will be up," said the duke, as he passed out.
It was a clear October day for London. The sun was not more than twenty minutes high, and it shone redly and dully through a morning fog. The streets were still deserted, except by milkmen, bakers, costermongers, and other "early birds."
He walked rapidly to the Church Court police station.
Detective Setter was not there. But the Duke left word for him to call at Elmthorpe as soon as he should return.
He left the police station and went on toward Elmthrope. But he did not enter the house. He could not rest. He walked up and down the sidewalk in front of the iron railings until he thought Lady Belgrade might have risen.
Then he went up the steps and rang the bell.
The hall porter opened the door and admitted him.
"Has Lady Belgrade come down yet?" was his first question.
"My lady has, your grace. My lady is waiting breakfast for your grace," respectfully answered the footman.
He longed to ask if any news had been heard of the missing one, but he forbore to do so, and hurried away up-stairs to the breakfast parlor.
There he found Lady Belgrade, dressed in a purple cashmere robe, and wrapped in a rich India shawl, reclining in a rocking-chair beside a breakfast-table laid for two.
"Good morning, madam. I fear I have kept your ladyship waiting," said the duke, as he entered the room.
"Not a second, my dear duke. I have but just this instant come down," answered the dowager, politely, and unhesitatingly telling the conventional lie, as she put out her hand and touched the bell.
"I fear that it is useless to ask you if there is any news of our missing girl," said the duke, in a low tone.
"I have heard nothing. And you? Of course, you have not, or you would not have asked me the question. But, good Heaven, Duke, you are as pale as a ghost! You look as if you had just risen from a sick bed! You look full twenty years older than you did yesterday. What have you been doing with yourself? Where have you been?" inquired the dowager.
The duke answered her last question only.
"I have been to Church Court to look up Detective Setter. I left orders for him to report here this morning. I expect him here very soon. I must do all that I can do in London to-day, as it is absolutely necessary for me to leave town by the night express of the Great Northern Railroad, in order to attend the trial for which I am subpoenaed as a witness, to-morrow."
"I see! Of course, you must go. There is no resisting a subpoena. But who is to co-operate with Setter in the search for Salome?" " _You_ must do so, if you please, Lady Belgrade, until my return. Of course, I will hurry back with all dispatch."
"No fear of that. The only fear is that you will hurry into your grave. But here is breakfast," said her ladyship, as a footman entered with a tray.
Mocha coffee, orange pekoe tea, Westphalia ham, poached eggs, dry toast, muffins, rolls, and so forth, were arranged upon the table to tempt the appetite of the two who sat at meat.
Lady Belgrade made a good meal. She was at the age of which physicians say, "the constitution takes on a conservative tone," and which poets call "the time of peace." In a word, she was middle-aged, fat, and comfort-loving; and so she was not disposed to lose her rest, or food, or peace of mind for any trouble not personally her own.
She was vexed at the unconventionality of Salome's disappearance, fearful of what the world would say, and anxious to keep the matter as close as possible. That was all, and it did not take away her appetite.
But the anxious young husband could not eat. A feverish and burning thirst, such as frequently attends excessive grief or anxiety, consumed him. He drank cup after cup of tea almost unconsciously, until at length Lady Belgrade said: "This makes four! I am your hostess, duke; but I am also your aunt by marriage, and upon my word I cannot let you go on ruining your health in this way! You shall not have another cup of tea, unless you consent to eat something with it."
The young duke smiled wanly, and submitted so far as to take a piece of dry toast on his plate and crumble it into bits.
Meanwhile, the dowager, having finished her breakfast, took up the _Times_ to look over.
Presently she startled the duke by exclaiming: "Thank Heaven!"
"What is it?" hastily inquired the duke, setting down his cup and gazing at the silent reader. "Any news of Salome?" he added, and then nearly lost his breath while waiting for the answer.
"Oh, yes, news of Salome! But scarcely authentic news. Listen! Here is a full account of the wedding--with a description of the bride and bridesmaids, and their dresses and attendants, and of the ceremony and the officiating clergy, and the attending crowd, and the wedding-breakfast, speeches, presents, and so on, all tolerably correct for a newspaper report. But now listen to this--" Her ladyship here read aloud: "Immediately after the wedding-breakfast, the happy pair left town, by the London and South Coast Railway, _en route_ for Dover, Paris and the Continent."
"There! what do you think of that?" inquired Lady Belgrade, looking up.
"I think it is not the first occasion upon which a paper has anticipated and described an expected event that some unforeseen accident prevented from coming off," answered the duke, with a sigh.
"I thank fortune for this! Now you have really started on your wedding tour in the belief of all London, and all outside of London who take the _Times_; and all _our_ world _do_ take it. And now, if any rumor of this most inopportune disappearance of our bride _should_ get out, why, it will never be believed! That is all! For has not the departure of the 'happy pair' been published in the _Times_? Yes, I am very glad of the news reporter's indiscreet precipitancy on this occasion, at least," concluded Lady Belgrade, as she turned to other "fashionable intelligence."
At that moment a footman entered the breakfast parlor and handed a business-looking card to the duke, saying, with a bow: "If you please, your grace, the person is waiting in the hall."
"By your leave, Lady Belgrade? --Sims! show the man into the library, and tell him I will be with him in a few moments. --It is Detective Setter," said the duke, as he arose and left the breakfast parlor.
He found that officer awaiting him in the library.
"Any news?" inquired the duke, as he sank into a chair and signed to the visitor to follow his example.
"None, your grace. I have made diligent and careful investigations, in the neighborhoods mentioned by the lady's maid, but have found no trace of any Mrs. White or Brown that answered the rather vague description given. I shall, however, resume my search there," answered the man.
"There must be no cessation of the search until that woman is found. I need not caution you to use great discretion," said the duke, earnestly, but wearily, like a man breaking down under an intolerable burden of mental anxiety.
"Discretion is the very spirit of my business, your grace."
"What is to be your next step?"
"If your grace will permit me, I should like to examine the rooms of the lost lady, and I should like to question, singly and privately, the servants of the house."
"A thorough search has been made of the premises, including the apartments of the duchess. And every domestic on the premises has been examined and cross-examined."
"I do not doubt, your grace, that all this has been done as effectually as it could be done by any one, except a skillful and experienced detective; but if you will pardon me, I should like to make an examination and investigation in person."
"Certainly, Mr. Setter. Every facility shall be afforded you," said the duke, touching the bell.
A footman entered.
The duke drew a card from his pocket and wrote upon it: "Detective Setter wishes to search the premises and cross-examine the servants. What does your ladyship say?"
The duke then placed the card in the hand of the footman, saying: "Be so good as to take this to Lady Belgrade, and wait an answer."
The servant bowed and left the room.
"You are aware, Mr. Setter, that I am under the necessity of leaving London to-night, to attend the trial of Potts and Cameron to-morrow."
"As a witness for the Crown. I am, your grace."
"I shall get back to London as soon as possible. In the meantime, I wish you to pursue your investigations with the utmost diligence, sparing no expense. Report in person every morning and evening to Lady Belgrade in this house, and by telegraph to me at Lone, in Scotland. Use great discretion in wording your telegrams. Avoid the use of names, or titles, or, in fact, any terms, in referring to the duchess, that may identify her. I hope you understand me?"
"Perfectly, your grace. I also understand how to speak and write in enigmas. It is a part of my profession to do so," answered Mr. Setter.
The duke then drew out his portmonaie, opened it, selected two notes of fifty pounds each and put them in the hands of Setter, saying: "Here are one hundred pounds. Spare no expense in prosecuting this search. Draw on me if you have occasion."
The detective bowed.
At the same moment the footman re-entered the room, bringing a card on a silver waiter, which he handed to the duke.
The duke took it and read: "Your grace surely forgets that, as the husband of the heiress, you are the absolute master of the house, and your will is law here. Do as you think proper."
"You may go," said the duke to the messenger, who immediately retired.
"Now, Mr. Setter, do you wish to search the premises, or examine the servants first?" inquired the duke.
"Examine the servants first, your grace; as I may thereby gain some clew to follow in my search."
"Very well," said the duke, again touching the bell.
The prompt footman re-appeared.
"Whom do you wish called first?" inquired the duke.
"The lady's maid," answered the detective.
"Go and tell the duchess's maid that she is wanted here immediately," said the duke.
The footman bowed and went away on his errand.
A few minutes passed, and the lady's maid entered.
"This is--I really forget your name, my good girl," said the duke, apologetically.
"Margaret, sir; Margaret Watson," said the lady's maid, with a courtesy.
"Ay. This is Margaret Watson, the confidential maid of her grace, Mr. Setter. Margaret, my good girl, Mr. Setter wishes to put some questions to you, relating to the disappearance of your mistress. I hope you will answer his inquiries as frankly and fearlessly as you have answered ours," said the duke, as he took up a paper for a pretext and walked to the other end of the library, leaving the detective officer at liberty to pursue his investigations alone.
It is needless for us to go over the ground again. It is sufficient to say that Detective Setter questioned and cross-questioned the girl with all the skill of an old and experienced hand, and at the end of half an hour's sharp and close examination, he had obtained no new information.
The girl was dismissed, with a warning not to talk of the affair. And she was followed by the housekeeper, with no better result.
Thus all the domestics of the establishment were called and examined singly; but without success.
When the last servant was done with, and sent out of the room, the detective walked up to the duke.
"Well, Mr. Setter?" inquired the latter.
"Your grace, I have learned nothing from the servants but what you have already told me."
"Do you still wish to search the premises?"
"If your grace pleases. And I wish to begin with the apartments of the duchess."
"Then follow me. I myself will be your guide," said the duke, leading the way from the library.
It would be useless to accompany the detective in this third search. Let it be sufficient to say that this search was thorough, complete, exhaustive, and--unsuccessful.
It was late in the day when it was finished, and the duke and the detective returned to the library.
"You now perceive Mr. Setter, that a day has been lost in these repeated searchings and questionings, and no new information, no sign of a clew to the fate of the duchess has been gained. In an hour I must leave the house to catch the Great Northern Night Express. I leave--I am _forced_ for the present, to leave the fate of my beloved wife in your hands. In saying that, I say that I leave more than my own life in your keeping. Use every means, employ every agency, spend money freely, the day you bring her safely to me, I will deposit ten thousand pounds in the Bank of England to your account."
"Your grace is munificent. If the duchess is on earth, I will find her;--not for the reward only, though it is certainly a very great inducement to a poor man with a large family; but for the love and honor I bear your grace and the late Sir Lemuel Levison," said the detective, earnestly, as he bowed and took leave.
The first dinner-bell rang.
The duke hastened to his own room, not to dress for dinner, but to prepare for his night journey to Scotland.
He ordered his valet to pack a valise with all that would be necessary for a few days' absence, and then sent him to call a close cab.
By this time the second dinner-bell rang, and the duke went down, not to dine, but to take leave of Lady Belgrade.
He found her ladyship in the drawing-room.
"Give me your arm to dinner, if you please, Duke," she said, rising.
"I hope you will excuse me; but I have only come to say good-by. I have but time to catch the train. Kerr has already put my luggage in the cab, which is waiting for me at the door. Good-by, dear Lady Belgrade. You will co-operate with Setter in all things necessary to a successful search, I know. Setter has my orders to report to you--" "You take my breath away!" gasped the dowager.
"Write to me by every mail. Keep me informed of events--" "You will kill yourself, Duke! flying off without your dinner, and looking fitter for going to bed than on a journey!" panted the dowager.
"Now then, good-by in earnest, dear Lady Belgrade, and God bless you," concluded the duke, raising her hand to his lips and bowing.
And before the dowager could say another word he was gone.
"Well, if he lives to be as old as I am, he will take things easier. Though, if he goes on at this rate, he won't live to be old," mused the old lady, as she slowly waddled into the dining-room, and took her seat at the table to enjoy her solitary green turtle soup.
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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22
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AT LONE.
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The Duke of Hereward went out to the close cab that was waiting for him before the door.
He found his valet standing by it, with a pair of railroad rugs over his arm.
He directed the man to mount to a seat beside the cabman, and gave the latter orders where to drive.
Then he entered the cab and closed all the doors and windows, that he might not be seen by any chance acquaintance.
He was supposed by all the world of London to be away on his wedding tour, and he was willing to let them continue to believe so, until they should be enlightened by a report of the great trial, when they would learn the fact and the explanation at once, and thus be prevented from making undesirable conjectures and speculations concerning his presence at such a time in England.
He leaned back on his seat, and the cabman, having received directions from the valet, drove rapidly off toward the Great Northern Railway Station at Kings Cross.
An hour's fast drive brought them to their destination.
The duke dispatched his valet to the ticket office to engage a coupe on the express train, so that he might be entirely private.
And he remained in the cab with closed doors and windows until the servant had secured the coupe, and conveyed all the light luggage into it.
Then he left the cab, and passed at once into the coupe, leaving his servant to pay and discharge the cab, and to follow him on the train.
James Kerr, after performing these duties, went to the door of his master's little compartment to ask if he had any further orders, before going to take his place in the second-class carriages.
"No, Kerr, but come in here with me. I want you at hand during the journey," replied the duke, who, much as he confided in the young man's devotion and loyalty, could not quite trust his discretion, and therefore desired to keep him from talking.
The valet bowed and entered the coupe, taking the seat that his master pointed out.
The train moved slowly out of the station, but gaining speed as it left the town, soon began to fly swiftly on its northern course.
The October sun was setting as the train flew along the margin of the "New River," as Sir Hugh Myddellen's celebrated piece of water-engineering is called.
The October evening was chill, and the swift flight of the train drawing a strong draught that could not be kept out, increased the chilliness.
The duke leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.
The valet attentively tucked the railway rug around his master's knees.
The sun had set. The long twilight of northern latitudes came on.
At the first station where the express stopped, the guard opened the door and offered to light the lamps, but the duke forbade him, saying that he preferred the darkness.
The guard closed the door and retired, and the train started again, and flew on northward through the deepening night.
It stopped only at the largest towns and cities on its route--at Peterboro', at York, at Newcastle, and Edinboro'.
It was sunrise when the train reached Lone, the only small station at which it stopped on the route.
The guard opened the door of the coupe, and the young duke got out, attended by his valet.
The train stopped but one minute, and then shot out of the station and flew on toward Aberdeen.
The distance between the railway station and the "Hereward Arms," was very short, so the duke preferred to walk it, followed by his valet and a railway porter carrying his light luggage.
The sun had risen indeed, although it was nowhere visible.
A Scotch mist had risen from the lake, and settled over the mountains, vailing all the grand features of the landscape.
Early as the hour was, the hamlet, as they passed through it, seemed deserted by all its male inhabitants. None but women and children were to be seen, and even they, instead of being at work, were loitering about their own doors or gossiping with each other.
Though the duke and his servant were the only passengers that got off the train at Lone, the whole force of the "Hereward Arms,"--landlord, head-waiter, hostler, boots and stable boys--turned out to meet them.
"Your grace is unco welcome to the 'Hereward Arms,'" said Donald Duncan, the worthy host, bowing low before his distinguished guest.
And all his underlings followed his example by pulling their red forelocks and scraping their right feet backwards.
"Your hamlet seems to be deserted to-day, landlord. What fair or what else is going on?" inquired the young duke, as he followed the bowing host to the neat little parlor of the inn.
"Ah! wae's the day! Dinna your grace ken! It will be the trial at Banff--the trial of yon grand villain, Johnnie Potts, for the murder of his master."
"Oh, yes, I know the trial will be commenced to-day; but I did not think that the people here would take so much interest in it as to leave their work and go such a distance to see it," remarked the duke.
"Would they nae? They'd gae to the North Pole to see it, if necessary, and they'd gae farrer still to see the murtherer weel hanggit! Ay, your grace, and what will make it a' the mair exciting, is the rumor whilk goes round to the effect that the ne'er-do-well, hizzie, Rose Cameron, hae turnit Crown's evidence to save her ain life, and will gie up all her accomplices. Sae we are a' fain to hear the mystery of the murther cleared up."
"Indeed! Is that so? The girl has turned Crown's witness? Then, we _shall_ get at the truth!" exclaimed the duke, with more interest than he had hitherto shown.
"It is a' true, your grace! And your grace may weel ken how the report drawed the heart of the hamlet out to gae to Banff, and hear a' aboot the murther."
"Yes, yes," murmured the duke to himself.
"And now, will your grace please to have a room? And what will your grace please to have for breakfast?" inquired the landlord, remembering his duty, and again bowing to the ground.
"You may show me to a bed-room, where I may get rid of this railway dust, and--for breakfast, anything you please, so that it is quickly prepared. Also, landlord, have a chaise at the door, with a good pair of horses. I must start for Banff within half an hour," said the traveller.
"Save us and sain us! Your grace, also! A' the warld seem ganging to Banff!" cried honest Donald Duncan.
"I am summoned there as a witness on the trial, landlord."
"Ay, to be sure. Sae your grace maun be. For it is weel kenned that your grace was amung the first to discover the dead body of the murthered man, Heaven rest him! And noo, your grace, I will show ye till your room," said the landlord, leading the way to a neat bedchamber on the same floor.
"Be good enough to send my servant here with my luggage," said the duke.
The landlord bowed and went out to deliver the message.
And in another minute the valet entered the room with the valise, dressing-case, and so forth.
The duke made a rapid morning toilet, and then returned to the parlor, where the little breakfast table was already laid--coffee, rolls, oat-meal cake, broiled haddock, broiled black cock, and Dundee marmalade, formed the bill of fare.
The duke forced himself to partake of some solid food in addition to the two cups of coffee he hastily swallowed.
And then, as the chaise was announced, he arose to depart.
"I desire to keep these rooms until further notice, landlord. I shall return here this evening, and stop here during my attendance upon the trial at Banff," said the duke, as he got into the chaise, followed by the valet.
The driver cracked his whip and the horses started.
"Aweel," said the landlord to himself, as he watched the chaise winding its way up the mountain-pass. "Aweel, I waur e'en just confounded to see the dook here away without the doochess; and I just after reading in the _Times_ how they were married o' the day before yesterday, and gane for their wedding trip to Paris! Aweel, I suppose, it will be this witness business as hae broughten him back. But where's the young doochess? Ay, to be sure, he hae left her in her grand toon house in London. He wad na be bringing her here at siccan a painfu' time and occasion as the trial of her ain father's murtherer. Nae, indeed! that is nae likely," concluded honest Donald Duncan, as he returned into his house.
Banff was but ten miles north-east of Lone. But the mountain road was difficult; and now that the morning mist lay heavy on the landscape, it was necessary for our travelers to drive slowly and carefully to avoid precipitating themselves over some rocky steep, into some deep pool or stony chasm.
They were, thus, an hour in getting safely through the mountain-pass.
At the end of that time, they came out upon a good road, through a forest of firs, covering a hilly country.
Then the mist began to roll away before the bright beams of the advancing sun.
And another hour of fast driving brought them into the town of Banff.
The duke directed the driver to turn into the street where was situated the town-hall, where the court was being held.
The very looks of the street must have informed any stranger that some event of unusual interest was then transpiring. The sidewalks were filled with pedestrians, whose steps were all bent in one direction--toward the town hall.
As our travellers drew up before the front of the building, the duke alighted and beckoned to a bailiff to come and clear the way for his passage into the court-room.
The officer hurried to the duke, and using his official authority, soon made a narrow path through the dense crowd that choked up every avenue into the edifice.
So, elbowing, pushing and wedging his way, the bailiff led the duke into the court-room, which was even more closely packed than the ante-rooms. Pressing through this solid mass of human beings, the bailiff led him to a seat directly in front of the bench of judges, and there left him.
The duke bowed to the Bench, sat down and looked around upon the strange and painful scene.
The famous Scotch judge, Baron Stairs, presided. On his right and left sat Mr. Justice Kinloch and Mr. Justice Guthrie.
Quite a large number of lawyers, law officers, and writers to the seal were present.
Mr. James Stuart, Q.C., was the prosecutor on the part of the crown. He was assisted by Messrs. Roy and McIntosh.
Mr. Keir and Mr. Gordon, two rising young barristers from Aberdeen, were counsel for the prisoner.
John Potts, alias Peters, the accused man, stood alone in the prisoner's dock.
He was a tall, gaunt, dark man, whose pallid face looked ghastly in contrast with his damp, lank, black hair, that seemed pasted to his cheeks by the thick perspiration, and with his black coat and pantaloons that hung loosely on his emaciated form.
The young duke thought he had never seen a man so much broken down in so short a time.
While the duke was looking at him, the poor wretch turned caught his eye and bowed. And then he quickly grasped the front railing of the dock with both his hands, as if to keep himself from falling.
The young duke turned away his eyes. The sight was too painful. He looked around him over the densely packed crowd, in which he recognized many of his old friends and neighbors, a great number of his clansmen and nearly all the old servants of his family.
Although the month was October, and the weather cool in that northern climate, the atmosphere of such a packed crowd would have been unbearable but for the fact that the six tall windows that flanked the court-room on each side were let down from the top for ventilation.
The duke turned his attention to the Bench.
There seemed to be some pause in the proceedings. The judges were sitting in perfect silence. The prosecuting counsel were arranging papers and occasionally speaking to each other in low tones.
The duke turned to a gentleman, a stranger, who was sitting on his left, and inquired: "I have heard that the girl Cameron is not to be arraigned. I have also heard that she is held as a witness for the crown. Can you inform me whether it is so?"
"Yes, sir, it is so. You perceive that she is not in the dock with the other prisoner. She is in custody, however, in the sheriff's room. The prosecution cannot afford to arraign her, because they cannot do without her testimony," answered the stranger.
A buzz of conversation passed like a breeze through the impatient crowd.
"Silence in the court!" called out the crier.
And all became as still as death.
Mr. Roy, assistant counsel for the crown, arose and read the indictment, charging the prisoner at the bar with the willful murder of Sir Lemuel Levison, at Castle Lone, on the twenty-first day of June, Anno Domini, so and so. Without making any comment, the prosecutor sat down.
The Clerk of Arraigns then arose, and demanded of the accused-- "Prisoner at the bar, are you guilty or not guilty of the crimes with which you stand indicted?"
Potts, who stood pale and trembling and clutching the rails in front of the dock, replied earnestly though informally: "Not guilty, upon my soul, my lords and gentlemen, before Heaven, and as I hope for salvation."
And overpowered by fear, he sank down on the narrow bench at the back of the dock.
The trial proceeded.
Queen's Counsel, Mr. James Stuart, took the indictment from the hands of his assistant, and proceeded to open it with a short, pithy address to the judges and the jury, and closed by requesting that Alexander McRath, house-steward of Castle Lone, in the service of the deceased, should be called.
The venerable, gray-haired old Scot, being duly called, came forward and took the stand.
Mr. McIntosh, assistant Queen's Counsel, conducted his examination.
Being duly sworn, Alexander McRath testified as to the facts within his own knowledge relating to the case, and which have already been laid before our readers--briefly, they referred to the finding of the dead body of the late Sir Lemuel Levison in his bed-chamber, to which no one except his confidential valet, the prisoner at the bar, had a pass-key, or could have gained admittance during the night.
The witness was cross-examined by Mr. Keir of the counsel for the prisoner, but without having his testimony weakened.
Other domestic servants were called, who corroborated the evidence given by the last one as to the finding of the dead body, and the intimate and confidential relations which had subsisted between the deceased and the prisoner at the bar, who always carried a pass-key to his master's private apartments.
Then the boy, Ferguson, a saddler's apprentice from the village of Lone, was called to the stand; and being sworn and examined, testified to the meeting and the conspiracy at midnight before the murder, under the balcony, near Malcolm's Tower, at Castle Lone, to which he had been an eye and ear-witness.
This witness was subjected to a very severe cross-examination, which rather developed and strengthened his testimony than otherwise.
McNeil, the ticket agent of the railway station at Lone, was next called, sworn, and examined. He testified to having sold a ticket just after midnight on the night of the murder to a vailed woman, who carried a small but very heavy leathern bag, which she guarded with jealous care. His description corresponded with that given by young Ferguson of the vailed woman, and the bag he had seen given to her by the balcony at Castle Lone on the same night.
This witness, also, was sharply cross-examined without effect.
"Now, my lords and gentlemen of the jury," began Queen's Counsel Stuart, speaking more gravely than he had ever done before, "I shall proceed to call a witness whose testimony will assuredly fix the deep guilt in the case we are trying where it justly belongs. Let Rose Cameron be placed upon the stand."
There was a great sensation in the court-room. The dense crowd was stirred with emotion as thick forest leaves are stirred with the wind.
"Silence in the court!" called out the crier.
And silence fell like a pall upon the crowd.
A door was opened on the left of the Judge's Bench, and the handsome Highland girl was led in by a sheriff's officer. She was dressed in a dark-blue merino suit, with a black felt hat and blue feather to match, and dark-blue gloves. Her long light hair flowed down her shoulders, a cataract of gold. She stepped with an elastic and imperial step as natural to her as to the reindeer. A very Juno of stately beauty she seemed as she rolled her large, fearless eyes over the crowded court-room, until, at length, they fell on the form of the young Duke of Hereward, seated on a front seat.
She started and flushed. Then recovered herself, caught his eyes, and fixed them with her bold, steady gaze, smiled a vindictive, deadly smile, and so passed with stately steps to her place on the witness stand.
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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23
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A STARTLING CHARGE.
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The Duke of Hereward was quite unable to account for the look of vindictive and deadly hatred and malice cast on him by Rose Cameron. He could only suppose that she mistook him for some one else, or that she unreasonably resented his active share in the prosecution of the search for the murderers of Sir Lemuel Levison.
He sat back in his seat and watched her while she stepped upon the witness-stand and turned to face the jury.
Every pair of eyes in the court-room were also fixed upon her. For it was believed that she had been an accomplice in the murder, as well as in the robbery, at Castle Lone, and that she had turned Queen's evidence in order to escape the extreme penalty of the law. And all there who looked upon her were as much dazzled by her wondrous beauty, as appalled by her awful guilt.
The Clerk of the Court administered the oath. The assistant Queen's Counsel proceeded to examine her.
"Your name is Rose Cameron?"
"Na! I'm nae Rose Cameron. I'm Rose Scott, and an honest, married woman," said the witness, turning a baleful look upon the Duke of Hereward, and letting her large, bold, blue eyes rove defiantly, triumphantly over the sea of human faces turned toward her. She never blenched a bit under the fire of glances fixed upon her. These glances would have pierced like spears any finer and more sensitive spirit. They never seemed to touch hers.
"What a handsome quean it is!" said some.
"What a diabolical malignity there is in her looks. Eh, sirs! The vera cut of her 'ee wad convict her, handsome as she is!" whispered another.
"Ay, she looks as if she could ha ta'en a hand in the murther as well as in the robbery," muttered a third. And so on.
These comments were made in so low a tone that they did not in the least disturb the decorum of the court.
"Your name is Rose Scott, then?" proceeded Counsellor Keir.
"Ay, it is."
"What is your age?"
"Twenty-six come next Michael-mas."
"Your residence?"
"Are ye meaning my hame?"
"Yes, your home."
"I dinna just ken. It used to be Ben Lone on the Duk' o Harewood's estate, when I waur a lass. Sin I hae been a guid wife I hae bided in Westminster Road, Lunnun."
At the mention of Westminster Road, the Duke of Hereward started slightly, and bent forward to give closer attention to the words of the witness.
"With whom did you live in Westminster Road?" proceeded the examiner.
"Wi' my ain guid man, ye daft fule!" exclaimed Rose Cameron, in a rage. "Wha else suld I bide wi'? And noo, ye'll speer nae mair questions anent my ain preevit life, for I'll nae answer any sic. A woman maunna gie testimony in open coort against her ain husband, I'm thinking."
"Certainly not."
"Sae I thocht!" said Rose Cameron, cunningly. "And sae ye'll speer nae mair questions anent my ain preevit affair; but just keep ye to the point, and it please ye! I am here to tell all I ken anent the murther and robbery at Castle Lone! Ay! and I will tell a' hang wha' it may!" she added, with a most vindictive glare at the Duke of Hereward.
"The witness is right so far. We have nothing whatever to do with her domestic status. Proceed with the examination, and keep to the point," interposed the judge.
"We will, my lord. We only wished to prove the fact that the witness was living on the most intimate terms with one of the parties suspected of the murder."
"I waur living wi' my ain husband, as I telt ye before, ye born idiwat! An' I'm no ca'd upon to witness for or against him. Sae I'll tell ye a' I ked anent the murther and the robbery at Castle Lone; but de'il hae me gin I tell ye onything else!" exclaimed Rose Cameron.
"The witness is quite right in her premises, though censurable in her manner of expressing them. Proceed with the examination," said the judge.
The assistant Q.C. bowed to the Bench and turned to the witness.
"Tell us, then, where you were on the night of the murder."
"I waur in the grounds o' Castle Lone."
"At what time were you there?"
"Frae ten till twal o' the clock."
"Were you alone?"
"For a guid part of the time I waur my lane i' the castle court."
"What took you out on the castle grounds alone at so late an hour?"
"I went there to keep my tryste with the Markis of Arondelle," answered the witness, with a sly, malignant glance at the young nobleman whose name she thus publicly profaned!
The Duke of Hereward started, and fixed his eyes sternly and inquiringly upon the bold, handsome face of the witness.
Her eyes did not for an instant quail before his gaze. On the contrary, they opened wide in a bold, derisive stare, until she was recalled by the questions of the examiner.
"Witness! Do you mean to say, upon your oath, that you went to Castle Lone at midnight to meet the Marquis of Arondelle?"
"Aye, that I do. I went to the castle to keep tryste wi' his lairdship, the Marquis of Arondelle. He wha was troth-plighted to the heiress o' Lone. Ae wha is noo ca'd his grace the Duk' o' Harewood!" said the witness, emphatically, triumphantly.
The statement fell like a thunderbolt on the whole assembly.
When Rose Cameron first said that she went to the castle to keep tryste with the Marquis of Arondelle, those who heard her distrusted the evidence of their own ears, and turned to each other, inquiring in whispers: "What did she say?"
Or answering in like whispers: "I don't know."
But now that she had reiterated her statement with emphasis and with triumph, they asked no more questions, but gazed in each other's faces in awe-struck silence.
And as for the Duke of Hereward! What on earth could a gentleman have to say to a charge as absurd as it was infamous, thus made upon him by a disreputable person in open court?
Why, to notice it even by denial would seem to be an infringement of his dignity and self-respect.
The Duke of Hereward, after his first involuntary start and stare of amazement, controlled himself absolutely, and sat back in his chair, perfectly silent and self-possessed under this ordeal.
Not so the senior counsel for the defence.
Rising in his place, he addressed the bench: "My lord, we object to the question put to the witness, which, while it tends to compromise a lofty personage of this realm, can, in no manner, concern the case in hand. My lord, we are not trying his grace the Duke of Hereward."
"The bench has already instructed the counsel for the Crown to keep to the point at issue while examining the witness," said the presiding judge.
"Ou, ay! Ye are nae trying the Duk' o' Harewood, are ye nae? Aweel, then, I'm thinking ye'll be trying him before a's ower!" put in Rose Cameron, spitefully.
"Witness, tell the jury what occurred, within your own knowledge, while you were in the grounds of Castle Lone," said Mr. Keir.
"And how will I tell onything right gin I am forbid to name the name o' him wha wur maistly concernit?" demanded Rose Cameron.
"You are to give your own testimony in your own way, unless otherwise instructed by the bench," said Mr. Keir.
"Aweel, then, first of a', I went to the castle by appointment to meet Laird Arondelle, as he was then ca'd. I walked about and waited fu' an hour before his lairdship cam' till me."
"At what hour was that?"
"I heard the castle clock aboon Auld Malcom's Tower strike eleven when I cam' under the balcony o' the bride's chamber, whilk is nigh it. I waited fu' half an hour there before his lairdship cam' stealing through the shrubbery--De'il hae him, wha ha brocht a' this trouble on me!" exclaimed the witness, vehemently, as her eyes, fairly blazing with blue fire, fixed themselves on the face of the young duke.
The Duke of Hereward bore the searching glare quite calmly. He simply leaned back in his chair, with folded arms and attentive face, on which curiosity was the only expression.
"Mr. Keir," said the venerable Counsellor Guthrie, of the defence, "is all this supposed to concern the case before the jury?"
"Ay, does it!" cried Rose Cameron, before the lawyer addressed could reply. "Ay, does it, as ye will sune see, gin ye will gie me leave to speak."
Meanwhile the Duke of Hereward took out his note-book and wrote these lines: "_Pray let the witness proceed without regard to her use of my name. I think the ends of justice require that she be suffered to give her testimony in her own way_. HEREWARD."
He tore this leaf out and passed it on to Mr. Guthrie, who read it with some surprise, and then waved his hand to Mr. Keir, and sat down with the air of a man who had complied with an indiscreet request, and washed his hands of the consequences.
"The time of the court is being unnecessarily wasted. Let the examination of the witness go on," said the presiding judge.
"It shall, my lord," answered the Queen's Counsel, with an inclination of his white-wigged head. Then turning to the bold blonde on the stand, he proceeded: "Witness, tell the jury what occurred that night under the balcony of Miss Levison's apartments at Castle Lone."
Rose Cameron threw another vindictive glance at the Duke of Hereward, and commenced her narrative.
Now, as her story was substantially the same that has been already given to the reader, it is not necessary to recapitulate it here. Only in one respect it differed from the stories she had hitherto told to her landlady or housekeeper, Mrs. Brown, of Westminster Road; as on this occasion she reserved all allusion to any real or fancied marriage between herself and the nobleman she claimed as her lover, and then accused as the accomplice of thieves and assassins, in the murder and robbery at Castle Lone, on the night preceding the day appointed for his own marriage with its heiress!
It would be impossible to describe the effect of this terrible testimony on the minds of all who heard it.
The Bench, the Bar, and the Jury, whom, it would seem, nothing in this world had power to startle, astonish, or discompose, sat like statues.
Scarcely less immovable was the young Duke of Hereward, the subject of this awful charge, who sat back in his seat with an air of grave curiosity, and with the composure of a man who was master of the situation.
But the crowd which filled the court-room seemed utterly confounded by what they heard. Upon the whole, they either disbelieved this witness, or distrusted their own ears. Their young laird, as she called the present duke, was their model of all wisdom, goodness, magnanimity. Truly, they had heard a rumor of some little love-making between the young laird and a handsome shepherdess at Ben Lone, probably this same Rose Cameron; even these rumors they did not fully credit; but that the noble young Duke of Hereward should be the accomplice of thieves and murderers in the robbery at Castle Lone, and the assassination of Sir Lemuel Levison, on the very night preceding the morning appointed for his marriage with Sir Lemuel's daughter!
Oh! the charge was too preposterous, as well as too horrible, to be entertained for an instant.
Finally the prevailing opinion settled into this: that the young laird had probably admired the handsome shepherdess a little, and had left her for the heiress; and that, from jealousy and for revenge, the girl was now perjuring herself to ruin her late lover.
Would her testimony be believed? Would it have weight enough to cause the arrest of the young duke?
"Eh, sirs! what an awfu' event the like o' that wad be!" whispered one gray-haired clansman to another.
And all bent eager ears to hear the remainder of the testimony which was still going on.
After relating the history of her journey to London, with the stolen treasure in charge, she proceeded to tell of the abrupt flight of "the duke," with the bulk of the treasure in his possession, and of her own subsequent arrest with the stolen jewels found in her apartments.
She was cross-examined by the defence, but without effect.
Her testimony, if it could be established, would ruin the Duke of Hereward, but could in no way affect the prisoner at the bar.
When the prosecution perceived this, they realized that they had been, in common parlance, "sold."
They were to be sold again.
"You may stand down," said Mr. Keir, sharply.
"Na, I hanna dune yet. I hae mair to say," persisted the witness.
"Say it, then."
"I ken it is nae lawfu' for a wife to gie testimony against her ain husband," said Rose Cameron, with a cunning leer that marred the beauty of her fine blue eyes.
"Certainly not. What has that to do with this case?"
"It hae a' things to do with it."
"Explain yourself, witness; and remember that you are on your oath."
"Ay, I weel ken the solemnity of an aith. And I hae telt the truth under aith; nathless, maybe my teestimony suld na be received."
"Why not?"
"Why no'? Why, gin a wife maunna teestify agin her ain husband, I suld na hae teestified agin the Duk' o' Harewood, who is my ain lawfu' husband!" said Rose Cameron, purposely raising her voice to a clear, ringing tone that was distinctly heard all over the court-room.
Had a shell fallen and exploded in their midst, it could scarcely have caused greater consternation.
"What said the lass?" questioned many.
"I dinna just ken," answered many others.
They certainly did not believe the report of their own ears on this occasion.
As for the Duke of Hereward, who was then engaged in writing a few lines on the fly-leaf of his note-book, he just looked up for a moment and was surprised into the first smile that had lighted his grave face since the opening of the trial.
The cool counsel who was conducting the examination of the witness, and whom nothing on earth could throw off his track, now proceeded to inquire: "Witness! Do we understand you to say that you are the wife of his grace the Duke of Hereward?"
"Ay, just!" replied Rose Cameron, pertly. "Gin ye hae ony understanding at a', and gin ye are na the auld daft idiwat ye luke, ye'll understand me to say I am the lawfu' wedded wife o' the Duk' o' Harewood. Him as was marrit o' Tuesday last to the heiress o' Lone! Gin ye dinna believe me, I hae my marriage lines, gie me by the minister o' St. Margaret's Kirk, Weestminster, where he marrit me! Ou, ay! and I wad hae tell ye a' this in the beginning, only I kenned weel, if I _did_, ye wad na hae let me gae on gie' ony teestimony agin me ain husband. De'il hae him! But noo, as ye hae heerd the truth anent the grand villainy up in Castle Lone, I dinna mind telling ye wha I am. Ay, and ye may set aside my witness, gin ye like! But the whole coort hae noo heard it. Ay, and the whole warld s'all hear it, or a' be dune! And noo I am thinking ye'll een let the puir mon in the dock just gae free; and pit my laird, his greece, the nubble duk', intil the prisoner's place. Ye'll no hae to seek him far," added the woman, suddenly whisking around and facing the young Duke of Hereward, with a perfectly fiendish look of malice distorting her handsome face. "There he sits noo! he wha marrit me and afterwards marrit the heiress o' Lone! he wha betrayed me intil a prison, and wad hae betrayed me to the gallows, gin I had na been to canny for him! There he is noo, and he can na face me and deny it!"
The Duke of Hereward did not deign to deny anything. He passed the fly leaf, upon which he had written some lines, on to the old lawyer, Guthrie, who looked over it, nodded, and then rising in his place, addressed the Bench: "My lord, we desire that the witness, who is now transcending the duties and privileges of the stand, be ordered to sit down."
"Oh! I'll sit down!" pertly interrupted Rose Cameron. "I hae had my ain way, and I hae said my ain say, and now I'll e'en gae--gin this auld fule be done wi' me."
"We have done with you; you can stand down," replied Mr. Keir, in mortification and disgust.
Rose Cameron stepped down from the stand with the air of a queen descending from her throne. In look and motion she was graceful and majestic as the antelope. You had to hear her speak to learn how really low and vulgar she was.
She darted one baleful blast of hatred from her blue eyes, as she passed the Duke of Hereward, and was then conducted back to the sheriff's room, where she was to be detained in custody until the conclusion of the trial.
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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24
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THE VINDICATION.
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Mr. Guthrie now requested that the witness Ferguson might be recalled.
The order was given. And the Lone saddler's red-headed apprentice took the stand.
Mr. Guthrie referred to the notes that had been passed to him by the Duke of Hereward, and then said: "Witness, you told the jury that on the night before the murder of Sir Lemuel Levison, you were employed in your master's service up to a late hour."
"Ay, your honor; but I waur fain to see the wedding decorations, for a' that," said the boy.
"Precisely. But now tell the jury what was the service upon which you were employed to so late an hour that night."
"It wad be a bit wedding offering to our laird, wha hae always favored his ain folks wi' his custom. It waur a Russia leather traveling dressing-bag for his lairdship, the whilk the master had ta'en unco guid care suld be as brawa bag as ony to be boughten in Lunnen town itsel', whilk mysel' was commissioned, and proud I waur, to tak', wi' my master's duty, to his lairdship."
"Doubtless. Now tell the jury at what hour you took this wedding offering to Lord Arondelle."
"Aweel, it wad be about half-past nine o'clock. I went wi' the dressing-case to the Arondelle Arms, where his lairdship and his lairdship's feyther, the auld duk' were biding. The hostler telt me that his lairdship had gane for a walk o'er the brig to Castle Lone. Sae I were fain to wait there for him."
"How long did you wait?"
"Na lang. I was na mair than five minutes before I saw his lairdship coming o'er the brig toward the house. And sune his lairdship came into the inn, and I made my bow, and offered his lairdship the wedding-gift, wi' my maister's respectful guid wishes. His lairdship smiled pleasantly, and tauld me to fetch it after him up to his chamber. I followed my laird up-stairs to his ain room, where his lairdship's valet, Mr. Kerr, was waiting on him. His lairdship wrote a braw note of acknowledgements to my maister, and gie it me to take away. My laird also gie me a half-sovereign, for mysel'. I dinna tak' the note just then to my maister. I saw by the clock on the mantel that it only lacked a quarter to ten o'clock, sae I e'en made my duty to his lairdship and run down stairs, ran a' the way o'er to Castle Lone, for I war fain to see the decorations. I got to Malcolm's Tower just in time to hear the auld clock in the turret strike eleven, and to see the mon and the woman meet thegither in the shadows."
"Are you sure that you could not identify that man or woman?"
"Anan?"
"Would you know either of them again?" inquired Mr. Guthrie, changing the manner of his question.
"Na! I tauld ye sae before. They were half hidden i' the bushes."
"You say it was a quarter to ten when you left Lord Arondelle in his room at the inn?"
"Ay, war it."
"And that it was eleven o'clock when you witnessed the meeting between the man and the woman at Castle Lone!"
"Ay, war it. And I had to run a' the way to do it in that time. It waur guid rinning."
"You left his lordship's valet with him, do you say?"
"Ay, I did. And the head waiter o' the Arondelle Arms, too, wha was just gaeing in wi' his lairdship's supper."
"That will do. You may now stand down," said Mr. Guthrie.
The shock-headed apprentice, who had done such good service to his Grace the Duke of Hereward, and such damage to the false witness against him, now left the stand and made his way through the crowd to his distant seat.
Mr. Guthrie once more got upon his feet to address the Bench, and said: "May it please the Court, I move that the testimony of the Crown's witness, Rose Cameron, alias Rose Scott, be set aside as totally unreliable; and, further, that she be indicted for perjury."
Upon this motion of Mr. Guthrie there followed some discussion among the lawyers.
Finally it was decided to put the duke's valet, the hotel waiter, and other witnesses, on the stand, who would be able to corroborate or rebut the evidence given by the lad Ferguson, and thereby break down or establish the testimony offered by Rose Cameron.
James Kerr was, therefore, called to the witness-stand, sworn and examined.
He said that he had been in the service of the duke's family ever since he was nine years of age, first as page to the late duchess, but for the last three years as valet to the present duke; that he was with his master at the "Arondelle Arms" on the night of the murder; that the duke, who was then the Marquis of Arondelle, left the inn at half-past eight o'clock, to walk over the bridge to Castle Lone; that he returned at half-past nine, accompanied to his room by the boy Ferguson, who brought a handsome Russia leather travelling-case; that the marquis sat down to his writing-table, wrote a note and gave it to the boy, who immediately left the house.
"At what hour was this?" inquired Mr. Guthrie.
"It was a few minutes before ten. The clock struck very soon after the boy left. I remember it well, because his lordship's supper had been ordered for ten, and the waiter just entered to lay the cloth when the lad left, and his lordship sat down to supper at ten precisely. After the supper-service had been removed, his lordship went to his writing-desk and wrote for an hour, and then sealed and dispatched a packet directed to the _Liberal Statesman_. I took it myself to the Post-Office, to ensure its being in time for the midnight mail. It was then about half-past eleven o'clock. I was gone on my message for about five minutes. On my return I found my master where I had left him, sitting at his writing-desk, arranging his papers. But when I entered he locked his desk and said he would go to bed. I waited on him at his night toilet. And then, as the inn was very much crowded, I slept on a lounge in my master's bed-room. The house was full of noise; so many of the Scots were present, making merry over the approaching marriage of their chieftain's son. Neither my master nor myself rested well that night. I arose early to see my master's bath. The marquis arose at eight o'clock."
Such was the substance of James Kerr's testimony, which perfectly corroborated that of the lad Ferguson, and greatly damaged that of Rose Cameron.
The hotel waiter happened to be among those who had cast all their worldly interests to the winds, abandoned their callings of whatever sort, and come at all risk of consequences to be present at the trial. He was found in the court-room, called to the witness-stand, sworn and examined.
His testimony corroborated that of the two last witnesses, and utterly broke down that of Rose Cameron.
There was further consultation between the Bar and the Bench. Finally the testimony of the Crown's witness was set aside, and a warrant was made out for the arrest of Rose Cameron, otherwise Rose Scott, upon the charge of perjury.
The warrant was sent out to the sheriff's room, to which, after leaving the witness-stand, Rose Cameron had been conducted.
And now the crowd in the court-room, composed chiefly of neighbors, friends, kinsmen, and clansmen of the young Duke of Hereward, breathed freely.
The thunder-cloud had passed.
Their hero was vindicated. Truly they had never for an instant doubted his integrity, much less had they suspected him of a heinous, an atrocious crime. Still, it was an immense relief to have the black shadow of that bloody charge withdrawn.
There was but one more witness for the prosecution to be examined; that witness was no less a person than the young Duke of Hereward himself.
He was called to the stand, and sworn.
Every pair of eyes in the court-room availed themselves of the opportunity afforded by the elevated position of the witness-stand, to gaze on the man who had so recently been the subject of such a terrible accusation; and all admired the calmness, self-possession, and forbearance of his conduct during the fearful ordeal through which he had just passed.
He simply testified as to the finding of the dead body, the position of the corpse, the condition of the room, and so forth. He was not subjected to a cross-examination, but was courteously notified that he was at liberty to retire.
He resumed his former seat.
The case for the prosecution was closed.
Mr. Kinlock, junior counsel for the prisoner, arose for the defence. He made a short address to the jury, in which he spoke of the slight grounds upon which his unhappy client had been charged with an atrocious crime, and brought to trial for his life. The law demanded a victim for that heinous crime, which had shocked the whole community from its centre to its circumference, and his unfortunate client had been selected as a sin offering. He reminded the jury how the very esteem and confidence of the master and the fidelity and obedience of the servant had been most ingeniously turned into strong circumstantial evidence, to fix the assassination of the master upon the servant. The deceased, had entirely trusted the prisoner; had given him a pass-key with which he might enter his chambers at any hour of the day or night; and hence it was argued that the prisoner, being the only one who had the entree to the deceased's apartments, must have been the person who admitted the murderer to his victim. The prisoner had faithfully obeyed his master's orders for the day, in declining to enter his rooms before his bell should ring; and thence it was argued that he only delayed to call his master because he knew that master lay murdered in his room, and he wished to give the murderers, with whom he was said to be confederated, time to make good their escape. He was sure, he said, that a just and intelligent jury must at once perceive the cruel injustice of such far-fetched inferences. In addition he would call witnesses who would testify to the good character of the accused, and prove that the great esteem and confidence in which he had been held by his late master was abundantly justified by the excellent character and blameless conduct of the servant.
Mr. Kinlock then proceeded to call his witnesses.
They were the fellow-servants of the accused. Some of them were the very same witnesses that had been called by the prosecution, and were now re-called for the defence. One and all, in turn, testified to the uniform good behavior of the valet while in the service of Sir Lemuel Levison, deceased.
The presiding judge, Baron Stairs, summed up the evidence in a very few words.
The evidence against the prisoner at the bar was circumstantial only. It had appeared in evidence that some servant of the family had admitted the assassin to the house. It did not appear who that servant was. The valet John Potts, was the only one who had the pass-key to the apartments of the deceased. That circumstance had fixed suspicion upon him; had brought him to trial; the trial had brought out no new facts; the witness principally relied on by the prosecution had not only failed to give any testimony to convict the prisoner, but had certainly perjured herself to shield the real criminal, whoever he was, and to accuse a noble personage, whose high character and lofty station alike placed him infinitely above suspicion. On the other hand, many witnesses had testified to the good character and conduct of the prisoner, and the estimation in which he had been held by his late master. Such was the evidence, pro and con.
His lordship concluded by saying that the jury might now retire and deliberate upon their verdict, remembering that in all cases of uncertainty they should lean to the side of mercy.
The jury arose from their seats, and, conducted by a bailiff, retired to the room provided for them.
Many of the people now left the court-room to get refreshments.
But as the judges remained upon the bench, the Duke of Hereward kept his seat. He felt sure that the jury would not long deliberate before bringing in their verdict.
Meanwhile he turned to glance at the prisoner.
John Potts looked like a man without a hope in the world. We have already seen that an awful change had come over him since the day of his arrest, three months before. Now, as he leaned forward where he sat, and rested his head upon his skeleton hands, that clasped the top of the railing of the dock, his face, or what could be seen of it, was ghastly pale with agony, while his emaciated frame trembled from head to foot. _He looked like a guilty man. _ And his looks were now, as they had been from the moment in which the dead body of his master had been discovered, the strongest testimony against him.
For all that, you know, they cannot hang a man merely because he looks as if he ought to be hung.
After an absence of about fifteen minutes, the jury, led by a bailiff, returned to the court-room.
The prisoner looked up, shivered, and dropped his head upon his clasped hands again.
The dead silence of breathless expectation in the court-room was now broken by the solemn voice of the Clerk of Arraigns, inquiring, in measured tones: "Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon your verdict?"
"We have," answered the foreman, a jolly, red-headed, round bodied Banff baker.
"Prisoner at the bar, stand up and look upon the jury," ordered the clerk.
The poor, abject, and terrified wretch tottered to his feet and stood, pallid, shaking, and grasping the front rails of the dock for support.
"Gentlemen of the jury, look upon the prisoner. How say you, is the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty of the felony herewith he stands charged?" demanded the clerk.
"We find the charge against the prisoner to be--NOT PROVEN,"[A] answered the foreman, speaking for the whole in a strong, distinct voice, that was heard all over the court-room.
[Footnote A: "Not Proven"--a Scotch verdict in uncertain cases.]
On hearing the verdict which saved him from death, even if it did not vindicate him, John Potts let go the rails of the dock and fell back in his chair in a half-fainting condition.
"The prisoner is discharged from custody. The Court is adjourned," said the presiding baron, rising and leaving his seat.
While one of the bailiffs was kindly supporting the faltering steps of the released prisoner, in taking him from the dock, and while the crowd in the court-room were pouring out of the front doors, the presiding judge, Baron Stairs, came down to the place where the young Duke of Hereward still sat. He had known the duke's father, and had also known the duke himself from boyhood. He now held out his hand cordially, saying: "I am very glad to see your grace, though the occasion is a painful one. Let me congratulate you on your marriage, I wish you every good thing in life. You have already got the _best_ thing--a good wife. I knew Miss Levison. A finer young woman never lived. I congratulate you with all my heart, Duke!"
"I thank you very much, Lord Stairs," said the bridegroom, warmly returning the greeting of the judge.
"But I fear I must condole with you also. It was really too bad to have your honeymoon eclipsed at its rising, by a summons to attend as a witness on a criminal trial! --too bad! However, fortunately, the trial was a short one. And you are now at liberty to fly to your bride! I hope the duchess is well," added his lordship.
"She has never been quite well, I grieve to say, since the catastrophe at Lone," answered the duke, evasively.
"Ah, no! ah no! It cannot be expected that she should be so yet. It will take time! It will take time! By the way, where are you stopping, my dear Duke? I am at the 'Prince Consort!' Will you come home with me and dine?" heartily inquired the baron.
"Many thanks, my lord. But I am not staying in town. I must hurry back to Lone this evening in order to secure the midnight express to London. The most important business demands my immediate presence there," gravely replied the young duke.
"Ah, of course! of course! the bride! the duchess! Certainly, my dear duke. I will not press you further," said the baron, laughing cordially.
Neither of the gentlemen made the slightest allusion to the testimony given by the crown's evidence which had cast so foul and false an aspersion on the character of the duke.
By this time the court-room was nearly emptied.
The duke and the baron walked out together.
The crowd had dispersed from before the court-house.
The duke and the baron shook hands and parted on the sidewalk.
"Give my warm respects to the duchess. Tell her grace that I shall hope to meet her and present my congratulations in person, on her return from the Continent. That will be in time for the meeting of Parliament, I presume," said his lordship, as he was about to step into his carriage.
"Thanks, my lord. Yes, I hope so," answered his grace, as he lifted his hat and turned away.
The baron's carriage drove off to his hotel.
The duke walked rapidly to the inn, where he had ordered his post-chaise to be put up.
He partook of a light luncheon while his horses were being harnessed, and then entered the chaise, attended by his valet, and ordered the coachman to drive as fast as possible, without hurting the horses, to Lone.
He was most anxious to reach the "Arondelle Arms," to see if any telegram from Detective Setter had reached the office for him.
So long as the road ran through the Firwood, and was comparatively smooth and level, the coachman kept his horses at their best speed; but when it entered the mountain pass of the chain running around Loch Lone, he was compelled to drive slowly and carefully.
The sun set before they emerged from the pass, and it was nearly dark when the chaise drew up before the Arondelle Arms.
The duke got out of the chaise, and passed through the little assemblage of villagers who were standing there discussing the verdict of the jury. He hurried at once to the bar-room to inquire if any letter or telegram had come for him.
"Na, naething o' the sort," replied the landlord, who, seeing the disappointment expressed upon the duke's face, added: "But, under favor, your grace, there's time eneuch yet. Your grace hae na been twenty-four hours awa' fra Lunnun."
Without waiting to answer the host, the young duke hurried out, and walked rapidly off to the telegraph office, which was at the railway station.
"Ye see yon lad?" said the landlord to his wife. "He hanna been a day fra his bride, and yet he expects to hae a letter or a message frae her every minute. Aweel we hae a' been fules in our time!"
So saying the philosophical host of the Arondelle Arms gave his mind to the service of his numerous customers, who had come from the trial at Banff very hungry and thirsty, and now filled the bar-room with their persons, and all the air with their complaints.
They were not at all satisfied with the verdict. They had had a murder, and they had a right to have a hanging. They had been defrauded of their prospect of this second entertainment, and they were not well pleased.
Meanwhile, the duke hurried off to the telegraph office, to see if by any chance a telegram had been received there for him and detained.
When he entered the little den, he found the operator at work. He forebore to interrupt the man until the clicking of the wires ceased. Then he asked: "Can you tell if there is any message here for me? --the Duke of Hereward," added his grace, seeing the puzzled look of the operator, who was a stranger in the country.
"Yes, your grace. It has only just now come," respectfully answered the young man, as he drew out a long, narrow strip of thick, white paper, upon which the message had been stamped by the instrument, and proceeded to select an official envelope in which to inclose it.
"Never mind that. Give it to me at once," said the duke, taking the strip from the hand of the operator and hastily perusing it.
The message ran thus: "OLD CHURCH COURT, KENSINGTON, LONDON, "October 31st, 3 P.M. "To HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF HEREWARD, Arondelle Arms, Lone, N.B. She is found. Pray come to London immediately. It is important.
"J.A. SETTER."
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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25
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WHO WAS FOUND!
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"She is found."
"Who is found? The lost bride, or that mysterious messenger who was with the fugitive an hour before her flight, who was suspected to have lured her away, and who might be able to give a clew to her whereabouts? Good Heaven! why could not the detective have sent a definite message?" thought the duke, as he studied the telegram.
Suddenly his face lighted up as he said to himself. "It is Salome who is found! Of course it must be Salome, since no one else was really lost. It is Salome, and that is the very reason why Setter spoke so indefinitely; for I remember now that I instructed him to avoid using the name of the duchess in any telegram. Salome is found! Ah! I thank Heaven! She is found! But--" he reflected with a sudden re-action of feeling--"how, where, when, by whom, under what circumstances was my bride found? Is she well or ill? Can she give any satisfactory explanation of her absence?" were the next anxious, soul-racking questions that chased each other through his mind.
"Oh, for the strong pinions of the eagle, that I might fly to her at once and satisfy all these anxious doubts," he breathed.
It was now but six o'clock in the afternoon. The first train for London would not stop at Lone until midnight, and would not reach London until eight o'clock the next morning--fourteen hours of suspense!
He could not bear that.
The telegraph operator was about to close the office.
The duke stopped him by saying: "I wish to send a telegram to London."
"It is after hours, your grace," answered the operator, very deferentially.
"I will pay you whatever you may demand for your extra services, over and above your usual fee," said the duke.
The operator hesitated.
"That is to say, if there is no rule in your office to forbid it," added the duke.
"There is no rule to prevent it, your grace. My time is up, and I was about to go home to supper, that was all. I will send your grace's message, if you please," the operator explained, as he took his seat again.
The duke hastily dashed off the following message: "LONE, N.B., October 31st, 6 P.M. "To J.A. SETTER, Police Station, Old Church Court, Kensington, London: Shall leave for London by this midnight express-train. Is she quite well? Answer immediately. HEREWARD."
The operator took the message with a bow. The click of the instrument was soon heard, as the message, with the speed of light, flew on its errand.
"Will you remain here until I can receive an answer?" inquired the duke, as soon as the sound ceased.
"I should be happy to accommodate your grace; but if there should be no answer, say up to twelve o'clock?" suggested the young man.
"In that case I should not ask you to remain; as you must know by my telegram that I am to take the train for London at that hour."
"Certainly, your grace; but I thought it possible that you might wish the message taken to some other person in the event of your absence."
"Not at all. I want it for myself alone. If it does not come before twelve I shall have no use for it."
"Then I will remain here until midnight, if necessary; but it may not be necessary."
"And you shall set your own price upon your time," said the duke.
"Thanks, your grace; I am happy to be able to accommodate you; and would prefer to leave all other considerations to yourself," said the young man, very politely and--politicly.
Even while they spoke, a warning vibration of the wires was perceived, followed by the _click, click, click_, of the instrument.
"There is a message coming--most probably an answer to yours, though it is very soon to get one," said the operator, as he turned to give his whole attention to his work.
The duke looked on with breathless eagerness.
As soon as the sound ceased, the operator drew off the message and handed it to the duke, who seized it and hastily read; "LONDON, October, 31st, 7 P.M. "TO THE DUKE OF HEREWARD, LONE, N.B.: She is perfectly well.
"J.A. SETTER."
"Thank Heaven! I breathe freely now!" said the young duke to himself, as he arose from his seat.
He liberally rewarded the telegraph operator, and then left the office and walked back to the inn.
The Arondelle Arms was all alive with excitement. More travellers had come down from Banff, and the inn was crowded, principally by men of the Clan Scott. Every room was filled, every window lighted up. The bar and the tap room reeked.
The duke was making his way through the crowd as best he might, when he was met by the landlord, who bowed, and apologized, and finally offered to conduct his grace by a private entrance to the parlor connected with the duke's own reserved suit of apartments.
"An' noo, what will your grace hae to your supper?" hospitably inquired the host, as soon as his guest was comfortably seated in his arm-chair before the fire.
"Anything at all, so that it is cleanly served, for which I can, of course, trust the Arondelle Arms," said the duke, smiling.
The landlord bowed and went out.
The duke leaned back in his chair, and stretched his feet to the genial warmth of the fire.
He was feeling very happy. An immense load of anxiety was lifted from his heart. She was found! She was perfectly well! In twelve hours he would see her, and hear her own explanation of her very strange conduct. Her explanation would be perfectly satisfactory. So great was his confidence in her that he felt sure of this.
She was found. She was perfectly well. There was nothing to prevent them from starting on their wedding tour as soon as they might wish to do so. They would, therefore, leave London by the tidal train for Dover on the next afternoon. The world would take it for granted that the wedding tour had been interrupted and delayed only by the trial. The world would never suspect Salome's strange escapade.
While these thoughts were passing through the mind of the duke, the waiter came in and laid the cloth for supper.
And soon the landlord himself entered, bearing a tray on which was arranged a choice bill of fare, the principal item of which was a roasted pheasant.
The duke who had scarcely tasted food during the twenty-four hours of his terrible anxiety, now that his anxiety was relieved, felt his appetite return, demanding refreshment at the rate of compound interest.
He sat down to the table. The landlord waited on him.
The honest host of the Arondelle Arms was "dying," so to speak, for a confidential conversation with his noble guest. For some little time his respect for the Duke of Hereward held his curiosity in check; but at length curiosity conquered respect, and he burst forth with: "That wad be an unco impudent claim, the hizzie Rose Cameron tried to set up agin your grace, as I hear all the folk say out by--the jaud maunn be clear daft."
"It would be charitable to suppose that she is 'daft,' as you call it, landlord. It would be well if a jury could be persuaded to think so, as, in that case, it would save her from the penalty of perjury. But we will speak no more of the poor girl. Take away the service, if you please," said the duke, quietly.
The landlord, balked of his desire to gossip, bowed, and cleared the table.
It was not yet nine o'clock. There were more than three hours to be passed before the express-train for London would reach Lone.
The duke, refreshed by his supper, felt no sense of weariness, no disposition to lie down and sleep away the three remaining hours of his stay. His mind was in too excited a condition to think of sleep. Neither could he read.
So, soon after he was left alone by the landlord, he arose and sauntered out through the private entrance into the night air.
The streets of the village were very quiet, for the reason that on this night the men were all collected at the Arondelle Arms, discussing the events of the day; and at this hour the women were all sure to be in their houses, putting their children to bed, setting bread to rise, or "garring th' auld claithes luke amaist as guid as the new."
The hamlet was very still under the starlit sky.
The Arondelle Arms, lighted up and musical, was the only noisy spot about it.
The mountains stood, grand and silent, like gigantic sentinels around it.
The lake, the island, and the castle of Lone lay beneath it.
A sudden impulse seized the duke to cross the bridge, and re-visit once more the home of his youth, the scene of his family's disaster, the stage of that frightful tragedy which had shocked the civilized world.
He went down to the beach, and stepped upon the bridge. Now, no floral wedding decorations wreathed the arches. All was bare and bleak beneath the last October sky.
He crossed the bridge and entered on the grounds of the castle. All here was sear under the late autumnal frosts. He did not approach the castle walls. He would not disturb the servants at this hour. He walked about the grounds until he heard the clock in Malcolm's Old Tower strike ten. Then he turned his steps toward the hamlet.
Just before he reached the bridge, he overtook the tall, dark figure of a man, clothed in a long, close overcoat, in shape not unlike a priest's walking habit. The man tottered and stumbled as he walked, so that the duke was soon abreast to him. And then he discovered the wanderer to be John Potts, valet to the late Sir Lemuel Levison.
The young Duke of Hereward shrunk from this man. He could not bring himself to speak with one whom he could not, in his own mind, clear from suspicion.
He passed the valet, walking quickly, and gaining the bridge.
Then he heard footsteps rapidly following him, and the voice of the ex-valet excitedly calling after him: "My Lord Arondelle! oh! I beg pardon! Your grace! Your grace! For the love of Heaven, let me speak to you!"
Thus adjured, the Duke of Hereward paused, and permitted the ex-valet to come up beside him.
The wretched man was out of breath, pale, panting, trembling, ready to faint. He tottered toward the bulwarks of the bridge, grasped them, and leaned on them for support.
"What do you want of me, Potts?" inquired the duke.
"Oh, your grace! only to speak to you!" gasped the man.
"What can you have to say to me?" sternly demanded the duke. " _This_, your grace!" said the man, suddenly springing forward and falling on his knees at the feet of the duke. " _This_ I have to say, your grace! Although the Court has not cleared me, I am innocent of my master's blood! I am! I am! I am! as the Heaven above us hears and knows! Oh! say you believe me, my lord duke!" cried the poor wretch, wringing his hands.
"Your words and manner are very impressive; nevertheless, I cannot place confidence in them," said the duke, coldly.
"Oh, my lord! my lord! Oh, my lord! my lord!" groaned the valet, lifting both his hands to heaven, as if in appeal from a great injustice.
The duke was moved.
"If you _are_ guiltless, why should you care whether I, or any other fallible mortal, should consider you guilty?" he inquired.
"Oh," cried the man, clasping his hands with the energy of despair--"because _every_ body thinks me guilty! _No_ one believes me innocent, though I am guiltless of my master's blood, so help me Heaven!"
"The circumstances, though not enough to convict you in a court of law, where every doubt must go in favor of the accused, were still strong enough to lay you under suspicion, and open to a second arrest and trial for your life, should new evidence turn up," quietly replied the duke.
"I know it! I know it, your grace. But no new evidence against me can turn up! Lord grant that evidence in my favor might do so! But that cannot happen either. The circumstances that accused, but could not convict, nor acquit me, leave me still under the ban! Yes! under the ban I must remain! But do not _you_, my lord duke, believe me guilty of my master's death! Guilty of much I am! Guilty of neglect of duty, but not of my master's death! The Heavens that hear me know it! Oh, pray, pray try to believe it, my lord duke!" pleaded the wretch, still kneeling, still lifting his clasped hands in an agony of appeal.
"Get upon your feet, Potts. Never kneel to any man. To do so is to degrade yourself and the man to whom you kneel. Get up, before I speak another word to you," said the duke.
The miserable creature struggled to his feet and stood leaning against the bulwarks of the bridge, for support.
"Now, then, if you are not guilty, if your conscience acquits you in the sight of Heaven of all complicity in your late master's death, why should you feel and show such extreme distress--distress that has worn your frame to a skeleton, and stricken your life with old age?" gravely demanded the duke.
"Why? --oh, your grace! I loved my master as a son his father! He was more like a father than a master to me. And he was cut off suddenly by a bloody death! In the midst of my grief for his loss I was arrested and accused of murdering him--my beloved master. I have seen the gallows looming before me for the last three months. I have been shut in prison, with no companions but my own awful thoughts. I have been put on trial for my life. And though the jury could not convict me, it would not acquit me! though I am set at large for the present, I am subject to re-arrest and trial for death, if new evidence, however false, should arise against me. Meanwhile, no one believes me innocent. All believe me guilty. No one will ever speak to me. They made the inn too hot to hold me. My life is ruined--my heart is broken! Is not all that enough, lord duke, to have worn my body to a skeleton and turned my hair gray, without remorse of conscience?" impetuously demanded the man.
"No, Potts, it is not. Nothing but remorse, it seems to me, could so reduce a man," gravely replied the duke.
"Oh, your grace! you still believe me guilty of my good master's murder!" passionately exclaimed the man. "Ah, Heaven! what will become of me? I shall die unless I can have the stay of _some_ one's faith in me!"
"Potts," said the duke, in a softened tone, "I do not now think that you had any active or conscious share in the foul murder of Sir Lemuel Levison. But not the less do I see that you are suffering from remorse. _You are still keeping something back from me! _" he added, very solemnly.
The valet groaned, but made no answer.
"That is the reason why I have no confidence in you," said his grace.
The valet wrung his gaunt hands, but continued silent.
"Now I do not ask you to confide in me; but I will give you this warning--so long as you hold in your bosom a secret which, if revealed, would bring the real criminal to justice, so long you will yourself remain the object of suspicion from others and the victim of remorse in yourself. Now, Potts, I must leave you; for I must get to Lone in time to catch the London express. Good-night," said the duke, as he moved away.
"One moment more, oh, my lord duke! for the love of Heaven! One moment to do a piece of justice," pleaded the ex-valet, tottering after the young nobleman.
"Well, well, what is it now?" inquired the latter, pausing and turning back.
"That poor, misguided girl, Rose Cameron," said the valet.
"Well, what of _her_, man?" impatiently demanded the young nobleman.
"Listen, my lord duke! You saw her committed to prison on the charge of perjury."
"A charge that she was self-convicted of."
"My lord duke, she was not guilty of perjury!" sighed the valet.
"What! What is that you say?" quickly demanded the duke.
"I say, Rose Cameron, poor misguided girl that she was, did not, however, perjure herself--_intentionally_ I mean," repeated John Potts.
"Is she _mad_, then? The victim of a monomania?" gravely inquired the duke, fixing his eyes upon the troubled face of the valet.
"No, your grace, she was never more in her right senses."
"What do you mean? Do you _dare_--" "My lord duke, I dare nothing. I never was a daring man; if I had been, the daring would have been taken out of me by the troubles of this last quarter of a year! But, my lord duke, I am right. Rose Cameron did not intentionally perjure herself, neither is she mad. Rose Cameron believes in her heart every word of the statement she made under oath in the open court this morning."
While the man thus spoke, the duke looked fixedly at him in perfect silence, in the forlorn hope of hearing some solution to the enigma.
"Rose Cameron was deceived, my lord duke--grossly, cruelly, basely deceived--not in one respect only, but in many. She was, first of all, deceived into the idea of being the wife of a gentleman of high rank, when, in fact she is nobody's wife at all. Next she was deceived into becoming an accomplice in a robbery and murder, of which she was as ignorant and as innocent as--as _myself_. She could not have been more so!"
"Who was her deceiver?" sternly demanded the duke.
"I beg pardon. I know no more than your grace! I only presumed to speak about it, so as to explain the strange conduct of that poor girl, and clear her of intentional penury in your sight," said the valet, meekly.
"Potts, you know much more than you are willing to divulge. You have, however, unwittingly given me a clew that I shall take care to follow up. Once more let me warn you to get rid of sinful secrets, and amend your life, if you wish to be at peace. Good-night."
So saying, the duke walked rapidly away to make up for the time lost in talking with the ex-valet.
It was after eleven o'clock when he reached the Arondelle Arms, yet the little hostel gave no signs of closing. The windows were all still ablaze with light, and the bar and the tap-room were uproarious with fun. Evidently the Clan Scott had been drinking the health of the duke and duchess until they had become-- "Glorious! O'er all the ills of life victorious!"
The duke slipped in at the private entrance and gained his own apartment, where he found his valet engaged in packing his valise.
He sent the man out to pay the tavern bill.
In a few minutes Kerr returned, accompanied by the landlord, who brought the receipt, and inquired if his grace would have a carriage.
"No," the duke said; as the distance was short, he preferred to walk to the station.
In a few moments he left the inn, followed by his valet carrying his valise.
They caught the train in good time, having just secured their tickets when the warning shriek of the engine was heard, and it thundered up to the station and stopped.
The duke, followed by his servant, entered the coupe he had secured for the journey.
Three nights of sleeplessness, anxiety and fatigue had prostrated the vital forces of the young nobleman, and so, no sooner had the train started, than he sat himself comfortably back among his cushions, and, being now in a great measure relieved from suspense, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. This sleep continued almost unbroken through the night, and was only slightly disturbed by the bustle of arrival when the train reached a large city on its route. He awoke when it arrived at Peterborough; but fell asleep again, and slept through the long twilight of that first day of November.
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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26
|
OFF THE TRACK.
|
It was eight o'clock in the morning of a dark and cloudy day, when the duke was finally aroused by the noise and confusion attending the arrival of the Great Northern Express train at King's Cross Station, London.
He shook himself wide awake, adjusted his wrap, and sprang out of his coupe, while yet his servant was but just bestirring himself.
The first man he met in the station was Detective Setter. " _How_ is she?" eagerly inquired the traveller, hastening to meet the officer.
"She is perfectly well, and expresses herself as not only willing, but anxious to see your grace," replied the detective. " _Not only willing! _ that is a strange phrase, too! But I presume I shall understand it all when I see her. _Where_ is she?" demanded the duke.
"At the house on Westminster Road. The address _was_ Westminster, and not Blackfriars Road."
"At the house on Westminster Road! Did you find her there?"
"I did your grace."
"But why, in the name of propriety, and good sense, does she not return home?"
"Your grace, she is at home," said the perplexed detective.
"Just now you told me that she was at the house on Westminster Road!" said the bewildered duke.
"Beg pardon, your grace, but the house on Westminster Road _is_ her home. She has no other that I know of."
The duke stared at the detective a moment, and then hastily demanded: "Who _are_ you talking of?"
"Beg pardon again, your grace, but I am afraid there is some misunderstanding." " _Who_ are you talking about?"
"I am talking of the woman who came to the duchess just before she disappeared," answered the detective.
"Good Heaven!" exclaimed the duke, with such a look of deep disappointment that the detective hastened to deprecate his displeasure by saying: "I am very sorry, your grace, that there should have been any misapprehension."
"You idiot!" were the words that arose spontaneously to the duke's lips; but they were not uttered. The "princely Hereward" habitually governed himself.
"Why did you not tell me in your telegram _who_ was found?" he demanded.
"I certainly thought that your grace would have understood. In the telegram dispatched at nine o'clock yesterday morning, I told your grace that I had a clew to the woman who had called at Elmthorpe House on Tuesday. In the telegram sent at three in the afternoon, I said--'She is found.' I certainly thought your grace would understand that the woman to whom I had gained the clew was found. I grieve to know how much mistaken I was," sighed Mr. Setter.
"Ah! that accounts for everything. I never received that first telegram."
"Your grace never received it?"
"Certainly not."
"Then my messenger was false to his trust. I was so indiscreet as to send it to the office by a ticket porter, believing the fellow would do his duty faithfully, after having been paid in advance. The more fool I. I am certainly old enough to have known better!" said the detective, with a mortified air.
"Well Mr. Setter, it is useless to regret that mistake now. Be so good as to call a cab. We will go at once to Westminster Road and see this Mrs. Brown. What information has she given you?"
"None whatever, except this, which we knew before--that she visited the bride on the afternoon of the wedding day. She declines to tell _me_ the nature of her business with the duchess; but says that she will explain it to you; she further denies all knowledge of the present abode of the duchess."
"Then we must lose no time in going to the woman," said the duke.
As he spoke, the cab which had been signalled by the detective drove up, and the cabman jumped down and opened the door.
The duke entered it and sat down on the back cushions.
His grace's servant, Kerr, came up to the window for orders.
"Take my luggage home to Elmthorpe House. Give my respects to Lady Belgrade, and say that I will join her ladyship this afternoon," said the duke.
The servant touched his hat and withdrew.
"To Number ----, Westminster Road," ordered Mr. Setter, as he mounted to the box-seat beside the cabman.
The latter started his horses at a good rate of speed, so that a drive of about forty minutes brought them to their destination.
The detective jumped down and opened the door, saying, "Excuse me, your grace; but, I think, perhaps I ought to go in first to ensure you an interview with the woman?"
"By all means go in first, officer. I will remain here in the cab until you return to summon me," answered the duke.
Detective Setter went up to the door and knocked, and then waited a few seconds until the door was opened, and he was admitted by an unseen hand.
A few minutes elapsed, and then detective Setter reappeared, and came up to the cab and said: "She will see you at once, early as it is, your grace, I do not know what in the world possesses the old woman; but she is chuckling in the most insane manner in the anticipation of meeting you 'face to face,' as she calls it."
"Well, we shall soon see," said the duke, as, with a resigned air, he followed Mr. Setter into the house.
The detective led him up stairs to the gaudy parlor which had once been Rose Cameron's sitting-room.
There was no one present; but the detective handed a chair to the duke, and begged him to sit down and wait for Mrs. Brown's appearance.
The duke threw himself into the chair, and gazed around him upon the garish scene, until a chamber door opened, and Mrs. Brown, in her Sunday's best suit, sailed in. The duke arose.
Mrs. Brown came on toward him, courtesying stiffly, and saying: "Good morning to you, Mr. Scott! It is a many months since I have had the pleasure of seeing you in this house."
The duke was not so much amazed at this greeting as he might have been, had he not heard the astounding testimony of Rose Cameron. So he answered quietly: "I do not think, madam, that you ever 'had the pleasure' of seeing me 'in this house' or, in fact, anywhere else. I have never seen _you_ in my life before."
"Oh! oh! oh! here to the man! He would brazen it out to my very face!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown.
The duke started and flushed crimson as he stared at the woman.
"Oh, I am not afeard of you! Deuce a bit am I afeard of you! You may glare till your eyes drop out, but you'll not scare me! And you may be the Markiss of Arondelle and the Duke of Hereward, too, for aught I know, or care either! But you were just plain Mr. John Scott to me, and also to that poor, wronged lass whom you have betrayed into prison, if not unto death! And now, Mr. John Scott, as you wished to see me (and I can guess why you wished to see me,) and as I have no objection to see you, besides having something of importance to tell you, perhaps you will send that man off," said Mrs. Brown pointing to the detective.
"No. I prefer that Mr. Setter should stay here, and be a witness to all that passes between us," answered the duke.
"All right. It is no business of mine, and no _shame_ of mine. Only I thought as you mightn't like a stranger to hear all your secrets, and I wish to spare your feelings," said the woman.
"I beg you will not consider my feelings in the least, madam," answered the duke, with a slight smile of amusement; "and I hope you will allow Mr. Setter to remain," he added.
"Oh, in course! _I_ have no objection, if _you_ have none."
"Pray go on and say what you have to say," urged the duke.
"Then, first of all, I have to tell you that I know why you have come here. You have come to inquire about Miss Salome Levison, the great banker's heiress."
"You are speaking of the Duchess of Hereward, madam," interrupted the duke, in a stern voice.
"No, I'm not. I am speaking of Miss Salome Levison. She is not the Duchess of Hereward. I don't know but one Duchess of Hereward, and _her you are ashamed to own_," spitefully added Mrs. Brown.
"You are a woman, aged and insane, and therefore entitled to our utmost indulgence," said the duke, putting the strongest control upon himself. "But tell me now, what was your business with the Lady of Lone, upon whom you called at Elmthorpe House on Tuesday afternoon?"
"I went from your true wife, whom you had betrayed into prison, to your false wife, to let her know what you were, and to tell her that there was but one step between herself and ruin!"
"Good Heaven! you did that!" exclaimed the duke, utterly thrown off his guard.
"Yes, I did! And I showed the young lady your real wife's marriage lines, all regularly signed and witnessed by the rector of St. Margaret's and the sexton, and the pew-opener! I did! And there were letters in your own handwriting, and photographs, the very print of you, which I took along with the marriage lines, to prove my words when I told her that you had been married for over a year, and had lived in my house with your wife all that time!"
"Heaven may forgive you for that great wrong, woman; but I never can! And--the lady believed you?"
"Of course she did! How could she help it, when she saw all the proofs? It almost killed her. Indeed, and I think it _did_ quite craze her! But she saw her duty, and she had the courage to do it! She knew as she ought to leave you, before the false marriage could go any further. So she left you. I do really respect her for it!"
"In the name of Heaven, _where_ did she go? Tell me that! Tell me where to find her, and I may be able to pardon the great wrong you have done us under some insane error," said the husband of the lost wife, striving to control his indignation.
"Indeed, then," exclaimed Mrs. Brown, defiantly, "I am not asking any pardon at all from you, Mr. Scott. It ain't likely as I'll want pardon from Heaven for doing my duty, much less from _you_, Mr. John Scott. Oh, yes! I know you are called the Duke of Hereward; and no doubt you are the Duke of Hereward; but I knew you as Mr. John Scott, and nobody else; and I knew a deal too much of you as _him_. But as to wanting your pardon--that's a good one!"
"Will you be good enough to tell me where my wife, the Duchess of Hereward, has gone?" demanded the duke, putting a strong curb upon his anger. " _You_ know where _she_ is well enough. _She_ is in the _trap_ you set for her!" spitefully answered the woman.
In truth, the duke needed all his powers of self-control to enable him to reply calmly: "I ask you to tell me where is the Lady of Lone, to whom you went on Tuesday afternoon, with a story which has driven her from her home, and driven her, perhaps, to madness, or to death. I charge you to tell me, where is she?"
"Ah! where is Miss Salome Levison, the heiress of Lone, you ask! Exactly! That is what you would give a great deal to know, wouldn't you! You want to follow and join her, and live with her abroad, because you have got a wife living in England. You're a noble duke, so you are! Well, if _this_ is what the nobility are a coming to, the sooner them Republicans have it all their own way the better, I say!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, throwing herself back in her chair and folding her arms.
Detective Setter here joined the Duke of Hereward, and deferentially drew him away to the other end of the room, and whispered: "I beg your grace not to remain here, subjected to the insolence of this mad woman, whose every second word is treason or blasphemy, or worse, if anything can be worse. Leave me to deal with her. A very little more, and I shall arrest her on the grave charge of conspiracy."
"No, Setter, do nothing of the sort. Use no violence; utter no threats. _Now_, if ever--here, if anywhere--is a crisis, at which we must be not only 'wise as serpents, but _harmless_ as doves,' if we would gain any information from this woman," answered Salome's husband, as he walked back and rejoined Mrs. Brown.
"Will you tell me, _on any terms_, where the Lady of Lone is to be found?" he inquired.
"Humph! I like that! Aren't you a sharp? You _can't_ call her the duchess, and you _won't_ call her Miss Levison, so you call her the Lady of Lone, anyway!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, with a chuckling laugh.
"But, will you, _for any price_, tell me where she has gone?" repeated the duke.
"As to where Miss Salome Levison has gone, I would not tell you to save your life, even if I could. I could not tell you, even if I would. I left her sitting in her bed-chamber at Elmthorpe House, on that Tuesday afternoon after her false marriage. She was sitting clothed in her deep mourning travelling suit, as she had put on again for her father directly the wedding breakfast was over. She looked the very image of sorrow and despair. She did not tell me where she was going. I don't believe she even knew herself. There, that's all that I have got to tell you, even if you had the power to put me on the rack, as you used to have in the bad old times!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, once more folding her arms and settling herself in her chair.
The Duke of Hereward walked toward the detective officer.
"There is nothing more to be learned from the woman, at present, Setter. We have already gained much, however, in the knowledge of the base calumny that drove the duchess from her home. It is a relief to be assured that she has not fallen among London thieves. She has probably gone abroad. You must inquire, discreetly, at the London Bridge Railway Stations, for a young lady, in deep mourning, travelling alone, who bought a first-class ticket, on Tuesday evening. There, Setter! There is a mere outline of instructions. You will fill it up as your discretion and experience may suggest," concluded the duke, as he drew on his gloves.
"I would suggest, your grace, that we go to St. Margaret's Old Church, where this strange marriage, in which they try to compromise you, is said to have taken place, and which is close by," said the detective.
"By all means, let us go there and look at the register," assented the duke.
They took leave of Mrs. Brown, and left the house.
Five minutes drive took them to Old St. Margaret's.
They were fortunate as to the time. The daily morning service was just over, and the curate who had officiated was still in the chancel.
The Duke of Hereward went in, and requested the young clergyman to favor him with a sight of the parish register.
The curate complied by inviting the two visitors to walk into the vestry.
He then placed two chairs at the green table, requested them to be seated, and laid before them the brass-bound volume recording the births, marriages and deaths of this populous, old parish.
The Duke of Hereward turned over the ponderous leaves until he came to the page he sought.
And there he found, duly registered, signed and witnessed, the marriage, by special license, of Archibald-Alexander-John Scott and Rose Cameron, both of Lone, Scotland.
"The mystery deepens," said the duke as he pointed to the register.
"It is incomprehensible," answered the detective.
"That is my name," added the duke.
"Some imposter must have assumed it," suggested the officer.
"Then the imposter, in taking my name, must have also taken my face and form, voice and manner, for though, upon my soul, I never married Rose Cameron, there are two honest women who are ready to swear that I did!" whispered the duke, with a humorous twinkle in his eyes; for there were moments when the absurdity of the situation overcame its gravity.
The duke then thanked the curate for his courtesy and left the church, attended by the detective.
"Where shall I tell the cabman to drive?" inquired Setter, as he held the door open after his employer had entered the cab.
"To Elmthorpe House, Kensington. And then, get in here, with me, if you please, Mr. Setter. I have something to say to you," answered his grace.
The detective gave the order and entered the cab.
The duke then made many suggestions, drawn from his own intimate knowledge of the tastes and habits of the duchess, to assist the detective in his search.
"You may safely leave the whole affair in my hands, sir. I will act with so much discretion that no one in London shall suspect that the Duchess of Hereward is missing. For the rest, I have no doubt that we shall soon find out the retreat of her grace. A young lady, dressed in elegant deep mourning, and travelling unattended, would be sure to have attracted attention and aroused curiosity, even in the confusion of a crowded railway station. We are safe to trace her, your grace," said Detective Setter, confidently.
|
{
"id": "16039"
}
|
27
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IN THE CONVENT.
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Salome was tenderly nursed by the nuns during the nine days in which her fever raged with unabated violence.
At the end of that time, having spent all its force, the fever went off, leaving her weak as a child, in mind as well as in body.
As soon as she was convalescent the abbess had her carefully removed from the infirmary in which she had lain ill, to a spacious chamber, with windows overlooking the convent garden--a gloomy outlook now, however, with its seared grass and withered foliage, shivering under the dreary November sky.
The room was very clean and very scantily furnished; the walls were whitewashed and the floor was painted gray. The two windows were shaded with plain white linen; the cot bedstead, which stood against the wall opposite the windows, was covered with a coarse, white, dimity spread.
Between the windows stood a small table, covered with a white cloth, and furnished with a white, earthen-ware basin and ewer. On each side of this table sat two wooden chairs, painted gray.
In one corner of the room stood a little altar, draped with white linen, and adorned with a crucifix, surrounded with small pictures of saints and angels.
In the opposite corner stood a small, porcelain stove, which barely served to temper the coldness of the air.
There were few articles of comfort, and none of luxury, in the room--a strip of gray carpet, laid down beside the bed, an easy-chair with soft, padded back, arms, and seat, covered with white dimity, drawn up to the window nearest the stove, and a footstool of gray tapestry on the floor before it. These comforts were allowed to none but invalids.
The abbess came in to see her every day.
One morning Salome said to her visitor: "Mother, I have left this affair with the Duke of Hereward incomplete. I must complete it, that I may have peace."
"I do not understand you, my child," said the abbess, in some uneasiness.
"I have left him as in duty bound. I must write to him to let him know _why_ I left him; but I must not let him know the place of my retreat. I think I heard you say that our father-director was going to Rome this week?"
"Yes, my child."
"Then I will write to the Duke of Hereward for the last time, and bid him an eternal farewell. I will not date my letter from any place; but I will give it to the father-director that he may post it from Rome. You shall read my letter before I close it, dear mother. And now, on these terms, will you let me have writing materials?"
"Certainly, my child. I will send them to you; or rather I will bring them," answered the meek lady-superior, as she arose and left the room.
In a very few minutes she returned with the required articles.
Salome wrote her letter, and then submitted it to the perusal of the abbess, who accorded it her full approval.
"Now, dear mother, if the father-director will take that with him and post it from Rome, all will be over between the Duke of Hereward and myself! We shall be dead to each other," said Salome, as the abbess took the letter and left the room.
Then the invalid sank back, exhausted, in her easy-chair.
In this easy-chair by the window, with her feet upon the footstool, Salome sat day after day of her convalescence; sometimes for hours together, with her hands clasped upon her lap, and her eyes fixed upon the floor, in a sort of stupor; sometimes with her sad gaze turned upon the sear garden, as she murmured to herself: "Withered like my life!"
Some one among the nuns was always with her; but she took no notice of her companion, seeming quite unconscious of the sister's presence.
The abbess had taken care to have books of devotion laid upon her little table, but Salome never opened one of them.
Apathy, lethargy, like a moral death, had fallen upon her.
The story of her sorrows, known only to the abbess, to whom she had confided it on the eve of her illness, was never alluded to.
Salome seemed to have buried it in silence. The abbess feared to raise it from the dead.
Not one in the convent suspected the real circumstances of the case.
All the sisterhood knew Miss Salome Levison, the young English heiress, who had been educated within their walls; all knew that in leaving the convent, three years before she had declared her intention to return at the end of three years and take the vail. She had returned, according to her word, and no one was surprised. Her sickness they considered purely accidental. They had no knowledge of her marriage. She was to them still Miss Salome Levison, who had once been their pupil, and was now soon to be their sister.
No newspapers were taken in at the convent, or the nuns might have seen repeated notices of her approaching marriage before it took place, as well as a long account of the ceremony and the breakfast, after they had come off.
The abbess tried many gentle expedients to arouse Salome from her moral torpor, but all her efforts were fruitless.
Salome had once been an enthusiast in music, and a very accomplished performer on several instruments. Her favorite had always been the harp, and next to that the guitar.
She was not yet strong enough to play on the former, but she might very well manage the latter.
So the abbess caused a light and elegant little guitar to be placed in her room.
Salome never even noticed it; but sat with her eyes fixed on her clasped hands that lay on her lap.
So November and a good part of December passed, with very little change.
The abbess, whose rule was absolute in her own house, had most solemnly warned the whole sisterhood that they were not to speak of "Miss Levison's" presence in the convent to any visitor, or pupil, or any other person whatever, or to write of it to any correspondent. The nuns had obeyed their abbess so well, that not a whisper of Salome's presence in the house had been heard outside its walls.
At length Christmas drew near.
The academy was closed for the season, and the pupils all went home to spend their holidays.
After the departure of their young charges, the sisterhood were very busy in making preparations to celebrate the joyous anniversary of our Lord's birth.
There were so many delightful little duties to be done; the chapel to be decorated with evergreens and exotics; the shrines of the saints to be decked; extra dainties to be made for the sick in the Infirmary; presents to be got up for the aged men and women of the "Home" attached to the convent; entertaining books to be selected and inscribed with the names of the boys and girls of their Orphan Asylum; doll-babies to be dressed and toys to be chosen for the infants of their Foundling; and, finally, a great Christmas-tree to be mounted and decorated for the delight of the whole community within their walls.
The sisterhood took so much pleasure in all these preparations for Christmas, that it occurred to the abbess she might be able so far to interest her unhappy guest in the work as to arouse her from that fearful lethargy which seemed to be destroying both her mind and body.
Salome Levison, while she had been a pupil in the convent, had never performed any services for the charities of the community except by giving liberally from her ample means.
Gladly would she have ministered in person to the needs of old age, illness, or infancy; but for her to have done so would have been against the rules of the establishment. The pupils of the academy were not permitted to hold any intercourse whatever with the inmates of the charitable institutions of the convent. This was a concession to the prudence of parents, who feared all manner of contaminations from any communication between their children and such _miserables_.
The convent was so planned as to effect a complete separation between the academy and the asylums.
The buildings were erected around a hollow square. They measured a hundred feet on each side, and arose to a height of four stories.
In the centre of the front, or northern, face, stood the chapel, a beautiful little Gothic temple, surmounted by a steeple and a gilded cross; on each hand, in a line with the chapel, stood the buildings containing the cloisters, dormitories, and refectories of the nuns and novices.
On the east front stood the Foundling for abandoned infants; the Asylum for orphan boys and girls, and the Home for aged men and women.
On the south end were the offices, kitchens, laundries, store-houses, gas-house, and so forth, for the whole establishment.
Finally, on the west front, farthest removed from the asylums, were the academy buildings, containing school and class-rooms, dormitories and refectory for the accommodation of pupils.
It was in these west buildings that Salome had lived and learned during the years she had spent at the Convent of St. Rosalie. She had never entered any other part of the establishment except the chapel, and on the north front, which was reached by a long passage running with an angle from the school-hall to the chapel aisle.
The square courtyard within the enclosure of these buildings was paved with gray flag-stones, and adorned in the centre by a marble fountain. But no footstep ever crossed it except that of some lay sister occasionally sent from the cloisters to the office, on some household errand. So no opportunity was afforded of making the courtyard a place of meeting between the "young ladies" of the academy and the poor little children of the asylums.
The academy opened from its front upon its own gardens, lawns, shrubberies, and other pleasure-grounds, the resort of its pupils during their hours of recreation.
Thus Salome Levison, with all her school-mates, had been completely cut off from all intercourse with the objects of the convent's charity during the whole period of her residence at the academy, which, indeed, covered the greater portion of her young life.
Now, however, since her return to the convent, she had been domiciliated in the nun's house on the right of the chapel, and possessed, if she pleased to exercise it, the freedom of the establishment.
On the Saturday before Christmas (which would also come on Saturday that year) the abbess went into the room occupied by her invalid guest.
Salome was seated in the white easy-chair beside the window, and near the porcelain stove. She was dressed in a deep mourning wrapper of black bombazine, and an inside handkerchief and undersleeves of white linen. Her pallid face and plain hair, and the severe, funereal black and white of her surroundings, made a very ghastly picture altogether.
The Sister Francoise sat there in attendance on her.
The mother-superior dismissed the nun, took her vacated seat, and looked in the face of her guest.
Salome seemed utterly unconscious of the superior's presence. She sat with her hands clasped upon her lap and her eyes fixed upon the floor.
"Salome, my daughter, how is it with you?" softly inquired the abbess, taking one of the limp, thin hands within her own, and tenderly pressing it.
"I am the queen of sorrow, crowned and frozen on my desert throne," murmured the girl, in a trance-like abstraction.
"Salome, my child!" said the mother-superior, gazing anxiously into her stony face, whose eyes had never moved from their fixed stare; "Salome, my dear daughter, look at me." " 'I am the star of sorrow, pale and lonely in the wintry sky.'"
"My poor girl, what do you mean?"
"I read that somewhere, long ago,--oh, so long ago, when I was a happy child, and yet I wept then for that solitary mourner as I am not able to weep now for myself, though it suits me just as much," murmured Salome, in the same trance-like manner, still staring on the floor, as she continued: "Yes, just as much, just as much, for-- "Never was lament begun By any mourner under sun That e'en it ended fit but one!"
"Salome, look at me, speak to me, my dear daughter," said the abbess, tenderly pressing her hand, and seeking to catch her fixed and staring eyes.
Salome slowly raised those woeful eyes to the lady's face, and asked: "Mother, good mother, did you ever know any one in all your life so heavily stricken as I am?"
The abbess put her arms around the young girl and drew her head down upon her own pitying bosom, as she replied: "Have I ever known one so heavily stricken as you? My child, I cannot tell. 'The heart knoweth its _own_ bitterness,' and one cannot weigh the grief of another. Salome, you have been heavily smitten; but so have many others. Daughter! I never do speak of my own sorrows. They are past, and 'they come not back again.' But I think it might do you good to hear of them now. Child! like _you_, I never knew a mother's love; but there were three beings in the world whom I loved, as _you_ love, with inordinate and idolatrous affection. They were my noble father, my only brother, and my affianced husband. Salome, in the Revolution of '48, my father was assassinated in the streets of Paris, as yours was in his chamber at Lone. My brother, true as steel to his sovereign, was guillotined as a traitor to the Republican party. Last, and hardest to bear, my affianced lover--he on whom my soul was stayed in all my troubles, as if any one weak mortal could be a lasting stay to another in her utmost need--my affianced lover, false to me as yours to you, was shot and killed in a duel by the lover, or husband, of a woman, for whom he had left his promised bride! Daughter, did I ever know any one who was so heavily stricken as yourself?" gravely inquired the abbess, laying her hand upon the bowed head of her guest.
"Oh, yes, good mother, you have," murmured the weeping girl, in a voice full of tears. "Your fate has been very like my own--you, like me, were motherless from your infancy; you, like me, spent your childhood and youth in this very convent school. Your father, like mine, met his death at the hands of an assassin; your lover, false as mine, abandoned you for a guilty love. Ah! your sorrows have been very like mine, only much heavier and harder to bear." And Salome drew the caressing hands of the abbess to her lips and kissed them over and over again, as she repeated, "Oh, yes, good mother, much heavier and harder to bear than mine."
"I do not know that, my daughter; but I do know, if I had set myself down a grieving egotist, to brood over my own individual troubles, in a world full of troubles, needing ministrations, I should have lost my reason, if not my soul."
"But you came back to your convent, as I have come, for refuge," said Salome.
"Yes, I came here to give my life to the Lord; not in idle, selfish prayers and meditations for my own soul's sake; no, but in an active, useful life of work. And I have found deep peace, deep joy. So will you, my beloved child, if you take the same way. But you must begin by shutting the doors of your soul against the thoughts of your sorrow, and especially by banishing the image of your false and guilty lover every time it presents itself to your mind."
"Oh, mother! mother! I loved him so! I loved him so!" cried Salome, bursting into a paroxysm of sobs and tears, the first tears she had been able to shed over her awful sorrows.
The abbess was glad to see them; they broke up the fatal apathy as a storm disperses malaria. She gathered the weeping girl to her bosom, and let her sob and cry there to her heart's content.
When the gust of grief had spent itself, Salome lifted her head and dried her eyes, murmuring: "Yes, I loved him! I loved him! but it is past! it is past! I must forget him, henceforth and forever!"
"Yes, daughter, you must forget him, for to remember him would be a grievous sin. And you must forgive him, though he meditated against you the deepest wrong," said the abbess, solemnly.
"I will try to forgive the wrong-doer and forget the wrong, but oh! mother, mother, it will be very hard to overlive it! Oh, I hope, I hope, if it be Heaven's will, that I shall not have to live very long," said Salome, with a heavy sigh.
"That is the way I felt in the first bitterness of my sorrow: but the feeling passed away in duty-doing. And now, although I know that in the next life every need and aspiration of the soul will be fulfilled, yet I find such peace and joy here, that I am willing, yes and glad, to live in this world as long as my Lord has any work for me to do in his vineyard."
"Tell me what I ought to do, and I will try to do it," said Salome, with another deep sigh; for her very breathing was sighing now.
"You know that this is Saturday, the last Saturday before Christmas," said the abbess.
"Is it? I did not know, I have taken no note of time."
"And to-morrow is Sunday, the last Sunday before Christmas."
"Yes, of course."
"Daughter, you have not been to chapel once since your arrival among us."
"Ah, no! I came from the infirmary here, and I have not left this room to go anywhere since!" sighed Salome.
"That is not because you are not able to do so, but because you are not willing. You have allowed yourself to sink into a sinful and dangerous lethargy of mind and body in which you have brooded morbidly over your afflictions. You must do so no longer. You must rouse yourself from this moment. You must go with us to-night to vespers. To-morrow morning you will attend high mass. A fellow-countryman of yours, Father F----, an Oratorian priest from Norwood, England, will preach. He will do you good. Since the days of St. John, the beloved disciple, no wiser, more loving, or more eloquent soul ever spoke to sinners," said the abbess.
"But--coming from England! --If he should recognize me!" exclaimed Salome.
"Why, do you know him?"
"Oh, no, not at all; but then there are sometimes people with whom we have no sort of acquaintance, who yet know us by sight from seeing us in public places, or meeting us on public occasions."
"That is very true, my child; but you need have no fear of being recognized by the officiating priest to-morrow, whoever he may be, for you will sit with us behind the screen."
"Thanks, dear mother; I will go with you this very evening."
"You are a good and obedient child. Receive my benediction," said the mother-superior, rising.
Salome bent her head, and the abbess solemnly blessed her, and then withdrew from the room.
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{
"id": "16039"
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28
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THE SOUL'S STRUGGLE.
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That same evening, while the vesper bells were ringing, Salome dressed herself, and, leaning on the arm of the mother-superior headed the procession of the sisterhood as they marched to the chapel and took their seats in the recess behind the screen, which was so cunningly devised, that, while it afforded the nuns a full view of the altar, the priests, the interior of the pews and the whole congregation, it effectually concealed the forms and faces of the sisterhood seated within it.
Father Francois, the confessor of the convent, officiated at the altar.
A rustic congregation of the faithful filled the pews in the body of the church. They came from farm-houses and villages in the immediate neighborhood of the convent.
The vesper hymn was raised by the nuns.
Salome joined in singing it. She had a rich, sweet, clear soprano voice.
Many were the heads in the rustic assemblage that turned to listen to the new singer in the nuns' choir.
Salome saw them, and shrank back as if she herself could have been seen, though she was quite invisible to them, for the screen, which was transparent to her eyes, was impenetrable to theirs. She remembered this, at length, and recovered her composure.
The sweet vesper service soothed her soul, and when it was over, and the benediction was given, the "peace that passeth all understanding" descended upon her troubled spirit.
She left the chapel, leaning on the mother-superior's arm.
When she reached her room door she kissed the lady's hand in bidding her good-night.
"This has done you good, my daughter," said the abbess, gently.
"It has done me good. Thanks for your wise counsel, holy mother. I will follow it still. I will go again tomorrow. Bless me, my mother," said Salome, bowing her head before the abbess, who blessed her again, and then softly withdrew.
Salome entered her room and retired to rest, and slept more calmly than she had done for many days and nights.
She arose on Sunday morning refreshed; but it seemed as if her stony apathy had passed off, only to leave her more keenly sensitive to her cause of grief; for as she dressed herself, a flood of tender memories overflowed her soul, and she threw herself, weeping freely, on her cot.
In this condition she was found by the abbess, who was pleased to see her weep, knowing that the keenness of sorrow is much softened by tears.
She sat down in silence by the cot, and waited until the paroxysm was past.
"Good mother, I could not help it," said Salome, with a last convulsive sob, as she wiped her eyes, and arose.
"Nor did I wish you to do so. Thank the Lord for the gift of tears. Have you had breakfast, my daughter?"
"Yes, dear mother. Sister Francoise brought it to me before I was up. This is the last time I will allow myself such an indulgence. To-morrow morning, if you will permit me, I will join you in the refectory."
"I am rejoiced to hear you say so my child. Your recovery depends much upon yourself. Every exertion that you make helps it forward. And now I came to tell you that in ten minutes we shall go on to the chapel. Will you be ready to accompany us?"
"Yes, dear mother, I will come on and join you almost immediately," said Salome standing up and shaking down her black robe into shape.
The abbess softly slipped out of the room and left the guest to complete her toilet.
In a few minutes Salome passed out and joined the procession of nuns to the chapel.
As soon as they were seated in the screened choir, Salome looked through the screen, to see if the English priest was at the altar. He was not there yet; but the body of the little chapel was filled with an expectant crowd of small country gentry, farmers and laborers with their families, all drawn together by the fame of the great Oratorian.
Presently the procession entered--six boys, in white surplices, preceding a pale, thin, intellectual-looking young man in priestly robes.
The priest took his place before the altar, the boys kneeling on his right and left, and the solemn celebration of the high mass was begun.
The nuns sang well within their screened choir; but the new soprano voice that sang the solos, and rose elastic, sweet and clear, soaring to the heavens in the _Gloria in Excelsis_, seemed to carry all the worshipers with it.
"Who is she?" inquired one of another, in hushed whispers, when the divine anthem had sunk into silence.
"Who is she?"
No one in the congregation could tell; but many surmised that she must be some young postulant of St. Rosalie, just beginning, or about to begin, her novitiate.
At length the pale priest passed into the pulpit, and, amid a breathless silence of expectancy, gave out his text: "GOD IS LOVE."
A truth revealed to us by the Divine Saviour, and confirmed to our hearts by the teachings of His Holy Spirit.
The preacher spoke of the divine love, "never enough believed, or known, or asked," yet the source of all our life, light and joy; he spoke of human love, a derivative from the divine, in all its manifestations of family affection, social friendship, charity to the needy, forgiveness of enemies.
And while he spoke of love, "the greatest good in the world," his tones were full, sweet, deep and tender, his pale face radiant, his manner affectionate, persuasive, winning.
He was listened to with rapt attention, and even when he had brought his sermon to a close, and his eloquent voice had ceased, his hearers still, for a few moments, sat motionless under the spell he had wrought upon them.
As soon as the benediction had been pronounced, the abbess arose from her seat in the choir, drew the arm of her still feeble guest within her own, and, followed by her nuns, walking slowly in pairs, left the choir.
She took Salome to the door of her room in perfect silence, and would have left her there but that the girl stopped her by saying: "Holy mother, I wish to speak to you, if you can give me a few minutes, before we go to the refectory."
"Surely, my daughter," answered the abbess, kindly, as she followed her guest into the chamber.
"Sit down in the easy-chair, good mother," said Salome, drawing the soft, white-cushioned seat toward her.
"No, sit you there, poor child," answered the abbess, taking her guest kindly and seating her in the easy-chair. "I shall be well enough here," she added, as she sat down on one of the painted, wooden seats. "Now, tell me what you wish to say, daughter," she concluded.
"Dear mother, I have been very deeply interested in Father F. this morning."
"You should be interested in the message only, not in the messenger, my child," gravely replied the elder lady.
"In the message alone I believe I was most concerned; but the message was most eloquently delivered by the messenger," said Salome, as her pale cheeks flushed.
"Well, my daughter, go on in what you were about to say."
"Holy mother, that message, so earnestly spoken, has moved me to greater diligence in what I have purposed to do. You know that I have intended to take the vail in this convent, and devote my life and my fortune to good works."
"Yes, my child, I know that such has been your pious purpose. What then?"
"I wish to use all diligence in carrying out that purpose. I wish to enter upon my novitiate immediately."
"My good daughter, far be it from me to throw any stumbling-block in the way of such praise-worthy intentions; but the strict rules of our order require that a postulant should remain in the convent twelve calendar months, to test her vocation, before she is suffered to bind herself by any vows," said the abbess, very gravely.
"As if _my_ vocation had not been sufficiently tested," sighed Salome.
"It may have been so, my daughter. This probation may not be necessary in your case, yet we can make no exception to our rules even in your favor. You will, therefore, if you wish, remain with us for one year, unfettered by any vows. At the end of this year of probation, if you shall still desire to do so, you may be permitted to take the white vail and commence your novitiate. In the meantime you need not, and ought not, to be idle. You may be as zealous and diligent in good works while a postulant as you possibly could be as a white-vailed novice or a black-vailed nun."
"Show me how I may be so, holy mother, and I will bless you," exclaimed Salome.
"I will very gladly be your guide, my child. Listen, Salome. Hitherto, you have been very charitable in giving alms. You have given liberally of your means; but you have never yet given your personal services to the poor and needy. That was not our Lord's way, whose servants we are. He gave alms, indeed, and he performed miracles to supply them, as in the case of the loaves and fishes; but most of all, better than all, He gave His personal ministrations; He taught the ignorant; He anointed the eyes of the blind; _He laid His hands on the leper_; He shrank from no personal contact with disease, however loathsome; distress, however ignominious; nor must we, His children, do so. We must give our personal services to the poor."
"Tell me what to do, and how to do it, good mother, and I will gladly obey your instructions. Tell me, for I am so very ignorant."
"To-morrow, the Monday before Christmas, you may go with me the rounds of our asylums and schools, and see for yourself destitute old age, destitute childhood and abandoned infancy; and you may choose your work among these poor, needy, helpless ones," said the abbess, gravely.
"And are laborers wanted in that vineyard, mother?"
"Always."
"Then here am I, for one, poor one. I am longing to go to work."
"At first your work shall be a very bright and pleasant labor, dear child. This is the joyous week of preparation for the glad, Christmas festival. This week we are all, young and old, engaged in the delightful recreations of charity. Our Lord Himself, who, in His Divine benignity, blessed the marriage feast of Cana with a miracle, smiles on our recreations of charity, which with us just now consist in the preparation of Christmas gifts to gladden the hearts of our poor these Christmas times. To-morrow, if you please, I will take you to our work-rooms, where you may choose your own task."
"Oh, how willingly I will do that!" said Salome, earnestly.
A bell had been ringing for a few moments; and so the abbess arose and said: "That is the dinner-bell. You promised to join us in the refectory, and I think it is best you should do so, my daughter."
"I will follow your counsels in everything, holy mother," answered Salome, sweetly, as she arose and put her hand on the offered arm of her friend.
The abbess led her protegee down a long passage and deep flights of stairs to the refectory, where, at each side of a very long table, running down the length of the room, stood about fifty nuns waiting for their mother-superior.
The abbess gave her guest a seat next to her own, then crossed herself and sat down.
The nuns all made the sign of the cross upon their breasts, and seated themselves at the table.
This was the first occasion upon which Salome sat down at the nuns' table; but it was not the last, for from this day she regularly appeared there, and, though she was given to frequent and violent fits of weeping, her health and spirits steadily improved under the regimen of the abbess.
On Monday morning the lady-superior took Salome through all the asylums on the east side of the convent.
They went first into the aged men's home, where, in a large, clean, well-warmed and well-lighted hall, furnished with arm-chairs, tables, and many plain and cheap conveniences, were gathered about thirty gray-haired or bald-headed patriarchs, whose ages ranged from seventy to a hundred years. Yet not one of them was idle. They were all engaged in plaiting chip-mats, baskets, hampers and other useful articles that could be made out of reeds or cane. The oldest man among them, a centenarian, was employed in plaiting straw for hats.
"They look very happy and busy," said Salome, after she had responded to their respectful nods and smiles of welcome.
"Yes, and they nearly half pay expenses by their handicrafts. Even they, aged and infirm as they are, can half support themselves if they have only shelter, protection and guidance."
"And there seems to be no sick among them," said Salome.
"Ah, yes," answered the abbess, gravely, "there are five in the infirmary connected with this home; but we will not go there now. Let us pass on to the aged women's home."
They entered the next house, where, in a large, warm, light room, plainly furnished, about twenty old women, from sixty to ninety years of age, were collected. They were neatly dressed in gray stuff gowns, white aprons, white kerchiefs, and white Normandy caps. And all were busy--some knitting, some sewing, some tatting.
They bowed and smiled a welcome to the visitor, who responded in the same manner.
"These, also, half support themselves by their work," said the abbess; "but the proportion of sick among them is greater than among the men. There are ten in the infirmary."
They went next to the orphan boys' asylum, where fifty male children of ages from three to twelve years were lodged, fed, clothed, and educated.
"What becomes of these when they leave here?" inquired Salome.
"We send them out as apprentices to learn trades; and we find homes for them," answered the abbess.
"Can you always find good homes and masters for them?"
"Yes, always. We do it through the secular clergy. Now let us go into the girls' asylum," said the abbess, leading the way to the next institution.
The orphan girls' asylum was, in many respects, similar to the boys' home.
"Do you wish to know what becomes of these, when they leave here?" inquired the abbess, anticipating the question of her companion. "I will tell you. The greater number of them are sent out to service as cooks, chambermaids, seamstresses, or nursery governesses. Some few, who show unusual intelligence, are educated for teachers. If any one among their number evinces talent for any particular art, she is trained in that art. My child, we have sent out more than one artist from our orphan girls' asylum," said the abbess.
"How much good you do!" exclaimed Salome.
"Let us go into the Foundling," said the mother-superior, leading the way to the last house of the eastern row of buildings.
Ah! here was a sight sorrowful enough to make the "angels weep!"
The abbess led her companion into a long room, clean, warm, light and airy, with about thirty narrow little cots, arranged in two rows against the walls, fifteen on each side, with a long passage between them. About half a dozen of these cots were empty. On the others lay about twenty-four of the most pitiable of all our Lord's poor--young infants abandoned by their unnatural parents. All these were under twelve months old, and were pale, thin, and famished-looking. Some were sleeping, and seemingly, ah! so aged and care-worn in their sleep; some were clasping nursery-bottles in their skeleton hands, and sucking away for dear life; one little miserable was wailing in restless pain, and sending its anguished eyes around in appealing looks for relief.
Four women of the sisterhood were on duty here, and each one sat with a pining infant on her lap, while there was no one to attend to the wants of that wailing little sufferer on the bed.
"Oh, merciful Father in Heaven! what a sight!" cried Salome, overcome with compassionate sorrow.
"Yes, it is piteous! most piteous!" said the mother-superior, in a mournful tone. "We do the very best we can for these poor, deserted babes; but young infants, bereft of their mother's milk, which is their life, and of their mother's tender love and intuitive care, suffer more than any of us can estimate, and are almost sure to perish, out of _this_ life, at least. With all our care and pains, more than two-thirds of them die."
"Is there no help for this?" sadly inquired the visitor.
"No help within ourselves. But the peasant women in our neighborhood have Christian spirits and tender hearts. When any one among them loses her sucking child, she comes to us and asks for one of our motherless babes. We select the most needing of them and give it to her, and the nurse child has then a chance for its life; but even then, if it lives, it is because some other child has died and made room for it."
"Oh, it is piteous! it is piteous, beyond all words to express! Destitute childhood, destitute old age, are both sorrowful enough, Heaven knows! But they have power to make their sufferings known, and to ask for help! _But destitute infancy! _ Oh! look here! look here! Can anything on earth be so pathetic as this?
"They are so innocent; they have not brought their evils on themselves. They are so helpless! They have not even words to tell their pain, or ask for relief! Mother! You said that I might choose my work! I have chosen it. It is here. And I begin it from this moment," said Salome.
And she threw off her hat and cloak, and drew her gloves and cast them all on a chair, and went and took up the wailing infant from the cot.
The abbess sat down and watched her.
She soothed the baby's plaints upon her bosom as she walked it, up and down the floor, singing a sweet, nursery song in a low and tender voice, until it fell asleep. Then she came and laid it sleeping on its cot.
"My dear daughter," said the abbess, gravely, "before you select this field of duty, I must warn you that it is, and it _must needs_ be, of all charitable administrations, the most laborious and trying."
"It may be so; but it is also the most divine," said Salome, with a grave, sweet smile. "Listen, dear mother. I know not how it is, but--with all its pathos--the sphere of this room is heavenly. And while I held that baby to my bosom and soothed it to sleep, its little, soft form seemed to draw all the fever and soreness from my own aching heart as well. Here is my earthly work, dear mother! Nay, rather, here is my heavenly mission and consolation. Leave me here."
The mother-superior took the votaress at her word, and left her then and there.
In the course of the same day a small closet, communicating with the infants' dormitory, was fitted up as a sleeping berth for Salome, and her few personal effects were conveyed from the convent and arranged within her new dwelling.
Salome had not mistaken her vocation. To serve these forsaken and suffering children was to her a labor of love; to relieve them, a work of joy.
She never left her charge, except to go to chapel, or to her meals, which she took at the nuns' table, in their refectory.
On Christmas Eve, as she returned from dinner, Sister Francoise invited her to look into the work-room and see the Christmas presents in process of preparation.
To please the kind sister, she followed her into a long hall, furnished with little tables, at each of which sat two or three of the nuns at work.
As Salome, with her conductor, walked down the room, she saw that on one table was a pile of children's illustrated books of great variety to suit little ones, from three years old to thirteen. The two nuns seated at the table were busy writing in the books the names of those for whom they were intended.
Another table was piled with woolen scarfs, socks, gloves, and night-caps for the aged men and women, which the two nuns seated there were employed in rolling up into separate little parcels, and labeling with the names of the intended recipients.
Still another, and a longer table, was bright and gay with party-colored scraps of silk, satin, velvet, ribbon, muslin, lace and linen, with which half a dozen young nuns seated there were cheerfully engaged in making dresses for a basket full of dolls, for the Christmas gifts to the infants.
The blooming young nun Felecitie presided at this table. Seeing Salome approach with Sister Francoise, she accosted her: "Our holy mother told us that you would come in and help us dress these dolls."
"And so I would have done, only I found some living and suffering dolls to dress and feed," said Salome, smiling.
"Yes, I know, the babies of the Foundling. Well, we are dressing these dolls for your babies," said the smiling sister.
"But do you suppose my tiny little ones will care for dolls?" inquired Salome.
"Be sure they will; from six months old, up, boys or girls, sick or well, babies will love dolls. I have seen a sick baby hug her doll, just as I have seen a sick mother clasp her child," answered the sister.
"These are the recreations of charity the holy mother told me of," said Salome, as she passed out of the work-room and went back to her own sphere of duty.
On Christmas morning after matins, the Christmas gifts were distributed in every one of the asylums, and every inmate was made happy by an appropriate present.
At ten o'clock high mass was celebrated in the chapel of the convent, and all the sisterhood assembled in their screened choir.
Three priests in their sacerdotal robes, and a dozen boys in white surplices, were expected to serve at the altar. The chapel was profusely decorated with holly, and the shrines were dressed with flowers. The pews were filled with a congregation of a rather better social position than usually assembled there in the convent chapel.
The services had not yet commenced. Salome bent forward with all the interest and curiosity of a recluse, to look, for a moment, upon the strangers.
She gave but one glance through the screen, and then suddenly, with a low cry, she sank back upon her seat.
"What is the matter, my daughter? Are you ill?" inquired the mother-superior, in a whisper.
Salome lifted up a face ashen pale with dismay, and gasped: "I have seen him! I have seen him! He is there--there in the congregation below!"
"Who?" inquired the abbess, in vague alarm.
"My husband? --yet, no; oh, Heaven! not my husband, but the Duke of Hereward!"
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{
"id": "16039"
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29
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THE STRANGER IN THE CHAPEL.
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"The Duke of Hereward in the congregation?" echoed the abbess, with a troubled look.
"Yes, there in the middle aisle, in the third pew from the altar," replied Salome, in trembling tones.
"No matter. _You_ have nothing to fear, my daughter; you will be protected. _He_ has everything to fear; he is a felon before the law, and he may be prosecuted. Compose yourself, my child, and give your mind to heavenly subjects. See, the priest is coming in," murmured the abbess, who immediately crossed herself, and lowered her eyes in devotion.
Salome, though trembling in every limb, and feeling faint, almost to falling, followed the mother-superior's example, and tried to concentrate her mind in worship.
The solemn procession of the service entered the chancel--the priests in their sacerdotal vestments, the boys in their white robes. The officiating priest took his station before the altar, with his assistants on each side. And the impressive celebration of the high mass commenced.
But, ah! Salome could not confine her attention to the service! Her eyes, guard them carefully as she might, would wander from her missal toward the stalwart form and stately head of the stranger in that third pew front; her thoughts would wander back to the past, forth to the future, or, if they stayed upon the present at all, it was but in connection with that stranger.
Father F----, the great English priest, preached the sermon, from the text: "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will to men." He preached with all the force, fervor and eloquence inspired by the Divine words, and he was heard with rapt attention by all the cloistered nuns and all the common congregation--by all within the sound of his voice, perhaps, except one--the most sorrowful one on that glad day. Salome tried in vain to follow the golden thread of his discourse.
But how little she was able to do, may be known from the deep sigh of relief she heaved when it was all over.
As soon as the benediction was pronounced, the nuns arose to leave their screened choir, and the congregation got up to go out from the chapel.
Salome lingered behind the sisterhood, and watched the handsome stranger in the third pew front--a stranger to every one present except herself.
He also lingered behind all his companions, and turned and looked intently up into the screened choir.
Salome saw his full face for the first time since his appearance there--and she saw that it was deadly, ghastly pale, with white lips and glassy eyes. He gazed into the screened choir as into vacancy.
Salome knew that he could see nothing there, yet she shrank back and stood in the deepest shadow, until she saw him pick up his hat and glide from the chapel, the last man that went out.
"Ah, what could have changed him so?" she thought--"love, fear, remorse--what?"
He had nothing to fear from her. If no one should take vengeance on him until she should do so, then would he go unpunished to his grave, and his sin would never have found him out in this world. Nay, sooner than to have hurt him in life, liberty, honor, or estate, she, herself, would have borne the penalty of all his crimes. Yet of those crimes what an unspeakable horror she had, though for the criminal what an unutterable pity--what an undying love.
While she stood there, gazing through the choir-screen upon the spot whence the stranger had disappeared, her bosom, torn by these conflicting passions of horror, pity, love, she felt a soft touch on her shoulder, and turning, saw the mother-superior at her side.
"My daughter, why do you loiter here?" she tenderly inquired.
Salome's pale face flushed, as she replied: "Oh, mother, I was watching him until he left the church."
"My daughter, it was a deadly sin to do so!" gravely replied the abbess.
"He could not see me, mother," sighed Salome, in a tremulous voice.
"That was well. Come now to your own room, daughter, and do not tremble so. You have nothing to fear, except from your own weak and sinful nature," said the abbess, as she drew the girl's arm within her own and led her from the choir.
"Am I so weak and sinful, mother?" inquired Salome, after a silence which had lasted until the two had reached the door of the Infants' Asylum, where Salome now lodged.
"As every human being is! and especially as every woman is in all affairs of the heart," gravely returned the abbess.
"Can you spare me a few minutes, mother? Will you come in and let me talk to you a little while? Have you time? I want to talk to you. Oh! I wish we had mother-confessors for women--for girls, I mean, instead of father-confessors. Can you come in and let me talk to you, mother, for a little while?"
"Surely, daughter," said the abbess, gently as with her own hand she opened the door and led her votaress into the room.
Salome offered the one chair to the lady-superior, and then took the foot-stool at her feet, and laid her head upon her knees.
"Now speak to me freely, child. Tell me what you wish and how I can help you," said the abbess, kindly.
"Oh, mother! mother! I wish to be rid of the sin of loving him, for I love him still. In spite of all, I love him still!" exclaimed Salome, breaking down in a passion of tears and sobs.
The abbess laid her hands upon the bowed young head, and kept them so in silence until the storm of grief had passed. Then she said: "Child you must fast and pray, and so combat the 'inordinate and sinful affections of the flesh.' Bethink you what you do in suffering them. You make an idol of that monster of iniquity who was an accomplice in the murder of your father--" Salome uttered a low cry, and hid her face in her hands. The abbess went on steadily, almost pitilessly: "A man who, having already a living wife, of whom he had grown tired and ashamed, married you, and so would have ruined you in soul and body."
Salome groaned deeply, and then suddenly broke forth in passionate exclamations: "I know it! I know it? I know it from the evidence of my own senses, no less than from the testimony of others! I _know_ it, but I cannot _feel it_, mother! I cannot feel it? My _mind_ adjudges him _guilty_; my _mind condemns_ him upon unquestionable proof; but my _heart_ holds him _guiltless_; in the face of all the proofs, my _heart acquits_ him! I _know_ him to be a criminal; but I _feel_ him to be one of the greatest, best and noblest of mankind! In spite of all I have heard and seen with my own ears and eyes, corroborated by the testimony of others--in spite of everything past, I _feel_, I _feel_ that if he should now come and take my hand in his, and whisper to me, I should believe all that he might tell me, and go with him whithersoever he might choose to lead me! Mother, _save me from myself_!"
The abbess laid her hands again upon the throbbing head that lay on her lap, as she answered, mournfully: "Said I not that you have nothing to fear except from your weak and sinful self. Child, you have nothing else on earth to dread. You are to be protected from yourself alone."
"And from _him_! Oh, mother, keep the great temptation from me!"
"He shall be kept from you, if, indeed, he should presume to seek you here," said the abbess.
"He will seek me, mother! He came to seek me, and for nothing else. He has by some means found out my retreat, and he has come to seek me! Be sure that he will present himself here to-morrow, if not to-day."
"In that case, we shall know how to deal with him, even though he is the Duke of Hereward; for he has, and can have, no lawful claim on you. So far from that, he is in deadly danger from you. He is liable to prosecution by you; for you are not his wife; you are only a lady whom he entrapped by a felonious marriage ceremony, and sought to ruin. It is amazing," added the abbess, reflectively, "that a nobleman of his exalted rank and illustrious fame should have stooped _so_ low as to stain his honor with so deep a crime, and to risk the infamy and destruction its discovery must have brought upon him."
"It is amazing and incredible! That is why, in the face of the evidence of my own eyes and ears, the testimony of other eye and ear witnesses, and of my own certain knowledge, based upon proof as sure as ever formed the foundation of any knowledge, I still feel in my heart of heart that he is guiltless, stainless, noble, pure and true as the prince of noblemen should be," sighed Salome, adding word upon word of eulogy, as if she could not say enough.
"In the face of all positive proof, and of the convictions of your judgment, your _heart_ tells you that this criminal is innocent," said the abbess, incisively.
"In the face of all, my heart assures me that he is pure, true, and noble!" exclaimed Salome.
"Do you believe your heart?" gravely inquired the elder lady.
"No; for is it not written: 'The heart is deceitful, and desperately wicked.' No, I do not believe my weak and sinful heart, which I know would betray me into the hands of my lover, if I should be so unfortunate as to meet him."
"You shall not meet him; you shall be saved from him," answered the abbess.
At that moment a bell was heard to ring throughout the building.
"That calls us to the refectory--to our happy Christmas festival. Come, my daughter," said the lady, rising.
"I cannot go! Oh, indeed I cannot go, mother. I am utterly unnerved by what has happened. I hope you will pardon and excuse me," pleaded Salome.
"What! Will you not join us at our Christmas feast?" kindly persisted the abbess.
"Indeed, it is impossible! I will rest on my cot for a few minutes, and then I will go and take my poor little Marie Perdue on my bosom and rock her to sleep. I hear her fretting now; and when I hush her cries, she also soothes my heartache."
"I will send you something; and I will come to you, before vespers," said the abbess, kindly, as she glided away from the room.
Salome lay alone on the cot, with closed eyes and folded hands, praying for light to see her duty and strength to do it.
She expected, in answer to her earnest prayers, that scales should fall from her eyes, and impressions pass from her heart, and that she should see her love in monstrous shape and colors, and be able to thrust him from her heart. Instead of which, she saw him purer, truer, nobler, than ever before. With this perception came a sweet, strange peace and trust which she could not comprehend, and did not wish to cast off.
She arose and went into the infants' dormitory, and took up the youngest and feeblest of the babes--the one which, on her very first visit, had so appealed to her sympathies, and which she had adopted as her own.
This child, like many others in the asylum, had no known story.
A few days before Christmas, late in the evening, a bell had been rung at the main door of the Infants' Asylum.
The portress who answered it found there a basket containing an infant a few weeks old. It was cleanly dressed and warmly wrapped up in flannel; but it had no scrap of writing, no name, nor mark upon its clothing by which it might ever be identified.
The portress took it into the dormitory, where it was tenderly received and cared for by the sisters on duty there.
The case was too common a one to excite more than a passing interest.
On the next day after the arrival of the infant, it happened that the mother-superior brought Salome there on her first visit, when the misery of the motherless and forsaken infant so moved the sympathies of the young lady that she immediately took it to her own bosom.
Subsequently, since she had devoted herself to the care of these deserted babies, she took an especial interest in this youngest and most helpless of their number.
She named it Marie Perdue, and stood godmother at its baptism.
It lay in her arms often during the day, and slept at her bosom during the night. It had grown to know its nurse, and to recognize her presence and caresses by those soft, low sounds, half cooing and half complaining, with which very young babes first try to utter their emotions or their wants.
Now, as she took little Marie Perdue from the cot, the child greeted her with sweet smiles and soft coos, and nestled lovingly to her bosom. And peace deepened in Salome's heart.
She sat down in a low nursing-chair, fed the child with warm milk and water until it was satisfied, and then rocked it and sang to it in a low, melodious voice, until it fell asleep.
She was still rocking and singing when the rosy-cheeked and cheery young Sister Felecitie came in.
"Our holy mother was going to send your dinner in here, Miss Levison; but I think it must be so dismal to eat one's dinner alone on Christmas day, so I pleaded to be allowed to plead with _you_ that you will come and dine with us young sisters at the second table, which is just as good as the first, I assure you, only it is served an hour later. Will you come? Say yes!" urged the merry and kind-hearted girl.
"I will come, thank you; though I did too moodily decline the invitation of the abbess," said Salome, rising and placing her sleeping charge upon its little cot.
"Now! what did I tell you about the children and the dolls! Look there!" gleefully exclaimed Sister Felecitie, pointing to a row of cots where about a dozen infants lay asleep, clasping their dolls tightly.
"Yes, the tiny mimic mothers really do love their doll babies," Salome confessed with a smile.
As they went out of the dormitory they passed into the children's day-room, where about twenty infants, from one to two years old, were at play--some sitting on mats or creeping on all fours, because they could not yet stand; some walking around chairs and holding on to support themselves; and some running here and there, in full possession of the use of their limbs.
All rejoiced in the possession of little dolls.
"Look at them!" exclaimed Sister Felecitie, gleefully.
"We tried the least little ones with other toys: but, bless you, nothing else pleases them so well as dolls. We once tried the little yearlings with rattles, which we thought, it being noisy nuisances, would please them better; but save us! If any one doubts the doctrine of original sin and total depravity, they should have seen the three year-old babies fling down their rattles in a passion and go for the other babies' dolls, to seize and take them by force and violence; and the corresponding rage and resistance of the latter."
"All that was very natural," said Salome, with a smile.
"Oh, yes, natural, and perhaps something else too, beginning with a 'd.' They call children 'little angels.' Yes. I know they are, when they are sound asleep," exclaimed the sister, laughing.
"If they are not angels, they have angels with them. I feel they have, for when I am in their sphere, I possess my soul in peace."
As the young lady said this, the children noticed her presence for the first time, and all who could walk ran to her, clustered around her and thrust their dolls upon her, for inspection and approval.
All this Salome bestowed freely with many caresses and gentle, playful words.
Then the children sitting on the mats reached out their dolls at arm's-length, and screamed to have them noticed.
Salome made her way to these little sitters, while all the other children, clinging to her skirt, attended her, impeding her progress.
It was a great confusion.
The merry little sister laughed aloud.
"Now!" she said, gayly. "You are in their sphere, do you possess your soul in peace?"
"Something even better. My soul goes out to them, delighting in their innocent delight!" answered Salome.
And after she had patted their heads and praised their dolls, and pleased them all with loving notice, she followed her conductress from the children's play-room through the long rectangular passage that led to the nun's refectory.
The sisterhood, abstemious nearly all the days of the year, feasted on certain high holidays.
The Christmas dinner, laid for the young nuns in the refectory, would have satisfied the most fastidious epicure. But I doubt if any epicure could have enjoyed it half as well as did these abstemious young women, whose appetites were only let loose on certain high days and holidays.
Salome wondered at herself, who but two hours before had given way to a storm of passionate sobs and tears, yet now felt a strange peace of mind that enabled her to enter sincerely into the happiness of those around her.
In the afternoon, the convent was visited by a large number of benevolent people in the neighborhood, who brought their Christmas offerings to the poor and needy of the house.
These visitors were shown through all the various departments of charity, and left their offerings in each before they went away.
"I do wish _one_ thing," said little Sister Felecitie, as she lingered near Salome, after the departure of the visitors.
"What do you wish, dear?" inquired the latter.
"Why, then, that the good people who give to our poor, whatever else they give, would _always_ give the children dolls and the old people tobacco. The children _never_ can have _too many_ dolls, nor the old people _enough_ tobacco."
"But is not the use of tobacco a vicious habit?"
"I _hope_ not. It makes the poor old souls so happy."
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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30
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THE HAUNTER.
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The vesper bell called them to the chapel, and the conversation ceased.
Salome joined the procession and entered the choir.
As soon as she had taken her seat she looked through the screen upon the congregation assembled in the public part of the church. A great dread seized her that she should see again the man whose presence had so disturbed her in the morning.
Heaven! he was there! --not where he sat before, but in one of the end pews, facing the choir, so that she had a full view of his ghastly face and glassy eyes.
A sudden superstitious fear fell upon her. She almost thought the figure was his ghost, or was some optical illusion conjured up by her own imagination.
She wished to test its reality by the eyes of another. She wished to whisper to the abbess, and point him out, and ask her if she, too, saw him; but she dared not do this. The vesper hymn was pealing forth from the choir, and all the sisterhood, except herself, were singing.
She was their soprano, and she had to join them. She began first in a tremulous voice, but soon the spell of the music took hold of her, and carried her away, far, far above all earthly thoughts and cares, and she sang, as her hearers afterward declared, "like a seraph."
At the end of the service she whispered to the abbess, calling her attention to the pallid stranger in the end pew; but when both turned to look, the man had vanished!
"Mother, I do not know whether that ghostly figure was a real man, after all!" whispered Salome, in an awe-stricken tone.
"My good child, what do you mean?" inquired the abbess, uneasily.
"Mother, I feel as if I were haunted!" said Salome, with a shudder.
"Come! your nerves have been overtasked. You must have a composing draught, and go to bed," said the superior, decisively.
"It may be that I am nervous and excitable, and that I have conjured up this image in my brain--such a ghastly, ghostly image, mother! It could not have been real, though I thought nothing else this morning than that it was real. But this evening--oh! madam, if you had seen it, with its blanched face and glazed eyes, like a sceptre risen from the grave!"
"I have not seen the man yet, either this morning or this evening," said the elder lady, as she drew the younger's arm within her own.
"No, you have never seen him. I have no one's eyes but my own to test the matter. You have never seen him, and that is another reason why I think of the man as ghostly or unreal," whispered Salome.
They were now in the long passage leading from the chapel to the cells.
"I will take you again to your own little room in the Infants' Asylum," murmured the lady, as she turned with her protegee into the rectangular passage leading to the asylums.
She took Salome to the door of the house, gave her a benediction, and left her.
"Out there I have trouble, here I shall have peace," muttered the young woman, as she entered the children's dormitory, where every tiny cot was now occupied by a little, sleeping child.
Salome prepared to retire, and in a few moments she also was at rest, with her little Marie Perdue in her arms.
Christmas had come on Saturday that year. The next day being Sunday, there was another high mass to be celebrated in the chapel.
Salome, as usual, joined the nuns' procession to the choir, where the sisterhood, as was their custom, took their seats some few minutes before the entrance of the priest and his attendants.
With a heart almost pausing in its pulsations, Salome bent forward to peer through the screen upon the congregation, to see if by any chance the Duke of Hereward (or his ghost) sat among them.
With a half-suppressed cry, she recognized his form, seated in the opposite corner of the church, from the spot he had last occupied.
"He shifts his place every time he appears," she said to herself.
And now, being determined that other eyes should see him as well as her own, she touched the abbess' arm and whispered: "Pray look before the priest enters. There is the Duke of Hereward (or his ghost) sitting quite alone in the corner pew, on the left hand side of the altar. Do you see him now?"
The abbess followed the direction with her eyes, and answered: "No, I do not see any one there."
"Why, he is sitting alone in the left hand corner pew. Surely, you must see him now?" said Salome, bending forward to look again at the stranger.
The next instant she sank back in her seat, nearly fainting.
The pew was empty!
"There is really no one there, my child. Your eyes have deceived you," murmured the abbess, gently.
"He was there a moment since, but he has vanished! Oh! mother, what is the meaning of this?" gasped the girl, turning pale as death.
"The meaning is that your nervous system is shattered, and you are the victim of optical illusions. Or else--if there was a man really in that pew--he may have passed out through that little corner door leading to the vestry. But hush! here comes the priest," said the abbess, as the procession entered the chancel, preceded by the solemn notes of the organ.
Since "Miss Levison" was obliged to keep her place in the choir, it was well that she was an enthusiast in music, and thus able to lose all sense of care and trouble in the exercise of her divine art.
But for the music she would scarcely have got through the morning service.
And very much relieved she felt when the benediction was at length pronounced, and she was at liberty to leave the chapel.
"Oh, madam, this mystery is killing me! I have seen, or fancied I have seen, the Duke of Hereward in the church three times; yet no one else has been able to see him! If it was the duke, he has come here for some fixed purpose. He has, probably, by means of those expert London detectives, traced me out, and discovered my residence under this sacred roof. He has followed me here to give me trouble!" said Salome, as soon she found herself alone with the superior.
"My child," said the lady, "I must reiterate that _you_ have nothing--_he_ has everything to fear! I do not know, of course, for even you are not sure that you have really seen him. If you have, he is in this immediate neighborhood. If he is, why, then, the fact must be known to nearly every one outside the convent walls. The Duke of Hereward is not a man whose presence could be ignored. To-morrow, therefore, I will cause inquiries to be made, and we shall be sure to find out whether he is really here or not."
"Thanks, good mother, thanks. It will be a great relief to have this question decided in any way," said Salome, gratefully.
The mother-superior smiled, gave the benediction, and retired.
At vespers that evening, Salome looked all over the church in anxious fear of seeing the form that haunted her imagination; but her "ghost" did not appear, and, after all, she scarcely knew whether she was relieved or disturbed by his absence.
The next day, Monday, the abbess set diligent inquiries on foot to discover whether the Duke of Hereward, or any other stranger of any name or title whatever, had been seen in the neighborhood of St. Rosalie's for many days. Winter was not the season for strangers there.
After this, the Duke of Hereward (or his ghost) was seen no more in the chapel.
Every time Salome accompanied the sisterhood to the chapel, she peered through the choir-screen, in much anxiety as to whether she should see the duke, or his apparition, among the congregation below; but she never saw him there again, nor could she decide, in the conflict between her love and her sense of duty, whether she most desired or deplored his absence.
So the days passed into weeks, and nothing more was heard or seen of the Duke of Hereward.
The Christmas holidays came to an end after Twelth-Day; the pupils returned to the school, and the academy buildings grew gay with the exuberance of young life.
Salome, who, during many years of her childhood and youth, had shared this bright and cheery school-life, now saw nothing of it.
The academy buildings, as has been explained before this, were situated on the opposite side of the court-yard from the asylums and entirely cut off from communication with them.
Salome, devoted to her duties in the Infants' Asylum, was more completely secluded from the world than even the cloistered nuns themselves; for the nuns were the teachers of the academy, and in daily communication with their pupils and frequent correspondence with their patrons, saw and heard much of the busy life without.
So the weeks passed slowly into months, and the winter into spring, yet nothing more was seen or heard of the Duke of Hereward.
Salome lost the habit of looking for him, and gradually recovered her tranquility. In the work to which she had consecrated herself--the care of helpless and destitute infancy--she grew almost happy.
Already she seemed as dead to the world as though the "black vail" had fallen like a pall over her head. No newspapers ever drifted into the asylum, nor did any visitor come to bring intelligence of the good or evil of the life beyond the convent walls.
Her year of probation was passing away. At its close she would take the white vail and enter upon the second stage of her chosen vocation--her year of novitiate--at the end of which she would assume the black vail of the cloistered nun, which would seal her fate.
She knew that before taking that final step she must make some disposition of that vast inheritance which, in her flight from her home, she had left without one word of explanation or instruction. She was assured that her fortune was in the hands of honest men, and there she was content to leave it for the present. She had in her possession about a thousand pounds in money and several thousand pounds in diamonds--ample means for self-support and alms-giving.
And so she was satisfied for the present to leave her financial affairs as they were, until the time should come when it would be absolutely necessary for her to give attention to them.
Meanwhile, had she forgotten him who had once been the idol of her worship?
Ah, no! however diligently her eyes, her hands, her feet were employed in the service of the little children she loved so tenderly, her thoughts were with him. She loved him still! It seemed to her at once the sin and the curse of her life that she loved him still. She prayed daily to be delivered from "inordinate and sinful affections," but in this case prayer seemed of little use; for the more she prayed the more she loved and trusted him. It was a mystery she could not make out.
So the spring bloomed into summer, and the world outside became so disturbed and turbulent with "wars and rumors of wars," that its tumult was heard even within the peaceful convent sanctuary.
The news of the abdication of Her Most Catholic Majesty, Isabella II of Spain, fell like a thunderbolt upon the little community of the faithful in the convent; and nowhere, in the political conclaves of Prussia or of France, was the Spanish succession discussed with more intensity of interest than among the simple sisterhood of St. Rosalie.
Who would now fill the throne of the Western Caesars, left vacant by the abdication of their daughter, the Queen Isabella?
These were the topics which filled the minds and employed the tongues of the quiet nuns, whenever and wherever their rules permitted them to indulge in conversation.
No sound of this disturbance however penetrated the peaceful sphere of the Infants' Asylum, which, indeed, seemed to be the innermost retreat, or the holy of holies in the sanctuary.
Salome lived within it, the chief ministering angel, dispensing blessings all around her, and growing daily into deeper peace, until one fatal morning, when a great shock fell upon her.
It was a beautiful, bright morning near the end of June, and the day in regular rotation on which the mother-superior of the convent made her official rounds of inspection in the Infants' Asylum.
She arrived early, and, accompanied by Salome, went over every department of the asylum, from attic to cellar, from dormitory to recreation grounds, and found all well, and approved and delighted in the well-being.
After her long walk she sat down to rest in the children's play-room, and directed Salome to take a seat by her side.
The room was full of little children. Not seated in orderly rows, as we have too often seen in Infant Asylums on exhibition days; but moving about everywhere as freely as their little limbs would carry them, and making quite as much noise as their health and well-being certainly required.
Among them was little Marie Perdue, now a bright, fair, blue-eyed cherub of seven months old, seated on a mat, and tossing about with screams of delight a number of small, gay-hued India-rubber balls.
The abbess was watching the children with pleased attention, when one of the lay sisters entered and put a card in her hands, saying that the gentleman and lady were waiting at the porter's wicket, and desired permission to see the interior of the Infant Asylum.
"Certainly, they are welcome," said the abbess. "Go and tell Sister Francoise to be their guide."
The lay sister left the room, and the abbess gave her attention again to the children, making occasional remarks on their health, beauty, playfulness, and so forth, which were all sympathetically responded to by Salome, until they heard the sounds of approaching voices and footsteps, and the visiting party, escorted by Sister Francoise.
Then the abbess and her companion ceased speaking, and lowered their eyes to the floor until the strangers should pass them.
But the strangers lingered on their way, noticing individual children for beauty, or brightness, or some other trait which seemed to attract.
The gentleman, speaking French with an English accent, asked questions in too low a tone to reach the ears of the abbess and her companion; but the lady kept silence.
At length, as the visitors drew nearer, they came upon little Marie Perdue, sitting on her mat, engaged in tossing about her gay-colored balls, and laughing with delight.
"Whose child is that?" asked the gentleman, in a voice that thrilled to the heart of Salome.
She forgot herself, and looked up quickly, but the form of Sister Francoise, standing, concealed the figure of the speaker, who seemed to be stooping over the child.
"Ay! wha's bairn is it?" inquired another voice, that fell with ominous familiarity on her ear, as she turned her head a little and saw the female visitor, a tall, handsome blonde, with bold, blue eyes and a cataraet of golden hair falling on her shoulders.
Sister Francoise did not understand the language of the woman, and turned with a helpless and appealing look to the gentleman, who still speaking French with the slightly defective English accent, replied: "Madame asks whose child is that?"
"Oh, pardon! We do not know, Monsieur. It was left at our doors on the eighteenth of December last," replied Sister Francoise.
"A very fine child! Its name?"
"Marie Perdue." " 'Marie Perdue?' What? 'Marie Perdue?' What's 'Perdue?'" querulously inquired the tall, blonde beauty. " 'Thrown away,' 'lost,' 'abandoned,'" answered the gentleman, in a low voice.
As he spoke he stood up and turned around.
Salome uttered a low, half-suppressed cry, and covered her face with both hands.
The abbess impulsively looked up to see what was the matter, and--echoed the cry!
There was dead silence in the room for a minute, and then Salome lifted up her head and cautiously looked around.
The visitors had gone, and the children, who with child-like curiosity had suspended their play to gaze upon the strangers, were now re-commencing their noise with renewed vehemence.
Salome still trembling in every limb, turned toward her companion.
The abbess sat with clasped hands, lowered eyelids, and face as pale as death.
Salome, too much absorbed in her own emotion to notice the strange condition of the abbess, touched her on the shoulder and eagerly whispered: "Mother, did you observe the visitors?"
"Yes," breathed the lady, in a very low tone, without lifting her eyelids.
"Did you notice--_the man_?" Salome continued.
"I did," murmured the abbess, in an almost inaudible voice, as she devoutly made the sign of the cross.
"Do you know who he was?" " _I do. _" "He was like our Christmas visitor in the chapel! He was the Duke of Hereward!"
"Nay," said the abbess, in a stern solemn voice. "He was not the Duke of Hereward. He was one whom I had reckoned as numbered with the dead full twenty years ago!"
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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31
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THE ABBESS' STORY.
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"'Not the Duke of Hereward!'" echoed Salome, astonishment now overcoming every other emotion in her bosom.
The abbess bowed her head in grave assent. " 'One whom you thought numbered with the dead, full twenty years ago?'" continued Salome, quoting the lady's own words, and gazing on her face.
"Full twenty-five years ago, my daughter, or longer still," murmured the abbess.
"This man is young. He could not have been grown up to manhood twenty-five years ago."
"He is well preserved, as the selfish and heartless are too apt to be; but he is not young."
"And he is not the Duke of Hereward?"
"Most certainly not the Duke of Hereward."
"Then in the name of all the holy saints, madam, _who_ is he?" demanded Salome, in ever increasing amazement.
"He is the Count Waldemar de Volaski, once my betrothed husband, but who forsook me, as I have told you, for another and a fairer woman," gravely replied the abbess.
"Once your betrothed husband, madam! Great Heaven! are you sure of this?" exclaimed Salome, in consternation.
"Yes, sure of it," answered the abbess, slowly bending her head.
"But--pardon me--I thought that _he_ had been killed in a duel by the lover of the woman whom he had won."
"Even so thought I. The news of his falsehood and of his death at the hands of the wronged lover, came to me in my convent retreat at the same time, and I heard no more of him from that day to this, when I have again seen him in the flesh. The saints defend us!"
"And you are absolutely certain that he was Count Waldemar?"
"I am absolutely certain."
"Mother Genevieve, did you know the woman who was with him?"
"No, not at all. I never saw or heard of her before. She seems to belong to the _demi-monde_, for she dresses like a princess, and talks like a peasant. Let us not speak of her," said the lady, coldly.
"We _must_ speak of her, for I think I know who she is."
"You recognize her, then?"
"I cannot say that I do; at least, not by her person. I never saw her face before; but I have heard her voice under circumstances that rendered it impossible for me ever to forget its tones; and from her voice I believe her to be Rose Cameron, a Highland peasant girl of Ben Lone."
"Stop!" exclaimed the mother-superior, suddenly raising her hand. "You do not mean to intimate that _she_ is the girl whom you overheard talking with the young Duke of Hereward at midnight, under your balcony, on the night before the murder of Sir Lemuel Levison?"
"She is the very same woman, as he is the very same man, who _planned_, if they did not perpetrate the robbery--who _caused_, if they did not commit, the murder; and their names are John Scott, Duke of Hereward, and Rose Cameron."
"My daughter, in regard to the girl you may be quite right; but in respect to the man you are utterly wrong."
"Should I not know my own betrothed husband?" demanded Salome, impatiently.
"Should _I_ not know _mine_?" inquired the abbess, very patiently.
Salome made a gesture of desperate perplexity, and then there was a silent pause, during which the two women sat gazing in each other's faces in silent wonder.
Suddenly Salome started up in wild excitement and began pacing the narrow cell with rapid steps, exclaiming: "There have been strange cases of counterparts in persons of this world so exact as to have deceived the eyes of their most intimate friends. If this should be a case in point! Great Heaven, if it should! If this Count Waldemar de Volaski should be such a perfect counterpart of the Duke of Hereward as to have deceived even my eyes and ears! Oh, what joy! Oh, what rapture! What ecstacy to find 'the princely Hereward' as stainless in honor as he is noble in name; and this most unprincipled Volaski the real guilty party! But--the marriage certificate in Hereward's own name! The letters to his so-called 'wife,' Rose Cameron, in Hereward's own handwriting! Ah, no! there is no hope! not the faintest beam of hope! And yet--" She suddenly paused in her wild walk, and looked toward the abbess.
That lady was still sitting on the stool, at the foot of the cot, with her hands folded on her lap, and her eyes cast down upon them as in deep thought or prayer.
Salome sat down beside her, and inquired in a low tone: "Mother Genevieve, was the Count Waldemar de Volaski ever in Scotland? Has he been there within the last twelve months?"
The lady lifted her eyes to the face of the inquirer, and slowly replied: "My daughter, how should I know? Have I not said that, until this day, when I have seen him in the flesh standing in this room, I had believed him to have been in purgatory for twenty-five years or more?"
"True! true!" sighed Salome.
The abbess folded her hands, cast down her eyes, and resumed her meditations or prayers.
"You heard that he was killed in a duel, you say?" persevered Salome.
"Yes; the news of his treachery, and the news of his death at the hands of the Duke of Hereward reached me at the same moment in this convent, where I was then passing the first year of mourning for my parents. It was that news which decided me to take the vail and devote my life and fortune to the service of the Lord," said the lady, reverently bending her head.
Salome sat staring stonily as one petrified. She was absolutely speechless and motionless from amazement for the space of a minute or more. Then suddenly recovering her powers, she exclaimed: "Mother! Mother Genevieve! For Heaven's sake! Did I understand you? From _whose_ hand did you hear Count Waldemar received his death in a duel?"
"From the hand of the deeply injured husband, of course."
"But--who was he? Who? You mentioned a name!" wildly exclaimed Salome.
"Did I mention a name? Ah! what inadvertence! I never intended to let that name slip out. I am very sorry to have done so. _Mea Culpa! Mea Culpa! Mea maxima culpa! _" muttered the abbess, bending her head and smiting her bosom.
"Mother Genevieve! Oh, do not trifle with me! _do_ not torture me! I heard a name! Did I hear aright? Oh, I hope I did not! What name did you murmur? Tell me! tell me! WHO met Count Waldemar in a duel?" demanded Salome.
"I have no choice but to tell you now, though I would willingly have kept the fact from you. It _was_ the Duke of Hereward, the late duke of course, the deeply-wronged lover of that fair woman, who met, and, as I heard, killed Count Waldemar de Volaski. But there were wrongs on both sides, deep, deadly wrongs on every side!" moaned the lady, clasping her hands convulsively and lowering her eyes.
"The Duke of Hereward! Heaven of heavens! the Duke of Hereward! Yes! I heard aright the first time; but I could not believe my own ears! The father of my betrothed!" murmured Salome, sinking back in her seat.
The abbess gravely bent her head.
"What of the frail woman? She was not--oh! no, she _could not_ have been the mother of the present duke?"
"No," murmured the abbess, in a low voice.
"Mother Genevieve!" exclaimed Salome, suddenly, "will you tell me all you know of this terrible story?"
"My daughter, my past is dead and buried these many years; so I would leave it until the last great day of the Resurrection. Nevertheless, as the story of my life is interwoven with that of the princely line in whom you feel so deep an interest, I will relate it."
"Thanks, good mother," said Salome, nestling to her side and preparing to listen.
"Not here, and not now, my child, can I enter upon the long, sorrowful, shameful story--a story of pride, despotism and cruelty on one side; of passion, wilfulness and recklessness on the other; of selfishness, sin and ruin on all sides! Daughter, in almost every tale of sin and suffering you will find that there has always been sin on _one_ side and suffering on the _other_; but in this story _all_ sinned deeply, all suffered fearfully!"
"Except yourself, sweet mother. You never sinned," said Salome, taking the thin, pale hand of the lady and pressing it to her lips. " _Mea culpa! _ I sin every hour of my life!" cried the abbess, crossing herself.
"We all do; but you did not sin _there_," said the girl.
"I had no part--no active part, I mean--in that tale of guilt and woe. I was a pupil here in this convent then, waiting to be brought out and married to my betrothed. No, I had no part in that tragedy."
"Except the passive part of suffering."
"Ay, except the passive part of suffering; but hark, my child! the vesper bell is ringing; it calls us to our evening worship: let us go to the choir, and there forget all our earthly cares and seek the peace of Heaven," said the pale lady, slowly rising from her seat.
"When will you tell me the story, good mother?" pleaded Salome, in a low and deprecating tone.
"The vesper bell is ringing. The rules of the house must not be disturbed by your individual necessities. After the evening service comes the evening meal. Then, for me, my hour of rest in my cell; and for you, the duty of seeing your infant charge put to bed. When all these matters have been properly attended to, come to me in my cell. You will find me there. We shall be uninterrupted until the midnight mass; and in the interim I will tell you the story of a life that 'was lost, but is found, was dead, but is alive'--_Benedicite_, my daughter!" said the abbess, spreading her hands upon the bowed head of the girl, and solemnly blessing her.
Then she glided away.
Salome soon followed her, and joined the procession of nuns to the chapel.
As soon as she took her seat in the choir, she looked through the screen over the congregation below, to see if the strangers were in the chapel; but she saw them not.
When the vesper service was over, she took her tea with the nuns in their refectory; and then returned to the play-room in the Infants' Asylum.
The nurses were engaged in giving the little ones their supper, and putting them to bed.
Salome took up her own little Marie Perdue, to undress her.
As she divested the child of her little slip, something rolled out of its bosom and dropped upon the floor.
One of the nurses picked it up and handed it to Salome.
It was a small, hard substance, wrapped in tissue paper.
Salome unrolled it and found a ring, set with a large solitaire diamond. With a cry of surprise and pain, she recognized the jewel. It was her late father's ring! While she gazed upon it in a trance of wonder, the paper in which it had been wrapped, caught by a breeze from the open window, fluttered under her eyes. She saw that there was writing on the paper, and she took it up and read it.
"The ring must be sold for the benefit of the child and of the house that has protected her. She must be educated to become a nun."
There was no signature to this paper.
Salome rolled it around the ring again, and put it in her bosom, then she sent one of the nurses to call Sister Francoise.
When the old nun came into her presence, she inquired: "Sister Francoise, you showed a lady and gentleman through the asylum, this afternoon; they came into this room; they stopped and noticed little Marie Perdue particularly. Did they ask any questions or make any remarks concerning her? I have an especial reason for asking."
"Oh, yes, sister! they did ask many questions--when she came, how long she had been, who took care of her, what was her name, and many more; and as I answered them to the best of my knowledge, I could not help seeing that they knew more about the child than I did," answered the nun, nodding her head.
"Did the gentleman or lady give anything to the child?"
"Not that _I_ saw, which I thought unkind of them, considering all the interest they showed in _words_; for, as I say of all the fine ladies who come here and fondle the infants, what's the use of all the fondling if they never put a sou out, or a stitch in?"
"That will do, sister; I only wanted to know," answered the young lady, as she determined to keep her own counsel, and confide the news of the surreptitiously offered ring to the abbess only.
When she had rocked her child to sleep, laid it on its little cot, and placed two novices on duty to watch over the slumbers of the children, she left the dormitory by the rectangular passage that led to the nuns' house, and repaired at once to the cell occupied by the abbess.
It was a plain little den, in no respect better than those tenanted by her humble nuns, twelve feet long, by nine broad, with bare walls, and bare floor, and a small grated window at the farther end, opposite the narrow, grated door by which the cell was entered. It was furnished poorly with a narrow cot bed, a wooden stool, and a small stand, upon which lay the office-book of the abbess, and above which hung the crucifix.
As Salome entered the cell, the abbess arose from her knees and signed for her visitor to be seated.
Salome sat down on the foot of the cot, and the abbess drew the stool and placed herself near.
Then Salome saw the lady-superior was even paler and graver than usual; and anxious as the young lady felt to hear the abbess' story, she thought she would give her more time to recover, and even assist her in doing so, by diverting her thoughts to the new incident of the ring, which she produced and laid upon the mother's lap, saying: "That was found by me in the bosom of little Marie Perdue's dress. It was donated to the house, for the benefit of the child. Here is the scrap of writing in which it was rolled."
The abbess silently took up the ring and the paper, and examined the first and read the last, saying: "Such mysterious donations to the children are not uncommon, and are generally supposed to be offered by the unknown parents. This, however, is by far the most valuable present that has ever been made by any one to the institution, and must be worth at least a thousand Napoleons. It was made by the visitors of this morning, I suppose?"
"Yes, madam, it was."
"I see, I understand. Take charge of it, my daughter, until we can deliver it to the sister-treasurer," directed the lady-superior, as she replaced the ring in its wrapper and returned both to Salome.
"But, mother, I wish myself to become the purchaser of this ring. I have a thousand pounds with me. I will give them for the ring."
"My daughter!" exclaimed the abbess in surprise. "Why should you wish to possess this bauble? It can be of no use to you in the life you are about to enter, even if the rules of our order would permit you to retain it, which you know they would not."
"Mother! it was my father's ring! It was a part of the property stolen from him on the night of his murder," solemnly answered Salome.
"Holy saints! can that be true?" exclaimed the abbess.
"As true as truth. I know the ring well. He always wore it on his finger. Inside the setting is his monogram, 'L.L.,' and his crest, a falcon," answered Salome, once more unwrapping the ring and offering it to the inspection of the lady-superior.
"I see! I see! It is so. Ah, Holy Virgin! that it should have been offered by Count Waldemar, or by him whom you overheard conspiring with his female companion under the windows on the night of your father's murder!" cried the abbess, covering her face with a fold of her black vail.
"Count Waldemar, or the duke of Hereward, I know not which, I know not whom. Oh! mother, this mystery grows deeper, this confusion more confounded."
"Take back your ring, my child, and keep it without price. It was your father's, and it is yours. We cannot receive stolen goods even as alms offered to our orphans," said the abbess, dropping her vail and returning the jewel.
"I will take it and keep it because it was my dear father's; but I will give a full equivalent for its value. No one could object to that," said Salome, as she replaced the ring in her bosom. "And now, Mother Genevieve, will you tell me the promised story? It may possibly throw some light even upon this dark mystery."
The pale abbess bowed assent, and immediately began the narrative, which, for the Sake of convenience, we prefer to render in our own words.
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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32
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THE DUKE'S DOUBLE.
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First it is necessary to revert to the history of the Scotts of Lone, Dukes of Hereward.
He who married Salome Levison was the eighth of his princely line. Any one turning to Burke's Peerage of the preceding year, might have read this record of the late duke: "Hereward, Duke of, (Archibald-Alexander-John Scott) Marquis of Arondelle and Avondale in the Peerage of England, Earl of Lone and Baron Scott in the Peerage of Scotland; born, 1st of Jan., 1800; succeeded his father as seventh duke, 1st Feb., 1840; married, first, March 15th, 1843, Valerie, only daughter of Constantine, Baron de la Motte; divorced, Nov, 1st, 1844; married, secondly, July 15th, 1845, Lady Katherine-Augusta, eldest daughter of the Earl of Banff, and has a son--Archibald-Alexander-John, Marquis of Arondelle, born 1st of May, 1846."
A whole domestic tragedy is comprised in one line of this record: "Married, first, March 15th, 1843, Valerie, only daughter of Constantine, Baron de la Motte; divorced, Nov. 1st, 1844."
Now as to this poor, unhappy first wife: Some few years before this first fatal marriage, the Baron de la Motte, one of the most illustrious French statesmen, was dispatched by his sovereign as Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary from the Court of France to the Court of Russia.
The baron, with his suite, proceeding to St. Petersburg, accompanied by the baroness, a handsome Italian woman, and by their only child, Valerie, a beautiful brunette of only seventeen summers.
Valerie de la Motte was first introduced to the world of fashion at a great court ball, given by the Czar, in honor of the French Ambassador, in the Imperial Palace of Annitchkoff.
On this occasion the dark, brilliant beauty of Mademoiselle de la Motte, inherited from her Italian mother, was the more admired from its rarity and its perfect contrast to the radiant fairness of the Russian blondes. Here Valerie de la Motte met, for the first time, Waldemar de Volaski, the second son of the Polish Count de Volaski, and a captain of the Royal Guards, stationed at the palace. He was but twenty years of age, yet a model of fair, manly beauty. He was even then called "the handsomest man in all the Russias."
There was a Romeo and Juliet case of love at first sight between the young Russian officer and the youthful French heiress.
During the first season, the beauty's hand was sought by some among the most princely of the nobles that surrounded the throne of the Czar; but, to the disappointment of her ambitious parents, she refused them every one.
Certainly the French father might have followed the custom of his class and country, and coerced his young daughter into the acceptance of any husband he might have chosen for her; but he did not feel disposed to use harsh measures with his only and idolized child; he rather preferred to exercise patience and forbearance toward her, until she should have outlived what he called her childish caprices.
It was, however, no childish caprice that governed the conduct of Valerie de la Motte, but the unfortunate and fatal passion, inspired by the handsome young captain of the Royal Guards, whom she had waltzed with about a half a dozen times at the court balls.
Waldemar de Volaski was indeed as beautiful as the youthful god, Apollo Belvidere, and in his radiant blonde complexion a perfect contrast to the dark, splendid style of the lovely brunette, Valerie de la Motte; but he was only a younger son, with no hope or prospect of succession to his father's title or estates.
He did not dare openly to seek the hand of Mademoiselle de la Motte, for he knew that to do so would only be to have himself banished forever from her presence, by her ambitious father; but, loving her with all the passion of his heart, he sought secretly to win her love, and he succeeded.
It would seem strange that the carefully shielded daughter of the French minister should have been exposed to courtship by the young captain of the Royal Guards; but love is fertile in devices, and full of expedients, and "laughs," not only "at locksmiths," but at all other obstacles to its success.
The willful young pair loved each other ardently from the first evening of their meeting, and they could not endure to think of such a possibility as their separation. They found many opportunities, even in public, of carrying on their secret courtship. In the swimming turn of the waltz, hands clasped hands with more impassioned earnestness than the formula of the round dance required: in the casual meetings in the fashionable promenades of the beautiful summer gardens in Aptekarskoi Island-- "Eyes looked love to eyes that spake again. And all went merry as a marriage bell," so long as they could see each other every day.
As the summer passed, the young captain, grown more confident, wrote ardent love letters to his lady, which were surreptitiously slipped into her hands at casual meetings, or conveyed to her by means of bribed domestics; and these the willful beauty answered in the same spirit, as opportunity was offered her by the same means. But-- "A change came o'er the spirit of their dream."
The French minister was recalled home by his sovereign, and only awaited the arrival of his successor to take an official leave of the Czar.
About this time a letter from Volaski to Valerie was sent by the captain's faithful valet, and put in the hands of the lady's confidential maid, who secretly conveyed it to her mistress. This letter, which was fiery enough to have set any ordinary post-bag in a blaze, declared, among other matters, that the lady's answer would decide the writer's fate, for life or for death.
Mademoiselle de la Motte sat down and wrote a reply which she sent by her confidential maid, who placed it in the hands of the captain's faithful valet, to be secretly carried to his master.
Whether the answer decided the fate of the lover for life or for death, it certainly controlled his action in an important matter. Immediately on its receipt he hastened to the Hotel de l'Etat Major, the headquarters of the army department, and solicited a month's leave of absence to visit his father's family.
As it was the very first occasion upon which the young officer had asked such a favor, it was promptly granted him.
Of course no one suspected that the cause of the young captain's action had been the announcement that the French minister had been recalled by his government, and was about to return to Paris.
The next day Waldemar de Volaski left St. Petersburg, ostensibly to visit his father's estates in Poland.
And the next week the French minister, having presented his successor to the Czar, and received his own conge, left the court and the city, and set out for France.
The ministerial party travelled by the new railway from St. Petersburg to Warsaw, a distance of nearly seven hundred miles.
At the capital of Poland they designed to stop a few days to rest the baroness, whose health was suffering.
One day while in that city the baroness, her daughter, and the lady's maid, went out together, shopping for curiosities in the Marieville Bazaar, a square in the midst of the city, surrounded by many gay arcades.
The square was full of visitors, and every arcade was crowded with customers.
The baroness became somewhat interested in her purchases, and from moment to moment turned to consult her daughter, who seemed ever ready so assist her choice.
At length, however, in speaking to Mademoiselle de la Motte, her mother failed to receive an answer.
Turning to rebuke the inattention of her daughter, the baroness discovered that Valerie was missing.
Thinking only that she had got mixed up with the crowd, yet feeling very much annoyed thereat, Madam de la Motte called her maid and instituted a search, only to find, with dismay, that Mademoiselle was nowhere in the square.
Believing then that the young girl must have taken the extraordinary and very reprehensible proceeding of returning to the hotel alone and resolving to give her daughter a severe reprimand for her imprudence, the baroness returned to their temporary home, only to learn that Mademoiselle de la Motte had not been seen there by any one since she had left the house in company with her mother, attended by her maid.
Fearing then that her daughter, in rashly attempting to return home alone, had lost herself in the streets of Warsaw, the baroness sent messengers in every direction to seek for her and guide her back.
Meanwhile the Baron de la Motte, who had been to inspect the fine gallery of paintings preserved in the old villa of Stanislaus Augustus, returned to his hotel, and was informed by the now half distracted baroness of the disappearance of their daughter.
The Baron, struck with dismay, inquired into the circumstances of the case, and was told of the shopping expedition to the Marieville Bazaar, where Valerie was first missed.
"It was at her own earnest solicitation that I took her there, to pick up some of the curiously carved jewelry and trinkets. First, she wished, in consideration of my health, to go there attended only by her maid; but I would not allow any such indiscretion. I took her there myself, and even while I was talking with her before one of the arcades, she vanished like a spirit! One moment she was there, the next moment she was gone! We looked for her immediately, but found no trace of her."
The baron replied not one word to this explanation, but took his hat and walked out to join the search for the missing girl, while the baroness remained in her rooms, a prey to the most poignant anxiety.
It was near midnight when the baron returned, looking full ten years older than he did when he went forth.
No trace of the missing girl had been found, and whether her disappearance was a flight or an abduction no one could even conjecture.
The condition of the agonized mother became critical; she could not be persuaded to lie down, or to cease from her restless walking to and fro in her chamber.
At length, a physician was summoned, who administered a potent sedative, which conquered her nervous excitement, and laid her in a blessed sleep upon her bed.
The next morning the search, which had not been quite abandoned even during the night, was renewed with great vigor, stimulated by the large rewards offered by the afflicted father for the recovery of his lost child; but still no trace of Valerie de la Motte could be found, no news of her be heard.
And so, without any change a week passed away, and then, while the baroness lay in extreme nervous prostration, hovering between life and death, and the baron crept about her bed like a man bowed down by the infirmities of age, and all hope seemed gone, a letter arrived from Mademoiselle de la Motte to her parents.
It was written from San Vito, a small mountain hamlet in the northern part of Italy. By this letter she informed them that she was safe and happy as the wife of Captain Waldemar de Volaski, who had long possessed her heart, and to whom she had just given her hand. She begged her father and mother to pardon her for having sought her happiness in her own way, and assured them, notwithstanding her seemingly unfilial conduct, she still cherished the strongest sentiments of love and honor toward them both, and ever remained their dutiful and affectionate daughter--VALERIE DE LA MOTTE DE VOLASKI.
The mother, who under any other circumstances, would have been overwhelmed with mortification and sorrow at this _mesalliance_ of her daughter, was now so glad to know that Valerie was alive in health, even though as the bride of a poor young captain of the Guards, that she thanked Heaven earnestly, and rejoiced exceedingly.
But the baron who would as willingly have never heard of his lost daughter, as that she had so degraded herself, left his wife's bed-chamber abruptly, and went off to his smoking-room, where he could vent his feelings by cursing and swearing to his heart's content.
The next day the Baron de la Motte, breathing maledictions, set out for Italy, accompanied by the baroness, who had wonderfully rallied in health and strength since she had received news of her missing daughter.
The proud baroness was, in one respect, like the poor Hebrew mother of the Bible story. She preferred to give up her child to another claimant rather than lose that beloved child by death.
The baron's party traveled day and night, without pause or rest, until they crossed the northern frontier of Italy, and halted at the little hamlet of San Vito, at the foot of the Apennines.
Here they found the fugitive pair living a sort of Arcadian life: and here they learned the facts which they had not hitherto even suspected.
Captain Waldemar de Volaski and Mademoiselle Valerie de la Motte had loved each other from the first moment of their meeting at the ball given in honor of the French minister, at the Imperial Palace of Annitchkoff, and had betrothed themselves to each other during the first month of their acquaintance. They had kept their betrothal a secret, only because they felt assured it would meet with the most violent opposition from the young lady's haughty parents; but they had carried on a constant epistolary correspondence through the instrumentality of the lover's valet and the lady's maid; but they had not intended to take any decisive step, until, at length, they were both startled by the recall home of the French minister.
When the announcement of this event reached the ears of Waldemar de Volaski, he was filled with despair at the prospect of parting from his betrothed.
He instantly dashed off a hasty letter to Valerie de la Motte, earnestly entreating her to save his life, and his reason, and secure their happiness, by consenting to an immediate marriage.
Mademoiselle de la Motte, closing her ears to the voice of conscience and discretion, and listening only to the pleadings of a reckless and fatal passion, wrote a favorable answer.
They knew that their plan would be exceedingly difficult of execution; but this did not deter them.
They made their arrangements with more tact than could have been expected of so youthful a pair of lovers.
He obtained leave of absence and left St. Petersburg, as has been stated, upon the pretext of visiting his father's estate in Poland; but really with the intention of preceding the minister's party to Warsaw, where, he had learned, they would break their journey and remain for a few days to recruit the strength of the baroness.
There, disguised as a peasant, and concealed in the suburban cottage of a faithful retainer of his family, Waldemar de Volaski waited for the arrival of the baron's party.
Then, through the instrumentality of the lover's valet and the lady's maid, a meeting was arranged between the imprudent young pair, at the Marieville Bazaar.
There Mademoiselle de la Motte found her lover watching for her.
Taking advantage of a few minutes during which her mother was engaged in the examination of some curious malachite ornaments, Valerie de la Motte slipped into the thickest of the crowd, joined her lover, and escaped with him to the suburban hut of the old retainer, where she changed her clothes, and from whence, in the disguise of a page, and carrying her female apparel in a small valise, she finally fled with him to Italy.
They stopped at the little mountain hamlet of San Vito, where she resumed her proper dress, and where, by a lavish expenditure of money, and a liberal disbursement of fair words, Waldemar de Volaski prevailed on a priest to perform the marriage ceremony between himself and Valerie de la Motte.
When this was done, the reckless pair took lodgings at a vine-dresser's cottage in the neighborhood of the hamlet, to spend their honeymoon, and wait for "coming events."
The coming events came. The parents arrived, and found the lovers living carelessly and happily in their Arcadian home. Here the outraged and infuriated father thundered into the ears of the newly-married pair the terrible truth that their marriage was no marriage at all without his consent, but was utterly null and void in the law.
At this astounding revelation, Valerie, overwhelmed with humiliation, fainted and fell, and was tenderly cared for by her mother; but the gallant captain very coolly replied that he knew the fact perfectly well, and had always known it, although Mademoiselle de la Motte had not even suspected it; and he ventured to represent to the haughty baron, that their illegal marriage only required the sanction of his silent recognition to render it perfectly legal, and that for his daughter's own sake he was bound to give it such recognition.
This aroused the baron to a perfect frenzy of rage. He charged Volaski with having traded in Mademoiselle de la Motte's affections and honor, from selfish and mercenary motives alone, and swore that such deep, calculating villainy should avail the villain nothing. He would not ratify his daughter's marriage with such a caitiff, but would use his parental power to tear her from her unlawful husband's arms, and immure her in the living tomb of an Italian convent.
He finished by dashing his open hand with all his strength full into the mouth of the bridegroom, inflicting a severe blow, and covering the handsome face with blood.
Valerie de la Motte, in a fainting condition, was placed in the cart of a vine-dresser, the only conveyance to be found, and carried to a neighboring nunnery, where she lay ill for several weeks, tenderly nursed by her sorrowful mother and by the compassionate nuns.
The Baron de la Motte remained in the village, awaiting a challenge from Waldemar de Volaski; but when a week had passed away without such an event, the furious old Frenchman, bent upon his enemy's destruction, dispatched a defiance to Captain Volaski, couched in such insulting and exasperating language as compelled the young officer, much against his will, to accept it.
They met to fight their duel in a secluded glade of the forest, lying between the hamlet and the foot of the mountains.
At the first fire, Volaski, who was resolved not to wound the father of his beloved Valerie, discharged his pistol in the air, but instantly fell, shot through the lungs by the Baron de la Motte!
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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33
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AFTER THE EARTHQUAKE.
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The Baron de la Motte, leaving Captain de Volaski stretched on the ground, to be cared for by the seconds and the surgeon in attendance, went back to the hotel and made preparations to leave San Vito.
Mademoiselle de la Motte, still very weak from recent illness, was placed in a carriage at the risk of her life, and compelled to commence the journey back to France.
Madame de la Motte, grieved with the grief and anxious for the health of her daughter, dared not show the sufferer any pity or kindness.
Monsieur de la Motte was no longer the tender and affectionate father he had hitherto shown himself: for, in his bitter mortification and fierce resentment, his love seemed turned to hatred, his sympathy to antipathy.
The attenuated form, the pale face, and the sunken eyes of his once beautiful child, failed to move his compassion for her. He told her with brutal cruelty that he had slain her lover in the duel, and left him dead upon the ground; and that she must think no more of the villain who had dishonored her family.
On arriving in Paris, the baron established his household in the magnificent Hotel de la Motte, in the most aristocratic quarter of the city; and here began for Valerie a life that was a very purgatory on earth.
At home, if her purgatory could be called her home, she was studiously and habitually treated with scorn and contempt, as a creature unworthy to bear the family name, or share the family honors; until at length the child herself began to look upon her fault in the light her father wished her to see it, and with such exaggerating eyes, withal, that she came to think of herself as a dishonored criminal, unworthy even to live. Her grief sank to horror, and her depression to despair.
She was treated as an outcast in all respects but one, and this exception was an additional cruelty; for she was introduced into the gay world of fashion, and compelled to mix in all its festivities, at the same time being sternly warned that if this same world should suspect her fault, she would not be received in any drawing-room in Paris.
Valerie was too broken-spirited to answer by telling the truth, that the world and the world's favor had lost all attraction for her, who would willingly have retired from it forever.
Valerie was presented to society as Mademoiselle de la Motte, and nothing was said of her stolen marriage with the young Russian officer.
That season was perhaps the gayest Paris had ever known during the quiet reign of the citizen king and queen. Brilliant festivities in honor of the Spanish marriages were the order of the days and nights. Representatives from every court in Europe were present, as special messengers of congratulation--or expostulation; for it will be remembered the Spanish marriages were not universally popular with the sovereigns of Europe.
Among the representatives of the English Court, present at the Tuileries, was the seventh Duke of Hereward, recently come into his titles and estates.
It was at a ball at the Tuileries that Valerie de la Motte first met the Duke of Hereward, then a very handsome man of middle age, of accomplished mind and courtly address. The beautiful, pale, grave brunette at once interested the English duke more than all the blooming and vivacious beauties at the French capital could do. At every ball, dinner, concert, play, or other place of amusement where Mademoiselle de la Motte appeared with her parents, the Duke of Hereward sought her out; and the more he saw of her, the more interested he became in her; and it must be confessed that the conversation of this handsome and accomplished man of middle age pleased the grave, sedate girl more than that of younger and gayer men could have done.
The duke, on his part, was not slow to perceive his advantage, and he would willingly have paid his addresses to Mademoiselle de la Motte in person, and won her heart and hand for himself, before speaking to her father on the subject; but as such a proceeding would not have been in accordance with the customs of the country, no opportunity was allowed him to do so; for whereas in England, or America, a suitor must win the favor of his lady before he asks that of her parents, in France the process is precisely the reverse of all this, and the lover must have the sanction of the father or mother, or both, before he may dare to woo the daughter; and this rule of etiquette holds good in all cases except in those of stolen marriages, which are illegal and disreputable.
It was not long, therefore, before the Duke or Hereward called at the Hotel de la Motte, and requested a private interview with the baron, which was promptly and politely accorded.
The duke then and there made known to the baron the state of his affections, and formally solicited the hand of Mademoiselle Valerie de la Motte in marriage.
The "mad duke" was not then mad; he had not squandered his princely fortune; his dukedom was one of the wealthiest as well as one of the oldest in the United Kingdom; the marriage he offered the baron's daughter was one of the most brilliant (under royalty) in Europe.
The baron did not hesitate a moment, but promptly accepted the proposals of the duke in behalf of his daughter.
The Duke of Hereward hurried away, the happiest man in Europe.
The Baron de la Motte went and informed his daughter that she must prepare to receive the middle-aged suitor as her future husband.
Now, Valerie, in a languid way, liked the Duke of Hereward better than any one else in the whole world except her mother, but she did not like him in the character of a husband. The idea of marriage even with him was abhorrent to her. In her first surprise and dismay at the announcement of the duke's proposal for her hand, and her father's acceptance of that proposal, she betrayed all the unconquerable antipathy she felt to the contemplated marriage; but in vain she wept and pleaded to be left in peace; to be left to die; to be sent to a convent; to be disposed of in any way rather than in marriage!
The baron was no longer a tender and compassionate father, but a ruthless and implacable tyrant.
Valerie's life had been a purgatory before, it was a hell now. She was covered with reproach, contumely and threats by her father; she was lectured and mourned over by her mother; and when her mother at length took sides with her father, in urging her to this marriage, the very ground seemed to have slidden from beneath her feet; she had not a friend in the world to whom to turn in her distress.
Meanwhile the Duke of Hereward was impatiently awaiting the promised summons to the Hotel de la Motte to meet Mademoiselle Valerie as his future wife.
Valerie believed that her young lover-husband had been slain in the duel with her father; and that she was free to bestow her hand, if she could not give her broken heart; she was worn out with the ignominious reproaches heaped upon her by her father; by the tears and sighs lavished upon her by her mother; by all the humiliation and degradations of her daily life, and by the dreariness and desolation of her home. She longed for peace and rest; she would gladly have sought them in a convent had she been permitted to do so, or in the grave, had she dared.
I repeat that she did not dislike the Duke of Hereward; but on the contrary, she liked him better than any one else in the world except her mother, and so it followed that at length she began to look upon a marriage with him as the only possible refuge from the horrors of her home.
What wonder, then, that, goaded and taunted by her father, implored by her mother, solicited by the handsome duke, believing her young lover to be dead, slain by the hands of her father, longing to escape from the persecutions of her family, prostrated in body and mind, broken in heart and in spirit, Valerie at last succumbed to the pressure brought to bear upon her, and accepted the refuge of the Duke of Hereward's love, although the very next moment, in honor of herself and him, she would willingly have recalled her decision, if she could have done so.
From the moment that her acceptance of the duke's proposal was announced to her parents, the domestic sky cleared; her ruthless tyrant became again her tender father; her weeping mother brightened into smiles; she herself was once more the petted daughter of the house, and her lover showed himself the proudest and happiest of men; and Valerie de la Motte would have been at peace but for her consciousness of the secret that they were all keeping from the duke.
"Mamma, he ought to be told, he is so good, so noble, so confiding. I feel like a wretch in deceiving him; he ought to be told of my fault before he commits himself by marrying me," she pleaded with her mother.
"Valerie, you frighten me half to death! Do not dream of such a folly as telling the duke anything about your mad imprudence in running away with the young Russian! It would make a great and terrible scandal! Your father would kill you, I do believe! Besides, for that fault, committed while you were in our keeping and under our authority, you are accountable only to me and to your father. Your betrothed husband has nothing to do with it. No good would come of your telling it; no harm can come of your keeping it. The wild partner of your imprudence is dead and buried, the saints be praised! and so he can never rise up to trouble your peace. While you are here with us, and under our authority, you must obey us, and hold your peace, and keep your secret," said the baroness.
"Come weal, come woe, my honor requires that this secret should be told to the noble and confiding gentleman who is about to make me his wife," murmured Valerie.
"Your honor, Mademoiselle, is in the keeping of your father, until, by giving you in marriage, he passes it into the keeping of your husband. You are not to concern yourself about it. If your father should deem that your 'honor' demands your secret to be confided to your betrothed husband, he will divulge it to him: if he does not divulge it, then rest assured honor does not require him to do so. Now let us hear no more about it."
Valerie sighed and yielded, but she was not satisfied.
The betrothal was immediately announced to the world, and the marriage, which soon followed, was celebrated in the church of Notre Dame with the greatest _eclat_.
Directly after the wedding the duke took his bride on a long tour, extending over Europe and into Asia; and after an absence of several months, carried her to England, and settled down for the autumn on his English patrimonial estate, Hereward Hold, (for Castle Lone was then a ruin and Inch Lone a wilderness, which no one had yet dreamed of rebuilding and restoring.)
The youthful duchess, in her quiet English home, was like Louise la Valliere in the Convent of St. Cyr, "not joyous, but content."
She tried to make her noble husband happy, by fulfilling all the duties of a wife--_except one_. She knew a wife should have no secrets from her husband, yet, in her fear of disturbing the sweet domestic peace, in which her wearied spirit rested, she kept from him the secret of her first wild marriage.
At the meeting of Parliament in February, the Duke of Hereward took his beautiful young wife to London, and established her in their magnificent town-house--Hereward House, Kensington.
At the first Royal drawing-room at Buckingham Palace, the young duchess was presented to the queen, and soon after she commenced her career as a woman of fashion by giving a grand ball at Hereward House.
The Duke of Hereward was very fond and very proud of his lovely young bride, whose beauty soon became the theme of London clubs--though invidious critics insisted that she was much too pale and grave ever to become a reigning belle.
Yes, she was very pale and grave; peaceful, not happy.
Scarcely twelve months had passed since she had been cruelly torn from the idolized young husband of her youth and thrown into a convent, where the only news that she heard of him was, that he had been killed in a duel with her ruthless father. She had mourned for him in secret, without hope and without sympathy, and before the first year of her widowhood had passed--a widowhood she had been sternly forbidden by her father either to bewail or even to acknowledge--she had been driven by a series of unprecedented persecutions to give her hand where she could not give her broken heart, and to go to the altar with a deadly secret on her conscience, if not with a lie on her lips!
Now her persecutions had ceased, indeed; but not her sorrows. Her home was quiet and honored, her middle-aged husband was kind and considerate, and she loved him with filial affection and reverence; but she could not forget the husband of her youth, slain by her father; his memory was a tender sorrow cherished in the depths of her heart, the only living sentiment there, for it seemed dead to all else.
"If he were a living lover," she whispered to herself, "I should be bound by every consideration of honor and duty to cast him out of my heart--if I could! But for my dead boy, my husband, slain in the flower of his youth for my sake, I may cherish remembrance and sorrow."
Thus, it is no wonder that she moved through the splendor of her first London season, a beautiful, pale, grave Melpomene.
But the splendor of that season was soon to be dimmed.
News came by telegraph to the Duke of Hereward, announcing the sudden death of the Baron de la Motte, of apoplexy, in Paris.
Now much has been said and written about the ingratitude of children; but quite as much might be said of their indestructible affection. The Baron de la Motte had shown himself a very cruel father to his only child; he had shot down her young husband in a duel; yet, notwithstanding all that, Valerie was wild with grief at the news of his sudden death. She wondered, poor child, if she herself had not had some hand in bringing it on by all the trouble she had given him, although that trouble had passed away now more than twelve months since; and the late baron was known to have been a man of full habit and excitable temperament, and, withal, a heavy feeder and hard drinker--a very fit subject for apoplexy to strike down at any moment.
The Duke and Duchess of Hereward hastened to Paris, where they found the remains of the baron laid in state in the great saloon of the Hotel de la Motte, and the widowed baroness prostrated by grief, and confined to her bed.
The duke and duchess remained until after the funeral, when the will of the late baron was read. It was then discovered for the first time that his daughter, Valerie, was not nearly the wealthy heiress she was supposed to be.
All the late baron's landed estates went to the male heir-at-law, a young officer in the Chasseurs d' Afrique, then in Algiers. All his personal property, consisting of bank and railroad stocks, after a deduction as a provision for his widow, was bequeathed to his only daughter Valerie, Duchess of Hereward. But this property was so inconsiderable, that, without other means, it would scarcely have sufficed for the respectable support of the mother and daughter.
After the settlement of the late baron's affairs, the duke and duchess would have returned immediately to London but for the condition of the widowed baroness' health.
Madame de la Motte had for years been a delicate invalid, and she had experienced, in the sudden death of her husband, a severe shock, from which she could not rally; so that, within a few weeks after the baron's remains had been laid in the family vault, she passed away, and hers were laid by his side.
Valerie was even more prostrated with sorrow by the loss of her mother than she had been by that of her father.
The duke, to distract her grief, telegraphed to New Haven, where his yacht, the _Sea-Bird_, was lying to have her brought over to meet him at Dieppe, took his duchess down to that little seaport and embarked with her for a voyage to Norway.
The season was most favorable for such a northerly voyage. They sailed on the first of July, and spent three months cruising about the coasts of Norway, Iceland, and down to the Western Isles. They returned about the first of October.
The duke left his yacht at Dieppe, and, accompanied by the duchess, went up to Paris, to attend to some business connected with the estate of the late baron.
As but a third of a year had passed since the death of her parents, and the duchess had scarcely passed out of her first deep crape mourning, she went very little into society. Nevertheless, she was constrained, at the duke's request, to accept one invitation.
There was to be a diplomatic dinner given at the British Legation, at which the Prussian, Austrian and Russian ministers, with the higher officers of their suites, were to be present.
Valerie, living her recluse life in the city, did not know the names of one of these ministers, nor, in the apathy of her grief, did she care to inquire.
On the evening appointed for the entertainment, she went to the hotel of the British Legation, escorted by her husband.
Dressed in her rich and elegant mourning of jet on crape, glimmering light on blackest darkness, and looking herself paler and fairer by its contrast, she entered the grand drawing-room, leaning on the arm of her husband. She heard their names announced: "The Duke and Duchess of Hereward."
Then she found herself in a room sparsely occupied by a very brilliant company, and stood--not, as she had expected to stand, among strangers--but in the midst of her own familiar friends, whom she had known in her girlhood at the court of St. Petersburg, or met, in her womanhood, in the drawing-rooms of London.
It was while she was still leaning on her husband's arm and receiving the courteous salutations of her old friends, that their host, Lord C--n, approached with a gentleman.
Valerie looked up and saw standing before her the young husband of her girlish love!
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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34
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RISEN FROM THE GRAVE.
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Waldemar de Volaski, left as dead upon the duelling ground by his antagonist, the Baron de la Motte, was tenderly lifted by his second and the surgeon in attendance, laid upon a stretcher, and conveyed to the infirmary of a neighboring monastery, where he was charitably received by the brethren.
When he was laid upon a bed, undressed, and examined, it was discovered that he was not dead, but only swooning from the loss of blood.
When his wound was probed, it was found that the bullet had passed the right lobe of the lungs, and lodged in the flesh below the right shoulder blade. To extract it, under the circumstances, or to leave it there, seemed equally dangerous, threatening, on the one hand, inflammation and mortification, and, on the other, fatal hemorrhage. Therefore, the surgeon in charge of the case sent off to the nearest town to summon other medical aid, and meanwhile kept up the strength of the patient by stimulants. In the consultation that ensued on the arrival of the other surgeons, it was decided that the extraction of the bullet would be difficult and dangerous; but that in it lay the only chance of the patient's life.
On the next morning, therefore, Waldemar de Volaski was put under the influence of chloroform, and the operation was performed. His youth and vigorous constitution bore him safely through the trying ordeal, but could not save him from the terrible irritative fever that set in and held him in its fiery grasp for many days there after.
He was well tended by the holy brotherhood, who sent to the vine-dresser's cottage for information concerning him, that they might find out who and where were his friends, and write and apprise them of his condition.
But the vine-dresser could tell the monks no more than this--that the young man and young woman had come as strangers to the village, were married by the good Father Pietro in the church of San Vito, and had come to lodge in his cottage. The young pair had lived as merrily as two birds in a bush until the sudden arrival of an illustrious and furious signore, who tore the bride from the arms of her husband, and carried her off to the convent of Santa Madelena. That was all the vine-dresser knew.
The surgeon supplemented the vine-dresser's story with an account of the duel between the enraged baron and the young captain.
The good Father Pietro was next interviewed, and gave the names of the imprudent young pair whom he had tied together, as Waldemar Peter de Volaski and Valerie Aimee de la Motte; but besides this, who they were, or whence they came, he could not tell.
Inquiries were made in the village of San Vito, which only resulted in the information that the "illustrious" strangers had departed with their daughter no one knew whither.
Meanwhile the unfortunate victim of the duel tossed and tumbled, fumed and raved in fever and delirium, that raged like fire for nine days, and then left him utterly prostrated in mind and body. Many more days passed before he was able to answer questions, and weeks crept by before he could give any coherent account of himself.
His first sensible inquiry related to his bride.
"Where is she? What have they done with her?" he demanded to know.
"The illustrious signore has taken the signorita away with him, no one knows whither," answered the monk who was minding him.
"I know--so he has taken her away? --I know where he has taken her,--to Paris," faltered the victim, and immediately fainted dead away, exhausted by the effort of speaking these words.
His next question, asked after the interval of a week, related to the length of time he had been ill.
"How long have I lain stretched upon this bed?" he asked.
"The Signore Captain has been here four weeks," answered his nurse.
"Great Heaven! then I have exceeded my month's leave by two weeks! I shall be court-martialed and degraded!" cried the patient, starting up in great excitement, and instantly swooning away from the reaction.
In this manner the recovery of the wounded man became a matter of difficulty and delay; for as often as he rallied sufficiently to look into his affairs, their threatening aspect threw him back prostrated.
He recovered, however, by slow degrees.
As soon as he was able to sustain the continued exertion of talking, he requested one of the brothers on duty in the infirmary to write two letters at his dictation. The first was addressed to the colonel of his regiment, informing that officer of the long and severe illness of Captain de Volaski, and petitioning for the invalid an extended leave of absence. The other was to the Count de Volaski, apprising that nobleman of the condition of his son, and imploring him to hasten at once to the bedside of the patient.
The next morning Waldemar de Volaski sat up in bed and asked for stationery, and wrote with his own weak and trembling hand a short letter to his youthful bride--telling her that he had been very ill, but was now convalescent, and that as soon as he should be able to travel he would hasten to Paris and claim his wife in the face of all the fathers, priests and judges in Paris, or in the world. He addressed her as his well beloved wife, signed himself her ever-devoted husband, and had the temerity to direct his letter to Madame Waldemar de Volaski, Hotel de la Motte, Rue Faubourg St. Honore, Paris.
The mail left St. Vito only twice a week, so that the three letters left the post office on the same day to their respective destinations; one went to St. Petersburg, to the Colonel of the Royal Guards; one to Warsaw, to the Count de Volaski; and one to Paris, to Madame de Volaski.
In the course of the next week the writer received answers from all three letters. The first came from the colonel of his regiment, enclosing an extension of his leave of absence to three months; the second was answered in person by the Count de Volaski; the third was only an envelope, enclosing his letter to Valerie, crossed with this line: _"No such person to be found." _ The meeting between the Count de Volaski and his reckless son was not in all respects a pleasant one. There was an explanation to be demanded by the father a confession to be made by the son. The count was divided between his anxiety for his son and indignation at that son's conduct.
"You exposed more than your own life by the escapade, sir!" said the elder Volaski, "You abducted a minor, sir; for doing which you might have been prosecuted for felony, and sent to the gaol! --a fate so much worse than your death in the duel would have been for the honor of your family, that, had you been consigned to it, I should have cursed the hour you were born and blown my own brains out, in expiation of my share in your existence!"
The yet nervous invalid shuddered, and covered his face with his hands.
"But even that was not the greatest calamity your rashness provoked! You presumed to carry off the French minister's daughter while they were yet in the dominions of the Czar! by doing which you might have caused a war between two great nations, and the sacrifice of a million of lives!"
"Sir, forbear! I have not yet recovered from the severe illness consequent upon my wound. Surely, I have suffered enough at the hands of the ruthless Baron de la Motte!" said Waldemar de Volaski.
"The Baron de la Motte, being your enemy, is mine also; yet I cannot but admit that he has dealt very leniently with the abductor of his daughter by merely shooting him through the lungs, and laying him on a bed of repentance, when he might have prosecuted him as a felon, and sent him to penal servitude!" said the count, severely. "But there," he exclaimed, "I will say no more on that subject. As you say, you have suffered enough already to expiate your fault. You have nearly lost your life, and you have quite lost your love; for, of course, you know that your fooling marriage with a minor was no marriage at all, unless her father had chosen to make it so by his recognition. And if you ever had a chance of winning the girl, you have lost it by your imprudence. You must try to get up your strength now, so as to go with me back to Warsaw."
So saying, the count left the bedside of his son, and went into the refectory of the monastery, where a substantial repast had been prepared to regale the traveler.
The young man wrote yet another letter to his love, enclosing it on this occasion in an envelope directed to the lady's maid, who had once assisted the lovers in carrying on their correspondence; but as the maid had been long discharged from the service of her mistress, it was impossible that the letter should have reached her. The lover wrote again and again without receiving an answer to letters which it is certain his lost bride never received.
Captain de Volaski's three months' extended leave of absence had nearly expired before he was in a condition to travel; and even then he had to go by slow stages, riding only during the day and resting at night, until they reached Warsaw.
He spent a week at his father's castle, watched and wept over by his mother, who had not a reproach for her son, nor anything to offer him but her sympathy and her services. Six months had now passed away since his parting with his stolen bride; and it was the day before his expected return to his regiment that a packet of newspapers arrived for him, forwarded from St. Petersburg.
He tore the envelopes off them. They were English, French and German papers. He threw all away except the French papers. He eagerly examined them, in the hope of seeing the name of the Baron de la Motte, and forming thereby some idea of the movements of the family, and the whereabouts of Valerie.
The first paper he took up was _Le Courier de Paris_, and the first item that caught his eye was this-- "MARRIED. --At the Church of Notre Dame, on Tuesday, March 1st, by the Most Venerable, the Archbishop of Paris, the Duke of Hereward, to Valerie, only daughter of the Baron de la Motte."
With the cry and spring of a panther robbed of its young, Volaski bounded to his feet. His rage and anguish were equal, and beyond all power of articulate or rational utterance. He strode up and down the floor like a maniac; he raved; he beat his breast, and tore his hair and beard; and finally, he rushed into the parlor where his father and mother were seated together over a quiet game of chess, and he dashed the paper down on the table before them, smote his hand upon the fatal marriage notice, and exclaimed in a voice of indescribable anguish: "See! see! see! see!"
"It is just as I thought it would be," said the count, as he calmly read over the item, and passed it to his amazed wife. "The baron has wisely taken the first opportunity of marrying off his wilful girl--the best thing he could have done for her. I am sure I am glad she is no daughter-in-law of mine! She who could so lightly elope from her father might as lightly elope from her husband also."
Waldemar made no reply, but stood looking the image of desolation, until his mother having read through the notice, and grasped the situation, arose and threw her arms around his neck, exclaiming in a burst of sympathy: "Oh, my son! my son! my son! my son! forget her! forget the heartless jilt! she was unworthy of you!"
A burst of wild and bitter laughter answered this appeal and frightened the good lady half out of her wits.
"Let him go back to his regiment and be a man among men, and not lose his time whimpering after a silly girl, who has not sense enough even to take care of herself. The man to be most pitied is that husband of hers! Upon my word and honor, I am sorry for that English duke! Yes, _that_ I am!" said the count, heartily.
The next day Waldemar de Volaski returned to his regiment at St. Petersburg.
As his brother officers happily knew nothing of his elopement with the minister's daughter, and the duel that followed it; but supposed that his long absence had been occasioned by a long illness, he escaped all that exasperating chaff that might, under the circumstances, have half maddened him.
He threw himself, for distraction, into all the wildest gayeties of the Russian capital, and led the life of a reckless young sinner, until he was suddenly brought to his senses by a domestic calamity. He received a telegram announcing the sudden death of his father and his elder brother, both of whom were instantly killed by an accident on the St. Petersburg and Warsaw Railroad, while on their way to the Russian capital.
Stricken with grief, and with the remorse which grief is sure to awaken in the heart of a wrong-doer not altogether hardened, Waldemar de Volaski hastened down to Warsaw to support his almost inconsolable mother through the horrors of that sudden bereavement and that double funeral.
By the death of his father and elder brother, he became the Count Volaski, and the heir of all the family estates; and there were left dependent on him his widowed mother and several younger brothers and sisters.
At the earnest request of his mother he resigned his commission in the Royal Guards, and went down to reside with the family on the estate, during their retirement for the year of mourning.
Before that year was half over, however, the young Count de Volaski received a summons to the court of his sovereign.
He obeyed it immediately by hurrying up to St. Petersburg.
On his arrival, he presented himself at the Annitchkoff Palace to receive the commands of the Czar, and he was appointed Secretary of Legation to the new Russian Embassy about to proceed to Paris.
To Paris! to the home of Valerie de la Motte! The order agitated him to the profoundest depths of his being. He would have declined the honor about to be thrust upon him, could he have done so with propriety; but he could not, so there was no alternative but to kiss his sovereign's hand, express his sense of gratitude, and obey.
The embassy left St. Petersburg for the French capital almost immediately.
On the arrival at Paris they were established in the splendid Maison Francoise in the Champs Elysees.
As soon as he was at leisure, the Count de Volaski drove to the Rue Faubourg St. Honore, and to the Hotel de la Motte. He found the house shut up, and upon inquiry of a gend'arme, learned, with more surprise than regret, that the Baron and Baroness de la Motte had both been dead for some months; the baron, who was a free liver, had been suddenly stricken down by apoplexy, and the baroness, whose health had long been feeble, could not rally from the shock, but soon followed her husband.
"And,--where is their daughter, Madame la Duchesse d'Hereward?" hesitatingly inquired the Count de Volaski.
The gend'arme could not tell; he did not know; but supposed that she was living with her husband, Monsieur le Duc, on his estates in England.
No, clearly the gend'arme did not know; for, in fact, the Duke and the Duchess of Hereward were at that time living very quietly in the closed-up house at which the count and the gend'arme stood gazing while they talked.
Count de Volaski re-entered his carriage and returned to the Maison Francoise in time to attend the official reception of the embassy by the citizen-king at the Tuileries.
After the act of national and official etiquette, the embassy were free to enter into the social festivities of the gayest capital in the world.
Among other entertainments, a great diplomatic dinner was given at the English Legation, then the magnificent Hotel Borghese, once the residence of the beautiful Princess Pauline Bonaparte, but now the seat of the British Embassy. Among the invited guests were the Russian minister and his Secretary of Legation, Count de Volaski.
The count came late and found the splendid drawing-room honored with a small, but brilliant, company of ladies and gentlemen, the former among the most celebrated beauties, the latter the most distinguished statesmen of Europe.
Nearly every one in the room were strangers to the Russian count; but his English host, with sincere kindness and courtesy, took care to present him to all the most agreeable persons present.
"And now," whispered Lord C--n, in conclusion, "I have reserved the best for the last. Come and let me introduce you to the most interesting woman in Paris."
Count de Volaski suffered himself to be conducted to the upper end of the room, where a tall and elegant-looking woman, dressed in rich mourning, stood, leaning on the arm of a stately, middle-aged man.
Her face was averted as they approached; but she turned her head and he recognized the beautiful, pale face and lovely dark eyes of his lost bride.
And while the floor of the drawing-room seemed rocking with him, like the deck of a tempest-tossed ship, he heard the words of his host whirling through his brain: "Madame, permit me to present to you Count de Volaski of St. Petersburg; Count, the Duchess of Hereward."
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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35
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FACE TO FACE.
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"Madame, permit me to present to you Count de Volaski, of St. Petersburg--Count, the Duchess of Hereward," said Lord C., with old-time courtesy and formality.
The gentleman bowed low; the lady courtesied; nothing but the close compression of his lips beneath the golden mustache, and the paler shade on her pale cheeks, betrayed the "whirlwind of emotion" which swept through both their hearts; and these indications of disturbance were too slight to attract any attention.
Neither spoke, neither dared to speak. It was as much as each could do to maintain a conventional calmness through the terrible ordeal of such an introduction.
Lord C., happily unconscious of anything wrong, did the very best thing he could have done under the circumstances. Scarcely allowing the count and the duchess time to exchange their bow and courtesy, he turned to her companion and said: "Duke, the Count de Volaski. Count, the Duke of Hereward."
Both gentlemen bowed; but _one_, the count, quivered from head to foot in the presence of his unconscious but successful rival.
"By the way, Count," said the duke, pleasantly, "the duchess, when Mademoiselle de la Motte, passed a year at the court of St. Petersburg with her parents. It is a wonder that you have not met before. Although, indeed, you may have done so," he added, as with an after-thought.
"We have met before," replied the Count de Volaski, in a low and measured tone.
"Of course! Of course! You are quite old friends," said the duke, gayly.
Fortunately, then a diversion was made. The heavy, purple satin curtains vailing the arch between the drawing-rooms and dining saloon were drawn aside by invisible hands, and a very dignified and officer-looking personage, in a powdered wig, clerical black suit, and gold chain, appeared, and with a low bow and with low tones, said: "My lord and lady are served."
"Count, will you take the duchess in to dinner? --Duke, Lady C. will thank you for your arm," said the host, as, with a nod and a smile, he moved off in search of that particular ambassadress whom custom, or etiquette, or policy, required him to escort to the dining-room.
The Duke of Hereward with a polite wave of the hand, left his duchess in the charge of her appointed attendant, and went to meet Lady C., who was advancing toward him.
Count Volaski bowed, and silently offered his arm to the young duchess.
She did not take it; she could not; she stood as one paralyzed.
He was stronger, firmer, calmer; perhaps because he really felt less than she did. He took her hand and drew it within his own, and led her to her place in the little procession that was going to the dining-room.
He placed her in her chair at the table, and took his seat at her side.
Then the self-control of their order, the self-control instilled as a virtue by their education, and standing now in the place of all virtues, enabled them to maintain a superficial calmness that conducted them safely through the trying ordeal of this dinner-table.
Count de Volaski entered freely into the conversation of the guests. The Duchess of Hereward spoke but little; hers was a passive self-control, not an active one; she could force herself to be, or seem, composed; she could not force herself to talk; but her deep mourning dress was a good excuse for her extreme quietness, which was naturally ascribed to her recent and double bereavement.
The dinner was a long, long agony to her; the courses seemed almost endless in duration and numberless in succession; but at length the hostess arose and gave the signal for the ladies to retire and leave the gentlemen to their wine and politics.
The gentlemen all stood up while the ladies passed out to the drawing-room.
Valerie would willingly have gone off to hide herself in some bay-window or other nook or corner of the vast drawing-room, and taken up a book or a piece of music as an excuse for her reserve; but as they passed through the curtained archway leading from the dining-saloon to the drawing-room, Lady C., with the kindest intentions toward the supposed mourner, and with the motherly grace for which her ladyship was noted, drew Valerie's arm within her own and began a conversation, to draw her mind from the contemplation of her bereavements.
"What do you think of the young Russian count who brought you in to dinner, my dear?" inquired Lady C. "I--he is a Pole," answered Valerie, in a low voice.
"Yes, I am aware that he is a Pole by birth; but he is a thorough Russian in politics and principles; has been in the service of the Czar since the age of fifteen. --Here, my love, sit beside me," added her ladyship, as she sank gracefully down upon a sofa and drew her young guest to her side.
Valerie submitted in silence.
"Oh, by the way, however, I think I heard some one say that you had met the count at the court of St. Petersburg?" pursued Lady C. "I--have met him," answered Valerie, in the same level tone.
"I am boring you, I fear, with this young Russian, my dear, but--" "Oh no," softly interrupted Valerie.
"I was about to explain that I feel some interest in him from the fact that he is betrothed to my niece--" "Betrothed! Your niece!" exclaimed Valerie, surprised out of the apathy of her despair.
"Yes, my love. Is there anything wonderful in that? It is a way these continental people have of doing things, you see. The Count Waldemar and my niece were betrothed to each other in their childhood. There is a very great attachment between them--at least on her part. The child seems to think that there is but one man in the world and his name is Waldemar de Volaski."
"But--I did not know--I thought--I did not think--the count had ever been in England," incoherently murmured Valerie.
"Nor has he; but what has that to do with it?" smiled her ladyship.
"Your niece--" "Oh, I see! Because I am an Englishwoman my niece must be one, you think. You are mistaken, dear; she is French. My sister Anne married a Frenchman, the Marquis de St. Cyr. They had two children--Alphouse, a colonel in the Chasseurs d'Afrique, now in Algiers; and Aimee, now in the Convent of St. Rosalie. It was when the late Count de Volaski was here as the minister from Russia, that the acquaintance between the two families commenced and ripened into intimacy and the intimacy into friendship. Then Waldemar and Aimee were betrothed."
"How many years ago was that?" faintly inquired Valerie.
"Oh, about six--the young man was then about fifteen; the girl not more than twelve."
"They could not have known their own minds at that age," murmured Valerie.
"Oh, that was not at all necessary in a French betrothal," laughed the lady; "but, however, Aimee, child as she was, certainly knew her mind. The love of her betrothed husband was, and is, the religion of her life. I presume that Count Waldemar is equally constant; and that he will now press for a speedy marriage. My brother-in-law is down on his estates in Provence, just now; but I shall write and ask his permission to withdraw Aimee from her convent, in anticipation of her marriage, for of course she will be married from this house."
"But--her mother?"
"Oh! I should have told you; her mother, my dear sister Anne, passed away about a year after the betrothal of her daughter. The marquis took her loss very much to heart, and has never married again. The motherless girl has passed her life in a convent; but I hope to have her out soon. Here, my love, is an album containing portraits of my sister and brother-in-law and their children, taken at various times. You cannot mistake them, and they may interest you," said Lady C., taking a photographic volume from a gilded stand near, and laying it upon her guest's lap.
Valerie received it with a nod of thanks, and the lady glided away to give some of her attention to her other guests.
"The young English duchess is lovely, but too sad," said an embassadress, as the hostess joined her.
"Ah! yes, poor child! lost her father and mother within a few weeks of each other," answered Lady C. "But that was six months ago; she ought to have recovered some cheerfulness by this time," remarked old Madame Bamboullet, who was a walking register of all the births, deaths and marriages of high life in Paris for the last half century.
"Well, you see she has not done so; but here come the gentlemen," observed Lady C., as a rather straggling procession from the dining-room entered.
The host, Lord C., went up to the embassadress to whom it was his cue to be most attentive.
The Duke of Hereward sought out his hostess, and entered into a bantering conversation with her.
Count Waldemar de Volaski came directly up to Valerie where she sat alone on the sofa in a distant corner of the room. The little gilded stand stood before her, and the photographic album lay open upon it. Her eyes were fixed upon the album, and were not raised to see the new-comer; but the sudden accession of pallor on her pale face betrayed her recognition of him.
He drew a chair so close to her sofa that only the little gilded stand stood between them. His back was toward the company; his face toward her; his elbows, with unpardonable rudeness, were placed upon the stand, and his hands supported his chin, as he stared into her pale face with its downcast eyes.
"Valerie," he said.
She did not look up.
"Valerie de Volaski!" he muttered.
_"My wife!" _ She shuddered, but did not lift her eyes.
She shrank into herself, as it were, and her eyes fell lower than before.
"Is it thus we two meet at last?" he demanded, in low, stern, measured tones, pitched to meet her ear alone. "Is it thus I find you, after all that has passed between us, bearing the name and title of another man who calls himself your husband, oh! shame of womanhood!"
"They told me our marriage was not legal, was not binding!" she panted under her breath.
"It should have been religiously, sacredly binding up on you as it was upon me, until we could have made it legal. It is amazing that you could have dreamed of marriage with another man!" muttered Volaski.
"But they told me you were dead. They told me you were dead!" she gasped, as if she were in her own death throes.
"Even if they had told you truly--even if I had been dead--dead by the hand of your father--could that circumstance have excused you for rushing with such indecent haste to the altar with another man? It was but a poor tribute to the memory of the husband of your choice (if he had been dead) to marry again within six months."
"Oh, mercy! Oh, my heart! my heart! They forced me into that marriage, Waldemar! They forced me into that marriage! I was as helpless as an infant in the hands of my father and my mother!" she panted, in a voice that was the more heart-rending from half suppression.
"Valerie! love! wife!" murmured Volaski, in low and tender tones, as he essayed to take her hand.
But she snatched it from him hastily, gasping: "Do not speak to me in that way! Do not call me love or wife!"
"No man on earth has a better right to speak to you in this way than I have. No _other_ man in the world has the right to call you love or wife but me! You _are_ my wife!" grimly answered the young count.
"I am the wife of the Duke of Hereward. Oh, Heaven, that I were a corpse instead!" gasped Valerie. " 'The wife of the Duke of Hereward!' Have you then forgotten our betrothal at St. Petersburg? Our flight from Warsaw to St. Vito? Our marriage at the little chapel of Santa Maria? Our short, blissful honeymoon in the vine-dresser's cottage under the Apennines?" he inquired, bitterly.
"I have forgotten nothing! Oh, Heaven! Oh, earth! Oh, Waldemar! that I could die! that I could die!" she wailed in low, heartbroken tones.
It was well for her that the corner sofa stood in the shade, far removed from the seats of the other guests in that long drawing-room.
"Valerie! love! wife!" he murmured again.
"Oh, Waldemar, if I were your wife, as I truly believed myself then to have been, oh, why did you not defend and protect me from all the world, even from my father--even from myself? Oh, why did you suffer me to be torn from your protection, to be deceived with a false story of your death, and forced into this marriage? Oh, Waldemar! if I were indeed and in truth your lawful wife, as I believed myself to be, why, oh why did you permit all these evils to happen to me? Ah, what a position is mine! What a position! I cannot bear it! I will not bear it! I will not live! I will kill myself! I _ought_ to kill myself! It is the only way out of this!" she wailed, wringing her hands.
"I will kill that Duke of Hereward!" hissed Volaski, through his clenched teeth.
"Hush! For mercy's sake, hush! Put away such thoughts from your heart! I, the only wrong-doer, should be the only victim! Whatever wrong has been done, the Duke of Hereward has been blameless. He knew nothing of my former marriage; if he had, I do not believe he would have married me, even if I had been a princess."
"He was deceived, then?" coldly inquired the count.
"He was; but not willingly by me. I was forced to be silent about my marriage."
"You were 'forced' from my protection! 'forced' to conceal the fact of your marriage with me! and 'forced' to marry the Duke of Hereward under false colors. Could force on one side, and feebleness on the other, be carried any further than this?" muttered Volaski, between his teeth.
"I knew how helpless, in the hands of my parents, I was," wailed Valerie.
"Well, you are a duchess! Do you love the Duke of Hereward?"
"Oh, mercy! what shall I say? He deserves all my love, honor, and duty!"
"Does he _get_ his deserts?" mockingly inquired Volaski.
"Ah! wretch that I am, why do I live? --I give him honor and duty; but love! _love is not mine to give! _" she murmured, in almost inaudible tones.
Their conversation--if an interview so emotional, so full of "starts and flaws" could be called so--had been carried on in a very low tone, while the count turned over the leaves of the photographic album, as if examining the portraits, but really without seeing one.
They were, however, so absorbed that neither perceived the approach of a footman until the man actually set down a small golden tray with two little porcelain cups of tea on the stand between them, and retired.
Valerie looked up with a sudden shudder of terror. Had the company, or any one of their number, overheard any part of the fatal interview? No, the company were drinking tea, at the other end of the room.
And now the Duke of Hereward, with a tea-cup in his hand, sauntered toward them, saying, as he reached the stand: "Lady C. has just been telling me that you are showing the duchess some interesting family pictures there--among the rest, those of your _belle fiancee_. When shall I congratulate you, Count?"
"Not yet; I will advise your grace of my marriage," answered the count, gravely.
"Something gone wrong in that direction," thought the duke, but his good humor was invincible.
"If you have no engagement for to-morrow evening, I hope you will come and dine with us _en famille_, for we do not see much company, the duchess and myself."
Valerie cast an imploring look on the count, silently praying him to decline the invitation; but Volaski did not understand the meaning of the look, or did not care to do so, for he immediately accepted the invitation in the following unequivocal terms: "I have no engagement for to-morrow; and I shall be very happy to come and dine with you."
"So be it then," said the duke, frankly. "Now, Valerie, my love, bid the count good-evening. It is time to go."
The young duchess arose wearily from the sofa, and slightly courtesied her adieux.
The count stood up and bowed with a profound reverence that seemed ironical to her sensitive mind.
The guests were now all taking leave of their host and hostess.
The Duke and Duchess of Hereward were among the last to go.
"I am very sorry that I brought you out this evening, love. I saw--indeed, every one saw, and could not help seeing--that this dinner-party has been a great trial to you. It will not bear an encore. You must have time to recover your cheerfulness, dearest, before you are again brought into a large company," said the duke, kindly, as soon as they were seated together in their carriage.
"Did people attribute my dullness to--to--to--," began Valerie, by way of saying something, but her voice faltered and broke down.
"To your recent double bereavement? --certainly they did, my love. They knew 'No crowds Make up for parents in their shrouds,' and were not cruel enough to criticise your filial grief, my Valerie."
"I am glad of that; but I am very sorry you have invited the Count de Volaski to dinner to-morrow."
"Oh, why?"
"Because I do not like company."
"He is only one guest and will dine with us quietly. He will amuse you."
"No, he will not; he will bore me. I wish you would write and put him off."
"Impossible, my dear Valerie! What earthly excuse could I make for such an unpardonable piece of rudeness?"
"Tell him that I am ill, out of spirits, anything you like so that you tell him not to come."
"My dearest one, you certainly are ill and out of spirits, and very morbid besides. So much the more reason why you should be gently aroused and amused. Dinner parties weary and distress you; but the count's visit will relieve and amuse you."
"Oh! I _do_ think I _ought_ to know what is good for me and what I want better than any one else," exclaimed Valerie, speaking impatiently to the duke for the first time during their married life.
"But you don't, love; that is all. The count is coming to dine with us to-morrow. That is settled. Now, here we are at home," said the duke, as the carriage rolled through the massive archway and entered the court-yard of the magnificent Hotel de la Motte.
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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36
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A GATHERING STORM.
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After a night of sleeplessness and anguish, Valerie arose to a day of duplicity and terror.
The anticipation of the evening was intolerable to her; the prospect of sitting down at her own table between the Duke of Hereward and the Count de Volaski overwhelmed her with a sense of horror and loathing.
Faint, pale, and trembling, she descended to the breakfast-room, where she found the duke already awaiting her.
Shocked at her aspect, he hastened to meet her and lead her to an easy-chair on the right of the breakfast-table.
"You are not able to be out of your bed, Valerie. You should not have attempted to rise," he said, as he carefully seated her.
"I told you last night that I was very ill," she answered coldly, as she sank wearily back on the cushion.
"That infernal dinner party! It has prostrated you quite. I am so grieved; I will not suffer you to be so severely tried again!" said the duke, vehemently.
"And you will write this morning and put off the count's visit," pleaded Valerie.
"No, my dear, I cannot," answered the duke, regretfully.
"Then I cannot come down to dinner. That is all," she said, sullenly closing her eyes.
"I shall be sorry for that; but we must do the best we can without you for the count, having been invited, must be permitted to come."
She languidly drew up to the table, and touched the bell that summoned the footman with the breakfast-tray.
When it was placed upon the table, she poured out two cups of coffee, handed one to the duke, and took the other herself.
When she had drained it, she arose, excused herself, and went back to her own room.
She closed and locked the door, and threw herself upon the bed, groaning: "Oh! how could Waldemar accept that invitation? How can he bear to sit down with me at the Duke of Hereward's table? Has he no delicacy? No pity? Ah, mercy, what a state is mine! And yet I was not to blame for _this_! I have not deserved it! I have not deserved it! One of us three must die; I, or Waldemar, or the Duke of Hereward; and I am the one; for, _I hate myself_ for the position I am in! I _hate,_ LOATHE and utterly ABHOR myself! I do. I do. I wish the lightning would strike me dead! dead, before I have to meet one of them again!" she moaned, rolling and grovelling on the bed.
There came a soft rap at the door, followed by the kind voice of the duke, saying: "Valerie, Valerie, my love! How are you? Do you want anything? May I come in?"
"No! I want rest! I do not want you!" she answered, so sharply as to astonish the duke, who spoke again however, deprecatingly and soothingly.
"Is there anything that I can do for you outside, then, my dear?"
"You can go away and let me alone, or you can stand there chattering until you drive me crazy!" she answered, ungratefully.
"Good morning, my love; I will not trouble you again soon," muttered the duke, as he walked away from the duchess' door.
"I never knew such a change as this that has come over her. She is as cross as a catamount! There may be a cause for it. There may--I will send for a physician," he added, as he went down stairs.
Valerie kept her room all day.
Count de Volaski came to dinner at eight o'clock and was received by the duke alone.
He smiled grimly when his host apologized for the absence of the duchess, by explaining the delicate condition of her health since the death of her parents, and the injury she had received from the fatigue and excitement of the dinner-party on the preceding evening.
The duke and the count dined _tete-a-tete_, and sat long over their wine, although they drank but little. After dinner they played chess together all the evening, and then parted, apparently the best of friends on both sides, really good friends on the duke's.
The next morning a letter was handed Valerie, while she sat at breakfast with the duke.
She recognized the handwriting of Count de Volaski, and put it in her pocket to read when she was alone.
The duke was not suspicious or inquisitive. He asked no questions.
As soon as the duchess found herself alone in her chamber, she locked the door to keep out intruders, and sat down and opened the letter.
Its contents were sufficiently startling. They were as follows: "RUSSIAN LEGATION, RUE ST. HONORE.
"VALERIE: You avoid me in vain! You cannot shake me off. I accepted the duke's invitation to dinner last evening for the sake of seeing you again, and for the chance of having a final explanation with you; but you kept away from the dinner. Such expedients will not avail you.
"I write now to assure you that I must and will see you, to make an arrangement with you. I write openly, at the risk of having this letter fall into the hands of the duke; for I do not care if it does so fall. I would just as willingly say to him what I now say to you. I am quite willing to provoke a crisis. The present state of things maddens me. I wonder it does not _kill_ you! When you married the Duke of Hereward within six months after my supposed death by the hands of your father, you acted cruelly, but not criminally; now that you know I am living, you must also know that every hour you continue to live under the roof of the Duke of Hereward you are a criminal. I do not require you to come to _me_. I do not wish to live with you again, although I love you; but I _do_ require you to leave the Duke of Hereward and go away by yourself. I know you now, Valerie. You are as weak as water. You cannot go to the noble gentleman who has been so deeply deceived by you and your parents and tell him the secret that you have kept from him so long. You have not the moral courage to do so. But you can leave him. It is to arrange for your flight and for your future safety that I now demand and _insist_ upon a private interview with you.
"Write to me at the _poste-restante_, and tell me when and where I can see you alone. Should you refuse to grant me this interview, I will myself go to the Duke of Hereward and tell him the whole story. He may not resent your former marriage; but he will never forgive you, living, or your parents in their graves, for the deception that has been practiced upon him. I will wait twenty-four hours for your answer, and then if I fail to receive it, or fail to get a favorable one, I shall come immediately to the Hotel de la Motte and seek an explanation with the duke. I shall direct this letter by the name and title you now bear, so as to prevent mistakes; but it is the last time I shall so address you. And I sign myself, for all eternity, "Your true husband, WALDEMAR DE VOLASKI."
Valerie read the cruel letter to its close, then dropped it on her lap, and sank back in her chair, helpless, breathless, almost lifeless. Minutes crept into hours, and still she sat there in the same position, without motion, thought, or feeling--stricken, spell-bound, entranced.
She was aroused at length by a rap at her chamber-door.
She started, shuddering, to her feet, and spasm after spasm shook her galvanized frame, as she picked up her letter, found a match, drew it, set fire to the paper, threw it, blazing, down upon the marble hearth, and watched it until it was consumed to a little heap of light ashes.
"There! That can never fall into the Duke of Hereward's hands _now_!" she said with a bitter laugh.
Meanwhile the rapping continued.
"Well! well! well! well! Can't you be patient!" she exclaimed, very _im_patiently, as she tottered tremblingly across the room and opened the door.
Her dressing-maid, Mademoiselle Desiree, was there. " _Pardonnez moi, madame_; but you ordered me to come to dress you for a drive at twelve. The clock has just struck, madame," said the girl deprecatingly.
Valerie put her hand to her head in a bewildered way, and stared at the speaker a full minute before she could recollect herself sufficiently to reply.
"Yes--yes--yes--yes--I believe so. You can come in."
The girl entered and stood waiting for orders. Receiving none, she ventured to inquire: "What dress shall madame wear?"
"My--my writing desk! Bring it here to me," answered the lady, as she sank into a chair, and drew a little ivory stand before her.
"I wonder if madame indulges in absinthe in the morning?" was the secret thought of the discreet Mademoiselle Desiree, as she brought the elegant little malachite writing-desk, and placed it before her mistress.
Valerie opened it, took out a piece of note-paper and wrote: "I cannot write much. I am stricken. I am dying. I hope you are right in what you say. Come here tomorrow at twelve, noon. I will give you the interview you seek."
* * * * * This note was without date, address or signature, or any word to guide a strange reader to its true meaning. She put it into a sealed envelope, and directed it to _Count de Volaski, Poste Restante_.
Then she sat back in her chair, exhausted from the slight exertion.
The maid watched her mistress for a little while, and then said: "Pardon, madame; but it is half-past twelve."
"Yes! I must dress," said Valerie rising.
"What costume will madame wear?"
"Any. It does not signify."
The maid indulged in an imperceptible shrug of her shoulders, and laid out an elegant black rep silk, heavily trimmed with black crape and jet, with mantle, bonnet and vail to match.
"White or black gloves, madame?"
"Black, of course. It is not a wedding reception."
"Pardon, madame," said the girl; and she added the black gloves to the costume.
Valerie was soon dressed, and then the maid said: "The carriage waits, madame."
Valerie took the note she had prepared and went down stairs, entered her barouche, and ordered the coachman to drive to the British Legation, Hotel Borghese, Rue Faubourg St. Honore.
When the carriage rolled through the archway into the courtyard, and drew up before the magnificent palace, interesting from having been built for and occupied by the beautiful Princess Pauline Bonaparte, Valerie alighted and handed her letter to the footman, with directions to go and post it while she was making her call.
The man knocked at the door for his mistress, and then hurried away to do her errand.
It was the conventional "dinner call" that brought Valerie to the Hotel Borghese.
An English footman admitted the visitor, conducted her to the private drawing-room of Lady C., and announced her.
Several other ladies, whom Valerie had met at the dinner party, were there on the same duty as herself.
Lady C. advanced from among them to receive the new comer, kissed her on both cheeks, inquired affectionately after her health and then made her sit down in the most comfortable of the easy-chairs at hand.
After courteously saluting the ladies present, Valerie subsided into a dull silence, from which she could not arouse herself; but her voice was not missed, since every visitor seemed anxious to talk rather than listen, and therefore kept up a chattering that would have carried off the palm in a contest with a village sewing-circle or aviary full of excited magpies.
Valerie, the last to enter, was also the first to rise, but Lady C. detained her by a slight signal, and she sat down again, and relapsed into dullness and silence.
One by one the visitors arose and took leave, chattering to the very last.
As soon as the two ladies were left alone together, Lady C. took Valerie's hand, and gazing earnestly in her face, said: "What is the matter with you, my child? You look pale and ill. Although I am so glad to see you, under any circumstances, I am half inclined to scold you for coming out at all."
For a moment Valerie felt inclined to open her oppressed and suffering heart to this sweet, matronly friend, and tell her the whole, bitter truth, and seek her wise counsel; but again the want of moral courage, which had always been so fatal to her welfare, sealed her lips.
"Well," said Lady C., after a short pause for that answer that never came, "I will not press the question. 'The heart knoweth its own bitterness.'"
"Yes," murmured Valerie, in a very low voice. Then, not to seem indifferent or unsocial, and also, if the truth must be told of her, to gratify a gnawing curiosity, she inquired: "How goes the expected marriage of your niece, madame?"
"I cannot tell you dear. I have been daily expecting some communication on the subject from de Volaski: but as yet he has made none. After coming to Paris for the purpose, (for of course his office in the embassy is a mere sinecure and a plausible excuse,) he betrays the bashfulness of a girl in pressing his suit; but some men, some of the best and purest of men, are just that way--in love affairs as shy women," said her ladyship.
Valerie smiled bitterly. She thought she understood the reason why the Count de Volaski was in no hurry to press the suit for marriage with a dreaming girl, to whom he had been arbitrarily contracted when he was a boy of fifteen, and she a child of twelve.
"I shall, however, write again to her father. I will not have my sister's daughter wasting her youth in a convent, while waiting for a tardy suitor."
Valerie smiled again, and then arose to take her leave.
Lady C. kissed her affectionately, and promised soon to visit her at the Hotel de la Motte.
"But--how long will you remain there?" inquired her ladyship.
"I do not know. Until some business connected with my father's will shall be arranged, I think. We are there on sufferance only. My cousin, Louis, the present baron, wrote from Algiers, very kindly asking us to occupy the Hotel de la Motte at any time when business or pleasure should call us to Paris. The house was the home of my childhood, and I prefer to live in it as long as I may. The duke, though he would rather live at the '_Trois Freres_,' yields to my whim, and so we occupy the Hotel de la Motte, but I do not know for how long a time."
"Until you leave Paris, I presume?"
"Yes, probably," answered Valerie, as with another kiss, she took leave of her kind friend.
"Shall I ever see her sweet face, hear her sweet voice again?" murmured the young duchess, as she passed out to her carriage.
"You posted my letter?" she inquired of the footman who opened the carriage-door.
"Yes, your grace."
"That will do. Home."
The footman repeated the order to the coachman, who drove back to the Hotel de la Motte.
As Valerie entered her morning-room after laying off her bonnet and wrappings, she found the Duke of Hereward there, reading the papers.
He arose and placed a chair for her, saying kindly: "I hope your drive has done you good, dear; if it has not been so long as to fatigue you."
"I have only been to the Hotel Borghese to call on Lady C.," replied Valerie, sinking into the chair and leaning back.
"Now that I look well at you, I see that you are tired. A very little exertion seems to fatigue you now, Valerie. I do not understand your condition. It makes me anxious. I have asked Velpeau to call and see you. He will look in this afternoon."
"Thanks, you are very kind--too kind to me, as fretful and miserable as I am," replied Valerie, with a momentary compunction--only a momentary one, for the deep fear, horror and despair which had seized her soul left her little sensibility to comparative trifles.
"My poor child," said the duke, looking compassionately on her pale, worn face, "do you not know that I can make all allowance for you? You are suffering very much. I hope Velpeau will be able to do something for you. You know he stands at the head of the medical profession in Paris, which is as much as to say, in the world."
"Yes, I know," said Valerie, indifferently. Then, with sudden earnestness, she exclaimed: "I wish _you_ would do something for me."
"Why, my poor girl, I would do anything in the world for you. Tell me what you want me to do."
"I know you cannot leave Paris now, and so you cannot, yourself, take me to England; but I wish to go there; I wish you to send me there to Hereward Hold, where we passed so many peaceful months."
"To send you there _alone_, Valerie?" inquired the duke, in surprise.
"No, but with my personal attendants, and with any discreet old lady you may choose to appoint as my companion, if, like an old Spanish husband, you think your young wife may require watching when she is out of your sight," she added, with a relapse into her irritable mood.
"Valerie! you wrong me and yourself by such a thought," said the duke, gravely.
"I know I do, and I know I am a wretch! but I want to go to England. I want to get away from everybody, and be by myself. You promised to do what I wanted done. That is what I want done."
"Do you wish 'to get away' from _me_, Valerie?"
"Yes, from you and from _everybody_, except from my servants, who are not my companions, and therefore don't bore me."
"It must be as I thought," said the duke to himself; "all this eccentricity, this nervous irritability has a natural cause, and not an alarming one, and it must be humored."
"Will you keep your promise?" she testily inquired.
"Certainly, my dear child. Anything to please you. You will see Velpeau this afternoon. If after consulting him you still think it necessary to leave Paris for Hereward Hold, I will send you there under proper protection. By the by, you succeed very well in getting away from your friends I think. The Count de Volaski called here while you were away this forenoon. He seemed disappointed in not seeing you. He looks ill. I never saw a man change so within the last few days. I should not wonder if he were on the very verge of a bad fever. I wish you had seen him. He was quite a friend of yours in St. Petersburg, I believe."
"I used to see him every day in the public assemblies to which we were always going. I wish you wouldn't talk about him," gasped Valerie, with a nervous shudder, as she arose and left the room.
"What a little misanthrope she has grown to be; but it is only a temporary affliction. She will get over it in a few weeks," said the duke to himself, as he resumed the reading of his newspaper.
The next day Valerie arose at her usual hour, and breakfasted _tete-a-tete_ with the duke. She knew that this day must decide her fate, and she tried to nerve herself to bear all that it might bring her, even as the frailest women sometimes brace themselves to bear torture and death.
At eleven in the forenoon, the duke left the house to go to the Hotel de Ville to keep an appointment that would detain him until three in the afternoon.
Valerie knew all about this appointment, and had therefore fixed the hour of noon as the safest time for her interview with the count.
Twelve o'clock, therefore, found her dressed in her deepest mourning, and seated in her private drawing-room, awaiting the advent of her most dreaded visitor, Waldemar de Volaski.
|
{
"id": "16039"
}
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37
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A SENTENCE OF BANISHMENT.
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Valerie, in an agony of terror, waited for her expected visitor.
Did she love him, then?
Ah, no! Horror at the position in which she found herself so filled her soul as to leave no room for any softer emotion. She loved no one in the world, not even herself; she wished for nothing on earth but death, and only her religious faith, or her superstitious fears, restrained her from laying sacrilegious hands upon her own life.
While watching for her dreaded guest she bitterly communed with herself.
"No one ever really loved me," she moaned. "Every one connected with me loved only himself, or herself, and sacrificed me. My father and my mother cared only for themselves and their own ambitions, and so they immolated me, their only child, to their gratification; my suitors loved only themselves and their passions, and immolated me! And I--I love no one and hate myself! hate the creature they have all combined to make me! If it were not for that which comes after death I would not exist an hour longer--I would die!"
As she muttered this the little ormolu clock on the mantlepiece struck twelve.
"The hour has come. He will be here in another moment! Oh, why could he not leave me in peace? Oh, what shall I do?" she exclaimed, in her excitement rising from her seat and beginning to pace up and down the room with wild, disordered steps.
Sometimes she stopped to listen, but without hearing any sound that might herald the approach of a visitor; then resumed her wild and purposeless walk, until the clock struck the quarter, when she suddenly threw herself down in the chair, muttering: "Fifteen minutes late! I do not want to see him! But since he is to come, I wish he had come, and this was all over."
Another quarter of an hour passed, and her visitor had not arrived.
Again in her anxiety she arose and began to walk the floor and to look out occasionally at a window which commanded the approach to the house.
No one, however, was in sight.
She sat down again, muttering: "This seems an intentional affront, an insult. He treats me with no consideration. Well, perhaps I deserve none. Oh! I wish I knew to whom my duty is due! I wish I had some one of whom I dared to ask counsel! I certainly did wed Waldemar. I certainly did believe him to be my lawful husband, and _then_ my duty was clearly due to him. But my parents came and tore me away from him, and told me that my marriage was not lawful, and that Waldemar de Volaski was not my husband. Then they took me to Paris, and told me that I must forget the very existence of my lover. Still, I should never have dreamed of another marriage while I thought Waldemar lived; for I loved him with all my heart, and only wished to live until I should be of an age to contract a legal marriage with him, with whom I had already made a sacramental one. But they told me that Waldemar was _dead_, slain by the hand of my father! and they bade me keep the secret of my first marriage, and to contract a second one with the Duke of Hereward! Oh, if I had but known that Waldemar still lived, the tortures of the Inquisition should not have forced me into this second marriage! But believing Waldemar to be dead, I suffered myself to be persecuted, worried and _weakened_ into this marriage! Oh! that I had been strong enough to bear the miseries of my home; to resist the forces brought to bear against me! Oh, that I had been brave enough to tell the whole truth of my marriage with Waldemar de Volaski to the Duke of Hereward before he had committed his honor to my keeping by making me his wife! That course would have saved me then with less of suffering than I have to bear now. But I weakly permitted myself to be forced, with this secret on my conscience, into a marriage with the Duke of Hereward. And now I dare not tell him the truth! And now my first husband has come back and hates me for my inconstancy, and my second husband knows nothing about it! Now to whom do I rightly belong! To whom do I owe duty? To Waldemar? To the duke? Who knows? Not I! One thing only is clear to me, that I must not live with either of them as a wife, henceforth! Heaven forgive those who forced me into this position, for I fear that I never can do so!"
While these wild and bitter thoughts were passing through her tortured mind the clock struck one and startled her from her reverie.
"Ah! something has prevented his coming," she said to herself, as she once more looked out of the window. Then she relapsed into her sad reverie.
"I can never, never be happy in this world again--never! But if I only knew my duty I would do it. I don't know it. I only know that I must go clear away from both these--" She shuddered and left the sentence incomplete even in her thoughts.
Just then a footman entered with a note upon a little silver tray.
She took it languidly, but all her languor vanished as she recognized the handwriting of Waldemar de Volaski.
"Who brought this?" she inquired of the servant.
"Un garcon from the Hotel de Russe, madame."
"Is he waiting for an answer?"
"Oui, madame."
She had asked these questions partly to procrastinate the opening of the note she dreaded to read. Now slowly and sadly she drew it from its envelope, unfolded and read: "HOTEL DE RUSSE, Tuesday Morning.
"UNFAITHFUL WIFE--An engagement at the Tuileries, for the very hour you named, prevents me from meeting you at your appointed time. Write by the messenger who brings this, and tell me when you can see me.
"Your wronged husband, VOLASKI."
While reading this, she shivered as with an ague. When she had finished she crushed it up in her hand and put it in her pocket with the intention of destroying it on the first opportunity.
Then she went to a little ornamental writing-desk that stood in the corner of the room, and took a pencil and a sheet of note paper and wrote these words, without date or signature: "I was ready to see you this noon. I cannot at this instant tell at what hour I can be certain to be alone; but will find out and let you know in the course of this day."
She placed this note in an envelope, sealed it with a plain seal, and sent it down by the footman to Count Waldemar's messenger.
Then she hurried up to her own bedchamber, rang for her maid, changed her dress for a white wrapper, and threw herself down, exhausted, upon a lounge.
She was almost fainting.
"This must be something like death! Oh, if it were only death!" she sighed, as she closed her eyes.
An hour later she was found here by the Duke of Hereward, who showed no surprise at finding her reclining there, but only said that Doctor Velpeau was below stairs and would like to see her.
"Let him come up, then," coldly answered Valerie.
And the duke himself went to conduct the physician to his patient.
He left them together for an hour, at the end of which Doctor Velpeau came down and reported to the anxious husband that his wife was not seriously out of health that her malady was more of the mind than the body, and that amusement and society would be her best medicines.
"Just what I cannot prevail on her to take," said the duke, with an impatient shrug. "She will go nowhere, will see nobody; but shuts herself up and mopes. Now, to-day, I have received intelligence concerning the rather intricately embarrassed affairs of the late Baron de la Motte, which will oblige me to start for Algiers, for a personal interview with his heir-at-law, an officer in the Chasseurs d'Afrique, who cannot get leave of absence to come to me. Now the question is, Doctor, shall I take the duchess with me, or leave her here? Is she well enough to be left, or strong enough to travel?"
"Both! She is both. I assure you she is not at all ill in body. Put the question to herself. If she should be willing to go, take her. The trip will do her good. If she prefers to stay, leave her. She is in no danger of illness or death."
"But I should be gone, probably, a fortnight. Could I, with safety to herself, take her so far away, for so long a time, from the best medical advice? or could I, on the other hand, leave her here for so distant a bourne and so long an absence?"
"With perfect safety; barring, of course, the human possibilities to which even the most fortunate, the most healthful and the best-guarded among us are more or less subject. But again I counsel you to leave it to the duchess, whether she shall remain here or accompany you to Algiers. She is equally fit for either plan," said the great physician, as he drew on his gloves.
"I will take the duchess with me, if she will go. If not, I will leave here under your charge, Doctor," said the duke.
"Much honored, I am sure, in attending her grace," replied the French physician, with the extravagant politeness of his countrymen.
As soon as Doctor Velpeau had gone, the Duke of Hereward went up stairs to see his wife, and, sitting by the lounge on which she still reclined, he told her of the urgent business that required his immediate departure for Algiers.
"Algiers! Why, that is in Africa! another quarter of the globe! a long, long way off!" she exclaimed, starting up with an eagerness that the duke mistook for alarm and distress.
"Oh, no, dear, it is not. It only _sounds_ so. It is about eight hundred miles nearly due south of Paris. We go by train to Marseilles in a few hours, and by steamer to Algiers in a couple of days. You will go with me, dear. The change will do you good," said the duke, gayly.
"I! Oh, no, I could not think of such a thing! Pray, pray, do not ask me to do so!" exclaimed Valerie, in a tone of such genuine terror that the duke hastened to say: "Certainly not, if you do not wish it, my love. I should be happier to have you with me, and I think the trip would benefit your health, but--" "Did that horrid doctor advise you to take me to Algiers?" testily interrupted the young duchess.
"He said the change would do you good if you should like to go; but not otherwise. He said that you should be left to decide for yourself."
"Then he has quite as much judgment as the world gives him credit for, and that is not the case with every one."
"Now you are left to your own choice, to go or not to go."
"Then I choose not to go, most decidedly."
"Very well," said the duke, with a disappointed air; "then there is no need that I should delay my departure for another day. I shall leave for Marseilles by the night's express, Valerie."
"As you please," she wearily replied.
"I may be gone a fortnight, Valerie, and I may not be gone more than ten days; the length of my absence will depend upon contingencies; but I shall hurry back with all possible dispatch."
"Yes, I am sure you will," she answered, because she did not know what else to say.
"And I will write to you every day."
"Thank you."
"Will you write to me every day?"
"Certainly, if you wish me to do so."
"Of course I wish you to do so, my love," said the duke, as he stooped and pressed his lips on the pale cheek of his "wayward child," as he sometimes called her.
He then left the room to give orders to his valet and groom to pack up and be ready to attend him on his journey.
As soon as she found herself alone, Valerie arose, slipped on a dressing-gown, sat down to her writing-desk, and wrote the following note, as usual, without name, date, or signature: "Come to me at noon to-morrow; or, if you cannot do so, write and fix your own hour, any time will suit me equally well, or rather, _ill_."
She put this note in an envelope, sealed it, and directed it to Monsieur Le Count de Volaski, Russian Embassy.
Then she rang for her maid, and sent her out to post the letter.
Valerie made an effort to dress for dinner that evening, and dined with the duke for the last time--yes, for the very last time in this world.
After the Duke had risen from the table and pressed a parting kiss upon her lips before leaving her to enter the carriage that was to take him to the railway station, she never saw his face again--nay more--though she honored and revered him, she never even wished or intended to see him again.
She witnessed his departure with tearful eyes, yet with a sense of infinite relief. _One of them was gone! _ Oh, how she wished that the other would go also!
She loved neither of them. She had lost the power of loving. Her love, by her awful position, was frightened into its death-throes. All she desired to do, was to get away from them both, and like a haunted hare, or wounded bird, creep into some safe hiding-place to die in peace.
She retired early that evening, and, for the first time for several days, slept in peace.
The next day she arose, and, contrary to her custom in the morning, dressed herself to receive company.
She waited all the forenoon in expectation of receiving a note from the Count de Volaski, either accepting her appointment or arranging another one; but when the clock struck the hour of noon without her having heard from him, she naturally concluded that he meant to answer her note in person, by coming at the hour named. So she went down into the small drawing-room to be ready to receive him.
She was right in her conclusions; for she had scarcely been seated five minutes when a footman entered and presented the count's card.
"Show the gentleman up," she said in a voice that she vainly tried to render steady.
A few minutes passed, the door opened, and Count de Volaski entered the room.
She arose to receive him, but did not advance a single step to meet him.
He came on, and bowed low--much lower than any ceremony required.
She bent her head, and silently pointed to a chair at a short distance.
He sat down.
Up to this time not a word had passed between them.
A monk and a nun, who keep their vows, could not have met more coldly than this pair who had once plighted their hands and hearts in marriage before the altar of the Church of St. Marie.
Valerie was the first to speak.
"Well, you insisted upon this interview. Now you have it. What do you want of me?"
"I want you to leave the Duke of Hereward," he answered, sternly.
"You are right, so far. But the Duke of Hereward has saved me the trouble of taking the initiative step. He has left me. I shall never see him, more."
"How! What!" exclaimed de Volaski, starting up.
"The Duke of Hereward left for Algiers last night. I shall not remain here to receive him when he returns."
"You told him, then, and he has left you? Good!"
"No, I have not told him; he knows nothing--not even that he has left me forever. Business of a financial nature connected with his duties as executor of my father's estates, takes him to Algiers for a few weeks. During his absence I shall make arrangements for leaving this house forever."
"Valerie, where will you go?" he inquired, in a more softened tone.
"I do not know--_not with you that is certain_. You were quite right when you said that I could not live with either--that a single life was the only possible one for me. I feel that it is so, and I hope that it will be a short one."
"Valerie, do not say so. You are very young yet. The duke is an elderly man; he will die and leave you free."
"I shall not be free _while_ EITHER of _you live_! nor can I build any hope in life _on death_! Oh! I have been cruelly wronged, and I am very miserable, but I am not selfish or wicked, Waldemar."
"How soon do you propose to leave this house?"
"I do not know. I only know that I must go before the duke's return."
"What should hinder your going at once?"
"I must make some provision for the miserable remnant of life left me. I must collect and sell my jewels and my shawls and laces, and invest the money in some safe place, where it will bring me interest enough to live cheaply in some remote country neighborhood. Wretched as I am, soon as I hope to die, I do not wish to be dependant on _you_, Waldemar."
"No, nor do I wish anything but independence and honor for _you_, Valerie. But you must let me assist you in realizing capital from your personal property, and in making other necessary arrangements for your removal. You cannot do this for yourself. You are more ignorant of the world than a child. So you must let me see you safely through this trial. You have no alternative, Valerie. You have no one else to consult with but me, and you may confide in me, for I will endeavor to forget that I ever called you wife, and will treat you with the reverential tenderness due to a dear sister. When I once have seen you safely lodged in a secure retreat, I will leave you there, never to intrude upon you again."
"Thanks! thanks! that is the kindest course you could pursue toward me."
"You accept all my service then?"
"Yes, on the condition that I shall seem to you only as a sister. But, oh! Waldemar! you, who are so kind and considerate _now_, how could you have _ever_ written to me so cruelly--calling me an unfaithful wife--calling yourself a wronged husband? I never was consciously unfaithful to any one in my life. I never voluntarily wronged any creature since I was born. How could you have written so cruelly, Waldemar?"
"Forgive me, Valerie! I was crazed with the contemplation of you,--_you_ whom I considered as my own wife, living here as the Duchess of Hereward. Only since I have learned that the duke is gone--and gone forever from you, have I come to my senses. Do you understand me, and do you forgive me?"
"Yes, both; but now, do not think me rude or unkind; but you must go. It is not well that you should stay too long."
"Good-morning, Valerie," he said immediately preparing to obey her.
She held out her hand. He took it, pressed it lightly, dropped it, turned and left the room.
After this day the Count de Volaski came daily to the Hotel de la Motte on some errand connected with the duchess' financial business. These interviews were as coldly formal as the most severe etiquette would have required.
Valerie received frequent letters from the Duke of Hereward, in which he spoke of the protracted business that still kept him an unwilling absentee from her side; promised as speedy a return as possible; expressed great anxiety concerning her health, and besought her to write often.
She complied with his request: she wrote daily as she had promised to do, but she could not write deceitfully; she told him of her health, which she described as no better and no worse than it had been when he left Paris; she told him any little political news or rumor that happened to be stirring, and any social gossip that she thought might interest or amuse him; but she deluded him by no expressions of affection or devotion.
The duke's absence, that was expected to last but two weeks, was prolonged to six.
Still Valerie delayed leaving the Hotel de la Motte. She shrank from taking the final step, until it should seem absolutely necessary.
At length, after an absence of nearly seven weeks, the Duke of Hereward wrote to his young wife that he was about to return home, and would follow his letter in twenty-four hours.
This letter threw her into a state of excessive nervous excitement, and when her daily visitor entered her room a few hours after its reception, he found her in this condition.
"Why, what is the matter, Valerie? What on earth has happened?" he inquired, in much anxiety.
"The hour has come! I must go!" she answered, trembling.
"Well, so much the better. You are ready to go. You have been ready for weeks past! Do not falter now that the time is at hand."
"I do not falter in resolution, only in strength."
"The sooner it is over the better. I will take you away this afternoon, if you wish."
"Yes, yes, take me away as soon as possible!"
"Have you thought of where you would like to go first?"
"Yes! I have thought and decided! I want you to take me to Italy--to St. Vito, where we were married, and to the vine-dresser's cottage, in the Apennines, where we passed the first days of our marriage, and the happiest days of our lives."
"It will be very sad for you there," said Waldemar, compassionately.
"Yes! I know it will be so without you! for of course I must live without you! and though I do not love you as I used to do, because love has perished out of my soul, still, I know, there in that place where we were so happy in our honeymoon, I shall be always comparing the happy days that _were_ with the sorrowful days that _are_!"
"But still, if that is so, why do you go there?"
"Oh, Waldemar, it is the only place for me! I cannot go among entire strangers. I am such a coward. I am afraid in my loneliness: I should be driven to despair or to insanity, or worse than all, to the unpardonable sin of suicide! I dare not go among strangers, nor dare I go among people who know me as the Duchess of Hereward, or knew me as Valerie de la Motte, for they would scorn and abhor me, and their company would be far worse than the very worst solitude. No! I must go to the vine-dresser's cottage in the Apennines. Good Beppo and Lena knew me only as your wife and loved me dearly, and wept bitter tears when my father tore me away from you. They will be glad to see poor Valerie again! And the good Father Antonio, who married us! He loved us both! He will comfort and counsel me. Yes, Waldemar! St. Vito is my City of Refuge, and the vinedresser's cottage my only possible home. Take me there and leave me in peace."
"I believe you are right, Valerie. By what train would you like to leave Paris? There is an express that starts at seven. Could you be ready for that?"
"Yes! yes! thanks! I can be ready for that!"
"Shall you take your maid with you?"
"No. I shall pay her and discharge her with a present."
"Then I shall have to secure only two seats. I will get a coupe, if it be possible."
"Anything you like! Go now, Waldemar!"
Count de Volaski pressed her hand and withdrew; but before leaving the room he turned back and inquired: "Shall I come here for you, or shall I meet you at the station?"
"Meet me at the station, of course! Spare my poor name as long as it can be spared! In twenty-four hours it will be in everybody's mouth, and the worst that can be said of it will seem too good! And yet they will all be wrong, and I shall not deserve their condemnation."
Count de Volaski waved his hand, and hurried from the room and the house, for he had many hasty preparations to make for the sudden journey.
As soon as he had gone Valerie set about making her final arrangements. She paid off her maid and discharged her with a handsome present, but without a word of explanation. She sent off her luggage to the railway-station, and ordered the carriage to take her to the same point. She took in her hand a small bag containing her money, jewels, and other small valuables, when she seated herself in her carriage and gave the order to her coachman. And so she left her own magnificent home forever.
The wondering servants, who had been too well trained even to look any comment in their mistress' hearing, let loose their tongues as they watched the carriage roll away.
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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38
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THE STORM BURSTS.
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The Duke of Hereward arrived at home the next morning. When the fiacre that brought him from the railway station rolled through the porte-cochere into the court yard and drew up before the main entrance of the Hotel de la Motte, he sprang out with almost boyish eagerness, and ran up the stairs, and rang and knocked with vehemence and impatience.
The gray-haired porter opened the door.
"How is the duchess, Leblanc? Has she risen? Send some one to let her know that I have arrived," he exclaimed, hurriedly.
_"Helas! _ Monseigneur!" answered the venerable old servant, in a distressed tone.
"What do you mean? Is the duchess ill? I got a letter from her yesterday, in which she said she was quite well. It met me at Marseilles. She continues well. I hope? Why don't you speak?" impatiently demanded the duke. " _Mille pardons_. Monseigneur; but madame has gone," sadly replied Leblanc.
"What do you say?" exclaimed the duke, discrediting the evidence of his own ears. " _Mille pardons_, Monsieur le Duc, Madame la Duchesse has gone."
"Gone! the duchess gone!" exclaimed the duke, in amazement, not unmixed with incredulity.
"Oui; Monseigneur."
"Gone! the duchess gone! Where?" " _Miserable_ that I am, Monseigneur, I do not know. I cannot tell. Will Monsieur le Duc deign to consult the coachman who drove Madame la Duchesse in the carriage when she left the house last night, not to return. He can probably give Monseigneur some information," respectfully suggested the old porter.
"Send Dubourg to me in the library, then," said the duke, as he strode down the hall, full of vague alarm, but far from suspecting the fatal truth.
Soon the coachman came to him in the library, and in answer to his questions told how he had driven the duchess alone to the railway station to catch the night express for Marseilles.
"The night express for Marseilles! Then the foolish child was going to meet me, and must have passed me on the road!" said the duke to himself, with a strange blending of flattered affection and anxious fears.
"That will do, Dubourg. The duchess went down to the seaport to meet me on the steamer, and we have missed each other on the road. It is a pity, but it cannot be helped!" said the duke dismissing his coachman by a wave of his hand.
The man bowed and retired.
"Silly child, to go and do such an absurd and indiscreet thing as that! I would go down after her by the next train only I should be sure to pass her on the road again; for she will hasten immediately back when she finds that I have arrived at Marseilles and left for Paris," said the duke to himself, as he rang for his valet and retired to his own room to dress for breakfast.
But there, on the bureau, he found a letter addressed to him in the handwriting of Valerie.
At the moment he picked it up his valet entered the room in answer to his ring.
Some intuition warned the duke to send the man away while he should read his letter.
"Have a warm bath ready for me at nine o'clock, Dubois, and order breakfast at half-past," he said.
The man bowed and left the room.
The duke dropped into a chair, and with a strange, vague foreboding of evil, opened the letter.
Well might he shrink from the dread perusal of the story--the story of her cowardice and folly, and of his own humiliation and despair.
It was Valerie's full confession, the revelation of her woeful history as it is known to the reader, with one single reservation--the name of her lover.
The Duke of Hereward had wonderful powers of self-control. He read the fatal letter through to the bitter end. Then he folded it up carefully, and locked it up in a cabinet for safe-keeping.
And when, fifteen minutes later, his valet came to tell him that it was nine o'clock, and his bath was ready, no one could have guessed from his looks that a storm had passed through his soul.
He was rather pale, certainly; but that might well be explained by the fatigue of a long night's journey, and his gray mustache and beard concealed the close compression of his lips. He went through his morning toilet and his breakfast with apparently his usual composure.
After breakfast, however, he instituted a cautious but close investigation of the circumstances attending the flight of the duchess.
The servants, having nothing to gain from concealment and nothing to fear from communication, spoke freely of the daily visits of the Count de Volaski, continued through the seven weeks of the duke's absence.
Then the dreadful light of conviction burst full upon his startled intelligence. Count Waldemar de Volaski had been her acquaintance at the Court of St. Petersburg! He it was, then, who had been the hero of her foolish love story and mad marriage, before the duke had ever seen her. He it was who had been her constant visitor during the duke's absence. He it was who was the companion of her flight!
The duke did not believe Valerie's solemn declaration, that she left Paris only to isolate herself from every one and live a single, lonely life. Valerie had deceived him once, by keeping a fatal secret from him, and he would not trust her now. He believed that she had gone away with the Russian count to remain with him. The duke's rage and jealousy were roused and burning against them both.
He was determined to find out the place of their retreat, and to take immediate and signal vengeance.
He put the case in the hands of the most expert detectives, with instructions to use the utmost caution and secrecy in their investigations.
He permitted his first theory of the duchess' absence, made in good faith at the time it was first stated--that she had gone down to Marseilles to meet him, and had missed him on the way--to prevail in the household, and penetrate through that medium to the world of Paris.
He left the Hotel de la Motte, which he had only occupied in right of his wife's family, and saying that he should not return until the arrival of the duchess, he took up his residence at "_Meurice's_."
He shut himself up in his apartments, and never left them. He refused to see all visitors except the detectives in his employment. Thus he escaped the annoyance of having to answer questions and to make explanations.
He had remained at "_Meurice's_" about five days, when Villeponte, the chief detective, came to him and told him that they had succeeded in making out the facts connected with the flight of the duchess.
The duke, controlling all manifestations of excitement, directed the officer to proceed with the story at once.
Villeponte then related that on the Wednesday of the preceding week, madame, the Duchess of Hereward, had left Paris in company with Monsieur the Count de Volaski; that they took a coupe on the evening express for Marseilles, traveling alone together without servants or attendants; that they were now domiciliated at a vine-dresser's cottage in the little village of San Vito, at the foot of the Appenines.
Having concluded his information, Monsieur Villeponte asked for further instructions.
The duke told the detective that he had no further orders to give; but thanked him for his zeal, congratulated him on his success, paid him liberally, and bowed him out.
That evening the Duke of Hereward, unattended by groom or valet, took a coupe on the night express train for the south of France, and started for Marseilles, en route for Italy.
On the evening of the third day after leaving Paris he reached his destination--the little hamlet of San Vito at the foot of the Appenines.
He stopped at the small hotel.
Coming alone and unattended, carrying a small valise in his hand, and looking weary, dusty, and travel-stained, the Duke of Hereward was not intuitively recognized as a person of distinction, and therefore escaped the overwhelming amount of attention usually lavished upon English tourists of rank and wealth by continental hosts.
He was shown to a little room blinded by clustering vines, and there left to his own devices.
He ordered a bottle of the native wine, and sent for the landlord.
The latter came promptly--a thin, little, old man, with a skin like parchment, hair and beard like a black horse's mane, and eyes like glowworms.
He saluted the shabby stranger with courtesy, but without obsequiousness; for how should he know that the traveler was a duke?
"Pray sit down. I wish to ask you some questions," said the Duke of Hereward, with a natural, courteous dignity that immediately modified the landlord's estimate of his value.
"Non, signor; but I will answer questions," he declared, as he bowed deferentially, and remained standing.
"Did a gentleman and lady arrive here about ten days ago!"
"Si, signor--a grand milord, and a beautiful miladi. But they have been here before, signor, about two years ago."
"Ah! Where are they now?"
"At their old lodgings, signor--at the cottage of Beppo, the vine-dresser. The signor is a good friend of the young milord and miladi?" questioned the landlord, deferentially, but very anxiously; for just then it flashed upon his memory that two years previous another grand "signor," of reverend age like this one, had come inquiring about the young pair, and had ended in breaking up their union for the time.
"I have known the lady for about a year, or a little longer; the gentleman only a few months; but I can scarcely lay claim to so an intimate a relation to them as 'friendship' would imply," answered the duke, evasively, and putting a severe constraint upon himself.
The landlord was completely deceived and thrown off his guard.
"How far from the village does this vine-dresser live?" inquired the duke.
"Just on the outside, signor--just at the foot of the mountain--about three miles from this house."
"Can I have a carriage to take me there this evening."
"Si, signor, assuredly; but will not the signor refresh himself before he leaves?" inquired the host.
"No; I will refresh myself after I come back. Let me have the carriage as soon as possible."
"Si, signor," said the landlord, bowing himself out.
The duke, unable to rest, even after a long and fatiguing journey, walked up and down the floor of his little room, until the landlord re-appeared and announced the carriage.
The duke caught up his rough traveling-cap, clapped it on his head, hurried out and entered the rustic vehicle, dignified with the name of a carriage.
And in another moment he was rolling off in the direction of the Vine-dresser's cottage at the foot of the mountain.
|
{
"id": "16039"
}
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39
|
THE RIVALS.
|
The sun was setting behind the western ridge, and throwing a deep shadow over the valley, as the rustic vehicle conveying the Duke of Hereward drew up before the vinedresser's cottage, nestled almost out of sight amid thick foliage and deep shade.
It was the hour of rest, and Beppo, the vine-dresser, sat at the gate, strumming an old, dilapidated lute; his red jacket and white shirt making the only bits of bright color in the sombre picture.
As the rude carriage stopped before the gate, Beppo arose and put aside his lute, and stood with a look of expectancy on his dark face.
The duke did not alight, but put his head out of the carriage window and beckoned the man to approach him.
Beppo came up, curiosity expressing itself in every feature of his speaking countenance.
"You have a young gentleman and lady--a young married couple--staying with you?" said the duke, but speaking in the Italian language.
"No, Excellenzo. The signora is here. The signor went away on the same day on which he brought the signora," deferentially answered the peasant, with a profound bow.
"The man has gone!" exclaimed the duke, losing his caution and his politeness in the phrenzy of baffled vengeance.
"Si, signer, the man has gone!" with another deep bow.
"Where, then, has he gone?"
"To Paris, signor; but the signora is still here. Will the signor deign to come into my poor house and see the signora, then?"
"See _her_! No!" vehemently exclaimed the duke. Then recollecting himself, he inquired: "Are you sure the man has gone to Paris?"
"Si, signor; I drove him myself, in my little cart, to San Stephano, where he took the train."
"You say that he left on the same day in which he brought the lady here?" inquired the duke, with more interest.
"Si, signor. They arrived in the afternoon, and he went away again in the evening."
"Hum. Why did he go so soon?"
"Affairs, signor. It is not to be thought he would have left the signora so sick if it had not been for affairs."
"The lady is sick, then?"
"Very sick, signor."
"What is the matter with her?"
"We do not know, signor. She will not have a doctor, but sits and pines."
"Ah! no doubt," said the duke to himself.
"Will the signor condescend to honor our poor shed by coming under its roof, where he may for himself see the signora?" said the vine-dresser, with much courtesy.
"Thanks, no. Back to the hotel!" he added, to the driver, who immediately turned his horse's head to the village.
With a parting nod to the courteous vine-dresser, the duke sank back on his seat, closed his eyes, and gave his mind up to thought.
Volaski had gone back to Paris. Why had he left Valerie and gone there? To resign his position in the embassy? To settle up business previous to taking up his permanent abode in Italy? Or had he returned so quickly to Paris only to conceal his crime and deceive the world into the opinion that he had not been out of Paris.
The duke did not know what his motive for so sudden a return could be; but judged the last-mentioned theory of causes to be the most probable.
"I do not know what _else_ the caitiff has gone back for; but I know one thing--he has gone there to give me satisfaction," said the duke, grimly, to himself.
The horse, with the prospect of stall and fodder before him, made much better time in going home than in coming away, and so, in less than half an hour, the rumbling vehicle drew up before the little hotel.
The landlord himself came out to meet the returning traveler.
"I hope the illustrious signor found the excellent signor and the beautiful signora in good health," said the polite host, as he opened the carriage-door for his guest.
"The beautiful signora is sick and the excellent signor is gone," said the duke, grimly, as he got out. " _Misericordia! _" cried the host, with a look of unutterable woe.
"That will do. Now let me have some supper as soon as you can get it, and when it is ready to be served, come yourself and tell me why I was not informed of the young man's departure before taking that useless drive to the vine-dresser's," said the duke, gravely.
"Pardon, illustrissimo, if I tell you now. We did not know the young signor had gone. He did not come this way. He must have taken another route and got his train at San Stephano," humbly replied the host.
"Ah! yes! the vine-dresser did tell me he had driven the man over to San Stephano. Well, then, hurry up my supper," said the duke, passing on to his room.
The landlord looked after him, muttering to himself: "Ah! so not finding the excellent young signor, he has turned his back on the beautiful young signora. I know it! The _other_ ancient and illustrious signor, who raised the devil in Beppo's cottage last year, and carried off the bride, was her father; but this illustrissimo is _his_ father, wherefore he cares not to bring away the lovely signora."
The host then gave the necessary orders for the duke's supper to be prepared, and when it was ready he took it up to his guest.
The duke had no more questions to ask, and only two orders to give--breakfast at seven o'clock on the next morning, and a conveyance to take him to the railway station at half-past seven.
The next day the duke set out on his return to Paris, and on the fourth evening thereafter found himself re-established at his comfortable quarters at Meurice's.
He changed his dress, dined, and ordered the files of English and French newspapers for the past week to be brought to him.
He was interested only in political affairs when asking for the papers, and so he was quite as much astonished as grieved when his eyes fell upon this paragraph in the _Times_: "A painful rumor reaches us from Paris. It is to the effect that a certain young and lovely duchess, who made her _debut_ in English society as a bride only twelve months since, has left her home under the protection of a certain Polish count, attached to the Russian Embassy."
Stricken to the soul with shame, the unhappy duke sank back in his chair and remained as one paralyzed for several minutes; then slowly recovering himself he took up other papers, one by one, to see if they too recorded his dishonor.
Yes! each paper had its paragraph devoted to the one grand sensation of the day--the flight of the beautiful Duchess of Hereward with the young Russian count; and very few dealt with the deplorable case as delicately as the _Times_ had done.
"So my dishonor is the talk of all Paris and London!" groaned the duke, dropping his head upon his chest. "If all the civilization of the nineteenth century had power to stay my arm in its vengeance, it has lost it now! And nothing is left for me to do but to kill the man and divorce the woman."
There was a certain Colonel Morris, of the Tenth Hussars, staying at Paris on leave.
The duke sat down at his writing-table and dashed off a hasty note to this compatriot, asking him to come to him immediately.
Then he rang the bell and gave the note to his own groom, saying: "Take this to Colonel Morris, at the _Trois Freres_, and wait an answer."
The man took the message, bowed and hurried away.
The duke sank back in his chair with a deep sigh, and covered his face with his hands, and so awaited the return of his messenger.
Half an hour crept slowly by, and then the groom came back, opened the door, and announced: "Colonel Morris."
The gallant colonel entered the room, looking as little like the dead shot and notorious duellist he was reported to be, as any fine gentleman could.
He was a tall, slight, fair and refined looking young man, exquisite in dress, soft in speech, and suave in manners.
"You have guessed the reason why I have sent for you, Morris?" said the duke, advancing to meet him, and plunging into the middle of his subject.
"Yes," murmured the colonel, sinking into the seat his host silently offered him.
"You can go, Tompkins. I will ring when I want you," said the duke, throwing himself into his own chair.
When the man had bowed himself out, and the duke and his visitor were left alone, the former said: "You know why I have sent for you here. Now what do you advise?"
"You must blow out the man's brains and break the woman's heart," softly and sweetly replied the dandy duellist.
"The question arises whether the man has any brains to blow out, or the woman any heart to break," grimly commented the duke. "However," he added, "you are right, Morris, I must kill the man--divorce the woman. You are with me?"
"To the death," answered the _elegant_, in the same easy tone in which he ever uttered even the most ferocious words.
"You will take my challenge?"
"With much pleasure."
"I wonder where the fellow is to be found. At the Russian Embassy, I suppose," observed the duke, as he turned to his writing-table.
"No, not there. The Count de Volaski has withdrawn or been dismissed from the Embassy. It is not certainly known which. He is, meanwhile, at the Trois Freres. He has the honor of being my fellow-lodger," suavely observed the colonel.
"There," said the duke, as he folded and directed his note, "no time should be lost in an affair of this sort. It is not yet ten o'clock. You may even deliver this challenge to-night, if you will be so kind."
"Certainly," murmured the graceful colonel rising.
"I leave everything absolutely in your hands. Make every arrangement you may think proper; I will agree to it all; and many thanks," said the duke, striving to maintain a calm exterior, while his spirit was troubled within him.
"Expect me back to-night. I may be late, but I shall certainly report myself here," were the parting words of Colonel Morris as he left the room.
The duke walked slowly up and down the floor for nearly half an hour, and then he sat down to his desk and employed some hours in writing letters to his family, friends and men of business in England.
When he had completed his task he sealed and directed all these letters and locked them in his desk.
At a quarter past twelve the colonel returned to the hotel, and immediately presented himself at the duke's apartments.
He entered with a soft smile, and gently sank into a seat.
"Well?" inquired the duke.
"Well," cheerfully responded the second; "everything is pleasantly arranged. I had the good fortune of finding the count 'with himself,' as they say here. I explained my errand and delivered your missive. He read it and expressed his gratification at its reception, declaring that you had anticipated him by but a few hours, as he should certainly have called you out immediately upon hearing of your arrival in Paris."
"The diabolical villain!" hotly exclaimed the duke.
"He claimed the first right to the lady in question, and affirmed that it was your grace who had appropriated his wife--" "_O-h-h-h! _ when shall I have the opportunity of shooting him!" cried the duke.
"By and by," soothingly responded the colonel. "He referred me to his friend, Baron Blowmonozoff, then staying at the same house."
"Blowmonozoff! Yes, I know him. A very good fellow."
"A gentleman, I think. Of course I went directly from the presence of the count to that of the baron, who received me with much politeness, and was so kind as to express the pleasure he should feel in negotiating with me the terms of so interesting a meeting."
"And the terms, Colonel! What are they?"
"I am coming to them. The meeting is to take place at sunrise in the wood of Vincennes. We are to leave here an hour before dawn, in order to be on the spot in time. The weapons are to be pistols; the distance ten paces. Other minor details will be arranged on the spot. We shall each take a surgeon. I have engaged Doctor Legare. We will call and pick him up on our way to the ground. And now all we have got to do is to ring for the English waiter here, and get him to send us some coffee before we go out. I will see to that also, as I have taken a room in the house, and intend to stay here to-night, so as to be up in time in the morning."
"Thanks very much. You are really very good to take so much trouble," said the duke, with some emotion.
"No trouble, I assure you, duke; quite a pleasure," serenely answered the colonel.
"My friend, I have left half a dozen letters locked up in my writing-desk. I shall hand the key of that desk to you as we go out. If I should fall, I hope you will take charge of the desk and see to the delivery of the letters at their proper addresses," said the duke, more gravely than he had spoken before.
"Certainly, with much pleasure. Have you also made your will?" cheerfully inquired the colonel.
"No," shortly replied the duke.
"Then permit me to say that I think you should do so, by all means."
"There is no need. My estates are all entailed. My personal property is not worth winning. The--duchess is provided by her own dower, which came out of her own property, I am thankful to say. No, there is no need of a will."
"Then allow me to suggest that we ought to go to bed. It is now two o'clock. We must be up at five. We have just three hours to sleep, and--if you have no other commissions for me--I will retire," said the colonel, smoothly.
"Many thanks. I believe there is nothing more to be said or done to-night," responded the duke, in a desponding tone--for it _cannot_ be an exhilarating anticipation to have to get up in the morning and stand up to murder, or be murdered, even where the duellist is the bravest of men, backed by the serenest of seconds.
"Then, since there is no further use for me this evening, I will say good-night and pleasant dreams," said the colonel, suavely, as he slid from the room.
Good-night and pleasant dreams to a duellist on the eve of a duel! Was it a sarcasm on the colonel's part? By no means; it was only the manifestation of his habitual smooth politeness.
The duke, left to himself, walked up and down the floor for a few minutes, and then rang for his valet to attend him, and retired to bed, leaving orders to be called at five o'clock in the morning.
Though left in quietness, he could not compose himself to sleep, but tossed and tumbled from side to side, spending the most wakeful and the most miserable night he had ever known in the whole course of his life. The time seemed stretched out upon a rack of torture, until the four hours extended to forty; for from the moment he had lain down he had not slept an instant, until he was startled by a rap at his bedroom door, and the voice of his valet calling: "If you please, your grace, the clock has struck five; the coffee is ready, and the cab is at the door."
"Then come in and dress me quickly," answered the duke, rising, as the prompt servant entered and handed a dressing-gown.
The toilet of the duke was quickly made.
When he passed into the next room, he found the breakfast table laid and the colonel waiting for him.
"Good-morning, Duke. I hope you slept well. The day promises to be delightful. We have no time to lose, however, if we are to be on the ground at sunrise. Shall we have our coffee?" serenely inquired the second.
"Certainly--Tompkins, touch the bell," replied the duke.
The obedient valet rang, and a waiter entered with the breakfast-tray, which he set upon the table and proceeded to arrange.
"Take this case of pistols down very carefully, and place it in the cab, and put in a railway rug also," quietly directed the colonel, after the waiter had completed the arrangement of the breakfast table.
"What possible use can we make of a railway rug on such a mild morning as this?" gloomily inquired the duke.
The colonel looked calmly at the questioner, and quietly replied: "To cover the body of the fallen man, whoever he may happen to be. I am so used to these affairs that I know what will be wanted beforehand. Shall we sit down to breakfast?"
Now the duke was a courageous man, but he shuddered at the coolness of his second, as he assented.
They sat down to the table and drank their coffee in silence.
Then with the assistance of the obsequious Mr. Tompkins, they drew on light overcoats suitable to the autumnal morning, and went down stairs, caps and gloves in hand, and entered the carriage that was to take them to the appointed place.
On their way they stopped at the Rue du Bains and took the surgeon who had been engaged to attend them.
Dr. Legare was a young graduate who had just commenced practice, and was eager for the fray.
He came into the carriage, bringing a rather ostentatious looking case of instruments and roll of bandages.
On being introduced by the second, he bowed to the duke and took his seat.
The carriage started again.
It was yet dark.
After an hour's ride they reached a quiet, solitary glade in the wood of Vincennes.
The carriage drove up under some trees on one side.
It was yet earliest morning, and the glade lay in the darksome, dewy freshness of the dawn. There was no living creature to be seen.
"We are the first on the ground, as I always like to be," remarked Colonel Morris, as he alighted from the carriage, bearing the pistol-case in his hands.
He was followed by the duke, who slowly came out, stood by his side and looked around.
The young surgeon remained in the carriage in charge of his very suggestive and alarming instruments and appliances.
"The sun is just rising," said the duke, as the first rays sparkled up above the rosy line of the eastern horizon.
"And look, with dramatic precision, there are our men," cheerfully remarked the colonel, as a second carriage rolled into the glade and drew up under the trees at a short distance from the first.
The carriage door was thrown open and the Russian Baron Blomonozoff came out--a thin, ferocious-looking little man, with a red face, encircled by a red beard and red hair, of all of which it would be difficult to say which was reddest.
He was followed by the beautiful Adonis, the Count de Volaski, looking very fair and dainty, very languid and melancholy.
The four gentlemen simultaneously raised their hats in courteous greeting; but no words passed between them then.
The seconds advanced toward each other, and went apart to settle the final details of the meeting. They divided their duties equally.
The colonel gave the pistol-case to the baron, who opened it and examined the weapons. The colonel stepped off the ten paces of ground, and the baron marked the positions to be taken by the antagonists.
Then each went after his man and placed him in position. Then the Colonel took the case of pistols and placed it in the hands of the baron, who carried it to his principal, that the latter might take his choice of the pair of revolvers, in accordance with the terms of the meeting.
The count took the first that came to hand. The baron carried back the case to the colonel, who placed the remaining weapon in the hands of the duke.
The antagonists stood opposite each other in a line of ten paces running north and south, so that the sun was equally divided between them. The seconds stood opposite each other, in a line of six paces running east and west, across the line of their principals; so that the positions of the four men, as they stood, formed the four points of a diamond.
They stood prepared for the mortal issue.
A fatal catastrophe is always sudden and soon over.
The final question was asked by the duke's second: "Gentlemen, are you ready?"
"We are," responded both principals.
"One--two--three--FIRE!" intoned the Russian baron.
Two flashes, a simultaneous report, and the Count de Volaski leaped into the air and fell down, with a heavy thud, upon his face!
The seconds hastened to raise the fallen man. The duke stood panic-stricken for an instant, and then followed them.
The unfortunate count lay in a tumbled, huddled, shapeless heap, with his head bent under him. Not a drop of blood was to be seen on his person or clothing. The Russian baron raised him up. There was a gasp, a momentary flutter of the lips and eyelids, and all was still.
The colonel hurried off to the carriage to call the surgeon.
The duke stood gazing on his murdered foe, aghast at his own deed and feeling the brand of Cain upon his brow, notwithstanding that he had acted in accordance with the "code of honor."
The surgeon came in haste with his box of instruments in his hands, and the roll of linen under his arm.
He put these articles on the ground, and knelt down to examine his subject; for the body of the count was only a subject now, and not a patient.
After a careful investigation, the surgeon arose and pronounced his verdict.
"Shot through the heart: quite dead."
The Duke of Hereward groaned aloud. None of his wrongs could have been such a calamity as this! None of his sufferings could have equalled in intensity of agony this appalling sense of blood-guiltiness!
"Can _nothing_ be done?" he inquired, not with the slightest hope that anything could, but rather in the idiocy of utter despair.
"Nothing. No medical skill can raise the dead," solemnly answered the surgeon.
"One of you fellows can bring the railway rug out of our carriage. I knew it would be needed," said the serenely practical colonel.
The count's servant started to obey.
The duke groaned and turned away from the body of his fallen foe, upon which he could not endure longer to gaze.
The Russian baron came up to him, and with the knightly courtesy of his caste and country, said: "Monseigneur may rest tranquil. Everything has been conducted in accordance with the most rigid rules of honor. The result has been unfortunate for my distinguished principal, but Monseigneur has nothing with which to reproach himself."
"Thanks, Baron. You are kind to say so. Yet I would that I had never lived to see this day; or the worthless woman who has caused this catastrophe!" exclaimed the duke, as he walked hurriedly away and hid himself and his remorse in the inclosure of his own carriage.
There he was soon joined by his serene second, who entered the carriage and gave the order to the coachman; "Drive to the Depot St. Lazare."
"Why to the depot?" gloomily inquired the duke, as the coachman closed the door and remounted to his box.
"Because we must get out of Paris--yes, and out of France also," calmly replied the colonel, sinking back in his seat as the cab drove off.
"Who is looking after--after--" "The body? I left Legare to help Blomonozoff and his servant to remove it. We must get away. An arrest would not be pleasant."
"No, no, certainly not; yet not on that account, but for the peace of my own spirit, I would to Heaven this had not happened!" exclaimed the duke.
"Why? Everything went off most agreeably. Indeed, this was one of the most satisfactory meetings at which I ever assisted," said the colonel, comfortably.
"I wish to Heaven it had never taken place! I would give my right hand to undo its own deed to-day--if that were possible!" groaned the homicide.
"Why should you disturb yourself? --but perhaps this is your first affair of the kind?" calmly inquired the colonel.
"My first and last! I do not know how any one can engage in a second one after feeling what it is to kill a man."
"You feel so because it _is_ your first affair. You would not mind your second, and you would rather enjoy your third," suavely observed the colonel, who then drew a railway card from his pocket, examined it, looked at his watch, and said: "We shall be in time to catch the morning's express to Calais, and we may actually eat our dinners in London. When we arrive you can get some of your people to send a telegram to Tompkins, to order him to pay your hotel bill and bring your effects to London, or wherever else you may think of stopping."
"Thanks for your counsel. I leave myself entirely in your hands," said the duke, with a half-suppressed sigh.
They caught the express to Calais, connected with the Dover boat, and crossed the channel the same day. They ran up to London by the afternoon train, and arrived in good time for a dinner at "Morley's."
Two telegrams were dispatched to Paris--one to the respectable Mr. Tompkins, with orders to pay bills and return with his master's effects; the other to the estimable Mr. Joyce, the groom of the colonel, with orders to perform the same services in behalf of his own employer.
Then the principal and his second separated--the duke to go to his town-house in Piccadilly and the colonel to join his regiment, then stationed at Brighton.
And as the extradition treaty had not at that day been thought of, both were perfectly safe.
|
{
"id": "16039"
}
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40
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AFTER THE STORM.
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The Duke of Hereward only remained in town until the arrival of his servants with his effects from Paris.
He avoided looking at the newspapers, which, he knew, must contain exaggerated statements of the duel and its causes, if, indeed, any statement of such horrors could be exaggerated.
On the third day after his arrival in London, he went down to Greencombe, a small family estate in a secluded part of Sussex, near the sea.
Here he hid himself and his humiliations from the world.
The primitive population around Greencombe had never seen the duke, or any of his family, who preferred to reside at Hereward Hold, in Devonshire, or their town-house in Piccadilly, leaving their small Sussex place in charge of a land-steward and a few old servants.
They had never even heard of the marriage of the duke in Paris, much less the flight of the duchess, or the duel with Volaski.
This neglect of his poor people at Greencombe had hitherto been a matter of compunction to the conscientious soul of the duke, but he now was satisfied with the course of conduct which had left them in total ignorance of himself and his unhappy domestic history.
The duke and his fine servants were received with mingled deference, gladness and embarrassment by the aged and rustic couple who acted as land-steward and housekeeper at Greencombe, and who now bestirred themselves to make their unexpected master and his attendants comfortable.
The duke gave orders that he should be denied to all visitors, though there was little likelihood of any calling upon him, except perhaps the vicar of Greencombe church.
Here the duke vegetated until the meeting of Parliament, when he went up to London to institute proceedings for a divorce.
At that time there was no divorce court, and little necessity for one. Divorces were to be obtained by act of Parliament only.
The duke commenced proceedings immediately on his arrival in London. His case was a clear and simple one; there was no opposition; consequently he was soon, matrimonially considered a free man.
The Duke of Hereward was now nearly fifty years of age. Life was uncertain, and the laws of succession very certain.
If the present bearer of the coronet of Hereward should die childless, the title would not descend to the son of his only and beloved sister, but would go to a distant relative whom the duke hated.
A speedy marriage seemed necessary.
The duke looked around the upper circle of London society, and fixed upon the Lady Augusta Victoria McDugald, the eldest daughter of the Earl of Banff, and a woman as little like his unhappy first wife as it was Possible for her to be.
"The daughter of an hundred earls" was tall and stately, cold and proud, embodying the child's or the peasant's very ideal of "a duchess."
"Dukes," like monarchs, "seldom woo in vain."
After a short courtship the duke proposed for the lady, and after a shorter engagement, married her.
The newly-wedded pair went on a very unusually extended tour over Europe, into Asia and Africa, and then across the ocean and over North and South America.
After twelve months spent in travel, they returned to England only that the anticipated heir of the dukedom might be born on the patrimonial estate of Hereward Hold.
There was the utmost fulfillment of hope. The expected child proved to be a fine boy, who was christened for his father, Archibald-Alexander-John, by courtesy styled Marquis of Arondelle.
Had the duke's mind been as free from remorse for his homicide as his heart was free from regret for his first love, he would have been as happy a man as he was a proud father; but ah! the sense of blood-guiltiness, although incurred in the duel, under the so-called "code of honor," weighed heavily upon his conscience, and over-shadowed all his joys.
His duchess was a prolific mother, and brought him other sons and daughters as the years went by; but, as if some spell of fatality hung over the family, these children all passed away in childhood, leaving only the young Marquis of Arondelle as the sole hope of the great ducal house of Hereward.
So the time passed in varied joys and sorrows, without bringing any tidings, good or bad, of the poor, lost girl who had once shared the duke's title and possessed his heart.
He believed her to be as dead to the world as she was to him. And so he gradually forgot even that she had ever lived! She had long been "out of mind" as "out of sight."
Fifteen years of married life had passed over the heads of the Duke and Duchess of Hereward.
The duchess at thirty-five was still a very beautiful woman, a reigning belle, a leader of fashion, a queen of society.
The duke at sixty-five was still a very handsome, stately and commanding old gentleman, with hair and beard as white as snow. He was a great political power in the House of Lords. Their son, the young Marquis of Arondelle, was a fine boy of fourteen.
It was very early summer in London. Parliament was in session, and the season was at its height.
The Duke and Duchess of Hereward were established in their magnificent town-house in Piccadilly.
The Marquis of Arondelle was pursuing his studies at Eton.
A memorable day was at hand for the duke.
It was the morning of the first of June--a rarely brilliant and beautiful day for London.
The duchess had gone down to a garden party at Buckingham Palace.
The duke sat alone in his sumptuous library, whose windows overlooked the luxuriant garden, then in its fullest bloom and fragrance.
The windows were open, admitting the fine, fresh air of summer, perfumed with the aroma of numberless flowers, and musical with the songs of many birds.
The duke sat in a comfortable reading-chair, with an open book on its rotary ledge. He was not reading. The charm of external nature, appealing equally to sense and sentiment, won him from his mental task, and soothed him into a delicious reverie, during which he sat simply resting, breathing, gazing, luxuriating in the lovely life around him.
In the midst of this clear sky a thunderbolt fell.
A discreet footman rapped softly, and being told to enter, glided into the room, bearing a card upon a tiny silver tray, which he brought to his master.
The duke took it, languidly glanced at it, knit his brows, and took up his reading-glass and examined it closely. No! his eyes had not deceived him. The card bore the name: ARCHBALD A. J. SCOTT.
"Who brought this?" inquired the duke.
"A young gentleman, sir," respectfully answered the footman.
"Where is he?"
"I showed him into the blue reception room, your grace."
The duke paused a moment, gazing at the card, and then abruptly demanded: "What is the young man like?"
"Most genteel, your grace; most like our young lord, and about his age, and dressed in the deepest mourning, your grace; and most particular anxious to see your grace."
"I do not know the boy at all; do not know where he came from, nor what he wants; but he bears the family name, and looks like Arondelle," mused the duke, gazing at the card and knitting his brow.
"I will see the young man. Show him up here," at length he said, abruptly.
The footman bowed and withdrew.
A few moments passed and the footman re-entered and announced: "Mr. Scott," and withdrew.
The duke wheeled his chair around and looked at the visitor, who stood just within the door, bowing profoundly.
The newcomer was a youth of about fifteen years of age, tall, slight and elegant in form; fair, blue-eyed and light-haired in complexion; refined, graceful and self possessed in manner; and faultlessly dressed in deep mourning; but! how amazingly like the duke's own son, the young Marquis of Arondelle.
The duke's short survey of his visitor seemed so satisfactory that he arose and advanced to meet him, saying kindly: "You wished particularly to see me, I understand, young gentleman. In what manner can I serve you?"
The youth bowed again with the deepest deference, and said: "Thanks, your grace. I bring you a letter of introduction."
"Sit down, young sir, sit down, and give me your letter," said the duke, pointing to a chair, and resuming his own seat. "Good Heaven, how like this boy's voice was to the voice of the young Marquis of Arondelle! Who could he be?" mused the duke, as he sat and waited the issue.
The youth seated himself as directed, and seemed to hesitate, as if respectfully referring to his host's convenience.
"Your letter of introduction, now, if you please, young sir," said the duke, at length.
"Thanks; your grace. It's from my mother. She--" Here the boy's voice faltered and broke down; but he soon, recovered it and resumed: "She wrote it on her death-bed--on the very day she died. Here it is, your grace."
The duke took the letter and held it gravely in his fingers while he gazed upon the orphaned boy with sympathy and compassion in every lineament of his fine face, saying, slowly and seriously: "Ah! that is very, very sad. You have lost your mother, my boy; and if I judge correctly from the circumstance of your coming to me, you have lost your father also. I hope, however, I am wrong."
"Your grace is right. I have lost my father also. I lost him first, so long ago that I have no memory of him. I have no relatives at all. That is the reason why my dear mother, on her death-bed, gave me that letter of introduction to your grace, who used to know her, so that I might not be without friends as well as without relatives," modestly replied the youth.
"Ah! I see! I see! And she wrote this letter on her death-bed, which gives it a grave importance. I must therefore pay the more respect to it. The wishes of the dying should be considered sacred," said the duke, as he adjusted his glass and looked at the letter, wondering who the writer could be and what claims she could possibly have on him; but feeling too kindly toward the orphan-boy to let such thought betray itself.
He scrutinized the handwriting of the letter. He could not recognize the faint, scratchy, uncertain characters as anything he had ever seen before. After all, the whole thing might be an imposture, and he himself an exceedingly great dupe, to suffer his feelings to be enlisted by a perfect stranger, merely because that stranger happened to be a counterpart of his own idolized boy Arondelle.
Still dallying with the note, he looked again at the youth, and as he looked, his confidence in him revived. No boy of such a noble countenance could possibly be an impostor. He might have satisfied himself at once, by opening the note and reading the signature; but from some occult reason that even he could not have given, he held it in his hands for a few moments longer, as if it contained some oracle he dreaded to discover. At length he broke the seal and looked at the signature. It was a faint maze of scratches, so difficult to decipher that he gave it up in despair, and turning to the boy, said: "Your name is Scott, young sir?"
"Yes, your grace--a very common name," modestly replied the youth.
"It is ours also" added the duke with a smile.
"I beg your grace's pardon," said the boy, with some embarrassment.
"No offence, young sir. Your mother's name was also Scott, I presume?"
"Yes, your grace; my mother never re-married."
"Ah," said the duke, and he turned the letter for the first page, and commenced its perusal.
And then-- Reader! If the Duke of Hereward's hair had not already been white with age, it must have turned as white as snow with amazement and horror as he read the astounding disclosures of that dying woman's letter!
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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41
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FATHER AND SON.
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The first part of the letter was written in a much clearer chirography than the latter, where it grew fainter and more irregular as it proceeded, until at last, in the signature, it was so nearly illegible as to baffle the ingenuity of the reader to decipher it; as if, in the course of her task, the strength of the dying writer had grown weaker and weaker, until at the end the pen must have fallen from her failing hand.
The Duke of Hereward, who could not make out the name at the bottom of the letter, at once recognized the handwriting at the top, and knew that his correspondent from the dead was his lost wife, Valerie de la Motte.
He grew cold with the chill of an anticipated horror; but with that supreme power of self-control which was as much a matter of constitution as of education with him, he suppressed all signs of emotion, and courteously apologized to his visitor, saying: "Excuse me, young sir; my eyes are not so good as they were some twenty years ago, and I must turn to the light," and he deliberately wheeled his chair around so as to bring his face entirely out of range of his visitor's sharp vision, while he should read the fatal letter, which was as follows: "SAN VITO, ITALY, MARCH 1st, 18-- "DUKE OF HEREWARD: This paper will be handed you by Archibald-Alexander-John Scott, my son and yours.
"This news will startle you, if you have not already been sufficiently startled by the living likeness of the boy to yourself, and by the electric chain of memory which will bring before you the weeks immediately preceding our separation, when you yourself had suspicions of my condition, and hopes of becoming a father. Those fond hopes were destined to be fulfilled by me, but doomed to be ruined by you.
"Yes, Duke of Hereward, your son stands before you, strong, healthy, beautiful, perfect as ever wife bore to her husband; yet denied, delegalized, and defrauded by you, his father!
"If you are inclined still to deny him, turn and look upon him, as he stands, and you can no longer do so. If you want further proof, find it in these circumstances: That this letter is written, and these statements are made by a dying woman, with the immediate prospect of eternity and its retribution before her.
"But on one point be at ease before you read farther; the boy does not know who his father is, and therefore does not know how grievously, how irretrievably you wronged him by divorcing his mother and delegalizing him before his birth. I would not put enmity between father and son by telling him anything about it. _He_ thinks that his father is dead, and I have never undeceived him. He has heard of you only as one who was a friend of his mother, and who, for her sake, may become the friend of her son. It must be for you to decide whether to leave him in this ignorance or to tell him the truth.
"Perhaps you will ask why I have concealed your son's existence from you up to this time. I will tell you; but in order to do so clearly, I must refer to those last few weeks spent with you in Paris before our separation.
"Remember the ball at the British Embassy, to which you persuaded me to go, and where I met, unexpectedly the Count de Volaski, my secretly married husband, supposed to be dead; remember my illness that followed! and how earnestly I tried to avoid him, an effort that was totally useless, because he, considering that he possessed the only rightful claim to my society, constantly sought me, and you, ignorant of all his antecedents, constantly helped him to see me.
"My position was degrading, agonizing, intolerable. I found myself, though guiltless of any intentional wrong-doing, in the horrible dilemma of a wife with two living husbands.
"Yes, by the laws of love and nature, justice and the church, I was the wife of Waldemar de Volaski; by the laws of France and England, I was the wife of the Duke of Hereward.
"The discovery shocked, confused, and, perhaps, unsettled my reason. At first I knew not what to do. I prayed for death. I contemplated suicide. At length, I thought I saw a way out of my dreadful dilemma. It was to escape and to live apart from both forever.
"So also thought the Count de Volaski. I consulted with him. I dared not confess to you the secret that my parents had compelled me to conceal so long. Volaski would have told you, but I would not consent that he should do so, until I should be safe out of the house; for I could not have borne, after such confession, to have met you again; and again, under any circumstances, I preferred that I myself should be your informant. I determined to leave yon, and to live apart from both, as the only life of peace and honor possible for me, and to write you a letter confessing the whole truth, as an explanation of my course of conduct. I thought that you would understand and pity me, and leave me to my fate.
"I did _not_ think that you would disbelieve my statement, publish my flight, and blast my reputation by a divorce.
"I was never false to you in thought, word or deed.
"Volaski was not my lover; he was my sternest mentor. He came to the house during your absence; not for the pleasure of seeing me, for he took no pleasure in my society; he came to arrange with me the programme of my departure; an angel of purity or a demon of malice might have been present at our interviews, and seen nothing to grieve the first or please the last.
"I was ill and nervous and fearful; I could not travel alone, and therefore Volaski went with me, and took care of me; but it was the care a pitiless gend'arme would have taken of a convicted criminal. It was a care that only hurried me to my destination, my chosen place of exile--San Vito--and which left me on the day of my arrival there. I have never seen him since. And now let me say and swear on the Christian faith and hope of a dying woman--that--from the moment I met Count Waldemar de Volaski at the British embassy, to the moment I parted with him at San Vito, he never once came so near me as even to kiss my hand--a courtesy that any gentleman might have shown without blame. You may not believe me now; that you did not believe me before was your great misfortune, and mine, and our son's.
"A week after Volaski had left me you followed us and traced us to San Vito. I heard of your visit and trembled; for, though really guiltless, I felt that to meet your eye would seem worse than death. Fortunately for us both, perhaps, you declined to see me and went away.
"The next news that I heard was of the duel in which you had killed Volaski. I should scarcely have believed in his death this time, had not a packet been forwarded to me, through his second. This packet contained a letter that he had written to me on the eve of the duel, and with a presentiment of death overshadowing him. In this letter he said that in death he claimed me again as his wife, and bequeathed to me, as to his widow, all that he had the power to leave, his personal property, and he took a last solemn farewell of me.
"In the packet, besides, was his will and other documents necessary to put me in possession of his bequest, and also a great number of valuable jewels.
"These, together with my own small dower, have made me independent for life.
"It will show how perfectly palsied was my heart when I tell you that I could not feel either horror of crime, grief for Volaski's death, or gratitude for his bequest.
"I could feel nothing.
"Days and weeks passed in this apathy of despair, from which I was at length painfully aroused by a most shocking discovery.
"Madelena, my hostess, who tenderly watched over my health had her suspicions aroused, and put some motherly questions to me, and when I had answered them she startled me with the announcement that in a very few months I should become a mother.
"This news, so joyful to most good women, only filled my soul with sorrow and dismay. It seemed to complicate my difficulties beyond all possibility of extrication.
"Lena, poor woman, who had never heard of my marriage with the Duke of Hereward, but had known me as the wife of the Count de Volaski, believed that all my distress was caused by the prospect of becoming the mother of a fatherless child, and bent all her energies to try to comfort me with the assurance that this motherhood would be the greatest blessing of my lonely life.
"Ah! how willing would I have confided the whole truth to this good woman if I had dared to do so! It will show how timid I had grown when I assure you that I, a faithful daughter of the church, had not even ventured to go to confession once since my arrival in Italy.
"Now, Duke of Hereward, attend to my words! Had you been less bitterly incredulous of my statements, less cruel in your judgment of me, less murderous in your vengeance upon one much more sinned against than sinning, I should have ventured to write to you of my condition and my prospect of giving you an heir to your dukedom, in time to prevent your rash and fatal act by which you unconsciously delegalized your own lawful son!
"But your murderous cruelty had left me in a state of stupor from which I could not rally.
"Night after night I resolved to write to you. Day after day I tried to carry my resolution into effect. Time after time I failed through fear of you!
"At length I persuaded myself that there was no immediate necessity for action on my part. I might defer writing to you until the arrival of my child. That child might prove to be a girl, who could not be your heir, and, therefore, could not be an object of momentous importance to you; or it might die. Either of which circumstance would relieve me from the painful duty of opening a correspondence with you; or I myself might perish in the coming trial, when the duty of communicating the facts to you would devolve upon some one whom I would appoint with my dying breath.
"These were the causes of my fatal delay in writing to you.
"At length the time arrived. On the fifth of April, just five months after our separation. I became the mother of a fine, healthy, beautiful boy. He brought with him the mother-love that is Heaven's first gift to the child. I loved my son as I never loved a human being before. I _had_ prayed for death; but as I clasped my first-born to my bosom, I asked pardon for that sinful prayer, thanked the Lord that I had lived through my trial, and besought him still to spare my life for my boy's sake. From that day forth I was able to pray and to give thanks. I resolved that my first act of recovery should be to go to the church and make my confession to the good father there, gain my absolution, and then write and inform you of the birth of your heir, the infant Earl of Arondelle, for such I knew was even then the baby boy's title! With these fond hopes I rapidly recovered. "Perfect love casteth out fear." Mother-love had cast out from my soul all fear of you. I thought that you would feel so rejoiced at the news of the birth of your son, your heir, and so fine a boy, that even for his sake you would forgive his mother, supposing that you should still think you had anything to forgive.
"In the midst of my vain dreaming a thunderbolt fell upon me!
"My boy was six weeks old. I had not yet left the house to carry out any of my happy resolutions, when my good Madelena entered my room and brought two large parcels of English papers, such as were sent me monthly by my London correspondent. She told me that the first parcel had arrived during my confinement to my bed, and that she had laid it away and forgotten all about it until this day, when the arrival of the second parcel had reminded her of it, and now she had brought them both, and hoped I would excuse her negligence in not having remembered to bring the first parcel sooner. I readily and even hastily excused her, for I was anxious to get rid of my good hostess and read my files of papers.
"As any one else would have done under the like circumstances, I opened the last parcel first, and selected the latest paper to begin with. It was the London _Times_ of April 7th. As I opened it, a short, marked paragraph caught my eyes.
"Judge of my consternation when I read the notice of your marriage with the Lady Augusta McDugald!
"The letters ran together on my vision, the room whirled around with me, all grew dark, and I lost consciousness. When I recovered my senses I found myself in bed, with Madelena and several of her kind neighbors in attendance upon me. Many days passed before I was able to look again at the file of English newspapers.
"You had married again! you had married just one week before the birth of my son! But under what circumstances had you married? Did you suppose me to be dead, and that my death had set you free? Or--oh, horror! had you dragged my name before a public tribunal, and by lying _facts_--for facts do often lie--had you branded me with infidelity, and repudiated me by divorce?
"Such were the questions that tormented me, until I was able to examine the file of English newspapers, and find out from them; for, as before, I would not have taken any one into my confidence by getting another to read the papers for me, even if I could have found any one in that rural Italian neighborhood capable of reading English.
"At length, one morning, I sent for the papers, and began to look them over, and I found--merciful Heaven! what I feared to find--the full report of our divorce trial! found myself held up to public scorn and execration, the reproach of my own sex--the contempt of yours! Found myself, in short, convicted and divorced from you, upon the foulest charge that can be brought upon a woman! Guiltless as I was! wronged as I had been! wishing only to live a pure and blameless life, as I did!
"Oh! the intolerable anguish of the days that followed! But for my baby boy, I think I should have died, or maddened!
"In my worst paroxysms, good Madelena would come and take up my baby and lay him on my bosom, and whisper, that no doubt, though his handsome young father had gone to Heaven, it was all for the best; and we too, if we were good, would one day meet him there, or words to that effect.
"Surely angels are with children, and their presence makes itself felt in the comfort children bring to wounded hearts.
"One day, in a state bordering on idiocy, I think, I examined and compared dates, in the sickening hope that my darling boy might have been born before the decree of divorce had been pronounced, and thus be the heir of his father's dukedom, notwithstanding all that followed.
"But, ah! that faint hope also was destined to die! The dates, compared, stood thus: "The decree of divorce was pronounced February 13th, 18--.
"The marriage between yourself and Lady Augusta McDugald was solemnized April 1st, 18--.
"My boy was born April 15th, 18--.
"Yes, you divorced the guiltless mother two months, and married another woman two weeks, before the birth of your innocent boy.
"You cruelly and unjustly disowned, disinherited, and even delegalized, and degraded your son before he was born! So that your son was not born in wedlock, could not bear your name, or inherit your title! And this misfortune came upon him by no fault of his, or of his most unhappy mother's but by the jealousy, vengeance, and fatal rashness of his father! And now there was no help, either in law or equity, for the dishonored boy.
"This, Duke of Hereward, is the ruin you have wrought in his life, in mine, and in yours.
"Do you wonder that when I realized it all I fell into a state of despair deeper than any I had ever yet known? --a despair that was characterized by all who saw it as melancholy madness.
"My dear boy, who was at first such a comfort to me, was now only a beloved sorrow! When I held him to my bosom, I thought of nothing but his bitter, irreparable wrongs.
"I do not know how long I had continued to live in this despairing and heathenish condition, when one day, in harvest time, Madelena brought good Father Antonio to see me. This Father Antonio was the priest of the chapel of Santa Maria, who had performed the marriage ceremony between Waldemar de Volaski and myself.
"The father also naturally supposed that all my grief was for the death of my child's father. He began in a gentle, admonitory way to rebuke me for inordinate affection and sinful repining, and to remind me of the comfort and strength to be found in the spirit of religion and the ordinances of the Church.
"My heart opened to the good old priest as it had never opened to a living man or even woman before.
"Then and there I told him the whole secret history of my life, including every detail of my two unhappy marriages, and the fatal divorce preceding the birth of my son. I concealed nothing from him. I told him all, and felt infinitely relieved when I had done so.
"The gentle old man dropped tears of pity over me, and sat in silent sympathy some time before he ventured to give me any words.
"At length he arose and said: "'Child, I must go home and pray for wisdom before I can venture to counsel you.' " 'Bless me, then, holy father.'
"He laid his venerable hands upon my bowed head, raised his eyes to Heaven, and invoked upon me the divine benediction, of which I stood so much in need.
"Then he silently passed from the room.
"That night I slept in peace.
"The next day the good old man came to me again.
"He told me that my first marriage with Waldemar de Volaski was my only true marriage, indissoluble by anything but death, however invalid in law it might be pronounced by those who were interested in breaking it.
"That my second marriage contracted with the Duke of Hereward during the life of my first husband, was sacrilegious in the eyes of religion and the church, however legal it might be considered by the laws of England or of France, and pardonable in me only on account of my ignorance at the time of the continued existence of my first husband.
"That the desperate step I had taken of leaving the Duke of Hereward, upon the discovery of the existence of Waldemar de Volaski, was the right and proper course for me to pursue; but that he regretted I had not possessed the moral courage to tell the duke the whole story, for he had that much right to my confidence.
"As for the divorce I so much lamented, it was to be regretted only for the sake of the son whom it had outlawed, for he was the son of a lawful marriage in the eyes of the world, if not a sacred one in the eyes of the church.
"For the boy thus cruelly wronged there seemed no opening on earth. He was disowned, disinherited, delegalized, deprived even of a name in this world. All earth was closed against him.
"But all Heaven was open to him. The church, Heaven's servant, would open her arms to receive the child the world had cast out. The church in baptism would give him a name and a surname; would give him an education and a mission. I must, like Hannah of old, devote my son, even from his childhood up, to the service of the altar, and the church would do the rest.
"How comforted I was! I had something still to live for! My outcast son would be saved. He could not inherit his father's titles and estates; he could not be a duke, but he would be a holy minister of the Lord; he might live to be a prince of the church, an archbishop or a cardinal.
"Foolish ambition of a still worldly mother you may think. Yes! but he was her only son, and she was worse than widowed.
"I agreed to all the good priest said. I promised to dedicate my son to the service of the altar.
"The next Sunday I went to the chapel of Santa Maria and had my child christened. I gave him in baptism the full name of his father. Beppo and Madelena stood as his sponsors. They told me St. John would be his patron saint.
"I rallied from my torpor. I built a roomy cottage in a mountain dell near the chapel of Santa Maria, furnished it comfortably, and moved into it, and engaged an Italian nurse and housekeeper, for I had resolved to pass my life among the simple, kindly people who were the only friends misfortune had left me.
"Another trial awaited me--a light one, however, in comparison to those I had suffered and outlived.
"This trial came when my son was but little over a year old, and I had been about six months in the "Hermitage," as I called my new home.
"One morning I received a file of English papers for the month of May just preceding. In the papers of the first week in May I saw announced the birth of your son, called the infant Marquis of Arondelle, and the heir. I read of the great rejoicings in all your various seats throughout the United Kingdom, and the congratulations of royalty itself, upon this auspicious event. I clasped my disinherited son to my bosom and wept the very bitterest tears I had ever shed in my life.
"Later on I read in the papers for the last of May a graphic account of the grand pageantry of the christening, which took place at St. Peter's, Euston Square, where an archbishop performed the sacred rites and a royal duke stood sponsor, and of the great feastings and rejoicings in hall and hut on every estate of yours throughout the kingdom. I thought of my disowned boy's humble baptism in the village church by the country priest, where two kind-hearted peasants stood sponsors for him, and I wept myself nearly blind that night.
"The next day I went to the little church and told the good father there all about it. He understood and sympathized with me, counselled and comforted me as usual.
"He admonished me that to escape from the wounds of the world, I must not only forsake the world, as I had done, but forget the world as I had not done; to forget the world I must cease to search and inquire into its sayings and doings; and he advised me to write and stop all my newspapers, which only brought me news to disturb my peace of mind.
"I followed the direction of my wise guide. I wrote immediately and stopped all my newspapers.
"After that I devoted myself to the nurture of my child, to the care of my little household, to the relief of my poorer neighbors, and to the performance of my religious duties; and time brought me resignation and cheerfullness.
"From that day to this, Duke of Hereward, I have never once seen your name printed or written, and never once heard it breathed. You may have passed away from earth, for aught I know to the contrary; though I hope and believe that you have not.
"My boy throve finely. The good priest of Santa Maria took charge of his education for the first twelve years of the pupil's life, made of him, even at that early age, a good Latin and Greek scholar, and a fair mathematician; and would have prepared him to enter one of the German Universities, had not the summons come that cut short the good father's work on earth, and carried him to his eternal home.
"It was soon after the loss of this kind friend, who had been the strong prop of my weakness, the wise counsellor of my ignorance, that my own health began to fail. The seeds of pulmonary consumption, inherited from my mother, began to develop, and nothing could arrest their progress. For the last three years I have been an invalid, growing worse and worse every year. Perhaps in no other climate, under no other treatment, could I have lived so long as I have been permitted to live here by the help of the pure air and the grape cure.
"My boy, now fifteen years of age, is everything that I could wish him to be, except in one respect. He will not consent to enter the church. He wants to be a soldier, poor lad! Well, we cannot coerce him into a life of sanctity and self-denial. Such a life must always be a voluntary sacrifice. Neither do I wish to cross him, now that I am on my death-bed and doomed so soon to leave him.
"In these last days on earth, lying on my dying bed, travailing for his good, it has come to me like an inspiration that I must send him to his father. I must not leave him friendless in the world. And now that the priest Antonio has long passed away, and I am so soon to follow, he will have no friends except these poor, helpless Italian peasants among whom he has been reared. Therefore I must send him, in the hope that you will recognize him by his exact likeness to yourself, and prove his identity as your son, by all the testimony you can be sure to gather in Paris and at San Vito. I have written this long letter, in the intervals between pain and fever, during the last few weeks.
"Yesterday, my faithful physician warned me that my days on earth had dwindled down to hours; that I might pass away at any moment now, and had therefore best attend to any necessary business that I might wish to settle.
"This warning admonishes me to finish and close my letter. I end as I began, by swearing to you, by all the hopes of salvation in a dying woman, that Archibald Scott is your own son. You can prove this to your own satisfaction by coming to San Vito and examining the church register as to the dates of his birth, baptism, and so forth; by which you will find that he was born just five months after I left your roof, and just six months after our return from our long yachting cruise, and the renewal of my acquaintance with Count de Volaski, at the British minister's dinner. You see, by these circumstances, there cannot be even the shadow of a doubt as to his true parentage.
"I repeat, that I have not told the boy the secret of his birth; to have done so might have been to have embittered his mind against you, and I would not on my death-bed do anything to sow enmity between father and son.
"I leave to yourself to tell him, if you should ever think proper to do so, and with what explanations you may please to add.
"I have constituted you his sole guardian, and trustee of the moderate property I bequeath him. He wishes to enter the army, and he will have money sufficient to purchase a commission and support himself respectably in some good regiment. I hope that when the proper time comes you will forward his ambition in this direction.
"And so I leave him in your hands, for my feeble strength fails, and I can only add my name.
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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42
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HER SON.
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The last lines of this sad letter were almost illegible in their faintness and irregularity; and the tangled skein of light scratches that stood proxy for a signature could never have been deciphered by the skill of man.
The Duke of Hereward had grown ten years older in the half hour he had spent in the perusal of this fatal letter. He was no longer only sixty-five years of age, and a "fine old English gentleman;" he seemed fully seventy-five years old, and a broken, decrepit, ruined man. In fact, the first blow had fallen upon that fine intellect whose subsequent eccentricities gained for him the sobriquet of the mad duke.
The hand that held the fatal letter fell heavily by his side; his head drooped upon his chest; he did not move or speak for many minutes.
His young visitor watched him with curiosity and interest that gradually grew into anxiety. At length he made a motion to attract the duke's attention--dropped a book upon the floor, picked it up, and arose to apologize.
The duke started as from a profound reverie, sighed heavily, passed his handkerchief across his brow, and finally wheeled his chair around, and looked at his visitor.
No! there could be no question about it; the boy was the living image of what he himself had been at that age, as all his portraits could prove! and his eldest son, his rightful heir, stood before him, but forever and irrecoverably disinherited and delegalized by his own rash and cruel act.
The young man stood up as if naturally waiting to hear what the duke might have to say about his mother's letter.
But the duke did not immediately allude to the letter.
"Where are you stopping, my young friend?" he asked, in as calm a voice as he could command.
"At 'Langhams,' your grace," respectfully answered the youth.
"Very well. I will call and see you at your rooms to-morrow at eleven, and we will talk over your mother's plans and see what can be done for you," said the duke, as he touched the bell, and sank back heavily in his chair.
The young man understood that the interview was closed, and he was about to take his leave, when the door opened and a footman appeared.
"Truman, attend this young gentleman to the breakfast-room, and place refreshments before him. I hope that you will take something before you go, sir," said the duke, kindly.
"Thanks. I trust your grace will permit me to decline. It is scarce two hours since I breakfasted," said the boy, with a bow.
"As you please, young sir," answered the duke.
The youth then bowed and withdrew, attended by the footman.
The duke watched them through the door, listened to their retreating steps down the hall, and then threw his clasped hands to his head, groaning: "Great Heaven! What have I done? What foul injustice to her, what cruel wrong to him. I thank her that she has never told him! I can never do so! Nay, Heaven forbid that he should ever even suspect the truth! Nor must I ever permit him to come here again; or to any house of mine, where the duchess, where _his brother_, where every servant even must see the likeness he bears to the family, and--discover, or, at least, suspect the secret!"
Meanwhile the youth, respectfully attended by the footman, left the house.
As he entered his cab that was waiting at the door, a bitter, bitter change passed over his fine face; the fair brow darkened, the blue eyes contracted and glittered, the lips were firmly compressed for an instant, and then he murmured to himself: "That they should think a secret like this could be buried, concealed from me, the most interested of all to find it out! Was ever son so accursed as I am? Other sons have been disinherited, outlawed--but I! I have been delegalized and degraded from my birth!"
The fine mouth closed with a spasmodic jerk, the brow grew darker, the eyes glittered with intenser fire. He resumed: "It will be difficult, if not impossible, but I will be restored to my rights, or I will ruin and exterminate the ducal house of Hereward! I am the eldest son of my father; the only son of his first marriage. I am the heir not only of my father, but of the seven dukes and twenty barons that preceded him, to whom their patent of nobility was granted, to them and _their heirs forever_! 'Their heirs forever!' It was granted, therefore, to _me_ and to all of _my_ direct line! Each baron and duke had but his life-interest in his barony or dukedom, and could not alienate it from his heirs by will. It was an infamous, a fraudulent subterfuge to divorce my poor mother, and so delegalize me a few months before my birth. But--I will bide my time! This false heir may die. Such things do happen. And then, as there is no other heir to his title and estates, _my father_ may acknowledge his eldest son, and try to undo the evil he has done. But if this should not happen, or if my father, who is old, should die, and this false heir inherit, _then_ I will spend every shilling I have inherited from my mother to gain my own. I will have my rights, though I convict my father of a fraudulent conspiracy, and it requires an act of Parliament to effect my restoration! And if, after all, this wrong cannot be righted--although it can be abundantly proved that I am the only son of my father's first marriage, and the rightful heir of his dukedom, if, after all, I cannot be restored to my position, I will prove the mortal enemy of the race of Scott, and the destruction of the ducal house of Hereward. Meanwhile I must watch and wait; use this old man as my friend, who will not acknowledge himself as my father!"
These bitter musings lasted until the cab drew up before Langham's Hotel, and the youth got out and went into the house.
The boy, wrong in many instances, was right in this, that the secret of his birth could not be concealed from him.
His poor mother had never divulged it to him, never meant him to know that, the knowledge of which, she thought, would only make him unhappy; but she had told no falsehoods, put forth no false showing to hide it irrecoverably from him.
She was known among her poor Italian neighbors as Signora Valeria, and supposed by them to be the widow of that handsome young Pole to whom they had seen her married, and from whom they had seen her torn by her father, some years before. Of the Duke of Hereward, her second husband, and of her divorce from him, they knew nothing. But she was known to her father-confessor, to her news-agent, and later to her son, as Valerie de la Motte Scott, for though no longer entitled to bear the latter name, she had tacitly allowed it to cling to her.
Now as to how the boy discovered the secret that was designed to be concealed from him.
When with childish curiosity he had inquired, his mother had told him that he had lost his father in infancy; and the boy understood that the loss was by death: but as time passed, and the lad questioned more particularly concerning his parentage, his mother, in repeating that he had lost his father in infancy, added that the loss had been attended with distressing circumstances, and begged him to desist in his inquiries. This only stimulated the interest and curiosity of the youth, and kept him on the _qui vive_ for any word, or look, or circumstance that might give him a clew to the mystery. And thus it followed that with a mother so simple and unguarded as Valerie, and a son so cunning and watchful as Archibald, the secret she wished to keep be soon discovered. But he kept his own counsel for the sake of gaining still more information. And, at length, the full revelation and confirmation of all that he had suspected came to him in a manner and by means his mother had never foreseen or provided against.
Valerie had made a will leaving all her property to her son, and appointing the Duke of Hereward as his guardian. After her death, all her papers and other effects had to be overhauled and examined and her son took care to read every paper that he was free to handle. Among these was a copy of the will of the late Waldemar de Volaski, by which he bequeathed to Valerie de la Motte Scott, Duchess of Hereward, all his personal property.
Here was both a revelation and a mystery! Valerie de la Motte Scott, his most unhappy mother, Duchess of Hereward! and his guardian, appointed by her--the Duke of Hereward!
Who was the Duke of Hereward? That he was a great English nobleman was evident! But aside from that, who and what was he?
The boy was in a fever of excitement. It was of no use to ask any of his poor Italian neighbors, for they knew less than he did. He had heard of a mammoth London annual, called _Burke's Peerage_, which would tell all about the living and dead nobility; but there was no copy of it anywhere in reach.
However, his mother's dying directions had been that he should proceed at once to England, and report himself to his guardian, that very Duke of Hereward so mysteriously connected with his destiny.
Intense curiosity stimulating him, he hurried his departure, and after traveling day and night arrived in London on the evening of the last day of May.
He waited only to engage a room at Langham's and change his dress, and partake of a slight luncheon, before he ordered a cab, drove to the nearest bookstore, and purchased a copy of _Burke's Peerage_ for that current year.
As soon as he found himself alone in his cab again, he tore the paper off the book and eagerly turned to the article Hereward, and read: "Hereward, Duke of--Archibald-Alexander-John Scott, Marquis and Earl of Arondelle in the peerage of England, Viscount Lone and Baron Scott in the peerage of Scotland, and a baronet; born Jan. 1st, 1795; succeeded his father as seventh duke, Feb. 1st, 1840; married, March 15th 1845, Valerie, only daughter of the Baron de la Motte; divorced from her grace Feb. 13, 1846; married secondly, April 1st, 1846, Lady Augusta-Victoria, eldest daughter of the Earl of Banff, by whom he has: "Archibald-Alexander-John, Marquis of Arondelle."
Then followed a long list of other children, girls and boys, of whom the only record was birth and death. Not one of them, except the young Marquis of Arondelle, had lived to be seven years old.
Then followed the long lineage of the family, going over a glorious history of eight centuries.
The youth glanced over the lineage, but soon recurred to the opening paragraphs. " 'Married, March 15th, 1845, Valerie, only daughter of the Baron de la Motte.' That was my poor, dear mother! " 'Divorced from her grace, Feb, 13th, 1846,' He divorced her, and what for! She was a saint on earth, I know! Perhaps it was for being _that_ she was divorced! Let us see. 'Married secondly, April 1st, 1846, Lady Augusta Victoria, eldest daughter of the Earl of Banff.' Ah, ha! that was it! He divorced my beloved mother for the same season that the tryant Henry VIII. divorced Queen Catherine, because he was in love with another woman whom he wished to marry!"
(The study of history teaches as much knowledge of the world as does personal experience.)
"But here again," continued the youth. "He divorced my dear mother on the 13th of February, married his Anne Boylen on the 1st of April--appropriate day--and I was born on the 15th of the same month! Yes! my angel mother and my infant self branded with infamy two months before my birth, and by the very man whom nature and law should have constrained to be our protector! Will I ever forgive it? No! When I do, may Heaven never forgive me!"
As the boy made this vow he laid down the "Royal and Noble Stud-Book," and took up the bulky letter that his mother had entrusted to him to be delivered to the Duke of Hereward. He studied it a moment, then had a little struggle with his sense of right, and finally murmuring: "Forgive me, gentle mother; but having discovered so much of your secret, I must know it all, even for _your_ sake, and for the love and respect I bear you."
He broke the seal and read the whole of the historical letter from beginning to end.
Then he carefully re-folded and re-sealed the letter, so as to leave no trace of the violence that has been done in opening it.
Then he sat for a long time with his elbows on the table before him, and his head bowed upon his hands while tear after tear rolled slowly down his cheeks for the sad fate of that young, broken hearted mother who had perished in her early prime.
The next day, as we have seen, he went to Hereward House and presented his mother's letter to the duke. He had watched his grace while the latter was reading the letter. He had foolishly expected to see some sign of remorse, some demonstration of affection. But he had been disappointed. He had been received only as the son of some humble deceased friend, consigned to the great duke's care. His tender mood had changed to a vindictive one, and he had sworn to be restored to his rights, or to devote his life to effect the ruin and extermination of the house of Hereward.
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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43
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THE DUKE'S WARD.
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The next morning, at the appointed hour, the Duke of Hereward drove to Langham's, and sent up his card to Mr. John Scott.
The youth himself, to show the greater respect, came down to the public parlor where the duke waited, and after most deferentially welcoming his visitor, conducted him to his own private apartment.
"I see by your mother's letter, as well as by her will, that she has done me the honor to appoint me your guardian," said the elder man, as soon as they were seated alone together, and cautiously eyeing the younger, so as to detect, if possible, how much or how little he knew or suspected of the true relationship between them.
"My mother did _me_ the honor to consign me to your grace's guardianship, if you will be so condescending as to accept the charge," replied the youth, with grave courtesy and in his turn eyeing the duke to see, if possible, what might be his feelings and intentions toward himself.
The duke bowed and then said: "I would like to carry out your mother's views and your own wishes, if possible. She mentioned in her letter the army as a career for you. Do you wish some years hence to take a commission in the army?"
"I _did_, your grace: but now I prefer to leave myself entirely in your grace's hands," cautiously replied the youth.
"But in the matter of choosing a profession you must be left free. No one but yourself can decide upon your own calling with any hope of ultimate success. Much mischief is done by the officiousness of parents and guardians in directing their sons or wards into professions or callings for which they have neither taste nor talent," said the duke.
The youth smiled slightly; he could but see that the duke was utterly perplexed as to his own course of conduct, and to cover his confusion he was only talking for talk's sake.
"You will let me know your own wishes on this subject, I hope, young sir," continued the elder.
"My only wish on the subject is to leave myself in your grace's hands. I feel confident that whatever your grace may think right to do with me, will be the best possible thing for me," replied the boy, with more meaning in his manner, as well as in his words, than he had intended to betray.
The duke looked keenly at him; but his fair impassive face was unreadable.
"Well, at all events, it is, perhaps, time enough for two or three years to come to talk of a profession for you. Would you like to enter one of the universities? Are you prepared to do so?" suddenly inquired the guardian.
"I _would_ like to go to Oxford. But whether I am prepared to do so, I do not know. I do not know what is required. I have a fair knowledge of Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, and of the higher mathematics. I was in course of preparation to enter one of the German universities, when my good tutor, Father Antonio, died," replied the youth.
The duke dropped his gray head upon his chest and mused awhile, and then said: "I think that you had better read with a private tutor for a while; you will then soon recover what you may have lost since the death of your good teacher, and make such further progress as may fit you to go to Oxford at the next term. What do you think? Let me know your views, young sir."
"Thanks, your grace; I will read with any tutor you may be pleased to recommend," respectfully answered the youth.
"You are certainly a most manageable ward," said the guardian, dryly, and with, perhaps, a shade of distrust in his manner.
The boy bowed.
"Well, since you place yourself so implicitly in my hands, I must justify your faith as well as your mother's by doing the very best I can for you. There is a very worthy man, the Vicar of Greencombe, on one of my estates, down in Sussex, near the sea. He is a ripe scholar, a graduate of Trinity College, Oxford, and occasionally augments his moderate salary by preparing youth for college. I will direct my secretary to write to him this morning to know if he can receive you, and I will let you know the result in a day or two."
"Thanks, your grace."
"And now how are you going to employ your time while waiting here?"
"By taking a good guide-book, your grace, and going through London. Your grace will remember that I am a perfect stranger here, and even one of your great historical monuments, such as Westminster Abbey or the Tower, has interest enough in it to occupy a student for a week."
"I commend your taste in the occupation you have sketched out for your time. I must request you, however, to take great care of yourself, and to be _here_ every day at this hour, as I shall make it a point to look in upon you."
"Thanks, your grace."
"And now good-day," said the visitor, offering his hand, and then abruptly leaving the room.
The youth, however, with the most deferential manner, attended him down stairs and to his carriage, and only took his leave, with a bow, when the footman closed the door.
Again as soon as his back was turned upon his father, the youth's face changed and darkened, and-- "I bide my time--I bide my time," he muttered to himself as he re-ascended the stairs.
He had not deceived his guardian, however, as to the manner in which he meant to spend his time while in London. At this time of his unfortunate position he had not yet contracted any evil habits, and he had a genuine liking for interesting antiquities. So, after partaking of a light luncheon, he went out, guide-book in hand and spent the whole day in studying the architectural glories and the antique monuments in Westminster Abbey.
The second day he passed among the gloomy dungeons and bloody records of the Tower of London.
On the third day he received another visit from the Duke of Hereward, who came to tell him the Reverend Mr. Simpson, the Vicar of Greencombe, had returned a favorable answer to his letter, and would be happy to receive Mr. Scott in his family.
"Now I do not wish to hurry you my dear boy; but I think the sooner you resume your long-neglected studies, the better it will be for you," said the duke, speaking kindly, but watching cautiously, as was his constant habit when conversing with this unacknowledged son.
"I am ready to go the moment your grace commands," answered the young man.
"I issue no commands to you, my boy. I will give you a letter of introduction to Dr. Simpson, which you may go down and deliver at your own leisure. If you choose to spend a week longer in London to see what is to be seen, why do so, of course. If not, you can run down to Greencombe to-day or to-morrow. It is about two hours' journey by the London and South Coast Railroad from the London Bridge Station."
"I will go down this afternoon."
"That is prompt. That is right. All you do my boy, all I see of you, commends you more and more to my approval and esteem. Go this afternoon, by all means. I will myself meet you at the station, to see you off and leave with you my letter of introduction. Stay; by what train shall you go? Ah! you do not know anything about the trains. Ring the bell."
The youth complied.
A waiter appeared, a Bradshaw was ordered and consulted, and the five P. M. express fixed upon as the train by which the youth should leave London.
The duke then took leave of the boy, with an admonition of punctuality.
"Well," said John Scott to himself, as soon as he was left alone, "if my father gives me nothing else, he is certainly disposed to give me my own way. Perhaps in time he may give me all my rights. If so, well. If not--I _bide my time_," he repeated.
At the appointed hour the guardian and ward met at the depot.
The duke placed the promised letter in the youth's hand, saw him into a first-class carriage, and there bade him good-by.
John Scott sped down into Sussex as fast as the express train could carry him, and the Duke of Hereward went back to Hereward House, much relieved by the departure of the youth, whose presence in London had seemed like an incubus upon him.
The deeply injured boy had departed; but--so also had the father's peace of mind, forever! Certainly he was now relieved of all fear of an unpleasant ecclaircissement; but he was not freed from remorse for the past, or from dread for the future.
He told the duchess that day at dinner that a ward had been left to his guardianship, that this ward was, in fact, the son of a near relation, and bore the family name, which made it the more incumbent upon him to accept the charge; and, finally, that he had sent the boy down to Dr. Simpson, at the Greencombe Vicarage, to read for the university.
The duchess was not in the least degree interested in the duke's ward, and rather wondered that he should have taken the trouble to tell her anything about him; but the duke did so to provide for the future contingency of an accidental meeting between the duchess and the boy, so that she might suppose him to be a blood relation, and thus understand the family likeness without the danger of suspecting a truth that could not be explained to her.
But the duke could not silence the voice of conscience and affection. The deeply-wronged boy whom he had sent away was his own first-born son--the son of his first marriage and of his only love; and he had wronged him beyond the power of man to help! He was the rightful heir of his title and estates, yet he could never inherit them; he had been delegalized by his father's own hasty, reckless and cruel act; and for no fault of the boy's own--before he was capable of committing any fault--before his birth--he was disinherited.
All this so worked upon the duke's conscience that he could not give his mind to his ordinary vocations.
But about this time, the duchess, through the death of a near relative, inherited a very large fortune, principally in money.
With this she wished to purchase an estate in Scotland. And so, when Parliament rose, the duke and duchess went to Scotland, personally to inspect certain estates that were for sale there; for the duchess said that, in the matter of choosing a home to live in, she would trust no eyes but her own.
It seemed, however, that neither of the seats in the market pleased the lady, and she had given up her quest in despair, when the duke suggested that, before leaving Scotland, they should make a visit to the famous historical ruins of Lone Castle, in Lone, on Lone Lake, which had been in the Scott-Hereward family for eight centuries.
It was while they were tarrying at the little hotel of the "Hereward Arms," and making daily excursions in a boat across the lake to the isle and to the ruins, that the stupendous idea of restoring the castle occurred to the duke's mind--and not only restoring it as it had stood centuries before, a great, impregnable Highland fortress, but by bringing all the architectural and engineering art and skill of the nineteenth century to bear upon the subject, transforming the ruined castle and rocky isle and mountain-bound lake into the earthly paradise and century's wonder it afterwards became.
What vast means were used, what fortunes were sacrificed, what treasures were drawn into the maelstrom of this mad enterprise, has already been shown.
It is probable, however, that the duke would not have thrown himself so insanely into this work had it not seemed a means of escaping the torture of his own thoughts.
He could restore the old Highland stronghold, and transform the barren, water-girt rock into a garden of Eden; but he could not restore the rights of his own disinherited son.
He had consulted some among the most eminent lawyers in England, putting the case suppositiously, or as the case of another father and son, and the unanimous opinion given was that there could be no help for such a case as theirs; and even though the father had had no other heir, he could not reclaim this disinherited one.
It was not with unmingled regret that the duke heard this opinion given. It certainly relieved him from the fearful duty of having to oppose the duchess and all her family, as he would have been obliged to do, had it been possible to restore his eldest son to his rights; for the duchess would not have stood by quietly and seen her son set aside in favor of the elder brother.
The duke spoke of his ward from time to time, so that in case the duchess should ever meet him, or hear of him from others, she could not regard him as a mystery that had been concealed from her, or look upon his likeness to the family with suspicion.
But the duchess seemed perfectly indifferent to the duke's ward, or if she did interest herself, it was only slightly or good-naturedly, as when she answered the duke's remarks, one day, by saying: "If the dear boy is a relative of the family, however distant, and your ward besides, why don't you have him home for the holidays?"
"Oh, schoolboys at home for the holidays are always a nuisance. He will go to Wales with Simpson and his lads, when they go for their short vacation," answered the duke, not unpleased that his wife took kindly to the notion of his ward.
In due time the youth entered Oxford. The duke spoke of the fact to the duchess. Then she answered not so good-humoredly as before; indeed, there was a shade of annoyance and anxiety in her tones, as she said: "Oxford is very expensive, and a young man may make it quite ruinous. I hope the youth's friends have left him means enough of his own. I would not speak of such a matter," she added apologetically, "only the restoration of Lone seems so to swallow up all our resources as to leave us nothing for charitable objects."
"The youth has ample means for educational purposes, and to establish him in some profession. Of course, he cannot indulge in any of those university extravagances and dissipations that are the destruction of so many fine young men; but, then, he is not that kind of lad; a steady, studious boy, brought up by--a widowed mother and a priest," answered the duke, with just a slight faltering in his voice, in the latter clause of his speech.
"Such boys are more apt than others to develop into the wildest young men," replied the lady; and circumstances proved that she was right.
John Scott, at Trinity College, Oxford, passed as the grand-nephew of the Duke of Hereward, and the next in succession, after the young Earl of Arondelle to the dukedom.
The young Earl of Arondelle was still at Eton. And the duke determined to send him from Eton to Cambridge, instead of Oxford, where John Scott was at college; for the father of these two boys wished them never to meet!
At Oxford, John Scott, as the grand-nephew of the Duke of Hereward, bearing an unmistakable likeness to the family, and being, besides, a young man of pleasing address, soon won his way among the most exclusive of the aristocrats there; and pride and vanity tempted him to vie with them in extravagant and riotous living!
His income _only_ was limited, his credit was _un_limited. When his money fell short, he ran into debt; and at the end of the first term his liabilities were alarming, or would have been so to a more sensitive mind.
It is true, the amount was much greater than his inexperience had led him to expect; but he only smiled grimly when he had all his bills before him, and had estimated the sum total, and he said to himself: "If my allowance will not support me here like a gentleman, my father must make up the deficiency, that is all!"
The Duke of Hereward was indeed confounded when his ward wrote to him and told him boldly that he wanted fifteen hundred pounds for immediate necessities--namely, twelve hundred for the liquidation of debts, and three hundred for traveling expenses.
But could he scold the poor, disinherited boy, who, kept to himself at Oxford, had doubtless fallen among thieves and been mercilessly fleeced.
No; he would pay these debts out of his own pocket, and write the young man a kind letter of warning against the university sharks.
The duke carried out this resolution, and John Scott, freed from debt, and with three hundred pounds in his possession, went on a holiday tour through the country.
He had heard at Oxford of the rising glories of Lone, and determined to take his holiday in that neighborhood.
It happened that the Duke and Duchess of Hereward, with the Marquis of Arondelle, and their attendants, went that summer to Baden-Baden; so when the Oxonion arrived at the "Hereward Arms," in the hamlet of Lone, and, from his age and his exact likeness to the family, was mistaken for the heir, there was no one to set the people right on the subject.
The obsequious host of the Hereward Arms called him "my lord," and inquired after his gracious parents, the duke and the duchess.
John Scott did not actually deceive the people as to his identity, but he tacitly allowed them to deceive themselves. He did not tell them that he was the Marquis of Arondelle; neither did he contradict them when they called him so. Nor did his conscience reproach him for his silent duplicity. He said to himself: "I _am_ the rightful Marquis of Arondelle. They do but give me my own just title! If this comes to the ears of the duke and brings on a crisis, I will tell him so!"
While he was in the neighborhood, he went up to Ben Lone on a fishing excursion, and there, as elsewhere, on the Scottish estate, he was everywhere received as the Marquis of Arondelle. There John Scott first met by accident the handsome shepherdess, Rose Cameron, and fell in love for the first time in his young life.
We have already seen how the Highland maiden, flattered by the notice of the supposed young nobleman, encouraged those attentions without returning that love.
After this, John Scott spent all his holidays at Lone, and much of them in the society of the handsome shepherdess. His attentions in that direction were regarded with strong disapproval by his father's tenantry, but it was not their place to censure their supposed "young lord," and so they only expressed their sentiments with grave shaking of their heads.
During the progress of the work, the ducal family never came to Lone, so that the tenantry there were never set right as to the identity of John Scott.
Only once the duke made a visit, to inspect the progress of the workmen. He stopped at the Hereward Arms, and there heard nothing of the pranks of John Scott, although, upon one occasion, he came very near doing so.
The landlord respectfully inquired if they should have the young marquis up there as usual.
The duke stared for a moment, and then answered: "You are mistaken. Arondelle does not come up here. Whatever are you thinking of, my man?"
The host said he was mistaken, that was all, and so got himself out of his dilemma the best way he could, and took the first opportunity to warn all his dependents and followers that they were not to "blow" on the young marquis.
"He was an unco wild lad, nae doobt, but his feyther kenned naething about his pranks, and sae the least said, sunest mended," said the landlord.
And thus, by the pranks of his "double," the reputation of the excellent young Marquis of Arondelle suffered among his own people.
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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44
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RETRIBUTION.
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But a crisis was at hand.
The debts of John Scott increased every year, while the ready means of the Duke of Hereward diminished--everything being engulfed by the Lone restoration maelstrom.
The guardian determined to expostulate with his ward.
He went down to Oxford just before the close of the term. He found his ward established in elegant and luxurious apartments, quite fit for a royal prince, and very much more ostentatious than the unpretending chambers occupied by the young Marquis of Arondelle at Cambridge, and ridiculously extravagant for a young man of limited income and no expectations like John Scott.
The duke was excessively provoked; the forbearance of years gave way; the bottled-up indignation burst forth, and the guardian gave his ward what in boyish parlance is called, "an awful rowing."
"You live, sir, at twenty times the rate, your debts are twenty times as large, you cost me twenty times as much as does Lord Arondelle, my own son and heir!" concluded the duke, in a final burst of anger.
John Scott had listened grimly enough to the opening exordium, but when the last sentence broke from the duke's lips, the young man grew pale as death, while his compressed lips, contracted brow, and gleaming blue eyes alone expressed the fury that raged in his bosom.
He answered very quietly: "Your grace means that I cost you twenty times as much as does your younger son, Lord Archibald Scott, as it is natural that I should being the elder son and the heir of the dukedom."
To portray the duke's thoughts, feelings or looks during his deliberate speech would be simply impossible. He sat staring at the speaker, with gradually paling cheeks and widening eyes, until the quiet voice ceased, when he faltered forth: "What in Heaven's name do you mean?"
"I should think your grace should know right well what I have known for years, and can never for a moment forget, though your grace may effect to do so--that I am your eldest son, the son of your first marriage, with the daughter of the Baron de la Motte, and therefore that I, and not my younger half brother, by your second marriage, am the right Marquis of Arondelle, and the heir of the Dukedom of Hereward," calmly replied the young man, with all the confidence an assured conviction gave.
The duke sank back in his seat and covered his face with his hands. However John Scott had made the discovery, it was absolutely certain that he knew the whole secret of his parentage.
"What authority have you for making so strange an assertion?" at length inquired the duke.
"The authority of recorded truth," replied the young man, emphatically. "But does your grace really suppose that such a secret could be kept from me? My dear, lost mother never revealed it to me by her words, but she unconsciously revealed enough to me by her actions to excite my suspicions, and set me on the right track. The records did the rest, and put me in possession of the whole truth."
"What records have you examined?" inquired the duke, in a low voice.
"First and last, in Italy and France, I have examined the registers of your marriage with my mother, and of my own birth and baptism; and in England, Burke's Peerage. All these as well as other well-known facts, As easily proved as if they were recorded, establish my rights as your son--your eldest son and _heir_."
"As my son, but not as my heir, for your most unhappy mother--" "STOP!!" suddenly exclaimed the young man, while his blue eyes blazed with a dangerous fire. "I warn you, Duke of Hereward, that you must not breathe one word reflecting in the least degree on my dear, injured mother's name. You have wronged her enough, Heaven knows! and I, her son, tell you so. Yes! from the beginning to end, you have wronged her grievously, unpardonably. First of all, in marrying her at all, when you must have seen--you could not have failed to see--that she, gentle and helpless creature that she was, was _forced_ by her parents to give you her hand, when her broken heart was not hers to give! And, secondly, when she discovered that the lover (to whom she had been sacredly married by the church, though it seems not lawfully married by the state,) and whom she had supposed to be dead, was really living; and when she took the only course a pure and sensitive woman could take, and withdrew herself from you both, _writing to you her reasons for doing so_, and expressing her wish to live apart a quiet, single, blameless life, you did not wait, you did not investigate, but, with indecent haste, you so hurried through with your divorce, and hurried into your second marriage, as to brand my mother with undeserved infamy, and delegalized her son and yours before his birth."
"Heaven help me," moaned the Duke of Hereward, covering his face with his hands.
"You have done us both this infinite wrong, and you cannot undo it now. I know that you cannot, for I have taken the pains to seek legal advice, and I have been assured that you cannot rectify this wrong. But--use my injured mother's sacred name with reverence, Duke of Hereward, I warn you! --" "Heaven knows I would use it in no other way! I loved your mother. She and you were not the only sufferers in my domestic tragedy. Her loss nearly killed me with grief even when I thought her unworthy. The discovery of the great wrong I did her has nearly crazed me with remorse since that."
"Then do not grudge her son the small share you allow him of that vast inheritance which should have been his, had you not unjustly deprived him of it."
"I will not. Your debts shall be paid."
"And do not upbraid me by drawing any more invidious comparisons between me and one who holds my rightful place."
"I will not--I will not. John we understand each other now. Your manner has not been the most filial toward me, but I will not reproach you for that. You say that I have wronged you; and you know that wrong can never be righted in this world. 'If I were to give my body to be burned,' it could not benefit you in the least toward recovering your position; but I will do all I can. I will sell Greencombe, which is my own entailed property, and I will place the money with my banker, Levison, to your account. I have a pleasant little shooting-box at the foot of Ben Lone. We never go to it. You must have the run of it during the vacations. When you are ready for your commission I will find you one in a good regiment. In return I have one request to make you. For Heaven's sake avoid meeting the duchess or her family. Do this for the sake of peace. I hope now that we _do_ understand each other?" said the duke with emotion.
"We do," said the young man, his better spirit getting the ascendency for a few moments. "We do; and I beg your pardon, my father, for the hasty, unfilial words I have spoken."
"I can make every allowance, for you, John. I can comprehend how you must often feel that you are only your mother's son," answered the duke, grasping the hand that his son had offered.
So the interview that had threatened to end in a rupture between guardian and ward terminated amicably.
John Scott's debts were once more paid, his pockets were once more filled, and he left for Scotland to spend his vacation at the hunting-box under Ben Lone, in the neighborhood made attractive to him, not by black cock or red deer, but by the presence of his handsome shepherdess.
The duke sold Greencombe, and placed the purchase-money in the hands of Sir Lemuel Levison and Co., Bankers, Lombard Street, London, to be invested for the benefit of his ward, John Scott.
The unhappy duke did this at the very time when he was so pressed for money to carry on the great work at Lone, as to be compelled to borrow from the Jews at an enormous interest, mortgaging his estate, Hereward Hold, in security.
And John Scott, with an ample income, and without any restraint, took leave of his good angel and started on the road to ruin.
Meanwhile, the great works at Lone were completed and the ducal family took possession, and commenced their short and glorious reign there by a series of splendid entertainments given in honor of the coming of age of the heir.
John Scott was not an invited guest, either to the castle or the grounds; but he presented himself there, nevertheless, and caused some confusion by his close resemblance to his brother, and much scandal by his improper conduct among the village girls. And many an honest peasant went home from the feast lamenting the behavior of the young heir, and trying to excuse or palliate his viciousness by the vulgar proverb: "Boys will be boys."
And so the reputation of the young Marquis of Arondelle suffered and continued to suffer from the evil doings of his double.
John Scott kept one part of his compact with the duke; he avoided the family; even when he could not keep away from Lone, he contrived to keep out of sight of the duke, the duchess, and the marquis.
The young Marquis of Arondelle, indeed, was very little seen at Lone. He was at Cambridge, or on his grand tour, nearly all the time of the family's residence in the Highlands.
John Scott left the university without honors. This was a disappointment to the duke, who did not, however, reproach his wayward son, but only wrote and asked him if he would now take a commission in the army. But the young man, who had lost all his youthful military ardor, and contracted a roving habit that made him averse to all fixed rules and all restraints, replied by saying that his income was sufficient for his wants, and that he preferred the free life of a scholar.
The duke wrote again, and implored him to choose one of the learned professions, saying that it was not yet too late for him to enter upon the study of one.
The hopeful son replied that he was not good enough for divinity, bad enough for law, or wise enough for medicine; that, therefore, he was unsuited to honor either of the learned professions; and begged his guardian to disturb himself no longer on the subject of his ward's future.
Then the duke let him alone, having, in fact, troubles enough of his own to occupy him--a life of superficial splendor, backed by a condition of hopeless indebtedness.
We have already, in the earlier portions of this story, described the short, glorious, delusive reign of the Herewards at Lone, and the culminating glory and ruin of the royal visit, so immediately to be followed by the great crash, when the magnificent estate, with all its splendid appointments, was sold under the hammer, and purchased by the wealthy banker and city knight, Sir Lemuel Levison. We have told how the noble son--the young Marquis of Arondelle--sacrificed all his life-interest in the entailed estate, to save his father, and how vain that sacrifice proved. We have told how the duchess died of humiliation and grief, and how the duke and his son went into social exile, until recalled by the romantic love of Salome Levison, who wished to bestow her hand and her magnificent inheritance upon the disinherited heir of Lone.
We have now brought the story of John Scott up to the night of the banker's murder, and his own unintentional share in the tragedy.
At the time of the projected marriage between the Marquis of Arondelle and the heiress of Lone, John Scott was deeply sunk in debt, and badly in want of money.
The capital given him by his father had been so tied up by the donor that nothing but the interest could be touched by the improvident recipient. It had, in fact, been given to Sir Lemuel Levison in trust for John Scott, with directions to invest it to the best advantage for his benefit.
This duty the banker had most conscientiously performed by investing the money in a mining enterprise, supposed to be perfectly secure and to pay a high interest. This investment continued good for years, affording John Scott a very liberal income; but as John Scott would probably have exceeded any income, however large, that he might have possessed, so of course he exceeded this one and got into debt, which accumulated year after year, until at length he felt himself forced to ask his trustee to sell out a part of his stock in the mining company to liquidate his liabilities.
This the banker politely but firmly refused to do, representing to the young spendthrift that his duties as a trustee forbade him to squander the capital of his client, and that he had been made trustee for the very purpose of preserving it.
The obstinacy of the banker enraged the young man, who protested that it was unbearable to a man of twenty-five years of age to be in leading-strings to a trustee, as if he were an infant of five years old.
The time came, however, when the trustee was compelled by circumstances to sell out.
The rare foresight which had made him the millionaire that he was, warned Sir Lemuel Levison that the mining company in which he had invested his ward's fortune was on the eve of an explosion. As no one else perceived the impending catastrophe, Sir Lemuel Levison was enabled to sell out his ward's stock at a good premium some days before the crash came--not an honest measure by any means, _we_ think, but--a perfectly business-like one.
He informed John Scott of the transaction, telling him at the same time that he had the capital of thirty thousand pounds in his possession, ready to be re-invested, and the premium of three hundred pounds, which last was at the orders of Mr. Scott.
Mr. Scott was not contented with the three hundred pounds premium. He wanted a few thousands out of the capital, and he wrote and told his trustee as much.
Sir Lemuel Levison was firm in refusing to diminish the capital that had been placed in his hands for the benefit of the spendthrift.
Then John Scott in a rage, went up to London and called at the banking house of Levison Brothers.
Being admitted to the private office of Sir Lemuel Levison, the young man used some very intemperate language, accusing the great banker of appropriating his own contemptible little fortune for private and unhallowed purposes.
"You are the most unmitigated scamp alive, and I wish I had never had anything to do with you; however, I will convince you that you have wronged me, and then I will wash my hands of you!" exclaimed the banker.
And so saying, he unlocked a great patent safe that stood in his private office, took from it a small iron box, and set it on his desk before him, in full sight of his visitor.
"See here," he continued; "here is this box, read the inscription on it."
The visitor stooped over and read--in brass letters--the following sentence: "John Scott--£30,000."
"Now, sir," continued the banker, opening the box and displaying the treasure, all in crisp, new, Bank of England notes of a thousand pounds each--"here is your money. I cannot betray my trust by giving it into your hands. But I intend, nevertheless, to resign my trust into the hands that gave it me. I am going down to Lone to celebrate the marriage of my daughter with the Marquis of Arondelle, and I shall take this box and its contents down with me. I shall, of course, meet the Duke of Hereward there. As soon as the marriage is over, and the pair gone on their tour, I shall deliver this box with its contents over to the duke, who can then hand over any part or the whole of this money to you, if he pleases to do so."
If any circumstance could have increased the uneasiness of the spendthrift, it would have been this resolution of the banker and trustee.
John Scott begged Sir Lemuel Levison to reconsider his resolution, and not return his capital to the donor, who, in his impoverished condition, might, for all he knew, choose to resume his gift entirely, and appropriate it to his own uses.
But the banker was inflexible, and the next day set out for Lone, carrying John Scott's fortune locked up in the iron box, besides other treasures in money and jewels, secured in other receptacles.
John Scott was in despair.
At length, a daring plan occurred to his mind. His evil life had brought him into communication with some outlaws of society of both sexes, with whom, however, he would not willingly have been seen in daylight, or in public. One of these--a brutal ruffian and thief, with whose haunts and habits he was well acquainted--he sought out. He gave him an outline of his scheme, telling him of the great treasures in jewels and other bridal presents that would be laid out in the drawing-room at Lone on the night of the sixth of June, in readiness for the wedding display on the morning of the seventh.
The man Murdockson listened with greedy ears.
The tempter then told him of the iron box, inscribed with his own name, and containing _important papers_ which it was necessary he should recover, and proposed that if Murdockson would promise to purloin the iron box from the chamber of Sir Lemuel Levison, and bring it safely to him, John Scott, _he_ would engage to leave the secret passage to the castle open for the free entrance of the adventurers.
Murdockson hesitated a long time before consenting to engage in an enterprise which, if it promised great profit, also threatened great dangers.
At length, however, fired by the prospect of the fabulous wealth said to lie exposed in the form of bridal presents displayed in Castle Lone, Mr. Murdockson promised to form a party and go down to Lone to reconnoitre, and if he should see his way clear, to undertake the job.
The plan was carried out to its full and fatal completion.
Disguised as Highland peasants, Murdockson and two of his pals went down to Lone to inspect the lay.
They mingled with the great crowd of peasantry and tenantry that had collected from far and near to view the grand pageantry prepared for the celebration of the wedding, and their presence in so large an assemblage was scarcely noticed.
They met their principal in the course of the day, and with him arranged the details of the robbery.
One thing John Scott insisted upon--that there was to be no violence, no bloodshed; that if the robbery could not be effected quietly and peaceably, without bodily harm to any inmate, it was not to be done at all, it was to be given up at once.
The men promised all that their principal asked, on condition that he would act his part, and let them into the castle.
That night John Scott did his work, and attained the climax of his evil life.
He tampered with the valet, treated him with drugged whiskey, and while the wretched man was in a stupid sleep, stole from him the pass-key to Sir Lemuel Levison's private apartment.
We know how that terrible night ended. John Scott could not control the devils he had raised.
Only robbery had been intended; but murder was perpetrated.
John Scott, with the curse of Cain upon his soul, and without the spoil for which he had incurred it, fled to London and afterwards to the Continent, where he became a homeless wanderer for years, and where he was subsequently joined by his female companion, Rose.
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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45
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AFTER THE REVELATION.
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During the latter portion of the mother-superior's story--the portion that related to the delegalized elder son of the Duke of Hereward--a light had dawned upon the mind of Salome, but so slowly that no sudden shock of joy had been felt, no wild exclamation of astonishment uttered: yet that light had revealed to the amazed and overjoyed young wife, beyond all possibility of further doubt, the blessed truth of the perfect freedom of her worshiped husband from all participation in the awful crimes of which over-whelming circumstantial evidence had convicted him in her own mind, but of which it was now certain that his miserable brother, his "double" in appearance, was alone guilty.
The dark story had been told in the darkness of the abbess' den, so that not even the varying color that must otherwise have betrayed the deep emotion of the hearer, could be seen by the speaker.
At the conclusion of the story, one irrepressible reproach escaped the lips of the young wife.
"Oh, mother! mother! If you knew all this, why did you not tell me before? For you must also have known, what is now so clear to me, that not the Duke of Hereward, who, after all, is my husband, I thank Heaven--not the noble Duke of Hereward, but his most ignoble brother, his counterpart in person and in name, has married that terrible Scotch woman, and mixed himself up in murder and robbery. Oh, mother! you should have told me before!"
"My daughter be patient! Only this week have I been able to fit in all the links in the chain of evidence to make the story complete. Your mention of the Duke of Hereward as your false husband, my memory of the Duke of Hereward as the wronged husband who had slain my betrothed in a duel, all set me to thinking deeply, very deeply thinking. I did not express my thoughts unnecessarily. Silence is, with our order, a duty--the handmaid of devotion; but I set secret inquiries on foot, through agencies that our orders possess for finding out facts, and means that we can use, superior to those of the most accomplished detectives living. Through such agencies, and by such means, I learned not only external facts--which are often lies, paradoxical as that may seem--but I learned, also, the internal truths without which no history can be really known, no subject really understood."
"But oh! you should not have kept silence. You should not have left me to misjudge my noble husband a day longer than necessary!" burst forth Salome.
"Calm yourself, daughter, and listen to me. I have kept nothing from you a day longer than necessary. The facts that exonerate the Duke of Hereward came to me last of all. Hear me. From Father Garbennetti, the new cure of San Vito, I learned the truth of that miscalled elopement of the late Duchess of Hereward. I learned that--in the words of your own charming poet-- 'My rival fair A saint in heaven should be.'
For a most innocent and most deeply wronged and long-suffering martyr on earth she had been. From him I also learned the existence of her boy, and the adoption of the boy, after the mother's death, by the Duke of Hereward. That was all I could learn from the Italian priest, who had lost sight of the lad after the mother's death. Next I pushed inquiries through our agents in England, and through the investigations of Father Fairfield, the eloquent English oratorian, I learned the truth of John Scott's life in England and Scotland, as I have given it to you. I received Father Fairfield's letter only this day; only this day I have learned, Salome, that you are really the Duchess of Hereward; that the Duke of Hereward was, and is, really your husband, and was never the husband of any other woman."
"Oh, how bitterly! how bitterly! how unpardonably I have wronged him! He will pardon me! Yes, he will! for he is all magnanimity, and he loves me! But I can never, never pardon myself!" exclaimed the young wife, her first joy at discovering the absolute integrity of her husband now giving place to the severest self-condemnation.
"You need not reproach yourself so cruelly, so sternly, under circumstances in which you would not reproach another at all. Remember what you told me, you had the evidence of your own eyes and ears, and the testimony of documents, and of individuals against him!" said the abbess, soothingly.
"Yes! the evidence of my own eyes and ears, which mistook the counterfeit for the real! the testimony of documents that were forgeries, and of individuals that were false! And upon these I believed my noble husband guilty of a felony, and without even giving him an opportunity to explain the circumstances, or to defend himself, I left him even on our wedding-day! and have concealed myself from him for many months! exposing him to misconstruction, to dishonor and reproach. Oh, no! I can never, never pardon myself! Nor do I even know how _he_ can ever pardon me. But he will! I am sure he will! Even as the Lord pardons all repented sin, however grievous, so will my peerless husband pardon me!" fervently exclaimed Salome.
The abbess reverted to her own troubles.
"I cannot understand," she said, "the mystery of that man's appearance here this morning."
"What man?" inquired Salome, who was so absorbed in thinking of her husband that she had nearly forgotten the existence of other men. " 'What man?' Why, daughter, the Count Waldemar de Volaski--the man who came here with the woman this morning--the man whom you mistook for your own husband, the Duke of Hereward, but whom I knew to be Waldemar de Volaski, once my betrothed, who was said to have been killed in a duel, shot through the heart, a quarter of a century ago!" answered the lady, emphatically.
Salome stared at the abbess for a few moments in amazed silence, and then exclaimed: "Dear madam, good mother, are you still under that deep delusion?"
"Delusion!" echoed the lady.
"Yes, the deepest delusion. Dear lady, do you not know, can you not comprehend _now_ that the man who visited us this morning was no other than John Scott, the counterpart whom even I really did mistake for the Duke of Hereward, as you say; and that the bold, bad beauty who accompanied him was his wife, Rose Cameron?"
"Nay, daughter, he was Count Waldemar de Volaski!" persisted the abbess.
"What an hallucination! Dear lady, do you not see--But what is the use of talking? I cannot convince you of your mistake: but circumstances may; for, of course, sooner or later the unhappy man will be arrested and brought to trial for his share in the robbery and murder at Castle Lone."
"No, you cannot convince me of mistake, because I have not made any; but _I_ will convince _you_ of _yours_," said the lady, rising and striking a match and lighting a lamp; for they had hitherto sat in darkness.
Salome smiled incredulously.
The abbess went to a little drawer of the stand upon which her crucifix and missal stood, and drew from it a small box, which she opened and exhibited to Salome, saying: "This, daughter, is the only memento of the world and the world's people that I have retained. I should not have kept even this, but that it is the likeness of my once betrothed, bestowed on me on the occasion of our betrothal, cherished once in loyal love, cherished now in prayerful memory of one whom I supposed had expiated his sins by death, long, long ago. I have kept it, but I have not looked at it for twenty years or more."
Salome took the miniature, and examined it carefully with interest and curiosity.
It was very well painted in water-colors on ivory. It represented a young man of from twenty to twenty-five years of age, with a Roman profile, fair complexion, blue eyes and blonde hair and mustache; and so far as these features and this complexion went, the miniature certainly did bear an external and superficial resemblance to John Scott and to the young Duke of Hereward; but in character and expression the faces were so totally different that Salome could never have mistaken the miniature to be a likeness of the duke or his brother, or either of these men to be the original of the picture.
After gazing intently at the miniature for a few minutes, she turned to the abbess and said: "You tell me that you have not looked at this for twenty years?"
"I have not," said the lady.
"And you tell me that the man who visited the asylum this morning is the original of this picture?"
"I do."
"Then, dear mother, your memory is at fault and your imagination deceives and misleads you. Both the supposed original and the miniature are thin-faced, with Roman features, fair complexion, blue eyes and blonde hair--points of resemblance which are common to many men who are not at all alike in any other respect. Now look at this miniature again, and you will see that, except in the points I have named, it is in no way like the man you mistook for its original."
"I would rather not look at it. I have not seen it since--Volaski's supposed death," said the abbess, shrinking.
"Oh, but do, for the satisfaction of your own mind. You see so few men, that you may easily mistake one blonde for another after twenty years of absence from them," persisted Salome, pressing the open miniature upon the lady.
So urged, the abbess took it, gazed wistfully at the pictured face, and murmured: "It is possible. I may be mistaken."
"You are," muttered Salome.
The abbess continued to gaze on the portrait, and whispered: "I think I am mistaken."
"I am _sure_ that you are, good mother," said Salome.
The lady's eyes were still fixed upon the relic, until at length she closed the locket with a click and laid it away in the little drawer, saying, clearly and firmly: "Yes, I see that I _was_ mistaken."
"I am very glad you know it," remarked Salome.
"So am I. It is a relief. And now, dear daughter, I will dismiss you to your rest. To-morrow we will consult concerning your affairs, and see what is best for you to do," said the abbess.
"I know what is best for me to do--_my duty_. And my very first duty is to hasten immediately to England, seek out my dear husband, confess all my cruel misapprehension of his conduct, and implore his pardon. I am sure of his pardon, and of his love! As sure as I am of my Heavenly Lord's pardon and love when I kneel to Him and confess and deplore my sins!" fervently exclaimed the young wife.
"Yes, I suppose you must return to England now. I do suppose that, after what we have discovered, you cannot remain here and become a nun," sighed the abbess, unwilling to resign her favorite.
"No, indeed, I cannot remain here. But I will richly endow the Infants' Asylum, dear mother. And I will visit, it every year of my life. I am going to retire now, good mother. Bless me," murmured Salome, bending her head. " _Benedicite_, fair daughter," said the abbess, spreading her open palms over the beautiful, bowed head as she invoked the blessing.
Then Salome arose, left the cell, and hurried back through the two long passages at right angles that conducted her from the nursery to the Infants' Asylum.
She passed silently as a spirit through every dormitory where her infant charges lay sleeping, assured herself that they were all safe and well, and then she entered her own little sleeping-closet adjoining the dormitory of the youngest infants, then disrobed and went to bed.
She was much too happy to sleep. She lay counting the hours to calculate in how short a time she could be with her beloved husband!
She had no dread of meeting him, not the least.
"Perfect love casteth out fear."
She arose early the next morning, and, after going through all her duties in the Infants' Asylum, she went to the lady-superior's sitting-room to consult her about making arrangements for an immediate departure for England.
"But shall you not write first to announce your arrival?" inquired the abbess.
"No; because I can go to England just as quickly as a letter can, and I would rather go. There is a train from L'Ange at five P. M. I can go by that and reach Calais in time for the morning boat, and be in London by noon to-morrow--as soon as a letter could go. And I could see my husband, actually see him, before I could possibly get a letter from him," said Salome, brightening.
"If his grace should be in London," put in the abbess.
"I think he will be in London. If he is not there, I can find out where he is, and follow him. Dear madam, _do_ not hinder me. I _must_ start by the first available train," said Salome, earnestly.
"I do not desire to hinder you," answered the lady-superior.
Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Sister Francoise, who pale and agitated, sank upon the nearest seat, and sat trembling and speechless, until the abbess exclaimed: "For the love of Heaven, Sister Francoise, tell us what has happened. Who is ill? Who is dead?" " _Helas! _ holy mother!" gasped the nun, losing her breath again immediately.
Salome drew a small phial of sal volatile from her pocket and uncorked and applied it to the nose of the fainting nun, saying soothingly: "Now tell us what has overcome you, good sister."
"Ah, my child! It is dreadful! It is terrible! It is horrible! It is awful! But they are bringing him in!" gasped Sister Francoise, snuffing vigorously at the sal volatile, and still beside herself with excitement.
"What! What! Who are they bringing in?" demanded the abbess, in alarm.
"I'm going to tell you! Oh, give me time! It is stupefying! It is annihilating! The poor gentleman who has just shot himself through the body!" gasped Sister Francoise, losing her breath again after this effort.
"A gentleman shot himself!" echoed Salome, in consternation.
The abbess, pale as death, said not a word, but left the unnerved sister to the care of Salome, and went out to see what had really happened.
She met the little Sister Felecitie in the passage.
"What is all this, my daughter?" she inquired, in a very low voice.
"They have taken him into the refectory, madam. That was the nearest to the gate, where it happened. It happened just outside the south gate, madam. They took off a leaf of the gate, and laid him on it and brought him in," answered the trembling little novice, rather incoherently.
"Daughter, I have often admonished you that you must not address me as 'madam,' but as 'mother.'"
"I beg your pardon, holy mother; but I was so frightened, I forgot."
"Now tell me quickly, and clearly, what happened near the south gate?"
"Oh, madam! --holy mother, I mean! --the suicide! the suicide!"
"The suicide! It was not an accident, then, but a suicide?" exclaimed the abbess, aghast, and pausing in her hurried walk toward the refectory.
"Oh, madam--holy mother! --yes, so they say! It is enough to kill one to see it all!"
"Go into my room, child, and stay there with Sister Francoise until I return. Such sights are too trying for such as you," said the abbess, as she parted from the young novice, and hurried on toward the refectory.
|
{
"id": "16039"
}
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46
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RETRIBUTION.
|
She entered the long dining-hall, where a terrible sight met her eyes.
Stretched upon the table lay a man in the midst of a pool of his own blood!
In the room were gathered a crowd, consisting of three Englishmen, three gend'armes, several countrymen, several out-door servants of the convent, and half a hundred nuns and novices.
The crowd had parted a little on the side nearest the door by which the abbess entered, so as to permit the approach of an old man who seemed to be a physician, and who proceeded to unbutton the wounded man's coat and vest, and to examine his wound.
"How horrible! Is he quite dead?" inquired the abbess, making her way to the side of the village surgeon, for such the old man was.
"No, madam; he has fainted from loss of blood. The wound has stopped bleeding now, however, and I hope by the use of proper stimulants to recover him sufficiently to permit me to examine and dress his wounds," replied the surgeon, who now drew from his pocket a bottle of spirits of hartshorn, poured some out in his hands, and began to bathe the forehead, mouth and nostrils of the unconscious man.
The abbess drew nearer, stooped over the body, and gazed attentively into the pallid and ghastly face, and then started with a half-suppressed cry as she recognized the features of the man who had visited the Infants' Asylum on the day previous, and whom the abbess now believed to be John Scott, the half brother and the "double" of the Duke of Hereward.
"Will you kindly order some brandy, madam?" courteously requested the surgeon.
"Certainly, monsieur," replied the lady superior, who immediately dispatched a nun to fetch the required restorative.
As soon as it was brought, a few drops were forced down the throat of the fainting man, who soon began to show signs of recovery.
"I should like to put my patient to bed, madam; but the nearest farm-house is still too far off for him to be conveyed thither in safety. The motion would start his wound to bleeding again, and the hemorrhage might prove fatal," said the surgeon suggestively.
The abbess took the hint.
"Of course," she said, "the poor wounded man must remain here. I will have a room prepared for him in our Old Men's Home. It will not take ten minutes to get the room ready, and carry him to it. Can you wait so long, good Doctor?"
"Assuredly, madam," answered the surgeon.
The abbess gave the necessary orders to a couple of young nuns, who hurried off to obey them.
In less time than the abbess required, they came back and reported that the room was ready for the patient.
"Now, then, Monsieur le Docteur, you may remove your patient," said the abbess, courteously.
The surgeon, assisted by two of the countrymen, tenderly lifted the wounded man, and laid him on the leaf of the gate, and, preceded by an aged nun to show the way, bore him off toward the Old Men's Home.
One of the Englishmen and one of the gend'armes followed him.
The remaining two Englishmen and two gend'armes showed no disposition to depart.
The abbess was not two well pleased at this masculine invasion of her sanctuary, and so after waiting for some explanation of their presence from these strange men, she went up to them and inquired, with suggestive politeness: "May we know, messieurs, how we can further serve you?"
"Your pardon, holy madam, but we are not willing intruders. I am Inspector Setter, of Scotland Yard, London, at your service. The wounded man is one John Scott, charged with complicity in the murder and robbery of the late Sir Lemuel Levison of Lone Castle. I bear a warrant for his arrest, countersigned by your chief of police. But for the prisoner's dying condition, we should convey him back to England immediately. As it is, we must hold him in custody here until the end," said the elder and more respectable-looking of the two Englishmen.
"I am very sorry to hear what you have to tell me; but since it seems your duty to remain here on guard for the security of your prisoner, I think it would be better that you should be nearer to him. The Old Men's Home will afford the most proper lodging for you as well as for him. One of my nuns will show you the way there, when a room near that of your wounded prisoner shall be assigned you," said the abbess, with grave courtesy, as she beckoned a withered old nun to her presence, and silently directed her to lead the way for the strangers to the lodging provided for them.
"John Scott, the half brother of the Duke of Hereward, charged with complicity in the murder and robbery at Castle Lone! Well, I am more grieved than surprised," murmured the abbess to herself.
Then she sent the younger nuns and novices about their several duties, and directed one of the elders to see that the refectory was restored to order.
The abbess was about to return to her own room when she was stayed by the re-entrance of Inspector Setter, the three gend'armes, and the countrymen.
The abbess looked up in a grave inquiry at this second intrusion.
"I beg your pardon, reverend madam; I have come to report to you the condition of your wounded guest, and to relieve you of the presence of these trespassers," said Inspector Setter, indicating his companions.
"Well, monsieur, what of the wounded man?" inquired the lady.
"The surgeon has dressed his wound, but pronounces it mortal. The man, he says, cannot live over a few days, perhaps not over a few hours. The surgeon will not leave him to-day."
"I am very sorry to hear that. Will you be so good as to tell me, monsieur, how the unfortunate man received his fatal injury? I heard--I heard--but I hope it is not true," said the abbess, shrinking from repeating the awful rumor that had reached her ears.
"You heard, holy madam, that he had committed suicide?" suggested the harder-nerved inspector.
The abbess bowed gravely.
"It is unfortunately quite true," said Inspector Setter. "You see, reverend madam, we traced him and his young--woman--I beg your reverend ladyship's pardon, holy madam--to Paris. Afterwards, we tracked them to L'Ange. We reached L'Ange this morning, and learned that our man had walked out toward the convent here. We followed, and came upon him near the south gate. I accosted him, and arrested him. He was as cool as a cucumber, and quick as lightning! Before we could suspect or prevent the action, he whipped a pistol out of his breast-pocket, and presented it at his own head. I seized his arm while his finger was on the trigger; but was too late to save him. He fired! I only changed the direction of the ball, which, instead of blowing off his head, buried itself somewhere in his body. He fell, a crowd gathered, we picked him up, took a leaf of the gate off its hinges, laid him on it, and brought him in here. That is all, your reverend ladyship. The doctor says the wound is mortal; I must remain in charge until all is over; but I don't want a body-guard, and if your ladyship's politeness will permit me. I will dismiss all these men and see them out."
"Do so, if you please, Monsieur l'Inspecteur. Oh, this is too horrible!" said the abbess.
While she was yet speaking, the surgeon also re-entered the refectory.
"How goes it with your patient, Monsieur le Docteur?" inquired the lady.
"He will die, good madam. Velpeau himself could not save him; he knows that he will die as well as we do, for he has recovered consciousness, and desired that a telegram be sent off immediately to summon the Duke of Hereward, whom he seems extremely anxious to see. I have written the message; here it is. I cannot leave my patient, or I would take it myself; but Monsieur l'Inspecteur, perhaps you can provide me with a messenger to carry this to L'Ange," said the surgeon.
"Certainly," agreed Mr. Setter, taking the written message and reading it. "But you have directed this to Hereward House, Piccadilly, London?"
"I wrote it at the dictation of my patient."
"He is mistaken. The Duke of Hereward is living in Paris, at Meurice's. I will make the correction," said Mr. Setter, drawing from his pocket a lead pencil and a blank-book, upon a leaf of which he re-wrote the message. He tore out the leaf, and read what he had written: "To HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF HEREWARD, MEURICE'S, PARIS: I am dying. Come immediately.
"JOHN SCOTT, Convent of St. Rosalie, L'Ange."
"That will do," said Mr. Setter, inspecting his work. "Now, Smith," he added, handing the paper to one of his officers, "hurry with this message to the telegraph office at the railway station at L'Ange. See that it is sent off promptly, for it is a matter of life and death, as you know. Wait for an answer, and when you get it hasten back with it."
"All right, sir," answered the man, taking the paper, and hurrying away.
The other men, whose services were no longer required, followed him out to go about their business.
The inspector and the surgeon, seeing the lady abbess about to address them, lingered.
"I hope, messieurs, that you will freely call upon us for anything that may be needed for the relief of your patient, or for the convenience of yourselves," she said, with grave courtesy.
"Thanks, madame, we will do so," replied the surgeon, with a deep bow.
"And, above all, the interests of his immortal soul should be taken care of. If he should need spiritual comfort, here is Father Garbennetti, who will wait on him," added the abbess, solemnly.
"Your ladyship's holiness is very good. I happen to know the man is a Romanist, and if he should ask for a priest, I will let your reverend ladyship know," said Mr. Setter.
"Do so. Monsieur l'Inspecteur. And tell him the name of the priest I proposed for him--Father Garbennetti, of San Vito, Italy; for I have reason to believe that this holy father once knew your patient very intimately," added the abbess.
"Stay, now--what was the priest's name again? I never can get the name of these foreigners," muttered Mr. Setter, with a puzzled air.
"Father Garbennetti, of San Vito, Italy. But I will write it for you. Lend me your pencil and tablets, monsieur, if you please."
Mr. Setter placed his pocket writing material in the hands of the lady, with his best bow.
She carefully wrote the name of the Italian priest on a blank leaf and returned the pencil and the book to the inspector, who received them with another bow.
Doctor Dubourg and Inspector Setter then "bowed" themselves out of the lady's presence and returned to the bedside of the wounded man.
The abbess gave a few more directions to the lay sisters who were engaged in restoring the room to order, and then she withdrew from the refectory and returned to her own apartment, where she had left Salome and the little Sister Felecitie.
She found them still waiting there; and both engaged in the little bit of knitting or embroidery that they always carried in their pockets to take up at odd moments that would otherwise be wasted in idleness, which was held to be a grave fault, if not a deadly sin, by the sisterhood, and, besides, from the sale of this work they realized a very considerable income.
"I waited here, good mother, to learn more of the poor wounded man. Sister Felecitie tells me that he is a suicide. I hope that is a mistake," said Salome.
"It is too true, _helas_! But, my daughter," said the abbess, turning to the young nun, "leave us alone for a few minutes."
The little sister retired obediently, but very unwillingly, for she was tormented with unsatisfied curiosity concerning the unfortunate stranger, who had committed suicide at their convent gate.
"Salome! do you know, can you conjecture, who the unhappy man is?" solemnly inquired the abbess, as soon as she was left alone with her young friend.
"I do not know. I--_fear to conjecture_," whispered the young wife; growing pale.
"Yet your very fear proves that you _have_ conjectured, and conjectured correctly. Yes! the wretched suicide is no other than John Scott, the 'double' of the Duke of Hereward."
"Heaven of heavens! What drove him to the fatal deed? But why should I ask? Of course, it was remorse! remorse that was slowly killing him! too slowly for his suffering and his impatience!" exclaimed the young lady, with a shudder.
"Yes, it was remorse, and--_desperation_."
"Desperation!"
"Yes! The English detectives had traced him down to this neighborhood; they followed him down here with a warrant for his arrest, countersigned by our chief of police. They surprised him near the south gate of the convent; but he was too quick for them; and before they could prevent him, driven to desperation, he caught a pistol from his pocket and shot himself through the body, inflicting a mortal wound. They brought him into the convent. I have had him placed in a comfortable room in the Old Men's Home, where he is attended by Doctor Dubourg, of L'Ange, who Providentially happened to be passing the convent at the time of the occurrence."
Salome covered her face with her hands, and sank back in her chair, with a groan.
A few moments elapsed, and then Salome, still vailing her face, murmured a question: "How long may the dying man last? Surely--surely--" Her voice faltered, and broke down with a sob.
"He _can_ not last more than a very few days. He _may_ not last more than a few hours," said the abbess, in a low tone.
"Surely--surely, then," resumed Salome, in a broken voice, "he will make a confession before he dies. He will vindicate his brother, and so save his own soul."
"I think that he will do so, Sister Salome. Calm yourself. He has caused a telegram to be sent to the Duke of Hereward, calling him here."
Salome started and trembled violently. She could scarcely gasp forth the words of her broken exclamation: "The Duke of Hereward! Called! Here!"
"Yes, my daughter. So you perceive that your proposed journey to England is forestalled."
"My husband coming here! Oh! how soon will he come? He cannot be here in less than twenty-four hours, can he?" eagerly demanded Salome.
"He may be here in less than six hours. The Duke of Hereward does not have to come from London; he is not there, but in Paris; so you perceive, also, that if you had gone to England, as you proposed to do, you would have missed seeing him there," added the lady, smiling.
"My husband in Paris--so near. My husband to be here this evening--so soon. Oh, this is too much, too much happiness!" exclaimed the young wife, bursting into tears of joy.
"Then you have no dread of meeting him?" suggested the elder lady. " 'Dread of meeting him?' Dread of meeting my own dear husband? Ah, no, no, no! No dread, but an infinite longing to meet him. Oh! I know and feel how I have wronged him. How deeply and bitterly I have wronged him. But I know, also, how utterly he will pardon me. Yes, I know that, as surely as I know that my Heavenly Lord pardons us all of our repented sins!" fervently exclaimed Salome.
"Heaven grant that you may be happy, my child'" said the lady, earnestly.
At that moment the door opened, and an aged nun, one of the attendants in the Old Men's Home, entered the room.
"Well, Mere Pauline, what is it?" calmly inquired the abbess.
"Holy mother, I have come from Monsieur le Docteur to say that the messenger has come back from L'Ange, and brought an answer to the telegram. Monsieur le Duc d' Hereward will be here by the midday express from Paris, which reaches L'Ange at five o'clock this afternoon," answered Mere Pauline.
"Thanks for your news. Sit down and breathe after climbing all these stairs. And now tell me, how is the wounded man?" inquired the abbess, as the old nun sank wearily into the nearest chair. " _Helas! _ holy mother, he is sinking fast. The doctor thinks he will not outlive the night; and meanwhile he is anxious, so anxious, for the arrival of Monsieur le Duc! He asks from time to time if the duke has come, or is coming; if we have heard from him, and so on," sighed the old nun.
"But have you not soothed him by communicating the message received from the duke, that his grace will be here at five o'clock?"
"No, holy mother! for he was sleeping under the influence of opium, which the good surgeon had felt obliged to administer in order to quiet him just before the message came. If he wakes and inquires about the duke again, we will give him the message."
"Quite right. Has the wretched man seen a priest, or asked to see one?"
"No, mother! but I was not unmindful of his immortal weal. I asked him if he would see Pere Garbennetti. He brightened up at the name, and inquired if le pere was here. I told him yes, and at his service, waiting to attend him, indeed. But then he gloomed again, and said no; he would see no one until he had seen the Duke of Hereward. He would rest and save his strength for his interview with the Duke of Hereward. I will return to my charge now, if my good mother will permit me," said the old nun, rising from her chair.
"Go, then, Mere Pauline, if you are sufficiently rested. Keep me advised of the state of your patient, but do not tax your aged limbs to climb these stairs again. Send one of the younger nuns, and give yourself some rest," said the abbess, kindly. " _Helas! _ holy mother, I shall have time enough to rest in the grave, whither I am fast tending," sighed the old nun, as she withdrew from the room.
"Oh, mother!" joyfully exclaimed Salome, as soon as they were left alone, "he comes by the midday express! It is midday now! The train has already left Paris! He is speeding toward us, even now, as fast as steam can bring him. I can almost see and hear and _feel_ him coming!"
"Calm your transports, dear daughter; think of the dying sinner so near us, even now," gravely replied the elder lady.
"I can think of nothing but my living husband," exclaimed the young wife.
"Oh, these young hearts! these young hearts! 'From all inordinate and sinful affections, good Lord, deliver us!'" prayed the abbess.
She had scarcely spoken, when the door opened and Sister Francoise entered the room.
"I came with a message from the portress, good mother. She says that a young woman has come from L'Ange, who claims to be the wife of the wounded man, and insists upon being admitted to see him. The portress does not know what to do, and has sent me to you for instructions," said Sister Francoise.
"The wounded man is sleeping and must not be awakened. Tell the portress to keep the young woman in the parlor until she can be permitted to see the patient, then do you go to the Old Men's Home, inquire for Monsieur le Doctor Dubourg, and announce to him the arrival of this woman, and let him use his medical discretion about admitting her. Go."
"Yes, holy mother," said Sister Francoise, retreating.
"You have not had a moment's peace since this unhappy man has been in the house," said Salome, compassionately.
"No," smiled the lady. "Of course not, but it cannot be helped. We must bear one another's burdens."
The loud ringing of the dinner-bell arrested the conversation.
"Come, we will go down," said the abbess, rising.
They descended to the refectory.
The long hall, that had been the scene of so much horror and confusion in the morning, was now restored to its normal condition.
The plain, frugal, midday meal of the abbess and the elder nuns was arranged with pure cleanliness upon the table, where, but a few hours before, the body of the wounded man had lain. But the awful event of the morning had taken a deep effect upon the quiet and sensitive sisterhood. They sat down at the table, but scarcely touched the food.
When the form of dining--for it was little more than a form that day--was over, the abbess and her nuns arose, and separated about their several vocations.
Later on, the abbess sent a message to the Old Men's Home, inquiring after the wounded man.
She received an answer to the effect that the patient had waked up, and had been told of the telegram from the Duke of Hereward, and the expected arrival of his grace at five o'clock.
The news had satisfied the suffering man, who had been calmer ever since its reception. He had also been told of the arrival of his wife, but he had declined to see her, or _any_ one, until he should have seen the Duke of Hereward. He was saving up all his little strength for his interview with the duke.
As the hours of the afternoon crept slowly away, the impatience of the young wife, Salome, arose to fever heat. She could not rest in any one room, but roamed about the convent, and through all its departments and offices, until, at length, she was met in the main corridor by the abbess, who gravely took her hand, drew it within her arm, and led her along, saying: "Come into my parlor, child. The Duke of Hereward has arrived."
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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47
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THE END OF A LOST LIFE.
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The Duke of Hereward knew nothing of his wife's presence in the Convent of St. Rosalie.
On his arrival, soon after five o'clock, he was met by the portress, who ushered him into the receiving parlor and sent to warn the abbess of his presence.
The abbess dispatched a message to the surgeon in attendance upon John Scott, and then sought out the young duchess to inform her of her husband's arrival.
Meantime Dr. Dubourg hurried down to the receiving-parlor to see the Duke of Hereward. They were strangers to each other, so the portress introduced them.
"I hope your patient is better, Monsieur le Docteur," said the duke, when the first salutations were over.
"No, I regret to say. There is, indeed, no hope. The poor man has been sinking since morning. He is most anxious to see your grace, before he dies, and that very anxiety, I think, has kept him up," gravely replied the physician.
"I am sorry to hear that. Is he in condition to see me now? Will not the interview tend to excite him and shorten his life?" anxiously inquired the duke.
"It may do so; but, on the other hand, his failure to see you might prove fatal to him sooner than his wound would. The fact is, sir, the man is doomed; his hours are numbered, and he knows it. He is eager to see you; he seems to have something weighing upon his mind, which he wishes to confide to you. He has been saving his little strength for an interview with you. He has refused to speak to any one, lest he should waste his forces and be too weak to talk to you."
"I will go to him, then, at once," said the duke.
"Do so, your grace, and I will attend you," said the doctor with a bow.
The duke arose and followed the doctor through the long corridors and narrow passages leading from the Nunnery to the Old Men's Home.
On their way thither, the duke inquired how the patient had received that fatal wound, of which his grace had only heard a vague report from scraps of conversation among the officials at the L'Ange Railway Depot.
The doctor gave him a brief account of the arrest and the suicide.
The duke made no comment, but fell into deep, sorrowful thought, until they reached the door of the room in which John Scott lay mortally wounded.
The doctor opened the door and passed in with the duke.
It was a good-sized, square room, in which had once been placed four cots to accommodate four old men. Now, however, all the cots had been removed except the one on which the wounded man lay, and that had been drawn into the middle of the chamber, so as to give the patient a free circulation of fresh air, and to allow the approach of surgeon and attendants on every side. The walls were white-washed, the floor sanded, the windows shaded with blue paper hangings, and the cot-bed covered with a clean, blue-checked spread. Four cane chairs and a small deal table completed the furniture.
Everything was plain, clean and comfortable.
The doctor, with a deprecating gesture, signed to the duke to wait a moment, and went up to the side of the bed, and finding his patient awake, whispered: "Monsieur, the friend you expected has arrived."
"You mean--the Duke of Hereward?" faintly inquired Scott.
"Yes, monsieur."
"Give me then--some cordial--to keep up my strength--for fifteen minutes longer," sighed the dying man at intervals.
The doctor signed to Sister Francoise, who sat by the bedside, to go and bring what was required.
The old nun went to the deal table and brought a small bottle of cognac brandy and a slender wine glass.
The doctor filled the glass, lifted the head of the patient, and placed the stimulant to his lips.
Scott swallowed the brandy, drew a deep breath as he sank back upon the pillow and said: "Now, bring the duke to my bed side, and let everyone go and leave us together."
The doctor signed for the duke to approach, and silently presented him to the patient.
Then he beckoned Sister Francoise to follow him, and they left the room, closing the door behind them.
"I am sorry to see you suffering, my brother," said the duke, kindly, as he bent over the dying man.
"Ah! you call me your brother! You acknowledge me then?" said Scott, half in earnest, half in mockery.
"Most certainly I do acknowledge you, and most sincerely do I deplore your misfortunes," answered the duke.
"Yet I have been a great sinner. I feel that now, as I lie upon my death-bed," muttered Scott, in a low tone.
"I look upon you as one 'more sinned against than sinning,'" said the duke seriously.
"Yes, that is true also," murmured the dying man.
"But let us not dwell upon that. The past is dead. Let it be buried."
"Aye, with all my heart."
"You wished to see me."
"Yes, I did."
"To make some communication to me. Is it a very important one?"
"It is so important that I have risked my soul to make it to you."
"But how can that be?"
"Why, in this way. I have but little strength, I might have used that strength in making my confession to Father Garbennetti, and received absolution at his hands; but I was afraid of exhausting myself so that I should not be able to tell you what I have to communicate."
"I trust and believe that you have more strength than you suppose. Your eyes look bright and strong."
"That is the effect of the brandy. I never tasted better. Ah! they know what good liquor is--these holy sisters--no offence to them, bless them; their care has helped me; but I am going fast, for all that."
"You are at ease--you feel no pain?"
"No; but that is because mortification has set in. I feel no pain: I am at ease, only sinking, sinking, sinking fast. Will you pour out a little glass of brandy and give it to me? You will find the bottle and the wine-glass on the table," said the patient, who was visibly growing feebler.
The duke went and brought the stimulant, and administered it to the dying man.
"Ah! that revives me! How long have you known that I was your brother?" Scott inquired, as soon as the duke had replaced the glass and returned to the bedside.
"Only since our honored father's death. I should at once have claimed you and carried out certain instructions he had left me for your benefit, in the letter in which he revealed our relationship--if--if--if--" The duke, with more delicacy than moral courage, hesitated, and finally left his sentence incomplete.
"If I had not dishonored my family by committing a crime, and flying the country!" said John Scott, finishing the sentence for the first speaker.
"I did not say so," exclaimed the duke, flushing.
"But it was the truth nevertheless. And now before I begin my confession, will you please to tell me the nature of the revelation and of the instructions that my father left to you concerning me?"
"Certainly. He told me the story of his first fatal marriage; of the divorce sought and granted under lying circumstantial evidence; of your birth some few months later--out of wedlock--although you were the son of his lawful marriage. He told me how impossible it was ever to restore you to your lawful rights, and he charged me to regard you as a dear brother, and share with you all the benefits of the estate, the whole of which would eventually have been yours had not your father's own rash act deprived you of the succession, and forever put it out of our power to restore you to it. I accepted the trust, and should have discharged it had you not left the country."
"Well, I suppose the old man did as well as he could under the circumstances. He too was to be pitied. But now tell me, did _you_ help to hark the bloodhounds of the law on my track?"
"No. From the time I received a hint from that wretched man, Potts, the valet, implicating yourself, I refrained from all action in your pursuit."
"I thought so--I thought so. You wouldn't like to help hang your own brother, even if he had deserved it; but he did not quite deserve it; and it was to explain that, as well as some other things, that I brought you here. You know so much already, however, so much more than I suspected you knew, that I shall not have a great deal to tell you; but--my strength is going fast again. I shall have to be quick. Give me another glass of brandy."
The duke complied with the man's request, and then replaced the glass again and returned to the bedside.
"I suppose I should not require that stimulant so often to keep up my dying frame, if I had not been so hard a drinker in late years. However, it is absolutely necessary to me now, if I am to go on. Come close; I cannot raise my voice any longer," whispered the fast-failing man.
The duke drew his chair as closely as possible to the side of the cot, took the wasted hand of his poor brother, and bowed his head to hear the sorrowful story.
In a weak, low voice, with many pauses, John Scott told the story of his life, from his own point of view, dwelling much on his mother's undeserved sorrows and early death.
He told of his own secluded life and education, and of his ignorance of his father's name until after his mother's decease.
He confessed the rage and hatred that filled his bosom on first learning that poor mother's wrongs, greater even than his own.
He spoke of the natural mistake made by the country people at Lone, who misled by his perfect likeness to his brother, had received him and honored him as Marquis of Arondelle.
He admitted that their error flattered his self-love, and believing that he had the best right to the title, he allowed them to deceive themselves, and to address him and speak of him as Lord Arondelle, the heir.
He related the incident of his first accidental meeting with Rose Cameron, who, like all the other tenantry, mistook him for the young marquis, and so had her head turned by his attentions, and followed him to London, where he secretly married her.
This brought him to the time when the extravagance of his companion, added to his own expensive vices, brought him deeply into debt. He knew that his father had placed a large amount of money in the hands of Sir Lemuel Levison to be invested for his (John Scott's) benefit. He applied for a part of this money to pay his debts, but was refused by the trustee. Whereupon a quarrel ensued, which resulted in Sir Lemuel Levison's resolution to take the money down to Lone Castle and restore it to the original donor, that the latter might dispose of it at his own discretion.
This move maddened the penniless spendthrift. It drove him to desperation. He resolved to get possession of his money by foul means since he could not do so by fair ones; by violence, if not by peace. Circumstances had brought him to acquaintance with a pair of desperate thieves and burglars.
He sought them out, tempted them by the prospect of great booty for themselves, and arranged with them the whole plan of the robbery of Lone, stipulating that there should be no bloodshed at all; but that if the burglars were discovered before completing the robbery, they should seek rather to make their escape than to secure their booty.
But who can unchain a devil and say to him, "Thus far, no farther shalt thou go?" The instigator of the crime had no power over his instruments; on the contrary, they had power over him from the moment he called in their aid and became their confederate.
John Scott continued his confession by relating that he took the men down to Lone, disguised as countrymen, and led them to the castle grounds, where, lost in the great crowd that came to see the preparations for the wedding festivities, their presence as strangers was unnoticed; that at night he drugged the drink of the valet, stole the pass-key from his pocket, and through the secret passage under Malcolm's Tower he admitted the thieves into the castle, and by means of the valet's key passed them into Sir Lemuel Levison's bedroom.
He shuddered, failed, and seemed about to faint, as he recalled the horrible tragedy enacted in the room that night.
The duke gave him another small glass of brandy before he could revive and continue.
"Heaven knows, though under strong temptation, not to say under imperative necessity, I employed thieves and burglars, I was neither a robber nor a murderer in intention. I wanted to get my own money, withheld from me against my expressed desire--that was all. I do not say this to extenuate my crime, but to let you know the exact truth. I cannot dwell upon this part of the dreadful tale. You know already that the thieves murdered Sir Lemuel Levison in his chamber. It seems that he had not gone to bed, but had fallen asleep in his chair. He woke and discovered them. He was instantly about to give the alarm, when he was knocked senseless by Smith and killed by Murdockson. From the moment that I heard the old man was dead, although I had not intended the awful crime, I knew that I had actually occasioned it, and that the curse of Cain was upon my head! I have not had a happy moment since. I fled the country, and stayed abroad until I heard that my wretched companion, Rose, was in trouble. Then I returned in disguise to see what was to become of her, resolved to give myself up to justice, if it should be necessary to vindicate her. But I found, by cautious inquiry, that she had been admitted as crown's evidence on the trial of the valet Potts, who was discharged from custody, on a verdict of 'Not Proven,' but that she was in prison again, on the charge of perjury, for having sworn--what she truly believed, by the way, poor wench--that the confederate of the thieves who murdered Sir Lemuel Levison was no other than the young Marquis of Arondelle. You were there, sir, and immediately proved an alibi?"
"Yes," said the duke.
"Rose was thereupon committed for perjury. I found her in prison on that charge when I returned to Scotland. I did not see her then. I was afraid to show myself, especially as I knew the girl felt very bitterly toward me, believing that I had willfully betrayed her into danger, when in point of fact it was her own dishonesty that led to her arrest. Her vanity tempted her to purloin and secrete a portion of the most valuable jewels from the booty that had accidentally in the confusion of the thieves' flight fallen into my hands along with the money that was my own. I had intended, secretly to return the jewels upon the first opportunity, but the unfortunate woman secreted them, and denied all knowledge of them. After my flight she was so mad as to wear the watch in public, and to take it to a West End jeweller for repairs. Of course that jeweller, like others, had a full description of the watch, recognized the stolen property, and caused the arrest of the holder."
"We heard all that on the trial. Do not exhaust yourself by repeating anything that has already come to our knowledge," said the duke.
"I refer to this only to explain the bitterness of the girl's feelings toward me as the reason why I was obliged to keep concealed."
"But if the girl had been favorable toward you, would not it have been equally dangerous for you to have shown yourself?"
"Oh! no; my disguise was too complete. Besides, if I had not been disguised--you see in that neighborhood I had never been known as myself, but had always been mistaken for you--and the people were not undeceived up to that time. Give me a little more brandy. Ah! this spurring up a jaded horse! You see it does not get into my head. It only keeps up my sinking strength," added the man, after the duke had complied with his request.
"I remained in the neighborhood to see the result of Rose Cameron's trial for perjury. It was near the end of the term when she was arraigned at Banff. She would certainly have been convicted, for it was in evidence that she had sworn that the Marquis of Arondelle had been the confederate of the thieves and murderers, and had himself received and delivered to her the stolen booty; and her testimony was rebutted on the spot, not only by the high character and standing of the marquis, but by witnesses who proved an alibi for him. She would certainly have been convicted, I say, had not an unexpected witness appeared in her behalf. John Potts, the valet, who had been discharged from custody, came upon the stand, took the oath, and testified to the existence of a perfect counterpart of the Marquis of Arondelle, in the person of one John Scott, the companion of the accused woman, who had always foolishly believed him to be the young marquis himself. This testimony not only vindicated the accused woman from the charge of perjury, but opened her eyes to the facts of the case--namely, that I had never abandoned her to suffer in my stead while I went off to marry another woman, as she had supposed--that my only sin against her was in having allowed her to deceive herself in believing me to be Lord Arondelle."
The man gasped as he concluded the last sentence, and the duke said: "You had better rest now. A little rest will do more good than any stimulant."
"You think so? Nay, rest would be death for me now. I must go on while my nerves are strung up; once they relax, I die."
"Very well; I am listening attentively."
"As soon as Rose was discharged from custody I sought her out, and there was a mutual explanation and reconciliation. But the testimony of John Potts, given on the trial of Rose Cameron, had placed my life in great jeopardy: so we secretly left the country. We went away separately for our greater security. I went first. Rose came on a week later. We met by appointment at L'Ange. In the obscurity of that village we hoped for safety; but I was tormented by remorse; for the murder of Sir Lemuel Levison lay heavily on my soul. There, my wife, Rose, gave birth to a little girl, whom we secretly placed in the rotary basket at the door of the Infants' Asylum attached to this convent. The good nuns received it, and cared for it. They called it _Marie Perdue_, 'Lost Mary.' After Rose's recovery, we went away, because it was not safe for us to remain so near home with such sharpers as English detectives and French police on our track. We took refuge in Italy, in the Sanctuary of the Holy See. We stayed there several months, when, thinking that all pursuit had been abandoned, and longing to see our child, we came on a flying visit to L'Ange. But the police were on the watch for us. I was arrested, as you have heard, on the day after my arrival. Quick work; but you see the chief of police here telegraphed the police in London, and brought the detectives hither within twenty-four hours. You know the rest. I am dying here by my own hand. It was a mad, rash, impulsive act, for which I am deeply sorry; but--I am dying in expiation of _my_ share in the tragedy at Lone Castle."
The young duke took the emaciated hand of the failing man and pressed it in silence; he was too deeply moved to trust himself to speak.
"I have but this to say now. I leave a wife and helpless child. They are penniless and friendless. You will not let them starve," murmured the man.
"Oh, no, no, I will care for them, believe me, as long as we all shall live," said the duke, earnestly.
"That is all. Bid me good-by now. And when you go out ask good Sister Francoise to send the priest," said John Scott, holding out his white, cold hand.
"I will. Good-bye. May our merciful Father in heaven bless and save you, my poor brother," murmured the duke, pressing that pale hand, laying it tenderly on the coverlet, and gliding from the room of death.
Ten minutes later, the good Father Garbennetti was closeted with his penitent, administering religious consolation.
When the last sacred offices were all performed, the priest retired, and the wife and child of the dying man were admitted to his presence, with permission to remain with him to the end.
In the meantime, the Duke of Hereward, conducted by Doctor Dubourg, traversed the long passages leading from the Old Men's Home to the convent.
As they went on, the duke gave the doctor instructions to supply the patient with everything that he should require during the last few hours of his life; and after death to take direction of the funeral, and charge all expenses to himself (the duke), adding: "I shall, of course, remain at L'Ange until all is over."
"It will not be long, monseigneur. The poor man has been kept up by mental excitement and by strong stimulants all day long; there comes a fatal reaction soon, from which nothing can raise him. He will not outlive the day."
"I am very sorry for him," murmured the duke.
"He was, perhaps, a distant relative of your grace. There is a slight family likeness," suggested the doctor.
"There is a very remarkable family likeness, and he is a very near relative," answered the duke, adding; "I hope you will kindly follow the instructions I have given you in regard to him."
"I will faithfully follow them out, monseigneur," said the doctor, with a bow.
At the entrance to the convent proper they were met by an elderly nun, who brought the lady superior's compliments and begged leave to announce that refreshments were laid in the receiving-parlor, if the Duke of Hereward and Doctor Dubourg would do the house the honor to partake of them.
The young duke was tired and hungry from his long journey and longer fast, and gratefully accepted the sister's courteous invitation in his own and the doctor's name.
The nun led the way to the parlor, where a table was set out, not merely with slight refreshments, but with the first course of a dainty dinner, which the forethought of the abbess had caused to be prepared for her noble guest.
The duke and the doctor sat down to the table, and were attentively waited on by two of the elder sisterhood.
Notwithstanding the good appetite of the guests and the delicacy of the viands set before them, the meal passed in gravity and in almost total silence, for the thoughts of the two companions were with the dying man whom they had left in the Old Men's Home.
When they had finished dining, and had arisen from the table, a message was delivered by one of the old nuns who had waited upon them, to the effect that the lady superior desired to see the duke in the portress' room for a few minutes, before his departure.
The duke immediately signified his readiness to wait on the lady, and followed his conductress to the little room behind the wicket appropriated to the portress.
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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48
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HUSBAND AND WIFE.
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Two hours before this, the lady superior had conducted the young duchess to the private apartment of the abbess, to await the issue of events.
Salome, pale, and trembling with excitement, sank into the nearest chair.
"You do not fear to meet the duke, my child?" inquired the abbess, uneasily, as she also dropped into her seat.
"Fear to meet my own magnanimous husband? Oh, no, no! I do not fear to meet him; but I long to meet him with an infinite longing!" fervently exclaimed Salome.
"I am very glad to hear you say so. And you are sure of his prompt and full forgiveness?" said the abbess, softly. " 'Sure of his forgiveness!'" echoed Salome, with a holy and happy smile. "Yes, as sure of his forgiveness as I am of the Lord's pardon!"
"And yet when he hears the truth and understands all, he will know that he has nothing to forgive. And he should know and understand everything before he sees you. For this reason, as well as for several others, I have brought you here, and I advise you to seclude yourself yet for a few hours. I do not wish you to see the duke, or even to advise him of your presence in the house, until he has seen the dying man and heard the confession of the truth from his lips. That confession will prepare your husband to receive and understand you, better than any explanation you could possibly make would do. It will also save you from the distress of having to make a long explanation. Do you understand me, my child?"
"Yes, dear mother, I understand, and thank you for your wise counsels."
"I have also given directions to Sister Dominica that after he shall have concluded his interview with Mr. Scott, and partaken of dinner, which will be prepared for him in the receiving parlor, he shall be requested to meet me in the portress' room, where I propose to break to him the intelligence of your presence in the house."
"Thanks, dear mother! infinite, eternal thanks for all your great goodness to me," fervently exclaimed Salome.
"You are much too extravagant in your expressions of gratitude, my daughter! You exaggerate like a school-girl!" smiled the abbess.
"Oh! I will prove by my acts that I do not exaggerate my feelings at least!" persisted Salome.
And then, with girlish enthusiasm, she began to tell the lady-superior all she intended to do for the benefit of the convent charities, and especially for the "Infants' Asylum."
The vesper-bell summoned them to chapel, where the evening service occupied them for an hour.
They then went to the refectory, and joined the sisterhood at tea.
In coming from the refectory, they were met in the corridor by old Sister Dominica, who stopped the abbess, respectfully, and said: "I come, holy mother, to report to you that I have followed all your instructions. Monseigneur le Duc and Monsieur le Docteur have well dined. Monsieur le Docteur has returned to his patient, Monseigneur le Duc has gone to the wicket-room to await madame, our holy mother." " _Bien! _" said the abbess. "I will attend his grace. Go, dear daughter, and await my return in my parlor. Sister Dominica, lead the way and announce me."
Salome, in obedience to the abbess' orders, went back to the lady-superior's private parlor to await, with palpitating heart the issue of the lady's interview with the duke.
Sister Dominica deferentially led the lady abbess to the wicket room, opened the door, and said: "The lady-superior of the convent to see Monseigneur, the Duke," then closed the door after the abbess, and retired.
As Mother Genevieve entered the room, she saw standing there a tall, thin, distinguished-looking young man, with a pale complexion, blonde hair and beard, and blue eyes. His face bore traces of deep suffering bravely endured. The gentle abbess sympathized with him from the depths of her kind heart, and for the first time felt glad that he would regain his wife, although by his doing so the convent would lose her fortune.
"Monseigneur, the Duke, of Hereward?" she said graciously, advancing into the room.
"Yes, madam. I have the honor of saluting the Lady Abbess of St. Rosalie?" returned the duke, with a bow.
"A poor nun, monseigneur; who, as the unworthy head of the house, begs leave to welcome you here," humbly returned the lady, bending her head.
"Thanks, madam."
"It is a sad event which has brought you under our roof, monseigneur."
"A very sad one, madam."
"And yet, for your sake, a very fortunate one."
"May I be permitted to ask you, madam, in what way this misfortune can be fortunate?"
"I had supposed that you already knew that, monseigneur."
"Perhaps I do. I am not sure. I do not clearly comprehend, madam. Will madam deign to make her meaning plainer?"
"Yes, monseigneur, and you will pardon me if I enter too abruptly upon a subject at once painful and delicate."
The abbess paused, and the duke inclined his head in the attitude of an attentive listener.
"The young Duchess of Hereward, monseigneur?" said the abbess, in a low voice.
The duke started very slightly, but his pale face flushed crimson.
"Pardon, monseigneur. I am the more deeply interested in the young lady, for that she passed her infancy, childhood and youth--being nearly the whole of her short life, indeed, under this roof--where I stood in the position of a mother to her orphanage."
"I knew, madam, that the motherless heiress was educated here," replied the duke, by way of saying something.
"You will, therefore, understand the interest I take in Madame la Duchesse, and forgive my question when I ask: Have you heard from her grace since she left her home?"
"You knew that she had left her home, then?" exclaimed the duke, in painful astonishment.
The abbess bowed assent.
"I hoped and believed that no one knew of her flight except the members of our own household, and the single confidential agent I employed to find her, and on whose discretion I could implicitly rely," said the duke, in a tone of extreme mortification and sorrow.
"Be tranquil, monseigneur, no one does know of it out of the circle of her own devoted friends, who can never misinterpret it."
"You know something of the duchess' movements, then? You know, perhaps, the cause of her flight--the place of her residence? You know--ah, madam, tell me _what_ you know, I beseech you!" implored the duke.
"I know the cause of her flight, and justify her action even though she acted under a false impression. I know the place of her residence, and will tell it to you after you shall have answered one or two questions that I shall put to you. First then, monseigneur, when did you last hear of the duchess?"
"Some few weeks after her flight, I received the first and last news I have ever had of my lost bride. It came in a short and cautiously written note from herself. This note was without date or address. It was apparently written in kind consideration for me, but it contained no word of affection. It was signed by her maiden name and post-marked Rome."
The abbess smiled as she remembered that letter which had been written by Salome to put her husband out of suspense, and which had been sent by the mother superior, through a confidential agent who happened to be going there, to be mailed from Rome, to put the Duke of Hereward entirely off the track of his lost wife.
"I have the note in my pocketbook. You may read it, madam, if you please," continued the duke, as he opened his portmonnaie and handed her a tiny, folded paper.
The abbess took it and read as follows: "DUKE OF HEREWARD: I have just arisen from a bed of illness which has lasted ever since my flight, and prevented me from writing to you up to this time.
"I write now only to relieve any anxiety that you may feel on account of one in whom you took too much interest; for I would not have you suffer needless pain.
"You know the reason of my flight; or if you do not, my maiden name, at the foot of this note, will tell you how surely I had learned that it was my bounden duty to leave you instantly.
"I left you without malice, trying to put the best construction on your motives and actions, if any such were possible; I left you with sorrow, praying the Lord to forgive and save you.
"I dare not write to you as I feel toward you, for that would be a sin.
"I have entered a religious house, where, by prayer and labor, I may live down all "inordinate and sinful affections," and where I shall henceforth be dead to the world and to you.
"This, then, is the very last you will hear of her who was once known as SALOME LEVISON."
"She says you knew the cause of her flight. _Did_ you know it, monseigneur?" inquired the abbess, when she had finished reading the note, and had returned it to the owner.
"I did not even suspect it, at first, madam. At the trial of John Scott, on the charge of murder of Sir Lemuel Levison, to which I was summoned as a witness for the crown, some facts were developed that first awoke my suspicions as to the cause of my wife's flight. These suspicions were further strengthened by the tone of her letter, received three weeks afterwards, and they were absolutely confirmed by a revelation I have received this day."
"From John Scott?"
"Yes, madam."
"You know the cause of your bride's flight, monseigneur. Do you blame her for it?"
"Under such circumstances, I honor her for it. She nearly broke her own heart and mine; but, as a pure woman, believing as she was forced to believe, she could do no less. Now, madam, I have answered all your questions. Now relieve my anxiety--tell me where she is."
"First tell me where you have been seeking her?" inquired the abbess, with a singular smile.
"In Italy, of course! Her letter was post-marked Rome, though without any other address," said the duke, lightly lifting his eyebrows.
"That letter was written in this house, and sent to Rome to be mailed thence, in order to put you off the true track of the duchess, monseigneur," said the abbess, with a smile.
"What do you tell me, madam!" exclaimed the duke, in surprise.
"Madame la Duchesse is under this roof, to which she fled for refuge direct from London!"
"Can this be possible, madam?"
"It is true! To whom, indeed, could the child come, in her extremity, but to me, the mother of her motherless youth?"
"Oh, madam, you fill my heart with joy and gratitude! My wife under this roof?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"And safe and well?"
"Safe and well."
"Thank Heaven! Can I see her at once? Does she know I am here? Does she know--" "She knows everything, monseigneur, that you would have her know, although she has not heard the confession of John Scott, which has just been made to you. She knows everything by means of the agencies I set to work to investigate the truth. And she knows that you will forgive her, through the intuitions of her own spirit."
"When can I see her, madam? Oh, when?" exclaimed the young duke, rising impatiently.
"This moment, if you please. She is expecting you. Follow me, monseigneur," said the abbess, rising and leading the way through the broad hall that stretched between the wicket room and the lady-superior's parlor.
When they reached the place, the abbess said: "Enter, monseigneur. You will find the duchess alone, within."
And she opened the door and admitted him, then closed it behind him, and paced slowly away from the spot.
As the duke advanced into the room, so silently that his footsteps were unheard, he saw his wife sitting within the recess of the solitary window. She wore a simple dress of black serge, with a white collar and white cuffs, such as she had worn ever since her entrance into the convent. Her head was turned toward the window and bowed upon her hand in an attitude of meditation. She neither saw nor heard the soft approach of the duke. He stood gazing on her with infinite pity, for a moment, and then laying his hand gently on her shoulder, whispered: "Salome!"
She started up with a wild cry of joy! She would have sank down at his feet, but he caught her to his bosom, held her there, stroking her hair, kissing her face, murmuring in her ear: "Salome, Salome, my sweet wife, Salome! Oh, how thankful! Oh, how glad I am to meet you!"
She could not answer him. She could not speak. She was overwhelmed by his goodness. She could only burst into tears and weep like a storm upon his bosom.
He sat down on the sofa, and drew her to his side, keeping his arm around her and resting her head upon his bosom, while still he smoothed her hair with his hands, and kissed her from time to time, until she ceased to weep.
"I can never forgive myself," she murmured at length--"never forgive myself for the deep wrong I have done your noble nature; nor do I ask you to forgive me; because--because your every tone and look and gesture expresses the full forgiveness, you are too delicate and generous to speak!"
"No, sweet wife, do not ask me to forgive you; for you have done no willful wrong that needs forgiveness. And I have no forgiveness for you, sweet, but only love! infinite, eternal love! Our past is dead and buried. Let it be forgotten. You will leave this house with me this evening, love. And as soon as our duties will release us from this neighborhood we will return to England, where a host of friends will welcome us home. And here is something that will surprise and please you, love. Your flight is not known to the world. We are believed to be living in Italy together, where I have been traveling alone in secret search for you these many months. We shall return to society as from a lengthened wedding tour. Come, love, will you go away with me this very evening?"
"I will go anywhere, do anything you wish--for, under God, henceforth I have no will but yours, oh, my lord and love!" murmured the young wife, sweetly, and solemnly, as she turned her face to his, and he sealed her promise with an earnest kiss.
The same evening the Duke of Hereward took his recovered bride to the pretty, rustic inn at L'Ange, and installed her in a pleasant suite of apartments. They remained at L'Ange until after the funeral of poor John Scott, whose body was interred in the little cemetery by St. Marie L'Ange.
The young Duke of Hereward defrayed all the expenses of the burial, and settled upon the widow an income sufficient to enable her to live in comfort and respectability. With the full consent of the unloving mother, who was but too willing to be relieved of her incumbrance, the young Duchess of Hereward adopted little Marie Perdue; "perdue" no longer, but the cherished pet of a fond foster-mother.
Before leaving France, the Duke and Duchess of Hereward richly endowed the charities of the Convent of St. Rosalie, which had been so long the refuge of the lost bride. The duchess took an affectionate leave of the gentle abbess and her simple nuns, who had for so many months been her only companions. She promised to make them an annual visit.
The young duke took his recovered bride over to England, then on to Scotland, and finally to their beautiful home, Lone Castle, where the young couple were received by their tenantry with great rejoicings.
THE END.
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{
"id": "16039"
}
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1
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None
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The sun has "dropped down," and the "day is dead." The silence and calm of coming night are over everything. The shadowy twilight lies softly on sleeping flowers and swaying boughs, on quiet fountains--the marble basins of which gleam snow-white in the uncertain light--on the glimpse of the distant ocean seen through the giant elms. A floating mist hangs in the still warm air, making heaven and earth mingle in one sweet confusion.
The ivy creeping up the ancient walls of the castle is rustling and whispering as the evening breeze sweeps over it. High up the tendrils climb, past mullioned windows and quaint devices, until they reach even to the old tower, and twine lovingly round it, and push through the long apertures in the masonry of the walls of the haunted chamber.
It is here that the shadows cast their heaviest gloom. All this corner of the old tower is wrapped in darkness, as though to obscure the scene of terrible crimes of past centuries.
Ghosts of dead-and-gone lords and ladies seem to peer out mysteriously from the openings in this quaint chamber, wherein no servant, male or female, of the castle has ever yet been known to set foot. It is full of dire horrors to them, and replete with legends of by-gone days and grewsome sights ghastly enough to make the stoutest heart quail.
In the days of the Stuarts an old earl had hanged himself in that room, rather than face the world with dishonor attached to his name; and earlier still a beauteous dame, fair but frail, had been incarcerated there, and slowly starved to death by her relentless lord. There was even in the last century a baronet--the earldom had been lost to the Dynecourts during the Commonwealth--who, having quarreled with his friend over a reigning belle, had smitten him across the cheek with his glove, and then challenged him to mortal combat. The duel had been fought in the luckless chamber, and had only ended with the death of both combatants; the blood stains upon the flooring were large and deep, and to this day the boards bear silent witness to the sanguinary character of that secret fight.
Just now, standing outside the castle in the warmth and softness of the dying daylight, one can hardly think of by-gone horrors, or aught that is sad and sinful.
There is an air of bustle and expectancy within-doors that betokens coming guests; the servants are moving to and fro noiselessly but busily, and now and then the stately housekeeper passes from room to room uttering commands and injunctions to the maids as she goes. No less occupied and anxious is the butler, as he surveys the work of the footmen. It is so long since the old place has had a resident master, and so much longer still since guests have been invited to it, that the household are more than ordinarily excited at the change now about to take place.
Sir Adrian Dynecourt, after a prolonged tour on the Continent and lingering visits to the East, has at last come home with the avowed intention of becoming a staid country gentleman, and of settling down to the cultivation of turnips, the breeding of prize oxen, and the determination to be the M.F.H. when old Lord Dartree shall have fulfilled his declared intention of retiring in his favor. He is a tall young man, lithe and active. His skin, though naturally fair, is bronzed by foreign travel. His hair is a light brown, cut very close to his head. His eyes are large, clear, and honest, and of a peculiarly dark violet; they are beautiful eyes, winning and sweet, and steady in their glance. His mouth, shaded by a drooping fair mustache, is large and firm, yet very prone to laughter.
It is quite the end of the London season, and Sir Adrian has hurried down from town to give directions for the reception of some people whom he has invited to stay with him during the slaughter of the partridges.
Now all is complete, and the last train from London being due half an hour ago Sir Adrian is standing on the steps of his hall-door anxiously awaiting some of his guests.
There is even a touch of genuine impatience in his manner, which could hardly be attributed to the ordinary longing of a young man to see a few of his friends. Sir Adrian's anxiety is open and undisguised, and there is a little frown upon his brow. Presently his face brightens as be hears the roll of carriage-wheels. When the carriage turns the corner of the drive, and the horses are pulled up at the hall door, Sir Adrian sees a fair face at the window that puts to flight all the fears he has been harboring for the last half hour.
"You have come?" he says delightedly, running down the steps and opening the carriage door himself. "I am so glad! I began to think the train had run away with you, or that the horses had bolted."
"Such a journey as it has been!" exclaims a voice not belonging to the face that had looked from the carriage at Sir Adrian. "It has been tiresome to the last degree. I really don't know when I felt so fatigued!"
A little woman, small and fair, steps languidly to the ground as she says this, and glances pathetically at her host. She is beautifully "got up," both in dress and complexion, and at a first glance appears almost girlish. Laying her hand in Sir Adrian's, she lets it rest there, as though glad to be at her journey's end, conveying at the same time by a gentle pressure of her taper fingers the fact that she is even more glad that the end of her journey has brought her to him. She looks up at him with her red lips drooping as if tired, and with a bewildered expression in her pretty blue eyes that adds to the charm of her face.
"It's an awful distance from town!" says Sir Adrian, as if apologizing for the spot on which his grand old castle has been built. "And it was more than good of you to come to me. I can only try to make up to you for the discomfort you have experienced to-day by throwing all possible chances of amusement in your way whilst you stay here."
By this time she has withdrawn her hand, and so he is free to go up to his other guest and bid her welcome. He says nothing to her, strange to say, but it is his hand that seeks to retain hers this time, and it is his eyes that look longingly into the face before him.
"You are tired, too?" he says at length. "Come into the house and rest awhile before dinner. You will like to go to your rooms at once, perhaps?" he adds, turning to his two visitors.
"Thank you--yes. If you will have our tea sent upstairs," replies Mrs. Talbot plaintively, "it will be such a comfort!" she always speaks in a somewhat pouting tone, and with heavy emphasis.
"Tea--nonsense!" responds Sir Adrian. "There's nothing like champagne as a pick-me-up. I'll send you tea also; but, take my advice, and try the champagne."
"Oh, thank you, I shall so much prefer my tea!" Mrs. Talbot declares, with a graceful little shrug of her shoulders, at which her friend Miss Delmaine laughs aloud.
"I accept your advice, Sir Adrian," she says, casting a mischievous glance at him from under her long lashes. "And--yes, Dora will take champagne too--when it comes."
"Naughty girl!" exclaims Mrs. Talbot, with a little flickering smile. Dora Talbot seldom smiles, having learned by experience that her delicate face looks prettier in repose. "Come, then, Sir Adrian," she adds, "let us enter your enchanted castle."
The servants by this time have taken in all their luggage--that is, as much as they have been able to bring in the carriage; and now the two ladies walk up the steps and enter the hall, their host beside them.
Mrs. Talbot, who has recovered her spirits a little, is chattering gayly, and monopolizing Sir Adrian to the best of her ability, whilst Miss Delmaine is strangely silent, and seems lost in a kind of pleased wonder as she gazes upon all her charming surroundings.
The last rays of light are streaming in through the stained-glass windows, rendering the old hall full of mysterious beauty. The grim warriors in their coats of mail seem, to the entranced gaze of Florence Delmaine, to be making ready to spring from the niches which hold them.
Waking from her dream as she reaches the foot of the stone staircase, she says abruptly, but with a lovely smile playing round her mouth-- "Surely, Sir Adrian, you have a ghost in this beautiful old place, or a secret staircase, or at least a bogy of some sort? Do not spoil the romantic look of it by telling me you have no tale of terror to impart, no history of a ghostly visitant who walks these halls at the dead of night."
"We have no ghost here, I am sorry to say," answers Sir Adrian, laughing. "For the first time I feel distressed and ashamed that it should be so. We can only boast a haunted chamber; but there are certain legends about it, I am proud to say, the bare narration of which would make even the stoutest quail."
"Good gracious--how distinctly unpleasant!" exclaims Mrs. Talbot, with a nervous and very effective shudder.
"How distinctly delicious, you mean!" puts in Miss Delmaine. "Sir Adrian, is this chamber anywhere near where I shall sleep?"
"Oh, no; you need not be afraid of that!" answers Dynecourt hastily.
"I am not afraid," declares the girl saucily. "I have all my life been seeking an adventure of some sort. I am tired of my prosaic existence. I want to know what dwellers in the shadowy realms of ghost-land are like."
"Dear Sir Adrian, do urge her not to talk like that; it is positively wicked," pleads Dora Talbot, glancing at him beseechingly.
"Miss Delmaine, you will drive Mrs. Talbot from my house if you persist in your evil courses," says Sir Adrian, laughing again. "Desist, I pray you!"
"Are you afraid, Dora?" asks Florence merrily. "Then keep close to me. I can defy all evil spirits, I have spells and charms."
"You have indeed!" puts in Sir Adrian, in a tone so low that only she can hear it. "And, knowing this, you should be merciful."
Though she can not hear what he says, yet Mrs. Talbot can see he is addressing Florence, and marks with some uneasiness the glance that passes from his eyes to hers. Breaking quickly into the conversation, she says timidly, laying her hand on her host's arm-- "This shocking room you speak of will not be near mine?"
"In another wing altogether," Sir Adrian replies reassuringly. "Indeed it is so far from this part of the castle that one might be safely incarcerated there and slowly starved to death without any one of the household being a bit the wiser. It is in the north wing in the old tower, a portion of the building that has not been in use for over fifty years."
"I breathe again," says Dora Talbot affectedly.
"I shall traverse every inch of that old tower--haunted room and all--before I am a week older," declares Florence defiantly. After which she smiles at Adrian again, and follows the maid up the broad staircase to her room.
By the end of the week many other visitors have been made welcome at the castle; but none perhaps give so much pleasure to the young baronet as Mrs. Talbot and her cousin.
Miss Delmaine, the only daughter and heiress of an Indian nabob, had taken London by storm this past season; and not only the modern Babylon, but the heart of Adrian Dynecourt as well. She had come home to England on the death of her father about two years ago; and, having no nearer relatives alive, had been kindly received by her cousin, the Hon. Mrs. Talbot, who was then living with her husband in a pretty house in Mayfair.
Six months after Florence Delmaine's arrival, George Talbot had succumbed to a virulent fever; and his widow, upon whom a handsome jointure had been settled, when the funeral and the necessary law worries had come to an end, had intimated to her young cousin that she intended to travel for a year upon the Continent, and that she would be glad, that is--with an elaborate sigh--she would be a degree less miserable, if she, Florence, would accompany her. This delighted Florence. She was wearied with attendance on the sick, having done most of the nursing of the Hon. George, while his wife lamented and slept; and, besides, she was still sore at heart for the loss of her father. The year abroad had passed swiftly; the end of it brought them to Paris once more, where, feeling that her time of mourning might be decently terminated, Mrs. Talbot had discarded her somber robes, and had put herself into the hands of the most fashionable dress-maker she could find.
Florence too discarded mourning for the first time, although her father had been almost two years in his quiet grave amongst the Hills; and, with her cousin, who was now indeed her only friend, if slightly uncongenial, decided to return to London forthwith.
It was early in May, and, with a sensation of extreme and most natural pleasure, the girl looked forward to a few months passed amongst the best of those whom she had learned under her cousin's auspices to regard as "society."
Dora Talbot herself was not by any means dead to the thought that it would be to her advantage to introduce into society a girl, well-born and possessed of an almost fabulous fortune. Stray crumbs must surely fall to her share in a connection of this kind, and such crumbs she was prepared to gather with a thankful heart.
But unhappily she set her affection upon Sir Adrian Dynecourt, with his grand old castle and his princely rent-roll--a "crumb" the magnitude and worth of which she was not slow to appreciate. At first she had not deemed it possible that Florence would seriously regard a mere baronet as a suitor, when her unbounded wealth would almost entitle her to a duke. But "love," as she discovered later, to her discomfiture, will always "find the way." And one day, quite unexpectedly, it dawned upon her that there might--if circumstances favored them--grow up a feeling between Florence and Sir Adrian that might lead to mutual devotion.
Yet, strong in the belief of her own charms, Mrs. Talbot accepted the invitation given by Sir Adrian, and at the close of the season she and Florence Delmaine find themselves the first of a batch of guests come to spend a month or two at the old castle at Dynecourt.
Mrs. Talbot is still young, and, in her style, very pretty; her eyes are languishing and blue as gentian, her hair a soft nut-brown; her lips perhaps are not altogether faultless, being too fine and too closely drawn, but then her mouth is small. She looks considerably younger than she really is, and does not forget to make the most of this comfortable fact. Indeed, to a casual observer, her cousin looks scarcely her junior.
Miss Delmaine is tall, slender, _posée_ more or less, while Mrs. Talbot is prettily rounded, _petite_ in every point, and nervously ambitious of winning the regard of the male sex.
During the past week private theatricals have been suggested. Every one is tired of dancing and music. The season has given them more than a surfeit of both, and so they have fallen back upon theatricals.
The play on which they have decided is Goldsmith's famous production, "She Stoops to Conquer."
Miss Villiers, a pretty girl with yellow hair and charming eyes, is to be Constantia Neville; Miss Delmaine, Kate Hardcastle; Lady Gertrude Vining, though rather young for the part, has consented to play Mrs. Hardcastle, under the impression that she looks well in a cap and powdered hair. An impossible Tony Lumpkin has been discovered in a nervous young man with a hesitation in his speech and a difficulty about the letter "S"--a young man who wofully misunderstands Tony, and brings him out in a hitherto unknown character; a suitable Hastings has been found in the person of Captain Ringwood, a gallant young officer, and one of the "curled darlings" of society.
But who is to play Marlow? Who is to be the happy man, so blessed--even though in these fictitious circumstances--as to be allowed to make love to the reigning beauty of the past season? Nearly every man in the house has thrown out a hint as to his fitness for the part, but as yet no arrangement has been arrived at.
Sir Adrian of course is the one toward whom all eyes--and some very jealous ones--are directed. But his duties as host compel him, sorely against his will, to draw back a little from the proffered honor, and to consult the wishes of his guests rather than his own. Miss Delmaine herself has laughingly declined to make any choice of a stage lover, so that, up to the present moment, matters are still in such a state of confusion and uncertainty that they have been unable to name any date for the production of their play.
It is four o'clock, and they are all standing or sitting in the library, intent as usual in discussing the difficulty. They are all talking together, and, in the excitement that prevails, no one hears the door open, or the footman's calm, introduction of a gentleman, who now comes leisurely up to where Sir Adrian is standing, leaning over Florence Delmaine's chair.
He is a tall man of about thirty-five, with a dark face and dark eyes, and, withal, a slight resemblance to Sir Adrian.
"Ah, Arthur, is it you!" says Sir Adrian, in a surprised tone that has certainly no cordiality in it, but, just as certainly, the tone is not repellent.
"Yes," replies the stranger, with a languid smile, and without confusion. "Yesterday I suddenly recollected the general invitation you gave me a month ago to come to you at any time that suited me best. This time suits me, and so I have come."
He still smiles as he says this, and looks expectantly at Sir Adrian, who, as in duty bound, instantly tells him he is very glad to see him, and that he is a good fellow to have come without waiting for a more formal repetition of his invitation. Then he takes him over to old Lady FitzAlmont, the mother of Lady Gertrude Vining, and introduces him to her as "my cousin Mr. Dynecourt."
The same ceremony is gone through with some of the others, but, when he brings him to Mrs. Talbot, that pretty widow interrupts his mode of introduction.
"Mr. Dynecourt and I are old friends," she says, giving her hand to the new-comer. Then, turning to her cousin, she adds, "Florence, is it not a fatality our meeting him so often?"
"Have we met so often?" asks Florence quietly, but with a touch of _hauteur_ and dislike in her tone. Then she too gives a cold little hand to Mr. Dynecourt, who lingers over it until she disdainfully draws it away, after which he turns from her abruptly and devotes himself to Dora Talbot.
The widow is glad of his attentions. He is handsome and well-bred, and for the last half hour she has been feeling slightly bored; so eager has been the discussion about the Marlow matter, that she has been little sought after by the opposite sex. And now, once again, the subject is being examined in all its bearings, and the discussion waxes fast and furious.
"What is it all about?" asks Arthur Dynecourt presently, glancing at the animated group in the middle of the room. And Sir Adrian, hearing his question, explains it to him.
"Ah, indeed!" he says. And then, after a scarcely perceptible pause--"Who is to be Kate Hardcastle?"
"Miss Delmaine," answers Sir Adrian, who is still leaning over that young lady's chair.
"In what does the difficulty consist?" inquires Arthur Dynecourt, with apparent indifference.
"Well," replies Sir Adrian, laughing; "I believe mere fear holds us back. Miss Delmaine, as we all know, is a finished actress, and we dread spoiling her performance by faults on our side. None of us have attempted the character before; this is why we hesitate."
"A very sensible hesitation, I think," says his cousin coolly. "You should thank me then for coming to your relief this afternoon; I have played the part several times, and shall be delighted to undertake it again, and help you out of your difficulty."
At this Miss Delmaine flushes angrily, and opens her lips as if she would say something, but, after a second's reflection, restrains herself. She sinks back into her chair with a proud languor, and closes her mouth resolutely.
Sir Adrian is confounded. All along he had secretly hoped that, in the end, this part would fall to his lot; but now--what is to be done? How can he refuse to let his cousin take his place, especially as he has declared himself familiar with the part.
Arthur, observing his cousin's hesitation, laughs aloud. His is not a pleasant laugh, but has rather a sneering ring in it, and at the present moment it jars upon the ears of the listeners.
"If I have been indiscreet," he says, with a slight glance at Florence's proud face, "pray pardon me. I only meant to render you a little assistance. I thought I understood from you that you were rather in a dilemma. Do not dwell upon my offer another moment. I am afraid I have made myself somewhat officious--unintentionally, believe me."
"My dear fellow, not at all," declares Sir Adrian hastily, shocked at his own apparent want of courtesy. "I assure you, you mistake. It is all so much to the contrary, that I gratefully accept your offer, and beg you will be Marlow."
"But really--" begins Arthur Dynecourt.
"Not a word!" interrupts Sir Adrian; and indeed by this time Arthur Dynecourt has brought his cousin to believe he is about to confer upon him a great favor. "Look here, you fellows," Sir Adrian goes on, walking toward the other men, who are still arguing and disputing over the vexed question, "I've settled it all for you. Here is my cousin; he will take the difficulty off your hands, and be a first-class Marlow at the same time."
A suppressed consternation follows this announcement. Many and dark are the glances cast upon the new-comer, who receives them all with his usual imperturbable smile. Rising, Arthur approaches one of the astonished group who is known to him, and says something upon the subject with a slight shrug of his shoulders. As he is Sir Adrian's cousin, every one feels that it will be impossible to offer any objection to his taking the much-coveted part.
"Well, I have sacrificed myself for you; I have renounced a very dear desire all to please you," says Sir Adrian softly, bending down to Florence. "Have I succeeded?"
"You have succeeded in displeasing me more than I can say," she returns coldly. Then, seeing his amazed expression, she goes on hastily, "Forgive me, but I had hoped for another Marlow."
She blushes prettily as she says this, and an expression arises in her dark eyes that moves him deeply. Stooping over her hand, he imprints a kiss upon it. Dora Talbot, whose head is turned aside, sees nothing of this, but Arthur Dynecourt has observed the silent caress, and a dark frown gathers on his brow.
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Every day and all day long there is nothing but rehearsing. In every corner two or more may be seen studying together the parts they have to play. Florence Delmaine alone refuses to rehearse her part except in full company, though Mr. Dynecourt has made many attempts to induce her to favor him with a private reading of those scenes in which he and she must act together. He has even appealed to Dora Talbot to help him in this matter, which she is only too willing to do, as she is secretly desirous of flinging the girl as much in his way as possible. Indeed anything that would keep Florence out of Sir Adrian's sight would be welcome to her; so that she listens kindly to Arthur Dynecourt when he solicits her assistance.
"She evidently shuns me," he says in an aggrieved tone to her one evening, sinking into the seat beside hers. "Except a devotion to her that is singularly sincere, I know of nothing about me that can be regarded by her as an offense. Yet it appears to me that she dislikes me."
"There I am sure you are wrong," declares the widow, tapping his arm lightly with her fan. "She is but a girl--she hardly knows her own mind."
"She seems to know it pretty well when Adrian addresses her," he says, with a sullen glance.
At this Mrs. Talbot can not repress a start; she grows a little pale, and then tries to hide her confusion by a smile. But the smile is forced, and Arthur Dynecourt, watching her, reads her heart as easily as if it were an open book.
"I don't suppose Adrian cares for her," he goes on quietly. "At least"--here he drops his eyes--"I believe, with a little judicious management, his thoughts might be easily diverted into another channel."
"You think so?" asks Mrs. Talbot faintly, trifling with her fan. "I can not say I have noticed that his attentions to her have been in any way particular."
"Not as yet," agrees Dynecourt, studying her attentively; "and if I might be open with you," he adds, breaking off abruptly and assuming an air of anxiety--"we might perhaps mutually help each other."
"Help each other?"
"Dear Mrs. Talbot," says Dynecourt softly, "has it never occurred to you how safe a thing it would be for my cousin Sir Adrian to marry a sensible woman--a woman who understands the world and its ways--a woman young and beautiful certainly, but yet conversant with the _convénances_ of society? Such a woman would rescue Adrian from the shoals and quicksands that surround him in the form of mercenary friends and scheming mothers. Such a woman might surely be found. Nay, I think I myself could put my hand upon her, if I dared, at this moment."
Mrs. Talbot trembles slightly, and blushes a good deal, but says nothing.
"He is my nearest of kin," goes on Dynecourt, in the same low impassive voice. "Naturally I am interested in him, and my interest on this point is surely without motive; as, were he never to marry, were he to leave no heir, were he to die some sudden death"--here a remarkable change overspreads his features--"I should inherit all the land you see around you, and the title besides."
Mrs. Talbot is still silent. She merely bows her head in assent.
"Then, you see, I mean kindly toward him when I suggest that he should marry some one calculated to sustain his rank in the world," continues Dynecourt. "As I have said before, I know one who would fill the position charmingly, if she would deign to do so."
"And who?" falters Dora Talbot nervously.
"May I say to whom I allude?" he murmurs. "Mrs. Talbot, pardon me if I have been impertinent in thinking of you as that woman."
A little flickering smile adorns Dora's lips for a moment, then, suddenly remembering that smiles do not become her, she relapses into her former calm.
"You flatter me," she says sweetly.
"I never flatter," he responds, with telling emphasis. "But, I can see you are not angry, and so I am emboldened to say plainly, I would gladly see you my cousin's wife. Is the idea not altogether abhorrent to you?"
"No. Oh, no!"
"It is perhaps--pardon me if I go too far--even agreeable to you?"
"Mr. Dynecourt," says Mrs. Talbot, suddenly glancing at him and laying her jeweled fingers lightly on his arm, "I will confess to you that I am tired of being alone--dependent on myself, as it were--thrown on my own judgment for the answering of every question that arises. I would gladly acknowledge a superior head. I would have some one to help me now and then with a word of advice; in short, I would have a husband. And,"--here she lays her fan against her lips and glances archly at him--"I confess too that I like Sir Adrian as--well--as well as any man I know."
"He is a very fortunate man"--gravely. "I would he knew his happiness."
"Not for worlds," says Mrs. Talbot, with well-feigned alarm. "You would not even hint to him such a thing as--as--" She stops, confused.
"I shall hint nothing--do nothing, except what you wish. Ah, Mrs. Talbot"--with a heavy sigh--"you are supremely happy! I envy you! With your fascinations and"--insinuatingly--"a word in season from me, I see no reason why you should not claim as your own the man whom you--well, let us say, like; while I--" "If I can befriend you in any way," interrupts Dora quickly, "command me."
She is indeed quite dazzled by the picture he has painted before her eyes. Can it be--is it--possible, that Sir Adrian may some day be hers? Apart from his wealth, she regards him with very tender feelings, and of late she has been rendered at times absolutely miserable by the thought that he has fallen a victim to the charms of Florence.
Now if, by means of this man, her rival can be kept out of Adrian's way, all may yet be well, and her host may be brought to her feet before her visit comes to an end.
Of Arthur Dynecourt's infatuation for Florence she is fully aware, and is right in deeming that part of his admiration for the beautiful girl has grown out of his knowledge of her money-bags. Still, she argues to herself, his love is true and faithful, despite his knowledge of her _dot_, and he will in all probability make her as good a husband as she is likely to find.
"May I command you?" asks Arthur, in his softest tones. "You know my secret, I believe. Ever since that last meeting at Brighton, when my heart overcame me and made me show my sentiments openly and in your presence, you have been aware of the hopeless passion that is consuming me. I may be mad, but I still think that, with opportunities and time, I might make myself at least tolerated by Miss Delmaine. Will you help me in this matter? Will you give me the chance of pleading my cause with her alone? By so doing"--with a meaning smile--"you will also give my cousin the happy chance of seeing you alone."
Dora only too well understands his insinuation. Latterly Sir Adrian and Florence have been almost inseparable. To now meet with one whose interest it is to keep them asunder is very pleasant to her.
"I will help you," she says in a low tone.
"Then try to induce Miss Delmaine to give me a private rehearsal to-morrow in the north gallery," he whispers hurriedly, seeing Captain Ringwood and Miss Villiers approaching. "Hush! Not another word! I rely upon you. Above all things, remember that what has occurred is only between you and me. It is our little plot," he says, with a curious smile that somehow strikes a chill to Mrs. Talbot's heart.
She is faithful to her word nevertheless, and late that night, when all have gone to their rooms, she puts on her dressing-gown, dismisses her maid, and crossing the corridor, taps lightly at the door of Florence's apartment.
Hearing some one cry "Come in," she opens the door, and, having fastened it again, goes over to where Florence is sitting while her maid is brushing her long soft hair that reaches almost to the ground as she sits.
"Let me brush your hair to-night, Flo," she says gayly. "Let me be your maid for once. Remember how I used to do it for you sometimes when we were in Switzerland last year."
"Very well--you may," acquiesces Florence, laughing. "Good-night, Parkins. Mrs. Talbot has won you your release."
Parkins having gladly withdrawn, Dora takes up the ivory-handled brush and gently begins to brush her cousin's hair.
After some preliminary conversation leading up to the subject she has in hand, she says carelessly-- "By the bye, Flo, you are rather uncivil to Arthur Dynecourt, don't you think?"
"Uncivil?"
"Well--yes. That is the word for your behavior toward him, I think. Do you know, I am afraid Sir Adrian has noticed it, and aren't you afraid he will think it rather odd of you--rude, I mean--considering he is his cousin?"
"Not a very favorite cousin, I fancy."
"For all that, people don't like seeing their relations slighted. I once knew a man who used to abuse his brother all day long, but, if any one else happened to say one disparaging word of him in his presence, it put him in a pretty rage. And, after all, poor Arthur has done nothing to deserve actual ill-treatment at your hands."
"I detest him. And, besides, it is a distinct impertinence to follow any one about from place to place as he has followed me. I will not submit to it calmly. It is a positive persecution."
"My dear, you must not blame him if he has lost his head about you. That is rather a compliment, if anything."
"I shall always resent such compliments."
"He is certainly very gentlemanly in all other ways, and I must say devoted to you. He is handsome too, is he not; and has quite the air of one accustomed to command in society?"
"Has he paid you to sing his praises?" asks Florence, with a little laugh; but her words so nearly hit the mark that Dora blushes painfully.
"I mean," she explains at last, in a rather hurried way, "that I do not think it is good form to single out any one in a household where one is a guest to show him pointed rudeness. You give all the others acting in this play ample opportunities of rehearsing alone with you. It has been remarked to me by two or three that you purposely slight and avoid Mr. Dynecourt."
"So I do," Florence admits calmly; adding, "Your two or three have great perspicacity."
"They even hinted to me," Dora goes on deliberately, "that your dislike to him arose from the fact that you were piqued at his being your stage lover, instead of--Sir Adrian!"
It costs her an effort to utter these words, but the effect produced by them is worth the effort.
Florence, growing deadly pale, releases her hair from her cousin's grasp, and rises quickly to her feet.
"I don't know who your gossips may be," she says slowly; "but they are wrong--quite wrong--do you hear? My dislike to Mr. Dynecourt arises from very different feelings. He is distasteful to me in many ways; but, as I am undesirous that my manner should give occasion for surmises such as you have just mentioned to me, I will give him an opportunity of reciting his part to me, alone, as soon as ever he wishes."
"I think you are right, dearest," responds Mrs. Talbot sweetly. She is a little afraid of her cousin, but still maintains her position bravely. "It is always a mark of folly to defy public opinion. Do not wait for him to ask you again to go through your play with him alone, but tell him yourself to-morrow that you will meet him for that purpose in the north gallery some time during the day."
"Very well," says Florence; but her face still betrays dislike and disinclination to the course recommended. "And, Dora, I don't think I want my hair brushed any more, thanks; my head is aching so dreadfully."
This is a hint that she will be glad of Mrs. Talbot's speedy departure; and, that lady taking the hint, Florence is soon left to her own thoughts.
The next morning, directly after breakfast, she finds an opportunity to tell Mr. Dynecourt that she will give him half an hour in the north gallery to try over his part with her, as she considers it will be better, and more conducive to the smoothness of the piece, to learn any little mannerisms that may belong to either of them.
To this speech Dynecourt makes a suitable reply, and names a particular hour for them to meet. Miss Delmaine, having given a grave assent to this arrangement, moves away, as though glad to be rid of her companion.
A few minutes afterward Dynecourt, meeting Mrs. Talbot in the hall, gives her an expressive glance, and tells her in a low voice that he considers himself deeply in her debt.
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"You are late," says Arthur Dynecourt in a low tone. There is no anger in it; there is indeed only a desire to show how tedious have been the moments spent apart from her.
"Have you brought your book, or do you mean to go through your part without it?" Florence asks, disdaining to notice his words, or to betray interest in anything except the business that has brought them together.
"I know my part by heart," he responds, in a strange voice.
"Then begin," she commands somewhat imperiously; the very insolence of her air only gives an additional touch to her extreme beauty and fires his ardor.
"You desire me to begin?" he asks unsteadily.
"If you wish it."
"Do you wish it?"
"I desire nothing more intensely than to get this rehearsal over," she replies impatiently.
"You take no pains indeed to hide your scorn of me," says Dynecourt bitterly.
"I regret it, if I have at any time treated you with incivility," returns Florence, with averted eyes and with increasing coldness. "Yet I must always think that, for whatever has happened, you have only yourself to blame."
"Is it a crime to love you?" he demands boldly.
"Sir," she exclaims indignantly, and raising her beautiful eyes to his for a moment, "I must request you will never speak to me of love. There is neither sympathy nor common friendliness between us. You are well aware with what sentiments I regard you."
"But, why am I alone to be treated with contempt?" he asks, with sudden passion. "All other men of your acquaintance are graciously received by you, are met with smiles and kindly words. Upon me alone your eyes rest, when they deign to glance in my direction, with marked disfavor. All the world can see it. I am signaled out from the others as one to be slighted and spurned."
"Your forget yourself," says Florence contemptuously. "I have met you here to-day to rehearse our parts for next Tuesday evening, not to listen to any insolent words you may wish to address to me. Let us begin"--opening her book. "If you know your part, go on."
"I know my part only too well; it is to worship you madly, hopelessly. Your very cruelty only serves to heighten my passion. Florence, hear me!"
"I will not," she says, her eyes flashing. She waves him back from her as he endeavors to take her hand. "Is it not enough that I have been persecuted by your attentions--attentions most hateful to me--for the past year, but you must now obtrude them upon me here? You compel me to tell you in plain words what my manner must have shown you only too clearly--that you are distasteful to me in every way, that your very presence troubles me, that your touch is abhorrent to me!"
"Ah," he says, stepping back as she hurls these words at him, and regarding her with a face distorted by passion, "if I were the master here, instead of the poor cousin--if I were Sir Adrian--your treatment of me would be very different!"
At the mention of Sir Adrian's name the color dies out of her face and she grows deadly pale. Her lips quiver, but her eyes do not droop.
"I do not understand you," she says proudly.
"Then you shall," responds Dynecourt. "Do you think I am blind, that I can not see how you have given your proud heart to my cousin, that he has conquered where other men have failed; that, even before he has declared any love for you, you have, in spite of your pride, given all your affection to him?"
"You insult me," cries Florence, with quivering lips. She looks faint, and is trembling visibly. If this man has read her heart aright, may not all the guests have read it too? May not even Adrian himself have discovered her secret passion, and perhaps despised her for it, as being unwomanly?
"And more," goes on Dynecourt, exulting in the torture he can see he is inflicting; "though you thrust from you an honorable love for one that lives only in your imagination, I will tell you that Sir Adrian has other views, other intentions. I have reason to know that, when he marries, the name of his bride will not be Florence Delmaine."
"Leave me, sir," cries Florence, rousing herself from her momentary weakness, and speaking with all her old fire, "and never presume to address me again. Go!"
She points with extended hand to the door at the lower end of the gallery. So standing, with her eyes strangely bright, and her perfect figure drawn up to its fullest height, she looks superb in her disdainful beauty.
Dynecourt, losing his self-possession as he gazes upon her, suddenly flings himself at her feet and catches her dress in his hands to detain her.
"Have pity on me," he cries imploringly; "it is my unhappy love for you that has driven me to speak thus! Why is Adrian to have all, and I nothing? He has title, lands, position--above and beyond everything, the priceless treasure of your love, whilst I am bankrupt in all. Show me some mercy--some kindness!"
They are both so agitated that they fail to hear the sound of approaching footsteps.
"Release me, sir," cries Florence imperiously.
"Nay; first answer me one question," entreats Dynecourt. "Do you love my cousin?"
"I care nothing for Sir Adrian!" replies Florence distinctly, and in a somewhat raised tone, her self-pride being touched to the quick.
Two figures who have entered the gallery by the second door at the upper end of it, hearing these words uttered in an emphatic tone, start and glance at the _tableau_ presented to their view lower down. They hesitate, and, even as they do so, they can see Arthur Dynecourt seize Florence Delmaine's hand, and, apparently unrebuked, kiss it passionately.
"Then I shall hope still," he says in a low but impressive voice, at which the two who have just entered turn and beat a precipitate retreat, fearing that they may be seen. One is Sir Adrian, the other Mrs. Talbot.
"Dear me," stammers Dora, in pretty confusion, "who would have thought it? I was never so amazed in my life."
Sir Adrian, who has turned very pale, and is looking greatly distressed, makes no reply. He is repeating over and over again to himself the words he has just heard, as though unable or unwilling to comprehend them. "I care nothing for Sir Adrian!" They strike like a knell upon his ears--a death-knell to all his dearest hopes. And that fellow on his knees before her, kissing her hand, and telling her he will still hope! Hope for what? Alas, he tells himself, he knows only too well--her love!
"I am so glad they have made it up," Dora goes on, looking up sympathetically at Sir Adrian.
"Made it up? I had no idea they were more than ordinary and very new acquaintances."
"It is quite a year since we first met Arthur in Switzerland," responds Dora demurely, calling Dynecourt by his Christian name, a thing she has never done before, because she knows it will give Sir Adrian the impression that they are on very intimate terms with his cousin. "He has been our shadow ever since. I wonder you did not notice his devotion in town."
"I noticed nothing," says Sir Adrian, miserably; "or, if I did, it was only to form wrong impressions. I firmly believed, seeing Miss Delmaine and Arthur together here, that she betrayed nothing but a rooted dislike to him."
"They had not been good friends of late," explains Dora hastily; "that we all could see. And Florence is very peculiar, you know; she is quite the dearest girl in the world, and I adore her; but I will confess to you"--with another upward and bewitching glance from the charming blue eyes--"that she has her little tempers. Not very naughty ones, you know"--shaking her head archly--"but just enough to make one a bit afraid of her at times; so I never ventured to ask her why she treated poor Arthur, who really is her slave, so cruelly."
"And you think now that--" Sir Adrian breaks off without finishing the sentence.
"That she has forgiven him whatever offense he committed? Yes, after what we have just seen--quite a sentimental little episode, was it not? --I can not help cherishing the hope that all is again right between them. It could not have been a very grave quarrel, as Arthur is incapable of a rudeness; but then dearest Florence is so capricious!"
"Ill-tempered and capricious!" Can the girl he loves so ardently be guilty of these faults? It seems incredible to Sir Adrian, as he remembers her sunny smile and gentle manner. But then, is it not her dearest friend who is speaking of her--tender-hearted little Dora Talbot, who seems to think well of every one, and who murmurs such pretty speeches even about Arthur, who, if the truth be told, is not exactly "dear" in the sight of Sir Adrian.
"You think there is, or was, an engagement between Arthur and Miss Delmaine?" he begins, with his eyes fixed upon the ground.
"I think nothing, you silly man," says the widow playfully, "until I am told it. But I am glad Florence is once more friendly with poor Arthur; he is positively wrapped up in her. Now, has that interesting _tableau_ we so nearly interrupted given you a distaste for all other pictures? Shall we try the smaller gallery?"
"Just as you will."
"Of course"--with a girlish laugh--"it would be imprudent to venture again into the one we have just quitted. By this time, doubtless, they are quite reconciled--and--" "Yes--yes," interrupts Sir Adrian hastily, trying in vain to blot out the picture she has raised before his eyes of Florence in her lover's arms. "What you have just told me has quite taken me by surprise," he goes on nervously. "I should never have guessed it from Miss Delmaine's manner; it quite misled me."
"Well, between you and me," says Dora, raising herself on tiptoe, as though to whisper in his ear, and so coming very close to him, "I am afraid my dearest Florence is a little sly! Yes, really; you wouldn't think it, would you? The dear girl has such a sweet ingenuous face--quite the loveliest face on earth, I think, though some pronounce it too cold. But she is very self-contained; and to-day, you see, she has given you an insight into this slight fault in her character. Now, has she not appeared to you to avoid Arthur almost pointedly?"
"She has indeed," agrees Sir Adrian, with a smothered groan.
"Well"--triumphantly--"and yet, here we find her granting him a private audience, when she believed we were all safely out of the way; and in the north gallery too, which, as a rule, is deserted."
"She didn't know we were thinking of driving to the hills," says Sir Adrian, making a feeble effort to find a flaw in his companion's statement.
"Oh, yes, she did!" declares the widow lightly. "I told her myself, about two hours ago, that I intended asking you to make a party to go there, as I dote on lovely scenery; and I dare say"--coquettishly--"she knew--I mean thought--you would not refuse so small a request of mine. But for poor Lady FitzAlmont's headache we should be there now."
"It is true," admits Sir Adrian, feeling that the last straw has descended.
"And now that I think of it," the widow goes on, even more vivaciously, "the reason she assigned for not coming with us must have been a feigned one. Ah, slyboots that she is!" laughs Mrs. Talbot merrily. "Of course, she wanted the course clear to have an explanation with Arthur. Well, after all, that was only natural. But she might have trusted me, whom she knows to be her true friend."
Ill-tempered--capricious--sly! And all these faults are attributed to Florence by "her true friend!" A quotation assigned to Marechal Villars when taking leave of Louis XIV. occurs to him--"Defend me from my friends." The words return to him persistently; but then he looks down on Dora Talbot, and stares straight into her liquid blue eyes, so apparently guileless and pure, and tells himself that he wrongs her. Yes, it is a pity Florence had not put greater faith in this kind little woman, a pity for all of them, as then many heart-breaks might have been prevented.
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{
"id": "16053"
}
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4
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None
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It is the evening of the theatricals; and in one of the larger drawing-rooms at the castle, where the stage has been erected, and also in another room behind connected with it by folding-doors, everybody of note in the county is already assembled. Fans are fluttering--so are many hearts behind the scenes--and a low buzz of conversation is being carried on among the company.
Then the curtain rises; the fans stop rustling, the conversation ceases, and all faces turn curiously to the small but perfect stage that the London workmen have erected.
Every one is very anxious to see what his or her neighbor is going to do when brought before a critical audience. Nobody, of course, hopes openly for a break-down, but secretly there are a few who would be glad to see such-and-such a one's pride lowered.
No mischance, however, occurs. The insipid Tony speaks his lines perfectly, if he fails to grasp the idea that a little acting thrown in would be an improvement; a very charming Cousin Con is made out of Miss Villiers; a rather stilted but strictly correct old lady out of Lady Gertrude Vining. But Florence Delmaine, as Kate Hardcastle, leaves nothing to be desired, and many are the complimentary speeches uttered from time to time by the audience. Arthur Dynecourt too had not overpraised his own powers. It is palpable to every one that he has often trod the boards, and the pathos he throws into his performance astonishes the audience. Is it only acting in the final scene when he makes love to Miss Hardcastle, or is there some real sentiment in it?
This question arises in many breasts. They note how his color changes as he takes her hand, how his voice trembles; they notice too how she grows cold, in spite of her desire to carry out her part to the end, as he grows warmer, and how instinctively she shrinks from his touch. Then it is all over, and the curtain falls amidst loud applause. Florence comes before the curtain in response to frequent calls, gracefully, half reluctantly, with a soft warm blush upon her cheeks and a light in her eyes that renders her remarkable loveliness only more apparent. Sir Adrian, watching her with a heart faint and cold with grief and disappointment, acknowledges sadly to himself that never has he seen her look so beautiful. She advances and bows to the audience, and only loses her self-possession a very little when a bouquet directed at her feet by an enthusiastic young man alights upon her shoulder instead.
Arthur Dynecourt, who has accompanied her to the footlights, and who joins in her triumph, picks up the bouquet and presents it to her.
As he does so the audience again become aware that she receives it from him in a spirit that suggests detestation of the one that hands it, and that her smile withers as she does so, and her great eyes lose their happy light of a moment before.
Sir Adrian sees all this too, but persuades himself that she is now acting another part--the part shown him by Mrs. Talbot. His eyes are blinded by jealousy; he can not see the purity and truth reflected in hers; he misconstrues the pained expression that of late has saddened her face.
For the last few days, ever since her momentous interview with Arthur Dynecourt in the gallery, she has been timid and reserved with Sir Adrian, and has endeavored to avoid his society. She is oppressed with the thought that he has read her secret love for him, and seeks, by an assumed coldness of demeanor and a studied avoidance of him, to induce him to believe himself mistaken.
But Sir Adrian is only rendered more miserable by this avoidance, in the thought that probably Mrs. Talbot has told Florence of his discovery of her attachment to Arthur, and that she dreads his taxing her with her duplicity, and so makes strenuous efforts to keep herself apart from him. They have already drifted so far apart that to-night, when the play has come to an end, and Florence has retired from the dressing-room, Sir Adrian does not dream of approaching her to offer the congratulations on her success that he would have showered upon her in a happier hour.
Florence, feeling lonely and depressed, having listlessly submitted to her maid's guidance and changed her stage gown for a pale blue ball-dress of satin and pearls--as dancing is to succeed the earlier amusement of the evening--goes silently down-stairs, but, instead of pursuing her way to the ball-room, where dancing has already commenced, she turns aside, and, entering a small, dimly lighted antechamber, sinks wearily upon a satin-covered lounge.
From a distance the sweet strains of a German waltz come softly to her ears. There is deep sadness and melancholy in the music that attunes itself to her own sorrowful reflections. Presently the tears steal down her cheeks. She feels lonely and neglected, and, burying her head in the cushions of the lounge, sobs aloud.
She does not hear the hasty approach of footsteps until they stop close beside her, and a voice that makes her pulses throb madly says, in deep agitation-- "Florence--Miss Delmaine--what has happened? What has occurred to distress you?"
Sir Adrian is bending over her, evidently in deep distress himself. As she starts, he places his arm round her and raises her to a sitting posture; this he does so gently that, as she remembers all she has heard, and his cousin's assurance that he has almost pledged himself to another, her tears flow afresh. By a supreme effort, however, she controls herself, and says, in a faint voice-- "I am very foolish; it was the heat, I suppose, or the nervousness of acting before so many strangers, that has upset me. It is over now. I beg you will not remember it, Sir Adrian, or speak of it to any one."
All this time she has not allowed herself to glance even in his direction, so fearful is she of further betraying the mental agony she is enduring.
"Is it likely I should speak of it!" returns Sir Adrian reproachfully. "No; anything connected with you shall be sacred to me. But--pardon me--I still think you are in grief, and, believe me, in spite of everything, I would deem it a privilege to be allowed to befriend you in any way."
"It is impossible," murmurs Florence, in a stifled tone.
"You mean you will not accept my help"--sadly. "So be it then. I have no right, I know, to establish myself as your champion. There are others, no doubt, whose happiness lies in the fact that they may render you a service when it is in their power. I do not complain, however. Nay, I would even ask you to look upon me at least as a friend."
"I shall always regard you as a friend," Florence responds in a low voice. "It would be impossible to me to look upon you in any other light."
"Thank you for that," says Adrian quickly. "Though our lives must of necessity be much apart, it will still be a comfort to me to know that at least, wherever you may be, you will think of me as a friend."
"Ah," thinks Florence, with a bitter pang, "he is now trying to let me know how absurd was my former idea that he might perhaps learn to love me!" This thought is almost insupportable. Her pride rising in arms, she subdues all remaining traces of her late emotion, and, turning suddenly, confronts him. Her face is quite colorless, but she can not altogether hide from him the sadness that still desolates her eyes.
"You are right," she agrees. "In the future our lives will indeed be far distant from each other, so far apart that the very tie of friendship will readily be forgotten by us both."
"Florence, do not say that!" he entreats, believing in his turn that she alludes to her coming marriage with his cousin. "And--and--do not be angry with me; but I would ask you to consider long and earnestly before taking the step you have in view. Remember it is a bond that once sealed can never be canceled."
"A bond! I do not follow you," exclaims Florence, bewildered.
"Ah, you will not trust me; you will not confide in me!"
"I have nothing to confide," persists Florence, still deeply puzzled.
"Well, let it rest so," returns Adrian, now greatly wounded at her determined reserve, as he deems it. He calls to mind all Mrs. Talbot had said about her slyness, and feels disheartened. At least he has not deserved distrust at her hands. "Promise me," he entreats at last, "that, if ever you are in danger, you will accept my help."
"I promise," she replies faintly. Then, trying to rally her drooping spirits, she continues, with an attempt at a smile, "Tell me that you too will accept mine should you be in any danger. Remember, the mouse once rescued the lion!" --and she smiles again, and glances at him with a touch of her old archness.
"It is a bargain. And now, will you rest here awhile until you feel quite restored to calmness?"
"But you must not remain with me," Florence urges hurriedly. "Your guests are awaiting you. Probably"--with a faint smile--"your partner for this waltz is impatiently wondering what has become of you."
"I think not," says Adrian, returning her smile. "Fortunately I have no one's name on my card for this waltz. I say fortunately, because I think"--glancing at her tenderly--"I have been able to bring back the smiles to your face sooner than would have been the case had you been left here alone to brood over your trouble, whatever it may be."
"There is no trouble," declares Florence, in a somewhat distressed fashion, turning her head restlessly to one side. "I wish you would dispossess yourself of that idea. And, do not stay here, they--every one, will accuse you of discourtesy if you absent yourself from the ball-room any longer."
"Then, come with me," says Adrian. "See, this waltz is only just beginning: give it to me."
Carried away by his manner, she lays her hand upon his arm, and goes with him to the ball-room. There he passes his arm round her waist, and presently they are lost among the throng of whirling dancers, and both give themselves up for the time being to the mere delight of knowing that they are together.
Two people, seeing them enter thus together, on apparently friendly terms, regard them with hostile glances. Dora Talbot, who is coquetting sweetly with a gaunt man of middle age, who is evidently overpowered by her attentions, letting her eyes rest upon Florence as she waltzes past her with Sir Adrian, colors warmly, and, biting her lip, forgets the honeyed speech she was about to bestow upon her companion, who is the owner of a considerable property, and lapses into silence, for which the gaunt man is devoutly grateful, as it gives him a moment in which to reflect on the safest means of getting rid of her without delay.
Dora's fair brow grows darker and darker as she watches Florence, and notes the smile that lights her beautiful face as she makes some answer to one of Sir Adrian's sallies. Where is Dynecourt, that he has not been on the spot to prevent this dance, she wonders. She grows angry, and would have stamped her little foot with impatient wrath at this moment, but for the fear of displaying her vexation.
As she is inwardly anathematizing Arthur, he emerges from the throng, and, the dance being at an end, reminds Miss Delmaine that the next is his.
Florence unwillingly removes her hand from Sir Adrian's arm, and lays it upon Arthur's. Most disdainfully she moves away with him, and suffers him to lead her to another part of the room. And when she dances with him it is with evident reluctance, as he knows by the fact that she visibly shrinks from him when he encircles her waist with his arm.
Sir Adrian, who has noticed none of these symptoms, going up to Dora, solicits her hand for this dance.
"You are not engaged, I hope?" he says anxiously. It is a kind of wretched comfort to him to be near Florence's true friend. If not the rose, she has at least some connection with it.
"I am afraid I am," Dora responds, raising her limpid eyes to his. "Naughty man, why did you not come sooner? I thought you had forgotten me altogether, and so got tired of keeping barren spots upon my card for you."
"I couldn't help it--I was engaged. A man in his own house has always a bad time of it looking after the impossible people," says Adrian evasively.
"Poor Florence! Is she so very impossible?" asks Dora, laughing, but pretending to reproach him.
"I was not speaking of Miss Delmaine," says Adrian, flushing hotly. "She is the least impossible person I ever met. It is a privilege to pass one's time with her."
"Yet it is with her you have passed the last hour that you hint has been devoted to bores," returns Dora quietly. This is a mere feeler, but she throws it out with such an air of certainty that Sir Adrian is completely deceived, and believes her acquainted with his _tête-à-tête_ with Florence in the dimly lit anteroom.
"Well," he admits, coloring again, "your cousin was rather upset by the acting, I think, and I just stayed with her until she felt equal to joining us all again."
"Ah!" exclaims Dora, who now knows all she had wanted to know.
"But you must not tell me you have no dances left for me," says Adrian gayly. "Come, let me see your card." He looks at it, and finds it indeed full. "I am an unfortunate," he adds.
"I think," says Dora, with the prettiest hesitation, "if you are sure it would not be an unkind thing to do, I could scratch out this name"--pointing to her partner's for the coming dance.
"I am not sure at all," responds Sir Adrian, laughing. "I am positive it will be awfully unkind of you to deprive any fellow of your society; but be unkind, and scratch him out for my sake."
He speaks lightly, but her heart beats high with hope.
"For your sake," she repeats softly drawing her pencil across the name written on her programme and substituting his.
"But you will give me more than this one dance?" queries Adrian. "Is there nobody else you can condemn to misery out of all that list?"
"You are insatiable," she returns, blushing, and growing confused. "But you shall have it all your own way. Here"--giving him her card--"take what waltzes you will." She waltzes to perfection, and she knows it.
"Then this, and this, and this," says Adrian, striking out three names on her card, after which they move away together and mingle with the other dancers.
In the meantime, Florence growing fatigued, or disinclined to dance longer with Dynecourt, stops abruptly near the door of a conservatory, and, leaning against the framework, gazes with listless interest at the busy scene around.
"You are tired. Will you rest for awhile?" asks Arthur politely; and, as she bends her head in cold consent, he leads her to a cushioned seat that is placed almost opposite to the door-way, and from which the ball-room and what is passing within it are distinctly visible.
Sinking down amongst the blue-satin cushions of the seat he has pointed out to her, Florence sighs softly, and lets her thoughts run, half sadly, half gladly, upon her late interview with Sir Adrian. At least, if he has guessed her secret, she knows now that he does not despise her. There was no trace of contempt in the gentleness, the tenderness of his manner. And how kindly he had told her of the intended change in his life! "Their paths would lie far asunder for the future," he had said, or something tantamount to that. He spoke no doubt of his coming marriage.
Then she begins to speculate dreamily upon the sort of woman who would be happy enough to be his wife. She is still idly ruminating on this point when her companion's voice brings her back to the present. She had so far forgotten his existence in her day-dreaming that his words come to her like a whisper from some other world, and occasion her an actual shock.
"Your thoughtfulness renders me sad," he is saying impressively. "It carries you to regions where I can not follow you."
To this she makes no reply, regarding him only with a calm questioning glance that might well have daunted a better man. It only nerves him however to even bolder words.
"The journey your thoughts have taken--has it been a pleasant one?" he asks, smiling.
"I have come here for rest, not for conversation." There is undisguised dislike in her tones. Still he is untouched by her scorn. He even grows more defiant, as though determined to let her see that even her avowed hatred can not subdue him.
"If you only knew," he goes on, with slow meaning, regarding her as he speaks with critical admiration, "how surpassingly beautiful you look to-night, you would perhaps understand in a degree the power you possess over your fellow-creatures. In that altitude, with that slight touch of scorn upon your lips, you seem a meet partner for a monarch."
She laughs a low contemptuous laugh, that even makes his blood run hotly in his veins.
"And yet you have the boldness to offer yourself as an aspirant to my favor?" she says. "In truth, sir, you value yourself highly!"
"Love will find the way!" he quotes quickly, though plainly disconcerted by her merriment. "And in time I trust I shall have my reward."
"In time, I trust you will," she returns, in a tone impossible to misconstrue.
At this point he deems it wise to change the subject; and, as he halts rather lamely in his conversation, at a loss to find some topic that may interest her or advance his cause, Sir Adrian and Dora pass by the door of the conservatory.
Sir Adrian is smiling gayly at some little speech of Dora's, and Dora is looking up at him with a bright expression in her blue eyes that tells of the happiness she feels.
"Ah, I can not help thinking Adrian is doing very wisely," observes Arthur Dynecourt, some evil genius at his elbow urging him to lie.
"Doing--what?" asks his companion, roused suddenly into full life and interest.
"You pretend ignorance, no doubt"--smiling. "But one can see. Adrian's marriage with Mrs. Talbot has been talked about for some time amongst his intimates."
A clasp like ice seems to seize upon Miss Delmaine's heart as these words drop from his lips. She restrains her emotion bravely, but his lynx-eye reads her through and through.
"They seem to be more together to-night than is even usual with them," goes on Arthur blandly. "Before you honored the room with your presence, he had danced twice with her, and now again. It is very marked, his attention to-night."
As a matter of fact Adrian had not danced with Mrs. Talbot all the evening until now, but Florence, not having been present at the opening of the ball, is not in a position to refute this, as he well knows.
"If there were anything in her friendship with Sir Adrian, I feel sure Dora would tell me of it," she says slowly, and with difficulty.
"And she hasn't?" asks Arthur, with so much surprise and incredulity in his manner as goes far to convince her that there is some truth in his statement. "Well, well," he adds, "one can not blame her. She would doubtless be sure of his affection before speaking even to her dearest friend."
Florence winces, and sinks back upon the seat as though unable to sustain an upright position any longer. Every word of his is as gall and wormwood to her, each sentence a reminder--a reproach. Only the other day this man now beside her had accused her of making sure of Sir Adrian's affection before she had any right so to do. Her proud spirit shrinks beneath the cruel taunt he hurls at her.
"You look unusually 'done up,'" he goes on, in a tone of assumed commiseration. "This evening has been too much for you. Acting a part at any time is extremely trying and laborious."
She shrinks still further from him. Acting a part! Is not all her life becoming one dreary drama, in which she acts a part from morning until night? Is there to be no rest for her? Oh, to escape from this man at any price! She rises to her feet.
"Our dance is almost at an end," she says; "and the heat is terrible. I can remain here no longer."
"You are ill," he exclaims eagerly, going to her side. He would have supported her, but by a gesture she repels him.
"If I am, it is you who have made me so," she retorts, with quick passion, for which she despises herself an instant later.
"Nay, not I," he rejoins, "but what my words have unconsciously conveyed to you. Do not blame me. I thought you, as well as every one else here, knew of Adrian's sentiments with regard to Mrs. Talbot."
This is too much for her. Drawing herself up to her full height, Florence casts a glance of anger and defiance in his direction, and, sweeping past him in her most imperious fashion, appears no more that night.
It is an early party, all things considered, and Dora Talbot, going to her room about two o'clock, stops before Florence's door and knocks softly thereon.
"Come in," calls Florence gently.
"I have just stopped for a moment to express the hope that you are not ill, dearest," says smooth-tongued Dora, advancing toward her. "How early you left us! I shouldn't have known how early only that Mr. Dynecourt told me. Are you sure you are not ill?"
"Not in the least, only a little fatigued," replied Florence calmly.
"Ah, no wonder, with your exertions before the dancing commenced, and your unqualified success! You reigned over everybody, darling. Nobody could hope even to divide the honors of the evening with you. Your acting was simply superb."
"Thank you," says Florence, who is not in bed, but is sitting in a chair drawn near the window, through which the moonbeams are flinging their pale rays. She is clad in a clinging white dressing-gown that makes her beauty saint-like, and has all her long hair falling loosely round her shoulders.
"What a charming evening it has been!" exclaims Dora ecstatically, clasping her hands, and leaning her arms on the back of a chair. "I hardly know when I have felt so thoroughly happy." Florence shudders visibly. "You enjoyed yourself, of course?" continues Dora. "Everyone raved about you. You made at least a dozen conquests; one or half a one--" with a careful hesitation in her manner intended to impress her listener--"is as much as poor little insignificant me can expect."
Florence looks at her questioningly.
"I think one really honest lover is worth a dozen others," she says, her voice trembling. "Do you mean me to understand, Dora, that you have gained one to-night?"
Florence's whole soul seems to hang on her cousin's answer. Dora simpers, and tries to blush, but in reality grows a shade paler. She is playing for a high stake, and fears to risk a throw lest it may be ventured too soon.
"Oh, you must not ask too much!" she replies, shaking her blonde head. "A lover--no! How can you be so absurd! And yet I think--I hope--" "I see!" interrupts Florence sadly. "Well, I will be as discreet as you wish; but at least, if what I imagine be true, I can congratulate you with all my heart, because I know--I know you will be happy."
Going over to Mrs. Talbot, she lays her arms round her neck and kisses her softly. As she does so, a tear falls from her eyes upon Dora's cheek. There is so much sweetness and abandonment of self in this action that Dora for the moment is touched by it. She puts up her hand, and, wiping away the tear from her cheek as though it burns her, says lightly-- "But indeed, my dearest Flo, you must not imagine anything. All is vague. I myself hardly know what it is to which I am alluding. 'Trifles light as air' float through my brain, and gladden me in spite of my common sense, which whispers that they may mean nothing. Do not build castles for me that may have their existence only _en Espagne_."
"They seem very bright castles," observes Florence wistfully.
"A bad omen. 'All that's bright must fade,' sings the poet. And now to speak of yourself. You enjoyed yourself?"
"Of course--" mechanically.
"Ah, yes; I was glad to see you had made it up with poor Arthur Dynecourt!"
"How?" demands Florence, turning upon her quickly.
"I saw you dancing with him, dearest; I was with Sir Adrian at the time, and from something he said, I think he would be rather pleased if you could bring yourself to reward poor Arthur's long devotion."
"Sir Arthur said that? He discussed me with you?"
"Just in passing, you understand. He told me too that you were somewhat unhappy in the earlier part of the evening, and that he had to stay a considerable time with you to restore you to calmness. He is always so kind, dear Adrian!"
"He spoke of that?" demands Florence, in a tone of anguish. If he had made her emotion a subject of common talk with Mrs. Talbot, all indeed is at an end between them, even that sweet visionary offer of friendship he had made to her. No; she could not submit to be talked about by him, and the woman he loves! Oh, the bitter pang it costs her to say these words to herself! That he now loves Dora seems to her mind beyond dispute. Is she not his confidante, the one in whom he chooses to repose all his secret thoughts and surmises?
Dora regards her cousin keenly. Florence's evident agitation makes her fear that there was more in that _tête-à-tête_ with Sir Adrian than she had at first imagined.
"Yes; why should he not speak of it?" Dora goes on coldly. "I think by his manner your want of self-control shocked him. You should have a greater command over yourself. It is not good form to betray one's feelings to every chance passer-by. Yes; I think Sir Adrian was both surprised and astonished."
"There was nothing to cause him either surprise or astonishment," says Florence haughtily; "and I could well have wished him out of the way!"
"Perhaps I misunderstood him," rejoins Dora artfully. "But certainly he spoke to me of being unpleasantly delayed by--by impossible people--those were his very words; and really altogether--I may be wrong--I believed he alluded to you. Of course, I would not follow the matter up, because, much as I like Sir Adrian, I could not listen to him speaking lightly of you!"
"Of me--you forget yourself, Dora!" cries Florence, with pale lips, but head erect. "Speaking lightly of me!" she repeats.
"Young men are often careless in their language," explains Dora hurriedly, feeling that she has gone too far. "He meant nothing unkind, you may be sure!"
"I am quite sure"--firmly.
"Then no harm is done"--smiling brightly. "And now, good-night, dearest; go to bed instead of sitting there looking like a ghost in those mystical moonbeams."
"Good-night," says Florence icily.
There is something about her that causes Mrs. Talbot to feel almost afraid to approach and kiss her as usual.
"Want of rest will spoil your lovely eyes," adds the widow airily; "and your complexion, faultless as it always is, will not be up to the mark to-morrow. So sleep, foolish child, and gather roses from your slumbers."
So saying, she kisses her hand gayly to the unresponsive Florence, and trips lightly from the room.
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{
"id": "16053"
}
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5
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None
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Florence, after Dora has left her, sits motionless at her window. She has thrown open the casement, and now--the sleeves of her dressing-gown falling back from her bare rounded arms--leans out so that the descending night-dews fall like a benison upon her burning brow.
She is wrapped in melancholy; her whole soul is burdened with thoughts and regrets almost too heavy for her to support. She is harassed and perplexed on all sides, and her heart is sore for the loss of the love she once had deemed her own.
The moonbeams cling like a halo round her lovely head, her hair falls in a luxuriant shower about her shoulders; her plaintive face is raised from earth, her eyes look heavenward, as though seeking hope and comfort there.
The night is still, almost to oppressiveness. The birds have long since ceased their song; the wind hardly stirs the foliage of the stately trees. The perfume wafted upward from the sleeping garden floats past her and mingles with her scented tresses. No sound comes to mar the serenity of the night, all is calm and silent as the grave.
Yet, hark, what is this? A footstep on the gravel path below arouses her attention. For the first time since Dora's departure she moves, and, turning her head, glances in the direction of the sound.
Bareheaded, and walking with his hands clasped behind him as though absorbed in deep thought, Sir Adrian comes slowly over the sward until he stands beneath her window. Here he pauses, as though almost unconsciously his spirit has led him thither, and brought him to a standstill where he would most desire to be.
The moon, spreading its brilliance on all around, permits Florence to see that his face is grave and thoughtful, and--yes, as she gazes even closer, she can see that it is full of pain and vain longing.
What is rendering him unhappy on this night of all others, when the woman she believes he loves has been his willing companion for so many hours, when doubtless she has given him proofs of her preference for him above all men?
Suddenly lifting his head, Sir Adrian becomes conscious of the face in the window above, and a thrill rushes through him as he recognizes the form of the woman he loves.
The scene is so calm, so hallowed, so full of romance, that both their hearts beat madly for awhile. They are alone; any one still awake within the house is far distant.
Never has she appeared so spiritual, so true and tender; so full of sweetness that is almost unearthly. All pride seems gone from her, and in its place only a gentle melancholy reigns; she looks so far removed from him, sitting there in the purity of her white robes, that, at first, he hesitates to address her. To his excited imagination, she is like an angel resting on its way to the realms above.
At last, however, his heart compelling him, he speaks aloud.
"Florence, you still awake, when all the world is sleeping?"
Her name falling from his lips touches a chord in her breast, and wakes her to passionate life.
"You too," she says in a whisper that reaches his strained ears. There seems to her a subtle joy in the thought that they two of all the household are awake, are here talking together alone in the pale light of the moon.
Yet she is wrong in imagining that no others are up in the house, as his next words tell her.
"It is not a matter of wonder in my case," he responds; "a few fellows are still in the smoking-room. It is early, you know--not yet three. But you--why are you keeping a lonely vigil like this?"
"The moon tempted me to the window," answers Florence. "See how calm she looks riding majestically up there. See"--stretching out her bare white arm until the beams fall full upon it, and seem to change it to purest marble--"does it not make one feel as if all the world were being bathed in its subdued glow?"
A pale tremulous smile widens her lips. Sir Adrian, plucking a tall pale lily growing near him, flings it upward with such an eager aim that it alights upon her window-sill. She sees it. Her fingers close upon it.
"Fit emblem of its possessor," says Adrian softly, and rather unsteadily. "Do you know of what you remind me, sitting there in your white robes? A medieval saint cut in stone--a pure angel, too good, too far above all earthly passion to enter into it, or understand it, and the grief that must ever attend upon it."
He speaks bitterly. It seems to him that she is indeed cold not to have guessed before this the intensity of his love for her. However much she may have given her affection to another, it still seems to him inexpressibly hard that she can have no pity for his suffering. He gazes at her intently. Do the mystic moonbeams deceive him, or are there tears in her great dark eyes? His heart beats quickly. Once again he remembers her emotion of the past evening. He hears again her passionate sobs. Is she unhappy? Are there thorns in her path that are difficult to remove?
"Florence, once again I entreat you to confide in me," he says, after a pause.
"I can not," she returns, sadly but firmly. "But there is one thing I must say to you--think of me as you may for saying it--I am not cold as you seemed to imply a moment since; I am not made of stone; and, alas, the grief you think me incapable of understanding is mine already! You have wronged me in your thoughts. I have here," she exclaims with some vehemence, laying the hand in which she still holds the drooping lily upon her breast, "what I would gladly be without--a heart."
"Nay," says Adrian hastily; "you forget. It is no longer yours, you have given it away."
For an instant she glances at him keenly, while her breath comes and goes with painful quickness.
"You have no right to say so," she murmurs at last.
"No, of course not; I beg your pardon," he says apologetically. "It is your own secret."
"There is no secret," she declares nervously. "None."
"I have offended you. I should not have said that. You will forgive me?" he entreats, with agitation.
"You are quite forgiven;" and, as a token of the truth of her words, she leans a little further out of the window, and looks down at him with a face pale indeed, but full of an unutterable sweetness.
Her beauty conquers all his resolutions.
"Oh, Florence," he whispers in an impassioned tone, "if I only dare to tell you what--" She starts and lays a finger on her lips, as though to enforce silence.
"Hush!" she says, in trembling accents. "You forget! The hour, the surroundings, have momentarily led you astray. I ought not to have spoken with you. Go! There is nothing you dare to tell me--there is nothing I would wish to hear. Remember your duty to another--and--good-night."
"Stay, I implore you, for one moment," he cries; but she is firm, and presently the curtains are drawn close and he is alone.
Slowly he walks back toward the smoking-room, her last words ringing in his ears--"Remember your duty to another." What other? He is puzzled, but, reaching the window of the room, he dismisses these thoughts from his mind, and determines to get rid of his guests without delay, so as to be able to enjoy a little quiet and calm for reflection.
They are all noisily discussing a suicide that had recently taken place in a neighboring county, and which had, from its peculiar circumstances, caused more than usual interest.
One of the guests to-night is an army-surgeon, and he is giving them an explanation as to how the fatal wound had been inflicted. It appeared at the inquest that the unfortunate man had shot himself in such a peculiar manner as to cause considerable doubt as to whether he had been murdered or had died by his own hand. Evidence, however, of a most convincing nature had confirmed the latter theory.
Captain Ringwood, with a revolver in his hand, is endeavoring to show that the man could not have shot himself, just as Adrian re-enters.
"Be careful with that revolver," he exclaims hastily; "it is loaded!"
"All right, old fellow, I know it," returns Ringwood. "Look here, doctor, if he held it so, how could he make a wound here?"
"Why not? Sir Adrian, take the revolver for a moment, will you?" says the surgeon, anxious to demonstrate his theory beyond the possibility of doubt. "I want to convince Ringwood. Now stand so, and hold the weapon so"--placing it with the muzzle presented in a rather awkward position almost over his heart.
"I thought fellows always put the muzzles of their revolvers in their mouths and blew their brains out when they committed suicide," Ringwood remarks lightly.
"This fellow evidently did not," says the surgeon calmly. "Now, Sir Adrian, you see, by holding it thus, you could quite easily blow yourself to--" Before he can finish the sentence, there is a sudden confusion of bodies, a jostling as it were, for Arthur Dynecourt, who had been looking on attentively with one foot on a footstool close to Sir Adrian's elbow, had slipped from the stool at this inopportune moment, and had fallen heavily against his cousin.
There is a shout from somebody, and then a silence. The revolver in the scuffle had gone off! Through the house the sharp crack of a bullet rings loudly, rousing many from their slumbers.
Lights can be seen in the passages; terrified faces peep out from half-opened doors. Dora Talbot, coming into the corridor in a pale pink cashmere dressing-gown trimmed with swan's-down, in which she looks the very personification of innocence and youth, screams loudly, and demands hysterically to be informed as to the cause of the unusual noise.
The servants have rushed from their quarters in alarm. Ethel Villiers, with a pale scared face, runs to Florence Delmaine's room, and throws her arms round that young lady as she comes out, pale but composed, to ask in a clear tone what has happened.
As nobody knows, and as Florence in her heart is more frightened than she cares to confess, being aware through Adrian that some of the men are still up in the smoking-room, and fearing that a quarrel had arisen among them, she proposes that they should go to the smoking-room in a body and make inquiries.
Old Lady FitzAlmont, with Lady Gertrude sobbing on her arm, seconds this proposal, and, being a veteran of much distinction, takes the lead. Those following close behind, are glad of this, and hopeful because of it, her appearance being calculated to rout any enemy. The awful character of her dressing-gown and the severity of the nightcap that crowns her martial head would strike terror to the hearts of any midnight marauders. They all move off in a body, and, guided unconsciously by Florence, approach the smoking-room.
Voices loud in conversation can be heard as they draw near; the door is slightly ajar. Florence drawing back as they come quite up to it, the old lady waves her aside, and advances boldly to the front. Flinging wide open the door, she bursts upon the astonished company within.
"Where is he?" she asks, with a dignity that only heightens the attractions of the cap and gown. "Have you secured him? Sir Adrian, where is the constable? Have you sent for him?"
Sir Adrian, whose gaze is fixed upon the fair vision in the trailing white gown standing timidly in the door-way, forgets to answer his interrogator, and the others, taken by surprise, maintain a solemn silence.
"Why this mystery?" demands Lady FitzAlmont sternly. "Where is the miscreant? Where is the man that fired that murderous shot?"
"Here, madame," replies the surgeon dryly, indicating Arthur Dynecourt by a motion of the hand.
"He--who? Mr. Dynecourt?" ejaculates her ladyship in a disappointed tone. "It was all a mistake, then? I must say, Mr. Dynecourt," continues the old lady in an indignant tone, "that I think you might find a more suitable time in which to play off your jokes, or to practice target-shooting, than in the middle of the night, when every respectable household ought to be wrapped in slumber."
"I assure you," begins Arthur Dynecourt, who is strangely pale and discomposed, "it was all an accident--an--" "Accident! Nonsense, sir; I don't believe there was any accident whatsoever!"
As these words pass the lips of the irascible old lady, several men in the room exchange significant glances. Is it that old Lady FitzAlmont has just put their own thoughts into words?
"Let me explain to your ladyship," says Sir Adrian courteously. "We were just talking about that unfortunate affair of the Stewarts, and Maitland was showing us how it might have occurred. I had the revolver in my hand so"--pointing the weapon toward himself.
"Put down that abominable weapon at once, sir!" commands Lady FitzAlmont, in a menacing tone, largely mingled with abject fear. As she speaks she retreats precipitately behind Florence, thus pushing that young lady to the fore.
"When my cousin unhappily stumbled against me, and the revolver went off," goes on Sir Adrian. "I'm deeply grieved, Lady FitzAlmont, that this should have occurred to disturb the household; but, really, it was a pure accident."
"A pure accident," repeats Arthur, from between his colorless lips.
He looks far more distressed by this occurrence than Sir Adrian, who had narrowly escaped being wounded. This only showed his tenderness and proper feeling, as almost all the women present mutually agreed. Almost all, but not quite. Dora Talbot, for example, grows deadly pale as she listens to the explanation and watches Arthur's ghastly face. What is it like? The face of a murderer?
"Oh, no, no," she gasps inwardly; "surely not that!"
"It was the purest accident, I assure you," protests Arthur again, as though anxious to impress this conviction upon his own mind.
"It might have been a very serious one," says the surgeon gravely, regarding him with a keen glance. "It might have meant death to Sir Adrian!"
Florence changes color and glances at her host with parted lips. Dora Talbot, pressing her way through the group in the door-way, goes straight up to him as if impulsively, and takes his hand in both hers.
"Dear Sir Adrian, how can we be thankful enough for your escape?" she says sweetly, tears standing in her bright blue eyes. She presses his hand warmly, and even raises it to her lips in a transport of emotion. Standing there in the pretty pink dressing-gown that shows off her complexion to perfection, Dora Talbot looks lovely.
"You are very good--very kind," returns Sir Adrian, really touched by her concern, but still with eyes only for the white vision in the door-way; "but you make too much of nothing. I am only sorry I have been the unhappy cause of rousing you from your rosy dreams; you will not thank me to-morrow when there will be only lilies in your cheeks."
The word lily brings back to him his last interview with Florence. He glances hurriedly at her right hand; yes, the same lily is clasped in her fingers. Has she sat ever since with his gift before her, in her silent chamber? Alone--in grief perhaps. But why has she kept his flower? What can it all mean?
"We shall mind nothing, now you are safe," Dora assures him tremulously.
"I think I might be shown some consideration," puts in Arthur, trying by a violent effort to assert himself, and to speak lightly. "Had anything happened, surely I should have been the one to be pitied. It would have been my fault, and, Mrs. Talbot, I think you might show some pity for me." He holds out his hand, and mechanically Dora lays her own in it.
But it is only for an instant, and she shudders violently as his touch meets hers. Her eyes are on the ground, and she can not bring herself to look at him. Drawing her fingers hurriedly from his, she goes to the door and disappears from view.
In the meantime, Sir Adrian, having made his way to Florence, points to the lily.
"You have held it ever since?" he asks, in a low tone. "I hardly hoped for so much. But you have not congratulated me, you alone have said nothing."
"Why need I speak? I have seen you with my own eyes. You are safe. Believe me, Sir Adrian, I congratulate you most sincerely upon your escape."
Her words are cold, her eyes downcast. She is deeply annoyed with herself for having carried the lily into his presence here. The very fact of his having noticed it and spoken to her about it has shown her how much importance he has attached to her doing so. What will he think of her. He will doubtless picture her to himself sitting weeping and brooding over a flower given to her by a man who loves her not, and to whom she has given her love unsolicited.
Her marked coldness so oppresses him that he steps back, and does not venture to address her again. It occurs to him that she is reserved because of Arthur's presence.
Presently, Lady FitzAlmont, marshaling her forces anew, carries them all away to their rooms, soundly rating the sobbing Lady Gertrude for her want of self-control.
The men too, shortly afterward disperse, and one by one drift away to their rooms. Captain Ringwood and Maitland the surgeon being the last to go.
"Who is the next heir to the castle?" asks the latter musingly, drumming his fingers idly on a table near him.
"Dynecourt, the fellow who nearly did for Sir Adrian this evening!" replies Ringwood quietly.
"Ah!"
"It would have meant a very good thing for Arthur if the shot had taken effect," says Ringwood, eying his companion curiously.
"It would have meant murder, sir!" rejoins the surgeon shortly.
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{
"id": "16053"
}
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6
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None
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"Dear Sir Adrian," says Dora Talbot, laying down her bat upon a garden-chair, and forsaking the game of tennis then proceeding to go forward and greet her host, "where have you been? We have missed you so much. Florence"--turning to her cousin--"will you take my bat, dearest? I am quite tired of trying to defeat Lord Lisle."
Lord Lisle, a middle-aged gentleman of sunburned appearance, looks unmistakably delighted at the prospect of a change in the game. He is married; has a large family of promising young Lisles, and a fervent passion for tennis. Mrs. Talbot having proved a very contemptible adversary, he is charmed at this chance of getting rid of her.
So Florence, _vice_ Dora retired, joins the game, and the play continues with unabated vigor. When however Lord Lisle has scored a grand victory, and all the players declare themselves thoroughly exhausted and in need of refreshment, Sir Adrian comes forward, and walks straight up to Miss Delmaine, to Dora's intense chagrin and the secret rage of Arthur Dynecourt.
"You have often asked to see the 'haunted chamber,'" he says; "why not come and visit it now? It isn't much to see, you know; but still, in a ghostly sense, it is, I suppose, interesting."
"Let us make a party and go together," suggests Dora, enthusiastically clasping her hands--her favorite method of showing false emotion of any kind. She is determined to have her part in the programme, and is equally determined that Florence shall go nowhere alone with Sir Adrian.
"What a capital idea!" puts in Arthur Dynecourt, coming up to Miss Delmaine, and specially addressing her with all the air of a rightful owner.
"Charming," murmurs a young lady standing by; and so the question is settled.
"It will be rather a fatiguing journey, you know," says Captain Ringwood, confidentially, to Ethel Villiers. "It's an awful lot of stairs; I've been there, so I know all about it--it's worse than the treadmill."
"Have you been there too?" demands Miss Ethel saucily, glancing at him from under her long lashes.
"Not yet," answers the captain, with a little grin. "But, I say, don't go--will you?"
"I must; I'm dying to see it," replies Ethel. "You needn't come, you know; I dare say I shall be able to get on without you for half an hour or so."
"I dare say you could get on uncommonly well without me forever," retorts the captain rather gloomily. To himself he confesses moodily that this girl with the auburn hair and the blue eyes has the power of taking the "curl out of him" whensoever she wishes.
"I believe you are afraid of the bogies hidden in this secret chamber, and so don't care to come," says Miss Villiers tauntingly.
"I know something else I'm a great deal more afraid of," responds the gallant captain meaningly.
"Me?" she asks innocently, but certainly coquettishly. "Oh, Captain Ringwood"--in a tone of mock injury--"what an unkind speech! Now I know you look upon me in the light of an ogress, or a witch, or something equally dreadful. Well, as I have the name of it, I may as well have the gain of it, and so--I command you to attend me to the 'haunted chamber.'"
"You order--I obey," says the captain. " 'Call and I follow--I follow, though I die!'" After which quotation he accompanies her toward the house in the wake of Dora and Sir Adrian, who has been pressed by the clever widow into her service.
Florence and Arthur Dynecourt follow them, Arthur talking gayly, as though determined to ignore the fact that he is thoroughly unwelcome to his companion; Florence, with head erect and haughty footsteps and eyes carefully averted.
Past the hall, through the corridor, up the staircase, through the galleries, along more corridors they go, laughing and talking eagerly, until they come at last to an old and apparently much disused part of the house.
Traversing more corridors, upon which dust lies thickly, they come at last to a small iron-bound door that blocks the end of one passage.
"Now we really begin to get near to it," says Sir Adrian encouragingly, turning, as he always does, when opportunity offers, to address himself solely to Florence.
"Don't you feel creepy-creepy?" asks Ethel Villiers, with a smothered laugh, looking up at Captain Ringwood.
Then Sir Adrian pushes open the door, revealing a steep flight of stone steps that leads upward to another door above. This door, like the lower one, is bound with iron.
"This is the tower," explains Sir Adrian, still acting as cicerone to the small party, who look with interest around them. Mrs. Talbot, affecting nervousness, clings closely to Sir Adrian's arm. Indeed she is debating in her own mind whether it would be effective or otherwise to subside into a graceful swoon within his arms. "Yonder is the door of the chamber," continues Sir Adrian. "Come, let us go up to it."
They all ascend the last flight of stone stairs; and presently their host opens the door, and reveals to them whatever mysteries may lie beyond. He enters first, and they all follow him, but, as if suddenly recollecting some important point, he turns, and calls loudly to Captain Ringwood not to let the door shut behind him.
"There is a peculiar spring in the lock," he explains a moment later; "and, if the door slammed to, we should find it impossible to open it from the inside, and might remain here prisoners forever unless the household came to the rescue."
"Oh, Captain Ringwood, pray be careful!" cries Dora falteringly. "Our very lives depend upon your attention!"
"Miss Villiers, do come here and help me to remember my duty," says Captain Ringwood, planting his back against the open door lest by any means it should shut.
The chamber is round, and has, instead of windows, three narrow apertures in the walls, through which can be obtained a glimpse of the sky, but of nothing else. These apertures are just large enough to admit a man's hand. The room is without furniture of any description, and on the boards the dark stains of blood are distinctly visible.
"Dynecourt, tell them a story or two," calls out Ringwood to Sir Adrian. "They won't believe it is veritably haunted unless you call up a ghost to frighten them."
But they all protest in a body that they do not wish to hear any ghost stories, so Sir Adrian laughingly refuses to comply with Ringwood's request.
"Are we far from the other parts of the house?" asks Florence at length, who has been examining some writing on the walls.
"So far that, if you were immured here, no cry, however loud, could penetrate the distance," replies Sir Adrian. "You are as thoroughly removed from the habitable parts of the castle as if you were in the next county."
"How interesting!" observes Dora, with a little simper.
"The servants are so afraid of this room that they would not venture here even by daylight," Sir Adrian goes on. "You can see how the dust of years is on it. One might be slowly starved to death here without one's friends being a bit the wiser."
He laughs as he says this, but, long afterward, his words come back to his listeners' memories, filling their breasts with terror and despair.
"I wonder you don't have this dangerous lock removed," says Captain Ringwood. "It is a regular trap. Some day you'll be sorry for it."
Prophetic words!
"Yes; I wish it were removed," responds Florence, with a strange quick shiver.
Sir Adrian laughs.
"Why, that is one of the old tower's greatest charms," he says. "It belongs to the dark ages, and suggests all sorts of horrible possibilities. This room would be nothing without its mysterious lock."
At this moment Dora's eyes turn slowly toward Arthur Dynecourt. She herself hardly knows why, at this particular time, she should look at him, yet she feels that some unaccountable fascination is compelling her gaze to encounter his. Their eyes meet. As they do so, Dora shudders and turns deadly pale. There is that in Arthur Dynecourt's dark and sullen eyes that strikes her cold with terror and vague forebodings of evil. It is a wicked look that overspreads the man's face--a cruel, implacable look that seems to freeze her as she gazes at him spell-bound. Slowly, even while she watches him, she sees him turn his glance from her to Sir Adrian in a meaning manner, as though to let her know that the vile thought that is working in his brain and is betraying itself on his face is intended for him, not her. And yet, with this too, he gives her silently to understand that, if she shows any treachery toward him, he will not leave it unrewarded.
Cowed, frightened, trembling at what she knows not, Dora staggers backward, and, laying a hand upon the wall beside her, tries to regain her self-possession. The others are all talking together, she is therefore unobserved. She stands, still panting and pallid, trying to collect her thoughts.
Only one thing comes clearly to her, filling her with loathing of herself and an unnamed dread--it is that, by her own double-dealing and falseness toward Florence, she has seemed to enter into a compact with this man to be a companion in whatever crime he may decide upon. His very look seems to implicate her, to drag her down with him to his level. She feels herself chained to him--his partner in a vile conspiracy. And what further adds to the horror of the situation is the knowledge that she knows herself to be blindly ignorant of whatever plans he may be forming.
After a few seconds she rouses herself, and wins back some degree of composure. It is of course a mere weakness to believe herself in the power of Arthur Dynecourt, she tries to convince herself. He is no more than any other ordinary acquaintance. If indeed she has helped him a little in his efforts to secure the love of Florence, there was no great harm in that, though of course it served her own purpose also.
"How pale you are, Mrs. Talbot?" remarks Sir Adrian suddenly, wheeling round to look at her more closely. "Has this damp old place really affected your nerves? Come, let us go down again, and forget in the sunshine that bloody deeds were ever committed here or elsewhere."
"I am nervous, I confess," responds Dora, in a low tone. "Yes, yes--let us leave this terrible room forever."
"So be it," says Sir Adrian gayly. "For my part, I feel no desire to ever re-enter it."
"It is very high art, I suppose," observes Ethel Villiers, glancing round the walls. "Uncomfortable places always are. It would be quite a treasure to Lady Betty Trefeld, who raves over the early Britons. It seems rather thrown away upon us. Captain Ringwood, you look as if you had been suddenly turned into stone. Let me pass, please."
"It was uncommonly friendly of Ringwood not to have let the door slam, and so imprisoned us for life," says Sir Adrian, with a laugh. "I am sure we owe him a debt of gratitude."
"I hope you'll all pay it," laughs Ringwood. "It will be a nice new experience for you to give a creditor something for once. I never pay my own debts; but that doesn't count. I feel sure you are all going to give me something for my services as door-keeper."
"What shall I give you?" asks Ethel coquettishly.
"I'll tell you by and by," he replies, with such an expressive look that for once the saucy girl has no answer ready, but, blushing crimson, hurries past him down the stone stairs, where she waits at the bottom for the others.
As Florence reaches the door she pauses and stoops to examine the lock.
"I wish," she says to Sir Adrian, a strange subdued excitement in her tone, "you would remove this lock. Do."
"But why?" he asks, impressed in spite of himself, by her manner.
"I hardly know myself; it is a fancy--an unaccountable one, perhaps--but still a powerful one. Do be guided by me, and have it removed."
"What--the fancy?" he asks, laughing.
"No--the lock. Humor me in this," she pleads earnestly, far more earnestly than the occasion seems to warrant. "Call it a silly presentiment, if you like, but I honestly think that lock will work you evil some day. Therefore it is that I ask you to do away with it."
"You ask me?" he queries.
"Yes, if only to please me--for my sake."
She has evidently forgotten her late distrust of him, for she speaks now in the old sweet tone, and with tears in her eyes. Sir Adrian flushes warmly.
"For your sake," he whispers. "What is there I would not do, if thus requested?"
A bitter sneer contracts Arthur Dynecourt's lips as he listens to the first part of this conversation and guesses at the latter half. He notes correctly the kindling of their eyes, the quick breath that comes and goes like happy sighs from the breast of Florence. He hears the whisper, sees the warm blush, and glances expressively at Dora. Meeting her eyes he says his finger on his lips to caution her to silence, and then, when passing by her, whispers: "Meet me in half an hour in the lower gallery."
Bowing her acquiescence in this arrangement, fearing indeed to refuse, Dora follows the others from the haunted chamber.
At the foot of the small stone staircase--before they go through the first iron-bound door that leads to the corridor without--they find Ethel Villiers awaiting them. She had been looking round her in the dimly lighted stone passage, and has discovered another door fixed mysteriously in a corner, that had excited her curiosity.
"Where does this lead to, Sir Adrian?" she asks now, pointing to it.
"Oh, that is an old door connected with another passage that leads by a dark and wearying staircase to the servants' corridor beneath! I am afraid you won't be able to open it, as it is rusty with age and disuse. The servants would as soon think of coming up here as they would of making an appointment with the Evil One; so it has not been opened for years."
"Perhaps I can manage it," says Arthur Dynecourt, trying with all his might to force the ancient lock to yield to him. At length his efforts are crowned with success; the door flies creakingly open, and a cloud of dust uprising covers them like a mist.
"Ah!" exclaims Ethel, recoiling; but Arthur, stooping forward, carefully examines the dark staircase that lies before him wrapped in impenetrable gloom. Spider-nets have been drawn from wall to wall and hang in dusky clouds from the low ceiling; a faint, stale, stifling smell greets his nostrils, yet he lingers there and looks carefully around him.
"You'll fall into it, if you don't mind," remarks Captain Ringwood. "One would think uncanny spots had an unwholesome attraction for you."
Ringwood, ever since the memorable night in the smoking-room, when Sir Adrian was so near being killed, has looked askance at Arthur Dynecourt, and, when taking the trouble to address him at all, has been either sharp or pointed in his remarks. Arthur, contenting himself with a scowl at him, closes the little door again, and turns away from it.
"At night," says Sir Adrian, in an amused tone, "the servants, passing by the door below that leads up to this one, run by it as though they fear some ghostly ancestors of mine, descending from the haunted chamber, will pounce out upon them with their heads under their arms, or in some equally unpleasant position. You know the door, don't you, Arthur--the second from the turning?"
"No," replies Arthur, with his false smile, "I do not; nor, indeed, do I care to know it. I firmly believe I should run past it too after nightfall, unless well protected."
"That looks as if you had an evil conscience," says Ringwood carelessly, but none the less purposely.
"It looks more as if I were a coward, I think," retorts Arthur, laughing, but shooting an angry glance at the gallant captain as he speaks.
"Well, what does the immortal William say?" returns Ringwood coolly. " 'Conscience doth make cowards of us all!'"
"You have a sharp wit, sir," says Arthur, with apparent lightness, but pale with passion.
"I say, look here," breaks in Sir Adrian hastily, pulling out his watch; "it must be nearly time for tea. By Jove, quite half past four, and we know what Lady FitzAlmont will say to us if we keep her deprived of her favorite beverage for even five minutes. Come, let us run, or destruction will light upon our heads."
So saying, he leads the way, and soon they leave the haunted chamber and all its gloomy associations far behind them.
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{
"id": "16053"
}
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Reluctantly, yet with a certain amount of curiosity to know what it is he may wish to say to her, Dora wends her way to the gallery to keep her appointment with Arthur. Pacing to and fro beneath the searching eyes of the gaunt cavaliers and haughty dames that gleam down upon him from their canvases upon the walls, Dynecourt impatiently awaits her coming.
"Ah, you are late!" he exclaims as she approaches. There is a tone of authority about him that dismays her.
"Not very, I think," she responds pleasantly, deeming conciliatory measures the best. "Why did you not come to the library? We all missed you so much at tea!"
"No doubt," he replies sarcastically. "I can well fancy the disappointment my absence caused; the blank looks and regretful speeches that marked my defection. Pshaw--let you and me at least be honest to each other! Did Florence, think you, shed tears because of my non-coming?"
This mood of his is so strange to her that, in spite of the natural false smoothness that belongs to her, it renders her dumb.
"Look here," he goes on savagely, "I have seen enough to-day up in that accursed room above--that haunted chamber--to show me our game is not yet won."
"Our game--what game?" asks Dora, with a foolish attempt at misconception.
He laughs aloud--a wild, unpleasant, scornful laugh, that makes her cheek turn pale. Its mirth, she tells herself, is demoniacal.
"You would get out of it now, would you?" he says. "It is too late, I tell you. You have gone some way with me, you must go the rest. I want your help, and you want mine. Will you draw back now, when the prize is half won, when a little more labor will place it within your grasp?"
"But there must be no violence," she gasps; "no attempt at--" "What is it you would say?" he interrupts stonily. "Collect yourself; you surely do not know what you are hinting at. Violence! what do you mean by that?"
"I hardly know," she returns, trembling. "It was your look, your tone, I think, that frightened me."
"Put your nerves in your pocket for the future," he exclaims coarsely; "they are not wanted where I am. Now to business. You want to marry Sir Adrian, as I understand, whether his desire lies in the same direction or not?"
At this plain speaking the dainty little lady winces openly.
"My own opinion is that his desire does not run in your direction," continues Arthur remorselessly. "We both know where his heart would gladly find its home, where he would seek a bride to place here in this grand old castle, but I will frustrate that hope if I die for it."
He grinds his teeth as he says this, and looks with fierce defiant eyes at the long rows of his ancestors that line the walls.
"She would gladly see her proud fair face looking down upon me from amidst this goodly company," he goes on, apostrophizing the absent Florence. "But that shall never be. I have sworn it; unless--I am her husband--unless--I am her husband!"
More slowly, more thoughtfully he repeats this last phrase, until Dora, affrighted by the sudden change that has disfigured his face, speaks to him to distract his attention.
"You have brought me here to--" she ventures timidly.
"Ay, to tell you what is on my mind. I have said you want to marry Adrian; I mean to marry Florence Delmaine. To-day I disliked certain symptoms I saw, that led me to believe that my own machinations have not been as successful as I could have wished. Before going in for stronger measures, there is one more card that I will play. I have written you a note. Here it is, take it"--handing her a letter folded in the cocked-hat fashion.
"What am I to do with this?" asks Dora nervously.
"Read it. It is addressed to yourself. You will see I have copied Adrian's handwriting as closely as possible, and have put his initials A.D. at the end. And yet"--with a diabolical smile--"it is no forgery either, as A.D. are my initials also."
Opening the note with trembling fingers, Dora reads aloud as follows: "Can you--will you meet me to-morrow at four o'clock in the lime-walk? I have been cold to you perhaps, but have I not had cause? You think my slight attentions to another betoken a decrease in my love for you, but in this, dearest, you are mistaken. I am yours heart and soul. For the present I dare not declare myself, for the reasons you already know, and for the same reasons am bound to keep up a seeming friendliness with some I would gladly break with altogether. But I am happy only with you, and happy too in the thought that our hearts beat as one. Yours forever, A.D." Dora, having finished reading the letter, glances at him uneasily.
"And--what is the meaning of this letter? What is it written for? What am I to do with it?" she stammers, beating the precious missive against the palm of her hand, as though in loathing of it.
"You will show it to her. You will speak of it as a love-letter written to you by Adrian. You will consult her as to whether it be wise or prudent to accede to his proposal to meet you alone in the lime-walk. You will, in fact, put out all your powers of deception, which"--with a sneering smile--"are great, and so compel her to believe the letter is from him to you."
"But--" falters Dora.
"There shall be no 'but' in the matter. You have entered into this affair with me, and you shall pursue it to the end. If you fail me, I shall betray your share in it--more than your share--and paint you in such colors as will shut the doors of society to you. You understand now, do you?"
"Go on," says Dora, with colorless lips.
"Ah, I have touched the right chord at last, have I? Society, your idol, you dare not brave! Well, to continue, you will also tell her, in your own sweet innocent way"--with another sneer that makes her quiver with fear and rage--"to account for Adrian's decided and almost lover-like attentions to her in the room we visited, that you had had a lovers' quarrel with him some time before, earlier in the day; that, in his fit of pique, he had sought to be revenged upon you, and soothe his slighted feelings by feigning a sudden interest in her. You follow me?"
"Yes," replies the submissive Dora. Alas, how sincerely she now wishes she had never entered into this hateful intrigue!
"Then, when you have carefully sown these lies in her heart, and seen her proud face darken and quiver with pain beneath your words"--oh, how his own evil face glows with unholy satisfaction as he sees the picture he has just drawn stand out clear before his eyes! --"you will affect to be driven by compunction into granting Sir Adrian a supposed request, you will don your hat and cloak, and go down to the lime-walk to encounter--me. If I am any judge of character, that girl, so haughty to all the world, will lower her pride for her crushed love's sake, and will follow you, to madden herself with your meeting with the man she loves. To her, I shall on this occasion represent Sir Adrian. Are you listening?"
She is indeed--listening with all her might to the master mind that has her in thrall.
"You will remember not to start when you meet me," he continues, issuing his commands with insolent assumption of authority over the dainty Dora, who, up to this, has been accustomed to rule it over others in her particular sphere, and who now chafes and writhes beneath the sense of slavery that is oppressing her. "You will meet me calmly, oblivious of the fact that I shall be clad in my cousin's light overcoat, the one of which Miss Delmaine was graciously pleased to say she approved yesterday morning."
His eyes light again with a revengeful fire as he calls to mind the slight praise Florence had bestowed in a very casual fashion on this coat. Every smile, every kindly word addressed by this girl to his cousin, is treasured up by him and dwelt upon in secret, to the terrible strengthening of the purpose he has in view.
"But if you should be seen--be marked," hesitates Dora faintly.
"Pshaw--am I one to lay my plans so clumsily as to court discovery on even the minutest point?" he interrupts impatiently. "When you meet me you will--but enough of this; I shall be there to meet you in the lime-walk, and after that you will take your cue from me."
"That is all you have to say?" asks Dora, anxious to quit his hated presence.
"For the present--yes. Follow my instructions to the letter, or dread the consequences. Any blunder in the performance of this arrangement I shall lay to your charge."
"You threaten, sir!" she exclaims angrily, though she trembles.
"Let it be your care to see that I do not carry out my threats," he retorts, with an insolent shrug.
The next day, directly after luncheon, as Florence is sitting in her own room, touching up an unfinished water-color sketch of part of the grounds round the castle--which have, alas, grown only too dear to her! --Dora enters her room. It is an embarrassed and significantly smiling Dora that trips up to her, and says with pretty hesitation in her tone-- "Dearest Florence, I want your advice about something."
"Mine?" exclaims Florence, laying down her brush, and looking, as she feels, astonished. As a rule, the gentle Dora does not seek for wisdom from her friends.
"Yes, dear, if you can spare me the time. Just five minutes will do, and then you can return to your charming sketch. Oh"--glancing at it--"how exactly like it is--so perfect; what a sunset, and what firs! One could imagine one's self in the Fairies' Glen by just looking at it."
"It is not the Fairies' Glen at all; it is that bit down by Gough's farm," says Florence coldly. Of late she has not been so blind to Dora's artificialness as she used to be.
"Ah, so it is!" agrees Dora airily, not in the least discomposed at her mistake. "And so like it too. You are a genius, dearest, you are really, and might make your fortune, only that you have one made already for you, fortunate girl!"
"You want my advice," suggests Florence quietly.
"Ah, true; and about something important too!" She throws into her whole air so much coquetry mingled with assumed bashfulness that Florence knows by instinct that the "something" has Sir Adrian for its theme, and she grows pale and miserable accordingly.
"Let me hear it then," she urges, leaning back with a weary sigh.
"I have just received this letter," says Mrs. Talbot, taking from her pocket the letter Arthur had given her, and holding it out to Florence, "and I want to know how I shall answer it. Would you--would you honestly advise me, Flo, to go and meet him as he desires?"
"As who desires?"
"Ah, true; you do not know, of course! I am so selfishly full of myself and my own concerns, that I seem to think every one else must be full of them too. Forgive me, dearest, and read his sweet little letter, will you?"
"Of whom are you speaking--to whose letter do you refer?" asks Florence, a little sharply, in the agony of her heart.
"Florence! Whose letter would I call 'sweet' except Sir Adrian's?" answers her cousin, with gentle reproach.
"But it is meant for you, not for me," says Miss Delmaine, holding the letter in her hand, and glancing at it with great distaste. "He probably intended no other eyes but yours to look upon it."
"But I must obtain advice from some one, and who so natural to expect it from as you, my nearest relative? If, however"--putting her handkerchief to her eyes--"you object to help me, Florence, or if it distresses you to read--" "Distresses me?" interrupts Florence haughtily. "Why should it distress me? If you have no objection to my reading your--lover's--letter, why should I hesitate about doing so? Pray sit down while I run through it."
Dora having seated herself, Florence hastily reads the false note from beginning to end. Her heart beats furiously as she does so, and her color comes and goes; but her voice is quite steady when she speaks again.
"Well," she says, putting the paper from her as though heartily glad to be rid of it, "it seems that Sir Adrian wishes to speak to you on some subject interesting to you and him alone, and that he has chosen the privacy of the lime-walk as the spot in which to hold your _tête-à-tête_. It is quite a simple affair, is it not? Though really, why he could not arrange to talk privately to you in some room in the castle, which is surely large enough for the purpose, I can not understand."
"Dear Sir Adrian is so romantic," says Dora coyly.
"Is he?" responds her cousin dryly. "He has always seemed to me the sanest of men. Well, on what matter do you wish to consult me?"
"Dear Florence, how terribly prosaic and unsympathetic you are to-day," says Dora reproachfully; "and I came to you so sure of offers of love and friendship! I want you to tell me if you think I ought to meet him or not."
"Why not?"
"I don't know"--with a little simper. "Is it perhaps humoring him too much? I have always dreaded letting a man imagine I cared for him, unless fully, utterly, assured of his affection for me."
Florence colors again, and then grows deadly pale, as this poisoned barb pierces her bosom.
"I should think," she says slowly, "after reading the letter you have just shown me, you ought to feel assured."
"You believe I ought, really?" --with a fine show of eagerness. "Now, you are not saying this to please me--to gratify me?"
"I should not please or gratify any one at the expense of truth."
"No, of course not. You are such a high-principled girl, so different from many others. Then you think I might go and meet him this evening without sacrificing my dignity in any way?"
"Certainly."
"Oh, I'm so glad," exclaimed little Mrs. Talbot rapturously, nodding her "honorable" head with a beaming smile, "because I do so want to meet him, dear fellow! And I value your opinion, Flo, more highly than that of any other friend I possess. You are so solid, so thoughtful--such a dear thing altogether."
Florence takes no heed of this rodomontade, but sits quite still, with downcast eyes, tapping the small table near her with the tips of her slender fingers in a meditative fashion.
"The fact is," continues Dora, who is watching her closely, "I may as well let you into a little secret. Yesterday Sir Adrian and I had a tiny, oh, such a tiny little dispute, all about nothing, I assure you"--with a gay laugh--"but to us it seemed quite important. He said he was jealous of me. Now just fancy that, Flo; jealous of poor little me!"
"It is quite possible; you are pretty--most men admire you," Florence remarks coldly, still without raising her eyes.
"Ah, you flatter me, naughty girl! Well, silly as it sounds, he actually was jealous, and really gave me quite a scolding. It brought tears to my eyes, it upset me so. So, to tell the truth, we parted rather bad friends; and, to be revenged on me, I suppose, he rather neglected me for the remainder of the day."
Again Florence is silent, though her tormentor plainly waits for a lead from her before going on.
"You must have remarked," she continues presently, "how cold and reserved he was toward me when we were all together in that dreadful haunted chamber." Here she really shudders, in spite of herself. The cruel eyes of Arthur Dynecourt seem to be on her again, as they were in that ghostly room.
"I remarked nothing," responds Florence icily.
"No--really? Well, he was. Why, my dear Florence, you must have seen how he singled you out to be attentive to you, just to show me how offended he was."
"He did not seem offended with any one, and I thought him in particularly good spirits," replies Florence calmly.
Dora turns a delicate pink.
"Dear Adrian is such an excellent actor," she says sweetly, "and so proud; he will disguise his feelings, however keen they may be, from the knowledge of any one, no matter what the effort may cost him. Well, dearest, and so you positively advise me to keep this appointment with him?"
"I advise nothing. I merely say that I see nothing objectionable in your walking up and down the lime-walk with your host."
"How clearly you put it! Well, adieu, darling, for the present, and thank you a thousand times for all the time you have wasted on me. I assure you I am not worth it"--kissing her hand brightly.
For once she speaks the truth; she is not indeed worth one moment of the time Florence has been compelled to expend upon her; yet, when she has tripped out of the room, seemingly as free from guile as a light-hearted child, Miss Delmaine's thoughts still follow her, even against her inclination.
She has gone to meet him; no doubt to interchange tender words and vows with him; to forgive, to be forgiven, about some sweet bit of lover's folly, the dearer for its very foolishness. She listens for her footsteps as she returns along the corridor, dressed no doubt in her prettiest gown, decked out to make herself fair in his eyes.
An overwhelming desire to see how she has robed herself on this particular occasion induces Florence to go to the door and look after her as she descends the stairs. She just catches a glimpse of Dora as she turns the corner, and sees, to her surprise, that she is by no means daintily attired, but has thrown a plain dark water-proof over her dress, as though to hide it. Slightly surprised at this, Florence ponders it, and finally comes to the bitter conclusion that Dora is so sure of his devotion that she knows it is not necessary for her to bedeck herself in finery to please him. In his eyes of course she is lovely in any toilet.
Soon, soon she will be with him. How will they greet each other? Will he look into Dora's eyes as he used to look into hers not so very long ago? Arthur Dynecourt read her aright when he foresaw that she would be unable to repress the desire to follow Dora, and see for herself the meeting between her and Sir Adrian.
Hastily putting on a large Rubens hat, and twisting a soft piece of black lace round her neck, she runs down-stairs and, taking a different direction from that she knows Dora most likely pursued, she arrives by a side path at the lime-walk almost as soon as her cousin.
Afraid to venture too near, she obtains a view of the walk from a high position framed in by rhododendrons. Yes, now she can see Dora, and now she can see too, the man who comes eagerly to meet her. His face is slightly turned away from her, but the tall figure clad in the loose light overcoat is not to be mistaken. He advances quickly, and meets Dora with both hands outstretched. She appears to draw back a little, and then he seizes her hands, and, stooping, covers them with kisses.
A film seems to creep over Florence's eyes. With a stifled groan, she turns and flies homeward. Again in the privacy of her own room, and having turned the key securely in the lock to keep out all intruders, she flings herself upon her bed and cries as if her heart would break.
* * * * * Not until her return to her room does Dora remember that she did not get back the false letter from her cousin. In the heat of the conversation she had forgotten it, but now, a fear possessing her lest Florence should show it to any one, she runs upstairs and knocks at Miss Delmaine's door.
"Come in," calls Florence slowly.
It is three hours since she went for her unhappy walk to the lime-grove, and now she is composed again, and is waiting for the gong to sound before descending to the drawing-room, where she almost dreads the thought that she will be face to face with Sir Adrian. She is dressed for dinner, has indeed taken most particular pains with her toilet, if only to hide the ravages that these past three hours of bitter weeping have traced upon her beautiful face. She looks sad still, but calm and dignified.
Dora is dressed too, but is looking flurried and flushed.
"I beg your pardon," she says; "but my letter--the letter I showed you to-day--have you it?"
"No," replies Florence simply; "I thought I gave it back to you; but, if not, it must be here on this table"--lifting a book or two from the small gypsy-table near which she had been sitting when Dora came to her room early in the day.
Dora looks for it everywhere, in a somewhat nervous, frightened manner, Florence helping her the while; but nothing comes of their search, and they are fain to go down-stairs without it, as the gong sounding loudly tells them they are already late.
"Never mind," says Dora, afraid of having betrayed too much concern. "It is really of no consequence. I only wanted it, because--well, because"--with the simper that drives Florence nearly mad--"he wrote it."
"I shall tell my maid to look for it, and, if she finds it, you shall have it this evening," responds Florence, with a slight contraction of her brows that passes unnoticed.
To Florence's mortification, Arthur Dynecourt takes her in to dinner. On their way across the hall from the drawing-room to the dining-room, he presses the hand that rests so reluctantly upon his arm, and says, with an affectation of the sincerest concern-- "You are not well; you are looking pale and troubled, and--pardon me if I am wrong, but I think you have been crying."
"I must beg, sir," she retorts, with excessive _hauteur_, removing her hand from his arm, as though his pressure had burned her--"I must beg, you will not trouble yourself to study my countenance. Your doing so is most offensive to me."
"To see you in trouble, and not long to help or comfort you is impossible to me," goes on Dynecourt, unmoved by her scorn. "Are you still dwelling on the past--on what is irrevocable? Have you had fresh cause to remember it to-day?"
There is a gleam of malice in his eyes, but Florence, whose gaze is turned disdainfully away from him, fails to see it. She changes color indeed beneath his words, but makes him no reply, and, when they reach the dining-room, in a very marked manner she takes a seat far removed from his.
There is a sinister expression in his eyes and round his mouth as he notes this studied avoidance.
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{
"id": "16053"
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It is now "golden September," and a few days later. For the last fortnight Florence has been making strenuous efforts to leave the castle, but Dora would not hear of their departure, and Florence, feeling it will be selfish of her to cut short Dora's happy hours with her supposed lover, sighs, and gives in, and sacrifices her own wishes on the altar of friendship.
It is five o'clock, and all the men, gun in hand, have been out since early dawn. Now they are coming straggling home, in ones or twos. Amongst the first to return are Sir Adrian and his cousin Arthur Dynecourt, who, having met accidentally about a mile from home, have trudged the remainder of the way together.
On the previous night at dinner, Miss Delmaine had spoken of a small gold bangle, a favorite of hers, she was greatly in the habit of wearing. She said she had lost it--when or where she could not tell; and she expressed herself as being very grieved for its loss, and had laughingly declared she would give any reward claimed by any one who should restore it to her. Two or three men had, on the instant, pledged themselves to devote their lives to the search; but Adrian had said nothing. Nevertheless, the bangle and the reward remained in his mind all that night and all to-day. Now he can not refrain from speaking about it to the man he considers his rival.
"Odd thing about Miss Delmaine's bangle," he remarks carelessly.
"Very odd. I dare say her maid has put it somewhere and forgotten it."
"Hardly. One would not put a bracelet anywhere but in a jewel-case, or in a special drawer. She must have dropped it somewhere."
"I dare say; those Indian bangles are very liable to be rubbed off the wrist."
"But where? I have had the place searched high and low, and still no tidings of it can be found."
"There may have been since we left home this morning."
Just at this moment they come within full view of the old tower, and its strange rounded ivy-grown walls, and the little narrow holes in the sides they show at its highest point that indicate the position of the haunted chamber.
What is there at this moment in a mere glimpse of this old tower to make Arthur Dynecourt grow pale and to start so strangely? His eyes grow brighter, his lips tighten and grow hard.
"Do you remember," he says, turning to his cousin with all the air of one to whom a sudden inspiration has come, "that day on which we visited the haunted chamber? Miss Delmaine accompanied us, did she not?"
"Yes"--looking at him expectantly.
"Could she have dropped it there?" asks Arthur lightly. "By Jove, it would be odd if she had--eh? Uncanny sort of place to drop one's trinkets."
"It is strange I didn't think of it before," responds Adrian, evidently struck by the suggestion. "Why, it must have been just about that time when she lost it. The more I think of it the more convinced I feel that it must be there."
"Nonsense, my dear fellow; don't jump at conclusions so hastily! It is highly improbable. I should say that she dropped it anywhere else in the world."
"Well, I'll go and see, at all events," declares Adrian, unconvinced.
Is it some lingering remnant of grace, some vague human shrinking from the crime that has begun to form itself within his busy brain, that now induces Dynecourt to try to dissuade Sir Adrian from his declared intention to search the haunted chamber for the lost bangle? With all his eloquence he seeks to convince him that there the bangle could not have been left, but to no effect. His suggestion has taken firm root in Sir Adrian's mind, and at least, as he frankly says, though it may be useless to hunt for it in that uncanny chamber, it is worth a try. It may be there. This dim possibility drives him on to his fate.
"Well, if you go alone and unprotected, your blood be on your own head," says Dynecourt lightly, at last surrendering his position. "Remember, whatever happens, I advised you not to go!"
As Arthur finishes his speech a sinister smile overspreads his pale features, and a quick light, as evil as it is piercing, comes into his eyes. But Sir Adrian sees nothing of this. He is looking at his home, as it stands grand and majestic in the red light of the dying sun. He is looking, too, at the old tower, and at the upper portion of it, where the haunted chamber stands, and where he can see the long narrow holes that serve for windows. How little could a man imprisoned there see of the great busy world without!
"Yes, I'll remember," he says jestingly. "When the ghosts of my ancestors claim me as their victim, and incarcerate me in some fiendish dungeon, I shall remember your words and your advice."
"You don't mean to go there, of course?" asks Arthur carelessly, whilst watching the other with eager scrutiny. "It is quite a journey to that dismal hole, and it will be useless."
"Well, if it distresses you, consider I haven't gone," says Sir Adrian lightly.
"That is right," rejoins Arthur, still with his keen eyes fixed upon his cousin. "I knew you would abandon that foolish intention. I certainly shall consider you haven't gone."
They are at the hall door as these words pass Arthur's lips, and there they separate, Sir Adrian leaving him with a smile, and going away up the large hall whistling gayly.
When he has turned one corner, Arthur goes quickly after him, not with the intention of overtaking him, but of keeping him in view. Stealthily he follows, as though fearful of being seen.
There is no servant within sight. No friend comes across Sir Adrian's path. All is silent. The old house seems wrapped in slumber. Above, the pretty guests in their dainty tea-gowns are sipping Bohea and prattling scandal; below, the domestics are occupied in their household affairs.
Arthur, watching carefully, sees Sir Adrian go quickly up the broad front staircase, after which he turns aside, and, as though filled with guilty fear, rushes through one passage and another, until he arrives in the corridor that belongs to the servants' quarters.
Coming to a certain door, he opens it, not without some difficulty, and, moving into the dark landing that lies beyond it, looks around. To any casual observer it might seem strange that some of the cobwebs in this apparently long-forgotten place have lately been brushed away, as by a figure ascending or descending the gloomy staircase. To Arthur these signs bring no surprise, which proves that he, perhaps, has the best right to know whose figure brushed them aside.
Hurrying up the stairs, after closing the door carefully and noiselessly behind him, he reaches, after considerable mountings of what seem to be interminable steps, the upper door he had opened on the day they had visited the haunted chamber, when Ringwood and he had had a passage-at-arms about his curiosity.
Now he stands breathing heavily outside this door, wrapped in the dismal darkness of the staircase, listening intently, as it were, for the coming of a footstep.
In the meantime, Sir Adrian, not dissuaded from his determination to search the tower for the missing bangle, runs gayly up the grand staircase, traverses the corridors and galleries, and finally comes to the first of the iron-bound doors. Opening it, he stands upon the landing that leads to the other door by means of the small stone staircase. Here he pauses.
Is it some vague shadowy sense of danger that makes him stand now as though hesitating? A quick shiver rune through his veins.
"How cold it is," he says to himself, "even on this hot day, up in this melancholy place!" Yet, he is quite unconscious of the ears that are listening for his lightest movement, of the wicked eyes that are watching him through a chink in the opposite door!
Now he steps forward again, and, mounting the last flight of stairs, opens the fatal door and looks into the room. Even now it occurs to him how unpleasant might be the consequences should the door close and the secret lock fasten him in against his will. He pushes the door well open, and holds it so, and then tries whether it can fall to again of its own accord, and so make a prisoner of him.
No; it stands quite open, immovable apparently, and so, convinced that he is safe enough, he commences his search. Then, swift as lightning, a form darts from its concealed position, rushes up the stone staircase, and, stealthily creeping still nearer, glances into the room.
Sir Adrian's back is turned; he is stooping, looking in every corner for the missing prize. He sees nothing, hears nothing, though a treacherous form crouching on the threshold is making ready to seal his doom.
Arthur Dynecourt, putting forth his hand, which neither trembles nor falters on its deadly mission, silently lays hold of the door, and, drawing it toward him, the secret lock clicks sharply, and separates his victim from the world!
Stealthily even now--his evil deed accomplished--Arthur Dynecourt retreats down the stairs, and never indeed relaxes his speed until at length he stands panting, but relentless, in the servants' corridor again.
Remorse he knows not. But a certain sense of fear holds him irresolute, making his limbs tremble and bringing out cold dews upon his brow. His rival is safely secured, out of all harm's way as far as he is concerned. No human being saw him go to the ill-fated tower; no human voice heard him declare his intention of searching it for the missing trinket. He--Arthur--had been careful before parting from him to express his settled belief that Sir Adrian would not go to the haunted chamber, and therefore he feels prepared to defend his case successfully, even should the baronet be lucky enough to find a deliverer.
Yet he is not quite easy in his mind. Fear of discovery, fear of Sir Adrian's displeasure, fear of the world, fear of the rope that already seems to dangle in red lines before his eyes render him the veriest coward that walks the earth. Shall he return and release his prisoner, and treat the whole thing as a joke, and so leave Adrian free to dispense his bounty at the castle, to entertain in his lavish fashion, to secure the woman upon whom he--Arthur--has set his heart for his bride?
No; a thousand times no! A few short days, and all will belong to Arthur Dynecourt. He will be "Sir Arthur" then, and the bride he covets will be unable to resist the temptations of a title, and the chance of being mistress of the stately old pile that will call him master. Let Sir Adrian die then in his distant garret alone, despairing, undiscoverable! For who will think of going to the haunted room in search of him? Who will even guess that any mission, however important, would lead him to it, without having first mentioned it to some one? It is a grewsome spot, seldom visited and gladly forgotten; and, indeed, what possibly could there be in its bare walls and its blood-stained floor to attract any one? No; surely it is the last place to suspect any one would go to without a definite purpose; and what purpose could Sir Adrian have for going there?
So far Arthur feels himself safe. He turns away, and joins the women and the returned sportsmen in the upper drawing-room.
"Where is Dynecourt?" asks somebody a little later. Arthur, though he hears the question, does not even change color, but calmly, with a steady hand, gives Florence her tea.
"Yes; where is Sir Adrian?" asks Mrs. Talbot, glancing up at the speaker.
"He left us about an hour ago," Captain Ringwood answers. "He said he'd prefer walking home, and he shoveled his birds into our cart, and left us without another word. He'll turn up presently, no doubt."
"Dear me, I hope nothing has happened to him!" says Ethel Villiers, who is sitting in a window through which the rays of the evening sun are stealing, turning her auburn locks to threads of rich red gold.
"I hope not, I'm sure," interposes Arthur, quite feelingly. "It does seem odd he hasn't come in before this." Then, true to his determination to so arrange matters that, if discovery ensues upon his scheme, he may still find for himself a path out of his difficulties, he says quietly, "I met him about a mile from home, and walked here with him. We parted at the hall-door; I dare say he is in the library or the stables."
"Good gracious, why didn't you say so before?" exclaims old Lady FitzAlmont in a querulous tone. "I quite began to believe the poor boy had blown out his brains through disappointed love, or something equally objectionable."
Both Dora and Florence color warmly at this. The old lady herself is free to speak as she thinks of Sir Adrian, having no designs upon him for Lady Gertrude, that young lady being engaged to a very distinguished and titled botanist, now hunting for ferns in the West Indies.
"Markham," says Mrs. Talbot to a footman who enters at this moment, "go to the library and tell Sir Adrian his tea is waiting for him."
"Yes, ma'am."
But presently Markham returns and says Sir Adrian is not in the library.
"Then try the stables, try everywhere," says Dora somewhat impatiently.
Markham, having tried everywhere, brings back the same answer; Sir Adrian apparently is not to be found!
"Most extraordinary," remarks Lady FitzAlmont, fanning herself. "As a rule I have noticed that Adrian is most punctual. I do hope my first impression was not the right one, and that we sha'n't find him presently with his throat cut and wallowing in his blood on account of some silly young woman!"
"Dear mamma," interposes Lady Gertrude, laughing, "what a terribly old-fashioned surmise! No man nowadays kills himself for a false love; he only goes and gets another."
But, when the dinner-hour arrives, and no host presents himself to lead Lady FitzAlmont into dinner, a great fear falls upon all the guests save one, and confusion and dismay, and anxious conjecture reign supreme.
|
{
"id": "16053"
}
|
9
|
None
|
The night passes; the next day dawns, deepens, grows into noon, and still nothing happens to relieve the terrible anxiety that is felt by all within the castle as to the fate of its missing master. They weary themselves out wondering, idly but incessantly, what can have become of him.
The second day comes and goes, so does the third and the fourth, the fifth and the sixth, and then the seventh dawns.
Florence Delmaine, who has been half-distracted with conflicting fears and emotions, and who has been sitting in her room apart from the others, with her head bent down and resting on her hands, suddenly raising her eyes, sees Dora standing before her.
The widow is looking haggard and hollow-eyed. All her dainty freshness has gone, and she now looks in years what in reality she is, close on thirty-five. Her lips are pale and drooping, her cheeks colorless; her whole air is suggestive of deep depression, the result of sleepless nights and days filled with grief and suspense of the most poignant nature.
"Alas, how well she loves him too!" thinks Florence, contemplating her in silence. Dora, advancing, lays her hand upon the table near Florence, and says, in a hurried impassioned tone-- "Oh, Florence, what has become of him? What has been done to him? I have tried to hide my terrible anxiety for the past two miserable days, but now I feel I must speak to some one or go mad!"
She smites her hands together, and, sinking into a chair, looks as if she is going to faint. Florence, greatly alarmed, rises from her chair, and, running to her, places her arm around her as though to support her. But Dora repulses her almost roughly and motions her away.
"Do not touch me!" she cries hoarsely. "Do not come near me; you, of all people, should be the last to come to my assistance! Besides, I am not here to talk about myself, but of him. Florence, have you any suspicion?"
Dora leans forward and looks scrutinizingly at her cousin, as though fearing, yet hoping to get an answer in the affirmative. But Florence shakes her head.
"I have no suspicion--none," she answers sadly. "If I had should I not act upon it, whatever it might cost me?"
"Would you," asks Dora eagerly, as though impressed by her companion's words--"whatever it might cost you?"
Her manner is so strange that Florence pauses before replying.
"Yes," she says at last. "No earthly consideration should keep me from using any knowledge I might by accident or otherwise become possessed of to lay bare this mystery. Dora," she cries suddenly, "if you know anything, I implore, I entreat you to say so."
"What should I know?" responds the widow, recoiling.
"You loved him too," says Florence piteously, now more than ever convinced that Dora is keeping something hidden from her. "For the sake of that love, disclose anything you may know about this awful matter."
"I dare not speak openly," replies the widow, growing even a shade paler, "because my suspicion is of the barest character, and may be altogether wrong. Yet there are moments when some hidden instinct within my breast whispers to me that I am on the right track."
"If so," murmurs Florence, falling upon her knees before her, "do not hesitate; follow up this instinctive feeling, and who knows but something may come of it! Dora, do not delay. Soon, soon--if not already--it may be too late. Alas," she cries, bursting into bitter tears, "what do I say? Is it not too late even now? What hope can there be after six long days, and no tidings?"
"I will do what I can, I am resolved," declares Dora, rising abruptly to her feet. "If too late to do any good, it may not be too late to wring the truth from him, and bring the murderer to justice."
"From him? From whom--what murderer?" exclaims Florence, in a voice of horror. "Dora, what are you saying?"
"Never mind. Let me go now; and to-night--this evening let me come to you here again, and tell you the result of what I am now about to do."
She quits the room as silently as she entered it, and Florence, sinking back in her chair, gives herself up to the excitement and amazement that are overpowering her. There is something else, too, in her thoughts that is puzzling and perplexing her; in all Dora's manner there was nothing that would lead her to think she loved Sir Adrian: there was fear, and a desire for revenge in it, but none of the despair of a loving woman who has lost the man to whom she has given her heart.
Florence is still pondering these things, while Dora, going swiftly down-stairs, turns into the side hall, glancing into library and rooms as she goes along, plainly in search of something or some one.
At last her search is successful; in a small room she finds Arthur Dynecourt apparently reading, as he sits in a large arm-chair, with his eyes fixed intently upon the book in his hand. Seeing her, he closes the volume, and, throwing it from him, says carelessly: "Pshaw--what contemptible trash they write nowadays!"
"How can you sit here calmly reading," exclaims Dora vehemently, "when we are all so distressed in mind! But I forgot"--with a meaning glance--"you gain by his death; we do not."
"No, you lose," he retorts coolly. "Though, after all, even had things been different, I can't say I think you had much chance at any time."
He smiles insolently at her as he says this. But she pays no heed either to his words or his smile. Her whole soul seems wrapped in one thought, and at last she gives expression to it.
"What have you done with him?" she breaks forth, advancing toward him, as though to compel him to give her an answer to the question that has been torturing her for days past.
"With whom?" he asks coldly. Yet there is a forbidding gleam in his eyes that should have warned her to forbear.
"With Sir Adrian--with your rival, with the man you hate," she cries, her breath coming in little irrepressible gasps. "Dynecourt, I adjure you to speak the truth, and say what has become of him."
"You rave," he says calmly, lifting his eyebrows just a shade, as though in pity for her foolish excitement. "I confess the man was no favorite of mine, and that I can not help being glad of this chance that has presented itself in his extraordinary disappearance of my inheriting his place and title; but really, my dear creature, I know as little of what has become of him, as--I presume--you do yourself."
"You lie!" cries Dora, losing all control over herself. "You have murdered him, to get him out of your path. His death lies at your door."
She points her finger at him as though in condemnation as she utters these words, but still he does not flinch.
"They will take you for a Bedlamite," he says, with a sneering laugh, "if you conduct yourself like this. Where are your proofs that I am the cold-blooded ruffian you think me?"
"I have none"--in a despairing tone. "But I shall make it the business of my life to find them."
"You had better devote your time to some other purpose," he exclaims savagely, laying his hand upon her wrist with an amount of force that leaves a red mark upon the delicate flesh. "Do you hear me? You must be mad to go on like this to me. I know nothing of Adrian, but I know a good deal of your designing conduct, and your wild jealousy of Florence Delmaine. All the world saw how devoted he was to her, and--mark what I say--there have been instances of a jealous woman killing the man she loved, rather than see him in the arms of another."
"Demon!" shrieks Dora, recoiling from him. "You would fix the crime on me?"
"Why not? I think the whole case tells terribly against you. Hitherto I have spared you, I have refrained from hinting even at the fact that your jealousy had been aroused of late; but your conduct of to-day, and the wily manner in which you have sought to accuse me of being implicated in this unfortunate mystery connected with my unhappy cousin, have made me regret my forbearance. Be warned in time, cease to persecute me about this matter, or--wretched woman that you are--I shall certainly make it my business to investigate the entire matter, and bring you to justice!"
He speaks with such an air of truth, of thorough belief in her guilt, that Dora is dazed, bewildered, and, falling back from him, covers her face with her hands. The fear of publicity, of having her late intrigue brought into the glare of day, fills her with consternation. And then, what will she gain by it? Nothing; she has no evidence on which to convict this man; all is mere supposition. She bitterly feels the weakness of her position, and her inability to follow up her accusation.
"Ah, how like a guilty creature you stand there!" exclaims Dynecourt, regarding her bowed and trembling figure. "I see plainly that this must be looked into. Miserable woman! If you know aught of my cousin, you had better declare it now."
"Traitor!" cries Dora, raising her pale face and looking at him with horror and defiance. "You triumph now, because, as yet, I have no evidence to support my belief, but"--she hesitates.
"Ah, brazen it out to the last!" says Dynecourt insolently. "Defy me while you can. To-day I shall set the blood-hounds of the law upon your track, so beware--beware!"
"You refuse to tell me anything?" exclaims Dora, ignoring his words, and treating them as though they are unheard. "So much the worse for you."
She turns from him, and leaves the room as she finishes speaking; but, though her words have been defiant there is no kindred feeling in her heart to bear her up.
When the door closes between them, the flush dies out of her face, and she looks even more wan and hopeless than she did before seeking his presence. She can not deny to herself that her mission has been a failure. He has openly scoffed at her threats, and she is aware that she has not a shred of actual evidence wherewith to support her suspicion; the bravado with which he has sought to turn the tables upon herself both frightens and disheartens her, and now she confesses to herself that she knows not where to turn for counsel.
|
{
"id": "16053"
}
|
10
|
None
|
In the meantime the daylight dwindles, and twilight descends. Even that too departs, and now darkness falls upon the distressed household, and still there is no news of Sir Adrian.
Arthur Dynecourt, who is already beginning to be treated with due respect as the next heir to the baronetcy, has quietly hinted to old Lady FitzAlmont that perhaps it will be as well, in the extraordinary circumstances, if they all take their departure. This the old lady, though strongly disinclined to quit the castle, is debating in her own mind, and, being swayed by Lady Gertrude, who is secretly rather bored by the dullness that has ensued on the strange absence of their host, decides to leave on the morrow, to the great distress of both Dora and Florence Delmaine, who shrink from deserting the castle while its master's fate is undecided. But they are also sensible that, to remain the only female guests, would be to outrage the conventionalities.
Henry Villiers, Ethel's father, is also of opinion that they should all quit the castle without delay. He is a hunting man, an M.F.H. in his own county, and is naturally anxious to get back to his own quarters some time before the hunting-season commences. Some others have already gone, and altogether it seems to Florence that there is no other course open to her but to pack up and desert him, whom she loves, in the hour of his direst need. For there are moments even now when she tells herself that he is still living, and only waiting for a saving hand to drag him into smooth waters once again!
A silence has fallen upon the house more melancholy than the loudest expression of grief. The servants are conversing over their supper in frightened whispers, and conjecturing moodily as to the fate of their late master. To them Sir Adrian is indeed dead, if not buried.
In the servants' corridor a strange dull light is being flung upon the polished boards by a hanging-lamp that is burning dimly, as though oppressed by the dire evil that has fallen upon the old castle. No sound is to be heard here in this spot, remote from the rest of the house, where the servants seldom come except to go to bed, and never indeed without an inward shudder as they pass the door that leads to the haunted chamber.
Just now, being at their supper, there is no fear that any of them will be about, and so the dimly lighted corridor is wrapped in an unbroken silence. Not quite unbroken, however. What is this that strikes upon the ear? What sound comes to break the unearthly stillness? A creeping footstep, a cautious tread, a slinking, halting, uncertain motion, belonging surely to some one who sees an enemy, a spy in every flitting shadow. Nearer and nearer it comes now into the fuller glare of the lamp-light, and stops short at the door so dreaded by the castle servants.
Looking uneasily around him, Arthur Dynecourt--for it is he--unfastens this door, and, entering hastily, closes it firmly behind him, and ascends the staircase within. There is no halting in his footsteps now, no uncertainty, no caution, only a haste that betokens a desire to get his errand over as quickly as possible.
Having gained the first landing, he walks slowly and on tiptoe again, and, creeping up the stone stairs, crouches down so as to bring his ear on a level with the lower chink of the door.
Alas, all is still; no faintest groan can be heard! The silence of Death is on all around. In spite of his hardihood, the cold sweat of fear breaks out upon Dynecourt's brow; and yet he tells himself that now he is satisfied, all is well, his victim is secure, is beyond the power of words or kindly search to recall him to life. He may be discovered now as soon as they like. Who can fix the fact of his death upon him? There is no blow, no mark of violence to criminate any one. He is safe, and all the wealth he had so coveted is at last his own!
There is something fiendish in the look of exultation that lights Arthur Dynecourt's face. He has a small dull lantern with him, and now it reveals the vile glance of triumph that fires his eyes. He would fain have entered to gaze upon his victim, to assure himself of his victory, but he refrains. A deadly fear that he may not yet be quite dead keeps him back, and, with a frown, he prepares to descend once more.
Again he listens, but the sullen roar of the rising night wind is all that can be heard. His hand shakes, his face assumes a livid hue, yet he tells himself that surely this deadly silence is better than what he listened to last night. Then a ghostly moaning, almost incessant and unearthly in its sound, had pierced his brain. It was more like the cry of a dying brute than that of a man. Sir Adrian slowly starved to death! In his own mind Arthur can see him now, worn, emaciated, lost to all likeness of anything fair or comely. Have the rats attacked him yet? As this grewsome thought presents itself, Dynecourt rises quickly from his crouching position, and, flying down the steps, does not stop running until he arrives in the corridor below again.
He dashes into this like one possessed; but, finding himself in the light of the hanging lamp, collects himself by a violent effort, and looks around.
Yes, all is still. No living form but his is near. The corridor, as he glances affrightedly up and down, is empty. He can see nothing but his own shadow, at sight of which he starts and turns pale and shudders.
The next moment he recovers himself, and, muttering an anathema upon his cowardice, he moves noiselessly toward his room and the brandy-bottle that has been his constant companion of late.
Yet, here in his own room, he can not rest. The hours go by with laggard steps. Midnight has struck, and still he paces his floor from wall to wall, half-maddened by his thoughts. Not that he relents. No feelings of repentance stir him, there is only a nervous dread of the hour when it will be necessary to produce the dead body, if only to prove his claim to the title so dearly and so infamously purchased.
Is he indeed dead--gone past recall? Is this house, this place, the old title, the chance of winning the woman he would have, all his own? Is his hated rival--hateful to him only because of his fair face and genial manners and lovable disposition, and the esteem with which he filled the hearts of all who knew him--actually swept out of his path?
Again the lurking morbid longing to view the body with his own eyes, the longing that had been his some hours ago when listening at the fatal door, seizes hold of him, and grows in intensity with every passing moment.
At last it conquers him. Lighting a candle, he opens his door and peers out. No one is astir. In all probability every one is abed, and now sleeping the sleep of the just--all except him. Will there ever be any rest or dreamless sleep for him again?
He goes softly down-stairs, and makes his way to the lower door. Meeting no one, he ascends the stairs like one only half conscious, until he finds himself again before the door of the haunted chamber.
Then he wakes into sudden life. An awful terror takes possession of him. He struggles with himself, and presently so far succeeds in regaining some degree of composure that he can lean against the wall and wipe his forehead, and vow to himself that he will never descend until he has accomplished the object of his visit. But the result of this terrible fight with fear and conscience shows itself in the increasing pallor of his brow and the cold perspiration that stands thick upon his forehead.
Nerving himself for a final effort, he lays his hand upon the door and pushes it open. This he does with bowed head and eyes averted, afraid to look upon his terrible work. A silence, more horrible to his guilty conscience than the most appalling noises, follows this act; and, again the nameless terror seizing him, he shudders and draws back, until, finding the wall behind him, he leans against it gladly, as if for support.
And now at last he raises his eyes. Slowly at first and cringingly, as if dreading what they might see. Upon the board at his feet they rest for a moment, and then glide to the next board, and so on, until his coward eyes have covered a considerable portion of the floor.
And now, grown bolder, he lifts his gaze to the wall opposite and searches it carefully. Then his eyes turn again to the floor. His face ghastly, and with his eyes almost darting from their sockets, he compels himself to bring his awful investigation to an end. Avoiding the corners at first, as though there he expects his vile deed will cry aloud to him demanding vengeance, he gazes in a dazed way at the center of the apartment, and dwells upon it stupidly, until he knows he must look further still; and then his dull eyes turn to the corners where the dusky shadows lie, brought thither by the glare of his small lantern. Reluctantly, but carefully, he scans the apartment, no remotest spot escapes his roused attention. But no object, dead or living, attracts his notice! The room is empty!
He staggers. His hold upon the door relaxes. His lamp falls to the ground; the door closes with a soft but deadly thud behind him, and--he is a prisoner in the haunted chamber! As the darkness closes in upon him, and he finds himself alone with what he hardly dares to contemplate, his senses grow confused, his brain reels; a fearful scream issues from his lips, and he falls to the floor insensible.
|
{
"id": "16053"
}
|
11
|
None
|
Dora, after her interview with Arthur Dynecourt, feels indeed that all is lost. Hope is abandoned--nothing remains but despair; and in this instance despair gains in poignancy by the knowledge that she believes she knows the man who could help them to a solution of their troubles if he would or dared. No; clearly he dare not! Therefore, no assistance can be looked for from him.
Dinner at the castle has been a promiscuous sort of entertainment for the past three or four days, so Dora feels no compunction in declining to go to it. In her own room she sits brooding miserably over her inability to be of any use in the present crisis, when she suddenly remembers that she had promised in the afternoon when with Florence to give her, later on, an account of her effort to obtain the truth about this mystery which is harrowing them.
It is now eleven o'clock, and Dora decides that she must see Florence at once. Rising, wearily, she is about to cross the corridor to her cousin's room, when, the door opening, she sees Florence, with a face pale and agitated, coming toward her.
"You, Florence!" she exclaims. "I was just going to you, to tell you that my hopes of this afternoon are all--" "Let me speak," interrupts Florence breathlessly. "I must, or--" She sinks into a chair, her eyes close, and involuntarily she lays her hand upon her heart as if to allay its tumultuous beating.
Dora, really alarmed, rushing to her dressing-case, seizes upon a flask of eau-de-Cologne, and flings some of its contents freely over the fainting girl. Florence, with a sigh, rouses herself, and sits upright.
"There is no time to lose," she says confusedly. "Oh, Dora!" Here she breaks down and bursts into tears.
"Try to compose yourself," entreats Dora, seeing the girl has some important news to impart, but is so nervous and unstrung as to be almost incapable of speaking with any coherence. But presently Florence grows calmer, and then, her voice becoming clear and full, she is able to unburden her heart.
"All this day I have been oppressed by a curious restlessness," she says to Dora; "and, when you left me this afternoon, your vague promises of being able to elucidate the terrible secret that is weighing us down made me even more unsettled. I did not go down to dinner--" "Neither did I," puts in Mrs. Talbot sympathetically.
"I wandered up and down my room for at least two hours, thinking always, and waiting for the moment when you would return, according to promise, and tell me the success of your hidden enterprise. You did not come, and at half past nine, unable to stay any longer in my own room with only my own thoughts for company, I opened my door, and, listening intently, found by the deep silence that reigned throughout the house that almost every one was gone, if not to bed, at least to their own rooms."
"Lady FitzAlmont and Gertrude passed to their rooms about an hour ago," says Dora. "But some of the men, I think, are still in the smoking-room."
"I did not think of them. I stole from my room, and roamed idly through the halls. Suddenly a great--I can not help thinking now a supernaturally strong--desire to go into the servants' corridor took possession of me. Without allowing myself an instant's hesitation, I turned in its direction, and walked on until I reached it."
She pauses here, and draws her breath rapidly.
"Go on," entreats Dora impatiently.
"The lamp was burning very dimly. The servants were all down-stairs--at their supper, I suppose--because there was no trace of them anywhere. Not a sound could be heard. The whole place looked melancholy and deserted, and filled me with a sense of awe I could not overcome. Still it attracted me. I lingered there, walking up and down until its very monotony wearied me; even then I was loath to leave it, and, turning into a small sitting-room, I stood staring idly around me. At last, somewhere in the distance I heard a clock strike ten, and, turning, I decided on going back once more to my room."
Again, emotion overcoming her, Florence pauses, and leans back in her chair.
"Well, but what is there in all this to terrify you so much?" demands her cousin, somewhat bewildered.
"Ah, give me time! Now I am coming to it," replies Florence quickly. "You know the large screen that stands in the corridor just outside the sitting-room I have mentioned--put there, I imagined to break the draught? Well, I had come out of the room and was standing half-hidden by this screen, when I saw something that paralyzed me with fear."
She rises to her feet and grows deadly pale as she says this, as though the sensation of fear she has been describing has come to her again.
"You saw--?" prompts Dora, rising too, and trembling violently, as though in expectation of some fatal tidings.
"I saw the door of the room that leads to the haunted chamber slowly move. It opened; the door that has been locked for nearly fifty years, and that has filled the breasts of all the servants here with terror and dismay, was cautiously thrown open! A scream rose to my lips, but I was either too terrified to give utterance to it, or else some strong determination to know what would follow restrained me, and I stood silent, like one turned into stone. I had instinctively moved back a step or two, and was now completely hidden from sight, though I could see all that was passing in the corridor through a hole in the framework of the screen. At last a figure came with hesitating footsteps from behind the door into the full glare of the flickering lamp. I could see him distinctly. It was--" "Arthur Dynecourt!" cries the widow, covering her ghastly face with her hands.
Florence regards her with surprise.
"It was," she says at last. "But how did you guess it?"
"I knew it," cries Dora frantically. "He has murdered him, he has hidden his body away in that forgotten chamber. He was gloating over his victim, no doubt, just before you saw him, stealing down from a secret visit to the scene of his crime."
"Dora," exclaims Florence, grasping her arm, "if he should not have murdered him after all, if he should only have secured him there, holding him prisoner until he should see his way more clearly to getting rid of him! If this idea be the correct one, we may yet be in time to save, to rescue him!"
The agitation of the past hours proving now too much for her, Florence bursts into tears and sobs wildly.
"Alas, I dare not believe in any such hope!" says Dora. "I know that man too well to think him capable of showing any mercy."
"And yet 'that man,' as you call him, you would once have earnestly recommended to me as a husband!" returns Florence, sternly.
"Do not reproach me now," exclaims Dora; "later on you shall say to me all that you wish, but now moments are precious."
"You are right. Something must be done. Shall I--shall I speak to Mr. Villiers?"
"I hardly know what to advise"--distractedly. "If we give our suspicions publicity, Arthur Dynecourt may even yet find time and opportunity to baffle and disappoint us. Besides which, we may be wrong. He may have had nothing to do with it, and--" "At that rate, if secrecy is to be our first thought, let you and me go alone in search of Sir Adrian."
"Alone, and at this hour, to that awful room!" exclaims Dora, recoiling from her.
"Yes, at once"--firmly--"without another moment's delay."
"Oh, I can not!" declares Dora, shuddering violently.
"Then I shall go alone!"
As Florence says this, she takes up her candlestick and moves quickly toward the door.
"Stay, I will go," cries Dora, trembling. But a slight interruption occurring at this instant, they are compelled to wait for awhile.
Ethel Villiers, coming into the room to make her parting adieus to Mrs. Talbot, as she and her father intend leaving next morning, gazes anxiously from Florence to Dora, seeing plainly that there is something amiss.
"What is it?" she asks kindly, going up to Florence.
Miss Delmaine, after a little hesitation, encouraged by a glance at Dora's terrified countenance, determines on taking the new-comer into their confidence.
In a few words she explains all that has taken place, and their suspicions. Ethel, though paling beneath the horror and surprise occasioned by the recital, does not lose her self-possession.
"I will go with you," she volunteers. "But, let me say," she adds, "that I think you are wrong in making this search without a man. If--if indeed we are still in time to be of any use to poor Sir Adrian--always supposing he really is secreted in that terrible room--I do not think any of us would be strong enough to help him down the stairs, and, if he has been slowly starving all this time, think how weak he will be!"
"Oh, what a wretched picture you conjure up!" exclaims Florence, nervously clasping her hands. "But you are right, and now tell me who you think can best be depended upon in this crisis."
"I am sure," says Ethel, blushing slightly, but speaking with intense earnestness, "that, if you would not mind trusting Captain Ringwood, he would be both safe and useful."
As this suggestion meets with approval, they manage to convey a message to the captain, and in a very few minutes he is with them, and is made acquainted with their hopes and fears.
Silently, cautiously, without any light, but carrying two small lamps ready for ignition, they go down to the corridor where is the door that leads to the secret staircase.
Turning the handle of this door, Captain Ringwood discovers that it is locked, but, nothing daunted, he pulls it so violently backward and forward that the lock, rusty with age, gives way, and leaves the passage beyond open to them.
Going into the small landing at the foot of the staircase, they close the door carefully behind them, and then, Captain Ringwood producing some matches, they light the two lamps and go swiftly, with anxiously beating hearts, up the stairs.
The second door is reached, and now nothing remains but to mount the last flight of steps and open the fatal door.
Their hearts at this trying moment almost fail them. They look into one another's blanched faces, and look there in vain for hope. At last Ringwood, touching Ethel's arm, says, in a whisper-- "Come, have courage--all may yet be well!"
He moves toward the stone steps, and they follow him. Quickly mounting them, he lays his hand upon the door, and, afraid to give them any more time for reflection or dread of what may yet be in store for them, throws it open.
At first the feeble light from their lamps fails to penetrate the darkness of the gloomy apartment. At the cursory glance, such as they at first cast round the room, it appears to be empty. Their hearts sink within them. Have they indeed hoped in vain!
Dora is crying bitterly; Ethel, with her eyes fixed upon Ringwood, is reading her own disappointment in his face, when suddenly a piercing cry from Florence wakes the echoes round them.
She has darted forward, and is kneeling over something that even now is only barely discernible to the others as they come nearer to it. It looks like a bundle of clothes, but, as they stoop over it, they, too, can see that it is in reality a human body, and apparently rigid in death.
But the shriek that has sprung from the very soul of Florence has reached some still living fibers in the brain of this forlorn creature. Slowly and with difficulty he raises his head, and opens a pair of fast-glazing eyes. Mechanically his glance falls upon Florence. His lips move; a melancholy smile struggles to show itself upon his parched and blackened lips.
"Florence," he rather sighs than says, and falls back, to all appearance, dead.
"He is not dead!" cries Florence passionately. "He can not be! Oh, save him, save him! Adrian, look up--speak to me! Oh, Adrian, make some sign that you can hear me!"
But he makes no sign. His very breath seems to have left him. Gathering him tenderly in her arms, Florence presses his worn and wasted face against her bosom, and pushes back the hair from his forehead. He is so completely altered, so thorough a wreck has he become, that it is indeed only the eyes of love that could recognize him. His cheeks have fallen in, and deep hollows show themselves. His beard has grown, and is now rough and stubbly; his hair is uncombed, the lines of want, despair, and cruel starvation have blotted out all the old fairness of his features. His clothes are hanging loosely about him; his hands, limp and nerveless, are lying by his side. Who shall tell what agony he suffered during these past lonely days with death--an awful, creeping, gnawing death staring him in the face?
A deadly silence has fallen upon the little group now gazing solemnly down upon his quiet form. Florence, holding him closely to her heart, is gently rocking him to and fro, as though she will not be dissuaded that he still lives.
At length Captain Ringwood, stooping pitifully over her, loosens her hold so far as to enable him to lay his hand upon Adrian's heart. After a moment, during which they all watch him closely, he starts, and, looking still closer into the face that a second ago he believed dead, he says, with subdued but deep excitement-- "There may yet be time! He breathes--his heart beats! Who will help me to carry him out of this dungeon?"
He shudders as he glances round him.
"I will," replies Florence calmly.
These words of hope have steadied her and braced her nerves. Ethel and Mrs. Talbot, carrying the lamps, go on before, while Ringwood and Florence, having lifted the senseless body of Adrian, now indeed sufficiently light to be an easy burden, follow them.
Reaching the corridor, they cross it hurriedly, and carrying Adrian up a back staircase that leads to Captain Ringwood's room by a circuitous route, they gain it without encountering a single soul, and lay him gently down on Ringwood's bed, almost at the very moment that midnight chimes from the old tower, and only a few minutes before Arthur Dynecourt steals from his chamber to make that last visit to his supposed victim.
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{
"id": "16053"
}
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12
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None
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Slowly and with difficulty they coax Sir Adrian back to life. Ringwood had insisted upon telling the old housekeeper at the castle, who had been in the family for years, the whole story of her master's rescue, and she, with tears dropping down her withered cheeks, had helped Ringwood to remove his clothes and make him comfortable. She had also sat beside him while the captain, stealing out of the house like a thief, had galloped down to the village for the doctor, whom he had smuggled into the house without awaking any of the servants.
This caution and secrecy had been decided upon for one powerful reason. If Arthur Dynecourt should prove guilty of being the author of his cousin's incarceration, they were quite determined he should not escape whatever punishment the law allowed. But the mystery could not be quite cleared up until Sir Adrian's return to consciousness, when they hoped to have some light thrown upon the matter from his own lips.
In the meantime, should Arthur hear of his cousin's rescue, and know himself to be guilty of this dastardly attempt to murder, would he not take steps to escape before the law should lay its iron grasp upon him? All four conspirators are too ignorant of the power of the law to know whether it would be justifiable in the present circumstances to place him under arrest, or decide on waiting until Sir Adrian himself shall be able to pronounce either his doom or his exculpation.
The doctor stays all night, and administers to the exhausted man, as often as he dares, the nourishment and good things provided by the old housekeeper.
When the morning is far advanced, Adrian, waking from a short but refreshing slumber, looks anxiously around him. Florence, seeing this, steps aside, as though to make way for Dora to go closer to him. But Mrs. Talbot, covering her face with her hands, turns aside and sinks into a chair.
Florence, much bewildered by this strange conduct, stands irresolute beside the bed, hardly knowing what to do. Again she glances at the prostrate man, and sees his eyes resting upon her with an expression in them that makes her heart beat rapidly with sweet but sad recollections.
Then a faint voice falls upon her ear. It is so weak that she is obliged to stoop over him to catch what he is trying to say.
"Darling, I owe you my life!"
With great feebleness he utters these words, accompanying them with a glance of utter devotion. How can she mistake this glance, so full of love and rapture? Perplexed in the extreme, she turns from him, as though to leave him, but by a gesture he detains her.
"Do not leave me! Stay with me!" he entreats.
Once again, deeply distressed, she looks at Dora. Mrs. Talbot, rising, says distinctly, but with a shamefaced expression-- "Do as he asks you. Believe me, by his side is your proper place, not mine."
Saying this, she glides quickly from the room, and does not appear again for several hours.
By luncheon-time it occurs to the guests that Arthur Dynecourt has not been seen since last evening.
Ringwood, carrying this news to the sick-room, the little rescuing party and their auxiliaries, the nurse and doctor, lay their heads together, and decide that, doubtless, having discovered the escape of his prisoner, and, dreading arrest, Arthur has quietly taken himself off, and so avoided the trial and punishment which would otherwise have fallen upon him.
Ringwood is now of opinion that they have acted unwisely in concealing the discovery of Sir Adrian in the haunted chamber. By not speaking to the others, they have given Dynecourt the opportunity of getting away safely, and without causing suspicion.
"Is it not an almost conclusive proof of his guilt, his running away in this cowardly fashion?" says Ethel Villiers. "I think papa and Lady FitzAlmont and everybody should now be told."
So Ringwood, undertaking the office of tale-bearer, goes down-stairs, and, bringing together all the people still remaining in the house, astounds them by his revelation of the discovery and release of Sir Adrian.
The nearest magistrate is sent for, and the case being laid before him, together with the still further evidence given by Sir Adrian himself, who has told them in a weak whisper of Arthur's being privy to his intention of searching the haunted chamber for Florence's bangle on that memorable day of his disappearance, the magistrate issues a warrant for the arrest of Arthur Dynecourt.
But it is all in vain; even though two of the cleverest detectives from Scotland Yard are pressed into the service, no tidings of Arthur Dynecourt come to light. A man answering to his description, but wearing spectacles, had been traced as having gone on board a vessel bound for New York the very day after Sir Adrian was restored to the world, and, when search in other quarters fails, every one falls into the ready belief that this spectacled man was in reality the would-be murderer.
So the days pass on, and it is now quite a month since Ringwood and Florence carried Sir Adrian's senseless form from the haunted chamber, and still Florence holds herself aloof from the man she loves, and, though quite as assiduous as the others in her attentions to him, seems always eager to get away from him, and glad to escape any chance of a _tête-à-tête_ with him. This she does in defiance of the fact that Mrs. Talbot never approaches him except when absolutely compelled.
Sir Adrian is still a great invalid. The shock to his nervous system, the dragging out of those interminable hours in the lonely chamber, and the strain upon his physical powers by the absence of nutriment for seven long days and nights, had all combined to shatter a constitution once robust. He is now greatly improved in health, and has been recommended by his doctors to try a winter in the south of France or Algiers.
He shows himself, however, strangely reluctant to quit his home, and, whenever the subject is mentioned, he first turns his eyes questioningly upon Florence, if she is present, and then, receiving no returning glance from her downcast eyes, sighs, and puts the matter from him.
He has so earnestly entreated both Dora and Miss Delmaine not to desert him, that they have not had the heart to refuse, and as Ringwood is also staying at the castle, and Ethel Villiers has gained her father's consent to remain, Mrs. Talbot acting as chaperon, they are by no means a dull party.
To-day, the first time for over a month, Florence, going to her easel, draws its cover away from the sketch thereon, and gazes at her work. How long ago it seems since she sat thus, happy in her thoughts, glad in the belief that the one she loved loved her! yet all that time his heart had been given to her cousin. And though now, at odd moments, she has felt herself compelled to imagine that his every glance and word speaks of tenderness for her, and not for Dora--still this very knowledge only hardens her heart toward him, and renders her cold and unsympathetic in his presence.
No, she will have no fickle lover. And yet, how kind he is--how earnest, how honest is his glance! Oh, that she could believe all the past to be an evil dream, and think of him again as her very own, as in the dear old days gone by!
Even while thinking this she idly opens a book lying on the table near her, where some brushes and paints are scattered. A piece of paper drops from between its leaves and flutters to the ground. Lifting it, she sees it is the letter written by him to Dora, which the latter had brought to her, here to this very room, when asking her advice as to whether she should or should not meet him by appointment in the lime-walk.
She drops the letter hurriedly, as though its very touch stings her, and, rousing herself with bitter self-contempt from her sentimental regrets, works vigorously at her painting for about an hour, then, growing wearied, she flings her brushes aside, and goes to the morning-room, where she knows she will find all the others assembled.
There is nobody here just now however, except Sir Adrian, who is looking rather tired and bored, and Ethel Villiers. The latter, seeing Florence enter, gladly gathers up her work and runs away to have a turn in the garden with Captain Ringwood.
Florence, though sorry for this _tête-à-tête_ that has been forced upon her, sits down calmly enough, and, taking up a book, prepares to read aloud to Sir Adrian.
But he stops her. Putting out his hand, he quietly but firmly closes the book, and then says: "Not to-day, Florence; I want to speak to you instead."
"Anything you wish," responds Florence steadily, though her heart is beating somewhat hastily.
"Are you sorry that--that my unhappy cousin proved so unworthy?" he asks at last, touching upon this subject with a good deal of nervousness. He can not forget that once she had loved this miserable man.
"One must naturally feel sorry that anything human could be guilty of such an awful intention," she returns gently, but with the utmost unconcern.
Sir Adrian stares. Was he mistaken then? Did she never really care for the fellow, or is this some of what Mrs. Talbot had designated as Florence's "slyness"? No, once for all he would not believe that the pure, sweet, true face looking so steadily into his could be guilty of anything underhand or base.
"It was false that you loved him then?" he questions, following out the train of his own thoughts rather than the meaning of her last words.
"That I loved Mr. Dynecourt!" she repeats in amazement, her color rising. "What an extraordinary idea to come into your head! No; if anything, I confess I felt for your cousin nothing but contempt and dislike."
"Then, Florence, what has come between us?" he exclaims, seizing her hand. "You must have known that I loved you many weeks ago. Nay, long before last season came to a close; and then I believe--forgive my presumption--that you too loved me."
"Your belief was a true one," she returns calmly, tears standing in her beautiful eyes. "But you, by your own act, severed us."
"I did?"
"Yes. Nay, Sir Adrian, be as honest in your dealings with me as I am with you, and confess the truth."
"I don't know what you mean," declares Adrian, in utter bewilderment; "you would tell me that you think it was some act of mine that--that ruined my chance with you?"
"You know it was"--reproachfully.
"I know nothing of the kind"--hotly. "I only know that I have always loved you and only you, and that I shall never love another."
"You forget--Dora Talbot!" says Florence, in a very low tone. "I think, Sir Adrian, your late coldness to her has been neither kind nor just."
"I have never been either colder or warmer to Dora Talbot than I have been to any other ordinary acquaintance of mine," returns Sir Adrian, with considerable excitement. "There is surely a terrible mistake somewhere."
"Do you mean to tell me," says Florence, rising in her agitation, "that you never spoke of love to Dora?"
"Certainly I spoke of love--of my love for you," he declares vehemently. "That you should suppose I ever felt anything for Mrs. Talbot but the most ordinary friendship seems incredible to me. To you, and you alone, my heart has been given for many a day. Not the vaguest tenderness for any other woman has come between my thoughts and your image since first we met."
"Yet there was your love-letter to her--I read it with my own eyes!" declares Florence faintly.
"I never wrote Mrs. Talbot a line in my life," says Sir Adrian, more and more puzzled.
"You will tell me next I did not see you kissing her hand in the lime-walk last September?" pursues Florence, flushing hotly with shame and indignation.
"You did not," he declares vehemently. "I swear it. Of what else are you going to accuse me? I never wrote to her, and I never kissed her hand."
"It is better for us to discuss this matter no longer," says Miss Delmaine, rising from her seat. "And for the future I can not--will not--read to you here in the morning. Let us make an end of this false friendship now at once and forever."
She moves toward the door as she speaks, but he, closely following, overtakes her, and, putting his back against the door, so bars her egress.
He has been forbidden exertion of any kind, and now this unusual excitement has brought a color to his wan cheeks and a brilliancy to his eyes. Both these changes in his appearance however only serve to betray the actual weakness to which, ever since his cruel imprisonment, he has been a victim.
Miss Delmaine's heart smites her. She would have reasoned with him, and entreated him to go back again to his lounge, but he interrupts her.
"Florence, do not leave me like this," he pleads in an impassioned tone. "You are laboring under a delusion. Awake from this dream, I implore you, and see things as they really are."
"I am awake, and I do see things as they are," she replies sadly.
"My darling, who can have poisoned your mind against me?" he asks, in deep agitation.
At this moment, as if in answer to his question, the door leading into the conservatory at the other side of the room is pushed open, and Dora Talbot enters.
"Ah, here is Mrs. Talbot," exclaims Sir Adrian eagerly; "she will exonerate me!"
He speaks with such full assurance of being able to bring Dora forward as a witness in his defense that Florence, for the first time, feels a strong doubt thrown upon the belief she has formed of his being a monster of fickleness.
"What is it I can do for you?" asks Dora, in some confusion. Of late she has grown very shy of being alone with either him or Florence.
"You will tell Miss Delmaine," replies Adrian quickly, "that I never wrote you a letter, and that I certainly did not--you will forgive my even mentioning this extraordinary supposition, I hope, Mrs. Talbot--kiss your hand one day in September in the lime-walk."
Dora turns first hot and then cold, first crimson and then deadly pale. So it is all out now, and she is on her trial. She feels like the veriest criminal brought to the bar of justice. Shall she promptly deny everything, or--No. She has had enough of deceit and intrigue. Whatever it costs her, she will now be brave and true, and confess all.
"I do tell her so," she says, in a low tone, but yet firmly. "I never received a letter from you, and you never kissed my hand."
"Dora!" cries Florence. "What are you saying! Have you forgotten all that is past?"
"Spare me!" entreats Dora hoarsely. "In an hour, if you will come to my room, I will explain all, and you can then spurn me, and put me outside the pale of your friendship if you will, and as I well deserve. But, for the present, accept my assurance that no love passages ever occurred between me and Sir Adrian, and that I am fully persuaded his heart has been given to you alone ever since your first meeting."
"Florence, you believe her?" questions Sir Adrian beseechingly. "It is all true what she has said. I love you devotedly. If you will not marry me, no other woman shall ever be my wife. My beloved, take pity on me!"
"Trust in him, give yourself freely to him without fear," urges Dora, with a sob. "He is altogether worthy of you." So saying, she escapes from the room, and goes up the stairs to her own apartment weeping bitterly.
"Is there any hope for me?" asks Sir Adrian of Florence when they are again alone. "Darling, answer me, do, you--can you love me?"
"I have loved you always--always," replies Florence in a broken voice. "But I thought--I feared--oh, how much I have suffered!"
"Never mind that now," rejoins Sir Adrian very tenderly. He has placed his arm round her, and her head is resting in happy contentment upon his breast. "For the future, my dearest, you shall know neither fear nor suffering if I can prevent it."
* * * * * They are still murmuring tender words of love to each other, though a good half hour has gone by, when a noise as of coming footsteps in the conservatory attracts their attention, and presently Captain Ringwood, with his arm round Ethel Villiers's waist, comes slowly into view.
Totally unaware that any one is in the room besides themselves, they advance, until, happening to lift their eyes, they suddenly become aware that their host and Miss Delmaine are regarding them with mingled glances of surprise and amusement. Instantly they start asunder.
"It is--that is--you see--Ethel, _you_ explain," stammers Captain Ringwood confusedly.
At this both Sir Adrian and Florence burst out laughing so merrily and so heartily that all constraint comes to an end, and finally Ethel and Ringwood, joining in the merriment that has been raised at their expense, volunteer a full explanation.
"I think," says Ethel, after awhile, looking keenly at Florence and her host, "you two look just as guilty as we do. Don't they, George?"
"They seem very nearly as happy, at all events," agrees Ringwood, who, now that he has confessed to his having just been accepted by Ethel Villiers "for better for worse," is again in his usual gay spirits.
"Nearly? you might say quite," says Sir Adrian, laughing. "Florence, as we have discovered their secret, I think it will be only honest of us to tell them ours."
Florence blushes and glances rather shyly at Ethel.
"I know it," cries that young lady, clapping her hands. "You are going to marry Sir Adrian, Florence, and he is going to marry you!"
At this they all laugh.
"Well, one of those surmises could hardly come off without the other," observes Ringwood, with a smile. "So your second guess was a pretty safe one. If she is right, old man"--turning to Sir Adrian--"I congratulate you both with all my heart."
"Yes, she is quite right," responds Sir Adrian, directing a glance full of ardent love upon Florence. "What should I do with the life she restored to me unless I devoted it to her service?"
"You see, he is marrying me only out of gratitude," says Florence, smiling archly, but large tears of joy and gladness sparkle in her lovely eyes.
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{
"id": "16053"
}
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13
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None
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When Florence finds her way, at the expiration of the hour, to Dora's room, she discovers that fair little widow dissolved in tears, and indeed sorely perplexed and shamed. The sight of Florence only seems to render her grief more poignant, and when her cousin, putting her arm round her, tries to console her, she only responds to the caress by flinging herself upon her knees, and praying her to forgive her.
And then the whole truth comes out. All the petty, mean, underhand actions, all the cruel lies, all the carefully spoken innuendoes, all the false reports are brought into the light and laid bare to the horrified eyes of Florence.
Dora's confession is thorough and complete in every sense. Not in any way does she seek to shield herself, or palliate her own share in the deception practiced upon the unconscious girl now regarding her with looks of amazement and deep sorrow, but in bitter silence.
When the wretched story is at an end, and Dora, rising to her feet, declares her intention of leaving England forever, Miss Delmaine stands like one turned into stone, and says no word either of censure or regret.
Dora, weeping violently, goes to the door, but, as her hand is raised to open it, the pressure upon the gentle heart of Florence is suddenly removed, and in a little gasping voice she bids her stay.
Dora remains quite still, her eyes bent upon the floor, waiting to hear her cousin's words of just condemnation; expecting only to hear the scathing words of scorn with which her cousin will bid her begone from her sight for evermore. But suddenly she feels two soft arms close around her, and Florence, bursting into tears, lays her head upon her shoulder.
"Oh, Dora, how could you do it!" she falters, and that is all. Never, either then or afterward, does another sentence of reproach pass her lips; and Dora, forgiven and taken back to her cousin's friendship, endeavors earnestly for the future to avoid such untruthful paths as had so nearly led her to her ruin.
Sir Adrian, from the hour in which his dearest hopes were realized, recovers rapidly both his health and spirits; and soon a double wedding takes place, that makes pretty Ethel Villiers Ethel Ringwood and beautiful Florence Lady Dynecourt.
A winter spent abroad with his charming bride completely restores Sir Adrian to his former vigorous state, and, when spring is crowning all the land with her fair flowers, he returns to the castle with the intention of remaining there until the coming season demands their presence in town.
And now once again there is almost the same party brought together at Dynecourt. Old Lady FitzAlmont and Lady Gertrude are here again, and so are Captain and Mrs. Ringwood, both the gayest of the gay. Dora Talbot is here too, somewhat chastened and subdued both in manner and expression, a change so much for the better that she finds her list of lovers to be longer now than in the days of yore.
It is an exquisite, balmy day in early April. The sun is shining hotly without, drinking up greedily the gentle shower that fell half an hour ago. The guests, who with their host and hostess have been wandering idly through the grounds, decide to go in-doors.
"It was on a day like this, though in the autumn, that we first missed Sir Adrian," remarks some one in a half tone confidentially to some one else, but not so low that the baronet can not hear it.
"Yes," he says quickly, "and it was just over there"--pointing to a clump of shrubs near the hall door--"that I parted with that unfortunate cousin of mine."
Lady Dynecourt shudders, and draws closer to her husband.
"It was such a marvelous story," observes a pretty woman who was not at the castle last autumn, when what so nearly proved to be a tragedy was being enacted; "quite like a legend or a medieval romance. Dear Lady Dynecourt's finding him was such a happy finish to it. I must say I have always had the greatest veneration for those haunted chambers, so seldom to be found now in any house. Perhaps my regard for them is the stronger because I never saw one."
"No?" questioningly. "Will you come and see ours now?" says Sir Adrian readily.
His wife clasps his arm, and a pang contracts her brow.
"You are not frightened now, surely?" says Adrian, smiling at her very tenderly.
"Yes, I am," she responds promptly. "The very name of that awful room unnerves me. There is something evil in it, I believe. Do not go there."
"I'll block it up forever if you wish it," declares Sir Adrian; "but, for the last time, let me go and show its ghostly beauties to Lady Laughton. I confess, even after all that has happened, it possesses no terrors for me; it only reminds me of my unpleasant kinsman."
"I wonder what became of him," remarks Ringwood. "He's at the other side of the world, I should imagine."
"Out of our world, at all events," says Ethel, indifferently.
"Well, let us go," agrees Florence resignedly.
So together they all start once more for the old tower. As they reach the stone steps Sir Adrian says laughingly to Lady Laughton: "Now, what do you expect to see? A ghost--a phantom? And in what shape, what guise?"
"A skeleton," answers Lady Laughton, returning his laugh; and with the words the door is pushed open, and they enter the room _en masse_.
The sunlight is stealing in through the narrow window holes and faintly lighting up the dismal room.
What is that in yonder corner, the very corner where Sir Adrian's almost lifeless body had been found? Is this a trick, a delusion of the brain? What is this thing huddled together, lying in a heap--a ghastly, ragged, filthy heap, before their terrified eyes? And why does this charnel-house smell infect their nostrils? They stagger. Even the strong men grow pale and faint, for there, before them, gaunt, awful, unmistakable, lies a skeleton!
Lady Laughton's jesting words have come true--a fleshless corpse indeed meets their stricken gaze!
Sir Adrian, having hurriedly asked one of the men of the party to remove Lady Dynecourt and her friends, he and Captain Ringwood proceed to examine the grewsome body that lies upon the floor; yet, though they profess to each other total ignorance of what it can be, there is in their hearts a miserable certainty that appalls them. Is this to be the end of the mystery? Truly had spoken Ethel Ringwood when she had alluded to Arthur Dynecourt as being "out of their world," for it is his remains they are bending over, as a few letters lying scattered about testify only too plainly.
Caught in the living grave he had destined for his cousin was Arthur Dynecourt on the night of Sir Adrian's release. The lamp had dropped from his hand in the first horror of his discovery that his victim had escaped him. Then followed the closing of the fatal lock and his insensibility.
On recovering from his swoon, he had no doubt endured a hundred-fold more tortures than had the innocent Sir Adrian, as his conscience must have been unceasingly racking and tearing him.
And not too soon either could the miserable end have come. Every pang he had designed for his victim was his. Not one was spared! Cold and hunger and the raging fever of thirst were his, and withal a hopelessness more intolerable than aught else--a hopelessness that must have grown in strength as the interminable days went by.
And then came death--an awful lingering death, whilst the loathsome rats had finished the work which starvation and death had begun, and now all that remained of Arthur Dynecourt was a heap of bones!
They hush the matter up well as they can, but it is many days before Florence or her husband, or any of their guests, forget the dreadful hour in which they discovered the unsightly remains of him who had been overtaken by a just and stern retribution.
THE END.
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{
"id": "16053"
}
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1
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OUT OF THE MIST
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It appears to me, looking back over a past experience, that certain days in one's life stand out prominently as landmarks, when we arrive at some finger-post pointing out the road that we should follow.
We come out of some deep, rutty lane, where the hedgerows obscure the prospect, and where the footsteps of some unknown passenger have left tracks in the moist red clay. The confused tracery of green leaves overhead seems to weave fanciful patterns against the dim blue of the sky; the very air is low-pitched and oppressive. All at once we find ourselves in an open space; the free winds of heaven are blowing over us; there are four roads meeting; the finger-post points silently, 'This way to such a place'; we can take our choice, counting the mile-stones rather wearily as we pass them. The road may be a little tedious, the stones may hurt our feet; but if it be the right road it will bring us to our destination.
In looking back it always seems to me as though I came to a fresh landmark in my experience that November afternoon when I saw Uncle Max standing in the twilight, waiting for me.
There had been the waste of a great trouble in my young life,--sorrow, confusion, then utter chaos. I had struggled on somehow after my twin brother's death, trying to fight against despair with all my youthful vitality; creating new duties for myself, throwing out fresh feelers everywhere; now and then crying out in my undisciplined way that the task was too hard for me; that I loathed my life; that it was impossible to live any longer without love and appreciation and sympathy; that so uncongenial an atmosphere could be no home to me; that the world was an utter negation and a mockery.
That was before I went to the hospital, at the time when my trouble was fresh and I was breaking my heart with the longing to see Charlie's face again. Most people who have lived long in the world, and have parted with their beloved, know what that sort of hopeless ache means.
My work was over at the hospital, and I had come home again,--to rest, so they said, but in reality to work out plans for my future life, in a sort of sullen silence, that seemed to shut me out from all sympathy.
It had wrapped me in a sort of mantle of reserve all the afternoon, during which I had been driving with Aunt Philippa and Sara. The air would do me good. I was moped, hipped, with all that dreary hospital work, so they said. It would distract and amuse me to watch Sara making her purchases. Reluctance, silent opposition, only whetted their charitable mood.
'Don't be disagreeable, Ursula. You might as well help me choose my new mantle,' Sara had said, quite pleasantly, and I had given in with a bad grace.
Another time I might have been amused by Aunt Philippa's majestic deportment and Sara's brisk importance, her girlish airs and graces; but I was too sad at heart to indulge in my usual satire. Everything seemed stupid and tiresome; the hum of voices wearied me; the showroom at Marshall and Snelgrove's seemed a confused Babel,--everywhere strange voices, a hubbub of sound, tall figures in black passing and repassing, strange faces reflected in endless pier-glasses,--faces of puckered anxiety repeating themselves in ludicrous _vrai-semblance_.
I saw our own little group reproduced in one. There was Aunt Philippa, tall and portly, with her well-preserved beauty, a little full-blown perhaps, but still 'marvellously' good-looking for her age, if she could only have not been so conscious of the fact.
Then, Sara, standing there slim and straight, with the furred mantle just slipping over her smooth shoulders, radiant with good health, good looks, perfectly contented with herself and the whole world, as it behooves a handsome, high-spirited young woman to be with her surroundings, looking bright, unconcerned, good-humoured, in spite of her mother's fussy criticisms: Aunt Philippa was always a little fussy about dress.
Between the two I could just catch a glimpse of myself,--a tall girl, dressed very plainly in black, with a dark complexion, large, anxious-looking eyes, that seemed appealing for relief from all this dulness,--a shadowy sort of image of discontent and protest in the background, hovering behind Aunt Philippa's velvet mantle and Sara's slim supple figure.
'Well, Ursula,' said Sara, still good-humouredly, 'will you not give us your opinion? Does this dolman suit me, or would you prefer a long jacket trimmed with skunk?'
I remember I decided in favour of the jacket, only Aunt Philippa interposed, a little contemptuously,-- 'What does Ursula know about the present fashion? She has spent the last year in the wards of St. Thomas's, my dear,' dropping her voice, and taking up her gold-rimmed eye-glasses to inspect me more critically,--a mere habit, for I had reason to know Aunt Philippa was not the least near-sighted. 'I cannot see any occasion for you to dress so dowdily, with three hundred a year to spend absolutely on yourself; for of course poor Charlie's little share has come to you. You could surely make yourself presentable, especially as you know we are going to Hyde Park Mansions to see Lesbia.'
This was too much for my equanimity. 'What does it matter? I am not coming with you, Aunt Philippa,' I retorted, somewhat vexed at this personality; but Sara overheard us, and strove to pour oil on the troubled waters.
'Leave Ursula alone, mother: she looks tolerably well this afternoon; only mourning never suits a dark complexion--' But I did not wait to hear any more. I wandered about the place disconsolately, pretending to examine things with passing curiosity, but my eyes were throbbing and my heart beating angrily at Sara's thoughtless speech. A sudden remembrance seemed to steal before me vividly: Charlie's pale face, with its sad, sweet smile, haunted me. 'Courage, Ursula; it will be over soon.' Those were his last words, poor boy, and he was looking at me and not at Lesbia as he spoke. I always wondered what he meant by them. Was it his long pain, which he had borne so patiently, that would soon be over? or was it that cruel parting to which he alluded? or did he strive to comfort me at the last with the assurance--alas! for our mortal nature, so sadly true--that pain cannot last for ever, that even faithful sorrow is short-lived and comforts itself in time, that I was young enough to outlive more than one trouble, and that I might take courage from this thought?
I looked down at the black dress, such as I had worn nearly two years for him, and raged as I remembered Sara's flippant words. 'My darling, I would wear mourning for you all my life gladly,' I said, with an inward sob that was more anger than sorrow, 'if I thought you would care for me to do it. Oh, what a world this is, Charlie! surely vanity and vexation of spirit!'
I did not mean to be cross with Sara, but my thoughts had taken a gloomy turn, and I could not recover my spirits: indeed, as we drove down Bond Street, where Sara had some glittering little toy to purchase, I reiterated my intention of not calling at Hyde Park Mansions.
'I do not want any tea,' I said wearily, 'and I would rather go home. Give my love to Lesbia; I will see her another day.'
'Lesbia will be hurt,' remonstrated Sara. 'What a little misanthrope you are, Ursula! St. Thomas's has injured you socially; you have become a hermit-crab all at once, and it is such nonsense at your age.'
'Oh, let me be, Sara!' I pleaded; 'I am tired, and Lesbia always chatters so; and Mrs. Fullerton is worse. Besides, did you not tell me she was coming to dine with us this evening?'
'Yes, to be sure; but she wanted us to meet the Percy Glyns. Mirrel and Winifred Glyn are to be there this afternoon. Never mind, Lesbia will understand when I say you are in one of your ridiculous moods.' And Sara hummed a little tune gaily, as though she meant no offence by her words and was disposed to let me go my own way.
'The carriage can take you home, Ursula; we can walk those few yards,' observed Aunt Philippa, as she descended leisurely, and Sara tripped after her, still humming. But I took no notice of her words: I had had enough dulness and decorum to last me for some time, and the Black Prince and his consort Bay might find their way to their own stables without depositing me at the front door of the house at Hyde Park Gate. I told Clarence so, to his great astonishment, and walked across the road in an opposite direction to home, as though my feet were winged with quicksilver.
For the Park in that dim November light seemed to allure me; there was a red glow of sunset in the distance; a faint, climbing mist between the trees; the gas-lamps were twinkling everywhere. I could hear the ringing of some church bell; there was space, freedom for thought, a vague, uncertain prospect, out of which figures were looming curiously,--a delightful sense that I was sinning against conventionality and Aunt Philippa.
'Halloo, Ursula!' exclaimed a voice in great astonishment; and there, out of the mist, was a kind face looking at me,--a face with a brown beard, and dark eyes with a touch of amusement in them; and the eyes and the beard and the bright, welcoming smile belonged to Uncle Max.
As I caught at his outstretched hand with a half-stifled exclamation of delight, a policeman turned round and looked at us with an air of interest. No doubt he thought the tall brown-bearded clergyman in the shabby coat--it was one of Uncle Max's peculiarities to wear a shabby coat occasionally--was the sweetheart of the young lady in black. Uncle Max--I am afraid I oftener called him Max--was only a few years older than myself, and had occupied the position of an elder brother to me.
He was my poor mother's only brother, and had been dearly loved by her,--not as I had loved Charlie, perhaps; but they had been much to each other, and he had always seemed nearer to me than Aunt Philippa, who was my father's sister; perhaps because there was nothing in common between us, and I had always been devoted to Uncle Max.
'Well, Ursula,' he said, pretending to look grave, but evidently far too pleased to see me to give me a very severe lecture, 'what is the meaning of this? Does Mrs. Garston allow young ladies under her charge to stroll about Hyde Park in the twilight? or have you stolen a march on her, naughty little she-bear?'
I drew my hand away with an offended air: when Uncle Max wished to tease or punish me he always reminded me that the name of Ursula signified she-bear, and would sometimes call me 'the little black growler'; and at such times it was provoking to think that Sara signified princess. I have always wondered how far and how strongly our baptismal names influence us. Of course he would not let me walk beside him in that dignified manner: the next instant I heard his clear hearty laugh, and then I laughed too.
'What an absurd child you are! I was thinking over your letter as I walked along. It did not bring me to London, certainly; I had business of my own; but, all the same, I have walked across the Park this evening to talk to you about this extraordinary scheme.'
But I would not let him go on. He was about to cross the road, so I took his arm and turned him back. And there was the gray mist creeping up between the trees, and the lamps glimmering in the distance, and the faint pink glow had not yet died away.
'It is so quiet here,' I pleaded, 'and I could not get you alone for a moment if we went in. Uncle Brian will be there, and Jill, and we could not say a word. Aunt Philippa and Sara have gone to see Lesbia. I have been driving with them all the afternoon. Sara has been shopping, and how bored I was!'
'You uncivilised little heathen!' Then, very gravely, 'Well, how is poor Lesbia?'
'Do not waste your pity on her,' I returned impatiently. 'She is as well and cheerful as possible. Even Sara says so. She is not breaking her heart about Charlie. She has left off mourning, and is as gay as ever.'
'You are always hard on Lesbia,' he returned gently. 'She is young, my dear, you forget that, and a pretty girl, and very much admired. It always seems to me she was very fond of the poor fellow.'
'She was good to him in his illness, but she never cared for Charlie as he did for her. He worshipped the very ground she walked on. He thought her perfection. Uncle Max, it was pitiful to hear him sometimes. He would tell me how sweet and unselfish she was, and all the time I knew she was but an ordinary, commonplace girl. If he had lived to marry her he would have been disappointed in her. He was so large-hearted, and Lesbia has such little aims.'
'So you always say, Ursula. But you women are so severe in your judgment of each other. I doubt myself if the girl lives whom you would have considered good enough for Charlie. Yes, yes, my dear,'--as I uttered a dissenting protest to this,--'he was a fine fellow, and his was a most lovable character; but it was his last illness that ripened him.'
'He was always perfect in my eyes,' I returned, in a choked voice.
'That was because you loved him; and no doubt Lesbia possessed the same ideal goodness for him. Love throws its own glamour,' he went on, and his voice was unusually grave; 'it does not believe in commonplace mediocrity; it lifts up its idol to some fanciful pedestal, where the poor thing feels very uncomfortable and out of its element, and then persists in falling down and worshipping it. We humans are very droll, Ursula: we will create our own divinities.'
'Lesbia would have disappointed him,' I persisted obstinately; but I might as well have talked to the wind. Uncle Max could not find it in his heart to be hard to a pretty girl.
'That is open to doubt, my dear. Lesbia is amiable and charming, and I daresay she would have made a nice little wife. Poor Charlie hated clever women, and in that respect she would have suited him.'
After this I knew it was no good in trying to change his opinion. Uncle Max held his own views with remarkable tenacity; he had old-fashioned notions with respect to women, rather singular in so young a man,--for he was only thirty; he preferred to believe in their goodness, in spite of any amount of demonstration to the contrary; it vexed him to be reminded of the shortcomings of his friends; by nature he was an optimist, and had a large amount of faith in people's good intentions. 'He meant well, poor fellow, in spite of his failures,' was a speech I have heard more than once from his lips. He was always ready to condone a fault or heal a breach; indeed, his sweet nature found it difficult to bear a grudge against any one; he was only hard to himself, and on no one else did he strive to impose so heavy a yoke. I was only silent for a minute, and then I turned the conversation into another channel.
'But my letter, Uncle Max!'
'Ah, true, your letter; but I have not forgotten it. How old are you, Ursula? I always forget.'
'Five-and-twenty this month.'
'To be sure; I ought to have remembered. And you have three hundred a year of your own.'
I nodded.
'And your present home is distasteful to you?' in an inquiring tone.
'It is no home to me,' I returned passionately. 'Oh, Uncle Max, how can one call it home after the dear old rectory, where we were so happy, father, and mother, and Charlie--and--' 'Yes, I know, poor child; and you have had heavy troubles. It cannot be like the old home, I am well aware of that, Ursula; but your aunt is a good woman. I have always found her strictly just. She was your father's only sister: when she offered you a home she promised to treat you with every indulgence, as though you were her own daughter.'
'Aunt Philippa means to be kind,' I said, struggling to repress my tears,--tears always troubled Uncle Max: 'she is kind in her way, and so is Sara. I have every comfort, every luxury; they want me to be gay and enjoy myself, to lead their life; but it only makes me miserable; they do not understand me; they see I do not think with them, and then they laugh at me and call me morbid. No one really wants me but poor Jill: I am so fond of Jill.'
'Why cannot you lead their life, Ursula?'
'Because it is not life at all,' was my resolute answer: 'to me it is the most wearisome existence possible. Listen to me, Uncle Max. Do you think I could possibly spend my days as Sara does,--writing a few notes, doing a little fancy-work, shopping and paying visits, and dancing half the night? Do you think you could transform such a poor little Cinderella into a fairy princess, like Sara or Lesbia? No; the drudgery of such a life would kill me with _ennui_ and discontent.'
'It is not the life I would choose for you, certainly,' he said, pulling his beard in some perplexity: 'it is far too worldly to suit my taste; if Charlie had lived you would have made your home with him. He often talked to me about that, poor fellow. I thought a year or two at Hyde Park Gate would do you no harm, and might be wholesome training; but it has proved a failure, I see that.'
'They would be happier without me,' I went on, more quietly, for he was evidently coming round to my view of the case. 'Aunt Philippa does not mean to be unkind, but she often lets me see that I am in the way, that she is not proud of me. She would have taken more interest in me if I had been handsome, like Sara; but a plain, dowdy niece is not to her taste. No, let me finish, Uncle Max,'--for he wanted to interrupt me here. 'They made a great fuss about my training at the hospital last year, but I am sure they did not miss me; Sara spoke yesterday as though she thought I was going back to St. Thomas's, and Aunt Philippa made no objection. I heard her tell Mrs. Fullerton once "that really Ursula was so strong-minded and different from other girls that she was prepared for anything, even for her being a female doctor."'
'Well, my dear, you are certainly rather peculiar, you know.'
'Oh, Uncle Max,' I said mournfully, 'are you going to misunderstand me too? Providence has deprived me of my parents and my only brother: is it strong-minded or peculiar to be so lonely and sad at heart that gaiety only jars on me? Can I forget my mother's teaching when she said, "Ursula, if you live for the world you will be miserable. Try to do your duty and benefit your fellow-creatures, and happiness must follow"?'
'Yes, poor Emmie, she was a good woman: you might do worse than take after her.'
'She would not approve of the life I am leading at Hyde Park Gate,' I went on. 'She and Aunt Philippa never cared for each other. I often think that if she had known she would not have liked me to be there. Sundays are wretched. We go to church? --yes, because it is respectable to do so; but there is a sort of reunion every Sunday evening.'
'I wish I could offer you a home, Ursula; but--' here Uncle Max hesitated.
'That would not do at all,' I returned promptly. 'Your bachelor home would not do for me; besides, you might marry--of course you will,' but he flushed rather uncomfortably at that, and said, 'Pshaw! what nonsense!' We had paused under a lamp-post, and I could see him plainly: perhaps he knew this, for he hurried me on, this time in the direction of home.
'I am five-and-twenty,' I continued, trying to collect the salient points of my argument. 'I am indebted to none for my maintenance; I am free, and my own mistress; I neglect no duty by refusing to live under Uncle Brian's roof; no one wants me; I contribute to no one's happiness.'
'Except to Jill's,' observed Uncle Max.
'Jill! but she is only a child, barely sixteen, and Sara is becoming jealous of my influence. I shall only breed dissension in the household if I remain. Uncle Max, you are a good man,--a clergyman; you cannot conscientiously tell me that I am not free to lead my own life, to choose my own work in the world.'
'Perhaps not,' he replied, in a hesitating voice. 'But the scheme is a peculiar one. You wish me to find respectable lodgings in my parish, where you will be independent and free from supervision, and to place your superfluous health and strength--you are a muscular Christian, Ursula--at the service of my sick poor, and for this post you have previously trained yourself.'
'I think it will be a good sort of life,' I returned carelessly, but how my heart was beating! 'I like it so much, and I should like to be near you, Uncle Max, and work under you as my vicar. I have thought about this for years. Charlie and I often talked of it. I was to live with him and Lesbia and devote my time to this work. He thought it such a nice idea to go and nurse poor people in their homes. And he promised that he would come and sing to them. But now I must carry out my plan alone, for Charlie cannot help me now.' And as I thought of the sympathy that had never failed me my voice quivered and I could say no more.
'I wish we were all in heaven,' growled Uncle Max,--but his tone was a little husky,--'for this world is a most uncomfortable place for good people, or people with a craze. I think Charlie is well out of it.'
'Under which category do you mean to place me?' I asked, trying to laugh.
'My dear, there is a craze in most women. They have such an obstinate faith in their own good intentions. If they find half a dozen fools to believe in them, they will start a crusade to found a new Utopia. Women are the most meddlesome things in creation: they never let well alone. Their pretty little fingers are in every human pie. That is why we get so much unwholesome crust and so little meat, and, of course, our digestion is ruined.'
'Uncle Max--' But he would not be serious any longer.
'Ursula, I utterly refuse to inhale any more of this mist. I think a comfortable arm-chair by the fire would be far more conducive to comfort. You have given me plenty of food for thought, and I mean to sleep on it. Now, not another word. I am going to ring the bell.' And Uncle Max was as good as his word.
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{
"id": "16080"
}
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2
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BEHIND THE BARS
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It was quite true, as I had told Uncle Max, that the scheme had been no new one; it was no sudden emanation from a girl's brain, morbid with discontent and fruitless longings; it had grown with my youth and had become part of my environment. As a child the thought had come to me as I followed my father into one cottage after another in his house-to-house visitation. He had been a conscientious, hard-working clergyman; in fact, his work killed him, for he overtasked a constitution that was not naturally strong. I accompanied my mother, too, in her errands of mercy, and saw a great deal of the misery engendered by drink, ignorance, and want of forethought. In the case of the sick poor, the gross mismanagement and want of cleanly and thrifty habits led to an amount of discomfort and suffering that even now makes me shudder. The parish was overgrown and insufficiently worked; the greater part of the population belonged to the working-classes; dissenting chapels and gin-palaces flourished. Often did my childish heart ache at the surroundings of some squalid home, where the parents toiled all day for worse than naught, just to satisfy their unhealthy cravings, while the children grew up riotous, half starved, and full of inherited vices. There was a little child I saw once, a cripple, dying slowly of some sad spinal disease, lying in a dark corner, on what seemed to me a heap of rags. Oh, God, I can see that child's face now! I remember when we heard of its death my mother burst into tears. They were tears of joy, she told me afterwards, that another suffering child's life was ended; 'and there are hundreds and hundreds of these little creatures, Ursula,' she said, 'growing up in sin and misery; and the world goes on, and people eat and drink and are merry, for it is none of their business, and yet it is not the will of the Father that one of these little ones should perish.'
I had learned much from my father, but still more from my mother. Uncle Max had called her a good woman, but she was more than that: she possessed one of those rare unselfish natures that cannot remain satisfied with their own personal happiness: they wish to include the whole world. She wanted to inculcate in me her own spirit of self-sacrifice. I can remember some of her short, trenchant sentences now.
'Never mind happiness: that is God's gift to a few: do your duty.'
'If you have loved your fellow-creatures sufficiently you will not be afraid to die. A good conscience will smooth your pillow.'
And once, in her last illness, when Charlie asked if she were comfortable, 'Not very, but I shall soon be quite comfortable, for I shall hope to forget in heaven how little I have done, after all, here; and yet I always wanted to help others.'
Oh, how good she was! And Charlie was good too, after the fashion of young men: not altogether thoughtless, full of the promptings of his kind heart; but Uncle Max was right when he said his last illness had ripened him: it was not the old careless Charlie who had wooed Lesbia who lay there: it was another and a better Charlie.
In the old days he had rallied me in a brotherly manner on my old-fashioned, grave ways. 'You are not a modern young lady, Ursie,' he would say; and he would often call me 'grandmother Ursula'; but all the same he would listen to my plans with the utmost tolerance and good nature.
Ah, those talks in the twilight, before the fatal disease developed itself, and he lay in idle fashion on the couch with his arms under his head, while I sat on the footstool or on the rug in the firelight! We were to live together,--yes, that was always the dream; even when Lesbia's fair face came between us, he would not hear of any difference. I was to live with him and Lesbia, Lesbia was rich, and, though Charlie had little, they were to marry soon.
I was to form a part of that luxurious household, but my time was to be my own, and I was to devote it to the sick poor of Rutherford. 'Mind, Ursula, you may work, but I will not have you overwork,' Charlie had once said, more decidedly than usual; 'you must come home for hours of rest and refreshment. You have a beautiful voice, and it shall be properly trained; you may sing to your invalids as much as you like, and sometimes I will come and sing too; but you must remember you have social duties, and I shall expect you to entertain our friends.' And it was the idea of this dual life of home sympathy and outside work that had so strongly seized upon my imagination.
When Charlie died I was too sick at heart to carry out my plan. 'How can one work alone?' I would say sorrowfully to myself; but after a time the emptiness of my life and dissatisfaction with my surroundings brought back the old thoughts.
I remembered the dear old rectory life, where every one was in earnest, and contrasted it with the trifling pursuits that my aunt and cousin called duties. My present existence seemed to shut me in like prison bars. Only to be free, to choose my own life! And then came emancipation in the shape of hard hospital work, when health and spirits returned to me; when, under the stimulus of useful employment and constant exercise of body and mind, I slept better, fretted less, and looked less mournfully out on the world. Uncle Max was right when he said a year at St. Thomas's would save me.
By and by the idea dawned upon me that I might still carry out my plan; there were poor people at Heathfield, where Uncle Max's parish was. What should hinder me from living there under Uncle Max's wing and trying to combine the two lives, as Charlie wished?
I was young, full of activity. I did not wish to shut myself out from my kind. I could discharge my duties to my own class and enjoy a moderate amount of pleasure. I was young enough to desire that; but the greater part of my time would be placed at the disposal of my poorer neighbours. People might think it singular at first, but they would not talk for ever, and the life would be a happy one to me.
All this had been said in that voluminous letter of mine to Uncle Max; he might argue and shake his head over it, thereby proving himself a wise man, but he could not but know that I was absolutely under my own control, as far as a woman could be. I need ask no one's advice in the disposal of my own life; his own and Uncle Brian's guardianship was merely nominal now. After five-and-twenty I was declared my own mistress in every sense of the word.
Uncle Brian came out to meet us as soon as he heard Uncle Max's voice in the hall; the two were very great friends, and they shook hands cordially.
'Glad to see you, Cunliffe; why did you not let us know that you were coming up to town? We could have put you up easily--eh, Ursula?'
'Yes, indeed, Uncle Brian'; and then I added coaxingly, 'Do please send for your portmanteau, Uncle Max; you know Lesbia is coming this evening, and you are such a favourite with her.' I knew this would be a strong inducement, for Uncle Max's soft heart would insist on treating Lesbia as though she were a widowed princess.
'All right,' he returned in his lazy way, and then I took the matter into my own hands by leaving the room at once to consult with Mrs. Martin, Aunt Philippa's housekeeper. As I closed the door I glanced back for another look at Uncle Max. He had thrown himself into an easy-chair, as though he were tired, and was leaning back with his hands under his head in Charlie's fashion, looking up at Uncle Brian, who was standing on the rug.
I always thought Uncle Brian a very handsome man. He had clear, well-cut features and a gray moustache, and he was quiet and dignified. He always looked to me, with his brown complexion, more like an Indian officer than a wealthy banker. There was nothing commercial in his appearance; but I should have admired him more if he had been less cold and repressive in manner; but he was an undemonstrative man, even to his own children.
I remember hinting this once to Uncle Max, and he had rebuked me more severely than he had ever done before.
'I do not like young girls like you, Ursula, to be so critical about their elders. Garston is an excellent fellow; he has plenty of brains, and always does the right thing, however difficult it may be. Men are not like women, my dear: they often hide their deepest feelings. Your poor uncle has never been quite the same man since Ralph's death, and just as he was getting over his boy's loss a little he had a fresh disappointment with Charlie: he always meant to put him in Ralph's place.'
I was a little ashamed of my criticism when Max said this. I felt I had not made sufficient allowance for Uncle Brian: the death of his only son must have been a dreadful blow. Ralph had died at Oxford; they said he had overworked himself in trying for honours and then had taken a chill. He was a fine, handsome young fellow, nearly two-and-twenty, and his father's idol: no wonder Uncle Brian had grown so much older and graver during the last few years.
And he had been fond of Charlie, and had meant to have him in Ralph's place; my poor boy would have been a rich one if he had lived. Uncle Brian had taken him into the bank, and Lesbia and her fortune were promised to him, but the goodly heritage was snatched away before his eyes, and he was called away in the fresh bloom of his youth.
I always thought Uncle Brian liked Max better than any other man: he was always less stiff and frigid in his presence. I could hear his low laugh--Uncle Brian never laughed loudly--as I closed the door; Max had said something that amused him. They would be quite happy without me, so I ran up to the schoolroom on the chance of getting a chat with Jill.
The schoolroom was on the second floor, where Jill, I, and Fräulein all slept. Sara had a handsome room next to her mother's, and a little boudoir furnished most daintily for her special use. I do not believe she ever sat in it, unless she had a cold or was otherwise ailing; the drawing-room was always full of company, and Sara was the life of the house. I used to peep in at the pretty room sometimes as I went up to bed; there were few notes written at the inlaid escritoire, and the handsomely-bound books were never taken down from the shelves. Draper, Aunt Philippa's maid, fed the canaries and dusted the cabinets of china. Sometimes Sara would trip into the room with one of her cronies for a special chat; the ripple of their girlish laughter would reach us as Jill and I sat together. 'Whom has Sara got with her this afternoon?' Jill would say peevishly. 'Do listen to them; they do nothing but laugh. If Fräulein had set her all these exercises she would not feel quite so merry,' Jill would finish, throwing the obnoxious book from her with a little burst of impatience.
I always pitied Jill for having to spend her days in such a dull room; the furniture was ugly, and the windows looked out on a dismal back-yard, with the high walls of the opposite building. Aunt Philippa, who was a rigid disciplinarian with her young daughter, always said that she had chosen the room 'because Jill would have nothing to distract her from her studies.' The poor child would put up her shoulders at this remark and draw down the corners of her lips in a way that would make Aunt Philippa scold her for her awkwardness. 'You need not make yourself plainer than you are, Jocelyn,' she would say severely; for Jill's awkward manners troubled her motherly vanity. 'What is the good of all the dancing and drilling and riding with Captain Cooper if you will persist in hunching your shoulders as though you were deformed? Fräulein has been complaining of you this morning; she seems excessively displeased at your carelessness and want of application.' 'I know I shall get stupid, shut up in that dull hole with Fräulein,' Jill would say passionately, after one of these maternal lectures. Aunt Philippa was really very fond of Jill; but she misunderstood the girl's nature. The system had answered so well with Sara that she could not be brought to comprehend why it should fail with her other child. Sara had grown up blooming and radiant in spite of the depressing influences of Fräulein and the dull, narrow schoolroom. Her music and singing masters had come to her there. Little Madame Blanchard had chirped to her in Parisian accent for the hour together over _les modes_ and _le beau Paris_. Sara had danced and drilled with the other young ladies at Miss Dugald's select establishment, and had joined them at the riding-school or in the cavalcade under Captain Cooper.
Sara had worn her bondage lightly, and had fascinated even grim old Herr Schliefer. Her tact and easy adaptability had kept Fräulein Sonnenschein in a state of tepid good-humour. Every one, even cross old Draper, idolised Sara for her beauty and sprightly ways. When Aunt Philippa declared her education finished, she tripped out of the schoolroom as happily as possible to take possession of her grand new bedroom and the little boudoir, where all her girlish treasures were arranged. She had not been the least impatient for her day of freedom: it would all come in good time. When the sceptre was put into her hands and her sovereignty acknowledged by the whole household, the young princess was not a bit excited. She put on her court dress and made her courtesy to her majesty with the same charming unconsciousness and ease of manner. No wonder people were charmed with such good-humour and freshness. If the glossy hair did not cover a large amount of brains, no one found fault with her for that.
Jill raged and stormed fiercely under Sara's light-hearted philosophy; when her sister told her to be patient under Fräulein's yoke, that a good time was coming for her also, when lesson-books would be shut up, and Herr Schliefer would cease to scatter snuff on the carpet as he sat drumming with his fingers on the keyboard and grunting out brief interjections of impatience.
'What does it matter about Herr Schliefer?' Jill would say, in a sort of fury. 'I like him a hundred times better than I do that mincing little poll-parrot of a Madame Blanchard: she is odious, and I hate her, and I hate Fräulein too. It is not the lessons I mind; one has to learn lessons all one's life; it is being shut up like a bird in a cage when one's wings are ready for flight. I should like to fly away from this room, from Fräulein, from the whole of the horrid set; it makes me cross, wicked, to live like this, and all your sugar-plums will do me no good. Go away, Sara; you do not understand as Ursula does, it makes me feel bad to see you standing there, looking so pretty and happy, and just laughing at me.'
'Of course I laugh at you, Jocelyn, when you behave like a baby,' returned Sara, trying to be severe, only her dimples betrayed her. 'Well, as you are so cross, I shall go away. There is the chocolate I promised you. Ta-ta.' And Sara put down the _bonbonnière_ on the table and walked out of the room.
I was not surprised to see Jill push it away. No one understood the poor child but myself; she was precocious, womanly, for her age; she had twenty times the amount of brains that Sara possessed, and she was starving on the education provided for her.
To dance and drill and write dreary German exercises, when one is thirsting to drink deeply at the well of knowledge; to go round and round the narrow monotonous course that had sufficed for Sara's moderate abilities, like the blind horse at the mill, and never to advance an inch out of the beaten track, this was simply maddening to Jill's sturdy intellect. She often told me how she longed to attend classes, to hear lectures, to rub against full-grown minds.
'Now. Me-ess Jocelyn, we will do a little of ze Wallenstein, by the immortal Schiller. Hold up the head, and leave off striking the table with your elbows.' Jill would give a droll imitation of Fräulein, and end with a groan.
'What does she know-about Schiller? She cannot even comprehend him. She is dense,--utterly dense and stupid; but because she knows her own language and has a correct deportment she is fit to teach me.' And Jill ground her little white teeth in impotent wrath. Jill always appeared to me like an infant Pegasus in harness; she wanted to soar,--to make use of her wings,--and they kept her down. She was not naturally gay, like Sara, though her health was good, and she was as powerful as a young Amazon. Her nature was more sombre and took colour from her surroundings.
She was like a child in the sunshine; plenty of life and movement distracted her from interior broodings and made her joyous; when she was riding with the young ladies from Miss Dugald's, she would be as merry as the others.
But her dreary schoolroom and Fräulein's society chafed her nervous sensibilities dangerously; there were only a few brown sparrows, or a stray cat intent on game, to be seen from her window. From the drawing-room, from Sara's boudoir, from her mother's bedroom, there was a charming view of the Park. In the spring the fresh foliage of the trees, and the velvety softness of the grass, would be delicious; down in the broad white road, carriages were passing, horses cantering, happy-looking people in smart bonnets, in gorgeous mantles, driving about everywhere; children would be running up and down the paths in the Park, flower-sellers would stand offering their innocent wares to the passengers. Jill would sit entranced by her mother's window watching them; the sunshine, the glitter, the hubbub, intoxicated her; she made up stories by the dozen, as her dark eyes followed the gay equipages. When Fräulein summoned her she went away reluctantly; the stories got into her head, and stopped there all the time she laboured through that long sonata.
'Why are your fingers all thumbs to-day, Fräulein?' Herr Schliefer would demand gloomily. Jill, who was really fond of the stern old professor, hung her head and blushed guiltily. She had no excuse to offer: her girlish dreams were sacred to her; they came gliding to her through the most intricate passages of the sonata, now with a _staccato_ movement,--brisk, lively,--with fitful energy, now _andante_, then _crescendo, con passione_. Jill's unformed girlish hands strike the chords wildly, angrily. ' _Dolce, dolce_,' screams the professor in her ears. The music softens, wanes, and the dreams seem to die away too. 'That will do, Fräulein: you have not acquitted yourself so badly after all.' And Jill gets off her music-stool reluctant, absent, half awake, and her day-dream broken up into chaos.
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{
"id": "16080"
}
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3
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CINDERELLA
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As I opened the schoolroom door a half-forgotten picture of Cinderella came vividly before me.
The fire had burnt low; a heap of black ashes lay under the grate; and by the dull red glow I could see Jill's forlorn figure, very indistinctly, as she sat in her favourite attitude on the rug, her arms clasping her knees and her short black locks hanging loosely over her shoulders. She gave a little shrill exclamation of pleasure when she saw me.
'Ah, you dear darling bear, do come and hug me,' she cried, trying to get up in a hurry, but her dress entangled her.
'Where is Fräulein?' I asked, pushing her back into her place, while I knelt down to manipulate the miserable fire. 'Jill, you look just like Cinderella when the proud sisters drove away to the ball. My dear, were you asleep? Why are you sitting in the dark, with the fire going out, and the lamp unlighted? There, it only wanted to be stirred; we shall have light by which to see other's faces directly,' 'Fräulein has a headache and has gone to lie down,' returned Jill, and, though I could not see her clearly, I knew at once by her voice that she had been crying; only she would have been furious if I had noticed the fact. 'I hope I am not very wicked, but Fräulein's headaches are the redeeming points in her character; she has them so often, and then she is obliged to lie down.'
'Of course you have offered to bathe her head?' I asked, a little mischievously, but Jill, who was unusually subdued, took the question in good part.
'Oh yes, and I spoke to her quite civilly; but I suppose she saw the savage gleam of delight in my eyes, for she was as cross as possible, and went away muttering that "Meess Jocelyn had the heart like the flint; if it had been Meess Sara, now--" and then she banged the door, so the pain could not have been so bad after all. It is my belief,' went on Jill, 'that Fräulein always has a headache when she has a novel to finish. Mamma does not like her to set me an example of novel-reading, so she is obliged to lock herself in her own room.'
I took no notice of this statement, as I rather leaned to this view of the subject myself. Fräulein's round placid face and excellent appetite showed no signs of suffering, and her constant plea of a bad headache was only received with any credulity by Aunt Philippa herself; neither Sara nor I had much respect for Fräulein Sonnenschein, with her thick little figure, and big head covered with flimsy flaxen plaits. We were both aware of the smooth selfishness of her character, though Sara chose to ignore it for Jill's benefit. She was industrious, painstaking, and capable of a great deal of dull routine in the way of duties, but she was far too fond of her own comfort, and all the affection of which she was capable was lavished upon her own relatives; she had cared for Sara moderately, but her other pupil, Jill, was a thorn in her side. So I passed over Fräulein's headache without comment, and took Jill to task somewhat sharply for the comfortless state of the room. A good scolding would rouse her from her dejection; the blinds were up and the curtains undrawn; the remains of a meal, the usual five-o'clock schoolroom tea, were still on the table. Jill's German books were heaped up beside her empty cup and the glass dish that contained marmalade; the kettle spluttered and hissed in the blaze; Jill's little black kitten, Sooty, was dragging a half-knitted stocking across the rug.
'I forgot to ring for Martha,' faltered Jill; 'she will come presently. Don't be cross, Ursula. I like the room as it is; it is deliciously untidy, just like Cinderella's kitchen; but there is no hope of the fairy godmother; and you are going away, and I shall be ten times more miserable.'
It was this that was troubling her, then; for I had told her my plans and all about my letter to Uncle Max. Perhaps she had heard his voice in the hall, for Jill's pretty little ears heard everything that went on in the house: she admitted her knowledge at once when I taxed her with it.
'Oh yes, I know Mr. Cunliffe is here. I heard papa go out and speak to him; his voice sounded quite cheerful; and now he has come and it will all be settled; and you will go away and be happy with your poor people, and forget that I am fretting myself to death in this horrid room.'
She had drawn me down on the rug forcibly,--for she had the strength of a young Titaness,--and was wrapping her arms around me with a sort of fierce impatience. Her big eyes looked troubled and affectionate. Few people admired Jill; she was undeveloped and awkward, full of angles, and a little brusque in manner; she had a way of thrusting out her big feet and squaring her shoulders that horrified Aunt Philippa. She was very big, certainly, and would never possess Sara's slim grace. Her hair had been cropped in some illness, and had not grown so fast as they expected, but hung in short thick lengths about her neck; it was always getting into her eyes, and was being pushed back impatiently, but she would much oftener throw her head back with a fling like an unbroken pony, for she was jerky as young things often are.
But, though, people found fault with Jill, and often said that she would never be as handsome as Sara, I liked her face. Perhaps it was a little irregular and her complexion slightly sallow, but when she was flushed or excited and she opened her big bright eyes, and one could see her little white teeth gleaming as she laughed, I have thought Jill could look almost beautiful; but her good looks depended on her expression.
'I suppose it will be settled,' I replied, with a quick catch at my breath, for the mere mention of the subject excited me; 'but you will be a good child and not fret if I do go away. No, I shall never forget you,' as a close hug answered me; 'I love you too dearly for that; but I want you to be brave about it, dear, for I cannot be happy wasting my time and doing nothing. You know how ill I was before I went to St. Thomas's, so that Uncle Max was obliged to tell Aunt Philippa that I must have change and hard work, or I should follow Charlie.'
'Oh yes, and we were all so frightened about you, you poor thing; you looked so pinched and miserable. Well, I suppose I must let you go, as you are so wicked as to disobey the proverb that "Charity begins at home."'
'Listen to me, dear,' I returned, quite pleased to find her so reasonable. 'I am very glad to know that I have been a comfort to you, but I shall hope to be so still. I will write long letters to you, Jill, and tell you all about my work, and you shall answer them, and talk to me on paper about the books you have read, and the queer thoughts you have, and how patient and strong you have grown, and how you have learned to put up with Fräulein's little ways and not aggravate her with your untidiness.' And here Jill's hand--and it was by no means a small hand--closed my lips rather abruptly. But I was used to this sort of sledge-hammer form of argument.
'Oh, it is all very fine for you to sit there and moralise, Ursula, like a sort of sucking Diogenes,' grumbled Jill, 'when you know you are going to have your own way and live a deliciously sort of three-volume-novel life, not like any one else's, unless it were Don Quixote, or one of the Knights of the Round Table, poking about among a lot of strange people, doing wonderful things for them, until they are all ready to worship you. It is all very well for you, I say; but what would you do if you were me?' cried Jill, in her shrill treble, and quite oblivious of grammatical niceties; 'how would you like to be poor me, shut up here with that old dragon?'
This was a grand opportunity for airing my philosophy, and I rushed at it. To Jill's amazement, I shook my hair back in the way she usually shook her rough black mane, and, opening my eyes very widely, tried to copy Jill's falsetto.
'How thankful I am Jocelyn Garston and not Ursula Garston,' I said, with rapid staccato. 'Poor Ursula! I am fond of her, but I would not change places with her for the world. She has known such a lot of trouble in her life, more than most girls, I believe; she has lost her lovely home,--such a sweet old place,--and her mother and father and Charlie, all her nearest and her most beloved, and she is so sad that she wants to work hard and forget her troubles.'
'Oh dear!' sighed Jill at this.
'How happy I am compared with her!' I went on, relapsing unconsciously into my own voice. 'I am young and strong; I have all my life before me. True, poor Ralph has gone, but I was only a child, and did not miss him. I have a good father and an indulgent mother' ('Humph!' observed Jill at this point, only she turned it into a cough); 'if my present schoolroom life is not to my taste, I am sensible enough to know that the drudgery and restraint will not last for long; in another year, or a year and a half, Fräulein, whom I certainly do not love, will go back to her own country. I shall be free to read the books I like, to study what I choose, or to be idle. I shall have Sara's cheerful companionship instead of Fräulein's heavy company; I shall ride; I shall walk in the sunshine; I shall be a butterfly instead of a chrysalis; and if I care to be useful, all sorts of paths will be open to me.'
'There, hold your tongue,' interrupted Jill, with a rough kiss; 'of course I know I am a wicked, ungrateful wretch, and that I ought to be more patient. Yes, you shall go, Ursula; you are a darling, but I will not want to keep you; you are too good to be wasted on me; it would be like pouring gold into a sieve. Well, I did cry about it this afternoon, but I won't be such a goose any more. I will live my life the same way, in spite of all of them, you will see if I don't, Ursula. Who is it who says, "The thoughts of youth are long long thoughts"? I have such big thoughts sometimes, especially when I sit in the dark. I send them out like strange birds, all over the world,--up, up, everywhere,--but they never come back to me again,' finished Jill mournfully; 'if they build nests I never know it: I just sit and puzzle out things, like poor little grimy Cinderella.'
Jill's eloquence did not surprise me. I knew she was very clever, and full of unfledged poetry, and I had often heard her talk in that way; but I had no time to answer her, for just then the first gong sounded, and I could hear Sara running up to her room to dress for dinner. Jill jumped up, and tugged at the bell-rope rather fiercely.
'Martha must have forgotten all about the tea-things; very likely the lamp is smoky and will have to be trimmed. I must not come and help you, Ursie dear, for I have to learn my German poetry before I dress.' And Jill pulled down the blinds and drew the curtains with a vigorous hand. Martha looked quite frightened at the sight of Jill's energy and her own remissness.
'Why did you not ring before, Miss Jocelyn?' she said, plaintively, and in rather an injured voice, as she carried away the tea-tray.
Uncle Max passed me in the passage; Clarence was following with his portmanteau; he looked surprised to see me still in my bonnet with my fur cape trailing over one arm; but I nodded to him cheerfully and went quickly into my room.
My life at St. Thomas's had inured me to hardness; it had contrasted strangely with my luxurious surroundings at Hyde Park Gate. Aunt Philippa certainly treated me well in her way. I had a full share of the loaves and the fishes of the household; my room was as prettily furnished as Jill's; a bright fire burnt in the grate; there were pink candles on the dressing-table. Martha, who waited upon us both, had put out my black evening dress on the bed, and had warmed my dressing-gown; she would come to me by and by with a civil offer of help.
I was rather puzzled at the sight of a little breast-knot of white chrysanthemums that lay on the table, until I remembered Uncle Max; no one had ever brought me flowers since Charlie's death; he had gathered the last that I ever wore--some white violets that grew in a little hollow in the ground of Rutherford Lodge. I hesitated painfully before I pinned the modest little bouquet in my black dress, but I feared Uncle Max would be hurt if I failed to appear in it. I wore mother's pearl necklace as usual, and the little locket with her hair; somehow I took more pleasure in dressing myself this evening, when I knew Uncle Max's kind eyes would be on me.
I had not hurried myself, and the second gong sounded before I reached the drawing-room, so I came face to face with Lesbia, who was coming out on Uncle Brian's arm. She kissed me in her quiet way, and said, 'How do you do, Ursula?' just as though we had met yesterday, and passed on.
I thought she looked prettier than ever that evening--like a snow princess, in her white gown, with a little fleecy shawl drawn round her shoulders, for she took cold easily. She had a soft creamy complexion, and fair hair that she wore piled up in smooth plaits on her head; she had plaintive blue eyes that could be brilliant at times, and a lovely mouth, and she was tall and graceful like Sara.
They made splendid foils to each other; but in my opinion Sara carried the palm: she was more piquant and animated; her colouring was brighter, and she had more expression; but Charlie's Lily, as he called her, was quite as much admired, and indeed they were both striking-looking girls.
I saw that Uncle Max took a great deal of notice of Lesbia, who sat next to him. I could not hear their conversation, but a pretty pink colour tinged Lesbia's face, and her eyes grew dark and bright as she listened, and I saw her glance at her left hand where the half-hoop of diamonds glistened that Charlie had placed there; she had not quite forgotten the dear boy then, for I am sure she sighed, but the next moment she had turned from Uncle Max, and was engaged in an eager discussion with Sara about some private theatricals in which Sara was to take a part.
When we went back to the drawing-room we found Fräulein in her favourite red silk dress, trying to repair the damage that Sooty had wrought in her half-knitted stocking, and Jill, looking very bored and uncomfortable, turning over the photograph album in a corner. She looked awkward and sallow in her Indian muslin gown: the flimsy stuff did not suit her any more than the pink coral beads she wore round her neck. Her black locks bobbed uneasily over the book. She looked bigger than ever when she stood up to speak to Lesbia.
'How that child is growing!' observed Aunt Philippa behind her fan to Fräulein, whose round face was beaming with smiles at the entrance of the ladies. 'That gown was made only a few weeks ago, and she is growing out of it already. Jocelyn, my love, why do you hunch your shoulders so when, you talk to Lesbia? I am always telling you of this awkward habit.'
Poor Jill frowned and reddened a little under this maternal admonition; her eyes looked black and fierce as she sat down again with her photographs. This hour was always a penance to her; she could not speak or move easily, for fear of some remark from Aunt Philippa. When her mother and Fräulein interchanged confidences behind the big spangled fan, the poor child always thought they were talking about her.
Her bigness, her awkwardness, troubled Jill excessively. Her clumsy hands and feet seemed always in her way.
'I know I am the ugly duckling,' she would say, with tears in her eyes; 'but I shall never turn into a swan like Sara and Lesbia,--not that I want to be like them!' --with a little scorn in her voice. 'Lesbia is too tame, too namby-pamby, for my taste; and Sara is stupid. She laughs and talks, but she never says anything that people have not said a hundred times before. Oh, I am so tired of it all! I grow more cross and disagreeable every day,' finished Jill, who was very frank on the subject of her shortcoming.
I would have stopped and talked to Jill, only Lesbia tapped me on the arm rather peremptorily.
'Come into the back drawing-room,' she said, in a low voice. 'I want to speak to you. --Jill, why do you not practise your new duet with Sara? She will play nothing but valses all the evening, unless you prevent it' But Jill shook her head sulkily; she felt safer in her corner. Sara was strumming on the grand pianoforte as we passed her; her slim fingers were running lazily over the keys in the 'Verliebt und Verloren' valse. Clarence was lighting the candles; William was bringing in the coffee; and Colonel Ferguson was following rather unceremoniously. People were always dropping in at Hyde Park Gate: perhaps Sara's bright eyes magnetised them. We had colonels and majors and captains at our will, for there was a martial craze in the house: to-night it was grave, handsome Colonel Ferguson.
He was rather a favourite with Uncle Brian and Aunt Philippa, perhaps because his troubles interested them; he had buried his young wife and child in an Indian grave, and some people said that he had come to England to look out for a second wife.
He was a very handsome man, and still young enough to find favour in a girl's sight, and his wealth made him a _grand parti_ in the parents' eyes. At present he had bestowed equal attention on Sara and Lesbia, though close observers might have noticed that he lingered longest by Sara's side.
'How do you do, Colonel Ferguson?' said Sara, nodding to him in her bright, unconcerned way, as she finished her valse. 'Mother is over there talking to Fräulein: you will find your coffee ready for you.' And her glossy little head bent over the keys again, while the lazy music trickled through her fingers. Though Colonel Ferguson did as he was told, I fancied he would keep a close watch over the young performer.
The inner drawing-room had heavy velvet hangings that closed over the archway; on cold evenings the curtains would be drawn rather closely; there would be a bright fire, and a single lamp lighted. Very often Uncle Brian would retire with his book or paper when Sara's valses wearied him or the room filled with young officers. Since Ralph's death he had certainly become rather taciturn and unsociable. Aunt Philippa, who loved gaiety, never accompanied him, but now and then Jill would creep from her corner, when her mother was not looking, and slip behind the ruby curtains. I have caught her there sometimes sitting on the rug, with her rough head against her father's knee; they would both of them look a little shamefaced, as if they were guilty of some fault.
'Go to bed, Jill; it is time for little girls to be asleep,' he would say, patting her cheek. Jill would nestle it on his coat-sleeve for a moment, as she obeyed him. Her father had the softest place in her heart. She always would have it that her mother was hard on her, but she never complained of want of kindness from her father.
'Colonel Ferguson comes very often,' remarked Lesbia, a little peevishly, as she walked to the fireplace to warm herself: she was a chilly being, and loved warmth. 'His name is Donald, is it not? some one told me so: Donald Ferguson. Well, he is not bad; he may do for Sara. She has plenty of quicksilver to balance his gravity.'
I was rather surprised at this beginning; but without waiting for any answer, she went on.
'What is this Mr. Cunliffe tells me?' she asked, fixing her blue eyes on my face with marked interest. 'You are going to carry out your old scheme, Ursula, about nursing poor people and singing to them. He tells me you have chosen Heathfield for your future home, and that he is to find you lodgings. Sit down, dear, and tell me all about it,' she went on eagerly. 'I thought you had given up all that when--when--' but here she stopped and her lips trembled; of course she meant when Charlie died, but she rarely spoke his name. I would not let her see my astonishment,--she had never seemed so sisterly before,--but I took the seat close to her and talked to her as openly as though she were Jill or Uncle Max; now and then I paused, and we could hear Colonel Ferguson's deep voice: he was evidently turning over the pages of Sara's music.
'Go on, Ursula; I like to hear it,' Lesbia would say when I hesitated; she was not looking at me, but at the fire, with her cheek supported against her hand.
'What do you think of it?' I asked, presently, when I had finished and we had both been silent a few minutes listening to one of Mendelssohn's Songs without Words that Sara was playing very nicely.
'What do I think of it?' she replied, and her voice startled me, it was so full of pain. 'Oh, Ursula, I think you are to be envied! If I could only come with you and work too! --but there is mother, she could not do without me, and so we must just go on in the same old way.'
I was so shocked at the hopelessness of her tone, so taken aback at her words, that I could not answer her for a moment: it seemed inconceivable to me that she could be saying such things. Poor pretty Lesbia, whom Charlie had loved and whom I considered a mere fragile butterfly. She was quite pale now, and her eyes filled suddenly with tears.
'You do not believe me, Ursula; no, I was right--you never understood me. I often told dear Charlie so. You think, because I laugh and dance and do as other girls do, that I have forgotten--that I do not suffer. Do you think I shall ever find any one so good and kind in this world again? Oh, you are hard on me, and I am so miserable, so unhappy, without Charlie. And I am not like you: I cannot work myself into forgetfulness; I must stop with mother and do as she bids me, and she says it is my duty to be gay.'
I was so ashamed of myself, of my mean injustice, that I was very nearly crying myself as I asked her pardon.
'Why do you say that?' she returned, almost pettishly, only she looked so miserable. 'I have nothing to forgive. I only want you to be good to me and not think the worst, for I'm really fond of you, Ursula, only you are so reserved and cold with me,' 'My poor dear,' I returned, taking the pretty face between my hands and kissing it. 'I will never be unkind to you again. Forgive me if I have misunderstood you: for Charlie's sake I want to love you.' And then she put her head down on my shoulder and cried a little, and bemoaned herself for being so unhappy; and all the time I comforted her my guilty conscience owned that Uncle Max was right.
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{
"id": "16080"
}
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4
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UNCLE MAX BREAKS THE ICE
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Uncle Max was one of those men who like to take their own way about things; he never hurried himself, or allowed other people's impatience to get the better of him. 'There is a time for everything, as Solomon says,' was his favourite speech when any one reproached him with procrastination; 'depend upon it, the best work is done slowly. What is the use of so much hurry? When death comes we shall be sure to leave something unfinished.'
So for two whole days he just chatted commonplaces with Aunt Philippa, rallied Sara, who loved a joke, and talked politics with Uncle Brian, and never mentioned one word about my scheme; if I looked anxiously at him he pretended to misunderstand my meaning, and, in fact, behaved from morning to night in a most provoking way.
At last I could bear it no longer, and one wet afternoon, when I knew he was in the drawing-room, making believe to write his letters, but in reality getting a deal of amusement out of Sara's sprightly conversation, for she was never silent for two minutes if she could help it, I shut myself up in my own room, and would not go near him. I knew he would ask where Ursula was every half-hour, and would soon guess that I was out of humour about something; and possibly in an hour or two his conscience would prick him, and he would feel that I deserved reparation.
This little piece of ill-tempered artifice bore excellent fruit, for before I had nearly finished the piece of plain sewing I had set myself as a sort of penance, there was a tap at the door, and Sara came in, looking very excited, with her bright eyes full of wonder.
'Oh, Ursula, there is such a fuss downstairs! Uncle Max has been telling us all about your absurd scheme. Mother is as cross as possible; she is so angry, and yet half crying at the same time.'
'And Uncle Brian,' I exclaimed eagerly,--'what does he say?'
'Oh, you know father's way. He just smiled as though the whole thing were beneath his notice, and went on reading his paper, and when mother appealed to him he said, coolly, that it was none of his business or hers either if Ursula chose to make a fool of herself; she had the right to do so,--something like that, you know.'
'How very pleasant!' I remarked satirically, for I hated the way Uncle Brian put down his foot on things that displeased him. I preferred Aunt Philippa's voluble arguments to that.
'To make things worse,' went on Sara cheerfully, 'Mrs. Fullerton and Lesbia have come in, and mother and Mrs. Fullerton are trying which can talk the faster. Lesbia asked for you, and then did not speak another word. What shall you do, Ursula, dear?'
'I shall just go down and ask Aunt Philippa for a cup of tea,' I returned coolly, folding up my work. Sara looked half frightened at my boldness, and then she began to laugh.
'It is so absurd, you know,' she returned, linking her arm in mine affectionately. 'What ever put such nonsense in your head? you are so comfortable here with us, and you have your own way, and I never tease you now about going to balls. It is so silly of you trying to make yourself miserable, and living in poky lodgings. You might as well be a fakir, or a dervish, or a Protestant nun, or anything else that is unpleasant.'
'My dear, you do not know anything about it,' I answered rather angrily. 'You and I are different people, Sara; we shall never think the same about anything.'
'Well, I don't know,' she returned, half affronted: 'when people try to be extra good I always find they succeed in making themselves extra disagreeable. It is far more religious, in my opinion, to be pleasant to every one, and make them believe that there is something cheerful in life, instead of pulling a long face and doing such dreadfully bad things.' And after this little fling, in which she tried to be very severe, only as usual her dimples betrayed her, she begged me quite earnestly to smooth my hair, as though I were breaking one of the commandments by keeping it rough; and, having obliged her in this particular, and allowed her to peep at her own pretty face over my shoulder, we went down to the drawing-room as though we were the best of friends.
It was impossible to quarrel with Sara; she was as gay and irresponsible as a child; one might as well have been angry with a butterfly for brushing his gold-powdered wings across your face; the gentle flappings of Sara's speeches never raised a momentary vexation in my mind. I was often weary of her, but then we do weary of children's company sometimes; in certain moods her bright sparkling effervescence seemed to jar upon me: but I never liked to see her sad. Sadness did not become Sara; when she cried, which was as seldom as possible, and only when some one died, or she lost a pet canary, all her beauty dimmed, and she looked limp and forlorn, like a crushed butterfly or a draggled flower.
I do not think I was quite as cool and unconcerned as I wished to appear when I marched into the drawing-room, and, after greeting Mrs. Fullerton and Lesbia, asked Aunt Philippa for a cup of tea.
Quite a hubbub of voices had struck on my ear as I opened the door, and yet complete silence met me. Lesbia, indeed, whispered 'Poor Ursula' as I kissed her, but Mrs. Fullerton looked at me with grave disapproval. Aunt Philippa was sitting bolt upright behind the tea-tray, and handed me my cup, rather as Lady Macbeth did the dagger. I received it, however, as though it were my due, and glanced at Uncle Max; but he was too wise to look at me, so I said, as coolly as possible, 'Why are you so silent, and yet you were talking loudly enough before Sara and I came into the room?' For there is nothing like taking the bull of a dilemma by the horns; and I had plenty of, let us say, native impudence, only, personally, I should have given it another name; and then, of course, I brought the storm upon me.
Sara was right. Aunt Philippa certainly talked the faster; Mrs. Fullerton tried her best to edge in a word now and then,--a very scathing word, too,--but there was no silencing that flow of rapid talk. I quite envied her pure diction and the ingenious turn of her sentences; she made so much of her own admirable foresight and care of me, and so little of my merits.
'I always said something like this would happen, Ursula. I have told your uncle often,--Brian, why don't you speak? --yes, indeed, I have told him often that I never met any one so strong-minded and self-willed. You need not laugh, Sara,--unless you do it to provoke me,--but I have been like a mother to Ursula. Thank heaven, my daughters are not of this pattern! they do not mistake eccentricity for goodness, or flaunt ridiculous notions in the faces of their elders.'
This was too bad of Aunt Philippa; only she had lost her temper, and was feeling utterly aggrieved, and Mrs. Fullerton, who was a meddlesome, good-humoured woman, and who had nothing of which to complain in life except a little over-plumpness and too much money, was agreeing with her like a good neighbour and friend.
Uncle Max was smiling, and pulling his beard behind his paper; but he made no attempt to check the flow of feminine eloquence. He had said his say like a man, and had taken my part behind my back, and he knew women were like new wine,--very sound and sweet, but they must find their vent. Aunt Philippa would be kinder ever after if we let her scold us properly, and took our scolding with a good grace.
Once or twice Uncle Brian let his eye-glasses dangle, and spoke a peevish word or two.
'Nonsense, my dear! have I not said over and over again that this is none of our business? Ursula is old enough to know her own mind; if she chooses to be eccentric we cannot hinder her. All this talk goes for nothing.'
'Ah, but, Mr. Garston, young people want guidance,' observed Mrs. Fullerton impressively, for Aunt Philippa was beginning to sob, partly from the effects of wasted eloquence, and perhaps with a little shortness of breathing: anyway, her anger was working itself out. 'If you were to advise Ursula as you would Sara, your influence might induce her to change her mind.'
'I cannot endorse your opinion, Mrs. Fullerton,' returned Uncle Brian drily. 'I am far too keen an observer of human nature to think we can talk sense to deaf ears with any benefit. --Ursula, my child,' turning to me with a smile that might have been kinder, but perhaps he meant it to be so, 'there is not a grain of sense in your scheme: in spite of Cunliffe's eloquence, it will not hold water; in fact, in a little while you will be glad to come back to us again. When you do, I think I can promise that we will not laugh at you more than once a day, and then moderately.'
Now, this speech of Uncle Brian's made me very angry. No doubt he meant to be kind, and to show me that if my scheme failed I might come home to them again; but I was so much in earnest that his satire and his laughing at me hurt me more than all Aunt Philippa's hard speeches. So I flushed up, and for the first time tears came into my eyes; for he had prophesied failure, and I could not bear that, and I might have said words in my sudden irritation for which I should have been sorry afterwards, only Lesbia, who had sat behind me all this time, as silent and soft-breathed as a mouse, got up quickly and took my hand and stood by me.
'I think you have all said plenty of hard things to Ursula, and no one has been kind to her. I think she deserves praise and not all this blame; if she cannot lead the comfortable life we do, thinking how we are to get the most pleasure and enjoy ourselves, it is because she is better than we are, and thinks more about her duty. Mrs. Garston,--I do not mean to be rude, I am far too fond of you all, because you have all been so good to me,'--and here Lesbia's while throat swelled,--'but I cannot bear to hear Ursula so blamed. Mr. Cunliffe, I know you agree with me, you said so many nice things when Ursula was out of the room.'
This little burst of eloquence surprised us all. Uncle Max said afterwards that he was quite touched by it. Lesbia was generally so quiet and undemonstrative that her words took Aunt Philippa by storm. She might have been offended by Lesbia saying that I was better than the rest of them,--a fact that my conscience most emphatically contradicted; but when Lesbia kissed her, and begged her to think better of things, she cried a little because Charlie was not there to see how pretty she could look, and then cheered up, and made overtures that I might come and kiss her too, which I did most willingly, and with a full heart, remembering she was my father's sister and had been good to me according to her lights.
When Uncle Max saw that reconciliation was imminent, and that by Lesbia's help I was likely to have the best of it, my own way, and a good deal of petting to follow,--for they would all make more of me during the short time I would be with them,--he threw down his paper in high good-humour and joined us.
'That is what I call sensible, Mrs. Garston,' he said, paying her a compliment at once, as she sat flushed and fanning herself, 'and Ursula ought to feel herself very grateful to you for your forbearance and acquiescence in her plan.'
I do not believe he knew any more than myself where the forbearance had been, but he took it all for granted.
'Nothing puts heart into a person more than feeling sure of one's friends' sympathy. Now, we all of us, even Garston, in spite of his disapproval, wish Ursula good success in her scheme; some of us think better of it than others; for my own part, I am so convinced that she will have so many difficulties and disappointments to hamper her that I cannot bear to say a discouraging word.' And yet he had said dozens, only I was magnanimous and forgave him.
This settled the matter, for Aunt Philippa grew so sorry for me that she was almost out of breath again pitying me. 'I do not believe she can help it,' she said, in rather an audible aside to Mrs. Fullerton; 'her mother had a sort of craze about these things, and seemed to think it part of her religion to make herself uncomfortable; and poor Herbert was quite as bad, only he was a clergyman, and it did not matter so much with him; so I suppose the poor child inherits it. This sort of thing runs in families,' went on Aunt Philippa, in an awe-struck voice, as though it were a species of insanity. 'I am only thankful that my own girls have not got these notions.'
Mrs. Fullerton found out now that it was time to go home and dress for dinner, so Lesbia came round to me and whispered that I must come and see her soon, for she wanted to talk to me, and not to Sara, who was always running in and out.
'I am very fond of Sara, and like to see her, she amuses me so; but when I want advice or sympathy I feel I must come to you now, Ursula.' And though she had never said so much to me before, I knew she meant it; that there was some change in her, some want of nature or heaven knows what feminine need, when she missed me, and wanted me, and found some comfort in the thought of me.
There was no time for more discussion, and indeed we were all a little weary of it; but after dinner Uncle Max, who seemed in excellent spirits, as though he had done something wonderful and was proud of his own achievements, beckoned me into the inner drawing-room under pretence of showing me some engravings, and when we found ourselves alone, he said pleasantly, though abruptly-- 'Well, Ursula, I thought you would be glad to have an opportunity of thanking me, for of course you feel very grateful to me for all the trouble I have taken.'
'Oh, indeed!' I returned scornfully, for it would never do to encourage this vainglorious spirit. 'I should have felt more disposed to thank you if you had not kept me for two days in suspense!'
'That is the result of doing a woman a good turn,' shaking his head mournfully. 'The moment she gets her own way, she turns upon you and rends you. Fie, fie on you, little she-bear!'
'Oh, Max, do be quiet a moment.'
'Max, indeed! Where are your manners, child? What would Garston say if he heard your flippancy?' But by the way he stroked his beard and looked at me, I saw he was not displeased. No one would have taken him for my uncle who had seen us together, for he was a young-looking man, and I was old for my age.
'I do want you to be serious a moment,' I went on plaintively. 'I am really very obliged to you for having broken the ice: after all, I have not been badly submerged. I soon rose to the surface when Lesbia held out a helping hand.'
'Well, now, Ursula, do you not agree with me? --was not Lesbia a darling?'
'She was very nice and sisterly,' I confessed. 'She has more in her than I ever thought. Poor little thing! I am afraid she is very unhappy, only she hides it so.'
'Just so. That shows her good sense: the world is very intolerant of a protracted grief; its victims must learn to dry their eyes quickly.'
Uncle Max was becoming philosophical: this would never do.
'Never mind about Lesbia,' I observed impatiently, 'we can talk about her in the next room; what I want to know is, how soon I may come to Heathfield.' For I knew how dilatory men can be about other people's business, and I fully expected that Uncle Max would put me off to the summer.
'You may come as soon as you like,' he returned, rather too carelessly. 'Shall we say next week, or will that be too early?'
I suppressed my astonishment cleverly, but was down on him in a moment.
'I should like to have some place found for me first,' I remarked sententiously; 'you must take lodgings for me first, and then I can settle my plans.'
'Oh, that is done already,' he observed cheerfully. 'I have spoken to Mrs. Barton about you, and she has very nice rooms vacant. I wanted them for Tudor, until I mooted the vicarage plan. It is a tidy little place, Ursula, and I think you will be very comfortable there.'
I felt that Uncle Max deserved praise, and I gave it to him without stint or limit; he took it nobly, like a man who feels he has earned his reward.
'I fancy I have done a neat thing,' he said modestly.
'Directly I read your letter and saw that you were in earnest, I went down to Mrs. Barton and had a long talk with her. Do you remember the White Cottage, Ursula, that stands just where the road dips a little, after you have passed the vicarage? It is on the main road that leads to the common: there is a field, and one or two houses, and on the right the road branches off to Main Street, where my poorer parishioners live. Oh, I see that you have forgotten. Well, there is a low white cottage, standing far back from the road, with rather a pretty garden, and a field at the back: people call it the White Cottage; though it is smothered in jasmine in the summer; and there is a nice little parlour with a bedroom over it. That will do capitally, I fancy. Old Mrs. Meredith lived there until her death, and she left her furniture to Mrs. Barton.'
I expressed myself as being well pleased at this description, and then inquired a little anxiously if there were room for my piano and my books.
'Oh yes, it is quite a good-sized room; that is why I wanted it for Tudor. You will not mind it being a little low: it is only a cottage, remember. There is a nice easy couch, I spotted that at once, and a capital easy-chair, and some corner cupboards that will, hold a store of good things; you can make it as pretty as possible.'
'And Mrs. Barton, Max,--is she a pleasant person?'
'There could not be a pleasanter. You will find yourself in clover, Ursula, you will indeed; she is a nice little woman, and has all the cardinal virtues, I believe; she is a widow and has a big son who works at Roberts's, the builder's. Nathaniel is very big, very big indeed, so much so that I feel it my duty to warn you of his size, for fear you should receive a shock. The cottage just holds him when he sits down, and his mother's one anxiety is that he should not bring down the kitchen ceiling more than once a year, as it hurts his head and comes expensive; he has a black collie they call Tinker, the cleverest dog in the place, so Nathaniel says; and these three constitute the household of the White Cottage.'
I was charmed with Uncle Max's account; the cottage seemed cosy and homelike. I knew I could trust his opinion; he was a good judge of character, and was seldom wrong in his estimate of a man, woman, or child, and he would be especially careful to intrust me to a thoroughly reliable person. I begged him therefore to close with Mrs. Barton at once; she asked a very moderate price for her rooms, and I could have afforded higher terms. It would not take me long to pack my books and other treasures: some of them I should be obliged to leave behind, but I must take all Charlie's books and my own, and my favourite pictures and bits of china, and a store of fine linen for my own use. I was somewhat demoralised by the luxury at Hyde Park Gate, and liked to make myself comfortable after my own way. Poor Charlie used to laugh at me and say I should be an old maid, and, as I considered this fact inevitable, I took his teasing in good part.
I told Uncle Max that I thought I could be ready in another week, and that I saw no good in delay. He assented to this, and was kind enough to add that the sooner I came the better. I was a little dismayed to find that he had not considered himself bound to keep my counsel; he had talked about my plan to his curate, Mr. Tudor, and I gathered from his manner, for he refused to tell me any more, that he had discussed it with another person.
This was too bad, but I would not let him see that this vexed me. I wanted to settle in and begin my work quietly before the neighbourhood knew of my existence; but if Uncle Max published my intended arrival in every house he visited, I felt I could not even worship in comfort, for fear the congregation should be eying me suspiciously.
I thought it better to change the subject: so I began to question him about Mr. Tudor and Mrs. Drabble, the latter being the ruling power at the vicarage; and he fell upon the bait and swallowed it eagerly, so my vexation passed unnoticed.
Uncle Max did not live quite alone. His house was large, far too large for an unmarried man, and he was very sociable by nature, so he induced his curate to take up his abode with him; but the two men and Mrs. Drabble, the housekeeper, and the maid under her, could not fill it, and several rooms were shut up. Lawrence Tudor had been a pupil of Uncle Max, and the two were very much attached to each other. Uncle Max had brought him up once or twice to Hyde Park Gate, and we had all been much pleased with him. He was not in the least good-looking, but I remember Sara said he was gentlemanly and pleasant and had a nice voice. I knew his frank manner and evident affection for Uncle Max prepossessed me in his favour; he had been very athletic in his college days, and was passionately fond of boating and cricket, and he was very musical and sang splendidly.
The little Uncle Max had told me about him had strongly interested me. The Tudors had been wealthy people, and Uncle Max had spent more than one long vacation at their house, coaching Walter Tudor, who was going in for an army examination, and reading Greek with Lawrence (or Laurie, as they generally called him) and another brother, Ben.
Lawrence had meant to enter the army too. Nelson, the eldest of all, was already in India, and had a captaincy. They were all fine, stalwart young men, fond of riding and hunting and any out-of-door pursuit. But there never would have been a parson among them but for the failure of the company in which Mr. Tudor's money was invested. He had been one of the directors, and from wealth he was reduced to poverty.
There was no money to buy Walter a commission, so he enlisted, bringing fresh trouble to his parents by doing so. Ben entered an office, but Lawrence was kept at Oxford by an uncle's generosity, and under strong pressure consented to take orders.
The poor young fellow had no special vocation, and he owned to Max afterwards that he feared that he had done the wrong thing. I am afraid Max thought so too, but he would not discourage him by saying so; on the contrary, he treated him in a bracing manner, telling him that he had put his hand to the plough, and that there must be no looking backward, and bidding him pluck up heart and do his duty as well as he could; and then he smoothed his way by asking him to be his curate and live with him, so saving him from the loneliness and discomfort of some curates' existence, who are at the mercy of their landladies and laundresses.
So the two lived merrily together, and Lawrence Tudor was all the better man and parson for Uncle Max's genial help and sympathy; and though Mrs. Drabble grumbled and did not take kindly to him at first, she made him thoroughly comfortable, and mended his socks and sewed on his buttons in motherly fashion. Mrs. Drabble was quite a character in her way; she was a fair, fussy little woman, who looked meek enough to warrant the best of tempers; she had a soft voice and manner that deceived you, and a vague rambling sort of talk that landed you nowhere; but if ever woman could be a mild virago Mrs. Drabble was that woman. She worshipped her master, and never allowed any one to find fault with him; but with Mr. Tudor, or the maid, or any one who interfered with her, she could be a flaxen-haired termagant; she could scold in a low voice for half an hour together without minding a single stop or pausing to take breath. Mr. Tudor used to laugh at her, or get out of her way, when he had had enough of it; she only tried it on her master once, but Max stood and stared at her with such surprise and such puzzled good-humour that she grew ashamed and stopped in the very middle of a sentence.
But, with all her temper, neither of them could have spared Mrs. Drabble, she made them so comfortable.
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{
"id": "16080"
}
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5
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'WHEN THE CAT IS AWAY'
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Aunt Philippa had one very good point in her character: she was not of a nagging disposition. When she scolded she did it thoroughly, and was perhaps a long time doing it, but she never carried it into the next day.
Jill always said her mother was too indolent for a prolonged effort; but then poor Jill often said naughty things. But we all of us knew that Aunt Philippa's wrath soon evaporated; it made her hot and uncomfortable while it lasted, and she was glad to be quit of it: so she refrained herself prudently when I spoke of my approaching departure; and, being of a bustling temperament, and not averse to changes unless they gave her much trouble, she took a great deal of interest in my arrangements, and bought a nice little travelling-clock that she said would be useful to me.
Seeing her so pleasant and reasonable, I made a humble petition that Jill might be set free from some of her lessons to help me pack my books and ornaments. She made a little demur at this, and offered Draper's services instead; but it was Jill I wanted, for the poor child was fretting sadly about my going away, and I thought it would comfort her to help me. So after a time Aunt Philippa relented, after extorting a promise from Jill that she would work all the harder after I had gone; and, as young people seldom think about the future except in the way of foolish dreams, Jill cheerfully gave her word. So for the last few days we were constantly together, and Fräulein had an unexpected holiday. Jill worked like a horse in my service, and only broke one Dresden group; she came to me half crying with the fragment in her hand,--the poor little shepherdess had lost her head as well as her crook, and the pink coat of the shepherd had an unseemly rent in it,--but I only laughed at the disaster, and would not scold her for her awkwardness. China had a knack of slipping through Jill's fingers; she had a loose uncertain grasp of things that were brittle and delicate; she had not learned to control her muscles or restrain her strength. She had a way of lifting me up when I teased her that turns me giddy to remember: I was quite a child in her hands. She was always ashamed of herself when she had done it, and begged my pardon, and as long as she put me on my feet again I was ready to forgive anything. Jill felt a sort of forlorn consolation in using up her strength in my service: she would hardly let me do anything myself; I might sit down and order her about from morning to night if I chose.
I made her very happy by leaving some of my possessions under her care--some books that I knew she would like to read, and other treasures that I had locked up in my wardrobe. Jill had the key and could rummage if she liked, but she told me quite seriously that it would comfort her to come and look at them sometimes. 'It will feel as though you were coming back some day, Ursie,' she said affectionately.
Late one afternoon I left her busy in my room, and went to the Albert Hall Mansions to bid good-bye to Lesbia. I had called once or twice, but had always missed her. So I slipped across in the twilight, as I thought at that hour they would have returned from their drive.
The Albert Hall Mansions were only a stone's throw from Uncle Brian's house, so I considered myself safe from any remonstrance on Aunt Philippa's part. I liked to go there in the soft, early dusk; the smooth noiseless ascent of the lift, and the lighted floors that we passed, gave one an odd, dreamy feeling. Mrs. Fullerton had a handsome suite of apartments on the third floor, and there was a beautiful view from her drawing-room window of the Park and the Albert Memorial. It was a nice, cheerful situation, and Mrs. Fullerton, who liked gaiety, preferred it to Rutherford Lodge, though Lesbia had been born there and she had passed her happiest days in it.
I found Mrs. Fullerton alone, but she seemed very friendly, and was evidently glad to see me. I suppose I was better company than her own thoughts.
I liked Mrs. Fullerton, after a temperate fashion. She was a nice little woman, and would have been nicer still if she had talked less and thought more. But when one's words lie at the tip of one's tongue there is little time for reflection, and there are sure to be tares among the wheat.
She was looking serious this evening, but that did not interfere with her comeliness or her pleasant manners. I found her warmth gratifying, and prepared to unbend more than usual.
'Sit down, my dear. No, not on that chair: take the easy one by the fire. You are looking rather fagged, Ursula. It seems to be the fashion with young people now: they get middle-aged before their time. Oh yes, Lesbia is out. It is the Engleharts' "At Home," and she promised to go with Mrs. Pierrepoint. But she will be back soon. Now we are alone, I want to ask you a question. I am rather anxious about Lesbia. Dr. Pratt says there is a want of tone about her. She is too thin, and her appetite is not good. The child gets prettier every day, but she looks far too delicate.'
I could not deny this. Lesbia certainly looked far from strong, and then she took cold so easily. I hinted that perhaps late hours and so much visiting (for the Fullertons had an immense circle of acquaintances, with possibly half a dozen friends among them) might be bad for her.
Mrs. Fullerton looked rather mournful at this.
'I hope you have not put that in her head,' she returned uneasily. 'All yesterday she was begging me to give up the place and go back to Rutherford Lodge. Major Parkhurst is going to India in February, and so the house will be on our hands.'
'I think the change will be good for Lesbia. It is such a pretty place, and she was always so fond of it.'
'Oh, it is pretty enough,' with a discontented air; 'but life in a village is a very tame affair. There are not more than four families in the whole place whom we can visit, and when we want a little gaiety we have to drive into Pinkerton.'
'I think it would be good for Lesbia's health, Mrs. Fullerton.'
'Well, well,' a little peevishly, 'we must talk to Dr. Pratt about it. But how is Lesbia to settle well if I bury her in that poky little village? Perhaps I ought not to say so to you, Ursula; but poor dear Charlie has been dead these two years, so there can be no harm in speaking of such things now. But Sir Henry Sinclair is here a great deal, and there is no mistaking his intentions, only Lesbia keeps him at such a distance.'
I thought it very bad taste of Mrs. Fullerton always to talk to me about Lesbia's suitors. Lesbia never mentioned such things herself. As far as I could judge, she was very shy with them all. I could not believe that the placid young baronet had any chance with her. She might possibly marry, but poor Charlie's successor would hardly be a thick-set, clumsy young man, with few original ideas of his own. Colonel Ferguson would have been far better; but he evidently preferred Sara.
I was spared any reply, for Lesbia entered the room at that moment. She looked more delicately fair than usual, perhaps because of the contrast with her heavy furs. Her hair shone like gold under her little velvet bonnet, but, though she was so warmly dressed, she shivered and crept as close as possible to the fire.
Mrs. Fullerton had some notes to write, so she went into the dining-room to write them and very good-naturedly left us by ourselves.
Lesbia looked at me rather wistfully.
'I have missed you twice, Ursula. I am so sorry; and now you go the day after to-morrow. I wish I could do something for you. Is there nothing you could leave in my charge?'
'Only Jill,' I said, half laughing. 'If you would take a little more notice of her after I have gone, I should be so thankful to you.'
I thought Lesbia seemed somewhat amused at the request.
'Poor old Jill! I will do my best; but she never will talk to me. I think I should like her better than Sara if she would only open her lips to me. Well, Ursula, what have you and mother been talking about?'
'About Rutherford Lodge,' I returned quickly. 'Do you really want to go back there?'
'Did mother talk about that?' looking excessively pleased. 'Oh yes, I am longing to go back. I don't want to frighten you, Ursie, dear,--and, indeed, there is no need,--but this life is half killing me. I am too close to Hyde Park Gate; one never gets a chance of forgetting old troubles; and then mother is always saying gaiety is good for me, and she will accept every invitation that comes; and I get so horribly tired; and then one cannot fight so well against depression.'
I took her hand silently, but made no answer; but I suppose she felt my sympathy.
'You must not think I am wicked and rebellious,' she went on, with a sigh. 'I promised dear Charlie to be brave, and not let the trouble spoil my life; he would have it that I was so young that happiness must return after a time, and so I mean to do my best to be happy, for mother's sake, as well as my own; and I know Charlie would not like me to go on grieving,' with a sad little smile.
'No, darling, and I quite understand you.' And she cheered up at that.
'I knew you would, and that is why I want to tell you things. I have tried to do as mother wished, but I do not think her plan answers; excitement carries one away, and one can be as merry as other girls for a time, but it all comes back worse than ever.'
'Mere gaiety never satisfied an aching heart yet.'
'No; I told mother so, and I begged her to go back to Rutherford because it is so quiet and peaceful there and I think I shall be happier. I shall have my garden and conservatory, and there will be plenty of riding and tennis. I am very fond of our vicar's wife, Mrs. Trevor, and I rather enjoy helping her in the Sunday-school and at the mothers' meeting; not that I do much, for I am not like you, Ursula, but I like to pretend to be useful sometimes.'
'I see what you mean, Lesbia: your life will be more natural and less strained than it is here.'
'Yes, and time will hang less heavy on my hands. I do love gardening, Ursula. I know I shall forget my troubles when I find myself with dear old Patrick again, grumbling because I will pick the roses. I shall sleep better in my little room, and wake less unhappy. Oh, mother!' as Mrs. Fullerton entered at that moment with a half-finished note in her hand, 'I am telling Ursula how home-sick I am, and how I long for the dear old Lodge. Do let us go back, mother darling: I want to hunt for violets again in the little shady hollow beyond the lime-tree walk.'
'Yes, dearest, we will go if you really wish it so much,' returned Mrs. Fullerton, with a sigh. 'Why, my pet, did you think I should refuse?' as Lesbia put her arms round her neck and thanked her. 'When a mother has only got one child she is not likely to deny her much: is she, Ursula?'
'Oh, mother, how good you are to me!' returned Lesbia, and her blue eyes were shining with joy. When Mrs. Fullerton had left the room again she told me that she had often cried herself to sleep with the longing to be in her old home again; she loved every flower in the garden, every animal about the place, and she grew quite bright and cheerful as she planned out her days. No, there was nothing morbid about Lesbia's nature; she was an honest, well-meaning girl, who had had a great disappointment in her life; she meant to outlive it if she could, to be as happy as possible. A wise instinct told her that her best chance of healing lay in country sights and sounds: the fresh gallop over the downs, the pleasant saunter through the sweet Sussex lanes, the sweet breath of her roses and carnations, would all woo her back to health and cheerfulness. When the pretty colour came back into Lesbia's face her mother would not regret her sacrifice; and then I remembered that Charlie's friend Harcourt Manners lived about half a dozen miles from Rutherford, and always attended the Pinkerton dances, and he was a nice intelligent fellow. But I scolded back the foolish thoughts, and felt ashamed of myself for entertaining them.
I parted from Lesbia very affectionately, for she seemed loath to say good-bye, but I knew poor Jill would be grumbling at my absence; the others were dining out, and I had promised to join the schoolroom tea, which was to be half an hour later on my account, but it was nearly six before I made my appearance, very penitent at my delay, and fully expecting a scolding.
I found Jill, however, kneeling on the rug, making toast, with Sooty in her arms; she had blacked her face in her efforts, but looked in high good-humour.
'Fräulein has gone out for the whole evening: that freckled Fräulein Misschenstock has been here, and has invited her to tea and supper. Mamma said she could go, as you would remain with me, so we shall be alone and cosy for the whole evening. Now, you may pour out tea, if you like, for I have all this buttered toast on my mind. I am as hungry as a hunter; but there is a whole seed-cake, I am glad to see. Now, darling, be quick, for you have kept me so long waiting.' And Jill brushed vigorously at her blackened cheek, and beamed at me.
But, alas! we had reckoned without our host, and a grand disappointment was in store for us, though, as it turned out, things were not as bad as they appeared to be at first.
I was praising Jill's buttered toast, for I knew she prided herself on this delicacy, and she had just cut herself a thick wedge of the seed-cake, which she was discussing with a school-girl's appetite, when I heard Uncle Brian's voice calling for Ursula rather loudly: so I ran to the head of the staircase, and, to my surprise, saw him coming up in his slow, dignified manner.
'Look here, Ursula, I shall be late at the Pollocks', and your aunt and Sara have gone on, and there is Tudor in the drawing-room, just arrived with a message from Cunliffe. Of course we must put him up; but the trouble is there is no dinner, and of course he is famished: young men always are.'
My heart sank as I thought of Jill, but there was no help for it. Max's friends were sacred. Mr. Tudor must be made as comfortable as possible.
'It cannot be helped, Uncle Brian,' I returned, trying to keep the vexation I felt out of my voice. 'Supposing you send Mr. Tudor up to the schoolroom, and we will give him some tea. Jill has made some excellent buttered toast, and Clayton can get some supper for him by and by in the dining-room: there is sure to be a cold joint,--or perhaps Mrs. Martin will have something cooked for him.'
'That must do,' he replied, somewhat relieved at this advice. 'We shall be back soon after tea, so you will not have him long on your hands. Entertain him as well as you can, there's a good girl.' He had quite forgotten, and so had I for the moment, that Fräulein was out for the evening, and that possibly Aunt Philippa might object to a young man joining the schoolroom tea; but, as it proved afterwards, she was more shocked at Uncle Brian than at any one else: she said he ought to have given up his dinner and stayed with his guest.
'I confess I do not see what Ursula could have done better,' she remarked severely; 'she could not spend the evening alone with him in the drawing-room; and of course he wanted his tea. That comes of allowing Fräulein to neglect her duties: she is too fond of spending her time with Fräulein Misschenstock.'
I did not dare break the news to Jill, for fear she should lock herself in her own room, for she never liked the society of young men; they laughed at her too much, in a civil sort of way: so I hurried down into the drawing-room and explained matters to Mr. Tudor, whom I found walking about the room and looking somewhat ill at ease.
He seemed rather amused at the idea of the schoolroom tea, but owned that he was hungry and tired, as he had had a fourteen-mile walk that day.
'It is all Mr. Cunliffe's fault that I am quartered on you in this way,' he said, laughing a little nervously--and very likely Uncle Brian's dignified reception had made him uncomfortable; 'but he would insist on my bringing my bag, and Mr. Garston has a dinner-engagement, and cannot attend to business until to-morrow morning.'
'I am afraid you would like a dinner-engagement too, after your fourteen miles,' I returned, in a sympathetic voice, for he did look very tired. 'We will give you some tea now, and then you can get rid of the dust of the journey, and by that time Mrs. Martin will have done her best to provide you with some supper.'
'I see I have fallen in good hands,' he replied, brightening at this in a boyish sort of way. 'Where is the schoolroom? I did not know there was such an apartment, but of course Mrs. Garston told me that her youngest daughter had not finished her studies. I think I saw her once: she was very tall, and had dark hair.'
'Oh yes; that was Jill--I mean Jocelyn, but we always call her Jill. Will you come this way, please? Fräulein is out, and we were having a good time by ourselves.'
'And I have come to spoil it,' he answered regretfully, as I opened the door.
I shall never forget Jill's face when she saw us on the threshold. She quite forgot to shake hands with Mr. Tudor in her dismay, but stood hunching her shoulders, with Sooty still clasped in her arms and her great eyes staring at him, till he said a pleasant word to her, and then she flushed up, and subsided into her chair. I stole an anxious glance at the cake; to my great relief, Jill had been quietly proceeding with her meal in my absence, for I knew that in her chagrin she would refuse to touch another morsel. I wondered a little what Mr. Tudor would think of her ungracious reception of him; but he showed his good-breeding by taking no notice of it and confining his remarks to me.
Jill's ill-humour thawed by and by when she saw how he entered into the spirit of the fun. He vaunted his own skill with the toasting-fork, and, in spite of fatigue, insisted on superintending another batch of the buttered toast; he was very particular about the clearness of the fire, and delivered quite an harangue on the subject. Jill's sulky countenance relaxed by and by; she opened her lips to contradict him, and was met so skilfully that she appealed to me for assistance.
By the time tea was over, we were as friendly with Mr. Tudor as though we had known him all our lives, and Jill was laughing heartily over his racy descriptions of schoolroom feasts and other escapades of his youth. He looked absurdly young, in spite of his clerical dress; he had a bright face and a peculiarly frank manner that made me trust him at once; he did not look particularly clever, and Jill had the best of him in argument, but one felt instinctively that he was a man who would never do a mean or an unkind action, that he would tell the truth to his own detriment with a simple honesty that made up for lack of talent.
I could see that Jill's bigness and cleverness surprised him. He evidently found her amusing, for he tried to draw her out; perhaps he liked to see how her great eyes opened and then grew bright, as she tossed back her black locks or shook them impatiently. When Jill was happy and at ease her face would grow illuminated; her varying expression, her animation, her quaint picturesque talk, made her thoroughly interesting. I was never dull in Jill's company; she had always something fresh to say; she had a fund of originality, and drew her words newly coined from her own mint.
I do not believe that Mr. Tudor quite understood her, for he was a simple young fellow. But she piqued his curiosity. I must have appeared quite a tame, commonplace person beside her. When Jill went out of the room to fetch something, he asked me, rather curiously, how old she was, and when I told him that she was a mere child, not quite sixteen, he said, half musing, that she seemed older than that. She knew so much about things, but he supposed she was very clever.
We went down into the drawing-room after this, and Jill kept me company while Mr. Tudor supped in state, with Clayton and Clarence to wait on him. He came up after a very short interval, and said, half laughing, that his supper had been a most formal affair.
'By the bye, Miss Garston,' he observed, as though by an afterthought, 'I hear you are coming down to Heathfield.' He stole a glance at Jill as he spoke. She had discarded her Indian muslin and coral necklace as being too grand for the occasion, and wore her ruby velveteen, that always suited her admirably. She looked very nice, and quite at her ease, sitting half-buried in Uncle Brian's arm-chair, instead of being bolt upright in her corner. She had drawn her big feet carefully under her gown, and was quite a presentable young lady.
I thought Mr. Tudor was rather impressed with the transformation Cinderella in her brown schoolroom frock, with a smutty cheek and rumpled collar, was quite a different person:--presto--change--the young princess in the ruby dress has smooth locks and a thick gold necklace. She has big shining eyes and a happy child's laugh. Her little white teeth gleam in the lamplight. I do not wonder in the least that Mr. Tudor looks at Jill as he talks to me. It is a habit people have with me.
But I answered him quite graciously.
'Yes, I am coming down to Heathfield the day after to-morrow. I suppose I ought to say _Deo volente_. I hope you all mean to be good to me, Mr. Tudor, and not laugh at my poor little pretensions.'
'I shall not laugh, for one,' he replied, looking me full in the face now with his honest eyes. 'I think it is a good work, Miss Garston. The vicar'--he always called Uncle Max the vicar--'was talking about it up at Gladwyn the other day, and Mr. Hamilton said--' 'Gladwyn? Is that the name of a house?' I asked, interrupting Mr. Tudor a little abruptly.
'To be sure. Have you not heard of Gladwyn?' And at that he looked a little amused. But I was not fated to hear more of Gladwyn that night, for the next moment Aunt Philippa came bustling into the room, and Sara and Uncle Brian followed her.
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{
"id": "16080"
}
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6
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THE WHITE COTTAGE
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Good-bye is an unpleasant word to say, and I said mine as quickly as possible, but I did not like the remembrance of Jill's wet cheek that I had kissed: I was haunted by it during the greater part of my brief journey. For some inexplicable reason I had chosen to arrive at Heathfield late in the afternoon; I wanted to slip into my new home in the dusk. I knew that Uncle Max would meet me at the station and look after my luggage, so I should have no trouble, and I hoped that I should wake up among my neighbours the next morning before they knew of my arrival.
When we stopped at some station a little while before we reached Heathfield, the guard put a gentleman in my compartment: I fancied they had not noticed me, for a large black retriever followed him.
The gentleman lifted his hat directly he saw me, and apologised for his dog's presence, until I assured him it made no difference to me; and then he drew a newspaper from his bag and tried to read by the somewhat flickering light. As I had nothing else to do, and his attention was evidently very much absorbed, I looked at him from time to time in an idle, furtive sort of way.
He had taken off his hat and put it on the seat; his dark smooth-shaven face reminded me of a Romish priest, but he had no tonsure; instead of that he had thick closely-cropped hair without a hint or suspicion of baldness, was strongly built and very broad, and looked like a man who had undergone training.
I was rather given to study the countenances of my fellow-passengers,--it was a way I had,--but I was not particularly prepossessed with this man's face; it looked hard and stern, and his manner, though perfectly gentlemanly, was a little brusque. I abandoned the Romish priest theory after a second glance, and told myself he was more like a Roman gladiator.
As we approached Heathfield, he folded up his paper and patted his dog, who had sat all this time at his feet, with his head on his knees. It was a beautiful, intelligent animal, and had soft eyes like a woman, and by the way he wagged his tail and licked the hand that fondled his glossy head I saw he was devoted to his master.
Just then I encountered a swift, searching glance from the stranger, which rather surprised me. He had looked at me, as he spoke, in an indifferent way; but this second look was a little perplexing; it was as though he had suddenly recognised me, and that the fact amused him; and yet we had never met before,--it was such an uncommon face, so singular altogether, that I could never have forgotten it.
I grew irritated without reason, for how could a stranger recognise me? Happily the lights from the station flashed before my eyes at that moment, and I began nodding and smiling towards a corner by the bookstall, where a felt hat and brown head were all that I could see of Uncle Max.
'Well, here you are, Ursula, punctual to a minute,' exclaimed Max, as he shook hands. 'Halloo, Hamilton, where did you spring from?' going to the carriage door to speak to my fellow-passenger. I was so provoked at this, fearing an introduction, for Max was such a friendly soul, that I went to the luggage-van and began counting my boxes, and Max did not hurry himself to look after me.
'Now, then,' he observed cheerily, when he condescended to join me, 'is your luggage all right? Do you mean all those traps are yours? Bless me, Ursula, what will Mrs. Barton say? Put them on the fly, you fellows, and be sharp about it. Come along, child; it is pelting cats and dogs, if you know what that means: you have a wet welcome to Heathfield.'
I took the news philosophically, and assured him it did not matter in the least. We could hear the rain beating against the windows as we reached the booking-office. A closed waggonette with a pair of horses was waiting at the door; my fellow-passenger, whom Max had addressed as Hamilton, was standing on the pavement, speaking somewhat angrily to the coachman. I heard the man's answer as he touched his hat.
'Miss Darrell said I was to bring the waggonette, sir: it did not rain so badly when the order was brought round to the stables.'
'I could have taken a fly easily: it is worse than folly bringing out the horses this wet night. Jump in, Nap. What, must I go first? Manners before a wet coat.'
I heard no more, for Max hurried me into a fly, and the waggonette passed us on the road.
'Who was that?' I asked curiously.
'Oh, that is Mr. Hamilton. Why did you not wait for me to introduce him to you, Ursula? He is a rich doctor who lives in these parts; he practises for his own pleasure among the poor people; he will not attend gentle-folks. He told me that he had studied medicine meaning to make it his profession, but a distant relative died and left him a fortune, and by so doing spoiled his career.'
'That was rather ungracious of him; but he looks the sort of man who could do plenty of grumbling. Where does he live, Max?'
'Oh, at Gladwyn: I cannot show you the house now, because we do not pass it. There is the church, Ursula, and there is Tudor in his mackintosh coming out of the vicarage: that is the best of Lawrence, he never shirks his duty; he hates the job, but he does it. He is going down to see old Smithers and get sworn at for his pains.'
'Have you got any cases ready for me, Max?' I asked, with a little tingling of excitement.
'Hamilton has. I was at Gladwyn the other evening, and had a talk with him. He was a little off-hand about your mission; he thinks you must be romantic, and all that sort of thing. You would have laughed to have heard him talk, and I let him go on just for the joke of it. It was rich to hear him say that he did not believe in hysterical goodness; a girl would do anything now to get herself talked about--no, I did not mean to repeat that,' interrupting himself, with an annoyed air. 'Hamilton always says more than he means. Look, Ursula, there is the White Cottage; that bow-window to the right belongs to your parlour. Now, my dear, I will open the gate, and you must just run up the path as quickly as you can, for you can hardly hold up an umbrella in this wind. You see the cottage does not boast of a carriage-drive.'
That odious Mr. Hamilton--or Dr. Hamilton, which was it? No wonder he looked like a Romish priest if he could make those Jesuitical remarks! I felt I almost hated him, but I resolved to banish him from my mind, as I ran past the dripping laurels that bordered the narrow path. The cottage door was open as soon as our fly had stopped at the gate; and by the light I could see the neat flower-borders and clipped yews, and a leafless wide-spreading tree with a seat under it. As I made my way into the porch, a very big man without his coat passed me with a civil 'good-evening.' I thought it must be Nathaniel, from his great height, and of course the prim-looking little widow in black, standing on the threshold, was Mrs. Barton. She had a nice, plaintive face, and spoke in a mild, deprecating voice.
'Good-evening, Mrs. Barton. What dreadful weather! I hope my wet boxes will not spoil the oilcloth.'
'That is easily wiped off, Miss Garston; but I am thinking the damp must have made you chilly. Come into the parlour: there is a fine rousing fire that will soon warm you. A fire is a deal of comfort on a wet, cool night. I have lighted one in your bedroom too.'
Evidently Mrs. Barton spared herself no trouble. I was a fire-worshipper, and loved to see the ruddy flame lighting up all the odd corners, and I was glad to think both my rooms would be cheerful. The parlour looked the picture of comfort; my piano was nicely placed, and the davenport, and the chair that I had sent with it. A large old-fashioned couch was drawn across the window, the round table had a white cloth on it, and the tea-tray and a cottage loaf were suggestive of a meal. The room was long and rather low, but the bow-window gave it a cosy aspect; one glance satisfied me that I had space for the principal part of my books, the rest could be put in my bedroom. When Mrs. Barton stirred the fire and lighted the candles the room looked extremely cheerful, especially as Tinker, the collie, had taken a fancy to the rug, and had stretched himself upon it after giving me a wag of his tail as a welcome. Mrs. Barton would hardly give me time to warm my hands before she begged me to follow her upstairs and take off my things while they brought in the luggage.
I found my bedroom had one peculiarity: you had to descend two broad steps before you entered it.
It was the same size as the parlour, and had a bow-window. The furniture was unusually good; it had belonged to the previous lodger, Mrs. Meredith, who had bequeathed it to Mrs. Barton at her death.
I was thankful to see a pretty iron bedstead with a brass ring and blue chintz hangings, instead of the four-poster I had dreaded. There was a commodious cupboard and a handsome Spanish mahogany chest of drawers that Mrs. Barton pointed out with great pride. A bright fire burned in the blue-tiled fireplace; there was an easy-chair and a round table in the bow-window; a pleasant perfume of lavender-scented sheets pervaded the room, and a winter nosegay of red and white chrysanthemums was prettily arranged in a curious china bowl. I praised everything to Mrs. Barton's satisfaction, and then she went downstairs to see to the tea, first giving me the information that Nathaniel was coming upstairs with the big trunk, and would I tell him where to place it?
He entered the next moment, carrying the heavy trunk on his shoulder as easily as though it were a toy. He was a good-looking man, with a fair beard and a pair of honest blue eyes, and in spite of his size and strength--for he was a perfect son of Anak--seemed rather shy and retiring.
I left him loosening the straps of my box, and went downstairs to find Uncle Max.
He had made himself quite at home, and was sitting in the big easy-chair contemplating the fire.
'Well, Ursula, how do you like your rooms? Oh yes, there are two cups and saucers,' as I looked inquiringly at the table, 'because Mrs. Barton expects me to remain to tea. She is frying ham and eggs at the present moment; I hope you do not mind such homely country fare; but to-morrow you will be your own housekeeper.'
I assured Uncle Max that I had fallen in love with the White Cottage, and that I liked Mrs. Barton excessively, that my bedroom was especially cosy and was most comfortably furnished. 'You will see how pretty this room will look when I put up my new curtains and pictures,' I went on; 'it is a little bare at present, but it will soon have a more furnished appearance. I mean to be so busy to-morrow settling all my treasures.' And I spoke with so much animation that Uncle Max smiled at what he called my youthful enthusiasm.
'You may be as busy as you like all day,' he returned, in his pleasant way, 'so that you come up to the vicarage in the afternoon to see Mrs. Drabble. Lawrence will be out: that fellow always is out,'--in a humorous tone of vexation. 'He makes himself so confoundedly agreeable that people are always asking him to dinner: he is terribly secular, is Lawrence, but he is young and will mend. Come up to the vicarage and dine with me, Ursula; I want you to taste Mrs. Drabble's pancakes: they are food for angels, as Lawrence always says.'
I accepted the invitation a little regretfully, for it seemed hard to leave my hermitage the first evening; but then Uncle Max had been so good to me that it would never do to disappoint him, and, as Mr. Tudor would be out, we should be very cosy together.
Mrs. Barton brought in the ham and eggs at this moment, and I sat down before my gay little tea-tray, marvelling secretly at the scarlet flamingo. There were plenty of homely delicacies on the table,--hot cakes and honey, and a basket of brown-and-yellow pippins. Uncle Max shook his head and pretended the hot cakes would ruin his digestion, but he enjoyed them all the same, and made an excellent meal.
We sat for a long time talking over the fire, chiefly of Lesbia and Jill, for he took a warm interest in them both; but about eight o'clock he remembered he had an engagement, and went off rather hurriedly, and I went upstairs and unpacked one of my boxes, and arranged my clothes in the chest of drawers and in the big, roomy cupboard.
When the church clock struck ten, I went down again in search of hot water. At the sound of my footstep, Mrs. Barton came out in the passage and invited me into the kitchen.
'There is only Nat there at his books,' she said, in her plaintive voice; 'he works late sometimes, though I tell him he uses up candle and firelight. Please make yourself at home, Miss Garston; we shall always be pleased to see you in our kitchen, when you like to pop in.'
'I hope I shall not come too often,' I returned, looking round at its bright snug appearance. A square of dark carpet covered part of the red-tiled floor; the round deal table in the centre was hidden under a crimson cloth, and two big elbow-chairs stood on each side of the wide fireplace. Nathaniel sat in one, with a little round table in front of him, covered with books and papers, with a small lamp for his own use. Mrs. Barton's work-box and mending-basket were on the centre table, the hearth had just been swept up, there was a smell of hot bread, and a row of freshly-baked loaves were cooling on the dresser; the firelight shone on the gleaming pewter and brass utensils, and a great tabby cat sat purring on the elbow of Nathaniel's chair. I thought he seemed a little confused at my entrance, for he got up rather awkwardly and shuffled his papers together, so I took pity on his embarrassment, and only spoke to Mrs. Barton.
She took me into the little outer kitchen to show me where she did her cooking, and I asked her in a low voice what he was studying.
'He does a little of everything,' she said, with a sort of suppressed pride in her voice. 'Sometimes it is history, and oftener summing; he will have it that a man cannot have too much learning, and that he wants to improve himself; he is always fretting because he never had a chance when he was young, all along of his having to work when his poor father died, and so he is all for making up for lost time; sometimes Dr. Hamilton comes in and helps him with the Latin and--what do you call those figures?'
I suggested mathematics, and she nodded assent.
'Oh, Nat is a sight cleverer already than his master,' she went on. 'I am thinking that if he goes on learning more and more, that Mr. Roberts will be taking him into the business some day. Nat is a sort of foreman now, for his master thinks a deal of Nathaniel, and no wonder, for it is not only his learning, and his sitting up late, and getting up early in the winter's morning, and creeping downstairs without his boots so as not to wake me; for all he is such a good son; but I will say it, that there is not a young man in these parts that can beat Nat,' finished the little widow, in a broken voice.
I said I was glad to hear it, for she evidently expected me to say something; and then I asked how long Dr. Hamilton had given him lessons in Latin and mathematics. She was only too ready to tell me, and seemed pleased at my interest.
'Ever since Nat hurt his arm in the railway accident; and I will say that Dr. Hamilton brought him round in a wonderful way; he found him at his books one evening, and ordered him off to bed in a hurry; but when he came next time he had a long talk with Nat, and promised to give him an hour when he could spare it. Sometimes Nat goes up to Gladwyn, but oftener Dr. Hamilton drops in here; he has taken a fancy to our kitchen, he says; but that is his way of putting it. There are plenty of folks who find fault with the doctor, and say he is not what he ought to be to his own flesh and blood; but I always will have it, and Nathaniel says the same, that the doctor has a fine character. Why, Nat swears by him,' I was beginning to be afraid that Mrs. Barton would never arrive at a full stop,--she was a little like Mrs. Drabble in that; they were both discursive and parenthetical speakers, only Mrs. Drabble's meaning was more involved,--but before I had time to answer, a deep voice from the kitchen startled us.
'Mother, how long do you mean to keep Miss Garston in that cold, dark place? It is enough to starve her,' And at this rebuke Mrs. Barton hurried me into the front kitchen. I was tired by this time, and glad to bid them both good-night. And yet the widow's talk interested me. It was not Mr. Hamilton's fault that he had a face like a Romish priest; evidently he had his good points, like other people, in spite of his rudeness in laughing at me. But I could not--no, I could not tolerate that remark of his, 'that a girl would do anything to make herself talked about.' It was odious, cynical, utterly malevolent. I hoped Uncle Max would defer the introduction as long as possible. I never wished to know anything of Gladwyn or its master. These thoughts occupied me until I fell asleep; and then I dreamt of Jill.
Once or twice I woke in the night, disturbed by a low growl from Tinker, who slept in the passage. I heard afterwards that his dreams were always haunted by cats. He was an inveterate enemy to all the feline species, with the exception of Peter, the great tabby cat. They had long ago sworn an armistice, and, in his way, Tinker took a great deal of notice of Peter.
It was strange to look round the low cottage room by the flickering, fast-dying firelight. The rain still pattered on the garden paths. I was rather dismayed to find that it had not ceased the next morning; it is so pleasant to wake up in a fresh place and see the bright sunshine. This piece of good luck was denied me, however. When I looked out of my window I could only see dripping laurels and great pools in the gravel walks. The gray sky had not a break in it. I was glad when I was ready to go down to my parlour, for the fire and breakfast-table would look cheerful by comparison; and afterwards I would set to work so busily that I should not have time to notice the rain.
And so it proved; for until my early dinner--or rather luncheon--was served, I was employed in unpacking and arranging my books and ornaments.
On my journeys to and fro I often paused at the low staircase window to reconnoitre the weather. There was no garden behind the cottage; a small gravelled yard, where Mrs. Barton kept her poultry and some rabbits belonging to Nathaniel, opened by a gate into a field. There was a cow-house there, and a white cow was standing rather disconsolately under some trees. I found out afterwards that both the field and the cow belonged to Mrs. Barton, so I could always rely on a good supply of sweet new milk.
Nathaniel had put up my book-shelves when I had sent them with the other furniture, so I had only to arrange the books. I made use, too, of some nails he had driven in for my pictures.
The parlour really looked very nice when I had finished; the new cream-coloured curtains were up, and I had tied them back with amber silk; two or three sunny little landscapes, and Charlie's portrait, a beautifully-painted photograph, hung on the walls; my favourite books were in their places, and the mantelpiece and the corner cupboards held some of the lovely old china that had belonged to mother. Aunt Philippa had wished me to leave it behind, as she feared it might be broken; but I liked to feast my eyes on the soft rich colours, and every piece was precious to me.
When I had disposed the furniture to the best advantage,--had placed my davenport and work-table and special chair in the bow-window, and had replaced the shabby red cloth by a handsome tapestry one,--I called Mrs. Barton to see the room.
She held up her hands in astonishment.
'Dear me, Miss Garston, it looks quite a different place. What will Nathaniel say when he sees it? --he is so fond of books and pretty things. It only wants sunshine and a bird-cage, and perhaps a geranium or two, to make it quite a bower. May I make so bold, ma'am, as to ask who that pleasant-faced young gentleman is in the oak frame?' --but I think she was sorry that she had asked the question when I told her it was my twin-brother, now in heaven.
'That is where my husband and my dear little daughter both are,' she said, with moist eyes, as she turned away from the picture. 'Oh, there is a deal of trouble in the world, but you are young to know it, ma'am.' And then she looked kindly at me, and went away, to give Nathaniel his dinner.
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{
"id": "16080"
}
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7
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GILES HAMILTON, ESQ.
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It was quite late in the afternoon when I put the last finishing-touches to my sitting-room, and it was already dusk when I left the cottage and walked quickly up the road that led to the vicarage.
My busy day had not tired me, and I should have enjoyed a solitary ramble in spite of the wet roads and dark November sky, only I knew Uncle Max would be waiting for me. A keen sense of independence, of liberty, of congenial work in prospective, seemed to tingle in my veins, as though new life were coursing through them. I was no longer trammelled by the constant efforts to move in other people's grooves. I was free to think my own thought and lead my own life without reproof or hindrance.
The vicarage was a red, irregular house, shut off from the road by a low wall, with a court-yard planted somewhat thickly with shrubs: the living-rooms were chiefly at the back of the house, and their windows looked out on a pleasant garden: a glass door in the hall opened on a broad gravel terrace bordered by standard rose-trees, and beyond lay a smooth green lawn almost as level as a bowling-green; a laurel hedge divided it from an extensive kitchen-garden, to which Uncle Max and Mr. Tudor devoted a great deal of their spare time and superfluous energies.
It was far too large a house for an unmarried man: the broad staircase and spacious rooms seemed to require the echo of children's voices. Uncle Max used to call it the barracks, but I think in his heart he liked the roomy emptiness; when he was restless he would prowl up and down the wide landing from one unused room to another. It was an old-fashioned house, and more than one generation had grown up in it. Uncle Max was fond of telling me about his predecessors' histories. Two little children had died in the big nursery overlooking the garden. There was a little brown room where a _ci-devant_ vicar had written his sermons, with a big cupboard in the wall where he hung his cassock. He had a grown-up family, but his wife was dead. One day he married again and brought home a slim, pale-faced girl--a certain Priscilla Howe--to be the mistress of his house. There were stories rife in the village that her step-children were too much for poor, pretty Priscilla; that while her husband wrote his sermons in the little brown room the young wife pined and moped in her green sitting-room.
Uncle Max found a picture of her one day in a garret where they stored apples; a faint musty smell clung to the canvas. 'Priscilla Howe' was written in one corner; there was a childish look on the small oval face; large melancholy eyes seemed appealing to one out of the canvas. She was dressed in a heavy white material like dimity, and held a few primroses between her fingers. What an innocent, pathetic little bride the stern-faced vicar must have brought home!
I read her epitaph afterwards when Uncle Max showed me her grave,--'Priscilla, wife of Ralph Combermere, aged twenty, and her infant son.' What a sad little inscription! But Uncle Max read something sadder still one day. A letter in faded ink was found in a corner of the same old garret, and the signature was 'Priscilla'; there was only one sentence legible in the whole, and to whom it was written remained a mystery: 'Trust me, dear love, that I shall ever do my duty, in spite of flaunts and jeers and most unkindly looks; and if God spares me health, which I cannot believe, He may yet right me in the eyes that no longer look at me with fondness.'
Poor Priscilla! so her husband had ceased to love her. No wonder the poor child dwindled and pined among 'the flaunts and jeers and most unkindly looks' of her step-children. One could imagine her clasping her baby to her sad heart as she closed her eyes to the bitter misunderstanding of this life. 'Where the weary are at rest,'--they might have written those words upon her tomb.
The thought of Priscilla used to haunt me when I roamed about the passages on windy days; the old garret especially seemed haunted by her memory. Uncle Max once said to me that he could have constructed a romance out of her poor little history. 'She came from a place called Ecclesbourne Hall,' he said, one day. 'She was an heiress; old Ralph Combermere knew what he was about when he transplanted the pale primrose. Do you know, Ursula, this room is supposed to be haunted? And one of the maids told me seriously that Mistress Combermere walks here on windy nights with her babe in her arms. Fancy such a report in an English vicarage!'
When I reached the house the little maid who opened the door informed me that Uncle Max was in his study: it was a large room with a bow-window overlooking the garden, and I knew Uncle Max never used any other room except for his meals. I had volunteered to announce myself. I was never formal with Max, so I knocked at the door, and, without waiting to hear his voice in reply, marched in without ceremony.
But the next moment I stood discomfited on the threshold, for instead of Uncle Max's familiar face I saw a dark, closely-cropped head bending over the table as though searching for something, and the ruddy firelight reflected the broad shoulders and hairless profile of the obnoxious Mr. Hamilton.
My first idea was to escape, and my fingers were already on the door-handle, when he turned abruptly and saw me. 'I beg your pardon,' coming towards me and speaking in the deep peculiar voice I had already heard. 'I was hunting for the matches that Cunliffe always mislays. You are Miss Garston, are you not? I was told to expect you.' And then he actually shook hands with me in an off-hand way.
I am not generally devoid of presence of mind, but at that moment I behaved as awkwardly as a school-girl. If I could only have thought of some excuse for leaving him,--an errand or a message to Mrs. Drabble; but no form of words would occur to me. I could only mutter an apology for my abrupt entrance, and ask after Uncle Max, stammering with confusion all the time, and then take the chair he was placing for me, while he renewed his search for the match-box.
'Oh, Cunliffe has only gone down to the village to post his letters: he will be back in a few minutes. Ah! here are the matches. Now we shall be able to see each other.' And he coolly lighted Uncle Max's reading-lamp and two candles, and stirred the fire with such a vigorous hand that the huge lump of coal splintered into fragments.
'There; I do like a mighty blaze. Take that newspaper, Miss Garston, if the flame scorches your face. I know young ladies are afraid of their complexions.' Why need he have said that, as though my brown skin were Sara's pretty pink cheeks? 'Why do you not throw off your wraps if the room be too hot?' And he spoke so imperatively that I actually obeyed him, and got rid of my hat and ulster, which he deposited on the couch.
I did not like the look of Mr. Hamilton any better than I had liked it yesterday. His dark, smoothly-shaven face was not to my taste; it looked stern and forbidding. He had a low forehead, and there was a hard set look about the mouth, and the eyes were almost disagreeable in their keenness.
Perhaps I was prejudiced, but he looked to me like a man who rarely laughed, and who would take a pleasure in saying bitter things; his voice was not unpleasant, but it had a peculiar depth in it, and now and then there was an odd break in it that was almost a hesitation.
'Well,' he said, looking full at me, but, I was sure, not in the least wishful to set me at my ease, 'I suppose I ought to introduce myself. My name is Hamilton.'
I bowed. I certainly did not think it necessary that I should tell him that I was aware of that fact.
'We met yesterday, when you were good enough to put up with Nap's company. I was half disposed to introduce myself then: only I feared you would be shocked at such a piece of unconventionality; young ladies have such strict ideas of decorum.'
'And very properly so, too,' I put in severely, for my irritation was getting the better of my nervousness. I could not bear the tone in which he said 'young ladies.' I felt convinced he had an antipathy to the whole sex.
'Our skies were very uncivil in their welcome,' he went on, quite disregarding my remark: 'it was the wettest night we have had for an age. I was quite savage when I found the horses had been taken out of their warm stables: the coachman was an ass, as I told him.'
'You scolded him somewhat severely.'
'Ah! did you hear me?' smiling a little at that, as though he were amused. 'I am afraid I speak my mind pretty freely, in spite of bystanders. Well, Miss Garston, so I hear you have come down as a sort of female Quixote among us. Heathfield is to be the scene of your mission.'
I was so angry at the tone in which he said this that I made no reply. What right had a perfect stranger to meddle in my business? It was all Uncle Max's fault; if he had only held his tongue.
'Cunliffe was up at Gladwyn the other night,' he continued in the same off-hand way, 'and he told us all about it.'
'I am sorry to hear it,' very stiffly.
'Sorry! Why? Good deeds ought to be talked about, ought they not, _pro bono publico_, eh? Why not, Miss Garston?'
'Good intentions are not deeds.'
'True; you have me there. I suppose you think you must not reckon on your chickens before they are hatched; the _pro bono publico_ scheme is not properly hatched yet, except in theory. I am afraid I shall make you angry if I tell you I was rather amused at the whole thing.'
'I am glad to afford you amusement, Mr. Hamilton.'
'Ah, I see you are deeply offended; what a pity, and in five minutes too! That comes of my unfortunate habit of speaking my mind. Let me follow this out. I am afraid Cunliffe has been a traitor; that fellow is not reliable: no parsons are. Let me hear what you have against me, Miss Garston. I have spoken against your pet theory, and you are aggrieved in consequence,' He spoke in a half-jesting manner, but his ironical voice challenged me.
I felt I detested him, and he should know why.
'I expected to be misunderstood,' I returned coldly, 'but hardly to be accused of hysterical goodness. To be sure, a girl will do anything nowadays to get herself talked about!'
'Oh,' in a low voice, 'that rascal! But I will be even with him. How many more of my speeches did Cunliffe repeat?'
'Oh, I had heard enough,' I replied hastily. 'Does it not strike you as a little hard, Mr. Hamilton, that one should be judged beforehand in this harsh manner? --that because some girls are full of vagaries, the whole sex must be condemned?'
'Oh, if you put it in that cut-and-dried way, I must plead guilty: in fact, I should owe you some sort of apology, only'--with a stress on the word--'my speech was not intended for the house-top. I am rather a sceptic about female missions, Miss Garston, and do not always measure my words when I am discussing abstract theories with a friend. In my opinion Cunliffe is the one you ought to blame, though if the speech rankles I will take my share.'
'I certainly wish you had not said it, Mr. Hamilton.'
'There, now,'--in an injured voice,--'that is the way you treat my handsome apology, and I am not a man ever to own myself in the wrong, mind you. What does it matter, may I ask, what I think of girls in the abstract? I had not met you, Miss Garston, or discussed the subject in its bearings: so where may the offence lie? Of course you have no answer ready; of course you have taken offence where none is meant. This is so like a woman--to undertake to renovate society, and lose her temper at the first adverse word.'
He was looking at me with a peculiar but not unkindly smile as he spoke; in fact, his expression was almost pleasant; but I was too much prejudiced to be softened. I did not care in the least what he thought of my temper; I was quite sure he had one of his own.
'No one likes to meet discouragement on the threshold,' I answered curtly.
'Not if it comes out with timbrels and dances, like Jephtha's daughter, to be sacrificed: that was discouragement on the threshold with a vengeance. I was always sorry for that old fellow. Well, _apropos_ of that touching remark,--which, by the way, is exquisitely feminine,--supposing we strike a truce. I daresay you look upon me as an interfering stranger; but the fact is, I am the poor folk's doctor down here; so you cannot work without me. That alters the case, eh?' --with a smile meant to be propitiatory, but really too triumphant for my taste.
'Under those circumstances I could wish that you had less narrow views of women's work,' I returned, with some warmth.
He opened his eyes so widely at this that at any other moment I should have been amused.
'By all that is wonderful, it is the first time I have been accused of narrowness.' And here he gave a gruff little laugh. 'I think I had better leave yon alone, Miss Garston, and label you "dangerous." There is a hot sparkle in your eyes that warns me to keep off the premises. "Trespassers will be taken up." I begin to feel uncomfortable. Cunliffe has put me _en parole_, and I dare not break bounds. Can you manage to sit in the same room a little longer with such a heretic?'
'Heretics can be converted.'
He shrugged his shoulders at this.
'Not such a hardened sceptic as myself. Now, look here, Miss Garston. I will say something civil. I believe you are in earnest; so it shall be _pax_ between us; and I will promise not to thwart you. As for women's mission in general, I believe their principal mission is not to stop at home and mind their own business; in fact, home and homely duties are the last straws that break the back of the emancipated woman.' And with these audacious words Mr. Hamilton stirred the fire again with prodigious energy. Happily, Uncle Max came into the room at that moment; so I was spared any reply.
Max must have thought that I was suspiciously glad to see him, for he looked from one to the other rather anxiously.
'Sorry to be so late, Ursula; but I met Pardoe, and he entrapped me into an argument. Well, how have you and my friend Hamilton got on together?'
I turned away without answering, but Mr. Hamilton responded, in a melancholy voice-- 'I have been suppressed, like the dormouse in Alice's teapot. There is very little left of me. I had no idea your niece had such a taste for argument, Cunliffe. I take it rather unkindly that I was not warned off the track.'
'So you two have been quarrelling.' And Uncle Max looked a little vexed. 'What a fellow you are, Hamilton, for stroking a person the wrong way! Of course Ursula has believed all your cross-grained remarks?'
'Swallowed them whole and entire; and a fit of moral indigestion is the result. Well, I must be going; but first let me administer a palliative, Miss Garston. What time do you have breakfast? If it be before ten, I shall be happy to introduce you to a very eligible case.'
I would have given much to dispense with Mr. Hamilton's patronage; but under the circumstances it would have been absurd to refuse his offer. I could not sacrifice my work to my temper; but I recognised with a sinking heart that Mr. Hamilton would cross my daily path. The idea was as delightful to me as the anticipation of a daily east wind. I restrained myself, however, and briefly mentioned that I would be ready by nine.
'Oh, that is an hour too early: I will call for you at ten. Let me see, you are at the White Cottage. You are not curious about your first patient; in that you are not a true daughter of Eve. Well, good-bye, Miss Garston; good-bye, Cunliffe.' And he left the room without shaking hands with me again.
Uncle Max followed him out into the hall, and they stood so long talking that I lost patience, and went into the kitchen to see Mrs. Drabble.
She received me in a resigned way, as usual, and talked without taking breath once while she buttered the hot cakes and prepared the tea-tray. I understood her to say that Mr. Tudor's collars were her chief cares in life; that no young gentleman she had ever known was so hard to please in the matter of starch; that her master was a lamb in comparison; and did I not think he was looking ill and overworking himself?
I had some difficulty in finding out to whom she was alluding, but I imagined she meant her master, who was certainly looking a little thin, and then she went off on another tack.
'Folks seem mighty curious about you, Miss Ursula; people do say that only a young lady crossed in love would think of doing such an out-of-the-way thing as putting up at the White Cottage and nursing poor people. There was Rebecca Saunders,--you know Rebecca at the post-office,--she said to me last night, "So your young lady has come, Mrs. Drabble; the vicar was at the station, I hear, and Dr. Hamilton came down by the same train: wasn't that curious, now? I am thinking she must be a mighty independent sort of person to take this work on her; there has been trouble somewhere, take my word for it, for it is not in young folks' nature to go in for work and no play."'
'Oh, I mean to play as well as work,' I returned, laughing. 'Don't tell me any more, Mrs. Drabble; people will talk in a village, but I would rather not hear what they say.' And then I went back to the study and made tea for Uncle Max, and tried to pretend that I felt quite myself, and was not the least uneasy in my mind,--as though I could deceive Max.
'Well, Ursula,' he said, shaking his head at me, 'did Hamilton or Mrs. Drabble give you those hot cheeks?'
'Oh, Uncle Max,' I returned hastily, 'I am so sorry Mr. Hamilton is your friend.'
'Why so, little she-bear?'
'Because--because--I detest him: he is the most disagreeable, insufferable, domineering person I have ever met.'
'Candid; but then you were always outspoken, my dear. Now, shall I tell you what this disagreeable, insufferable, domineering person said to me in the hall?'
'Oh, nothing he said will make any difference in my opinion, I assure you.'
'Possibly not, but it is too good to be lost. He said, "That little girl actually believes in herself and her work; it is quite refreshing to meet with such _naïveté_ nowadays. Ursula did you call her? Well, the name just suits her." How do you like that, poor little bear?'
'I like it as well as I liked all Mr. Hamilton's speeches. Max, do you really care for that odious man? Must I be civil to him?'
'Indeed, I hope you will be civil, Ursula,' replied Uncle Max, in an alarmed voice. 'My dear, Giles Hamilton, Esq., is my most influential parishioner; he is rich; he doctors all my poor people _gratis_, bullies them one moment, and does them a good turn in the next; he is clever, kind-hearted, and has no end of good points, and, though he is eccentric and has plenty of faults, we chum together excellently, and I am very intimate with his people.'
'His people--who are they?' I asked irritably.
'Oh, it is a queer household up at Gladwyn,' returned Max, rather uneasily. 'Hamilton has a cousin living with him, as well as his two sisters; her name is Darrell,--Etta Darrell; she is a stylish-looking woman, about five-and-thirty; one never knows a lady's age exactly.'
'Are his sisters very young, then? Does Miss Darrell manage the house?'
'Yes. How could you guess that?' looking at me in surprise. 'Gladys, Miss Hamilton, is about three-and-twenty, but she is very delicate; the younger one, Elizabeth, is two years younger; they are Hamilton's half-sisters,--his father married twice: that accounts for a good deal.'
'How do you mean,--accounts for a good deal, Max?'
'Why people say that Hamilton doesn't always get on with his sisters,' he returned reluctantly: 'there are often misunderstandings in families,--want of harmony, and that sort of thing. Mind, I do not say it is true.'
'But you are so often at Gladwyn, you ought to know, Max.'
'Yes, of course; and now and then I have seen Hamilton a little stern with his sisters; he is rather irritable by nature. I don't quite understand things myself, but I have got it into my head that they would be happier without Miss Darrell; she is a splendid manager, but it puts Miss Hamilton out of her right place.'
'But she is an invalid, you say?'
'No, not an invalid, only very delicate, and a little morbid; not quite what a girl ought to be. You could do some good there, Ursula,' rather eagerly. 'Miss Hamilton has no friends of her own age; she is reserved,--peculiar. You might be a comfort to her; you are sympathetic, sensible, and have known trouble yourself. I should like to see you use your influence there.'
'I will try, if you wish it, Max. And her name is Gladys?'
'Yes, Gladys, of Gladwyn,' he returned, with a smile, but I thought he said it with rather a singular intonation, but it had a musical sound, and I repeated it again to myself,--'Gladys, of Gladwyn.'
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{
"id": "16080"
}
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8
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NEW BROOMS SWEEP CLEAN
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We were interrupted just then by Mrs. Drabble, who came in for the tea-things, and, as usual, held a long colloquy with her master on sundry domestic affairs. When she had at last withdrawn, Uncle Max did not resume the subject. I was somewhat disappointed at this, and in spite of my strong antipathy to Mr. Hamilton I wanted to hear more about his sisters.
He disregarded my hints, however, and began talking to me about my work.
'Do you know anything about the family Mr. Hamilton mentioned?' I asked, rather eagerly.
'Oh yes; Mary Marshall's is a very sad case; she has seven children, not one of them old enough to work for himself; and she is dying, poor creature, of consumption. Her husband is a navvy, and he is at work at Lewes; I believe he is pretty steady, and sends the greater part of his wages to his wife, but there are too many mouths to feed to allow of comforts; his old blind mother lives with them. I believe the neighbours are kind and helpful, and Peggy, the eldest child, is a sharp little creature, but you can imagine the miserable condition of such a home.'
'Yes, indeed.' And I shuddered as I recalled many a sad scene in my father's home.
'I have sent in a woman once or twice to clean up the place; and Mrs. Drabble has made excellent beef-tea, but the last lot turned sour from being left in the hot kitchen one night, and the cat upset the basin of calf's-foot jelly,--at least the children said so. I go there myself, because Tudor says the air of the place turns him sick: he looked as white as a ghost after his last visit, and declared he was poisoned with foul air.'
'I daresay he was right, Max; poor people have such an objection to open their windows.'
'I believe you there. I have talked myself nearly hoarse on that subject. Hamilton and I propose giving lectures in the schoolroom on domestic hygiene. There is a fearful want of sanitary knowledge in women belonging to the lower class; want of cleanliness, want of ventilation, want of whitewashing, are triple evils that lead to the most lamentable results. We cannot get people to understand the common laws of life; the air of their rooms may be musty, stagnant, and corrupt, and yet they are astonished if their children have an attack of scarlet fever or diphtheria.'
I commended the notion of the lectures warmly, and asked with whom the idea had originated.
'Oh, Hamilton, of course: he is the moving spirit of everything. We have planned the whole thing out. There is to be a lecture every Friday evening; the first is to be on household hygiene, the sanitary condition of houses, ventilation, cleanliness, etc. In the second lecture Hamilton will speak of the laws of health, self-management, personal cleanliness, to be followed by a few simple lectures on nursing, sick-cookery, and the treatment of infantile diseases. We want all the mothers to attend. Do you think it a good idea, Ursula?'
'It is an excellent one,' I returned reluctantly, for I grudged the praise to Mr. Hamilton. He could benefit his fellow-creatures, and give time and strength and energy to the poor sick people, and yet sneer at me civilly when I wanted to do the same, just because I was a woman. Perhaps Max was disappointed with my want of enthusiasm, for he ceased talking of the lectures, and said he had some more letters to write before dinner, and during the rest of the evening, though we discussed a hundred different topics, Mr. Hamilton's name was not again mentioned.
Uncle Max walked with me to the gate of the White Cottage, and bade me a cheerful good-night.
'I like to feel you are near me, Ursula,' he said, quite affectionately; 'an old bachelor like myself gets into a groove, and the society of a vigorous young woman, brimful of philanthropy and crotchets, will rub me up and do me good; one goes to sleep sometimes,' he finished, rather mournfully, and then he walked away in the darkness, and I stood for a minute to watch him.
It seemed to me that Max was a little different this evening. He was always kind, always cheerful; he never wrapped himself up in gloomy reserve like other people, however depressed or ill at ease he might be; but Mrs. Drabble was right, he was certainly thinner, and there was an anxious careworn look about his face when he was not speaking. I was certain, too, that his cheerfulness and ready flow of conversation were not without effort. I had asked him once if he were quite well, and he had looked at me in evident astonishment.
'Perfectly well, thank you,--in a state of rude health. Nothing ever ails me. Why do you ask?' But I evaded this question, for I knew Max hated to be watched; and, after all, what right had I to intrude into his private anxieties? doubtless he had plenty of these, like other men. The management of a large parish was on his shoulders, and he was too conscientious and hard-working to spare himself; but somehow the shadow lying deep down in Max's honest brown eyes haunted me as I unlatched the cottage door.
I heard Nathaniel's voice in the kitchen, and went in to bid him and his mother good-night. Mrs. Barton was not there, however, but, to my chagrin, Mr. Hamilton occupied her seat. He looked up with a rather quizzical glance as I entered: he and Nathaniel had the round table between them, strewn with books and papers; Nathaniel was writing, and Mr. Hamilton was sitting opposite to him.
'I beg your pardon,' I said hurriedly. 'I thought Mrs. Barton was here.'
'She has gone to bed,' returned Mr. Hamilton coolly: 'my friend Nathaniel and I are hard at work, as you see. Do you know anything of mathematics, Miss Garston? --no, you shake your head--' I do not know what more he would have said, but I escaped with a quick good-night.
As I went upstairs I made a resolution to avoid the kitchen in future: I might at any moment stumble upon Mr. Hamilton. I had forgotten that he gave Nathaniel lessons sometimes in the evening. What a ubiquitous mortal this man appeared, here, there, and everywhere! It had given me rather a shock to see him so comfortably domiciled in Mrs. Barton's cosy kitchen; he looked as much at home there as in Uncle Max's study. How bright Nathaniel had looked as he raised his head to bid me good-night! I was obliged to confess that they had seemed as happy as possible.
It was very late when he left the cottage; I was just sinking off to sleep when I heard his voice under my window. Tinker heard it too, and barked, and then the gate shut with a sudden sharp click and all was still. Nathaniel must have crept up to bed in his stocking-feet, as they say in some parts, for I never heard him pass my door.
I was glad to be greeted by sunshine the next morning; the day seemed to smile on my new work like an unuttered benison, as I went down to my solitary breakfast. I resolved that nothing Mr. Hamilton could say should damp or put me out of temper, and then I sat down and read a sad rambling letter from Jill, which was so quaint and original, in spite of its lugubriousness, that it made me smile.
I was standing by the door, caressing Tinker, who was in a frolicking mood this morning, when I saw Mr. Hamilton cross the road; he wore a dark tweed suit and a soft felt hat,--a costume that did not suit him in the least; he held open the gate for me, and made a sign that I should join him. As I approached without hurrying myself in the least, he looked inquiringly at the basket I carried.
'I hope you do not intend to pauperise your patients,' was his first greeting.
'Oh no,' was my reply, but I did not volunteer any information as to the contents of the basket. There was certainly a jar of beef-tea that Mrs. Drabble had given me, and a few grapes; but the little store of soap, soda, fine rags, and the two or three clean towels and cloths would have surprised him a little, though he might have understood the meaning of the neat housewife.
'I am glad you wear print dresses,' was his next remark; 'they are proper for a nurse. Stuff gowns that do not wash are abominations. I am taking you to a very dirty place, Miss Garston, but what can you expect when there are seven children under thirteen years of age and the mother is dying? She was a clean capable body when she was up; it is hard for her to see the place like a pig-sty now. Old Mrs. Marshall is blind, and as helpless as the children,' He spoke abruptly, but not without feeling.
'The neighbours are good to them, Uncle Max tells me.'
'Oh yes; they come in and tidy up a bit, that is their expression; now and then they wash the baby or take off a batch of dirty clothes, but they have their own homes and children. I tell my patient that she would be far more comfortable in a hospital; but she says she cannot leave the children, she would rather die at home. That is what they all say.'
'But the poor creatures mean what they say, Mr. Hamilton.'
'Oh, but it is all nonsense!' he returned irritably. 'She can do nothing for the children; she cannot have a moment's quiet or a moment's comfort, with all those grimy noisy creatures rushing in and out. I found her sitting up in bed yesterday, in danger of breaking a blood-vessel through coughing, because one of the imps had fallen down and cut his head and she was trying to plaster it.'
'Her husband ought to be with her,' I said, somewhat indignantly.
'He is on a job somewhere, and cannot come home; they must have bread to eat, and he must work. This is the house,' pointing to a low white cottage at the end of a long straggling street of similar houses; two or three untidy-looking children were playing in the front garden with some oyster-shells and a wooden horse without a head. One little white-headed urchin clapped his hands when he saw Mr. Hamilton, and a pretty little girl with a very dirty face ran up to him and clasped him round the knee.
''As 'oo any pennies to-day?' she lisped.
'No nonsense; run away, children,' he said, in a rough voice that did not in the least alarm them, for they scampered after us into the porch until an elder girl, with a year-old baby in her arms, met us on the threshold and scolded them away.
Mr. Hamilton shook a big stick at them.
'I shall give no pennies to children with dirty faces. Well, Peggy, how is mother? Have the boys gone to school, both of them? That is right. This is the lady who is coming to look after mother.'
Here Peggy dropped a courtesy, and said, 'Yes, sir,' and 'yes please, mum.'
'Mind you do all she tells you. Now out of my way. I want to speak to your grandmother a moment, and then I will come into the other room.'
I followed him into the untidy, miserable looking kitchen. An old woman was sitting by the fire with an infant in her arms; we found out that it belonged to the neighbour who was washing out some things in the yard. She came in by and by, clattering over the stones in her thick clogs,--a brisk, untidy-looking young woman,--and looked at me curiously as she took her baby.
'I must be going home now, granny,' she said, in a loud, good-humoured voice. 'Peggy can rinse out the few things I've left.'
Granny had a pleasant, weather-beaten face, only it looked sunken and pale, and the poor blind eyes had a pathetic, unseeing look in them. To my surprise, she looked neat and clean. I had yet to learn the slow martyrdom the poor soul had endured during the last few months in that squalid, miserable household. To her, cleanliness was next to godliness. She had brought up a large family well and thriftily, and now in her old age and helplessness her life had no comfort in it. I was rather surprised to see Mr. Hamilton shake the wrinkled hand heartily.
'Well, Elspeth, what news of your son? Is he likely to come home soon?'
'Nay, doctor,' in a faint old treble: 'Andrew cannot leave his job for two or three months to come. He is terrible down-hearted about poor Mary. Ay, she has been a good wife to him and the bairns; but look at her now! Poor thing! Poor thing!'
'We must all dree our weird. You are a canny Scotch-woman, and know what that means. Come, you must cheer up, for I have brought a young lady with me who is going to put your daughter-in-law a little more comfortable and see after her from time to time.'
'Ay, but that is cheering news,' returned Elspeth; and one of the rare tears of old age stole down her withered cheek. 'My poor Mary! she is patient, and never complains; but the good Lord is laying a heavy cross on her.'
'That is true,' muttered Mr. Hamilton, and then he said, in a business-like tone, 'Now for the patient, Miss Garston'; and as he led the way across the narrow passage we could hear the hard, gasping cough of the sick woman.
Peggy, with the baby still in her arms, was trying to stir a black, cindery fire, that was filling the room with smoke. The child was crying, and the poor invalid was sitting up in bed nearly suffocated by her cough. The great four-post bed blocked up the little window. The remains of a meal were still on the big round table. Some clothes were drying by the hearth; a thin tortoise-shell cat was licking up a stream of milk that was filtering slowly across the floor, in the midst of jugs, cans, a broken broom, some children's toys, and two or three boots. The bed looked as though it had not been made for days; the quilt and valance were deplorably dirty; but the poor creature herself looked neat and clean, and her hair was drawn off from her sunken cheeks and knotted carefully at the back of her head. Mr. Hamilton uttered an exclamation of impatience when he saw the smoke, and almost snatched the poker out of Peggy's hands.
'Take the child away,' he said angrily. 'Miss Garston, if you can find some paper and wood in this infernal confusion, I shall be obliged to you: this smoke must be stopped.'
I found the broken lid of a box that split up like tinder, and Peggy brought me an old newspaper, and then I stood by while Mr. Hamilton skilfully manipulated the miserable fire.
'All these ashes must be removed,' he said curtly, as he rose with blackened hands: 'the whole fireplace is blocked up with them.' And then he went to the pump and washed his hands, while I sent Peggy after him with a nice clean towel from my basket. While he was gone I stepped up to the bed and said a word or two to poor Mrs. Marshall.
She must have been a comely creature in her days of health, but she was fearfully wasted now. The disease was evidently running its course; as she lay there exhausted and panting, I knew her lease of life would not be long.
'It was the smoke,' she panted. 'Peggy is young: she muddles over the fire. Last night it went out, and she was near an hour getting it to light.'
'It is burning beautifully now,' I returned; and then Mr. Hamilton came back and began to examine his patient, professionally. I was surprised to find that his abrupt manner left him; he spoke to Mrs. Marshall so gently, and with such evident sympathy, that I could hardly believe it was the same person; her wan face seemed to light up with gratitude; but when he turned to me to give some directions for her treatment he spoke with his old dryness.
'I shall be here about the same time to-morrow,' he finished; and then he nodded to us both, and went away.
'Mrs. Marshall,' I said, as I warmed the beef-tea with some difficulty in a small broken pipkin, 'do you know of any strong capable girls who would clean up the place a little for me?'
'There is Weatherley's eldest girl Hope still at home,' she replied, after a moment's hesitation, 'but her mother will not let her work without pay. She is a poor sort of neighbour, is Susan Weatherley, and is very niggardly in helping people.'
'Of course I should pay Hope,' I answered decidedly; and when the beef-tea was ready I called Peggy and sent her on my errand. One glance at the place showed me that I could do nothing for my patient without help. Happily, I had seen some sheets drying by the kitchen fire, but they would hardly be ready for us before the evening; but when Mrs. Marshall had taken her beef-tea I covered her up and tried to smooth the untidy quilt. Then, telling her that we were going to make her room a little more comfortable, I pinned up my dress and enveloped myself in a holland apron ready for work.
Peggy came back at this moment with a big, strapping girl of sixteen, who looked strong and willing. She was evidently not a woman of words, but she grinned cheerful acquiescence when I set her to work on the grate, while I cleared the table and carried out all the miscellaneous articles that littered the floor.
Mrs. Marshall watched us with astonished eyes. 'Oh dear! oh dear!' I heard her say to herself, 'and a lady too!' but I took no notice.
I sent Hope once or twice across to her mother for various articles we needed,--black lead, a scrubbing-brush, some house flannel and soft soap,--and when she had finished the grate I set her to scrub the floor, as it was black with dirt. I was afraid of the damp boards for my patient, but I covered her up as carefully as possible, and pinned some old window-curtains across the bed. Neglect and want of cleanliness had made the air of the sick-room so fetid and poisonous that one could hardly breath it with safety.
Now and then I looked in the other room and spoke a cheerful word to granny. Peggy was doing her best for the children, but the poor baby seemed very fretful. Towards noon two rough-headed boys made their appearance and began clamouring for their dinner. The same untidy young woman whom I had seen before came clattering up the yard again in her clogs and helped Peggy spread great slices of bread and treacle for the hungry children, and warmed some food for the baby. I saw granny trying to eat a piece of bread and dripping that they gave her and then lay it down without a word: no wonder her poor cheeks were so white and sunken.
Mrs. Drabble had promised me some more beef-tea, so I warmed a cupful for granny and broke up a slice of stale bread in it: it was touching to see her enjoyment of the warm food. The eldest boy, Tim, was nearly eleven years old, and looked a sharp little fellow, so I set him to clean up the kitchen with Peggy and make things a little tidier, and promised some buns to all the children who had clean faces and hands at tea-time.
I left Hope still at work when I went up to the White Cottage to eat some dinner. Mrs. Barton had made a delicate custard-pudding, which I carried off for the invalid's and granny's supper. My young healthy appetite needed no tempting, and my morning's work had only whetted it. I did not linger long in my pretty parlour, for a heavy task was before me. I was determined the sick-room should have a different appearance the next morning.
I sent Hope to her dinner while I washed and made my patient comfortable. The room felt fresher and sweeter already; a bright fire burned in the polished grate; Hope had scoured the table and wiped the chairs, and the dirty quilt and valance had been sent to Mrs. Weatherley's to be washed. When Hope returned, and the sheets were aired, we re-made the bed. I had sent a message early to Mrs. Drabble begging for some of the lending blankets and a clean coloured quilt, which she had sent down by a boy. The scarlet cover looked so warm and snug that I stood still to admire the effect; poor Mary fairly cried when I laid her back on her pillow.
'It feels all so clean and heavenly,' she sobbed; 'it is just a comfort to lie and see the room.'
'I mean granny to come and have her tea here,' I said, for I was longing for the dear old woman to have her share of some of the comfort; and I had just led her in and put her in the big shiny chair by the fire, when Uncle Max put his head in and looked at us.
'Just so,' he said, nodding his head, and a pleased expression came into his eyes. 'Bravo, Ursula! Tudor won't know the place again. How you must have worked, child!' And then he came in and talked to the sick woman.
I had taken a cup of tea standing, for I was determined not to go home and rest until I left for the night. I could not forget the poor fretful baby, and, indeed, all the children were miserably neglected. I made up my mind that Hope and I would wash the poor little creatures and put them comfortably to bed. My first day's work was certainly exceptionally hard, but it would make my future work easier.
The baby was a pale, delicate little creature, very backward for its age; it left off fretting directly I took it in my lap, and began staring at me with its large blue eyes. Hope had just filled the large tub, and the children were crowding round it with evident amusement, when Uncle Max came in. He contemplated the scene with twinkling eyes. ' "There was an old woman who lived in a shoe,"' he began humorously. 'My dear Ursula, do you mean to say you are going to wash all those children? The tub looks suggestive, certainly.'
I nodded.
'Who would have believed in such an overplus of energy? Hard work certainly agrees with you.' And then he went out laughing, and we set to work, and then Hope and I carried in the children by detachments, that the poor mother might see the clean rosy faces. I am afraid we had to bribe Jock, the youngest boy, for he evidently disliked soap and water.
Peggy and the baby slept in the mother's room; there was a little bed in the corner for them. I did not leave until granny had been taken upstairs and poor tired Peggy was fast asleep with the baby beside her.
The room looked so comfortable when I turned for a last peep. I had drawn the round table to the bed, and left the night-light and cooling drink beside the sick woman; she was propped up with pillows, and her breathing seemed easier. When I bade her good-night, and told her I should be round early in the morning, she said, 'Then it will be the first morning I shall not dread to wake. Thank you kindly, dear miss, for all you have done'; and her soft brown eyes looked at me gratefully.
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{
"id": "16080"
}
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9
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THE FLAG OF TRUCE
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It could not be denied that I was extremely tired as I walked down the dark road; but in spite of fatigue my heart felt lighter than it had done since Charlie's death, and the warm glow from the window of my little parlour seemed to welcome me, it looked so snug and bright. My low chair was drawn to the fire, a sort of tea-supper was awaiting me, and Mrs. Barton came out of the kitchen as soon as I had lifted the latch, to ask what she could do for me.
The first words surprised me greatly. Mr. Hamilton had called late in the afternoon, and had seemed somewhat surprised to hear I was still at the cottage, but he had left no message, and Mrs. Barton had no idea what he wanted with me.
I was half inclined to think that he had another case ready for me, but I had done my day's work and refused to think of the morrow. The first volume of _Kingsley's Life_ was lying on the little table: I had brought it from the vicarage the preceding evening. I passed a delicious hour in my luxurious chair, and went to bed reluctantly that I might be fit for the next day's fatigue.
As soon as I had breakfasted the next morning and read my letters, a chatty one from Sara and an affectionate note from Lesbia, I went down to the cottage.
I found my patient a little easier; she had passed a better night, and seemed, on the whole, more cheerful. Hope had arrived, and was scrubbing the kitchen, as I had enjoined her. Baby seemed poorly and fretful. I gave her in charge of Peggy, and set myself to the work of putting my patient and the sick-room in order, after which I intended to wash the baby and see after granny's and the children's dinner.
I had just brushed up the hearth and put the kettle to boil, when Mr. Hamilton's shadow crossed the window, and the next moment he was in the room.
I was sure that a half-smile of approbation came to his lips as he looked round the room; he lifted his eyebrows as though in surprise as he noticed everything,--the neat hearth, white boards, and bright window, and lastly the comfortable appearance of the bed, with its scarlet quilt and clean sheets.
'This is quite a transformation-scene, Miss Garston,' he said, in an approving tone. 'No wonder you were not at home in the afternoon. My patient looks cheery too: one would think I had set the fairy Order to work.' I felt that this was meant for high praise, and I received it graciously. I knew I had worked well and achieved wonders; but then I had Hope's strong arms to help me: it had been straightforward work, too, with no complication: any charwoman could have done it as well. I was sorry that his commendation set Mrs. Marshall's tongue going; she became so voluble, in spite of her cough, that I was obliged to enforce silence.
Mr. Hamilton's visit was very brief. I asked him to prescribe for the baby, but he said nothing ailed it in particular; it had always been sickly, and had been so neglected of late, most likely sour food had been given it. Mrs. Tyler, the next-door neighbour, who had looked after it, was a thoughtless body. 'You must take it in hand yourself, Miss Garston,' he finished; 'keep it warm and clean, and see the food properly prepared: that will be better than any medicine.' And then he went off with his usual abruptness, only I saw him stop at the gate to give pennies to Janie and little Jock.
There was still so much to do that I determined to spend the whole day at the cottage. I sent off all the dirty things for Mrs. Tyler to wash at home, for she was so noisy and untidy that I did not care to have her on the premises, and I thought granny could sit in Mrs. Marshall's room and hold baby while Peggy waited on me and ran errands.
Hope worked splendidly: when she had scoured the kitchen and front passage, she went upstairs and scrubbed the two rooms where granny and the children slept. I had made a potato pie with some scraps of meat Peggy had brought from the butcher's, and had seen the dish emptied by the hungry children. When I had fed the sandy cat and had had my own dinner, which Mrs. Barton had packed in a nice clean basket, and had peeped at my patient, I went upstairs to help Hope, and Peggy went with me. The state of the sleeping-rooms had horrified me in the morning; the windows had evidently not been open for weeks, and the sheets on granny's bed were black with dirt. Hope had washed the bedstead, and Peggy had lighted a fire, that the room might be habitable by night. Tim came up while we were busy, and stared at us. I was helping Peggy drag the mattresses and bedclothes into the passage. The open windows and the wet boards reeking with soft soap evidently astonished him.
'Where be us to sleep to-night?' quoth Tim; 'it is colder than in the yard.' But Peggy, who was excited by her work, bade him hold his tongue and not stand gaping there blocking up the passage.
I had been singing over my work, just to put heart into all of us and make us forget what a very disagreeable business it was, when Tim again made his appearance and said there was a gentleman in the kitchen. 'He thought he knowed him, but wasn't sure, but he had asked for the lady.' I went down at once, and found it was Mr. Tudor; he was sitting very comfortably by the fire, with all the children round him; little Janie was on his knee; her face was clean, and her pretty curls had been nicely brushed, so I did not mind her cuddling up to him, and I knew he was fond of children and always ready to play with them.
He put her down and shook hands with me, and said the vicar had sent him to look after me, as he could not come himself. I thought he looked a little amused at my appearance; and no wonder. I had quite forgotten that I had tied a handkerchief over my head to keep the dust from off my hair; with my holland bib-apron and sleeves, and pinned-up dress, I must have looked an odd figure; but when I said so he laughed, and observed that he rather admired my novel costume: it reminded him of a Highland peasant he had once seen.
'Was that you who were singing just now, Miss Garston?' he asked presently, looking at me with some attention.
'Yes,' I returned. 'You seem surprised. Surely you have heard me sing at Hyde Park Gate?' But he shook his head very decidedly.
'I should not have forgotten your voice if I had once heard it,' he said, in such a pleasant manner that the straightforward compliment did not embarrass me. 'You ought not to let such a talent rust, Miss Garston: the vicar must utilise you for our Penny Readings.'
I was horrified at this notion, and told him very seriously that nothing would induce me to sing on a platform, but that it was not my intention to let it rust, only I had my own ideas how best to utilise it.
He looked curious at this, but I changed the subject by asking him if he would like to see Mrs. Marshall. He hesitated, coloured slightly as though the question were distasteful, then he put down Janie from his knee,--for the child had clambered up again,--and said the vicar had undertaken the case, as he was rather new to the work, but he would see her if I wished it.
I was provoking enough to say that I did wish it, for I wanted him to see the comfortable appearance of the room that he so dreaded to enter. I felt sorry for Mr. Tudor in my heart that his work should be so distasteful to him: he was a fine, manly young fellow, who would have made a splendid sailor or soldier, but sick-rooms and old women were not to his taste, and yet he was very gentle and sympathising in his manners, and all the poor people liked him.
Granny was dozing by the fire, and the baby was asleep on the mother's bed, and as I opened the door I quite enjoyed Mr. Tudor's start of astonishment at the changed scene. I did not let him stay long, but I thought his kind looks and pleasant voice would cheer poor Mary. He said very little to either her or Elspeth, but what he said was sensible and to the point.
I sent him away after this, for my work was waiting for me. He went off laughing, and protesting that he had no idea that I had taken up the _rôle_ of a charitable charwoman, and that the vicar would remonstrate with me on the subject.
I think we all felt the brighter for Mr. Tudor's little visit, though he had said nothing specially clever; but he was an honest, genial creature, and I liked him thoroughly. I stopped at the cottage late that evening, for Mrs. Marshall wanted a letter written to her husband, and I could not refuse to do it. I was almost too tired to enjoy Kingsley that night, and found myself dozing over it, so I shut it up and went to bed.
Mr. Hamilton did not make his appearance until later the next day, when I was presiding over the children's dinner. I had just carried in a plate of lentil soup to granny, whom I now kept entirely in the sick-room, as she was too old to bear the children's noise, and the constant draughts from the opening door would soon have laid her on a sick-bed. I had baby in my lap, and was feeding her when he looked in on us.
I rose at once to follow him into the sick-room, but he waved me back.
'Do not disturb yourself, Miss Garston; you all look very comfortable. Jock, are you trying to swallow that spoon? You will find it a hard morsel.' And then he went into the other room, and, to my surprise, we did not see him again.
I left a little earlier that evening, as I knew Uncle Max meant to pay me a visit; but it was already dark when I closed the little gate behind me. I had not gone many paces when I heard footsteps behind me, and, somewhat to my dismay, Mr. Hamilton joined me.
'Have you only just finished your day's work?' he said, in evident surprise. 'This will never do, Miss Garston; we shall have you knocking yourself up if you use up your time and strength so recklessly, and I want you for another case.'
'I am quite prepared for that,' I answered; but I am afraid my voice was a little weary. 'You called on me yesterday, Mr. Hamilton. I was sorry to be out, but there was so much to do that I stayed at the cottage until quite late in the evening.'
'Just so,' in rather a vexed tone. 'The village nurse will be on a sick-bed herself if this goes on.'
'Oh, what nonsense!' I returned, laughing, for I forgot for the moment in the darkness that I was speaking to the formidable Mr. Hamilton. 'I do not always mean to work quite so hard. Mr. Tudor called me a charitable charwoman last evening; but this is an exceptional case,--so many helpless beings, and such shocking mismanagement and neglect. When I put things on a proper footing I shall not spend so much time there.'
'What do you mean by putting things on a proper footing?' he asked, with some show of interest.
'When the place has been properly cleaned it will be kept tolerably tidy with less labour. Hope Weatherley has been hard at work for two days, and things are now pretty comfortable.'
'I suppose--excuse me if the question seems impertinent, but I imagine that you paid Hope out of your own purse?'
'For those two days, certainly. It was necessary for my own comfort, speaking selfishly, that the place should be made habitable. My nursing would have been a mere mockery unless we could have got rid of the dirt,' 'You are perfectly right. I had no idea you were such a practical person. But, if you will allow me to give you a hint, Marshall earns good wages, and there ought to be sufficient money to pay for a moderate amount of help.'
'I told Mrs. Marshall so this morning,' I returned, pleased to find myself talking with such ease to Mr. Hamilton; but he seemed quite different to-night; evidently his _brusquerie_ was a mere mannerism that he laid aside at times; he had lost that sneering manner that I so much disliked. I remembered Uncle Max said that he was kind-hearted and eccentric.
'We had a long talk,' I went on. 'Marshall sends the money regularly, and I am to manage it. Mrs. Tyler is to wash for us, and I think we can afford to have Hope for at least an hour a day, to do the rough work; Peggy is so little to do everything.'
'Heaven help poor Peg!' he ejaculated; 'for she will soon have all those children on her hands. Mrs. Marshall cannot last long. Well, Miss Garston, how many hours do you intend to spend at the cottage daily?'
'I should think two hours in the morning and an hour and a half in the late afternoon or evening might do, unless there be a change for the worse, or Elspeth falls ill; she is very old and feeble.'
'She was half starved, poor old creature,--fairly clemmed, as they say in the North. Here we are at your place, Miss Garston. How bright and inviting your parlour looks! I wonder if I may ask to come in for a few minutes, while I tell you about the other case?'
Of course I could not do less than invite him to enter, after that; but I am afraid my manner lacked enthusiasm, and betrayed the fact that I was unwilling to entertain Mr. Hamilton as a guest, for when I saw his face in the lamplight he was regarding me with some amusement.
'Cunliffe has done me no end of mischief,' he said, as he offered to relieve me of my wraps: 'that unfortunate speech has strongly prejudiced you against me. Confess, now, you think me a very disagreeable person, because I happened to disagree with you that evening.'
'Certainly not on that account,' I returned, falling into the trap; and then we both laughed, for I had as good as owned that I thought him disagreeable. That laugh made us better friends. I felt I no longer disliked him: it was certainly not his fault that Providence had given him that type of face, and I supposed one could get used to it.
'I was in an evil mood that afternoon,' he went on, and then I knew instinctively that he wanted to efface his satirical words from my memory. 'Things had gone wrong somehow,--for this world of ours is a mighty muddle sometimes.' And here he gave an impatient sigh. 'It is a relief to human nature to vent one's spleen on the first handy person that crosses one's path, and, pardon me for saying so, you were just a little aggressive yourself,' looking at me rather dubiously, as though he were not quite sure how I should take this hit. My conscience told me that I had been far from peaceable; on the contrary, I had been decidedly cross; not that I would confess that this was the case, so I only returned mildly that I considered that he had been hard on me that day, and had handled my pet theory very roughly.
'Come, now you are talking like a reasonable woman, and I will plead guilty to some severity. Let me own that I distrusted you, Miss Garston. I have a horror of gush, and what I call the working mania of young ladies, and you had not proved to me then that you could work. At the present day, if a girl is restless and bad-tempered, and cannot get on with her own people, she takes up hospital-nursing, and a rare muddle she makes of it sometimes. I own hospital work is better than the convent of the Middle Ages, where the troublesome young ladies were safely immured; but, as I said before, I distrust the hysterical restlessness of the age.'
'No doubt you have a fair amount of argument on your side,' I replied, so meekly that he looked at me, and then got up from his chair and said hastily that I was tired, and he was thoughtless to keep me waiting for my tea.
'Let me give you some, while you tell me about the case,' was my hospitable reply; for, though I felt no special desire to prolong our _tête-à-tête_, mere civility prompted my offer.
He hesitated, then, to my surprise, sat down again, and said he would be very much obliged if I would give him a cup of tea, as he was tired too, and had to go farther and keep his dinner waiting.
I went out of the room to remove my hat and speak to Mrs. Barton. When I came back he was standing before Charlie's photograph, and evidently studying it with some attention, but he made no remark about it; and I told him of my own accord that it was the portrait of my twin-brother, who had died two years ago.
'Indeed! There is no likeness; at least I should not have known it was your brother. This is often the case between relations,' he continued hastily, as though he feared he had hurt me. 'What a snug little berth you have, Miss Garston, and everything so ship-shape too! I suppose that is your piano; but I am afraid you will have little time to practise.' And then, as I handed him his tea, he threw himself down in the easy-chair and seemed prepared to enjoy himself.
Looking at Mr. Hamilton this evening, I could have believed he had two sides to his character: he presented such a complete contrast to the Mr. Hamilton in Uncle Max's study that I was quite puzzled by it. He had certainly a clever face, and his smile was quick and bright; it was only in rest that his mouth looked so stern and hard. I found myself wondering once or twice if he had known any great trouble that had embittered him.
'Well, I must tell you about poor Phoebe Locke,' he began suddenly. 'I want you to find out what you can do for her. The Lockes are respectable people: Phoebe and her sister were dressmakers. They live a little lower down,--at Woodbine Cottage.
'Some years ago spinal disease came on, and now Phoebe is bedridden. She suffers a good deal at times, but her worst trouble is that her nerves are disordered, most likely from the dulness and monotony of her life. She suffers cruelly from low spirits; and no wonder, lying all day in that dull little back room. Her sister cannot sit with her, as Phoebe cannot bear the noise of the sewing-machine, and the sight of the outer world seems to irritate her. The neighbours would come in to cheer her up, but she does not seem able to bear their loud voices. It is wonderful,' he continued musingly, 'how education and refinement train the voice: strange to say, though my voice is not particularly low, and certainly not sweet, it never seems to jar upon her.'
'Very likely not,' I returned quickly; 'no doubt she depends upon you for all her comforts: to most invalids the doctor's visit is the one bright spot in the day.'
'It seems strange that we do not project our own shadows sometimes, and make our patient shiver,' he said, with a touch of gruffness. 'It is little that I can do for Phoebe, except order her a blister or ice when she needs it. One cannot touch the real nervous suffering: there is where I look to you for help; a little cheerful talk now and then may lighten her burden. Anyhow, it would be a help for poor Miss Locke, who has a sad time of it trying to earn food for them both. There is a little niece who lives with them, a subdued, uncanny little creature, who looks as though the childhood were crushed out of her; you might take her in hand too.'
'I wonder if Phoebe would like me to sing to her,' I observed quietly. 'I have found it answer sometimes in nervous illnesses.'
I thought my remark surprised him.
'It is a good idea,' he said slowly. 'You might try it. Of course it would depend a great deal on the quality of voice and style of singing. I wonder if you would allow me to judge of this,'--looking meaningly at the piano; but I shook my head at this, and he did not press the point.
We had very little talk after this, for he went away almost directly, first arranging to meet me at Mrs. Marshall's about four the next day and go with me to Woodbine Cottage.
'You will find plenty of work, Miss Garston,' were his final words, 'so do not waste your strength unnecessarily.' And then he left the room, but came back a moment afterwards to say that his sisters meant to call on me, only they thought I was hardly settled yet: 'we must get Mr. Cunliffe to bring you up to Gladwyn: we must not let you mope.'
I thought there was little chance of this, with Uncle Max and Mr. Tudor always looking after me. Mr. Hamilton had hardly closed the door before Uncle Max opened it again.
'So the enemy has tasted bread and salt, Ursula,' he said, looking excessively pleased: 'that is right, my dear: do not give way to absurd prejudices. You and Hamilton will get on splendidly by and by, when you get used to his brusque manner.' And, though I did not quite endorse this opinion, I was obliged to acknowledge to myself that the last half-hour had not been so unpleasant after all.
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{
"id": "16080"
}
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10
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A DIFFICULT PATIENT
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I had a little talk with granny the next day.
Mrs. Marshall was dozing uneasily, and I was sitting by granny, nursing the baby, and waiting for Mr. Hamilton, when I felt her cold wrinkled hand laid on mine.
'What is it, Elspeth?' I asked, thinking she wanted something.
'What put it in your head, my bairn, to do the Lord's work? that is what I am wanting to know. I have been listening to you this morning singing like a bird about the house, with all the bit creatures chirping about you, and I said to myself, "What could have put it into her head to leave all her fine friends, and come and wait on the likes of us old and sick folk and young bairns?"'
I do not know what there was in this speech that made me cry, but I know I had some difficulty in answering, but I told her a little about Charlie, and how sad I was, and how I loved the work, and she patted my hand softly all the time.
'Never fret, my bairn. You will not be lonely long: the Lord will see to that. He would not let you work for Him and do nothing for you in return. Nay, that is not His way. Look at me: as doctor said the other day, I have dreed my weird; few and evil have been my days, like Jacob, but here I sit like a lady by the fire, warm and comfortable and hearty, thank God; and Andrew's wife lies on her death-bed, poor woman.'
'Yes; but, Elspeth, you sit there in the dark.'
'Eh, but it is peaceful and quiet-like, and the Lord bides with me, "and darkness and light are both alike to him,"' finished Elspeth reverently. And then I heard the click of the gate, and rose hastily, only the baby cried as I laid her on Elspeth's lap, and I had to stay a moment to pacify her.
Mr. Hamilton came in and stood by us.
'Do not hurry yourself; I can easily wait a few minutes if you are not ready. Are you sure you are not too tired to come?' he continued, looking at me a little inquisitively, and I was certain that he noticed the trace of tears on my face. Why was it I never could speak of my darling quite calmly?
'I am perfectly ready, and baby has left off crying,' I returned, taking up my basket, and then we left the house together.
'I hope you do not suffer from low spirits, like the rest of us,' he said, in rather a kind tone, as we walked on. 'It is to be expected that a cross-grained fellow like myself should have fits of the blues occasionally. That is one thing I particularly admire about Cunliffe! however worried he is, one never sees him out of humour; his ups and downs are never perceptible. I do believe he is less selfish than other people.'
'There is no one like Uncle Max,' I rejoined fervently.
'Is it not odd that we should suit each other so well?' he asked presently, 'for we are complete contrasts. I can bear him to say things to me that I would knock any other fellow down for saying. That is why I let him preach to me, because he honestly believes what he says and tries to act up to his profession.' He broke off here, for by this time we had reached Woodbine Cottage, and he unlatched the gate for me.
A thin-faced child with a cropped head and clean white pinafore opened the door, and dropped an alarmed courtesy when she saw us.
'Please sir, Aunt Susan is out, and Aunt Phoebe is very bad this afternoon, and cannot see any one. She is lying in the dark, and I was to let none of the neighbours in while Aunt Susan was away.'
'All right, Kitty; but Aunt Phoebe will see me.' And he walked into the passage, and told the child to close the door gently. The room we passed was strewn with work-material, and looked cold and comfortless, but a small kitchen opposite had a warm cosy aspect. Mr. Hamilton passed both rooms and tapped at a door lower down the passage, and then without waiting for an answer entered, and beckoned me to follow him.
A dark curtain had been drawn across the window, and the dim glow of a cindery fire scarcely gave sufficient light to discern the different pieces of furniture. Mr. Hamilton gave vent to a suppressed exclamation of impatience as he seized the poker, but I could not but notice the skilful and almost noiseless manner in which he manipulated the coals. Then he looked round for a match, and lighted a candle on the mantelpiece, in spite of a peevish remonstrance from the patient.
'You will make my head worse, doctor: nothing but the dark eases it.'
'Nonsense, Phoebe! I know better than that,' he returned cheerfully, and then he stepped up to the bed, and I followed him. The woman who lay there was still young in years, she could not have been more than three- or four-and-thirty, but every semblance of youth was crushed out of her by some subtile and mysterious suffering; it might have been the face of a dead woman, only for the living eyes that looked at us.
The hopeless wistful look in those eyes gave me a singular shock. I had never seen human eyes with the same expression; they seemed as though they were appealing against some awful destiny. Once when Charlie and I were staying at Rutherford a beautiful spaniel belonging to Lesbia had been accidentally shot while straying in some wood. The poor animal had dragged himself with pain and difficulty to the garden-gate, and there we found him. I shall never forget the wistfulness of the poor creature's eyes when his mistress knelt down and caressed him. He died a few minutes afterwards, licking her hand. I could not help thinking of Tito when I first saw Phoebe Locke; for the same unreasoning anguish seemed in the sick woman's eyes. A tormented soul looked out of them.
There was something rigid and uncompromising in the whole aspect of the sick-room; there was nothing to tone down and soften the harsh details of bodily suffering; everything was in spotless order; the sheets were white as the driven snow; a formidable phalanx of medicine-bottles stood on the small square table; there were no books, no pictures, no flowers; a sampler hung over the mantelpiece, that was all. I saw Mr. Hamilton glance disapprovingly at the row of bottles.
'I told Kitty to clear all that rubbish away,' he said curtly. 'Why do you not have something pleasanter to look at, Phoebe? --some flowers, or a canary? you would find plenty of amusement in watching a canary.'
'Birds are never still for a moment; they would drive me mad,' returned Phoebe, in the hollow tones that seemed natural to her. 'Flowers are better; but what have I to do with flowers? Doctor,' her voice rising into a shrill crescendo, 'you must give me something to send me to sleep, or I shall go mad. I think, think, think, until my head is in a craze with pain and misery.'
'Well, well, we will see about it,' humouring her as though she were a child. 'Will you not speak to this lady, Phoebe? She has come down here to help us all,--sick people, and unhappy people, and every one that wants help.'
'She can't do anything for me,' muttered Phoebe restlessly; 'no one--not even you, doctor, can do anything for me. I am doomed,--doomed before my time.'
Mr. Hamilton looked at me meaningly, as though to say, 'Now you see what you have to do: this is more your work than mine.' I obeyed the hint, and accosted the sick woman as cheerfully as though her dismal speech had not curdled my blood.
'I hope I shall be some comfort to you; it is hard indeed if no one can help you, when you have so much to bear!'
'To bear!' repeating my words as though they stung her. 'I have lain here for three years--three years come Christmas Eve, doctor--between these four walls, summer and winter, winter and summer, and never knew except by heat or cold what season of the year it was. And I am young,--just turned four-and-thirty,--and I may lie here thirty years more, unless I die or go mad.'
'Now, Phoebe,' remonstrated Mr. Hamilton,--and how gently he spoke! --'have I not told you over and over that things may mend yet if you will only be patient and good? You are just making things worse by bearing them so badly. Why, a friend of mine has been seven years on her back like you, and she is the happiest, cheeriest body: it is quite a pleasure to go into her room.'
'Maybe she is good, and I am wicked,' returned Phoebe sullenly. 'I cannot help it, doctor: it is one of my bad days, and nothing but wicked words come uppermost. The devil has a deal of power when a woman is chained as I am.'
'Don't you think you could exorcise the demon by a song, Miss Garston?' observed Mr. Hamilton, in an undertone. 'This is just the case where music may be a soothing influence; something must be tried for the poor creature.'
The proposition almost took away my breath. Sing now! before Mr. Hamilton! And yet how in sheer humanity could I refuse? I had often sung before to my patients, and had never minded it in the least; but before Mr. Hamilton!
'You need not think of me,' he continued provokingly,--for of course I was thinking of him: 'I am no critic in the musical line. Just try how it answers, will you?' And he walked away and turned his back to us, and seemed absorbed in the sampler.
For one minute I hesitated, and then I cleared my throat. 'I am going to sing something, Phoebe. Mr. Hamilton thinks it will do you good.' And then, fearful lest her waywardness should stop me, I commenced at once with the first line of the beautiful hymn, 'Art thou weary? art thou languid?'
My voice trembled sadly at first, and my burning face and cold hands testified to my nervousness; but after the first verse I forgot Mr. Hamilton's presence and only remembered it was Charlie's favourite hymn I was singing, and sang it with a full heart.
When I had finished, I bent over Phoebe and asked if I should sing any more, and, to my great delight, she nodded assent. I sang 'Abide with me,' and several other suitable hymns, and I did not stop until the hard look of woe in Phoebe's eyes had softened into a more gentle expression.
As I paused, I looked across the room. Mr. Hamilton was still standing by the mantelpiece, perfectly motionless. He had covered his eyes with his hand, and seemed lost in profound thought. He absolutely started when I addressed him.
'Yes, we will go if you have finished,' but he did not look at me as he spoke. 'Phoebe, has the young lady done you any good? Did you close your eyes and think you heard an angel singing? Now you must let me take her away, for she is very tired, and has worked hard to-day. To-morrow, if you ask her, she will come again.'
'I shall not wait to be asked,' I returned, answering the dumb, wistful look that greeted the doctor's words. 'Oh yes, I shall come again to-morrow, and we will have a little talk, and I will bring you some flowers, and if you care to hear me sing I have plenty of pretty songs.' And then I kissed her forehead, for I felt strongly drawn to the poor creature, as though she were a strange, suffering sister, and I thought that the kiss and the song and the flowers would be a threefold cord of sympathy for her to bind round her harassed soul through the long hours of the night.
Mr. Hamilton followed me silently out, and on the threshold we encountered Susan Locke. She was a thin, subdued-looking woman, dressed in rusty black, with a careworn, depressed expression that changed into pleasure at the sight of Mr. Hamilton.
'Oh, doctor, this is good of you, surely,--and you so busy! It is one of Phoebe's bad days, when nothing pleases her and she will have naught to say to us, but groan and groan until one's heart is pretty nigh broken. I was half hoping that you would look in on us and give her a bit of a word.'
'Miss Garston has done more than that,' replied Mr. Hamilton. 'I think you will find your sister a little cheered. Give her something comfortable to eat and drink, and speak as cheerfully as you can. Good-night, Miss Locke.' And then he motioned to me to precede him down the little garden. Mr. Hamilton was so very silent all the way home that I was somewhat puzzled; he did not speak at all about Phoebe,--only said that he was afraid that I was very tired, and that he was the same; and when we came in sight of the cottage he left me rather abruptly; if it had not been for his few approving words to Susan Locke, I should have thought something had displeased him.
Uncle Max made me feel a little uncomfortable the next morning. I met him as I was starting for my daily work, and he walked with me to Mrs. Marshall's.
'I was up at Gladwyn last evening, Ursula,' he began. 'Miss Elizabeth is still away, but the other ladies asked very kindly after you. Miss Hamilton means to call on you one afternoon, only she seems puzzled to know how she is ever to find you at home. I cannot think what put Hamilton into such a bad temper; he scarcely spoke to any of us, and looked horribly cranky, only I laughed at him and he got better; he never mentioned your name. You have not fallen out again, eh, little she-bear?' looking at me rather anxiously.
'Oh dear, no; we are perfectly civil to each other; I understand him better now.' But all the same I could not help wondering, as I parted from Max, what could have made Mr. Hamilton so strangely silent.
It was still early in the afternoon when I found myself free to go and see Phoebe; she had been on my mind all day, and had kept me awake for a long time; those miserable eyes haunted me. I longed so to comfort her. Miss Locke opened the door; I thought she seemed pleased to see me, but she eyed my basket of flowers dubiously.
'Phoebe is looking for you, Miss Garston, though she says nothing about it; it is not her way; but I see her eyes turning to the door every now and then, and she made Kitty open the curtains. If I may make so bold, those flowers are not for Phoebe, surely?'
'Yes, indeed they are, Miss Locke. Dr. Hamilton wishes her to have something pleasant to look at.' But Miss Locke only shook her head.
'The neighbours have sent in flowers often and often, and she has made me carry them out of the room; the vicar used to send them too, but he knows now that it is no manner of use: she always says they do not put flowers in tombs, only outside them: she will have it she is living in a tomb.'
'We must get this idea out of her head,' I returned cheerfully, for I was obstinately bent on having my own way about the flowers.
Kitty was sewing on a little stool by the window; the curtains were undrawn, so that the room was tolerably light, and might have been cheerful, only an ugly wire blind shut out all view of the little garden.
I could not help marvelling at the strange perversity that could wilfully exclude every possible alleviation; there must be some sad warp or twist of the mental nature that could be so prolific of unwholesome fancies. As I turned to the bed I thought Phoebe looked even more ghastly in the daylight than she had done last evening; her skin was yellow and shrivelled, like the skin of an old woman; her eyes looked deep-set and gloomy, but their expression struck me as more human; her thin lips even wore the semblance of a smile.
When I had greeted her, and had drawn from her rather reluctantly that she had had some hours' sleep the previous night, I spoke to Kitty. The little creature looked so subdued and moped in the miserable atmosphere that I was full of pity for her, so I showed her a new skipping rope that I had bought on my way, and bade her ask her aunt Susan's permission to go out and play.
The child's dull eyes brightened in a moment. 'May I go out, Aunt Phoebe?' she asked breathlessly.
'Yes, go if you like,' was the somewhat ungracious answer.
'She is glad enough to get away from me,' she muttered, when Kitty had shut the door gently behind her. 'Children have no heart; she is an ungrateful, selfish little thing; but they are all that; we clothe her and feed her, and it is little we get out of her in return; and Susan is working her fingers to the bone for the two of us.'
I took no notice of this outburst, and commenced clearing away the medicine-bottles to make room for my basket of chrysanthemums and ivy-leaves. Uncle Max had procured them for me, but I had no idea as I arranged them that they had come from Gladwyn.
Phoebe watched my movements very gloomily; she evidently disapproved of the whole proceeding. I carried out the bottles to Miss Locke, and begged her to throw them away: 'they are of no use to her,' I observed. 'Mr. Hamilton intends to send her a new mixture, and this array of half-emptied phials is simply absurd: it is just a whim. If your sister asks for them when I have gone, you can tell her that Miss Garston ordered them to be destroyed.'
On my return to the room I found Phoebe lying with her eyes closed. I could have laughed outright at her perversity, for of course she had shut them to exclude the sight of the flower-basket, though it was the loveliest little bit of colour, the dark-red chrysanthemum nestled so prettily among trails of tiny variegated ivy. I resolved to punish her for this piece of morbid obstinacy, and took down the wire blind; she was speechless with anger when she found out what I had done, but I was resolved not to humour these ridiculous fancies; the dull wintry light was not too much for her.
'You must not be allowed to have your own way so entirely,' I said, laughing: 'your sister is very wrong to give in to you. Mr. Hamilton wishes your room to be more cheerful: he says the dull surroundings depress and keep you low and desponding, and I must carry out his orders, and try how we are to make your room a little brighter. Now'--as she seemed about to speak--'I am going to sing to you, and then we will have a talk.'
'I don't care to hear singing to-day, my head buzzes so with all this flack,' was the sullen answer; but I took no notice of this ill-tempered remark, and began a little Scotch ballad that I thought was bright and spirited.
She closed her eyes again, with an expression of weariness and disgust that made me smile in spite of my efforts to keep serious; but I soon found out that she was listening, and so I sang one song after another, without pausing for any comment, and pretended not to notice when the haggard weary eyes unclosed, and fixed themselves first on the flowers, next on my face, and last and longest at the strip of lawn, with the bare gooseberry bushes and the narrow path edged with privet.
When I had sung several ballads, I waited for a minute, and then commenced Bishop Ken's evening hymn, but my voice shook a little as I saw a sudden heaving under the bedclothes, and in another moment the large slow tears coursed down Phoebe's thin face. It was hard to finish the hymn, but I would not have dispensed with the Gloria.
'What is it, Phoebe?' I asked gently, when I had finished. 'I am sorry that I have made you cry.'
'You need not be sorry,' she sobbed at last, with difficulty: 'it eases my head, and I thought nothing would ever draw a tear from me again. I was too miserable to cry, and they say--I have read it somewhere, in the days when I used to read--that there is no such thing as a tear in hell.'
I tried not to look astonished at this strange speech. I must let this poor creature talk, or how should I ever find out the root of her disease? so I answered quietly that no doubt she was right, that in that place of outer darkness there should be weeping, without tears, and a gnashing of teeth, beside which our bitterest human sorrow would seem like nothing.
'That is true,' she returned, with a groan; 'but, Miss Garston, hell has begun for me here; for three years I have been in torment, and rightly too,--and rightly too,--for I never was a good woman, never like Susan, who read her Bible and went to church. Oh, she is a good creature, is Susan.'
'I am glad to hear it, Phoebe: so, you see, your affliction, heavy as it is,--and I am not saying it is not heavy,--is not without alleviation. The Merciful Father, who has laid this cross upon you, has given you this kind companion as a consoler. What a comfort you must be to each other! what a divine work has been given to you both to do,--to bring up that motherless little creature, who must owe her very life and happiness to you!'
She lay and looked at me with an expression of bewildered astonishment, and at this moment Miss Locke opened the door, carrying a little tea-tray for her sister. I had a glimpse of Kitty curled up on the mat outside the door, with the skipping-rope still in her hand. She had evidently been listening to the singing, for she crept away, but in the distance I could hear her humming 'Ye banks and braes' in a sweet childish treble that was very harmonious and true.
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{
"id": "16080"
}
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