Title: The Fortunes of Hector O'Halloran, And His Man Mark Antony O'Toole
Author: Maxwell, W. H.
Language: English
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THE FORTUNES OF HECTOR O’HALLORAN, AND HIS MAN MARK ANTONY O’TOOLE.

By W. H. Maxwell

Author Of “Stories Of Waterloo,”

“The Life Of The Duke Of Wellington,”

“The Bivouac,” Etc. Etc.

With Illustrations By J. Leech.

London: 1853



THE FORTUNES OF HECTOR O’HALLORAN.



CONTENTS


CHAPTER I. A FIRST ANNIVERSARY

CHAPTER II. THE PLOT THICKENS.

CHAPTER III. THE NIGHT ATTACK.

CHAPTER IV. MY ENTRÉE ON THE WORLD.

CHAPTER V. I AM MISTAKEN FOR A GAUGER IN IRELAND, A GREAT MISTAKE.

CHAPTER VI. A CHANGE FOR THE BETTER.

CHAPTER VII. I JOIN THE TWENTY-FIRST.

CHAPTER VIII. LIFE IN A WATCH-HOUSE

CHAPTER IX. THE COCK AND PUNCH-BOWL

CHAPTER X. FRIENDS MUST PART

CHAPTER XI. THE STORY OF THE WANDERING ACTRESS

CHAPTER XII. A GENERAL DISCOVERY.

CHAPTER XIII. MARK ANTONY IN LOVE FIRST, AND IN TROUBLE AFTERWARDS.

CHAPTER XIV. THE TABLES TURNED—THE SAILOR’S STORY.

CHAPTER XV. LIFE IN LONDON.

CHAPTER XVI. A SECOND DELIVERANCE.

CHAPTER XVII. THE ROBBERY OF TIM MALEY.

CHAPTER XVIII. CONFESSIONS OF THE RAT-CATCHER.

CHAPTER XIX. MY GRANDFATHER.

CHAPTER XX. A MEETING BETWEEN MEN OF BUSINESS.

CHAPTER XXI. MY TWENTIETH ANNIVERSARY.

CHAPTER XXII. I ESCAPE—BUT MR. SLOMAN MEETS WITH AN ACCIDENT.

CHAPTER XXIII. SUNDRY OCCURRENCES NARRATED-MR. BROWN AND HIS FRIENDS IN TROUBLE.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER XXV. MY UNCLE’S STORY.

CHAPTER XXVI. MY UNCLE’S STORY CONTINUED.

CHAPTER XXVII. I JOIN THE CANTONMENTS OF THE ALLIED ARMY—LIEUTENANT CROTTY’S INTERVIEW WITH LORD WELLINGTON.

CHAPTER XXVIII. A SPANISH INN THE EMPECINADO—AND A SURPRISE.

CHAPTER XXIX. THE EXECUTION.

CHAPTER XXX. THE RESCUE.

CHAPTER XXXI. THE TRIAL.

CHAPTER XXXII. THE PARDONED VOLTIGEUR.

CHAPTER XXXIII. THE GUERILLA’S GIFT.

CHAPTER XXXIV. FARTHER ADVENTURES—MEMOIR OF THE VOLTIGEUR.

CHAPTER XXXV. RETURN TO THE ALLIED ARMY—LETTERS FROM ENGLAND.

CHAPTER XXXVI. CONFESSIONS OF MAJOR FITZMAURICE.

CHAPTER XXXVII. MY INTERVIEW WITH LOUD WELLINGTON AND FURTHER PARTICULARS TOUCHING PETER CROTTY.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. OPENING OF THE CAMPAIGN—BATTLE OF VITTORIA.

CHAPTER XXXIX. SAN SEBASTIAN.

CHAPTER XL. CAPTIVITY.

CHAPTER XLI. BATTLES OP THE PYRENEES.

CHAPTER XLII. A NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE, AND PREPARATIONS FOR ESCAPE.

CHAPTER XLIII. ESCAPE FROM SAN SEBASTIAN, AND RETURN TO ENGLAND.

CHAPTER XLIV. THE CRISIS APPROACHES.

CHAPTER XLV.

CONCLUSION.



CHAPTER I. A FIRST ANNIVERSARY



               “Although you open force disdain.

               Of secret guile beware!”

                        John Leyden.

|It was a cold frosty evening in December, seventeen hundred and
ninety-five, and the whole of the month had been unusually tempestuous.
Throughout wide Britain, there are no shores on which the wind rages
with wilder fury than upon those naked promontories which abut into the
Atlantic, along the iron-bound coast of Donegal. Harbours are few and
far between--the peasantry are a hardy and adventurous race--and the
fishing grounds distant from the land. In the winter, snowstorms come
suddenly on, and the sea rises with fearful rapidity. The boatmen are
caught in the gale, and too frequently courage and skill struggle in
vain,

               “Contending with the fretful elements;”

and a calamitous loss of life robs many a family of its protectors,
making the humble roof-tree desolate.

During the continuation of these fearful storms, this wild coast had not
escaped its customary visitations. An island smack had foundered with
all its crew; and farther to the northward, a transport, homeward-bound
from Holland with sick and wounded soldiers, having been dismasted in
the gale, was driven a wreck upon the coast. By the fearless intrepidity
of some fishermen, the sinking vessel was carried through a fissure
in the rocks into a sandy bay; and, by what appeared miraculous
interposition, the lives of all on board were saved, even when hope was
over.

On the second evening after this fortunate deliverance our story opens.
Indeed, the epoch was memorable. That disastrous campaign which brought
disgrace upon the British arms, had just terminated in the evacuation of
the Low Countries, and the withdrawal to its own shores of the débris
of a splendid force, which, under luckless auspices, had left England
buoyant with the assurance of success. Nor was a foreign failure
the only circumstance which at this eventful period gave cause for
apprehension. In England, the public mind was agitated, monetary
confidence deeply shaken, and revolutionary principles were gaining
ground; while in Ireland the peasantry united in lawless associations,
and murder, with robbery of arms, intimated that some insurrectionary
movement was at hand. In a word, everything was gloomy and discouraging
abroad, and at home life and property had no security. With few
exceptions the resident gentry had repaired for protection to garrisoned
towns. Some however, with more spirit than discretion, determined to
remain within their houses, and my father was of that number.

Yet there were few persons excepting its owner, who, even in peaceful
times, would choose Knockloftie for an abiding place. It was an old and
dreary-looking fabric,--one portion consisting of a dark square tower,
the keep of a former stronghold of the O’Hallorans,--and the others,
additions built at different periods, according to the wants or fancies
of succeeding proprietors. The house was perched upon a cliff, which
rose in sheer ascent two hundred feet above the beach beneath it.
Although sheltered by some high grounds behind, still, as the building
looked upon the ocean, it was necessarily exposed and cold; while
dwarfed and sickly copse-wood--all that repeated efforts to grow timber
could produce--instead of improving the general appearance of the place,
gave a silent but striking evidence of its hopeless sterility.

To my father, however, Knockloftie had hereditary endearments. For five
centuries his ancestors had been born and died there; and he clung with
a family attachment to that ancient roof-tree, where the O’Hallorans, in
better days, had exercised a boundless hospitality, which even yet was
chronicled in the traditions of the neighbourhood.

But local associations apart, my father would have scorned to yield
to the threatening appearances of the times, and leave his mansion
in alarm. He was “every inch” a soldier; and in all relations between
landlord and tenant, it was universally admitted that he was both
liberal and kind. He had vainly endeavoured to rouse the spirit of
the gentry, and induce them, by bold and united efforts, to crush
the increasing disaffection; and at a recent county meeting, after
delivering a stirring appeal, he concluded by a declaration, that,
“while the old tower of Knockloftie had a roof, it never should want an
arm to defend it,”--and he raised his own.

Although Colonel O’Halloran had failed to produce the reaction he
desired, still the bold example he had given was not without effect. The
government was appealed to for assistance, rewards were offered largely
for the apprehension of the guilty, vigorous measures proposed and
agreed to, and the dormant energies of the aristocracy seemed awakening.
Of course, my father occupied a prominent place in the estimation of
both the loyal and the disaffected. With the former he was considered
the master-spirit, who was to direct them in this their hour of
difficulty; while the latter set him down as the most dangerous
enemy they had to dread. In a moment, former kindness and consequent
popularity vanished like a dream, the _delenda est_ of Knockloftie
was pronounced, and in the black list to guide the future murderer my
father’s name stood first.

Such was the state of the times, and such the local condition of the
country in which the opening scene of this true history is laid. My
first anniversary had come round; and although the hospitable relations
which had formerly existed among the gentry had been interrupted, still,
on this occasion, there was a semblance of rejoicing in my father’s
house, though, sooth to say, it was after all a sickly effort at
festivity.

In the great chamber of Knockloftie the lord of the mansion, with his
lady and two guests, were seated. The apartment was a large, square, and
ill-lit room, occupying the lower portion of the tower. Both floor and
ceiling were framed of native oak, which time had nearly blackened,
and the walls were half-concealed by portraits rudely executed. Many
indications of the danger of the times were apparent in this ancient
chamber. The windows were jealously secured, and everywhere weapons of
all descriptions were seen. Two arm-racks, holding a dozen muskets each,
were placed in either corner, while some silver sconces dependent
from the cornice shed on the polished arms a flickering light. But the
chamber was better illuminated; for the huge hearth was heaped with
bog-wood, and the ruddy flare this cheerful fire emitted reached the
remotest extremity of the apartment, and half-dispelled its gloom.

As Scott would say, “the tables were drawn,” and dinner had disappeared.
My mother sat in an antique high-backed chair, busily employed in
knitting shooting-stockings for her husband; my father had extracted
another cork; the parson pronounced the wine unexceptionable; and
the priest, “good easy man,” was stirring an obdurate piece of sugar,
deposited in the bottom of his second tumbler. The clock upon the
mantelpiece struck seven, and the butler, after replenishing a
bent-basket with firewood, quitted the presence and closed the door.
All these events had passed, and it is high time that the gentle reader
should be formally introduced to the company.

The history of my parents must be intermixed. Lieutenant-Colonel Denis
O’Halloran was now some thirty-one, but he looked older by a dozen
years. He was a tall, athletic man, well formed and well set-up, with
an air and bearing which did not require the attestation of an empty
sleeve, to prove him “no carpet knight” and stamp him soldier. He
entered the service a boy of sixteen--and at six-and-twenty, the women
said he was the handsomest fellow in garrison. At twenty-seven, the
old major having signified his intention to retire, my grandsire,
_more Hibernico_, secured his son’s promotion by parting with another
town-land. At twenty-eight, Major O’Halloran further promoted himself,
for he carried off the pretty brunette who was now demurely knitting
stockings in the corner. Heaven forgive him!--my mother was boarder in a
convent--and one blessed moonlight morning, when the nuns were dreaming
of heaven, and the superior sleeping “fast as a watchman,” with the
assistance of a ladder and three grenadiers, Miss Emily Clifford was
liberated from holy pupilage, and at Gretna Green she became Mrs.
O’llalloran, and that too, without taking the opinion of the parish as
to whether there was just cause or impediment against the same.

My mother was the only daughter of a Catholic gentleman of large estate,
he had however a son by a former marriage, fifteen years older. The
boy grew up wild and extravagant--and at twenty-one had dissipated a
handsome fortune. At last his angry parent totally discarded him, and
to support his endless debaucheries, the unhappy youth resorted to
discreditable means for obtaining the money he required. With some
profligate companions he became involved in a transaction which rendered
them obnoxious to the law, and in consequence, Edward Clifford left
England secretly. Eighteen years had elapsed--none eould say whether he
was dead or living--but the general belief was, that he filled an early
and dishonoured grave.

Mr. Clifford was a bigot in religion. All his hopes had long since
centered in his daughter; and the great object of his life was to marry
her to a person of his own persuasion, and a union was negotiated, and
nearly concluded, between Emily and the son of a Catholic peer. In
the meantime, her education had been entrusted to the sisterhood of a
convent, alike celebrated for sanctity and strictness, where, as Mr.
Clifford believed, his daughter would be equally secure against attempts
upon her faith or her affections. What must have been his rage and
astonishment when the news of her elopement was communicated! She
who had been designed to wed a peer--whose loved society he had
relinquished, that her religious opinions might be confirmed by
spiritual instruction--she was lost to him for ever; united by an
indissoluble tie to the son of a distressed gentleman--and worse still,
to the professor of a creed from which Mr. Clifford fearfully recoiled,
as a system founded in heresy and error.

After a sufficient time had been allowed to permit the first burst of
parental displeasure to exhaust itself, letters were written to Mr.
Clifford by the offenders, to deprecate his anger and solicit pardon
and forgiveness; but they came back with unbroken seals, while other
circumstances concurred to convince my parent that, for a time at least,
the old gentleman’s anger was implacable. Rich in mutual regard, they
sought and found consolation in reciprocated affections--and soon after
there was promise of another tie, that should bind their hearts together
even more closely than before.

Short was the season when their course of love ran smooth. An order of
readiness arrived unexpectedly from the war office--the destination of
the regiment was France--and in another week a rout was received for
Deal.

A separation was now inevitable--and when my mother most required a
husband’s gentle attentions, the order to divide them had arrived. But
the rector of her father’s parish had heard of the intended embarkation,
and hastened to offer the home my mother needed. Thus, cheered by “the
good man’s counsels,” and nursed tenderly by his excellent wife,
my mother gave birth, in four months afterwards to a son--I made an
_entrée_ on the world,--and commenced, as the reader may probably admit
hereafter, an adventurous career.

The young soldier’s history in the meantime, is shortly told. Lord
Moira, despairing of effecting any good by the intended descent on
Brittany, changed the direction of his force, landed at Ostend, and
finally joined the Duke of York at Mechlin. In my father’s regiment,
the lieut.-colonel had become sick, and the senior major
retired--consequently the command had devolved upon himself--and could
any thing have reconciled the severance of young love, it would have
been the early prospect of military distinction.

Major O’Halloran proved that fortune had not vainly offered him her
favours. His regiment was brigaded with the rear-guard, and on every
occasion the battalion was admirably commanded. The service of retiring
constantly in front of a victorious army is most discouraging, but still
that disheartening duty was performed with a spirit deserving better
fortune. At last the Duke of York was recalled, and for a time his
successor, Count Walmoden, assumed the offensive. An attack on the
Republicans at Tuy had partial success, and my father heading the
grenadier company, carried the town by assault. With that exploit his
military career was prematurely closed--his left arm was fractured by a
grape shot, amputated afterwards, and he returned to England invalided.

The rest is briefly told. He found himself a father, and his own sire
had paid the debt of nature. His health was shaken by fatigue, his wound
healed slowly, and after some consideration, he retired from the army
upon half pay, obtaining a colonel’s rank and pension, and fixed his
residence in his native country, taking possession of an ancient house,
and what proved afterwards an unquiet home.

The guests who on the anniversary of my birth had honoured Knockloftie
with their presence, were different both in character and appearance.
The priest was a strong-built, good-humoured, under-sized man, of
jovial habits and easy disposition, careless how matters went, and
consequently, ill-adapted to repress the turbulence of a disobedient
flock, who would have required the religious coercion of a sterner
monitor. As confessor to the establishment, Father Dominic Kelly made
Knockloftie his abiding place. He was of gentle blood himself, and
preferred being domiciled in the house of a gentleman, to a wandering
life among the rude dwellings of a lawless community. Hence Father
Dominic was by no means popular--and his influence over a wild and
rebellious people was far less extensive than that which is generally
possessed by the Irish priesthood.

The other churchman formed a singular contrast to the burly priest.
He was a small, attenuated, intelligent-looking personage, possessing
natural courage and a restless and irascible disposition. A fellow
of the university, he had retired upon a college living--and having
obtained, unhappily for himself, a commission of the peace, he exercised
his powers with greater zeal than discretion; in short, he had made
himself so obnoxious to the peasantry that his life was not worth a
pin’s fee. Like Colonel O’Halloran, he too was doomed to death, and in
the _black list_ his name was second to that of my father. A few nights
before, his glebe-house had been burnt to the ground; and, having
escaped assassination by a miracle, he found that protection at
Knockloftie, which, from a more timid proprietor, might have been sought
and asked in vain.

But there were others besides Doctor Hamilton, who during this reign of
terror had been obliged to abandon their own homes, and elsewhere seek
a shelter. Several of the poorer farmers had given testimony in recent
prosecutions which led to the conviction of an assassin, on whom the
extreme penalty of the law had been justly executed. This in the eyes
of his guilty companions was a crime beyond the pale of mercy, and the
unfortunate men were accordingly denounced. They fled for protection to
Knockloftie--there, they were now residing--and, as if the measure of my
father’s offendings was not already full, the daring act of interposing
between a lawless confederacy and its victims had heaped it even to an
overflow. No wonder therefore, that the full fury of rebel vengeance was
to be turned against himself and all whom his roof-tree covered.

“Well, William,” said my mother, as she renewed a conversation which had
been accidentally interrupted, “when you were struck down--”

“My foster brother sprang from the ranks, threw away his musket, lifted
me lightly as even with this lone arm I would lift you, and carried
me--”

“In safety from the danger?”

“No, no, love--we had to pass through a cross fire of musketry--a ball
struck him, and when he fell dead--I was in his arms.”

“Would,” said my mother with a sigh, “that our Hector had a foster
brother!”

“Would that he had! and one so faithful and devoted!”--my father drew
his hand across his eyes--“this is too womanly, but--”

As he was speaking, the mastiff chained in a kennel beside the hall
door began to growl, and the priest rose and peeped cautiously through
a shot-hole in the shutters, to ascertain what might have disturbed the
dog. Nothing to cause alarm was visible--and the churchman returned to
the table, observing, that the night froze keenly.

My mother had dropped her knitting on the carpet.--“What a horrid state
of things,” observed the lady, as she picked the worsted from the floor,
“that a growl from Cæsar sets my heart beating for an hour, and a knock
after dark terrifies me almost to death!”

“Thou a soldier’s wife, and play the coward!” exclaimed my father. “Fear
nothing, Emily; the old tower from roof to basement is secured--there is
not a cranny that would admit the cat that I have not under a flanking
fire--the lower windows save one are built up--I have retrenched the
hall with a barricade, nailed up the back door, and the front one is
enfiladed by that embrasure,”--and he pointed to a window in an angle of
the room, at either side of which a blunderbuss was standing ready for
instant use.

“Would that for one night thou and the baby were safe within the convent
walls! then let the scoundrels come! By Heaven! next morning there
should be more shirts * upon the lawn than were ever spread upon the
bleaching ground, and the coroner should have occupation, not by single
files, but by the cart-load.”

     *   The _Defenders_ wore shirts over their clothes at night,
     and hence were also called _White-boys_.

While my father spoke, the whole scene was passing in his “mind’s eye,”
 and _Defenders_ were dropping by the dozen. His face lighted up, and
springing from the chair he waved his solitary arm, strode across
the chamber, and looked with conscious pride at all his military
preparations. My mother grew pale as death, and turning her eyes up she
fervently ejaculated, “God forbid!” and crossed herself devoutly. The
priest performed a similar ceremony, and uttered a sincere “Amen!”

“Pshaw!” said my father, as he passed his arm round my mother’s waist
and kissed her tenderly; “do not alarm yourself. This house is strong;
nothing but treachery could force it.”

“Beware of that,” said the parson; “for that I feared and proved. I was
betrayed by the villain who ate my bread, and saved providentially by
the babbling folly of an idiot.”

“Indeed!” said my mother, with an inquiring glance, as she laid her
knitting down.

“The tale is briefly told,” said Doctor Hamilton. “For some time past I
suspected that my servants were disaffected. I watched them closely, and
circumstances convinced me that my fears were true. I had business in
the next town; my tithe agent dared not venture out of doors, and it was
imperatively necessary that I should see him. By a lane, the distance
between the glebe-house and the village was only four miles--all I
wanted done would occupy but a few minutes--and I took, as I supposed,
effectual means to enable me to accomplish the object I had in view,
and return home even before my absence was known in my treacherous
household. At dusk I despatched my servant with a letter to the curate,
and when he was out of sight I saddled a fast horse, quitted the
stable by a back door, and rode off at speed for the village. I was
unexpectedly delayed--but as a precaution against danger, returned by
another and longer road. Night had set in; I passed through the last
hamlet at a sharp trot, and, but a mile from home, pulled up at a steep
hill that leads directly to the bridge. A lad who was running in an
opposite direction stopped when he observed me coming, and I recognised
him at once to be an idiot boy who occasionally visited the glebe-house,
where he always received meat or money by my orders. As I came closer he
began dancing and gabbling in a sing-song tune, “Ha, ha! Hamilton, ha,
ha! somebody will get his fairin. There’s Dick Brady and the smith
behind the hedge, and Jack Coyne, and Patsy Gallagher, and twenty more
besides, only I don’t know them with their white shirts and black faces.
Ha, ha! ha, ha! somebody to-night will get his fairin!” He repeated this
rhyme, and kept dancing for a few moments with idiot glee, and then,
under a sudden impulse, ran off towards the hamlet which I had but just
passed through.”

Again an angry growling was heard from the mastiff’s kennel, and the
priest looked a second time through the shot-hole. The night was clear
and star-lit, but nothing was visible from the window. Father Dominic
resumed his seat, and Doctor Hamilton thus continued:

“My danger was imminent, and my resolution must be prompt. I dismounted,
turned my horse loose, and as I had expected, he galloped off directly
towards his stable. I sprang into the next field, and lay down under
cover of the hedge, to consider what was the best direction that I
should take to escape the blood-hounds, who doubtlessly would be soon
upon my trail.

“I had not been above a minute in concealment when footsteps were heard
approaching rapidly from the bridge. Two men came on at speed, and one
had outstripped the other. ‘Stop!’ cried the hindmost, ‘what a devil of
a hurry you are in! I can’t keep up with you.’

“‘I want to be in at the death,’ returned the well-known voice of my
villain servant; ‘I would not miss it for a ten-pound note. He thought
to give me the slip--put me on a wrong scent, and sent me with a
letter. He asked me a question about bridling a horse, and that betrayed
his secret. I knew there was something in the wind--doubled back upon
the house after he thought me clear away--saw him go off through the
back lane in a canter, and--’ Two shots were heard in quick succession.
‘He’s down, by ------,’ he exclaimed, with savage exultation. ‘Run
Murtaugh! they’ll be into the house in no time. I know where the money
is. Run--the devil’s luck to you! and off both ruffians started.

“The rest you know. Speedily a glare of red light was seen, and a
burning house--my own--guided my flight, for I took the opposite
direction. I know not whether I was pursued--but, if I was the villains
were unsuccessful. At midnight I reached this place of refuge, and here,
for a time at least, I am safe.”

“What boundless treachery!” exclaimed my father, as the parson ended the
narrative of his escape. “We may set an open enemy at defiance, but who
can guard against secret villany? By Heaven! a dark suspicion at this
moment flashes across my mind. Have you noticed the servant who waits at
table?”

“I have--and as a disciple of Lavater I denounce him; he never looks you
fairly in the face.”

“And yet the only vulnerable point in the garrison is at that fellow’s
mercy. When I closed up every aperture besides, Hackett remonstrated so
strongly, and pleaded the inconvenience it would cause should I build
up the window of his pantry, that I consented to leave it open, merely
adding a second shutter for security. It is but small--a man however
could creep through it--but to-morrow the mason shall brick it up.”

“It may be fancy,” said my mother, “but Hackett’s manner appears lately
to have undergone a change. There is at times a freedom in his language
that borders upon insolence; but hush! here comes the nurse.”

The door opened as she spoke, and I was added to the company. My mother
placed me on her knee,--the parson proposed my health, Father Dominie
added a supplication, that “God would make me a better man than my
father, and, above all things, keep me out of convents,”--and the latter
responded an amen. Every glass was emptied to the bottom--the host rang
for more wine and the priest replenished his tumbler. It was a moment
of hilarity, joyous and brief. Suddenly Cæsar gave the alarm--not as
before, in under growls, but in the “full-mouthed diapason” of a
bark audible a mile oft. The greyhound and the terrier sprang up and
answered,--I cried, frightened by the “loud alarum,”--the nursemaid
caught me from my mother, and hurried from the room,--while my father,
exclaiming “a true challenge, by Heaven!”’ leaped from his chair, and
placed himself before the wicket that looked upon the lawn.

A minute--an anxious minute, elapsed.

“I hear.” said the Doctor, “the footsteps of a mob, as they tread upon
the frozen gravel.”

“Hush!” replied, my father, as he turned his ear attentively in the
direction whence the noise proceeded; “that is not the movement of a
mob--they step too well together. Soldiers on march, for a hundred!” At
the Colonel’s observation, my mother, who had nearly fainted,
gradually recovered courage, and left the apartment for the nursery to
re-establish mine,--my father remained at his post, to ascertain what
the party were, who at this late hour approached his fortilage,--while
Father Dominic ejaculating a pious “Heaven stand between us and evil!”
 turned down his tumbler to the bottom. Well, it was only his third one,
after all.



CHAPTER II. THE PLOT THICKENS.



               Now Christie’s Will peep’d from the tower,

                   And out at the shot-hole peeped he,

               And, “Ever unlucky,” quo’ he, “is the hour,

                   When a woman comes to speer for me.”

               Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.

In a short time “the heavy tread of marching men” ceased, as a party
of ten or twelve soldiers halted immediately in front of my father’s
barricade.

“Stand! who goes there?” was demanded from the loop-hole.

“A friend,” replied a voice, redolent of the richness of the Shannon.

“Advance, friend, and give the countersign,” returned my father, whose
phraseology, from military habitude, still retained the parlance of the
camp.

“Countersign!” responded the leader of the belated wayfarers; “devil
a countersign have I but one. If my ould Colonel’s above the sod, he’s
spakin to me now fair and asy from the windy.”

“Who are you?” demanded my father.

“Oh! by Jakers, you’ll hardly mind me, Colonel;--Private Phil Brady of
‘number eight’ when you had the regiment; but now, glory be to God and
good conduct, lance-sergeant in ‘number five.’”

“What is your party, Brady?”

“Upon my conscience, Colonel, a quare one, enough; tin invalids, a dyin
woman, ami a fine man-child.”

“Unclose the door, Father Dominie!”

The priest lifted a heavy key from the side-board, and proceeded to
give admission to the travellers, when Hackett, who had been hitherto
an anxious listener, ventured a remonstrance. “Why not,” said he, “give
them meat and whisky before the door? Every room was already crowded
with idle people, whom nobody would have harmed, had they remained where
they ought,--at home. If the house was to be turned into an hospital
for sick trampers and their trulls, why every servant would quit a place
liker a jail than a gentleman’s.”

Colonel O’Halloran preserved an ominous tranquillity; and Hackett,
mistaking the cause, became more insolent as his speech proceeded
without interruption. But the storm burst at last.

“Villain!” said my father in a voice which induced the chief butler to
recede some paces backwards,--“dare you, a menial, prescribe to me, your
master, who shall be received and who rejected? Tell me that a comrade
shall be turned from my door, and recommend that the weary soldier be
ejected from the house of him under whom he has fought and bled! Off--we
part to-morrow. The roof of Knockloftie shall never cover for a second
night a sneaking scoundrel who has neither welcome for a brave man nor
pity for a helpless woman;--show in the sergeant!”

Without venturing to reply, Hackett shrank from the presence of his
angry master; and in another minute sergeant Philip Brady made his
military salaam, and, with a capacious bundle in his arms, stood full
front before his former commander.

“Phil!” said the Colonel, as he examined the soldier’s outer man, “if
I judge rightly, thou like myself art but lightly indebted to the Low
Countries and my father held up an empty sleeve.

“Feaks! and ye may say that, Colonel,” replied the sergeant. “All that
I have gained in Holland--barrin the stripes--is a slashed cheek, a
threadbare jacket, and a fine child.”

“Your kit, however, seems extensive, Phil; that which you carry looks to
be a well-filled bundle.”

“It’s only the child, your honor; the night was cold, the mother wake,
so I wrapped the baby in this ould coat, and for its father’s sake kept
it, the cratur, as snug as could be.”

“It’s not your own, then?”

“Divil a wife or child has Philip Brady,” returned the honest sergeant.
“Ye may remember corporal O’Toole,--he was one of the finest men in the
grenadiers, when your honor had the company.”

“Perfectly; a better or braver soldier was not in the regiment. What
became of him?”

“He died at sea, God rest his sowl! on the second day after we left
Ostend. He was badly wounded when put on board, poor fellow! and we
were all, men and women, bundled into the transport like so many hounds,
short of water and provisions, and in the hurry they forgot the surgeon
too. Well, his wound mortified: ‘I’m oft, Phil;’ says he; ‘you’ll
not forget the poor wife, for my sake, and may God look down upon the
orphan! Give me your hand upon it, Phil,’ says he, and he squeezed mine
with all his feeble strength. When I came down again, his wife was
hanging over the dead body. They coaxed her away to see the child, and
when she returned to have some comfort in crying over the corpse, it was
already overboard with two others, who had dropped off the hooks that
evening. From that hour Toole’s wife (we called him Toole for shortness)
has pined away, and the life was barely in her when your honor, may God
reward ye! let us in.”

“‘Why were you so late upon the road?” inquired the Colonel; “in the
present state of things soldiers are no favourites, and the chances
are considerable, had you proceeded farther, that you would have been
waylaid and abused.”

“Feaks! and I believe your honor. We were delayed partly by accident,
and partly through design. Our car broke down, the horse lost a shoe,
and the rest of the party pushed forward, laving us at a forge to get
the cart mended, and the baste shod. The smith--divil’s luck to him, the
ruffin!--kept us three hours, I think on purpose, and then they directed
us astray. So when I found the night falling, and the poor woman all but
dead, as I heard there was a gentleman’s not far off, I heads the party
here on chance, little dreaming, the Lord knows, that I had the luck of
thousands and was coming to my ould Colonel’s, and no other.”

My father was a man of prompt action and few words. The bell was rung,
the soldiers sent to the kitchen to refresh themselves, the child
committed to the care of a female domestic, and carried to the apartment
whither its dying mother had been previously removed. There, my mother
and the woman-kind of the establishment used every means which simple
skill suggested; but already the decree had gone forth, and within an
hour after the arrival of the party the crisis came, the widow of the
dead soldier was at rest, and her babe an orphan.

“The struggle was brief,” said the priest, as he re-entered the room,
from which he had been so hastily summoned

               ‘By a dying woman to pray.’

May God receive her in mercy! She went off so gently, that though we
were all about the bed, no one could tell the moment when she departed.
My lady is crying over her as if she were a sister, and the baby
sleeping soundly in Sibby Connor’s arms, as if it were still resting on
that bosom which had been designed by God to be its pillow and support.”

My father, as was his wont when any thing particularly excited him,
sprang from his chair, and strode thrice across the chamber.--“Tell me
not,” he exclaimed, “that there is not an especial providence over every
thing--ay, from the sparrow to the soldier’s child. That orphan has been
sent to _me_,--mine it is,--mine it shall be. Pass the wine, Doctor.
Here comes _madame_.”

My mother timidly approached the side of her husband’s chair, and laid
her hand upon his shoulder.

“Denis,” she said, “will you be very angry with me?”

“Angry, love!” replied my father, reproachfully.

“You never were angry with me yet. But--but--I have done something, upon
which I should have previously obtained your sanction, love.”

“What was it, Emily?”

“I promised,” said my mother, “the dying woman, that her helpless child
should find in you and me protectors. Hector’s nurse has taken the
orphan,--and shall he not be our own boy’s foster-brother?”

“You did, my dear, precisely what I had determined to have done myself.”

“Before the sufferer’s voice failed totally,” continued the lady, “she
said that the child was still unchristened, and prayed that rite might
be performed when convenient.”

“There will be no difficulty in complying with her request,” replied my
father; “there are now two learned Thebans in Knockloftie. To which of
the professors does the poor baby belong?”

“His parents were Roman Catholics,” said my mother.

“Then, Father Dominic, a cast of your office will be necessary. Ring for
Sergeant Brady--and then parade the child.”

In a few moments the non-commissioned officer and the soldier’s orphan
were introduced.

“What name shall I give him?” said the priest.

“His father’s,” rejoined the Colonel.

“That was Marc,” observed the sergeant.

“What’s in a name?” said Dr. Hamilton.

“More than one would suppose, Doctor,” replied my father. “Our
red-headed adjutant married a Bath heiress almost at sight, for after
but a two hours’ siege she surrendered at discretion, declaring that it
was utterly impossible to hold out against a lover whose appellatives
were Julius Cæsar.”

“Then add Antony to his patronymic, and your _protégé_ will prove
irresistible.”

“Marc Antony be it then,” replied the priest; and in five minutes the
ceremony was complete. The sergeant retired to finish his supper below
stairs, and the orphan was returned to the nursery, named after that
amorous Roman, who “for a queen of fifty” gave up a world.

[Illustration: 0027]

The clock struck eleven.--My mother retired for the night, and the
priest had been called out to prescribe for a sick soldier,--for his
reverence united leechcraft to divinity, and thus was doubly useful. My
father and Dr. Hamilton were consequently left alone, and both for some
minutes had been communing with their own thoughts--my father broke the
silence.

“I know not wherefore,” said he, “but something whispers me that this
night is fated to be an important one in the history of the old house.
I’m not inclined for sleep, and I feel a sort of restlessness, as if the
day’s events had not yet closed.”

“It is the mental reaction which follows some unusual excitement,
replied the divine.

“It may be so,” returned my father. “On with more wood. We’ll order a
light supper, and borrow an hour from the night.”

The Doctor threw some billets on the fire, while my father filled his
glass, and transferred the wine duly to the churchman.

“Did you remark the opposition which Hackett made when I gave orders to
admit the soldiers?”

“I watched him attentively,” replied the Doctor. “His lips grew pale,
his brows lowered, and with great difficulty he suppressed a burst
of angry feelings which seemed almost too strong to be controlled. Be
assured, my dear Colonel, that man is dangerous. If he be not traitor, I
wrong him sorely.”

“Hush!” said my father, “the dog is growling. What! more late visitors?
This is indeed a busy night; and again honest Cæsar proves himself a
worthy sentinel. Wherever treachery may lurk, there’s none within his
kennel, Doctor.”

The Colonel reconnoitred from his embrasure, but there was nothing
to excite alarm. The moon had risen, and the sky, spangled with
frost-stars, was bright and clear. Cæsar, advanced to the full length of
his chain, was patted upon the head by a person closely wrapped up, who
spoke to him with the admitted familiarity of an old acquaintance. To
the Colonel’s demand of name and business, a female voice replied, “I
beg your honour’s pardon, it’s me, Mary Halligan. My mother-in-law won’t
put over the night. She wants to see his reverence in private, and sent
me with some lines * to the priest. None of the boys would venture to
the Castle after dark, for fear of Cæsar and your honour.”

     * The term “lines” is generally used by the Irish peasantry
     instead of “letter.”

“Well, Mary, late as it is, we’ll allow you in. Will you, Hamilton,
unlock the door, and let us have the lady _here_--for _entre nous_, she
belongs to a faithless family.”

The peasant now in waiting at the hall-door was decidedly the handsomest
woman in the parish. For time immemorial her fathers had been servants
in Knockloftie, and she an occasional inmate of the house. Her
brother, educated by my grandfather, had discharged the double duty
of schoolmaster and driver--the latter, in plain English, meaning the
factotum of an Irish gentleman of small estate. In this department,
Halligan had been found dishonest, was disgracefully turned off, joined
lawless men, obtained among them a bad pre-eminence, and now, under
the double ban of murder and sedition, was skulking in the hills with a
reward of fifty pounds offered for his apprehension. After her brother’s
disgrace, Mary had seldom visited the mansion of her former master--and,
as report said, she was affianced to one of the most troublesome and
disaffected scoundrels in the barony.

Mary Halligan, and much against her own inclination, was inducted by
the churchman into my father’s presence. “It was too much trouble to his
honour,” she muttered; “Mr. Hackett the butler would do all she wanted,
and give the lines to Father Dominic.”

“Mary,” said my father, as he handed her a glass of wine, “you tremble.
Has anything alarmed you?”

“It is very, very cold, your honour, out of doors.”

“Cold it is, certainly, and Father Dominic will have a dreary ride.
‘Where is the letter for him?”

Mary Halligan’s colour went and came, for my father’s searching eye was
turned upon her, and that added to her confusion. She-fumbled in her
bosom--pulled out one paper,--a second fell upon the carpet--one she
caught up--the other she hastily delivered--and the latter, was the
wrong one.

My father carelessly looked over it, while Mary Halligan scrutinized his
face with deep attention. As he read it--she became pale as death, and
seemed hanging in fearful expectation upon the first words that Colonel
O’llalloran would litter.

“Ha!” said my father carelessly, “so the old woman’s bad it seems. She
wants, I suppose, to make her will--leave you an heiress, Mary,--and
Father Dominic will assist her. Well, the priest will be here directly.
Come, Mary, ‘for auld lang syne’ we’ll have a glass. What has become of
your brother, the schoolmaster?”

“May God forgive the liars! They slandered him, and turned your honour
again him. He would die for a dog belonging to Knockloftie,--and if he
didn’t, the bigger villain he!”

“And the young miller, Mary? people say you are about to marry him. Is
he slandered, too?”

“God sees he is,” was the response.

“Any nightly meetings at the chapel, Mary?” said the Colonel. The girl
changed colour again: “None, your honour--not one. Thanks be to God! the
bad people have left the parish.”

“When did you see your brother? To-night?” said the Colonel sharply.

“To-night!” returned the girl, in tones which indicated deep confusion.

“I am jesting, Mary. Where is he now?”

“In Connaught, your honour, with a cousin of my mother’s.”

“There let him remain, Mary. There, he will be safe until things become
more quiet. But, Mary, the times are not as they were five years ago,
when you and I used to meet by moonlight near the _bouilee_. * Pshaw!
don’t blush;--it was only to gather bilberries, and exchange kisses for
new ribbons. Did you come here alone?--no lover--no comrade--none to
bear you company?”

     *   The mountain bivouac of the peasant girls, where during
     the summer months they attend to the cattle which are then
     driven to the hills.

“I put my trust in God,” said the girl, “and then, Colonel, you know I
was safe.”

“Just as we used to do in Glencullen. Ah, Mary, would that all young
women had your prudence and religion, and poor Father Dominic would not
be broken-hearted as he is, in fulminating vengeance against broken vows
and repairing damaged reputations.”

Notwithstanding my father’s _badinage_ Mary Halligan seemed ill at ease.

“Plase you honour, I would wish to be going,” she said, “and as Father
Dominic is not in the way, I would like to say a word or two to Mr.
Hackett.”

“Ay, certainly; but, Mary, will you not stop, and see your mistress?
Doctor, I must trespass on you to ask my wife to come down.”

The parson left the room, and speedily returned with my mother.

“This, Emily, is an old acquaintance. Not a word, Mary, about bilberries
or the bouillee. Bring her to the nursery, my love--and,” he added in a
suppressed voice, “be sure you keep her there.”

When the door closed, my father handed the letter he had received from
the peasant-girl to the parson, and as the latter read it he became red
and pale alternately.

“Good Heaven!” he exclaimed, “how could you with this murderous missive
in your hand talk lightly with its bearer, and jest with that fiend in
woman’s form, who brought an order that doomed to death or outrage all
that your roof-tree covers?”

“Because,” replied my father coolly, “it furnished me with a glorious
counterstroke. I threw my eye but hastily over it--read me that precious
document!”

The appearance of the paper was remarkable. At the top, a scull
and cross-bones were rudely stamped, and though the handwriting was
tolerable, the sentences were ungrammatical, and many of the words
misspelt. The letter ran thus:--

“Dear Pat.

“I made two attempts to send you information, but your d------d master,
like bad fortune, was always in the way; my sister Mary will strive to
hand you this. To-night our fate must be decided, for Luke Byrn, Cooney,
and your brother are betrayed, and at sunrise to-morrow, if there be a
living man in Knockloftie, they’re all dead men; the witnesses are to
be removed to Donegal, and if they once reach it, Cooney will split, and
you and I are certain of the gallows. At _one o’clock_ I’ll be with you;
lave the window open, and I’ll show the boys the way in, as I know the
house, and the smith has keys that will open the yard gate. Once when
four or five of us gets in, we’ll open the hall door for the remainder;
you can finish the master easily when he hears the first alarm and
rushes from his room; the rest will be child’s play, and then _no
quarter_. The black seal is to this paper; mind, Hackett, you’re to
watch the Colonel’s door, and I’ll be first man through the window. No
more at present, from your friend and commander,

“James Halligan.”

“But here’s a postscript,” and the parson turned the paper.

“‘When the job’s over we’ll have a roaring night. As, captain, you know
the Colonel’s lady--’” He paused.

“Read on!” said my father.

“No, no,--mere ribald nonsense,” returned the churchman.

Colonel O’Halloran snatched the letter from his hand, and in one glance
his eye passed over the portion of the paper which had been previously
overlooked. To the _expose_ of Halligan’s murderous intentions my father
had listened with cold and contemptuous indifference: but when he
read the postscript, a terrible change came over his countenance, and
succeeded its previous expression of calm defiance. The eye flashed,
the brow contracted, and springing from his chair the Colonel paced
the room, muttering something between his clenched teeth which was
but partially overheard. The outbreak of his passion was however as
momentary as it had been strong,--and in a minute he resumed his seat,
and calmly addressed the Doctor.

“We have,” said my father as he looked at the clock on the mantel, “an
hour and twenty minutes to put our house in order, and a tenth
portion of the time would be sufficient. You shall be aide-de-camp,
Hamilton,--and to Father Dominic we’ll entrust the management of the
women, and make his reverence keep matters quiet and administer ghostly
consolation until the squall blows over. Mr. Hackett must be secured,
but Heaven forbid the honest hangman should be anticipated! Cut down
that bell-rope--now pull the other one--and then sit down and fill,
Doctor,--ay, fill high, Confusion to all traitors! and here comes a most
superlative scoundrel.”

The butler had promptly answered the summons of the bell. “Bring
slippers,” said the Colonel, and the order was obeyed. Kneeling he
removed his master’s boots, placed the slippers on his feet, and
was about to rise, when to his astonishment my father’s powerful arm
prevented it, and in a minute more he was bound hand and foot, and flung
upon the floor in perfect helplessness, with an intimation “deep not
loud” that the first movement he attempted of limb or tongue would prove
a certain passport to eternity.

Without hurry or alarm the effective strength of my father’s garrison
was speedily assembled in the great parlour, and sixteen men were found
fit for duty in Knockloftie--a number more than sufficient for its
defence. To all, arms and cartridges were delivered,--and every musket
was carefully loaded to ensure a certain and effective fire when the
moment of action should arrive. My father’s orders were brief, clear,
and easily comprehended--and as every spot of vantage had been occupied,
every window that looked upon the front or back approaches had one
or more marksmen assigned for its defence according to its local
importance. The lights were blinded, the strictest silence was enjoined,
and not a trigger was to be drawn until my father gave the signal. Never
was a small garrison better prepared or more determined; the soldiers,
under a belief that they had been specially betrayed, and that they
would have been assailed if their route had been continued, were burning
to be revenged upon their intended murderers; while those who had found
shelter from their enemies in Knockloftie, already doomed men, knew
also that they were the chief objects of attack, and that no alternative
remained to them but to defeat it or’ to perish. Thus circumstanced,
Knockloftie had little to fear from open force. True, treachery or
surprise might possibly have succeeded. Against the former, if there
were faith in a stout bell-rope and a parson’s knot, the old house for
the present was secure; and from the latter, the _mal adresse_ of Miss
Halligan had effectually preserved the garrison.

When all his preparations were completed, my father ascended to the
upper story of the tower to satisfy himself that his wife and infant
were in safety. On opening the door the chamber presented a sad and
striking scene. On one bed, the corpse of the soldier’s widow was “laid
out,” attired in the simple habiliments of the grave used by the Irish
peasantry; and in another, two children were sleeping side by side,
unconscious that murder and rapine were abroad, and that guilty steps
were moving to this their abode of peace. My mother, bending over both,
was murmuring a prayer for their deliverance, while, by the feeble light
of a waxen taper, the priest, in a low and monotonous voice, was reading
an office for the dead. One other person was there--a worthless woman.
Mary Halligan sat before the fire; she neither spoke nor moved, but
with her eyes fixed upon the dying embers, in full conviction that her
treachery was suspeeted or discovered, she quailed before my father’s
glance, and, while he remained in the apartment, never ventured to look
up.

The Colonel’s visit was short: he whispered in his wife’s ear assurances
of safety, and affectionately kissed her and the infant; then turning
a withering glance upon his former mistress, he left the chamber and
joined the men below.

The clock chimed three-quarters--no sound was heard that possibly could
cause alarm, nor was there a growl from the kennel of the dog--and yet
the murderers were at hand unchallenged. No wonder--Hector was in the
agonies of death--Curses light upon the traitress! Mary Halligan, while
she patted his honest head, had poisoned him!



CHAPTER III. THE NIGHT ATTACK.



               “All heaven and earth are still--though not in sleep--”

* * * *

               “Alas! that those who lov’d the most,

               Forget they ever lov’d at all.”--Byron.

As the chimes died away, my father took a pistol from the table, placed
another in his breast, and beckoned the soldier whom he had previously
selected to attend him.

“Honest Philip,” said he, addressing the non-commissioned officer, “keep
the lads cool, and wait till you hear my signal. You may expect a rush
in front--don’t let that alarm you, the door will defy every effort to
break it down. Aim steadily--one well-directed shot is worth a dozen
random ones. I shall have the honour of receiving Mr. Hackett’s friends
at the pantry-window, and leave them, I trust, no reason to complain
that their reception was not warm enough. Should that scoundrel move,”
 and he pointed to the prostrate menial.

“It will be his last movement in this world,” returned Sergeant Brady.
“I’ll pin him with a bayonet to the floor.”

“Has the pantry-window been secured?” inquired the divine. “If it has,”
 replied my father, “bolt and bar shall be withdrawn, and the aperture
stand invitingly open.”

“What!” said Doctor Hamilton, “to give entrance to a band of murderers?”

“No!” returned my father with stern composure, “to stop it with the
carcase of their leader. And now, my lads, be steady--a golden guinea
for every white-shirt on the lawn at sun-rise!”

So saying, the Colonel quitted the apartment, and, accompanied by the
attendant, proceeded to the post of danger.

Leaving the soldier in the passage as a support, my father entered
the pantry, unclosed the shutters, and placed himself beside the open
casement. For a determined man, the post was excellently adapted.
Himself concealed in darkness, all without was visible--for the moon
had risen, and although the lofty tower flung its deep shadow across the
lower buildings over which it domineered, there was still a narrow alley
of light spanning the court-yard, on which each passing object could
not fail to be revealed clearly to him who watched within. The time, the
circumstances, all, to “coming events” gave an imposing effect. Violence
was abroad--and all within prepared for desperate resistance.

Five minutes--long, long, minutes--passed. Another interval,--and
another followed; not a light twinkled in the castle--not a sound fell
upon the ear. Suddenly, a key grated in the lock--a door
opened in the court-yard; a man appeared--he
stopped--listened--advanced--hesitated--retired again--and then spoke in
soft whispers to some others. There was a pause. Once more the stranger
issued from the doorway, crossed the moonlit vista, and stopped before
the pantry-window. He passed his arm through the aperture--drew back
again, and muttered with evident satisfaction,--“All is right! the
window’s open!”

Four--six--eight--ten--twelve!--all issued into moonlight, and grouped
themselves around the casement. The leader spoke in smothered tones:

“Hackett! Pat!--hush! no reply. All’s right; he’s at the Colonel’s door.
Hackett!”--another pause--“‘Tis safe, and Mary has succeeded. I told you
I would show you in; and now for vengeance!” Ay! and vengeance that was
to be so easily obtained; for Knockloftie appeared buried in the deep
repose which ever attends a false security. The leader turned, “No
quarter, boys,” jumped into the open casement, and added, “Mercy to
none!”

The words and action were simultaneous. Halligan had passed his head
already through the aperture, when a voice, like an echo, responded in
deeper tones “Mercy to none!”--A pistol exploded--and the robber chief
dropped heavily from the window, a dead man!

To all, the assailants and the assailed, that fatal shot proved the
signal. The expected assault was made upon the front, the more daring
of the party rushing on with sledge-hammers to try and force an
entrance--but not a stroke fell upon the door. From every aperture a
withering cross-fire was opened. It was returned by a random volley,
which splintered the windows, but inflicted no loss upon those within,
who were already carefully protected. In the rear of the building, a
still bloodier repulse attended the night attack while their leader
reconnoitred, the ruffian group behind had been covered by a dozen
muskets, and within a few moments after the robber’s fall, half his
companions formed a lifeless heap upon the pavement.

[Illustration: 0035]

When my father rushed up stairs, the struggle in front was over. Dead
and dying men were extended before the door--and in the clear moonlight
those who escaped the fire from the house, were seen flying in wild
disorder. As in lawless efforts generally, numbers had only produced
embarrassment, and rendered failure more fatal.

One glance satisfied my father that the attempt had been fearfully
repulsed; and he hastened to the sad but safe asylum, where those
most dear to him had been placed for their security. My mother and the
children had been already removed by the priest and servants to their
respective chambers--and Colonel O’Halloran, with a dead and living
woman, was left in possession of the melancholy apartment.

Mary Halligan was seated as when my father had quitted the room; her
eyes were fixed upon the wood-fire--a minute passed--and not a word was
uttered. My father laid his hand upon her shoulder, “Mary!” said he,
“treachery! and from you!”

“And wherefore not?” exclaimed the peasant girl, as she sprang upon her
feet, and boldly returned his glance. “Why should not the deceived in
turn become deceiver’s?”

“Wretched woman! even had I wronged you, would you wreak vengeance on
those who never wished you evil?”

The girl sighed heavily.

“There was a time, Mary, when you would not have betrayed the doomed one
to the destroyer, and that victim--me.”

Mary Halligan was deeply affected; she sobbed, and tears, like
raindrops, fell fast upon the floor.

“And could a few brief years change that once gentle nature, and so
fearfully? Would nothing satisfy revenge, but death for me--insult for
my wife?”

“Death--insult!” she repeated. “Neither was intended.”

“Read--‘tis the paper you gave me by mistake.”

Mary Halligan cast her eyes upon the scroll; her lips and checks grew
pale; her hand shook violently; the paper dropped upon the floor; and
turning her eyes upwards, she exclaimed, “As I was unconscious that such
villany was designed, so may Heaven grant me pardon!”

“What brought you here, then?”

“To save my uncle from the gallows. They told me that witnesses who must
convict him and others were sheltered in this house; and that could
they but be carried off and concealed until after the assizes, then the
prisoners’ lives were safe. They stated that they only wanted the
arms deposited in Knockloftie;--that they would swear you to quit the
country--and thus intimidate those who had followed your example and
ventured to remain. Before I consented to carry the letter which
my brother wished to have conveyed to Hackett, he swore upon the
chapel-altar where the party had collected, that not one hair of your
head should suffer injury. May God forgive him!”

“To that prayer, Mary, I add a sincere amen! He is gone to his
account--a perjurer!”

“Gone to his account!” exclaimed the girl. “Is he dead? Who killed him?”

“He fell by the hand of one whom he would have more than murdered!”

“Then am I now indeed alone upon the world!” A long and liar-rowing
silence followed. “Denis,” she said, “I dare not curse, and cannot
bless you. Four short years have passed. How bitterly have all things
changed?”

“Stop, Mary! From my soul, I pity and believe you. You tell me that you
did not know the purport of this night attack!”

“God knows, I did not. You wrecked my happiness; but still I would
not--could not subdue feelings now best forgotten. Forgotten, said
I?--never!”

Mary Halligan had spoken to my father in her native tongue; and those
who are intimate with that portion of the kingdom where the Celtic
language is still retained, will remember with what poetic imagery, the
Irish peasantry at times detail their mingled story of grief and joy,
wrong and suffering.

Mary was one of those on whom nature stamps the grace which art idly
or imperfectly can simulate. Her voice had all “The sweetness of the
mountain-tongue and more affecting still, all that it uttered seemed to
come directly from the heart.”

“I loved you, Denis--ay, loved in all the madness with which woman
loves. The peasant girl never dreamed that birth and rank had divided
us immeasurably. She never thought that she should be wooed and won, and
cast aside for others. She knew nothing of the world. Those, for whom
Heaven had designed her, sought her, and sued, and were rejected. You
came. Six years had changed us--the child had become a girl--the boy
had become a man. There was joy and merriment at Knockloftie--I was
your chosen partner in the dance--and you would leave your dogs upon the
moor, to steal to the bouillee, and sit for hours beside me. Is it to
be wondered at that I loved with the ardour of a first passion--and
the undoubting confidence of woman? While no sound was heard above the
rushing waterfall, you plucked heath and wild-flowers from the bank,
placed them in my hair, and swore you would be constant. Fool that I
was! I believed you,--hid them in my bosom,--and before they faded,
I found myself deserted and betrayed.” She paused,--her agitation was
fearful; but a flood of tears relieved it, and she thus continued:--“You
went to another land,--the sea rolled between us,--and were you
forgotten? Oh, no! In fancy, I saw you still upon the moor--in sleep, I
sate beside you on the heather--your name was mingled in my prayers--and
when one was offered for my own sins, three were poured warm from the
heart, to implore a blessing on the absent one. Well, well; the dream
is over,--the spell is broken,--and in this world you and I shall never
meet again. Farewell, Colonel. There were two beings between whom this
heart once was shared. I look my last upon the living one--and, too
soon, I shall have looked my last upon the dead. I dare not press that
hand--there’s blood upon it; and--oh, God! that blood--a brother’s!”

The priest, who had witnessed the termination of this painful interview,
led Mary Halligan from the room. Her brother’s body, with those of the
other lawless men who had fallen or been wounded in the night affray,
were already by my father’s orders removed to an adjacent village.
Presently, the sky was overcast, the moon withdrew her light, and a
heavy snow shower fell for miles around, covering the surface of the
ground; and when morning dawned no traces of a recent affray were seen,
and not a blood-stain was visible. One melancholy memorial of foul
treachery alone remained:--hidden by a sward of snow, poor Caesar lay
before his empty kennel; and, true to the last, even in the agonies of
death he had howled a bold defiance at his enemies.

“Emily,” said my father, when breakfast was removed, “I need not tell
you that a soldier’s wife must always hold herself in readiness to
move. Until better times arrive, you and the boy must leave this unquiet
mansion. Nay, start not, love! I shall be your companion. That fading
cheek and heavy eye bear silent evidence that cannot be mistaken.
There is not in this old tower a single stone that I do not regard with
veneration; but were this gloomy pile a palace, and you unhappy, it
should be abandoned. I have already sent a requisition for an escort,
and do you get all you wish to be removed in marching order. To
society,--to myself,--I owed a duty; that duty is discharged. A tenderer
claim remains. Can I forget, dear Emily, that for me you gave up the
convent’s quiet?--that for me title and wealth were thrown away?--that
for me even the stronger ties of kindred were dissolved? Can I forget
that though a gentle spirit like yours trembles at a life of danger,
and recoils from scenes of bloodshed, still not a murmur passed your
lips?--not a remonstrance urged upon me your apprehensions? Enough;--a
soldier’s pride would prompt me to remain where we are,--while a
husband’s affections demand that my wife and child should be placed in
full security. The struggle is ended, and pride must yield to love.”

Before the last word was spoken, a happy wife was shedding tears of joy
upon her husband’s bosom. Instant preparations were made; such valuables
as were portable were packed up; Knockloftie for a time formally
abandoned; and ere another week elapsed, my mother, my foster-brother
and myself found ourselves in perfect safety--and for some months
succeeding became residents of the metropolis.

My first anniversary formed a remarkable epoch in the story of our
house; and as many subsequent adventures in my humble history were
referable to that event, I shall briefly narrate the more immediate
consequences that resulted. Mary Halligan quitted the country, as it was
believed, to reside with some relatives in the west. Hackett received
sentence of death, but the extreme penalty of the law was commuted into
transportation. Sergeant Brady retired on a pension, and became henchman
to my father. Mr. Hamilton, after Knockloftie was deserted, with a fatal
imprudence still continued in the neighbourhood. A few weeks afterwards,
the house where he resided was forced by a numerous banditti, the
unfortunate clergyman dragged from his concealment, carried to the door,
and slaughtered under circumstances of fearful barbarity. *

     * Historically true.

Time passed,--months slipped away,--and my mother’s birth-day returned.
That morning, a letter containing a bank-note for five hundred pounds
was received. It was addressed to the lady--with a brief intimation
in an unknown hand, that a similar gift should be annually presented.
Another brief period passed, and another letter came. It brought but
sorry news. Knockloftie was burned to the ground;--not a fragment that
was combustible remained;--and what was once “a merrie hall” now frowned
upon the ocean in black and ruined loneliness.

As my father read the letter, a change came over his face, and revealed
to the inquiring eyes then bent upon it, that evil tidings had arrived.

“Denis,” said my mother, “what is wrong?”

“Nothing, love, but that Knockloftie--”

“What of it? Go on.”

“Is, with all that it contained, a heap of ashes!”

“Good Heaven!”--and my mother crossed herself,--“are we not ruined,
Denis?”

“No, no, love; not exactly ruined. I had the vanity to call my abiding
place ‘a castle.’ Well, we must change the name; and surely ‘cottage’
will sound as sweetly.”

“Pshaw!” said the lady, “is that all?”

“Why--I can spare a horse or two,--part with a dozen dogs,--and then, my
love, we will require the fewer servants.”

“And the carriage,--what need of it?” exclaimed the lady.

“Well, well; possibly if things come to the worst, it too might be
dispensed with.”

“And then my jewels, Denis!”--and my mother’s eyes brightened with
delight--“ay, those useless baubles. I have heard that they are
precious! They shall be sold, and--”

“Never--by Heaven!” exclaimed my father, as he spurned the chair over
the carpet, and strode across the room. In another minute his calmness
had returned, and my mother was sitting on his knee, smiling away with
woman’s tact, every recollection of annoyance; and propounding with the
sweetest philosophy upon earth, visionary plans for future happiness.

Again the postman’s knock was heard, and another letter was presented.
My father flung it unopened on the table. “Curse the particulars!”
 he exclaimed, “what matters it whether the old roof-tree fell by
carelessness or villany?”

My mother impressed a consolatory kiss upon her husband’s cheek.

“Read it, love,” said he. “You and I have no secrets, Emily.”

The lady broke the seal, and looked at the signature.

“Who is Constantine Mac Donough?” she inquired.

“A very singular old man; a distant relation of my mother. Many years
ago, my father and he quarrelled at an election. They fought in half an
hour,--left the ground after three shots had been discharged,--and both
refused a reconciliation. What was the cause of quarrel, I never could
discover from my father; indeed, I question whether the worthy man
himself even knew what it was distinctly; and with Mr. Mae Donough,
of course, I never had even any acquaintance. He lives a bachelor, and
report states, that he is very wealthy and very eccentric.”

“Lived! my love; the old man’s dead.”

“Dead!” exclaimed my father. “And has left you heir to all his property?”

The Colonel sprang from his chair--his solitary arm encircled my
mother’s waist, as he pressed her passionately to his heart.

“Emily,” said he, “when the sad tidings arrived this morning that we
were houseless, I felt only for the boy and thee. Well, before the
same sun went down, dove-like you came, the harbinger of happiness. The
‘barren heritage’ I quitted with regret, will be amply replaced by the
rich lands of Killucan; and, once more, a peaceful home--such as we had
in England, love--is ours. Never despond, Emily--and even in his darkest
hour let an Irishman trust to the lady of the wheel--for I verily
believe, if there be a spot on earth for which the blind baggage has a
particular fancy, blessed Saint Patrick! that island is your own.”



CHAPTER IV. MY ENTRÉE ON THE WORLD.



               “My father bless’d me fervently,

               Yet did not much complain;

               But sorely will my mother sigh

               Till I come hack again.”--Childe Harold.


|The residence and domain so opportunely bequeathed to Colonel
O’Halloran, formed a striking contrast to his ancient home. Like the
domicile of Justice Shallow, every thing about Knockloftie might have
been described as “barren all,” with the qualification of “marry, good
air,” while Killucan was situated in an inland county remarkable for
its fertility. The house was a large and commodious building, almost
concealed by trees, the growth of at least a century; the parks were
rich and well laid down; comfort was within the dwelling,--plenty
without it; and as they say in Connaught, no man “came into a snugger
sitting down” than my worthy father.

Here ten years of boyhood passed away: and here at the feet of that
gifted Gamaliel, father Dominic, my foster-brother and myself were
indoctrinated. The priest had borne the departure of my parents with
all the resignation a Christian man could muster; but as he declared
afterwards, the destruction of Knockloftie fairly broke his heart.
When his patron unexpectedly succeeded to a goodly inheritance, it is
difficult to decide whether to the churchman or the commander, this
fortunate event caused the greater satisfaction. At the first summons,
father Dominic abandoned his wild charge, and resumed the official
duties in our establishment;--said mass for my mother, confessed the
maids, aided and assisted the Colonel in the diurnal demolition of three
bottles of antiquated port, and endeavoured into the bargain, to knock
Latin into me, and “the fear of God,” as he called it, into the heart of
my foster-brother. How far either attempt proved successful, it is not
for me to say. As to myself, Dominic occasionally declared that I should
try the temper of a saint; and as to Marc Antony, he rather hoped than
expected that he might not “spoil a market;” meaning thereby, that the
aforesaid Marc Antony would be hanged.

But, alas! from the pupilage of that worthy churchman, Marc and I were
fated to be delivered. Father Dominic caught fever at the bedside of a
sick tenant; and to the universal regret of the whole household, he went
the way which all, priest and levite, are doomed to go. At the time, his
loss was severely felt, and after-experience did not tend to lessen it.
Father Grady, who in spiritual matters became his successor, was ill
fitted to step into poor Dominic’s shoes. He was a low-born, illiterate,
intermeddling priest, of forbidding exterior and repulsive manners.
His _gaucheries_ disgusted my mother, and my father fired at his vulgar
arrogance. Except professionally, the visits of the priest became
infrequent; and when the maids returned from confession with a route
made out for the Reek, * they would call to memory the gentle penances
of father Dominic,--offer a tear as a tribute to his memory,--and murmur
a “Heaven be merciful to his soul.” The first consequence of the death
of Father Dominic was my being transmitted to the school of Enniskillen,
while my foster-brother finished his education under the instruction
of the village pedagogue. As to the latter, a more unpromising disciple
never figured on a slate; but, to give the devil his due, Marc Antony
was even as his enemies allowed, the best boxer of his inches in the
parish.

     *  A lofty mountain in the west of Ireland, where Roman
     Catholic penances are performed.

How quickly years roll on! Six passed rapidly away.--I grew
fast--manhood came on apace--every day the thrall of school-discipline
became more irksome, and made me long to be emancipated. I had indeed
sprung up with marvellous rapidity, and I looked with impatience to the
moment when I should make my entrée on the world. Nor was I kept much
longer in suspense, for a mandate from my father unexpectedly arrived,
commanding my return to Kilcullen, and acquainting me that I had been
gazetted to a second lieutenancy in the Twenty-first fusileers. With a
joyous heart I took leave of my companions; exchanged forgiveness with
the ushers; flung boyhood to the winds: and, ignorant of the world as an
infant, at eighteen years, deemed myself in pride of heart a man.

It was singular enough that the day of my return also proved to be the
anniversary of my birth; and of this I was duly apprized by Sergeant
Brady, as he unclosed the gate to let me in. Having returned the honest
squeeze with which the non-commissioned officer bade me welcome, I
gave my horse to one of the eternal hangers-on whom I overtook lounging
slowly home from the village tobacco-shop, and passed through a sort
of pleasure-ground that led directly to the house. Turning the hedge,
I came suddenly on Susan, my mother’s maid. She was spreading caps and
muslins on the bushes--and, never before, did her eyes look so black, or
her cheeks half so rosy. She littered a faint scream.

“Holy Virgin! Master Hector, is it you?”

“Arrah, Susan, my beauty, to be sure it is.” And with Hibernian
affection we flew into each other’s arms--and down went the basket
with my mother’s finery. I never reckoned the kisses I inflicted on the
Abigail; but, poor soul, to do her justice, she bore them patiently.

“Go, Hector, dear,” she muttered poutingly, “there are holes in the
hedge, and some one might tell the mistress.” Then, as if the recent
contact of our lips had for the first time exhibited its sinful
impropriety, she crossed herself like a true catholic, and continued,
as I moved away, “Blessed Mary! had the priest seen us, I were undone.
Lord! but he’s grown! Hark! I hear a foot. Hurry in, Master Hector. Your
mother is dying to see you; and dinner has been waiting half an hour.”

My reception by my parents was as warm as it was characteristic. Both
were in the drawing-room when I entered it; and in a moment I was locked
in my mother’s arms. “How handsome!” said she, as tears rolled down her
cheeks. “Alas! that he should be devoted to that horrible profession,
Denis, and that his name should some fatal day be recorded in that list
of bloodshed which always damps the joy of victory,” and she pointed
to the official account of a Peninsular battle which had that morning
reached Kilcullen.

My father’s was a very different reception. Moulded of sterner stuff, he
eyed me as a crimp sergeant scrutinizes a doubtful recruit; then shaking
me by the hand, he proceeded regularly with his examination.

“By the Lord! a finer lad never tapped a cartouch-box. Five feet eleven
and a quarter at eighteen! He’ll be size enough for the Lifeguards in a
twelvemonth. Zounds! what is the woman snivelling about? Is it because
her son comes home figure for a flanker, instead of growing a sneaking,
shambling, round-shouldered, flat-footed, fish-eater, that the devil
couldn’t drill? But here comes the summons to dinner.”

When the cloth had been removed, and my mother had retired, the Colonel
reverted to the first grand movement in my life, on which he descanted
most learnedly; and, a little military pedantry apart, his advice and
opinions were sound and soldierly. He reprobated play--gave serious
warnings against debt--discouraged gallantry, and inculcated the
necessity of duelling. He lamented, in the course of his harangue, the
loss of my ancient preceptor Father Dominic; to himself, he stated, that
the loss was irreparable--he could not, unfortunately, drink the left
hand against the right, nor uncork a bottle without being bothered by
a d----d servant. He complained that he felt a twinge in his infirm
shoulder--well, that was rheumatism; he had also an obnubilation in his
eyes--but that was bile; it could not be what he drank:--by the way, he
had two bottles of Page’s best in.--He should go to bed--exhorted me
to be up at cock-crow--gave me some parting admonitions--an order on
a Dublin tailor for an outfit--a bundle of country bank-notes--his
blessing into the bargain--shook my hand--and, with the assistance of
Sergeant Brady, toddled off to his apartment.

The Commander was scarcely gone, when Susan’s black eye peered into the
room cautiously, to ascertain that all was quiet.

“Hist! Master Hector! Is the Colonel gone to bed?”

“He’s safe for the night, my fair Susan. The house is all our own. Come
in--shut the door, for I want to confess you.”

“And finish the godly exercise you commenced in the flower-garden! No,
no, Master Hector; no more of that. Come, your mother wants to see you
alone--I’ll light you to her dressing-room.”

I attended the _demoiselle_ immediately, and was inducted to her lady’s
chamber. When the door opened I found her seated at a work-table, with a
book of religious exercises and a huge rosary before her. Bursting into
tears, she clasped me to her bosom, and muttered in an under voice, “Sit
down, Hector--many months have elapsed since we met, and many more may
probably pass over before we meet again. And so they have destined you
for that horrible profession--and you are going to-morrow?”

“Yes, madam, by peep of day.”

“Well, Hector, will you in one thing oblige me, and grant your mother a
request?”

“Undoubtedly, madam.”

She placed a purse in my hand--and taking from the leaves of her Missal
a small silken bag, opened my shirt collar, and bound it round my neck.
I smiled at the ceremony, and submitted. It was, of course, some charm
or reliquary; and though the one-armed commander would have laughed,
at what he would have considered on my part a symptom of apostasy, I
thought it was no crime to carry an inch or two of silk upon my person,
when my compliance would render happy a mother who loved me so tenderly.

“Hector,” said she, after investing me with this important amulet,
“promise, for my sake, that you will wear it night and day; and, until
misfortune overtakes, and all other hope fails--which Heaven grant may
never happen!--that you will not unclose the cover, or read the writing
of the Gospel.” *

     * Gospels are worn in Ireland as a protection against
     diseases and “_diablerie_.”

I gave the pledge she required; took an affectionate leave; and, lighted
by Susan, returned to the parlour.

Lobbies, like flower-knots, are dangerous places for adieux! Poor Susan
was faintly remonstrating against a second kiss, when a third actor
popped upon the stage unexpectedly, and terminated at once the contest.
The intruder was my foster-brother. All parties evinced annoyance; Marc
Antony looked very silly, and the _demoiselle_, bounding up the stairs,
leaned over the balustrades, and spoke a hurried farewell.

“Heaven bless you, Master Hector--mind your poor mother’s parting words,
and all prosperity attend you.” Then, turning a wrathful look at the
“fosterer,” * she continued, “Don’t mind what that false villain says.
Ah, you wicked wretch! are you not afraid the roof will fall?” and,
shaking her clenched hand at him, vanished.

What could have roused the anger of the dark-eyed Abigail was to me a
puzzle: I entered the parlour, and the crest-fallen fosterer followed,
and closed the door.

“Why, Marc, what’s the matter? Your old friend, Susan, seems in but
indifferent temper with you.”

Mr. O’Toole fiddled with his hat, picked the wool off by pinches, and
appeared wofully confused.

“Did you want me, Marc? or was it Susan you were looking for?”

“I just wanted to speak to you,” said my foster-brother, “for fear I
should miss you in the morning.”

“Well, Marc, here I am.”

“I’m going, Master Hector, to try my fortune either in England, or the
North.”

“What! and quit my father’s service? Think well of this, Marc.”

“Why, troth, I can’t hold the place, and all on account of an accident.”

“Indeed! what happened you?”

Marc picked the hat anew. “I’m in the middle of trouble, and the sooner
I’m off, the better.”

“Broken heads or broken vows; or, probably, a mixture of both?”

“Devil a head I broke since the fair of Carrick, and the Carneys brought
it on themselves; and in honesty I’m at every man’s defiance,” returned
the fosterer.

“Then what would you do in England, may I ask?”

“What would I do in England?” he repeated, like an echo. “Can’t I do
anything?--shear, mow, wisp a horse, whip hounds, jump two-and-twenty
feet, throw stone and sledge--and take my own part in fair and pattern?”

“Friend Marc, most of these accomplishments would only secure you a
lodging in the cage, or a settlement in the stocks. But, in a word, what
brings you away?”

“Just Biddy O’Dwyer, the dairymaid--the devil’s luck attend her!”

“Phew! Go on, Marc.”

“She wants me to marry her!”

“And, I suppose, has pressing reasons for making the request?”

“The devil a reason, only she took me to a cake.” ** “I comprehend the
rest.”

“Feaks! it was all her own fault--she would keep dancing to the last.
The night was dark, and we were hearty. *** I lost my way--and she her
character.”

     * Anglice, foster-brother.

     ** Cakes are nightly assemblies common in the ‘west of
     Ireland, and holden for the purposes of dancing, drinking,
     and courting. In returning from these festive meetings,
     ladies’ reputations and gentlemen’s skulls are occasionally
     severely damaged.

     *** Anglicê, nearly drunk.

“Well! and why not repair the damage, Marc?”

“Is it me! and she four years older? By this book”--and he kissed his
hat religiously--“for all the ladies and priests that ever wore cap or
vestment, I would not marry ye, Kitty O’Dwyer!”

“Well, Marc, you are upon this point the best judge.”

“There’s no use in concealing anything, and you, my foster-brother,
Master Hector. Kitty’s a great Catholic, and a Carmelite to boot--and my
lady and Father Grady will fairly banish me the country, when they hear
that it was through me she got the blast.”

“Rebel, Marc! Refuse, point-blank. Hold out manfully--and neither
priest, nor bishop, can make you marry, if you don’t like it.”

“And then I’ll be made a world’s wonder of!” and Marc Antony groaned
at the very thought. “Called out in the chapel--cursed from the
altar--bundled off to Ball--trotted up Croagh Patrick--ay, and as Father
Grady will stick to Kitty like a burr, I may be despatched to Lough
Dharg * with gravel in my shoes.”

“Bad enough, Marc. And pray what is to be done?”

“The devil a choice have I left,” said the fosterer, with a groan,
“good, bad, nor indifferent, but list or turn Protestant.”

“Awkward alternatives.”

Marc smiled. “And would I not have an elegant life of it afterwards in
the servants’-hall? Sorra two men in the house that I can’t lick; but
what could I do with the women? No, no, Master Hector!--I’ll list.”

“Think of it, Marc.”

“I have thought of it already. The priest and my lady will hear all in
the morning, and, faith, I’ll give them leg-bail in the meantime. Are
you not going to Dublin, Master Hector.”

“I am.”

“Then, by the blessin’ of God, there will be two of us there soon.”

“Marc, have you any money?”

“Not a rap--but plenty for the taking it. I never go to Boyle upon
a message, but there are half-a-dozen crimps at my heels; and every
recruiting party that passes by, eyes me as if I had the cockade already
mounted.”

“If you are determined, Marc, I shall say nothing more; but before you
choose your regiment, let me know, and probably the Colonel may stand
your friend.”

“That I will, Master Hector. But, Holy Virgin, what an uproar the house
will be in when they miss me in the morning! The priest roaring here--my
lady sending there--Kitty singing wirrestrue ** in the dairy--and the
ould Colonel delighted at the rookawn, and shouting Devil mend her!”

     * A holy lake in the north of Ireland.

     **  “Och wrestrue,” an Irish lamentation.

I laughed heartily at Mare’s fanciful description of a scene, which his
absence would so certainly occasion.

“I must be off,” continued the fosterer, “and mind, Master Hector, we’ll
meet when you least expect it.”

I slipped a bank-note into the fosterer’s hands--Marc disappeared--and I
sought my pillow. Where Mr. O’Toole bestowed himself, I know not--but it
was an eventful night for both. I, about to make my first start upon
the stage of life, and honest Marc Antony flying from a choice of
evils--matrimony or penance.

A lovelier morning never broke than that on which I took my departure
from Kilcullen. It was late in September. The hoar-frost curled
gently upwards, yielding to the earliest sunbeams, as I rode from the
stable-yard. Every thing was exciting to the spirits: the blackbird
whistled in the copse, the partridge was calling from the stubble, the
sheep-bells tinkled merrily, and all seemed happy and rejoicing.

Never did a lighter-bosomed gentleman quit his father’s house. Here
was I, a holder of the king’s commission, master of the best fencer
in Roscommon, one hundred pounds in my pocket, a case of pistols at my
saddle-bow; while, with a loose arm and a stout heart, I found myself
jogging fairly on, though “half the world were sleeping.”

I rode quickly forward: miles vanished, and at four o’clock I had left
my home thirty miles behind. With my future route I was unacquainted;
but it ran through a wild barony, bleak though beautiful enough,
interspersed with hills and valleys, and thickly studded with lakes and
rivulets. The road was grass-grown and disused; but, being shorter and
practicable to horsemen, I followed it rather than ride a few miles
round. To dine and feed my horse, I halted at a public-house where four
roads met; and, after an hour’s rest, commenced my journey anew, to gain
the mountain-village, where; my host apprized me, I was to sojourn for
the night.

The lonely inn appeared that day to have no lack of customers. During my
brief stay travellers stopped repeatedly, or drank spirits at the door
and hurried on. They generally rode in companies of some half-dozen,
were mounted upon country horses, and, from having a couple of kegs
suspended across the croup, their calling was no mystery. Illicit
distillation in this wild district was then extensively carried on,--and
men engaged in this demoralizing traffic, like those who stopped at this
house of entertainment, were constantly traversing the mountain-road,
smuggling the prohibited liquor, or returning for a fresh supply.

One party, consisting of three persons of rather a superior class,
remained for dinner. They addressed their conversation occasionally to
me, and evinced great curiosity to find out the place of my destination,
and the reason that I preferred the mountain-road to that usually taken
by ordinary travellers. I felt no disposition to be communicative on
these points, and the strangers were far from satisfied with my replies.
When my mare was brought to the door, my holsters did not escape their
observation; and as I rode away, I overheard the tallest of the three
exclaim, “By Heaven! I’ll bet five pounds that the--”

I could not hear the remainder of the remark. The occurrence not
agreeable, however, with ten miles of a desolate ride before me. I
had other besides personal cares. In my life I never had possessed
one-fourth the sum I carried; and the pocket, rather than the person,
alarmed me. I thought the matter over. I saw no fire-arms with the
strangers, and of course I was fairly a match for three. My mare was
fast; and I determined quietly to surmount a long and gradual rise, make
play down the falling ground, and then bid pursuit defiance.

Ignorance of the locality rendered my last design abortive. Half way
up the hill, a path but little used, if one could judge from its
un-frequent hoof-marks, branched from the main road. I hesitated which
to take; but of two bad paths, I chose the better, and followed the more
beaten route.

I rode a mile, topped the acclivity, and followed a path skirting a
highland lake and traversing a long and heathy level. Anxiously I looked
back, but not a traveller was visible. My fears vanished--and I smiled
to think how very nervous the possession of property makes a man.

The scene before me was wild and picturesque. A long ravine skirted by a
mountain-stream, that occasionally crossed the road through half-ruined
bridges, descended between two lofty hills which completely shut out the
setting sun. At the bottom of this romantic pass, a lake of considerable
extent, interspersed with numerous islands, received the rivulets that
hurried down the valley. In front, the sun was setting gloriously, and
flung across the gorge of the ravine a curtain of burning gold which
rested on the waters of the lake below. It was, indeed, a splendid
landscape--and tradition added to its interest.

On an eminence that overlooked the road and pass, the ruins of a square
building were visible, now so much dilapidated, that it was impossible
to determine whether it had been originally designed for the purposes
of religion or of defence. In the centre of a green patch, scarcely a
pistol-shot from the dismantled tower, the scathed stem of a solitary
oak was standing. As it was, it would never have arrested the
traveller’s eye, had not a huge cairn of stones beneath it intimated
that this lonely tree had witnessed some scenes of bloodshed. I pulled
up my horse and viewed the cairn and ruin with attention, for my
curiosity was excited, and chance enabled me to gratify it. An elderly,
wild-looking, half-clad peasant was loitering on the road-side,
attending a score or two of sheep. Abandoning his charge, he joined
me willingly; and in very excellent Irish replied to my questions, and
communicated the traditional story of the place.

“What was that building, friend; and what does yonder cairn
commemorate?”

“The story’s long,” replied the peasant.

“And so is the mountain-road. Was it death by accident or treachery?”

The peasant paused a moment, and then drily answered, “There was no
accident in the business, though three men perished; one was murdered
and two were hanged.”

“Do you know the particulars?”

“It would be strange if I did not. I was born in these hills.”

“Indeed!”

“Ay, and my fathers before. We have been for centuries herdsmen in these
mountains. I have never been thirty miles from the spot where we
stand; and every rock, and rill, and hillock, are familiar from early
childhood, for on them my eyes first opened.”

“What was the building?”

“A barrack, for soldiers to protect travellers from plunder.”

“And the cairn--”

“Proves that their protection was sometimes unavailing.”

“Could not an armed force restrain vagabonds from plundering?”

“Wherefore, it is hard to say,” returned the herdsman. “Are you going to
B------ to-morrow?”

“I am.”

“You are in haste thither?”

“I must be there by noon.”

“The special commission sits there the following day. They say it will
go hard with the men who killed the gauger?”

“‘Tis said so; and if the circumstances attendant on the murder be such
as are generally believed, they will deserve their fate.”

The peasant eyed me sharply, and then, with assumed indifference,
observed, “The devil is painted always blacker than he is; and something
may still come out in the prisoners’ favour. I fear, poor fellows, that
they will be prosecuted hard.”

“That you may be certain of.”

“Well,” continued my companion, “no doubt Bradley’s death was sudden.
But could it be otherwise? Many an aching heart he caused, and the curse
of ruined men and houseless children pursued him.”

As he spoke, we crossed a small hillock, where the mountain-path, which
had diverged to the right, once more united itself to the main road. The
lake extended itself for more than a mile on one side; and on the other
a swamp, impassable alike to man and horse, stretched for a considerable
distance between the rugged causeway and the bases of the contiguous
high grounds. A deep stream winding through the centre of the morass and
creeping lazily beneath a ruined bridge, lost itself in the blue waters
of the lake. It was fortunate that my new acquaintance was beside me, or
I should have been puzzled where to cross the stream; but, on inquiry,
he told me there was a ford, and offered to point it out. For half an
hour we jogged on sociably together, chatting on a subject which seemed
to occupy my companion’s every thought,--the approaching trial of
the murderers. From time to time I observed, however, that he looked
anxiously behind him; and suddenly a distant sound like that of coming
horsemen made me turn my head. It was not fancy--three persons showed
themselves above the ridge; they were the strangers I had encountered at
the inn, and from the pace at which they rode, I had no doubt but they
were in pursuit of me.

Indeed, from the first moment they discovered me, their object was
perfectly apparent. One of them pointed me out; and, considering
the rugged path they had to traverse, they increased their pace to a
rapidity that appeared surprising.

Nor was I insensible to coming clanger. What was to be clone, and how
were they to be avoided? Before me, a broken bridge; behind, a pressing
enemy; and escape cut off. I could observe, from numerous hoof-marks in
the bog, the place where the river was fordable. My mare was fresh, and
willingly obeyed a call. I started forward at a rattling pace, and once
across the water, had little doubt of effecting an escape.

Whatever were the herdsman’s original intentions towards me--whether
his designs were “wicked or charitable”--the appearance of the strangers
made him at once a foe. The instant I spurred my mare, he caught up a
stone and flung it with such precision, that it knocked my hat off, but,
fortunately, only grazed my head. Then applying his finger to his lips,
he uttered a wild and piercing whistle, which echoed through the rocks
behind, and was repeated among the distant mountains. The signal was
answered promptly. A dozen men, who had been resting in a hollow out of
sight, suddenly sprang up; some rushed to the ford--others occupied the
road--and all seemed ready and determined to bar my farther progress.

I had brief time for consideration. To try the ford, guarded as it was,
were idle; and to take the bridge, was to select as awkward a leap as
ever proved the proverbial courage of a Roscommon rider. The latter only
afforded any chance of escape; for I should inevitably be knocked upon
the head at the ford, while floundering through the river. Accordingly,
I nerved myself’ for the effort--took my mare in hand;--she was the
sweetest fencer that ever carried an Irish gentleman!--the spur was
answered by a rush at speed,--the bridge cleared at stroke--and we
landed in sporting style, a full length beyond the chasm.

[Illustration: 0051]

So far “the work went bravely on.” Although vigorously attacked by
several assailants, blows from sticks and stones failed in unhorsing
me, and I nearly succeeded in running the gauntlet safely. Two of these
brigands were still to be passed, and I charged them at a slashing
gallop. They retreated to either side, and avoided the threatened
collision; but as I came thundering past, a rope dexterously thrown
over the horse’s head, caught me across the chest, and threw me from the
saddle on the road with stunning violence. Before I could recover, I was
seized, tied hand and foot, a sack thrown over me, lifted on a horse,
and an intimation given, that on the slightest effort at outcry or
escape, I should be consigned to the deep, _sans cérémonie_. The better
portion of valour is discretion--and I determined to keep quiet--for
however loose in keeping ordinary pledges these excellent persons might
be, when a drowning match was in the ease, I felt assured that they
would redeem their promise to the letter.



CHAPTER V. I AM MISTAKEN FOR A GAUGER IN IRELAND, A GREAT MISTAKE.



               “It was a wild and strange retreat

               As ere was trod by outlaws’ feet.”--Scott.

As I hail no ambition to make a Turkish exit, and cause a vacancy in the
Twenty-first Fusileers, to use a bull, “even before it was filled,”
 I submitted with Christian fortitude, and held my peace accordingly.
Unresisted, the captors bore me across a shingly beach; for I heard
the loose stones rattle as their hurried steps displaced them. In a few
minutes they reached a boat, and bundled me in with scanty ceremony,
as “honest Jack” was ejected into Datchet Mead. Directly, several men
jumped across the thwarts--the keel grated on the gravel--the oars fell
rapidly on the water--and away we went, Heaven knew whither!

On leaving the beach, my captors appeared to consider a longer silence
unnecessary; for they laughed and jested with each other, although what
seemed marvellous good fun to them, was death to me.

“Good night, Tom,”--said a pleasant gentleman from the shore,--“God
bless the venture! sure it’s the first ye carried of the kind!”

“Don’t,” observed a second, “make mistakes; men are not malt; and be
sure ye don’t give the contents of yonder sack a steeping.”

“I have done worse however, before now,” returned a rough voice beside
me, “and on my poor conscience, I think a few stones in the bottom of
the bag would make all right, and save both time and trouble.”

Supposing it no harm to share a conversation in which I was so
essentially concerned, I muttered an indistinct dissent.

“What’s that he’s mumbling about?” inquired a person in the boat’s bow.

“And what’s that to you?” was politely responded by my next neighbour,
as he applied knuckles, hard as ebony, to my ribs, I presume to enforce
his admonition. “_Badda-hurst_, * or I’ll slip you across the gunnel
before you have time to bless yourself. Pull, will ye? Hurry to the
island; for before this time I should have been half way to Carrick Beg,
instead of ferrying blackguard gaugers to Innisteagles.”

     * Hold your tongue.

Ferrying blackguard gaugers! “What did the fellow mean? It was a
singular observation, and I ventured to remark it.

“What--muttering again!” replied the voice. “Can you swim, friend?”

I managed to answer, that “I had never tried it, tied neck and heels
together.”

“Then by ------,” rejoined my agreeable companion, with a second
application of his fist, “if you open your lips before we part company,
over you go!”

There was no mistaking him. We were on a deep lake, and I had a
determined gentleman to deal with; so I resolved accordingly to remain
still as a mouse, and preserve a dignified silence.

I suspect that my decision was a wise one. From broken observations
which I overheard, I soon found that the voyage was about to terminate.
I felt in mortal tribulation. Suspense, however, was quickly ended. The
keel grated on the sand--strange voices welcomed my guard of honour,
and told that my island was not, “like Crusoe’s,” uninhabited. The sack
being lifted out and laid upon the sward, a parting glass was emptied
to my better health amidst uproarious peals of merriment. Presently,
the parties bade each other good night; and those who had brought me
re-embarked, rowed merrily away, and left me in a pleasant uncertainty
on a very important point, and that was whether I should be sunk or
smothered.

And yet, from the jocular demeanour of the islanders and the immediate
departure of my abductors, I felt half assured that no truculent design
upon my life was meditated after all. This was consolatory, certainly;
although an interrupted journey,--imprisonment in a sack,--a lost mare,
and a despoiled portmanteau,--all these were bad enough. Short space for
sombre communings was allowed. Two pair of lusty arms lifted me from
the ground, bore me through a narrow and difficult pass, placed me on
my legs, and untied the bag, when down dropped the canvass,--and when I
could see distinctly, a strange scene presented itself.

I had felt a glow of increasing heat, and could perceive a stream of
light strengthen gradually as we penetrated the thick brush-wood. At
first, dazzled by the blaze, objects were more like a confused vision
than reality; but presently my eyes became accustomed to the glare, and
I found myself surrounded by several huge fires, at which nearly a
score of men were busily engaged in illicit distillation. In my mountain
walks, I had frequently discovered in some secluded valley a smuggler
engaged in this lawless vocation; but the hovel and apparatus were so
slightly constructed and so easily removed, that at the first intimation
of danger the still was carried off, the fire extinguished, the sheeling
torn down, and nothing left but a heap of sods and rubbish to console
the gauger on his arrival, by proving that his information had been most
correct, and the distillers far too watchful. But here, every thing was
constructed on a permanent and extensive scale, which evinced a perfect
feeling of security, or the determination, at all risks, of continuing
this lawless and demoralizing trade. On furnaces of solid masonry three
large stills were working,--numerous wooden vessels were filled with
potale,--and sacks of malt and barley, kegs containing spirits, and an
abundant supply of peat-fuel, everywhere met the eye. Contiguous to
the fires, sundry hovels were erected; the walls of turf, and roofs of
heather--designed, it would appear, for the accommodation of a number of
swine and their proprietors; and both, in point of comfort, seemed to
be on a precise equality. The brute and the biped were indeed happily
associated; for the ragged clothes, haggard looks, bleared eyes, and
that half-drunken stupidity, which an endless tasting of ardent spirits
always produces, showed, as they flitted back and forward in the red and
lurid atmosphere, a group of beings that might be safely classed as low
even in the lowest grade of civilized society.

My supporters left me, and retired to a cabin apart from the other
hovels; while I underwent a careless examination by some swart figures,
who occasionally passed me bearing turf to the furnaces. Relieved from
a most annoying species of restraint, I felt little apprehension for the
future, although the cause for which I had been kidnapped remained
as much a mystery as ever. In a few minutes, a man tapped me on the
shoulder, and bade me “follow and fear nothing.” I obeyed. He led me to
the retired hut whither my quondam friends had gone before; and there
I found them quite at their ease, refreshing themselves most liberally
after their successful exertions in my arrest and deportation.

It was a rude, but not uncomfortable hovel; cribs and sleeping-places
occupying one end, and a fire of charred turf blazing in the other.
In the centre stood a rough bench, on which were spread plates of the
coarsest delft, an earthen greybeard containing undiluted whisky, a jug
of water, and a couple of horn drinking cups; while a tallow candle,
stuck in an iron trivet, lighted this uninviting board.

Other objects, and of a very different description, met the eye. In
a remote corner of the cabin a score of rusted firelocks were loosely
piled; and, on the couples of the rafters, sundry fishing-rods and
gaffs, a draft-net, and an eel-spear, were deposited. All indicated a
lawless community and wild existence; while a forbidding-looking hag,
broiling steaks upon the coals,--which operation a rough and brindled
lurcher was contemplating with fixed attention,--completed a strange,
but interesting picture of savage life.

“Are you hungry?” inquired one of my abductors, with tolerable civility.

“Not particularly,” I replied; “confinement in a sack does not generally
improve the appetite.”

“Were you hurt by the fall?”

“Not much; although I fancy it would have been to you a matter of small
consideration whether I broke my neck or scratched my finger.”

“Why, then,” responded the second ruffian; “upon my soul, I should have
regretted it; for, to give the devil his due, you took the brook and
bridge in sporting style. She’s a sweet mare, that. There was a day I
could have ridden her to fortune. I began life, sir, a whipper to Lord
Longford.”

“Then, friend, I must in candour tell you, that you have not changed for
the better.”

“I fear I have not”--and the fellow sighed heavily.

“But, may I inquire, wherefore I am deprived of liberty, after having
been waylaid, robbed, and nearly murdered?”

The whipper shook his head, while his companion roughly desired me to
ask no impertinent questions; then, pointing to the table, on which the
hag had placed a quantity of broiled mutton--apparently sufficient for a
dozen persons instead of three--he added, in a more encouraging tone,
“Take a seat, neighbour; there are few in our trade would treat a gauger
so civilly.”

“What do you mean?” I exclaimed. “Fellow, _I am no gauger_.”

“And pray what do you call yourself?” he added, with a smile.

“An officer.”

“Well, it’s all the same--a gauger and a revenue officer are brothers’
children.”

“I am not in the revenue, but the army--I am a lieutenant in the
Twenty-first Fusileers.”

“The devil you are!” ejaculated the whipper, with marked surprise.
“Pray, sir, are you not Mr. Parker?”

“No, my name is O’Halloran.”

“Of what family?” said the other ruffian.

“The family of Kilcullen.”

“Hell and furies!” exclaimed both together. “What is the meaning of all
this? I fancy we are in the centre of a hobble. Are you, sir, son of
Colonel O’Halloran?”

“I am.”

“How many arms has he?” asked the keeper, sharply.

“But one--the left he lost in Holland.”

“Where were you going to?”

“Dublin.”

“Your business there?”

“To join my regiment.”

“And why take the mountain road?’’

“Simply, because it was the shortest.”

The quondam whipper gave a long and significant whistle; while his
companion started up and left the hut abruptly, although the Leonora
of the smugglers’ hovel called loudly after him, that “the steaks were
cooling.”

He was but a brief space absent; and returned accompanied by an old
grey-headed, blear-eyed, and besotted wretch, who instantly commenced a
rigid scrutiny of my features. From the first moment, he expressed doubt
and disappointment.

“What the devil!” said the ruffian who had brought him to examine
me--“what are you shaking your head at, old boy?”

“Nothing; but you have bagged the wrong fox,” replied the stranger. “A
nice job you have made of it, Murty Doolan!”

“Why, is’nt that Parker the gauger?”

“Parker, the devil!” rejoined the old man. “It’s as much Parker as it
is my grandmother. Ye blind beggar, this chap has a straight eye, and
Parker could squint through a bugle horn. He! he! he!” and he chuckled
at his Own wit; “wait till somebody hears it. All, this comes of not
taking my advice--this comes of employing strangers.”

“Well,” said the whipper, “there’s no help for spilt milk. What’s to be
done, Gaffer? Can’t we grab the right one yet?”

“Ay, like enough, after Sullivan is hanged; for nothing can save him
now. What will ye do with this lad?” and he nodded carelessly at me.

“Serve him, I suppose, as ye did ----------” He paused and laughed, “He!
he! he!”

“D----n ye, you ould doting scoundrel--how dare ye mention that
business?”

“Phew--how hot ye are, Murty? Well, I must hurry back, or Phaddeein,
the fool, will run the still too close, and spoil the whisky with the
faints, as he did the last brewing. A nice job! That’s what I call
taking the wrong sow by the ear. He! he! he!” and away the old man
toddled to attend to his favourite employment.

“This is a cursed mistake,” remarked the ruffian companion of the
whipper; “and when the master hears it, all of us will come to trouble.
Come, my friend, let’s have some supper. Your seizure will cause more
vexation than your neck is worth,--sit down,” and turning up a keg, he
placed himself upon it, and attacked the broiled meat manfully. The
whipper, following his example, settled himself upon an inverted
cleeve, * pointing out a stool, the seat of honour, for my especial
use. Undecided, whether to accept their hospitality and sup in villanous
company for once, or hold myself aloof and eschew all fellowship with
such scoundrels, I wearied the politeness of the whipper, who, unable to
resist temptation longer, assailed the steaks with vigour--when a voice
from without caused my companions to spring from their seats as if the
food were poisoned. Next moment, a strange personage whom I had not seen
before, strode in, fixed an earnest and suspicious glance on me--then,
turning to my captors, exclaimed in a voice of thunder,

     *  The Irish name for a turf-basket.

“Villains! Who is this stranger?”

“The gauger, Parker,” both muttered in a tremulous tone.

“Ah, you precious scoundrels! Off with you! Take that woman away!”--and
waving his hand, my guard of honour vanished at his bidding, attended
by the alarmed cook, and leaving the unknown and myself _tête-à-tête_
together.

Spurning the basket into the corner, which the whipper had respectfully
abdicated on his entrance, the unknown walked to the fire with an air
that bespoke authority, and which seemed to say, “This island’s mine.”
 To form any opinion of his face or figure was impossible; a loose-made
frieze wrapping-coat concealed the one, while a high collar and slouched
hat masked the other effectually. I could observe, however, that in
height he was above the middle size, and that his eyes were dark and
penetrating. Promptly he commenced a conversation; and his address was
haughty, curt, and unceremonious.

“Pray, sir, _who are you!_”

“A stranger, brought here against his will; and wherefore--you, sir, can
best tell.”

“Pray,” continued the unknown, “inform me under what circumstances you
have been arrested?”

“And do you require any information on that subject?’’

“If I did not, I need not have asked you to detail them. Be quick, sir;
it will save me time, and probably do you some service.”

I simply narrated the recent occurrences, from my meeting with the
strangers at the lonely inn, until I had been enlarged upon the island.
At different parts of my detail the muffled stranger exhibited symptoms
of displeasure, and once or twice I could hear his teeth grind, as if he
struggled to suppress a burst of passion.

“Well, sir,” said he, as I ended the narrative of my captivity, “you are
a young soldier, it would appear; and this is an excellent earnest of
the troublesome profession you have chosen. But, jesting apart, you have
received much ill-usage, and been stupidly and unnecessarily deprived
of liberty and effects. Both shall be restored; and all the satisfaction
which circumstances will admit of, shall be offered in atonement for an
unintentional aggression.”

He drew a whistle from his bosom; and its shrill summons was promptly
answered by a smart, active lad, dressed in a sailor’s jacket and
trowsers.

“Man the boat, and give the signal.” The sailor disappeared, and the
unknown again addressed himself to me.

“Will you accompany me, and trust for your night’s entertainment to
my good offices--or, would you rather remain and share that
inviting-looking supper which by my visit, I fear, has not been much
improved?”

I smiled, and assured him I had not the least ambition to cultivate a
farther intimacy with those worthy gentlemen who had already taken too
much trouble on my account.

“Come along, then--the boat is ready,” he said, as a piercing whistle
was heard from the shore. “Follow me, closely; the path, though short,
is difficult even in daylight to a stranger.”

Entering the copse and pushing through thick underwood, we reached a
sandy beach, where a gig, with four rowers seated on the thwarts, was
waiting. I was ceremoniously handed in and accommodated with a boat
cloak; while the unknown took the yoke-ropes of the rudder, and desired
the men to “give way.” The crew “flung from their oars the spray,” and
broke the water with a regular stroke, which showed them to be
practised pullers. Away we shot across the lake,--and, to my infinite
satisfaction, left “the lonely isle,” which, even under an assurance
that it possessed another Calypso, I should not have been tempted to
revisit.

The night was dark and still, but through the haze the outline of the
shore was seen ahead. I looked towards the island we were leaving; but,
excepting a feeble glow of red still visible upon the dusky sky, there
was nothing to betray its secret, or intimate that this solitary place
had been chosen for “lawless intent.”

We neared the shore, and entered a narrow inlet that penetrated, as it
seemed, by an opening in the hill side, into a wood of full-grown forest
timber. Gradually the passage became more confined, until the oars had
scarcely space to pull between the banks, while branches of oak and
beech uniting above our heads, gave an additional darkness to the
evening. In a few moments we reached its termination,--a small natural
basin with a jetty of rough masonry. The steersman ran the boat
alongside, landed on the wharf, and desired me to follow. I willingly
obeyed, and the unknown led the way in silence, until we were beyond the
hearing of the boatmen, when, suddenly stopping, he thus addressed me:

“I am not a resident here--this country is not my own, but although I
cannot offer you hospitality myself, I shall yet manage to obtain it.
Scarcely a gun-shot distance from this place there stands a solitary
mansion-house, embosomed in this oak wood. That road will conduct you to
it. Go, knock at the door, and ask for Mr. Hartley. Tell him simply that
you are a stranger,--that you need food and lodging,--and, if I be not
deceived, you will have little occasion to urge the request a second
time. Of what has occurred, say little; of what may occur, say less.
I shall have your mare attended to, and your property recovered and
restored; ay, were its value ten times greater. We may meet under more
agreeable circumstances than we did this evening. Farewell. Stay--one
word more. You will probably be introduced to a lady at Mr. Hartley’s,
some two or three years younger than yourself. She is an only daughter,
educated in retirement, unacquainted with the world, and her existence,
beyond the inmates of yonder mansion, actually unknown. Gentlemen of the
sword, deal, I am told, extensively in gallantry. If this be so, reserve
yours; for Mr. Hartley, as I have heard, wishes that his daughter
shall continue ‘of worldly things in happy ignorance;’ and any
pointed attention on your part to his ward, would prove any thing but
acceptable. You understand me?”

“Indeed I do; and believe me, my good Mentor, that your friend’s fair
daughter has little to fear from one who has had death in expectancy for
two hours.”

“So much the better,” said the stranger. “Proceed; and you have but
to tell your wants at the house, and have them attended to. You will
however require a guide, for probably Mr. Hartley’s dogs might annoy
you.”

He whistled; and the same boatman again obeyed the signal. To him he
gave orders to attend me; bade me good night; and turned into an opening
in the copse, leaving me with my guide, and with the pleasant necessity
of presenting myself to Mr. Hartley,--an unexpected, an unbidden, and,
not improbably, an unwelcome guest.



CHAPTER VI. A CHANGE FOR THE BETTER.



               _Mirandi._--“Be of comfort;

               My fathers of a better nature, sir,

               Than he appears by speech.”--The Tempest.

|As we proceeded, I endeavoured to lead my companion into conversation,
and glean from him some information touching the place and the personage
we were about to honour with a midnight visit. At first, Andy Beg *--for
so the other boatmen named him--affected ignorance of Mr. Hartley’s
general history; and said that all he knew “for certain” was, that
he had been a great traveller, and bought, a few years ago, a large
mountain property, whose extent and revenues bore most ridiculous
proportions;--the one exceeding some square miles, the other not
amounting in value to the rental of an English farm. He added, that “he
had plenty of money, few acquaintances, lived entirely to himself, kept
a very good house, and kept every body out of it.” In short, the total
of my intelligence was small and not encouraging. Mr. Hartley being
wealthy and inhospitable, having

               “One fair daughter, and no more,

               The which he loved passing weir’

the reception of a stranger like myself, making an unceremonious call
after sunset, seemed indeed rather a questionable matter. But it was
necessary to make an attempt to gain admission; for, assuredly, any
thing was better than to be cooped up on that infernal island.

     * _Anglice_, Little Andy.

As we issued from the wooded avenue, the moon had risen above the trees,
and showed us a solitary building standing in the centre of an open
glade, and surrounded by a rustic paling. A terrier promptly gave
the alarm, and dogs of divers sizes and descriptions joined in the
challenge. But Andy appeared to be an old acquaintance; they ceased
barking when his voice was recognised, and permitted us to pass through
a wicket in the enclosure, and enter a gravelled walk that approached
the dreaded mansion.

“Now, sir, you require me no longer; and I have particular business to
transact before morning. Knock and fear nothing. The dogs will not annoy
you.” So saying, Andy passed through the wicket, and left me to myself.

I stood for a minute to gain time for recollection, and examine
the appearance of the building. There was nothing remarkable in the
exterior, and all within the house appeared dark and silent; at least,
the latticed window? were so jealously blinded, that it was impossible
to discover aught of the interior. I took courage--advanced to the
door, and tapped modestly like one rather dubious of admission. Again, I
repeated the knock, and a slight bustle within told that the summons was
heard. Presently a chain was removed, bolts were withdrawn, and an
old man dressed in plain blue livery stood in the doorway, and civilly
inquired my business. My tale was briefly told. The servant bowed, and
left me in the hall, while he went to apprize his master that a late
visitor had arrived. Returning directly, he requested me to follow
him--and leading the way down a long passage, conducted me to a
well-lighted chamber, and announced that Mr. Hartley would wait upon me
immediately.

Here I was, in military parlance, safe within the body of the place,
and all the approaches carried without opposition. So far the work went
bravely on; and, like a prudent soldier, I occupied the interval of
expectation in examining the interior, to enable me if possible to form
some idea of the quality of the inmates.

The room, though small, exhibited good taste and considerable elegance.
The furniture and hangings were designed with great simplicity, but
formed evidently of costly materials. A harp and guitar, numerous
music-books, and several cases filled with well-bound volumes, bespoke
the refinement of the owner. But the pictures were still more striking;
they were generally oil paintings, and framed magnificently; and with
these the walls were completely covered from the ceiling to the very
base. The mantel-piece was still more remarkable. It was crowded with
what are termed articles of _vertu_, being curious carvings in ivory and
porcelain, of great value. There were also some oriental toys in silver
filagree, shell snuff-boxes of unequalled beauty, and others of massive
gold. But what fixed my attention at once, was a cabinet picture of
small size, that rested on the centre of the slab--and which, even to an
unpractised eye, appeared in its style and execution a _chef-d’oeuvre_.

The painting represented a young man, dressed in the fanciful costume
of an Eastern rover, holding a midnight interview with a beautiful girl,
who wore the habit of a _religieuse_. Moonlight, a seashore, a monastic
building half-hidden by trees of tropic growth, with a vessel in the
distance, formed the scene. One arm of the corsair clasped the nun;
while the other pointed to the ship, whose canvas, hanging loosely,
indicated a readiness for sailing--and the rover’s action seemed as if
he was “whispering her fears away,” and urging the novice to accompany
him. The character of both figures was admirably marked. In the rover’s
handsome features there was much to admire, and more to fear.
The expression was that of high courage, mingled with a haughty
recklessness, that might either be caused by personal indifference
to danger or a disregard of suffering in others. But in the beautiful
_religieuse_ there was a confiding love so gentle, so fixed, so
unsuspecting, that one dwelt with pleasure on a face, where every best
property of woman seemed combined.

The dresses of the twain were even more dissimilar than the character
of the features. His costume was a tight jacket and expansive trowsers,
belted with an Indian sash, which, while it displayed the symmetry of
a faultless figure, permitted the wearer to put forth his strength with
graceful freedom. Had his wild profession been doubtful, the Albanian
cap, ornamented pistols, sabre and poniard, would have betrayed his
calling. His beautiful companion wore the dress of the Ursulines; the
back-turned hood displayed the sweetest face imaginable, while the hand
that rested on the rover’s arm, as if to stay his departure, might have
formed a study for Canova.

The picture fascinated me; all was forgotten while I gazed upon it. I
looked again. Despite the darkening influence of sun and storm, a thick
moustache, and foreign costume, the corsair’s aspect was decidedly
British. It was a fair skin embrowned by climate, with which a wild and
martial carriage and hair of raven blackness accorded well.

Wrapped in silent admiration--now gazing on “the bold brigand”--now
enraptured with the sweet gentleness of the confiding girl, who seemed
ready to abandon “home and heaven” for “her wild love,” I did not hear
the door open until the host was almost standing at my side. Addressing
me in a voice of peculiar sweetness, he bade me a warm welcome,
apologized for not receiving me in the hall; and then telling me that
supper was in readiness, he led me with excellent tact into a general
conversation.

We talked on indifferent subjects for a few minutes, while gradually my
self-possession returned. Although described by the unknown as stern and
suspicious, and by Andy as misanthropic and unamiable, my host seemed
kind and hospitable to a marvel. Just then the door opened again, a girl
of remarkable beauty glided in, and Mr. Hartley led her forward. “This,
sir,” said he, “is my daughter; and this gentleman, Isidora, is our
guest.” We both cast down our eyes; she in maiden timidity colouring to
the very brow, and I--I shame to own it--blushing like a country orator
addressing “the unwashed” for the first time. I muttered a confused
apology for an intrusion at that late hour, said something about bad
roads, a lame horse, and Heaven knows what beside, to which she gave
a gentle acceptation. I raised my eyes. By heaven! there stood the
corsair’s mistress! ay, there in youthful loveliness--and the host,--all
his bland expression gone, as, steadily regarding us, he looked with
scornful indifference beneath his coal-black brows (but that his years
doubled the corsair’s in the painting,)--his haughty curl of lip and
eyebrow would have half persuaded me that he had himself been a rover of
the sea.

At this moment, and luckily for me (for I was “regularly bothered,”)
the blue-coated servitor announced supper. I presented my arm to Miss
Hartley, and through a side door we entered the eating room. By a
singular self-command, the host’s features had regained their
previous expression of urbanity; his manner was courteous, his welcome
encouraging, and he seemed the very opposite of Andy Beg’s description,
when he called him repulsive and inhospitable.

Nothing could surpass the neatness of the apartment. In all its
arrangements simplicity had been regarded; yet still there was an
evidence of luxury and wealth in the quantity and massive fashion of
the plate, which seemed better suited to the mansion of a noble than the
retreat of a recluse.

Never did intruder time his visit more opportunely, if the excellence of
a supper were the proof. The meal passed over agreeably, though in point
of performance the actors differed. Miss Hartley ate little, her father
turned out an indifferent trencher-man; but, faith, I made up for this
double deficiency, as the skeleton that left the table of what came
there, a goodly wild-duck, proved. No wonder; since I dined at the
lonely inn, if varied exercise could produce a healthy appetite, mine
should have been in top condition. But hunger has its limit,--mine was
at last appeased; supper removed, wine and fruit were placed upon the
table, and old blue-coat disappeared, leaving me perfectly satisfied
with my quarters, and much more so with my company.

The host having filled his glass, pushed the decanters across the table.

“Come, sir, drink; you will own that Port wine sound, and this Madeira
has circumnavigated the world; but I recommend the Burgundy. Probably,
as it seems the custom of the country, you are not a wine-drinker after
supper, should you therefore prefer them, you will find cognac and
hollands on the buffet.”

Egad, the more I saw of it, the more I admired the establishment.
Burgundy and Madeira that had circumnavigated the world--these formed
very gentlemanly tipple to sport under a racketty old roof, to a
self-invited visitor, who had dropped in, like a priest collecting corn,
with a “God save all here.” Nor did I neglect the invitation. The bottle
passed freely, previous restraint wore away, and some allusion of Mr.
Hartley’s to a military life, led me by degrees into a private history
of my own, until

               “I ran it through, even from my boyish days

               To the very moment when he bade me tell it.”

I afterwards recollected that some of Mr. Hartley’s questions could only
have been asked by a person to whom the earlier history of my parents
was intimately known, but I did not notice it at the moment.

Charmed at the urbanity of my host, and flattered that my young
Desdemona expressed an interest in my fortunes, and

               “Gave me for my pains a world of smiles,”

I became momentarily more intimate and at ease; deciding that the
unknown and his boatman, Andy Beg, were little better than libellers,
when they insinuated aught against the suavity of temper and sociability
of my excellent host.

Isidora had risen to leave the room, and something in her look or
attitude recalled the fascinating picture of the corsair’s mistress to
my memory.

“How like!” I muttered, loud enough to awake the attention of her
father. “I would be sworn that picture on the mantel-piece of the
drawing-room was painted for this young lady,--ay, and bating some
twenty years, the gallant rover looks your very image, sir.”

Never was a more unlucky guess hazarded by a blundering Irishman! Had
lightning struck the building, or a grenade dropped hissing through the
ceiling, the effect could not have caused so fierce an explosion as that
which followed this infelicitous discovery. In a moment a lurid glare
flashed underneath the host’s contracted brows; while Isidora, pale
as marble, leaned against the buffet for support. Persuaded that I had
committed some villanous impertinence, I sprang forward to assist her;
but, with extraordinary strength, her father pushed me like a child
aside, led his daughter from the room, closed the door, and left me
in undisturbed possession, to commune with my own thoughts, and
congratulate myself on the brilliant effect that my first essay as a
connoisseur in painting had produced.

After a short, but to me most painful, interval of suspense, Mr. Hartley
returned. His rage had subsided; every trace of its first violence had
disappeared; but his features wore an expression of stern rebuke, that
made me far more uncomfortable than if personal violence were threatened
for my offending. He leaned his back against the sideboard, and after
regarding me for a minute with a fixed look, thus commenced:--

“Young man, you have wantonly annoyed those who were anxious to show
you kindness; and, by a most unhappy and impertinent allusion to what
concerned _you_ nothing, you have in _me_ roused feelings, which I wish
suppressed for ever, and recalled to my daughter’s memory an event that
can only bring with it painful recollections.”

I listened patiently thus far; but, unable to restrain my feelings,
interrupted the expostulation, while my look and manner evinced that my
contrition was sincere.

“By Heaven, Mr. Hartley, my offence was wholly unintentional! While
waiting for you in the drawing-room, by mere accident I noticed this
unlucky picture. Had I fancied that a secret connexion existed between
that painting and any event of your past life, I should have scorned to
cast an eye upon it, as much as I would to pry into yonder open letter
that lies upon the mantel-piece. I only saw in it, what I considered a
beautiful creation of the fancy; some imaginary scene--”

Suddenly my host interrupted me.--“Creation of the fancy! No, no,
boy; all sad--sad reality! Oh, Heaven, that the scene were indeed
imaginary!”--and, apparently overcome with some fearful recollection,
he turned his face towards the fire, and I could observe a convulsive
shudder creep over him as he writhed in silent agony. I was dreadfully
mortified at the misery which my folly had occasioned, and determined at
once to quit a house in which my visit had proved so mischievous. I went
forward, and took Mr. Hartley’s hand.

“Can you pardon a stupid impertinence of mine, which has unhappily
recalled afflicting recollections? When I am gone, excuse my imprudence
to your daughter, and assure her how sincerely I repent my folly.
And now, farewell, sir,--I feel myself an unwelcome visitor, and will
relieve you of my presence.”

I made a movement towards the door; but my host waved his hand as if to
detain me--

“Stop,” said lie; “it is nearly midnight, and the first place where you
could obtain a lodging is ten miles distant.”

“I have walked twenty before now,” I replied, “to shoot a dozen snipes.”

“The road is bad and difficult to find,” rejoined Mr. Hartley.

“I can rouse a peasant on the way side, and he will guide me.”

“It is dangerous, besides,” added he; “a murder was committed there but
lately.”

“No matter,” I returned; “I have little indeed to lose.”

“You put your trust in honest Juvenal,” said he, with a faint smile.
“‘Cantabit vacuus’--it is a good adage; no security better against
robbery than an empty pocket. But they may knock you on the head, and
discover when too late--that you are not a gauger;” and he gave me a
side look, to see what effect the allusion had.

“Faith, sir,” I returned, “I trust that that mistake shall not occur a
second time, although to it I owe the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

“Indeed?” said Mr. Hartley, with real or simulated surprise.

“It is true, sir,” I replied.

“Well, then, sit down and tell me the adventure. Come, my dear boy,”
 he added, in tones so soft, so kind, that I was amazed at the sudden
transition from anger to urbanity; “all is over and forgotten. I will
make your peace with Isidora in the morning, and your penalty shall
be--a short lecture and another bottle. You are young--your foot has
only touched the threshold of the stage of life--at your age one sees
only the sun-streak in the sky, but never looks for the cloudbank that
lies behind it. What you to-night intended in idle compliment, exploded
a hidden mine that all but wrecked our friendship in its very opening.
Be advised by one who knows the world, or ought to know it: restrain
curiosity in all that concerns another; and know men well, before you
pry into their secrets. At the conclusion of this lecture my host took
a flask of Burgundy from the sideboard, extracted the cork, and down
we sate _tête-à-tête_ again; and, at his desire, I narrated my evening
encounter with the smugglers.

“Upon my honour,” he observed, as I ended, “a perilous adventure; and,
faith, the scoundrels gave you coarse usage. I know the scene of your
flight; a rough road to gallop over, and the broken bridge, too--did
your horse carry you across that ugly chasm?”

“Took it in stroke, and never touched it with a toe. But for the
villains with the rope, I should have had the race hollow.”

“Ay--these, ‘misbegotten knaves,’ as Jack Falstaff would call them,
they ended the affair effectually. Egad--the rope was an excellent
contrivance to dismount a cavalier. But you must have had a severe fall?
Are you bruised?--are you injured?”

“Not much, I fancy--although I do feel sore and stiff about the back and
shoulders.”

“It must be examined. I shall be leech for the nonce; and I am not a bad
surgeon. Come, let us finish the flask, and then I will show you to a
chamber.”

The time-piece on the chimney-piece chimed three quarters, the wine
disappeared, I rose to retire; when my host took up a chamber-lamp and
led the way. Proceeding along a narrow gallery, we entered an apartment
at its extremity. Mr. Hartley lighted the candles. “These are your
quarters,” said he. “Here make yourself at home, and I will return in a
few minutes and pronounce upon your bruises.”

Nothing could surpass the neatness of my dormitory. The curtains and
bed furniture were chintz, with drawers, cabinets, and wardrobes, all
of Indian workmanship. A glorious fire of bog-deal was blazing in the
grate, and on the table I remarked a dressing-case, with every thing
requisite even for the toilet of a man of fashion--while a morning gown,
slippers, and change of linen, were in process of airing for my service.
But other objects caught my eye. Over the chimney-piece hung a curious
collection of fire-arms; and beside them, some splendid sabres were
suspended. Some were of foreign shape, and richly ornamented with gold
and silver mounting; others, made by English artists, were distinguished
from the rest by their exquisite finish and simplicity, while not a few
bore semblance of great antiquity, and seemed retained rather as objects
of curiosity than use.

On his return, Mr. Hartley found me admiring his armoury; but I neither
hazarded a remark nor dared to ask a question. The lesson I had recently
received would last me for awhile; and had a ghost and goule been
sitting in the corner, _tête-à-tête_, I should have scarcely ventured to
inquire “What the devil brought them there?”

“There are some handsome weapons in that collection?” said the host.

“They appear most valuable,” I replied. “I am not a judge of foreign
arms; but I see some English guns of beautiful workmanship.” Mr.
Hartley passed these lightly by; but taking down a sabre and pistols,
he examined them with marked attention. The latter he replaced, but
retained the sabre in his hand.

“Is that sword a valuable one?” My host started. I felt my face flush.
Had I again committed mischief? But Mr. Hartley, on this score, relieved
me speedily.

“You ask me is this sabre valuable? It is _invaluable_. The blade is of
the purest Damascene. Observe its beautiful tracery; and its temper is
so exquisite, that, without indenting its own edge to the extent of a
pin’s point, I could have once shorn that bar of iron in twain,”--and
he pointed to the grate. A knock was heard at the door. “It is
Dominique--Come in.”

As he spoke, a new and very remarkable personage presented himself. He
was a negro of uncommon height; and if his shape could be relied on,
of herculean strength. His limbs, though too heavy to be graceful, were
finely moulded; his shoulders square, his breast ample. He wore a light
jacket and loose trowsers, and was provided with a china basin, some
phials, and a napkin.

“Now,” said Mr. Hartley, “for our operations. Dominique, assist this
gentleman, remove his coat, and bare his shoulders.”

The negro obeyed, and I submitted to examination.

“Upon my word, you have made little ado about what might have been a
serious injury. Your back and arms are extensively contused, the whole
surface is bruised, and the skin discoloured. Come, we shall take a
little blood, and then embrocate the parts affected.”

I felt inclined to demur against submitting to phlebotomy, but mine was
no common doctor. The negro bound my arm, produced a lancet, opened a
vein with great adroitness, while his master overlooked the operation,
until he thought that I had lost a sufficiency of blood. After a copious
depletion, Dominique lubricated my back with some oily substance; and,
having ascertained that all was correctly done, he assisted me to bed;
while his master bade me a friendly good night, quitted the room, and
both left me “alone in my glory.”

What a “whirligig world” we live in! I was but one day fairly flown upon
it, and what a medley of adventure had it not produced! In the morning,
starting full of “gay hope,” and for the first time master of myself; in
the evening, captive of a gang of ruffians, who, in drunken barbarity,
would have consigned me to the bottom of the lake, with less compunction
than that with which a school-boy drowns a kitten. At night, inmate of a
strange mansion, doubtfully received, half rejected afterwards, and now
domesticated, as if I had been undoubted heir to every barren hill in
view. All this was passing strange; and, lost “in wild conjecture,” and
unable to read riddles, I betook myself quietly to sleep.

If there be faith in strong exercise, a deep potation, and bruised
bones, I ought to have slept soundly,--and so I did; dreaming
nevertheless of nuns and corsairs, smugglers and sacks, wild ducks,
burgundy, bloodletting, and Heaven knows what besides, until a gentle
touch upon the shoulder dispelled these troublous visions, and showed,
by the misty light of a dull October morning, the well-remembered
features of my kind and mysterious host, standing at my bedside.

“Have you rested well?” said the deep voice of Mr. Hartley, in the
gracious tones it could occasionally assume.

“I have slept most soundly; and find myself so far recovered from bruise
and battery, that I could”--

“Run anew the gauntlet as a gauger, and take the broken bridge, in
stroke,” added mine host, with a smile.

“Well, we shall not put you to the test to-day; you must keep quiet; at
least, so says Dominique, your leech. Do you wish to read? you will find
books. Would you write? there are materials in the drawing-room. Would
you shoot--swim--sail? Here are all facilities. Your mare is in my
stable, your cloak-case honestly restored; and, as the stranger avowed
who brought them hither, the steed uninjured and your effects untouched.
I have received important letters, which for a few hours oblige me to
leave home. Before supper you may count upon my return.”

I thanked him warmly for the kind manner in which he pressed my further
stay, but hinted that the time was limited within which I must report
myself at head-quarters.

“Yes, yes,” said he, “I know you must be in Dublin on the 24th; but this
is only the 20th. I will send you off to-morrow,--sounder in bones, and
safer in property, than when you honoured me with a visit.’Tis scarcely
six o’clock. Sleep till Dominique appears. Addio! One word more,--‘tis
cautionary,--we were introduced but yesterday; to-day makes or mars our
friendship!”

Before I could reply, he glided from the chamber, closed the door
softly, and left me to sleep or wake, just as I pleased.

I felt little inclination to court the “drowsy influence” of my pillow;
for the stranger’s parting words, like every thing about him, were a
mystery. Accordingly, I rose, threw aside the curtains, and let as much
light in as an overcast morning would admit through a lattice dimmed
with mist and rain.

It was yet but seven, and some time must elapse before the family would
be afoot. Out of doors, all looked cold and comfortless, and I was
obliged to betake myself to bed again, and there await patiently the
advent of my sable physician.

Sleep I could not; my brain was in a whirl, as the events of yesterday
crossed my mind in fast succession; all, or any, being sufficiently
exciting to stamp the day adventurous to a novice like myself, just
started on the world. But one engrossing recollection obliterated
all the rest, and the picture and supper-scene occupied my thoughts
exclusively.

As I pondered on the singular resemblance between the figures in the
painting and those of Isidora and “mine host,” my eyes involuntarily
rested on the arms which hung above the mantel-pieee. The sabre and
pistols rivetted my attention. They were the very identical weapons with
which the corsair in the picture was accoutred! Hartley’s eulogy upon
the sword, and the boast of his former prowess, confirmed the belief,
that though a “worthy Thane” at present, there was a period when his
calling was but indifferent, and himself, “if a man should speak truly,
little better than one of the wicked.” Just then I heard a gentle tap,
and Dominique made his appearance to ascertain how far I had benefited
by his leech-craft, and if necessary, to assist me at my toilet.

“Your master, Dominique, went early abroad to-day.”

“Yes, sir. He had business at some short distance from the house, but
he will not delay long. How much better your wounds look than could
have been expected from their appearance last night!” and the negro
embrocated my bruises again. “Pray, do you know, sir, any of the persons
who assailed you on the road?”

“Not I, in faith. From what I can collect, I was mistaken for another.”

“It was a bad blunder for you; but, all considered, you have escaped
wonderfully. It was very doubtful whether you could have left your
room this morning; and Miss Isidora begs to know whether you will have
breakfast in your chamber, or venture to the parlour.”

“To the parlour, certainly.” Up I sprang, dressed rapidly, and following
the sable functionary to the end of the corridor; he pointed to the
drawing-room door, bowed, left me, and I entered.

The room was still untenanted, and, to all appearance, precisely as
I had left it the preceding night. Reckless of the confusion it had
already caused, I determined to satisfy my curiosity again, and take
a second peep at the mysterious picture. From the doorway the massive
frame was visible, for my eyes had turned involuntarily to the place
where my thoughts had already wandered. I walked on and stood before the
painting.’Twas passing strange; there was the frame, but both lady and
corsair had vanished; and the parting scene of love had changed to one
of vengeance. How opposite the subject, too--Blue Beard about to shorten
Fatima by the head, for being over curious, like myself, in a strange
house and on a first visit. Was this pointed as a hint to me? I’faith,
it looked very like it, but, before I could determine whether the
painting was designed to convey this silent lesson, a light step behind
announced the presence of Isidora. She had entered from the adjoining
room unperceived, and came to tell me that breakfast waited.

All things considered, the meal passed over with less embarrassment than
might have been expected from a _tête à tête_ between two novices like
us, who had parted in the unpromising manner we had done the night
before. Although timid as one unacquainted with the world will naturally
be when she is first addressed by a stranger, Isidora’s was the
diffidence of maiden modesty rather than _mauvais honte_; while I,
appertaining to that numerous class intituled “bashful Irishmen,”
 mustered my small stock of assurance, as I whispered to myself old
Chapman’s lines--

               “Ah! crrared sheep’s-head, hast thou liv’d thus long,

               And dar’st not look a woman in the face?”

Certain it is, that, after having duly ascertained that my mare and
baggage had passed through the hands of the Philistines uninjured, I
returned gallantly to the drawing-room. There I behaved as a soldier of
promise should do; ending by proposing a walk to the fair hostess, which
invitation on her part was gracefully accepted.

The day had improved considerably; and we strolled arm-in-arm to
the brow of a small hill, which, rising boldly above the copse that
encircled it, commanded a splendid view of a spacious lake, with
woodlands in the foreground and mountains in the distance. This was
a favourite spot, and frequently, as my companion told me, visited by
herself and Mr. Hartley. We placed ourselves on a rustic bench under
the shading of a fine old elm; and, while I could not but admire the
romantic scenery that everywhere met the eye, I marvelled that one who
had mingled in the world, and had ample means to do so--as all about
his domicile inferred--should seclude the young beauty beside me in a
wilderness, fitted for men only of lawless habits and broken fortunes.

“Do you not, at times, find this place solitary, Miss Hartley?” I asked,
in a careless tone.

“It is retired, certainly; but I have been accustomed from my childhood
to retirement,” she replied.

“Yes, but one who has been in the world--”

“Would, no doubt, find this mansion disagreeable. I have been secluded
from infancy.”

“Indeed!”

“For fifteen years I never set my foot beyond the convent garden.”

“Were you intended for a _religieuse?_”

“I believe not.”

“Why, then, seclude you from the world?”

“The cloister is surely the best asylum for those who need protection.”

“You lost your mother when young?”

To judge by its effect on my fair companion, the allusion was
particularly unfortunate. The cheek, “but feebly touched with red” just
now, flushed, and told that I had committed a fresh indiscretion. By a
sudden impulse I seized her hand:--

“Have I again offended? Alas, Miss Hartley, I am inexcusable! But, as it
was perfectly unintentional, may I once more entreat forgiveness?”

[Illustration: 0071]

“For what?” exclaimed the deep voice of my host, as, to our mutual
astonishment and dismay, he stepped from the thicket. In confusion, I
dropped his daughter’s hand.

“Pray, young sir, what may be the offending which required such earnest
supplication to be pardoned?”

“An impertinent question,” I replied.

“Repeat it,” he continued, as he fixed his eye steadily on mine.

“I inquired whether Miss Hartley had not been designed to take the veil,
that for so long a period of her life she had lived the inmate of a
convent.”

“It was a silly and a harmless question,” he answered drily. “Know you
not that it is customary in catholic countries to entrust the daughters
of the noblest families to religious communities for instruction?
Well, Isidora, the pardon may be granted: for it is, possibly, the last
offending he shall perpetrate or you forgive. Come, my girl, dinner has
been ordered two hours earlier than usual, to enable Mr. O’Halloran to
proceed this evening on his route. This may sound inhospitable, sir,
but it is necessary. Isidora, let us look upon that lake, and these
mountains: we look upon them for the last time!”

I started. What did all this mean? I looked at Mr. Hartley, but his face
wore the same expression it always did; and if on the tablet of memory
the past and present were fast careering, the volume was sealed to me.
Dinner was served: it was a hurried and unsocial meal; and when the
cloth was lifted, Isidora left the room.

“Drink, sir,” said the host--“time flies; and in half an hour _you_ will
be on the road, and _I_ preparing for a longer journey. Those pistols on
the table are yours. Fearing lest they had suffered by the night air,
I had them discharged and cleaned.” He got up, took the weapons, and
examined them critically. “From the cypher, I presume them to have been
your father’s.” He sprang the ramrods--“Clean and effective,” he said.
“In travelling, there are two things I never delegate to another--my
horse and my weapons. The first I see attended to before myself; and the
second, I take especial care shall not be found wanting when required.
You will find ammunition in that drawer, and I beg you to excuse me for
five minutes.”

When he was gone, I reloaded my pistols--filled another glass
of wine--wondered what the devil would come next--heard the door
open--looked round, and saw mine host leading his fair daughter in.

“Isidora,” he said, “comes to bid you farewell. I overheard you ask
pardon for some imaginary offending, and she will confirm it. My love,
give the gentleman that ring.”

In deep confusion, the blushing girl pulled a jewel from her finger.

“No--no, love--a diamond would be ill suited for the hand that in a
brief space may be cold upon a battle-field.’Twould be to gorge with
treasure they could not estimate, the human vultures which follow to
batten on kindred carrion. No love, that other. It is, Mr. O’Halloran,
the trophy of an early adventure--a simple hoop of gold--pure as it
comes from the mine. As a remembrance, rich as if it had issued from
Golconda--and as a bauble valueless, and therefore the fitter for a
soldier.”

Isidora placed the keepsake on my finger, and with my lips I pressed her
trembling hand. Her father gave a signal--and she hastily left the room
by one door, as the blue-coated attendant entered by another to say that
“my horse was waiting.”

“I will attend you to the gate,” said my host; and we proceeded down the
long corridor together. At the entrance I found my mare, full of life
and fit for any thing. Blue-coat housed my pistols in the holsters,
Mr. Hartley squeezed my hand, and I sprang into the saddle, muttering
thanks, which mine host returned with something like a blessing. He
turned towards the door--I rode round the angle of the court-yard.
Casting my eyes back I took a last look at the house, and from an
upper window a white arm waved its parting farewell. Who sent that mute
addio?--who--but Isidora!



CHAPTER VII. I JOIN THE TWENTY-FIRST.



               “_Davy_.--Doth the man of war stay all night?

               “_Shallow_,--Yes, Davy--I will use him well.”

                        Shakspeare.

As I rode from Mr. Hartley’s, I could scarcely persuade myself that the
transactions of the last two days were aught but a coinage of the brain,
and took the liberty of respectfully inquiring of myself whether I were
actually _compos mentis_. As I looked around, I received on this point
a mute affirmative. I was sitting in mine own saddle--bestrode the best
mare that ever cleared a broken bridge--identified the holsters at my
pommel--my cloak-bag was duly secured upon its pad--and, stronger proof,
“a gay gold ring” glittered on my finger.

It was a sweet September evening, and for the first mile or two the
scenery harmonized well with that hour “which poets love.” But when
the natural wood that encircled Mr. Hartley’s domain was left behind,
I found before me a large expanse of dull brown moorland, which must be
traversed before I could reach the solitary house where I purposed to
take up my quarters for the night. The inn was ten miles distant, and
the gentle reader will please to hold in recollection, that these miles
were Irish miles; therefore, had I been inclined to sentimentalize,
there was neither time nor place for musing. I gave Miss Malone
accordingly permission to step out; and as the sun made his parting
bow from behind a mountain ridge, I pulled up at the Yellow Lion and
received an honourable welcome.

Standing at the door, Andy Beg appeared as if he had been for some time
in waiting. He held a letter in his hand, and had a gun-case under his
arm. Having grinned what he intended to be a civil recognition, he
took my pistols and cloak bag, and led the way into this mountain
caravansera. If for me the fatted calf had not been killed, still
preparations had been made for supper--for a Nora Crina sort of cook,
in short petticoats and a gown curiously tucked up, crossed me in the
passage with a brace of moor-fowls ready for the brander. Miss Malone
was stabled as became her worth--and I duly inducted into a cheerful
chamber, the “great one” of the Yellow Lion, and evidently reserved for
honourable guests. Having seated myself before the fire, I broke the
seal of the packet which Andy Beg had delivered, and found it to be a
valedictory epistle from that mysterious personage, Mr. Hartley. The
letter ran thus:--

“Our acquaintance has commenced under such singular circumstances that I
trace in it the hand of destiny--for chance could not have thus brought
us together, when to meet was every thing but impossible. In me, know
one who influences your fortunes--one, who by a breath can confer
or withhold what men erroneously consider the passport to human
happiness--wealth! For the future, I shall watch your career, and every
action of your life shall be under a rigid _surveillance_. Be prudent,
and I promise you a goodly independence. Disappoint my hopes, and you
never see me more. To suppose that youth will not err occasionally,
would be to plead ignorance of what mankind is. But remember, for folly
there is pardon--for vice none. May you pass the ordeal unscathed!

“No one is secure against the frowns of fortune; and it may be decreed
that you shall not escape. Mark me, boy! When friends fall off, the
future is overcast, and all around seems desperate, write freely--let
nothing be held back--and even in that heavy hour I may step between you
and your fate. The address I enclose will always find me.

“Farewell; Isidora sends a kind remembrance.

“Yours, as you conduct yourself,

“John Hartley.”

“P.S.--You admired a gun of Manton’s; I beg you to accept it. You can
safely forward it to Dublin by the stage coach which passes the inn
to-morrow morning.”

Another postscript was annexed: it commanded me to keep profoundly
secret my recent escapade among the smugglers, as well as my subsequent
introduction to this my most mysterious correspondent. To this strange
epistle, I returned a dutiful reply; and having despatched Andy Beg with
my letter, I supped--went to sleep--and dreamed till cockcrow of the
strange _dramatis personae_ who had figured so prominently in my late
adventures.

On the fourth evening I reached the metropolis in safety--reported
myself next morning to the Colonel--obtained a barrack-room in
George’s-street--was introduced to my brother officers, and committed
duly to be drilled. I mounted the “red-rag”--and satisfied myself by a
sly inspection as I passed every hatter’s shop, from the effigy of
the great King William even unto Stephen’s Green, that the jacket was
accurate in its proportions, and conferred immortal honour upon the
builder of the same.

Among some introductory letters, one had been given me by my father,
addressed to a respectable merchant to whom he annually consigned his
wool. His name was Pryme--he lived on one of the quays, was reputed
to be very wealthy, and was a rigid quaker. When I called at his
counting-house I found that he had been absent for a day or two, and
was gone to the country on business; but from his son I received much
civility and any information that I required. The young quaker was a
little older than I, but in height and general appearance singularly
like me. Indeed, we might have passed for twin brothers, had not the cut
and colour of our garments announced that no relationship could exist
between a flashy flanker and a sober youth, whose conversation and outer
man told plainly that he had eschewed the pomps and vanities of this
wicked world. According to my father’s orders, Mr. Pryme was not only
to supply me with good advice, but also to furnish me with money when
required--and one fine evening the young quaker, after mess, visited my
barrack-room, and then and there replenished a treasury which a military
outfit had nearly exhausted.

Of course he was hospitably entertained. The bottle passed freely--some
of the younger hands dropped in--the kettle was put in requisition--and
it was decreed that whisky punch should complete what port wine had
handsomely commenced already.

At eleven o’clock the party were regularly screwed, the quaker worse
than any. We had indulged in divers drunken freaks; and not the least
ridiculous was an interchange of clothes between me and Simon Pure. Our
next proceeding was to seek adventure, and sally forth upon the town;
I attired in a snuff-coloured single-breasted coatee and broad-brimmed
hat, and brother Samuel in full regimentals and a bearskin chaco.

[Illustration: 0077]

Our career was short and brilliant. We managed to get up a row in
Dame-street with a party of college men, bent on the same errand as
ourselves. The watch interfered--we joined our quondam opponents in
a treaty, offensive and defensive, to resist this impertinent
intervention, and the fight for a short time was respectably maintained.
But numbers succeeded. I was stretched _hors de combat_; sundry
belligerents (the quaker included) were captured and carried to the
watch-house, while the remainder, reserving themselves for deeds of
valour on a future day, levanted, and left us to our fate.

Either owing to the severity of the blow, or from the shock of the fall,
after having saluted my mother earth I lay perfectly motionless; while,
alarmed at this proof of prowess, instead of conveying me to durance
vile, the guardians of the night, declaring me dead as Julius Cæsar,
carried me into a neighbouring apothecary’s, to ascertain whether that
disciple of the healing god could minister to mortal wounds, and set
defunct gentlemen safe upon their legs again. The doctor having wiped
and mounted his spectacles, proceeded to what he believed would turn out
a _post mortem_ examination; for after a single glance, he started back
and exclaimed--

“Why, ye villans--every sowl of ye will be hanged! Haven’t ye murdered a
quaker?”

“Not at all,” responded the commander of the faithful. “Sure it was the
quaker that murdered us.”

“Have done, ye scoundrels! He’s a man of peace.”

“Pace or war,” returned a watchman, “he’s the hardest hitter betune this
and Bully’s acre, and that’s a big word. He give me one clip wid the
left hand, and jist look at my eye, af ye plase. By this book,” and
Charlie reverently held up his lantern, “I think it was the crown of my
head that first titched the gravel. It was the clanest knock down I
ivir got--and many’s the floorer I’ve had in my time from thim college
divils. Bad luck attind them night and day--the thieves!”

“Who _is_ the gentleman?” inquired the apothecary.

“Arrah! sorra one of us knows,” was the reply.

“Search his pockets,” said the leech;--“some paper will probably tell.”

The quaker’s coatee forthwith underwent a judicial investigation, and
divers mercantile documents at once established the identity.

“Why,” said the apothecary, “he’s son of Mr. Pryme, the rich merchant,
a man whom every body respects. By my conscience, I have one comfort for
ye. If any thing goes wrong with the boy here, every man Jack of ye is
sure of Botany Bay--ay! and the devil a rap it will cost any of ye for
the passage out.”

“Oh!--murder! murder!” ejaculated sundry voices.

“Whish’t!” said the doctor, for I gave a twist upon the floor, and
muttered--“Fill fair, and be d------d to you.”

“Holy Bridget!” ejaculated the chief of the Charlies--“if ivir I met a
quaker of his kind. He drinks like a fish, and swears like a trooper!”

“All! he’s coming round again,” exclaimed the doctor. “See!--the
colour’s on his cheek. I tell you what you’ll do. Call a chair, carry
him home fur and asy; and, if ye can, smuggle him down the area steps,
for the ould gentleman wouldn’t be overpleased to see him. I’ll drop the
lad a line or two in the morning, and make all right for you.”

Instantly a charlie trotted off, and in a few minutes I was safely
ensconced in a “leathern conveniency” now extinct, which at that time
performed a double duty in transporting beauty to the ball-room, and
drunkards to their cribs.

I was promptly conveyed to my destination; and, by some strange
fatality, a new chief butler that very evening had succeeded the former
“pantler” of Mr. Pryme. I was, of course, personally unknown to’ him;
and having been discreetly slipped down the area steps, it was explained
that “I was rather the worse of liquor, and had been mighty pugnacious
into the bargain.” The butler took me on his back; and without let
or hindrance, I was carried to the chamber of the absent
Samuel--stripped--put to bed,--promised a bowl of whey--and left in
undisputed possession of the dormitory of the drunken quaker.

Two or three hours passed; and how the secret transpired I cannot guess.
I was buried in profound sleep, when lights, flashed across my eyes
and awakened me. Through an opening in the curtains I saw three females
beside the bed; and I also discovered that the apartment was a strange
one.

Surprise or fear will sometimes remove the consequences of inebriety,
and men become suddenly sober. I felt this singular effect. In a moment
after I awoke, I was conscious that I had been lately a victim to “the
rosy god,” and that I was now, in Irish parlance, “just in the very
centre of a hobble.” Dipping my face beneath the counterpane, I murmured
in a growling voice--“The lights! the lights! my head, my head!”

“Ruth,” said the elder female, “remove the candles. Samuel! my son, what
meaneth this? Art thou fallen?”

“Yes,” I groaned; “I had a heavy fall, indeed.”

“Ah! Samuel--would that that groan were the groan of sin, and not of
suffering; and that thy conscience rather than thy stomach were moved.
Speak! How did the enemy overtake thee? Where did he enclose thee in his
net?”

I dipped my head beneath the bed coverings, and, in a husky voice,
muttered--“The barracks in George’s-street.”

“Mercy on us!--Ruth--Rachel. It is the large brick building in which
abide godless men in scarlet. And how, Samuel, did the evil one achieve
thy fall?”

“One said I was floored by a charlie, and another left it upon a clip
from a blackthorn.”

“No, no, Samuel; I ask the carnal means. Was it by that soul-destroying
liquor, wine, or was it by worse?”

“Worse, worse,” I mumbled in reply.

“Oh dear!” ejaculated Mrs. Pryme.

“Ah me!” responded the gentle Rachel.

“Alack, alack! continued the conscientious Ruth.

“Name the snare of the tempter.”

“I’m too bashful,” I grumbled.

Nay, Samuel. Close thy ears, Ruth--avert thy head, Rachel; he would not
have his shame revealed. Was it, Samuel, a dancing Herodias--or some
Delilah, with bewitching looks!

“No, no; worse, worse.”

“Mercy on us! Speak, and name the fatal cause.”

“Punch--punch!--Whisky new--the kettle not boiled--and too much acid,”
 came grumbling from below the blankets.

“How fearful is inebriety! Thy very voice, my son, is changed. But
verily, as it is thy first offending, I will pardon it, and give thee
the kiss of peace.”

So saying, she popped her head through the curtains, and bestowed upon
me the reconciliatory _accolade_. After thus sealing my pardon, the
worthy gentlewoman sailed out of the apartment, accompanied by her
handmaid Ruth.

I felt myself in a curious position,--located in a strange house,
ensconced in a comfortable bed from which the right owner would
presently eject me, and watched by a lovely girl of eighteen, on whose
sweet countenance the very imprint of innocence was stamped. And what
was I?--A regular impostor. Well, what was to be done? Should I admit
my villany, and be bundled off direct to Newgate, under a charge of
burglary, or some more felonious intentions? And to whom was this
interesting confession to be made? The old dame?--no, faith--there no
kiss of peace would ratify my pardon. The young one?--pshaw, the very
idea that she had been seated beside the bed of a man in scarlet would
annihilate Rachel on the spot. No doubt a discovery must ensue--but,
like every thing a man dislikes, I determined to procrastinate it and
trust to fortune.

“Samuel,” said the sweetest voice imaginable, “does thy head ache? Let
me apply this essence and passing her hand gently through the curtains,
she bathed my temples with _eau-de-Cologne_. My arm was outside the
coverlid,--she took my hand in hers and pressed it affectionately.

“How feverish!” she murmured. “But here comes Ruth, with something our
mother sends, which will allay thy thirst.”

The stiff-backed abigail deposited the liquid on a table.

“Come, Rachel, sleep will restore thy brother.” Then addressing
herself to me, “Farewell, friend Samuel,--may this be the last of thy
foolishness and after this flattering admonition, she exited from the
chamber, stiff as a ramrod.

“Farewell, dear brother,”--and Rachel again clasped my hand in
hers,--“good night! I trust sincerely I shall find thee better in the
morning.”

“Stop!” I mumbled. “Rachel, _dear,--dear_ Rachel!”

“What, my brother?”

“The--the--the kiss of peace!” I managed to stammer from beneath the bed
coverings.

“Willingly, dear Samuel;” and lips, “full, rosy, ripe,” were artlessly
pressed to mine, while a prayer, pure from a guileless heart, implored
pardon for the past, and a blessing for the future. The next moment the
door was softly closed, and I “left alone in my glory.”

Would it be credited that under such circumstances had the audacity
to sleep? But sleep I did--and when I slept, my head was on a peaceful
pillow, and the kiss of innocence still fragrant on my lips.



CHAPTER VIII. LIFE IN A WATCH-HOUSE


“I’ll ne’er be drunk while I live again but in honest, civil, godly
company, for this trick; if I be drunk, I’ll be drunk with those that
have the fear of God, and not with drunken knaves.”--Merry Wives of
Windsor.

Reader,--will you make a clean breast and answer a simple
question?--Were you ever regularly cribbed, and deposited for safe
keeping in a watch-house? Don’t confound places, and suppose for a
moment, that I mean those _réfugia peccatorum_, now-a-days called
“station-houses.” The two are no more alike, than the London Tavern is
to a boiled-beef shop. If you reply to my inquiry in the negative, and
art young, I can only say the mischief is irremediable--and for the best
reason, because watch-houses have been defunct these twenty years.
If, like myself, you are a gentleman of a certain age, and also plead
ignorance--you have nothing left but to mourn over misspent time, and
lament a misfortune, for which no one is blamable but yourself.

Many a jovial hour have I passed in St. Andrews--I don’t mean the Scotch
College so called, but the Dublin watch-house of pleasant memory; and I
have also occasionally favoured with a visit other establishments of
the same kind, where belated gentlemen were sure to find the door open
without having the trouble of knocking twice:--but who, except “upon
compulsion,” would enter a modern bastile? The place is in everything an
abomination, and so republican wherewithal in its regulations, as to
be fitted only for the reception of the _canaille_. There, captains and
cabmen are placed upon a par. “Look to him, jailer,” is the only order
that is attended to; and whether you belong to swells West-end, or the
swell-mob, matters not a brass button. The thing’s similar all through,
and you undergo the same process of purification. You are cooped up all
night, thermometer in summer 110, in winter down to zero--and bundled
before the Beak in the morning all “unkempt” and with “marvellous foul
linen.” Of course, you are not flat enough to give your real name. If
you are a tradesman, why you wish to “come it genteel,” and pass for the
time being as Mr. Ferdinand Fitzsnooks. If, on the contrary, you happen
to be a “top-sawyer,” you descend from your “high estate,” and--though
“Baron or Squire, or Knight of the Shire,”--adopt “for the nonce,” the
simpler appellation of Smith, Brown, or Robinson. Well, in due course,
you are favoured with a hearing--the charges are proven, and the Worthy
Magistrate--he’s always so termed in the Sunday papers--runs you up a
bill as glibly as the waitress of an eating-house. Imprimis, you are
scored down five shillings for being drunk--forty ditto, for assault and
battery--as much more for jingling some Doctor’s bell--and the tale ends
in your five-pound flimsy having got a regular sickener. You fork the
money out, and prepare directly to make your exit; but hold, you are not
safe yet--wait for the parting admonition. Beaky having first premised
that your name is neither Smith, Brown, nor Robinson, is sorry to assure
you that he considers you a disgrace to your family and order--and,
after a flattering panegyric upon his own nice sense of what is due to
public justice, he concludes with a positive assurance, that if you ever
renew your acquaintance with him, so far from standing “betwixt the wind
and your nobility,” you shall have the benefit of a month’s exercise
on the tread-mill, “and no mistake.” And now comes Mr. Ferdinand
Fitzsnooks. He stands forward--but how different is his bearing from
that of the pseudo Mr. Smith, who has just jumped into a cab in waiting,
with coronets emblazoned on the panels. He does not listen to the
charges with inattention; nor does he venture to meet the magistrate’s
eye, as it occasionally is turned to that part of the court where he
stands. He has been silly and noisy and riotous--but he has done no
mischief. He is found guilty, and fined three pounds. The pale girl
behind him--she with the infant in her arms--begins to sob, while
Ferdinand appeals to the bench, and on the plea of a first offence,
solicits a remission of the penalty. But Rhadamanthus is not sterner
than his judge. Pshaw! worthy sir, let him go! he is but a drudge in a
lawyer’s office--his master is strict--he will lose his situation, and
what will that pale girl and her infant do? No; the upright magistrate
is obdurate--and the slang of what “justice requires” is his only
answer to the prisoner’s appeal. The jailer, a filthy, dogged, drunken,
red-nosed brute, taps him on the shoulder and inquires, in pickpocket
parlance, whether he can “stump the rowdy?” A melancholy shake of
the head tells his inability, and he is committed for--what?--want of
money--to the House of Correction for a fortnight. Worthy sir--pause
before you send that silly young man to prison. Look at his wife--she
is barely eighteen--young, pretty, and inexperienced. She has not
a relative in London,--and steeped in poverty and surrounded with
temptations, will you rob her for fourteen days of her protector,
because he cannot command three sovereigns? True, you fined Mr. Smith
two pounds more, and also talked something about the tread-mill--but,
for your very life, you would not have ventured to commit him. I could
show you Mr. Smith’s name in the peerage--ay, and high up, too; and
he could have as easily given you a cheque upon his bankers for five
thousand, as he handed you the penalty of five pounds. And this is
law!--England, England! you call yourself the land of freedom!

But what has all this to do with your story? Reader,--I beg your pardon,
and thank you for the hint.

The hatch of St. Andrew’s watch-house--a sort of outer-door, only
breast-high, but furnished with a row of iron spikes which would
bid defiance to Harlequin himself--was closed--and, a very unusual
occurrence at that late hour, all within the house of durance was quiet.
Peter Bradley, the captain of the hold, was seated on a wooden bench
in his accustomed corner, with a little table before him, on which was
awfully displayed the fatal book in which delinquencies were chronicled,
flanked by a pewter vessel full charged with Sweetman’s XXX. Three
guardians of the night, who formed the jail-guard, sate round the fire
“drawing” a comfortable _dudheine_, and casting, from time to time,
a longing eye at the battered quart deposited beside the elbow of the
commander. There were other occupants--for occasionally melancholy
faces peeped through a grated wicket in the door, which separated the
dungeon-keep from the guard-room,--and from their place of captivity
looked anxiously at the great man seated in the corner, whose nod could
loose or bind. Indeed the task of watch and ward was easy, for the
prisoners were comprised in one solitary group, namely--a drunken
sailor, a fiddler with one leg, and “a maid who loved the moon,” brought
there for fading through a shop-window and making _smithereens_
of divers panes of glass, for which, as, from a lack of the king’s
currency, they could make no proper compensation, they were safely
incarcerated.

Peter Bradley nibbed his pen, laid down his spectacles, gave a heavy
sigh, and then, as if to kill care, took a long and steady pull from
the pewter. “Business,” said the commander, addressing himself to
his myrmidons at the fire, “business is gone to the dogs.’Tis twelve
o’clock!” he continued, as the wooden time-piece above his head
announced the “witching hour.”

“Twelve o’clock! and not a sowl picked up but devils who couldn’t
muster, if it saved them from the gallows, turnpike-money for a
walking-stick. Out with them varmint in the black-hole, Barney Casey;
what use in shuttin’ up craters without a _scultogue_, * and lumbrin the
place wid people who can’t stand a pint of beer.”

     * “_Seultogue_, is a monetary phrase, used generally in the
     kingdom of Connaught. Its metallic value not being clearly
     ascertained, I have doubts whether it would be a legal
     tender.”--_Extract from an opinion of Mr. Richard Dunn, the
     eminent barrister_.

Barney, obedient to the orders of his chief, made a general jail
delivery. The nymph as she glided out, acknowledged the favour conferred
by dropping a graceful curtsey as she passed “the seat of justice;” the
fiddler as he hopped across the floor, dutifully ducked his head, and
bade a “good night to his Honour;” but the sailor, reckless of the
merciful interposition which had restored him to liberty, and freed him
from all liability incurred for broken glass, consigned all and every in
the watch-house to a climate much hotter than the West Indies, for which
ungrateful and irreligious proceeding, he received a momentum in the
door-way which enabled him, “in double quick,” to reach the opposite
curb-stone. The hatch was thereupon safely locked, and Mr. Bradley again
addressed his brother officials:--

“There’s more beside that’s vexin’ me, boys. I hear they are goin’ to
overhawl us--and sorra a turn, good or bad, that happens through the
night, but must be entered in black and white. Feaks! I thought myself
yesterday, that something was in the wind, for the magistrates were as
short with me as cat’s-hair; and that divil, Artur French, was nearly
hobblin’ me fairly. ‘Who’s this Artur French?’ says Mr. Jones.

“‘Ah, then,’ says I, ‘it’s himself that’s a raal gintleman. Sure, wasn’t
his father Ulick French, of French Hall, and his mother’ ------ --------
‘Don’t bother me about his mother,’ says he, mad as a hatter; ‘Who
is he? what is he?’--‘A collegian, plase ye’r honour.’--‘Ay, and a
promising disciple he is, if I may judge,’ says he, ‘by your watch-book.
Why, he’s wid ye, Mr. Bradley, three times a week. The next time he pays
you a visit, I beg you’ll be good enough to introduce him to me.’”

“Troth; and ye won’t,” observed one of the guard of honour at the
fire-place, as he leisurely recharged his _dudheine_; “he’ll blarney
ye, and git away wid the ould story of both ye’r mothers being Roscommon
women.”

“I wish the Lord would send in a dacent customer, any how, that could
pay his way,” said a second charlie: “if iver I was drier in my life!”

“Feaks!” observed the third, “and it’s myself that has got a cobweb in
my throat. But, whisht! boys--look out there! Who knows our luck yet?”

Up jumped one of the smokers, and craning his head over the hatch,
communicated the gratifying intelligence that the patrol were coming up
with divers delinquents in close custody. The charlies pocketed their
pipes, Mr. Bradley mounted his spectacles, while the shuffling of feet,
and an uproar of many voices talking and arguing at their highest
pitch, joined to the maudlin singing of a noisy drunkard, announced the
immediate approach of a detachment of a body whom poor Burns dreaded and
denounced--

               “That black banditti--the city guard.”

“Here they come,” said the charlie at the hatch: “one man in red, either
dead or dead drunk--three shy-looking scamps behind him--and a regular
swell in front. Blessed Bridget! is it him? Be the hole in my coat,
that’s yourself, Artur French, if ye’r ovir ground. May the davil
welcome you, _astore!_

“Then if it is,” said the irritated commandant, “Artur French, you’ll
have a new acquaintance in the morning, before ten o’clock.”

There was no mistake in the identity. A young man dressed in the extreme
of fashion pushed through the watchmen with an air of authority, and
hopping on the bench where Mr. Bradley had hitherto reposed his person
in solitary dignity, seated himself, unbidden, beside this dreaded
functionary, and--

               “for no inviting did he wait,”

but seized the sacred pewter, and drained the contents to the very
bottom.

“How thirsty,” said he, “a shindy makes one! Not bad stuff that, Peter.
But, governor, what’s the matter?”--and Mr. French looked steadily in
Mr. Bradley’s face, which had assumed what was intended to pass for an
expression of dignified displeasure. “If you’re not as sour as a Seville
orange to-night! Come, come, old chap, tip us your daddle--give us a
grip of your bunch of fives!”

But Mr. Bradley held back his hand. “I tell ye what, Artur--don’t be
after vexin’ me--I’m in bad temper to-night--and I’ll stand no gammon.”

“Stand your granny!” returned the young _roué_; “I’ll tell ye what I’ll
stand--and that’s more to the purpose. Broiled kidneys, black cockles,
a gallon of heavy wet, and as much punch as you can swim in. Off with ye
to Nosey McKeown’s,”--and crumpling up a pound note, he pitched it into
a watchman’s face,--“See that all comes in hot; and take care that his
daughter Sibby brews the punch. Now, Peter, try and look pleasant. An’t
I better to you than a bad stepson?”--and he punched the commander’s
ribs unceremoniously.

“Arrah--Artur, have done, will ye? What the divil druv ye here the
night, good or bad?” asked the commandant.

“Well, I fancy you have named the gentleman that did it.”

“I say, what brought ye here?”

“Half a score of your scoundrels, Peter. I fell over that cursed fellow
in the red jacket sleeping on the guard bed--and before I could get
fairly on my pins, these villains had me fast.”

“Well, there’s nothing else for it--you must go before Mr. Jones.”

“Mr. Jones may go to Bath; but before Mr. Jones I won’t go.”

“I can’t screen ye longer,” exclaimed the governor.

“Screen me!” exclaimed the prisoner; “why what a pother you make about a
little trifling civility.”

“Trifling civility!” exclaimed’ the astonished constable: “Oh, murder,
murder! there’s nothing like ungratitude. Trifling civility! Och, Artur
French--I have done wid ye. When you were cotched in the garret, drinkin
taa with Mr. Abbot’s maid, who got ye off, Artur? When the sawyer’s arm
was broke in the _roohawn_ at Pie-corner, who got the tinker’s wife
to prove your alabay, and sware she met ye wid Kitty Flanigan, in Mud
Island? When--”

“Arrah, stop man: what’s the use of raking up old yarns? Peter, I always
said you were a decent cove--but they swear you’re doting lately, and
that you’ll never stop till ye turn Methodist. Only for the tender
regard I have for yourself, I would give up your shop altogether, and
take my custom across the water to Mary’s watchhouse. But I can’t forget
old friendship--the more so, when I remember that your mother and mine
were both born in Roscommon.”

A horse-laugh was heard from the fire-place.

“Arrah, have done wid your blarney,” said the commander, testily, “and
nivir mind my mother. What charge is again ye, the night?”

“Nothing--a mere trifle; I was endeavouring to make peace.” returned Mr.
French, with unblushing effrontery.

“Mighty like a whale!” observed the commander, in a side whisper. “I
charge him wid a felonious assault!” exclaimed a voice from behind the
door.

“Step forward, young man.” And the complainant placed himself in front
of Mr. Bradley’s table.

“What’s ye’r charge?” inquired the judge. “What have ye to say agin this
respectable young gentleman, who was strivin’ to bring about pace and
harmony?”

“Pace and harmony!” exclaimed the complainant; “he was the worst of the
whole lot, barrin’ the quaker. There wouldn’t have been a blow, but for
the two of them; and the quaker--”

“The quaker’s not before this court,” said Mr. Bradley, with great
dignity: and yet Mr. Bradley told a fib; for the identical Quaker was
lying sound asleep upon the guard bed. “What charge do you make, young
man?”

“Why that Mr. French, as you call him, split my ear with a black thorn.”

“Oh! you villain!” exclaimed the accused. “Now, Peter, the fellow’s
on his oath. Peter, I leave it to you. On the nick of your sowl, as an
honest man, don’t I always fight with a sapling?”

“He does, in troth!” responded three charlies in a breath.

“Now, Peter, what do you say to that? Wouldn’t that make a man’s hair
stand an end?”

“‘Pon my conscience,” observed Mr. Bradley, “I’m thunderstruck--young
man, what’s ye’r name?”

“Sniggs,” said the complainant.

“What are ye?”

“A tailor, to trade,” replied the accuser.

“Then, Sniggs,” returned Mr. Bradley, “the least I can do is to
transport ye.”

“Transport me!” exclaimed the astonished tailor: “Arrah, for what? Is it
for having my ear split?”

“Hold your tongue; I see, though young, ye’r a hardened offender. Have
ye no conscience,1 man? Oh, murder! to try and sware away the life of an
innicint gintleman!--Is your mother livin’?”

“No,” replied Mr. Sniggs, not exactly comprehending the drift of Mr.
Bradley’s examination.

“Have you sister, or brother?”

“Nather,” returned the quondam accuser; but now, as it would appear, by
some freak of fortune transmuted into the accused.

“Have ye no relashins, good nor bad, ye unfortunit divil?”

“I have,” replied the artist, “a third cousin, a well-behaved girl she
is, and greatly respected by her mistress, who’s married to a tanner in
the Liberty.”

“Well,” said Peter graciously, “on account of that well-behaved girl,
your third cousin, I’ll show mercy to you this time. Turn him out. Go
home and repent, Sniggs: God forgive ye! that’s all I have to say. Be
off wid ye.”

“Arrah, blur and nouns!” ejaculated the disappointed tailor, “and is
that all the satisfaction I’m to get for having my ear slit like a
swallow’s tail?”

“Out with him, I say. Wait till I ketch ye here agen, Sniggs. Be this
book,” (and Peter flourished the empty pewter-pot) “that well-behaved
girl, your third cousin that lives wid the tanner, won’t get you off the
second time. I wish the drink was come. I’m grately fatigued givin’ good
advice--it always laves me dry as a whistle. But what’s to be done wid
the chap in the corner?”

“There’s no use spakin’ to him now,” returned a watchman; “he’s blind
drunk, and fast asleep into the bargain.”

“Did he do much damage?”

“Not he,” returned Mr. French; “poor divil! he couldn’t stand, let alone
strike. At the commencement of the row he was knocked down like a
nine-pin, and I wonder he was not trodden to death. Send him home,
Peter ‘pon my life, it’s dangerous to keep him here.”

“Are ye joking, Artur?”

“No, honour bright, Peter. Look at his buttons, one of ye. What’s the
number of his regiment?”

“The twenty-first.”

“Away with him to George’s-street.”

“Arrah, and upon my conscience, ourselves ought to know the road purty
well. God’s blessin’ attind the Kilkinnys! it was a plasure to do bisnis
wid them;--four or five to be carried home, reglar, at two shillins a
head, and no cobblin’ about the money afterwards. The sergeant of the
guard tallied them as they eame in, and it was only to bring the score
to the quarter-master, and down came the brads in the mornin’. But who’s
to pay for this chap?”

“I,” said the wild collegian, as he tossed a piece of money to the
speaker. “It’s only what one gentleman should do for another, when he’s
too drunk to be able to do it for himself. But here comes supper. I
wonder what became of the quaker. Ah, Peter! he _was_ a trump--and such
a hitter! I’ll respect a quaker while I live. Give me a pull of ‘the
heavy,’ and let us have the cockles while they are hot.”

While Mr. Bradley, with his young and amiable friend, proceeded to
discuss their supper, a couple of watchmen lifted the unfortunate quaker
off the guard-bed. The movement roused him; but it was soon evident that
the late symposium was still uppermost in his brain.

“Come along,” said the charlie; “step out like a man; we’re bringin’ you
home.”

The remark elicited a drunken effort to be melodious--and Mr Pryme sang,
or strove to sing, “We won’t go home till morning.”

“The divil a here ye’ll stay then,” responded his supporters.

“Wine--more wine.--‘Wine cures the gout,’” returned the quaker.

“If it does, sorra touch you’ll have of the disorder for a month of
Sundays. Come along wid him.”

The quaker’s head was still ringing with drunken madrigals, and he
proceeded to chaunt “Old King Cole.”

“Arrah, don’t bother us wid King Cole; but try and put the feet aninder
ye. We’ll bring ye to George’s-street.”

“No,” no muttered the Quaker; “I’ll go home to the Merchants’ Quay.”

“Divil a sich an umproper place ye’ll go near. Haven’t ye been enough
on the _ran-tan_ already the night?” and away they toddled towards the
barracks, which destination was safely reached, and the body of the
pseudo lieutenant delivered to the guard, with an intimation on the part
of the watchmen, that on the morrow particular inquiries should be made
touching the general health of the invalid.

“This must be the officer that joined last week,” said the sergeant.
“Go to his room and find his servant; and first put a knapsack under
his head, and take his stock off. To do him justice, I never saw a more
drunken gentleman.”

When John Crawford was awakened, and had made a personal inspection, to
the utter surprise of the main guard, “pioneers and all,” he repudiated
the sleeping gentleman, and satisfactorily illustrated the old adage,
that the cowl no more constitutes a monk, than a red jacket makes the
soldier. Honest John’s first care was to secure his master’s uniform
from further damage, which he contrived to effect by the substitution of
a shooting jacket; and then, _nemine contradicente_, it was agreed,
that drunken men should be permitted to sleep themselves sober; and that
accordingly, the unhappy puritan should be left in undisturbed repose.

Morning dawned through the guard-room lattice before Samuel Pryme awoke.
If there be a feeling more horrible than another, it is the return of
reason to a drunken neophyte when he wakens after his first debauch. The
quaker stared wildly round him; there were twenty men in the room--all
strangers to him; some sleeping on the wooden bench on which he lay,
and others sitting smoking by the fire. His head was giddy--his brain
wandered--he was tortured with a burning thirst. Where was he? Suddenly
his pale cheeks reddened with shame; he felt like a Hindu who has lost
caste; and, burying his face between his hands, in a smothered voice
that bespoke a consciousness of abasement, while tears fell fast, he
faintly murmured, “Where am I?”

The sergeant laid aside a book which he had been reading in the
window--and, though a rough soldier, he felt sincerely for the penitent.

“Don’t take on so,” said he. “Young folk will be giddy. Bless your
heart--there’s none of our gentlemen that arn’t wildish now and then.
I wish we could get you something to drink; but the canteen is closed.
Would you like to go home? I dare not spare a man; but I’ll send for Mr.
O’Halloran’s servant, and pass him through the gate.” The quaker thanked
him, but declined assistance; asked for and received a draught of water
“cold from the pump,” the sentry unclosed the wicket, and Samuel Pryme
returned to his father’s house, “a sadder, if not a wiser man,” than
when he quitted it the preceding evening.

The clock struck five. Peter Bradley was snoring on his guard-bed, and
Mr. French taking his ease at an unpretending hostelrie in Smock Alley,
not generally known in the fashionable world, but, patronized by the
pleasant part of the community, and ycleped “The Hole in the Wall.” I
felt as much at home in my dormitory as if I had been legal proprietor
of it, while he, unhappy youth! reconnoitred the house from the
outside, with all the suspicion of a man who meditates a burglary on the
premises. In their respective chambers, Mrs. Pryme and her handmaiden
had owned the influence of the drowsy god, and Rachel slumbered with as
safe a conscience as if she had never kissed a fusileer. There is an old
saw, gentle reader, which insinuates that it is prudent occasionally to
allow “sleeping dogs to lie.” We’ll adopt it “for the nonce”--inquire
what had befallen that _alter ego_, my foster-brother, and, with your
gracious permission, follow through the next chapter, the fortunes of
Mark Antony O’Toole.



CHAPTER IX. THE COCK AND PUNCH-BOWL



               “_Rosalind_. Here’s a young maid with travel much oppress’d,

                   And faints for succour.”

               “_Corin._ I pity her,

               And wish for her sake, more than for my own,

               My fortunes were more able to relieve her.”

                        As You Like It.

Although I departed from Kilcullen at cockcrow, Mark Antony O’Toole,
having borrowed some hours from the night, had taken the road before me.
Apprehensive of the desperate lengths to which deserted dairy-maids may
be driven, the fosterer moved off without beat of drum; and the better
to evade pursuit, had Kitty Dwyer attempted to recover the truant, and
“vi et armis” repair her reputation by a sanatory visit to the altar,
Mr. O’Toole prudently declined marching by the mail-coach road, and
masked his retreat with an ability that puzzled the priest himself. But
as it turned out, Mark Antony’s caution was unnecessary. Kitty bore her
bereavement like a Christian woman,--hinted that the sea held as good
fish as ever had been taken yet,--and, from divers hymeneal overtures,
blessed God that she had no grounds for despondency. Aiding and
assisting sound philosophy with “rum and true religion,” she got
over her disappointment--within a fortnight, the false one was
forgotten--Miss Dwyer “open to an offer”--and ready to commit matrimony
at sight.

Two days before his evasion from my father’s house, Mark Antony
had privately despatched his kit by a Dublin carrier, and the few
necessaries required for his journey were formed into a bundle of small
dimensions, and suspended from the extremity of a well-tried shillelagh.
Dressed in a smart morning suit that erstwhile had called me owner,
the fosterer had more than once examined his outer man with evident
satisfaction. His step was light, his breast without a care, and
his pocket heavier than it had ever been before--he went on his way
rejoicing--and when evening began to close, Mark Antony had placed
five-and-twenty miles between him and that ill-requited fair one, whose
only crime was loving “not wisely but too well.”

Half a century ago Irish engineers, in Yankee parlance, were “reg’lar
go-a-heads.” Neither condescending to turn to the right or to the left,
they crossed the country “as God had made it,” took the bull by the
horns, and scorning to steal round a hill they boldly breasted it. The
fosterer had been escalading one of these heights for the last hour,
and, on topping its ridge, overtook two wayfarers of opposite sexes
who had preceded him in the ascent, and were now resting after its
achievement.

Like himself, the travellers were not incommoded with heavy baggage, for
what appeared to be their united kit was even smaller than his own, and
was comprehended within the compass of a faded silk-handkerchief. The
man was stout, undersized, and looked full thirty--the girl seemed
scarcely nineteen--and from their dress and general appearance, the
fosterer was sorely at a loss to decide to what grade of society the
strangers appertained.

The male traveller’s dingy black frock had once seen better days, and
his buff vest and nankeen unmentionables would have been all the better
for a visit to the laundress. His hat was of that order denominated
“shocking bad,” while it seemed doubtful that his boots would bear him
to the end of his journey, and if they did, it would be by an expiring
effort with which their history must close. His complexion was sallow,
his features large, his whiskers black and bushy, he looked a dirty Jew;
and certainly, “take him for all in all,” he was not the sort of person
whom a gentleman would borrow money to entertain.

In every particular the girl was unlike her companion. She was pretty,
tall, fair, and well formed. Her costume--a collection of faded
finery--was tolerably clean; and, poverty apart, her air and address
were those of one who had once moved in a different sphere, and,
to judge by appearances, of one also, upon whom fortune had frowned
severely.

On both sides some civilities were interchanged; and to an inquiry from
the fosterer as to where entertainment and lodgings could be found, the
man pointed out a solitary house at the distance of a mile, intimating
that it was a carman’s stage held by travellers in high estimation. It
was moreover kept by a buxom widow, and denominated.

[Illustration: 0090]

The ice once broken, the dark gentleman became very communicative.

“If you want good fare, prime whisky, and a sound snooze, the Cock’s
your place, sir. The landlady’s a trump, parlour snug, and not a flea if
you searched the beds for a fortnight. Come, my love,” and he addressed
his fair companion, who frowned an angry answer to this term of
endearment,--“you and I are for the same crib, and we’ll give this
gentleman our company.”

The stroller spoke with the volubility of an auctioneer, and thus
continued:--

“This lady, sir, is my sister,--Miss Julia Montague. We are both
professional,--known extensively in the dramatic world,--I, in the
comic line--and Julia, in the musical. Bad spec at Granard--manager
an ass,--played tragedy to please his swivel-eyed wife,--she
Desdemona!--she be forked,--house didn’t draw money to pay
candles,--manager, calls himself Mortimer, right name Malowney, bolted
with any blunt there was--left the company without a _tanner_, and
obliged July and myself to travel here _tandem_,--one leg before the
other. Better luck again,--we’ll both be on the boards of Crow-street
before Christmas--eh, July?”

When the Jew had named the connexion between himself and the wandering
melodist, Mark Antony’s incredulous stare was returned by a look
of contempt directed by the lady at her companion, which disclaimed
relationship altogether; and a trifling incident ended the attempt at
imposition.

A knot of the handkerchief which secured the joint-stock property of
the comedian and the _cantatrice_ had slipped unperceived, and when the
accident was discovered, portions of the wardrobe were seen upon the
road a hundred yards in the rear. Mr. Montague started off to recover
the missing valuables, and Julia and Mark Antony were thus for a brief
space left together. The opportunity was not neglected. The girl, after
a searching glance behind, suddenly addressed the fosterer.

“Stranger, beware!--you know not the scoundrel who has been speaking to
you. He’s all a lie,--a Jew, a sleight-of-hand man, a pickpocket, and
a pugilist. Avoid him, or he’ll cheat you first, and bully you
afterwards.” (A smile from Mark Antony intimated that on the latter
score he was incredulous altogether.) “He followed me without my
knowledge, and joined me on the road. Will you protect me to the next
town? I would not trust myself another hour in that villain’s company.
But soft--he comes,”--and, with ready tact, she changed the conversation
to some common-place occurrence as the Jew hurried up and joined them.
A few minutes more brought them to the Cock and Punch-bowl, which proved
to be a low and straggling edifice situated at the junction of four
roads.

As Mark Antony had rapidly adopted the prejudices of his fair monitress,
he now regarded the Israelite with feelings of aversion and contempt.
To fear he was a stranger--and the very knowledge that the Jew was
a regular prize-fighter, probably occasioned on his part a more
unequivocal display of personal antipathy. On entering the hostlerie,
Mr. O’Toole asked for and obtained a private apartment--ordered supper
for the Prima Donna and himself--intimating plainly to the fat landlady,
that notwithstanding his celebrity in the comic line, Mr. Montague
was not to be a member of the mess--and that, accordingly, the Jew
and himself must remain what they had hitherto been--strangers to each
other.

It was now twilight. The girl, but not without some difficulty, had
recovered her bundle from the sleight-of-hand man, who, after several
audacious attempts at a renewal of acquaintance, which on the part of
the fosterer were as decidedly repulsed, was obliged to put up with a
seat beside the kitchen fire, and there enjoy the tantalizing prospect
of watching the progress of a supper at which his presence had been
interdicted.

A noise outside attracted the fair vocalist and her protector to the
window. It was a recruiting party _en route_ to a neighbouring pattern,
to pick up “food for powder.” There, a festival was held, where fame
spoke truly, love and penance, whisky and broken heads, were all so
agreeably united, that the man who could not be happy at Cahirmore must
be suited only for “stratagems and treasons,” and a personage upon whom
pleasure would be thrown away.

The charge of foot which halted at the Cock and Punchbowl consisted of a
sergeant, whose waist the sash found difficulty to encompass--a brace
of privates too dirty for the ranks, but who crimped inimitably--a boy,
taller than his drum by the head--and a lean and sallow fifer who had
counted forty summers; these with a couple of recruits completed this
“gallant gathering.” On the shoulders of the stouter, the sergeant’s
pack was strapped; while to the honourable keeping of the other, the
commander’s bilboa was entrusted--a weapon, whose unstained steel had
never yet been “incarnadined” with human gore. The soldiers presently
ensconced themselves in a room beneath--Mrs. O’Leary paraded the
expected supper--Mark Antony and his fair friend sealed themselves and
commenced active operations, the fosterer eating as men eat who have
walked thirty miles of Irish measurement, and the vocalist, as if to
her, poor girl! for many a day a comfortable meal had been unknown.

In the mean time the rejected Israelite bade fair to sup with Duke
Humphry. Admission to the state apartment was hopeless, for from thence
he had been peremptorily excluded. In the kitchen, divers hints had been
dropped that his absence would be preferable to his company; and as
Jews don’t list, the soldiers repudiated him altogether. Deeply incensed
against the wandering actress for deserting him in this “his hour of
need,” and stung to the quick by the firmness and contempt with which
Mark Antony repelled all advances towards intimacy, he secretly vowed
vengeance against both. Luckily, a Hebrew’s resources procured him an
unexpected supply. Some countrymen, returning from market, stopped to
refresh themselves by the way. The Jew amused them with his tricks,
and in return _thimble-rigged_ as many sixpences from the farmers, as
enabled him to obtain a lodging in the Cock and Punchbowl for the night.

When supper was removed, and Mrs. O’Leary had produced the necessary
materials for finishing an evening comfortably, at the pressing
invitation of her guest she sat down with the youthful travellers. From
the first, Mark Antony had found favour in the widow’s sight, and a more
extended acquaintance confirmed the early impression. Towards the girl
Mrs. O’Leary evinced a kindly feeling, and proposed that as the house
was crowded, the wayfarer should share her bed--an offer, by Miss Julia
Montague, gratefully accepted.

The buxom widow was a fair specimen of an Irish hostess; and had her
eyes not been as dark as a blackberry and her complexion a gipsy brown,
the old alliteration, “fat, fair, and forty,” would have described
her to a hair. Her comely countenance was rich with archness and
_espieglerie_--and in Jack Falstaff’s vein a lover might have safely
wooed her--You are merry, so am I. Ha, ha--then there’s more sympathy!
“In vino veritas.” Hang that musty proverb! What’s wine to whisky
punch? That is, indeed, the opener of the human heart. Love may be
eschewed--but who is proof against _poteeine_? A hot tumbler would undo
the caution of a Jesuit, and make a Trappist speak out like a man. Mrs.
O’Leary felt the genial influence of _mountain dew_ agreeably diluted;
and in the brief colloquy that ensued, there were but few circumstances
connected with the Cock and Punchbowl which remained a secret to the
fosterer and his wandering friend.

“Mr. O’Toole--there’s an O before your name, I b’lieve--you’re kindly
welcome. Here’s ye’r health--and bad luck to ye if I wish it. As I told
ye, Mr. O’Leary--Lord rest his sowl!--was an ailin’ man, and might have
been my father. Well, after the cold Christmas he went like snow off a
ditch. The Lord sees he had the best of tratement in his last days, wid
a grand wake and a ginteel funeral. I’m a lone woman three years come
Patrick mass--and och! I have had my trouble. A woman’s helpless, Mr.
O’Toole, and that ye know. Well--blessed be God! I’m well to do--owe
nobody a rap--and my carakter’s at the defiance of the parish. But
och! I’m lonely after all; and a pushin’ woman like me requires a man’s
assistance. Not that I’m over anxious to get married; but if a young
man, discreat and well-behaved, would--”

Here a furious knocking of pewter pots upon the tables underneath
interrupted Mrs. O’Leary’s narration, and she made a hasty exit to
attend those turbulent customers, with an intimation however that
she would return anon, and make a clean breast touching her hymeneal
intentions, should “a young man, discreat and well-behaved,” present
himself.

It was quite evident from the hilarious revelry in the kitchen, that the
company below had no sin of omission, as far as drinking went, to answer
for. Indeed it was pretty apparent that they were set in for a regular
carouse. The sergeant and his comrades prudently uniting mirth with
business, had favoured the countrymen with their company, in the double
hope of enjoying a potation, scot-free--and if luck were on their side,
crimping a clod-hopper into the bargain. The antiquated fifer, on his
“ear-piercing” instrument had executed “the Groves of Blarney,” with a
variety of flourishes which elicited a thunder of applause. As to the
commander, he was affability itself--spoke of his “feats of broil,” and
recounted the numerous “battles, sieges, fortunes,” through which he had
passed, with a vividness of description that made the very hair of
the listeners stand on end. Nothing could be more glowing than the
narrative, albeit, it was apocryphal entirely; for during his peaceful
life, he, worthy man, had never witnessed a musket snapped in anger. At
the request of a gentleman, whose solitary stripe announced him to
he still on the lowest step of the ladder of preferment, the sergeant
obliged the company with a rigmarole effusion which he was pleased
to call a song; and it is only necessary to say, that the poetry and
performance were worthy of each other.


THE SERGEANT’S SONG.

               Now, brave boys, we’re bound for marchin’

               Both to Portingale and Spain;

               Drums are batin’, colours flyin’--

               And the divil a-back we’ll come again;

               So, Love, farewell!


               The colonel cries, “Boys are ye ready?”

               “We’re at your back, both firm and steady;

               Our pouches filt with balls and powther,

               And a clane firelock on each shouther.”

               Love, farewell!


               The mother cries, “Boys, do not wrong me;

               Ye wouldn’t take my daughter from me?

               If ye do, I will torment yees,

               And after death my ghost will haunt yees.”

               Love, farewell!


               Och, Judy, dear! ve’r young and tender--

               When I’m away, ye’ll not surrender;

               But hould out like an ancient Roman,

               And I’ll make you an honest woman.

               Love, farewell!


               Och, Judy! should I die in glory,

               In the papers ye’ll read my awful story

               But I’m so bother’d by your charms,

               I’d rather far die in your arms.

               Och! Love, farewell!


Great was the applause which the sergeant’s melody drew down, and, what
was probably even more satisfactory to the honest gentleman, a loud
demand arose for a fresh supply of “the raw material and the carouse was
vigorously resumed. Left to themselves, the young travellers had talked
over their meeting on the mountain, and spoke of their journey to
the neighbouring town next day where their road-companionship was to
terminate. The intended parting was not mentioned with indifference, for
the poor girl sighed heavily, her face became sad, and her eyes filled
fast. In a faction fight, where skulls were cracked like walnuts, Mark
Antony was every inch a hero--but his heart was true Milesian, and a
woman’s sorrow rendered it soft as a turnip. He took the wanderer’s hand
affectionately, kissed away the tear that trickled down her cheek, and
endeavoured to dispel her melancholy.

“Cheer up,” he said; “you have happier days before you, and youth enough
to wait for them. How can I serve you, Julia.-’ I know an empty pocket
makes a heavy heart--but we’ll share to the last shilling--” and quick
as lightning a green silk purse that I had given to the fosterer the
night we parted, was transferred from his pocket to the wanderer’s hand.
“Come. Julia,” he continued, “will I bring you home?”

The poor girl shook her head, and gratefully returned the purse.

“Take half, at least,” exclaimed Mark Antony; “there’s only five pounds
in notes, and three guineas and a half in gold. May’be it may carry ye
to your friends--and if it won’t--I’ll list, and that will make up the
difference.”

“Friends!” said the girl, bitterly; “I have no friends: I lost my mother
when an infant; and the cruel desertion of my father broke the old
soldier’s heart. Alas! I feel that I am left alone upon the earth,
without one being who would care for me.”

“A sister, by Heaven!” cried the fosterer. “Am I not also a soldier’s
orphan?”

“Why, ye thundering villain!” exclaimed Mrs. O’Leary, who had stolen
softly up stairs, and caught the Jew with his ear at the key-hole, “Off
wid ye, ye blackavised disciple. Bad luck attend ye, night an’ day,
you ugly thief! Off, I say--” and, suiting the action to the word, she
bestowed a heavy buffet upon the countenance of the Israelite that made
him in no way desirous of abiding another visitation from the widow’s
fist. “Well, dears!” said the jolly hostess as she bustled into the
room: “may’be ye were courtin’ a bit, as young people will at times--and
think of that black-muzzled ruffin lis’ning to every word ye sed! I wish
he was clane out of the house, for he has the gallows in his faee.”

“I wish, indeed,” observed the girl, “that he was gone--I dread that
man.”

“Arrah!” returned the burly widow, “don’t vex ye’rself about him: ye’r
safe wid me--the devil a toe he’ll venture to put near my room. Ye’r
tired, _avourneein_; and come away to ye’r-bed: and if you, Mr. O’Toole,
will jist step down and take an air of the fire below, I’ll make ye
a shake-down here as the house is crowded to the thatch.” Mark Antony
accordingly bade his companion a good night, and descended to the
kitchen, where, by a sort of common consent, the whole of the guests
had united themselves for a general jollification. The whisky now seemed
“uppermost,” and most of the party w’ere as it is termed in Ireland “the
worse of liquor;” but the hilarity was as yet undisturbed,

               “And all went merry as a marriage bell.”

The worthy sergeant who, like Bardolph, was “white-livered and
red-faced,” with Pistol’s qualification of having “a killing tongue
and quiet sword,” was evidently the lion of the evening; and being a
romancer of the first magnitude, no man was better suited to fascinate
a company who took delight in listening to deeds of arms. He was
graciously pleased to reply to the inquiry of a recruit, who had
expressed a strong curiosity touching the personal appearance of
Napoleon le grand. Having bolted a dose of alcohol presented to him by a
countryman, and deposited the pewter measure on the table, the commander
thus modestly continued:--

“An’ so ye would like to know what Boney’s like? Well, the divil a man
ye would meet in a day’s walk could tell you that same thing better. He
has a regular gunpowder complexion, a look that would frighten a horse,
and whiskers you could hang your hat upon. Father Abraham’s in the
corner there--and ‘pon my conscience, honest man, ye would be the better
of a barber--are but a joke to them.” And he pointed to the Jew.

“And where did you see him?” inquired a countryman.

“Where did I see him? Where--but in Agypt,” returned the commander.

“Before I was pris’ner five minutes, he sends an aidi-camp
hot-foot--well, up I comes--for there was no use, you know, resistin’.
At first he looked red-pepper at me: ‘Corp’lar Mulrooney,’ says he--and
how the dickens he med my name out, I nivir could lam--‘Mulrooney,’ says
he, ‘for once in ye’r life, tell truth, and shame the divil.--How many
thousand strong are ye?’ ‘Twenty-five thousand,’ says I, strivin’ to
dacave him. ‘Bad luck to the liars!’ says he. ‘Amen,’ says I, just
givin’ the word back to him. ‘Arrah--come,’ says he, ‘don’t be makin’ a
Judy Fitzsummon’s mother of ye’rself, but tell the truth, Mulrooney,
and I’ll make a man of ye: an’ if ye don’t’--sw’aring an oath that I now
disremimber, because it was in Frinch--‘I’ll blow the contents of
this pistol thro’ your scull,’ pulling out one with a barrel like a
blunderbuss. Well, I was rather scared; but, thinks I, there’s nothin’
like being bould. ‘Fire away,’ says I, ‘an’ put ye’r information in
ye’r pocket afterwards; for it’s all ye’ll get from me.’ Bonypart looked
bothered: ‘Be gogstay,” says he, to the aidicamp, ‘that’s cliver of the
corp’lar. Let him off,’ says he; ‘an’ if there’s a drain of spirits in
the bottle, give it to him, the crature, for the day’s hot.’ Wid that,
he pulls out a thirty-shillin’ note. ‘Divil blister the rap I have more,
or ye should have it,’ says he, shakes me dacently by the han’, and
sends me clane back. ‘Pon me soul! Boney’s not a bad man, after all.”

The sergeant’s interview with Napoleon had been listened to with great
attention; and at the production of the pistol of blunderbuss calibre,
the recruits actually turned pale. The Israelite alone exhibited
symptoms of incredulity, but what could be expected from an unbeliever?
As to Mark Antony, he laughed outright;--however, that was an effect
which some of the bloodiest exploits of the gallant sergeant frequently
produced upon his auditory, and accordingly, he, “good easy man,” passed
it by unnoticed. The symposium promised to terminate in harmony and
peace, alas! how delusory that promise proved!



CHAPTER X. FRIENDS MUST PART


“_Hostess_.--Here’s a goodly tumult!--I’ll forswear keeping house,
afore I’ll be in these tirrits and frights. So; murder, I warrant now--”
 Shakspeare.

               “ There’s a ery and a shout,

               And a deuce of a rout,

               And nobody seems to know what it’s about.”

                        Thomas Ingoldsby.

To judge from external appearances, King George the Third, of blessed
memory, never laid out money to less advantage, than when he
induced private Ulic Flyn of the gallant twenty-seventh, ycleped the
Enniskilleners, to undertake the defence of “his crown and dignity”
 for the modest consideration of twelve pounds bounty, and
thirteenpence-halfpenny a day. Although the standard then was low, how
the devil Mr. Flyn contrived to touch it, remained a mystery. Ulic
was barely five feet one, his singular proportions had driven three
sergeants to desperation, to “set him up” was declared to be an
impossibility; he was moreover, too dirty for a pioneer, and to what
military uses he might return, none could even guess.

But it was only for a season that his candle remained under a bushel.
Certes, honest Ulic, _in propriâ persona_, was no hero; to bloodshed
generally he had an invincible antipathy; and had “the imminent deadly
breach” remained unmounted until Mr. Flyn made the essay, it would have
been safe for ever. To a higher order of things his talents appertained;
his crimping was magnificent, and the wariest bog-trotter who ever
dispensed with shoes, had reason to look sharp if he foregathered with
Ulic Flyn over a noggin of whisky, and was not made “food for powder”
 afterwards. While the sergeant was narrating his interview with
Napoleon, Ulic continued in deep conference with the most intoxicated
of the countrymen, and had the unhappy bumpkin known the truth, in the
course of his life he had never been in such dangerous company before.
On one flank, Mr. Flyn waited an opportunity to enlist him, and on the
other, Mr. Montague, of comic celebrity, was experimentalizing on his
side-pocket. Both were clever in their line, but, as the result proved,
of the twain the Jew was the _abler artiste_.

More than one hint had been already given that the pleasantest company
must part; and, as a speedy movement was at hand, Mr. Flyn redoubled his
exertions to add to the defenders of the realm, and do the state some
service.

“What a life we lead!” he whispered in the countryman’s ear:

“Nothing to do from one end of the year to the other, but eat, drink,
sleep, and clean a musket!--lots of liberty!--go where you like, and--”

“Get crammed into the black-hole on your return, and be kept at
pack-drill with a log upon your leg for a fortnight,” responded the
Israelite with a grin.

Mr. Flyn directed a murderous side-look at the unbeliever, who appeared
determined to render useless all his honourable efforts to uphold the
glory of the land; but still the short gentleman continued to draw a
pleasing and veracious picture of military life.

“Our colonel’s such a trump--a gentleman every inch. He dances with
the sergeants’ wives, calls every man by his right name--Tom, Bill, or
Jerry,--and his purse is always in his fingers. ‘Ulic,’ says he to me,
as I passed him in the barrack yard last Friday, ‘go, drink my health,
ye divil, and if you get glorious, why tell the adjutant that I bid ye
do so,’ and with that he tosses me half-a-crown.”

“Lord! what a wopper!” ejaculated the Jew.

“Why he’s the very terror of the regiment,--orders a man ‘a hundred’
for sneezing on parade, and flogs regularly twice a week to give
the drummers exercise. Take my advice, young man; be off at once, or
that’ere chap will do ye brown.” So saying, he closed his left eye,
rose, and returned to the fire, under the pretence of lighting his pipe;
for having succeeded in drawing out the countryman’s money-bag while
he gave him good advice, the Jew was anxious to move from the immediate
vicinity of the prigged pocket, before the abstraction of its contents
should be discovered. The fifer immediately took the vacant seat, Mr.
Flyn became more eloquent than ever, but the unbeliever had done the
mischief effectually--the bird was scared; and after announcing that he
was “a widow’s son,” the bumpkin stoutly declared that “he would be shot
at for nobody.”

The case seemed hopeless; but Mr. Flyn was not the person to despair.
With affectionate ardour he seized the peasant’s hand, swore that from
first sight he had loved him like a brother, and consequently that they
must have a parting glass. He discovered, unfortunately, that he had no
silver; but the sergeant had enough for all, and he would trouble him to
ask him, the sergeant, for a shilling. The request was made and granted;
the polite commander instantly produced the current coin, Ulic Flyn
called for another pint, the fifer, underneath the table, slily attached
his own cockade to the dexter side of the _caubeeine_ of the “widow’s
son,” while the lance corporal tapped him playfully on the shoulder, and
hailed him for life a camarado.

Dark suspicions flashed across the peasant’s mind. What meaned this
wondrous civility? His eye caught that of the Jew--he remembered the
admonition of the Israelite--and was he “done brown” already? Up he
sprang, desired his companions to come away, and would have bade the
company “a fair good-night,” had not a gentle detainer been laid on.

“Sit down, my boy,” exclaimed the commander. “Drink like a soldier
to-night--and in the morning ye’ll have time enough to take lave of y’er
relashins.”

“Take lave of my relashins!” returned the countryman, as he made a
desperate effort to reach the door--an intention on his part which was
promptly prevented; for on one side he was pinioned by the fifer, on the
other collared by Mr. Flyn, while the commander talked something about
the articles of war, and hinted that mutiny was punishable with death.

[Illustration: 0100]

The countrymen seized the intended hero by one arm, the crimps held on
as doggedly by the other; and as both parties pulled stoutly, it might
have been supposed that they intended to partition the victim between
them. Pushes were succeeded by blows,--the _mêlée_ became general.--Mark
Antony joined the soldiers, the Jew sided with the countrymen, four
or five couples were actively engaged in the centre of the floor--and
divers on both sides, who, either from want of room or inclination
had abstained from a personal display, carried on a sort of guerilla
warfare, and, acting _en tirailleur_, kept up a lively discharge of
turfs and pewter measures, apparently with perfect indifference as to
whether the sculls their missiles might invade should prove Tyrian or
Trojan. While delivering a murderous blow at his opponent, a recruit,
with a sweep of his cudgel, brought down a shelf on which sundry
specimens of the fine arts had been deposited; and, in the very act of
deprecating hostilities, the commander received an erratic visit from
a three-legged stool, which destroyed his perpendicular and sent him
flying through a cupboard. The boy, small as he was, did not escape--he
was driven through his own drum-head; and that stirring instrument of
war was silenced most effectually.

But battles have their limit--men cannot fight for ever,

               “The hottest steed will soonest cool;-

               The fiercest day with evening closes.”

Irish rows end as quickly as they commence, and the _rookarn’n_ in the
Cock and Punch-bowl at last began to languish. Sundry who had already
figured in the fray, now cried “hold! enough!”--and others who had
saluted their mother earth still remained there recumbent, opining
that under existing circumstances, this position was the safer. Two
combatants however, still remained unsatisfied. They had sought each
other in the conflict; and now, by a sort of general consent, the floor
was abandoned by all the other belligerents, and like bulls in a
china shop, the fosterer and the Israelite were left with the arena to
themselves.

Both were influenced by a deep feeling of personal hostility. The Jew
hated (as Jews only know how to hate) because he had been rivalled and
rejected. The fosterer, more than half in love, abhorred the Israelite
for imagining aught that was injurious against the _cantatrice_ who
had elected him her knight; and further, from a pre-knowledge of Mr.
Montague’s pugilistic accomplishments, Mark Antony was dying for an
opportunity to ascertain whether his own talents in that line had not
been rather overrated, forgetting that in his own country no man is
accounted above his value--be they pugilists or prophets.

But the men were matched unequally; and consequently the conflict
was soon ended. In years the Jew was stale, and in heart a very
coward--while with length and activity, the fosterer was fresh as a
four-year-old and bold as a tiger. The “master of fence” proved not
worth “a dish of stewed prunes”--he turned out nothing but a cur, and
the desperate onslaught of the fosterer at once demolished his defensive
system. The _finale_ was sudden: in a few seconds the unbeliever
lay stretched upon the floor of the Cock and Punch-bowl, and, to all
appearance, defunct as Julius Cæsar. Heaven help him! The chances
against the circumcised sinner were desperate all through.

Mrs. O’Leary was making a radical change in her toilet when she heard
the alarm, and before she was ready for battle, the battle was over.
Down she sallied like a Bacchante. Alas! it was only to see a defeated
Israelite on the floor, and witness a demolition of property, the value
of which was, like pearls, above price.

“Oh, heavenly Antony!” she exclaimed, and clapped her hands wildly
together, “if ivir I underwint such ruination since I was a girl. A
man kilt in the house, and the image of my brother Dick that came from
Philadelphy, all in smithereens!” and she picked up fragments of plaster
of Paris which once had formed “a busto framed with every grace.”

“There’s the Queen of Sheba on the-broad of her back upon the floor, and
the divil a morsel of the Prodigal Son left, good nor bad.” She cast her
eyes doubtfully around her, “Holy Bridget!” she continued, “why the door
of the clock-case is in two halves! Murder! murder!--was ivir a lone
woman brought to sich desalashin, and all done while ye could say Jack
Robison! Arrah! what set ye a fightin’, wid plenty of liquor, and ye
singin’ like blackbirds when I left ye. May the widda’s curse fall on
them, night and day, that caused the skrimmage!” Then turning to the
fosterer, she inquired if he had been wounded in the affray, and with a
marked anxiety Mrs. O’Leary investigated the outer man of Mark Antony.
Perceiving, however, that he was personally undamaged, she continued her
inquiries as to the origin of what she called the _ruchshin_, intending
no doubt to ameree the offender heavily for the losses she had
sustained. Manifold were the causes alleged; but all, and by common
consent, laid the blame on Mr. Montague. He was a Jew, therefore no
allegation against him could be too bad. He was dead, and consequently
he could deny nothing. Accordingly, the downfal of the Queen of Sheba,
the demolition of my brother Dick, and the destruction of the Prodigal
Son, all and every were placed to the account of the defunct, and
carried in the affirmative, _neniine contradicente_.

But Mr. Montague was not dead. Like greater men, finding that the
current of popular opinion had turned against him, he decided that
nothing professional could be effected by a longer sojourn at the Cock
and Punch-bowl, and that the sooner he abdicated the better. Accordingly
while a noisy reconciliation was being effected, Mr. Montague “cut
his lucky,” the belligerents returned to the table,--in a deep “doch
a durris” all animosity was extinguished, and the whole separated as
a Christian company should part, having in due course, and after the
fashion of that pleasant country, drank, fought, committed murder, and
sworn an eternal friendship afterwards.

Morning came, and the hostlerie of Mrs. O’Leary at cock-crow was in a
bustle. The fosterer and his fair companion preparing for the road, and
the sergeant, with his charge of foot, girding up their loins to proceed
to Cahirmore. All however seemed in melancholy mood; some laying it
upon love, while others left it upon liquor. Mark Antony was regularly
bothered; and the actress, poor girl, sadly cast down at the immediate
prospect of parting from one, who had proved himself a kind and generous
protector. Nor had the jolly hostess escaped a visitation of the heart.
What, though for three years she had eschewed all overtures to revisit
the temple of Hymen, and rejected more suitors than Penelope, still the
widow was flesh and blood like other people; and satisfied that in the
person of Mark Antony O’Toole the cardinal virtues were united, she
was ready for matrimony on demand, and prepared on the first summons to
surrender the Cock and Punch-bowl--of course on honourable terms.

All these visitations were of the sentimental order; but those sustained
by the men of war were unhappily corporeal. It is true that the sergeant
had a thick skull, but what chances have skulls with cupboards? and in
the recent collision the skull of the commander was damaged grievously;
the fifer’s mouth was totally destroyed by a flush hit; each of the
recruits had been favoured with a black eye; and, even to the diminutive
drummer, none passed the ordeal unscathed.

Somebody,--I think Shenstone,--after insinuating that he had travelled
“earth’s dull round,” declares that “the warmest welcome’s in an inn.”
 Well, that may be the case; but the wayfarer cunningly passes over that
brief but painful moment when the bell is gently touched, and a
bill reluctantly requested with all the indifference a man in such
circumstances can assume. That unlucky period had arrived. The sergeant
inquired “what was to pay?” and the hostess responded, by producing a
huge slate, and pointing to a long array of figures scored to the debit
of the commander. At the sight of this, the countenance of the worthy
man underwent a striking elongation; and he who beneath the withering
glance of the conqueror of Lodi had not blanched, became pale as a
ghost while he gazed on the hieroglyphics of the lady of the Cock and
Punch-bowl. The commander shook his head, and the shake was significant;
while the fifer stoutly affirmed that the whole of the nocturnal
symposium had been charged against the protectors of the realm.

“Arrah, what balderdash!” exclaimed the hostess; “don’t ye see four and
eightpence agin the Carneys, wid a cross upon it, because it’s ped? Mr.
O’Toole goes free; and there’s fairly against ye all, two and fourpence
for ating, and eleven and ninepence for the drink.”

But the charge of foot, even from the drum-boy to the commander,
persisted in protestations of incredulity; and Mrs. O’Leary, irritated
that the accuracy of her reckoning should be doubted, gave indications
of a “flare-up” which might have brought about another general
engagement.

“Bad luck attend yes for a set of thieves! Wasn’t it enough for ye to
tatter my consarn, without bilkin me of my bill?”

In Ireland, questions are answered by interrogatories; and if you ask
the way to a place, the reply will probably be an inquiry as to whether
you “met a donkey on the road, or noticed a blind woman with twins upon
her back?”

“Who tattered y’er consarn?” responded the sergeant.

“Who knocked the fire out of my eye wid a clod of turf as hard as a
paving stone?” inquired a recruit.

“Who druv me thro’ the drum-head?” screamed the boy.

“Who split my lip?” demanded the fifer.

“Don’t be bothering me about y’er drums and y’er misfortins!” replied
the hostess, cold to the losses thus sustained in person and property by
her unhappy visitors; “but for once in y’er lives, be honest, and down
wid the reckoning.”

The sergeant saw that it was idle to remonstrate, and he produced a
one-pound note, called for a pint of whisky, received it and the change,
bolted his “morning”--an example duly followed by all, even to the
drummer; and, accompanied by his gallant following, wended his way in
sadness and silence towards the Pattern of Cahirmore. For once, military
pomp and pride were dispensed with,--the fife was mute, the drum beat
no point of war, and the commander and his charge of foot stole off as
modestly from the hostelrie, as if instead of being engaged over-night
in pointing out the path of glory to the Carneys, they had picked
pockets like the Jew, or robbed the widow’s hen-roost.

The parting between the men of war and the lady of the Cock and
Punch-bowl was not accompanied with any ebullition of “sweet sorrow”
 upon either side, the commander hinting that it was his intention to
transfer his patronage to the Cat and Bagpipes for the future; and the
hostess declaring, that “the loss was small, and were he better they
were welcome to him.” But a tenderer trial was at hand; and when Mark
Antony and the fair cantatrice announced that they were about to take
the road, the widow’s grief burst forth.

“Arrah, stay!” she said. “Rest yourselves for a day or two longer. Well,
ye won’t. Put up y’er purse, _astore_. Is it for me to charge craters
of y’er sort for a trifle of entertainment? Sorrow rap I’d take if ye
stay’d here a twelvemonth. The world’s wide; and many a straggler finds
it hard to get across it. Well, jewel! if you stick fast, as many a
man has done before ye, turn back to the widow’s home, and here’s
y’er _ceade fealteagh_ * waiting for ye. When ye want it, ye’ll find
something in the basket,” and she placed a small one in the fosterer’s
hand. “And now, as y’er for goin, may the Lord protect ye both!” Mrs.
O’Leary wiped a tear away with the corner of her apron, kissed the pale
girl affectionately, while the smack she gave Mark Antony might have
been heard distinctly across the road. Next moment the wayfarers were
over the hospitable threshold, and “the world was all before them where
to choose.”

     * Anglicè--a warm welcome.

The sky was clear, the country had become picturesque, the birds sang
merrily, the road was sprinkled by an early shower, and on a pleasanter
morning a light-bosomed traveller never wended on his way. Alas!

                   “The merry heart goes all the day.

                   But the sad one tires in a mile a;”

and before half the journey was completed, the girl showed symptoms of
fatigue.

“You are weary, Julia,” said the fosterer; “sit down, _avourneein_.
In yonder corner there is a shady bank, and a stream too; ay, and with
water blue and sparkling as your own soft eyes. Come, dearest.”

The pale girl looked steadily and suspiciously at her companion; but
one glance dispelled her fears. The face she scrutinized was honest; and
without hesitation, she quitted the high road, and seated herself on
a fallen tree in the sheltered glade to which Mark Antony had pointed.
Well,--she might do so safely. In grain, the fosterer was a gentleman;
and, for a queen’s ransom, he would not have abused confidence placed in
his honour, or have imagined aught that was evil against a woman whose
helplessness called upon him for protection. He flung himself at her
feet upon the sward, and opening the widow’s basket, produced a chicken,
some oaten cakes, and a _cruiskeeine_ of native whisky. The fowl was
speedily dismembered; the contents of the flask diluted with the clear
cold water of the rivulet; and, with kindly warmth, her companion urged
the wanderer to refresh herself. But, poor girl! her heart was full. She
gently put aside the food presented to her; tears fell fast, and hiding
her face between her hands, she seemed to give way to some secret
sorrow, too deep, too poignant for concealment.

The fosterer, but in vain, endeavoured to cheer her sinking spirits.
The _cruislteeine_ was laid down untasted; and while with youth’s ardent
eloquence, Mark Antony pointed to happiness in the distance, the deep
sobs of his companion told that from her bosom that hope which cheers
the darkest hour of life, was long departed.

“Come, come, Julia,” he said, pressing her hand in his, “why will you be
so down-hearted?”

The poor girl raised her eyes. She did not reply; but her look betrayed
the agony of the heart, and its sad and silent expression had “the
calmness of settled despair.”

“And have you been very--very unfortunate, Julia?” pursued the fosterer.

The wanderer mournfully shook her head.

“And left home, and friends, and--”

“Father!” exclaimed the girl, wildly, with a maniac’s suddenness.

“Were you decoyed away by a villain?

“He who wrecked my peace is in the grave. May Heaven pardon him as
sincerely as I wish it!”

“Probably under the promise of marriage?” said the fosterer, with the
hesitation that a man feels who asks a question which possibly may cause
pain or give offence.

“_The promise!_” exclaimed the girl, while her pale cheeks flushed, and
her eye lightened as if repelling a derogatory insinuation. No, no; it
was indeed a sad reality, although the act was villanous and putting her
hand into her bosom, she drew forth a wedding-ring, secured by a black
ribbon. “There is the token that I was a lawful wife; and there, also, a
memorial that I was a--” She paused.

“What?” exclaimed the fosterer.

“A worthless daughter. _Worthless!_ worse far;--a parricide! Yes, yes; I
murdered him. My misconduct broke his heart. My ingratitude quenched
his broken spirit. I did not drug him to death; but I poisoned his
happiness, and sent him to the grave. Am I not, then, a murderess?”

She flung herself wildly upon the fallen tree, and sobbed convulsively.
“Be calm;” said Mark Antony, pressing her hand; “I have given you pain;
but Heaven knows I would not, if--”

“No, no,” exclaimed the girl, “you meant no harm; but where guilt
abides, the conscience takes alarm. For a sad, sad, twelvemonth your’s
is the only heart that has warmed to me; your’s the only ear to which I
would confide my story. Hear me; and then say whether the crime or
the retribution has been the greater. I am calm; but it seems to me a
melancholy pleasure to disclose to a being who will sympathize, how much
I have sinned, and how much I have suffered.”’ She rose,--walked a few
paces to a rock from which the mountain streamlet dropped into a basin
which itself had formed; and having bathed her aching temples in the
water, returned, and, to a most attentive listener, she thus detailed
her history.



CHAPTER XI. THE STORY OF THE WANDERING ACTRESS



               “What will not woman, when she loves?

               “Yet lost, alas! who can restore her?

               She lifts the latch--the wicket moves-

               And now the world is all before her.”

                        Rogers.

I was born in a village on the coast of Sussex. My father, after
five-and-twenty years’ service, had retired from the army on a pension,
with a small sum of money he had saved while acting in the West Indies
as a quarter-master; and settling in his native village, he married the
orphan daughter of a clergyman. The union was happy; and the evening of
an adventurous life promised to wear quietly way. But, like all mortal
expectations, my father’s dream of happiness proved unreal, for my
mother died in giving birth to me, leaving another child behind her,
a boy, two years older than myself. My parents were warmly attached to
each other, and the old soldier felt his bereavement acutely; but he
bore up against his visitation like a man, and endeavoured by a devoted
attachment to the living, to show how fondly he regarded the memory of
the dead.

Indeed, it was little wonder that in my brother and myself, the widower
should centre his affections. No relative of my mother was alive; and
the only kinsman of my father was a half-brother, a dozen years older
than himself; a man in every way unamiable.

Josiah Rawlings was the village lawyer; a being without a heart, or such
a heart as is untouched by the widow’s agony, unmoved by the orphan’s
tears. He was mean, sordid, and vindictive; had realized much wealth;
but on that ill-acquired money, the bitter curses of many a ruined
family were entailed.

Josiah’s appearance was very remarkable. As for as respected height, he
was tall enough for a grenadier, and in his fleshy proportions, light
enough for a jockey. His hollow cheek and small grey eyes were in good
keeping with his gaunt and bony figure; and at a look the stranger would
set him down a knave, a miser, or a union of both.

Never were two persons more opposite in disposition than the brothers.
The lawyer listened without emotion to a tale of sorrow--human suffering
was a matter of indifference to him; while the soldier’s heart was as
open as his honest countenance, and his purse answered the appeal of
poverty to the fullest extent of his means. Unrelieved, no beggar left
his door; and when a comrade eame that way, then indeed the fatted calf
was killed,--for with him my father would have shared his last flask,
ay, and his last shilling.

Years passed away. My sixteenth summer came. My father still remained a
widower: and no home from which its chief comfort had been taken, could
be happier than our cottage was. Time had softened the sorrow which my
mother’s death had caused; and while the old soldier often alluded to
his loss, he blessed Heaven that my brother and myself had been spared
to be the stay and comfort of life’s winter. Alas! he little dreamed
that by both he would be deserted; and tinder circumstances whieh would
render his bereavement additionally distressing.

It was late in October. The few visitors who, during the bathing season,
made the village a temporary abode, had taken their departure. The
hamlet was left to its retirement--and our quiet course of life was
unvaried, except by incidents of the humblest character. The
soldier’s kind and charitable disposition had long endeared him to the
neighbourhood; and where he went, the prayer of the poor man followed.
With the lawyer, avarice and years kept pace--“none cried, God bless
him;” for on a simple community a more detested individual never was
inflicted, than my evil relative, Josiah Rawlings.

I grew apace; men called me handsome--and young as I was, more than one
suitor had told his tale of humble love. But my heart had never yet been
touched; my breast was free from care; and with me, as yet, sorrow was
only known by name.

My brother had just completed his eighteenth year; and a finer lad
was never the pride and envy of a village. He was tall, handsome, and
athletic. Among the prettiest girls, William was the object of rustic
rivalry; and in every manly exercise, the men admitted him to be their
superior. And then he was so good-natured and so fearless!--at one
moment fondling some playful infant in his arms; at another, when the
elements were in their wildest uproar, and the sea broke in thunder on
the beach, he would be seen launching the life-boat through a boiling
surf, to save some drowning mariner, although to all but the daring
spirits who accompanied him, the effort seemed to be equally perilous
and unavailing.

Few days passed over without some acquaintance calling at the cottage;
and all were weleome but one--our uncle. The lawyer’s visits were
unfrequent. He never eame excepting when he was the bearer of some evil
news, or the retailer of some country scandal. If an honest villager was
struck with poverty, Josiah Rawlings narrated the misfortune, and always
imputed what had occurred to some misconduct of the sufferer. If calumny
breathed upon a woman’s fame, the lawyer painted her offending in its
blackest colours, and perverted facts to give the rumour confirmation.
Whenever Josiah entered, the peace and quiet of our happy home were
broken. On no one point could my father and my uncle agree. While they
were together, the time was passed in captious argument; and their
parting was frequently in anger.

One autumn evening the noise of a passing vehicle brought me to the
window, and I saw a carriage pull up at the Rose and Crown. My unele had
been about to inflict one of his unwelcome visits on his brother; but he
stopped in the street, peering after the post-chaise, until he saw the
passenger alight and enter the inn. The commonest occurrences never
failed to excite his curiosity; and in a village where a stranger was
rarely seen, the arrival of one who travelled post, was indeed an event
that caused a general sensation.

“I wonder who that chap is who put up at Jobson’s. All I could make out
was that he was wrapped up in a blue cloak, and wore a cap with a gold
band and tassel. I wish I knew his name, and what his business is,” and
the lawyer having settled himself upon a chair, took hold of the Geneva
bottle, and proceeded to compound his punch. “You heard,” he continued,
“that the Hotham bank failed yesterday? Smith, the grocer, round the
corner, had a hundred in their notes. He’s ruined!--serve him right.
What business had he to take them?”

“May Heaven comfort him, poor fellow!” ejaculated the quartermaster.
“More is the pity that misfortune should light upon an honest and
industrious man, with a young family to support, and his wife dying of
consumption. From the bottom of my heart I pity him.”

“That’s a nice business of Patty Meadows’s, too. I always foretold what
would happen.”

“It’s a villanous fabrication!” exclaimed my father, passionately; “I
don’t believe a syllable of the story.”

“All true,” returned the lawyer, “all true. Last Saturday evening,
George Gripe, my clerk, heard the squire’s voiee as he passed the
garden; so he clapped his ear close to the fence, and--”

“I wish to Heaven it had been nailed against the paling,” said the
soldier; “the sneaking eaves-dropping scoundrel! Were I to catch him
skulking about my house, I would break every rib in his carcase.”

“Ay, and render yourself liable to an action. Gripp would get sweeping
damages.”

“Curse your damages!” returned the quarter-master. “Every body wonders
that you employ a ruffian who swears black or white as bidden, and
swallows oaths as he would bolt poached eggs.”

“I keep him,” said the lawyer, coolly, “because he’s useful. What
capital stuff that Hollands is? Does Bill run it?”

“Run it! What--smuggle?”

“Ay, to be sure,” returned my worthy uncle. “I hear he’s the boldest
boatman on the coast; and they tell me that he saved the shipwrecked
Dutchman, when all had given him up as lost.”

“It is one thing,” replied the soldier, proudly, “to rescue a drowning
man;--to rob the revenue, another. My son is no smuggler, Josh; nor ever
will be one.”

“More fool he, then; there’s money to be made that way, and nothing to
be got by the other, but bruised bones and a drenched jacket.”

“Nothing gotten!” exclaimed the honest quarter-master. “Is the grateful
outbreaking of the heart of her to whom my boy’s gallantry has restored
a husband--or the prayer of lisping childhood for him who saved a
father,--are these nothing? What is money acquired by dishonesty, to
these?”

The lawyer grinned sarcastically. “Tears and gratitude!” he repeated.
“Will tears and gratitude pay rent?--will tears and gratitude pay taxes?
You’re a fool, Dick. I would rather have a five-pound note than the
united prayers of the parish.”

“I believe you,” replied the soldier.

“And so you may,” returned the miser. “But for your own folly you might
have made a fortune, and be now as wealthy as myself.”

“Heaven forbid I were, Josh! if by the same means.”

“And wherefore?” inquired the lawyer, with a bitter smile. “Why,” said
the soldier, coolly, “just because when Death tapped at the door, I
should feel rather uncomfortable at the visit.”

“Don’t talk of Death; I hate to hear him mentioned.”

“And I speak only of an old acquaintance. Like friends, we have often
looked each other in the face. He passed me by; and when he calls in
form--”

“Pshaw!” said the lawyer, “have done; I hate prosing over an unpleasant
subject. What has your daring done for you? For one guinea you can show,
I can count down a score.”

“Yes,” said the quarter-master, proudly, “mine are few in number, but
they are worth yours, twice told.”

“I should like to hear the reason,” said my uncle.

“‘Tis simple,” returned my father. “On every coin I’m owner of, I can
look full-front and say, ‘Have I not earned you honestly?’ But yours,
Josh; if widows’ sighs and orphans’ tears alloyed the metal,
d----n me,”--the quarter-master swore as they formerly swore in
Flanders,--“nineteen out of every twenty you possess would be declared
regular raps, and nailed to the counter.”

“Pish!” said the lawyer, testily. “You have lived a fool, and will die a
fool.”

“I have lived,” said the quarter-master, calmly, “an honest man; and
I’ll die a stout one, too. When the order comes, it shall be willingly
obeyed. Mine, Josh, shall not be a felon’s hardihood, but the humble
dependency of one who believes that mercy is great, and faults will be
forgiven. Now, Josh, were old bare-bones at your elbow”--“Confound such
nonsense!” cried the lawyer, pushing his unfinished glass away, and
catching up his hat hastily. As he crossed the threshold, his murmurings
were any thing but prayers; and when the door closed, peace seemed to
return again, and all of us felt that “something wicked” had departed.

Next morning, my father went out according to his custom, and he was
absent longer than usual. When he returned, it was announced that lie
had formed an acquaintance with the stranger, whose advent had not only
roused my uncle’s curiosity, but created a general sensation throughout
the hamlet. My father informed us, that his young friend was a
lieutenant in a light dragoon regiment; his name, Seymour;
his connexions, noble; and, more important still, that he, the
quarter-master, had asked him to dinner, and that the invitation was
freely accepted.

At the appointed hour the stranger came. His appearance was very
prepossessing,--his manners those of a man who had moved in good
society;--and there was, besides, an easiness in his address that
dispelled my timidity, and placed us on terms of intimacy at once. That
evening, the foundation of an ill-omened attachment was laid. Seymour
had established himself in the good opinions of my father and myself;
and no one was better able to turn a favourable impression to advantage.

Breakfast had scarcely ended on the morrow, when my uncle dropped in. He
was dying to be informed of every particular we had learned concerning
the stranger; and, unluckily, our scanty stock of information was
anything but satisfactory.

“Why, hang it!” said Josiah Rawlings, “have you given that chap dinner
and drink, and made out nothing in return for the outlay, but that he
calls himself Seymour, and says that he’s a dragoon? I don’t believe
either story.”

“You don’t?”

“Not one syllable,” said the lawyer.

“And why?” returned my father.

“Because,” responded Josiah, “it’s very easy to tell a lie; and
sometimes, also, very convenient.”

“Pshaw! nonsense,” said the quarter-master.

“And wherefore,” pursued the lawyer, “do you believe the fellow’s what
he says he is?”

“First, because his language and manners are those of a gentleman; and
secondly, because he has the air and carriage of a soldier.”

“I could come nearer to the mark,” returned Josiah, with a grin.

“Could you? Well, then, what do _you_ suppose the stranger is?” The
lawyer looked suspiciously around him; and then, in a lowered voice,
slowly replied, “A highwayman.”

My father burst into a roar of laughter.

“Ay, you may laugh,” observed Josiah, “but I am not far astray, for all
that. Bless you! trust nothing to appearances. I have known a footpad
pass current for a lord; and, for two reasons, I know I’m right about
that chap at the Rose and Crown.”

“And what may these reasons be?” asked the quarter-master.

“First,” replied the lawyer, “he has plenty of money; and second, he has
no marks upon his linen. It’s stolen, you may depend upon it, and the
initials carefully picked out.”

“And how the devil can you know any thing regarding either the contents
of his purse or his baggage?”

“Ha, ha! leave me to scent out things. I made George Gripp bribe the
chambermaid. It cost me two pints of ale and a shilling; but she let the
eat out of the bag. They’ll try his portmanteau tomorrow morning, when
he goes to the Cliffs. George thinks he has a key at home that will fit
the lock exactly.”

My father sprang from his chair.

“Josh,” he exclaimed, “I have always despised, but never hated you till
now. Is there no blush upon your cheek? Look, man, mine is burning! By
Heaven! I’ll mar your villany. The stranger shall know all; and if that
caitiff ventures--”

When the lawyer noticed the unusual warmth of my father, he grew pale.
“Softly, softly,” he said, “you are so weak, Dick. You overdose one
with that silliness which you call honesty. I was but half jesting. Why
should I bother myself about the fellow? But--look to that young lady
there!” and with a malignant side-glance at my father and myself, he
shuffled through the door-way, muttering and cursing, as was his wont.

Whatever the stranger’s secret might have been, it remained at that time
undiscovered. In person, he received his letters at the postoffice; and
as the patent lock with which his portmanteau was secured resisted all
attempts to open it, at the end of a fortnight, the chambermaid might
have been a sadder but not a wiser woman.

Another year came round; I ripened into womanhood, and early promises of
beauty were confirmed. The stranger appeared again, but his coming now
was not so startling in effect as formerly. For six months after his
departure, Josiah Rawlings had carefully perused the “Hue and Cry,”
 but found that no highwayman answered the description. Now, mercifully
abandoning his charge of felony, the lawyer opined that the stranger had
merely bolted from his creditors. He might have also passed the interval
in jail; if so, a change of air would be both useful and agreeable.
And thus, Josiah accounted as he thought satisfactorily for Seymour’s
re-appearance.

Our intimacy was renewed. The flattering praises bestowed upon me as
a girl, were changed into declarations of passionate attachment; and I
returned his love.

It was the eventful period of my life--my brother was absent, and
the quarter-master occupied generally with friends at home, or in the
arrangement of some village differences. Hence the intimacy of Seymour
and myself was unrestricted; and in a short time he obtained over my
young affections a complete ascendancy. And yet our course of love,
even from the beginning, did not run smooth. Our relative positions in
society were far removed: I, the daughter of an humble soldier--he, the
younger son of a family old* as the Conquest, and high and haughty even
beyond what their ancient lineage would warrant. Could it be expected
by me that they would approve of their kinsman’s choice, and receive a
relative with neither birth nor fortune to recommend her, and whose
sole possession was a blameless reputation and an honest name? Seymour
himself, undesignedly, betrayed a similar uneasiness, hinting that
it might be advisable to break the matter by degrees, and cautiously
prepare his family for the disclosure. To effect this important object,
a secret marriage would be necessary. His interests must be dear to me
as to himself. It was a proof of my confidence in him that circumstances
demanded,--and one, if given, that would bind him to me for ever.

“What will not woman when she loves?” Would not a village girl,
influenced by a first passion, listen favourably to a suitor’s pleading,
and consult the heart rather than the judgment? For me Seymour had
forsaken rank and wealth, and perilled the displeasure of his family;
and should I not, in return, sacrifice largely where his interests were
involved? Love’s sophistry was unanswerable. I gave a timid consent,--we
were united in another parish; and so well had arrangements been made
to ensure concealment, that, with the exception of one chosen friend, to
all besides our marriage remained a secret.

Of this occurrence my father had not the most remote suspicion; and
William’s absence from home gave us facilities for frequent meetings
that could not otherwise have happened. For a fortnight, Seymour
continued a nominal lodger at the Rose and Crown,--but most of his time
was passed in my society. At my father’s table he had a constant place,
while the honest quarter-master little dreamed that in his high-born
guest he might have claimed a son-in-law.

The hour of sorrow was at hand. Letters,--most unwelcome ones,--were
received. My husband seemed heavily depressed; and when urged to
tell the cause of his uneasiness, mentioned that he had been suddenly
recalled to join his regiment, and apprised me that the term of his
absence was dependent upon some military movements; and consequently,
that his return must be uncertain. This unexpected separation caused
me the first real sorrow I had yet endured; and, alas! harbingered
too faithfully, the misery and misfortunes which followed in quick
succession.

Upon the head of my ill-starred parent, it was fated that the phial of
wrath should be poured; and, sadder still, the first blow that smote
him, came from the hand of one who would have laid down life to avert an
hour of suffering from a father he loved so tenderly.

My brother returned; the quarter-master had shaken him by the hand,--I,
pressed him to my heart,--and our cottage once more looked what it
had ever been--the abiding place of peace and joy. As evening closed,
William strolled to his favourite haunt, the cliffs; my father pulled in
his easy chair, lighted his pipe, and settled himself in humble luxury
beside a well-trimmed fire.

I retired to my own room. Mine were indeed melancholy musing.

I recalled to memory how brief the period of my wedded happiness had
been, and sighed to think that in the story of a human life, bliss and
misery should be so intimately blended. But I was young, and “gay hope
by fancy fed” whispered that there was happiness in store. I rallied my
spirits,--wiped every trace of sorrow from my cheek,--and, in another
hour, was seated opposite my dear father, and plying my needle as
demurely as if I had never listened to a light dragoon, nor given my
hand and heart irrevocably away, and sealed that imprudence by a secret
ceremony.

A footstep approached the cottage,--the latch was lifted,--and the
slender figure of the lawyer filled the door-way.

“You are not busy, Dick?” croaked my uncle Josiah.

“Only with my pipe,” replied my father.

“Then I’ll sit down a little, and take a drop of your Geneva.”

I rose,--handed my uncle a chair,--Josiah took off’ his hat, and seated
himself The lawyer having mixed his grog, I resumed my needle-work.
Since Seymour had left, never had my heart felt lighter than it did
that evening; but from the moment my dreaded uncle announced himself,
a weight seemed pressing on my bosom; for every time he spoke, like a
serpent’s breath, Josiah’s words seemed to wither the happiness of all
who heard them.

“I wonder,” said he, “where that fellow you were so fond of went to?”

“What fellow?” replied the quarter-master, drily.

“Why, Seymour, as he called himself.”

“I can make you happy on that head. Lieutenant Seymour has gone to
------. Give me another light, Julia. Pipes now-a-days, are not what
they used to be.”

“But, where did Seymour go to?”

“Go to?” and the quarter-master gave a puff. “His regiment, I suppose.”

“Whatever news his last letters brought, egad!” said Josiah, “it
regularly upset him. Mrs. Manby told me privately, that he turned pale
when he read them; and he must have been confoundedly astonished, for he
left the change out of half-a-crown upon the counter. I wonder what it
will turn out to be? I think it will be debt; but George Gripp sticks to
Ills first opinion, and says he’s sure it will prove felony.”

I could not calmly listen while such infamous imputations were thrown
out against the man I loved, but rose and left the room, and, retiring
to my own apartment, I communed with my own sad thoughts, and asked
myself whether Seymour could be aught but what my fancy pictured him.
One moment’s reflection established him firmly in my estimation; and
every insinuation to his disadvantage faded from my memory.

I opened the easement, and looked pensively on the little flower garden
beneath the window. How often had I watched impatiently where I stood
now, until the trysting hour arrived, and my husband came stealing
through the shrubbery to whisper in my delighted ear assurances of
endless love! Suddenly a noise among the bushes startled me; a figure
approached and stopped below the window; it was my brother. In a
low voiee he told me to be silent, and next moment sprang into the
apartment.

I remarked that his manner was hurried, and his faee flushed, as if from
some violent exertion.

“What has happened, William? Speak; are you ill? Has there been an
accident?”

“I fear, Julia,” he replied, “that I have committed myself by
intermeddling in another’s quarrel. But who could look on while three
men were assailing one?”

“You alarm me, William; go on.”

“I was rambling homewards from the cliffs; I heard three or four shots
in the direction of the landing-place; and suspecting that smugglers
were at work, I hastened off in another direction, lest any suspicion
might attach itself to me. My anxiety to avoid it, however, brought on
an unfortunate collision. I heard a noise approaching loud and angry
voices, oaths, and blows, and the clashing of cutlasses succeeded--and
hastening on, at a turning of the path I ascertained the cause. The
fight was most unequal, for three persons were attacking a solitary man.
I joined the weak side, stretched two of our opponents on the ground,
the third ran off, and for the first time, I found that the man I
rescued was Frank Brown. He wrung my hand; muttered his hurried thanks;
and then bounded like a deer across the heath, and vanished in the
Miller’s coppice.”

I kissed my brother ardently. “Well, William, English blood is warm--and
who eould look on and not assist a brave man when assailed by numbers?
Would, however, that it had been some other; Red Frank is such a
desperado--a branded man--a felon.”

“Ay, girl, but was he not the first to jump into the life-boat after me,
when we saved the drowning Dutchman? I owed him, devil as he is, a good
turn for his gallantry. For rescuing him I care nothing; but I fear
that blood was spilled already upon the beach. The pistol shots, and the
desperate haste with which Red Frank escaped, lead me to dread that some
previous violence had occurred. Who is below, Julia?”

“My father, and my unele.”

“Hark! I hear hasty footsteps; slip down, Julia, and probably you
may hear if any accident has happened. I would not alarm my father
unnecessarily until we know whether the affray was serious.”

I obeyed my brother’s wishes, and returned to the parlour. We heard men
without; they seemed excited, spoke fast, and hurried rapidly along the
street. Presently a knock was heard; I opened the door,--it was Gripp,
my uncle’s clerk. He had come here to seek his master, and one glance at
the evil agent of the lawyer, told that he was the bearer of heavy news.

“Well, George,” said Josiah, eagerly, “what’s wrong?” The lawyer never
asked, “what’s right?”

“Nothing pertikler,” returned my uncle’s satellite; “only one man is
murdered, and half a dozen nearly killed.”

“When--where--how?” asked my uncle.

“Why, down at the Tinker’s Cove; a row between smugglers and revenue
men. Red Frank shot Nat Davis through the heart--and he was all but
taken, when a comrade floored two officers, and Frank gave leg-bail to
the other.”

“Ha! that makes the other fellow an accessory after the fact; he’ll
hang, that’s certain. Is he known?”

George Gripp answered with a wink; the wink was an affirmative
one. “What’s his name? Will he be able to fee counsel, and employ a
solicitor?” inquired the lawyer.

Gripp winked affirmatively.

“His name?”

“One very like your own.” was the reply.

My father started--“Speak, fellow, who was the murderer’s comrade?”

“Your son,” returned the bailiff, coldly.

“My son? William Rawlings? ’tis false, by Heaven!”

“You may depend upon it, Dick,” observed my precious uncle, “that George
Gripp is well-informed.”

My father drooped his head--I sprang from my chair and folded him in my
arms.

“‘Tis false! my father--believe _me_, the charge is false.”

“I wish it were,” replied Josiah, in a tone that showed his incredulity.

“Gracious Heaven!” murmured the poor quarter-master; “and is the son
I loved so dearly, branded as accomplice to a murderer? Did my William
consort with desperate men, and engage in lawless enterprise? I won’t--I
can’t believe it.”

“You may depend upon it,” returned the lawyer’s clerk; “I have it from
the best authority.”

Mv father turned wildly to my uncle--“Josh! speak, man! have heart, for
once, and say if what that scoundrel says may be credited. You shake
your head; well, if the misfortune has occurred, what will be its worst
consequences? Can you tell? even--”

“Tell?” returned the lawyer; “ay, and with as much certainty, as if the
foreman of the jury had delivered a verdict ‘for self and fellows.’”

“Out with the worst, man,” gasped my father.

“They’ll be hanged, that’s safe,” responded the lawyer, with a decision
that forbad all argument.

“Hanged! my William hanged! Hanged as a felon, and share an
outlaw’s fate, with one familiarized to crime, and grown grey in
iniquity--Impossible!”

“I did not say,” said Josiah coolly, “that their sentences would be the
same. Ned Frank will probably be gibbeted for example--but Bill may--”

The quarter-master buried his head within his hands, and murmured, “My
son! my son!”

“My father!” responded a voice, and my brother clasped the old man in
his arms.

A moment passed in silence.

“Is this foul story true, William’ said the quarter-master, and in tones
which seemed to dread an answer to the inquiry.

“False as hell!” was boldly responded, and again the son was locked more
closely in his father’s arms.

“The tale is short. Accident brought me to the cliffs; I witnessed an
unequal conflict--one man was assailed by three--and I joined him.”

“Right--by Heaven!” and for the first time my father lifted his head
proudly.

“I took the weaker side, and as it would appear, I undesignedly have
rescued a criminal.”

“If you can support that statement by evidence, I’ll undertake,” said
the lawyer, “to get you off with transportation.”

“Off with the Devil!” roared my father.

My brother smiled. “Well, uncle, you hold out a pleasant prospect, and
after I have travelled at the public expense, I shall feel myself bound
in gratitude to come back, improved in morals and manners, and tell you
what I have seen; but after all, there will be no necessity to undertake
the voyage. When the true history of this unfortunate affray is known,
it will not be difficult to prove that I am blameless, and that I was
neither engaged in unlawful enterprises, nor knew aught of the fatal
consequences that followed. For a time, however, I will leave home, not
from any fears upon my own account, but to avoid the painful duty of
being called upon to criminate the guilty.”

To all, my brother’s determination seemed right. My kind-hearted parent
approved the motives, and gave a ready consent. The lawyer observed,
that it would afford ample time, should it be found advisable, to buy
off the evidence; while George Gripp proved the value of a friend
in need, by volunteering to swear an alibi himself,--an offer which
elicited a warm eulogium from his virtuous patron.

In half-an-hour William came to my room to say farewell, he had made
up some necessaries in a bundle, which he threw from the window to a
friend, who was waiting for him in the garden.

“Julia,” he said, taking me in his arms, and kissing me with ardent
affection; “Julia, I must confide to you what would pain our dear
father, were it told to him--mine will not be a temporary absence. No
tears, Julia; be firm, and listen to a brother who loves you tenderly
as I do. The hand of destiny beckons me on; for months I have been
wretched; while every post bears tidings of some glorious deed, I, in
the pride of youth, am dreaming life away; my days passed idling on
the beach, or listening at some cottage fire-side to the gossip of the
humble villagers. This evening as I stood upon the cliffs, I saw a noble
frigate close in shore, with her head turned to the coast of France. The
wind fell, not a breath ruffled her canvas, and as she lay motionless on
the sea, I could almost look down upon her decks. Presently a boat was
lowered, and it pulled directly for the cove a league eastward from our
landing-place, to obtain fresh water at the spring. Before that boat
returns, I shall have time to board the frigate. Hold, Julia; nothing
can shake that resolution, and, therefore, listen to me attentively.
When I am gone, _you_ must be to our father all--for then you will be
his only stay, his only comfort. You must watch his declining years,
cheer him when he droops, smile with him when he’s happy in illness,
your task will be to smooth his pillow; in death, your hand must close
his eyes. Come, Julia, no weeping. If it be fated that I fall, except
you and the old man, few will weep for me. If I return, it will be ‘with
war’s red honours on my crest,’ to gladden my father’s age, and find
some one to whom I can safely entrust thy happiness, dear Julia--one,
who can estimate the value of a woman, whose thoughts are pure and
cloudless as the light of yonder blessed moon.”

My conscience smote me bitterly as William again pressed me to his
breast; I felt the burning blush of shame steal over my pale cheeks, as
my heart whispered how much I had deceived that brother, who believed
me incapable of artifice or concealment; and though the confession of my
offence must be humiliating, I determined that it should be made. From
him I might not only ask for pardon, but advice; and the words were
almost upon my lips, when suddenly a voice from below was heard in under
tones.

“William!” said the stranger, “the signal’s given. See, that rocket
bursting in the air! the boat’s returning to the frigate.”

“Then, there’s not a moment to be lost.”

“Stop! my brother,” I exclaimed; “stop, for pity’s sake. Oh! I have
much, very much to tell you.”

He caught me warmly to his bosom; kissed me again and again; whispered
in my ear: “Look to our father, Julia--and wed not till I return, or
till you hear I am no more.” lie said, sprang lightly from the window,
bounded across the garden hedge, and in another minute, the sounds of
receding footsteps died away, and all was night and silence.

From the hour when William departed, sorrow and misfortune seemed to
choose our cottage for an abiding place. Letters through a private hand
came from Seymour; but, alas! they brought no consolation with them.
The affected indifference of the style, and the inconsistency of the
statements, gave sad evidence that the writer was diseased in mind, or
body, or in both. The fatal affray which had unluckily compromised my
brother’s character for a time, and occasioned the necessity for his
concealment, was supposed to be sufficient cause for my being desponding
and depressed; and my poor father, ignorant of impending misery, and
unconscious of the trials that awaited him, vainly endeavoured to dispel
my melancholy, and remove all fears upon account of William. As he had
foretold himself, his innocence was completely established; and
those who were bitterly exasperated against the real offenders, bore
honourable testimony to the motives that had induced my brother to
commit himself; and while they regretted that through his intervention a
criminal had escaped, they admitted that his conduct had been that of a
man, who, under mistaken views, performs a brave and generous action.
No offence was imputed to him now, and wherefore should he stay away
longer? But, I knew too well that many a long month must elapse before
the wanderer would return.

It was a part of my evening’s occupation to read the newspaper to my
father; and a fortnight after William’s departure, I was engaged in
my customary duty. An event had occurred in London to which public
attention seemed to have been painfully directed, and the paper
contained a long statement, headed, “Farther particulars of the
forgeries and suicide committed by Captain Smith.” The details thus
given, stated that the unfortunate individual was the illegitimate
offspring of a noble lord, whose name was mentioned. That early in
life he had obtained a commission in the army,--had moved in the best
circles,--indulged in fashionable follies,--and dissipated large sums of
money, with which, from time to time, his father had supplied him. The
earl died suddenly, leaving his natural son totally unprovided for; and
he was thus thrown upon the world, with incurable habits of expense, and
not a guinea to support them. His fall was consequently rapid. He sold
his commission, spent its small produce in a short time, dropped step by
step from the high position he once held,--and in fast succession became
a gambler, a cheat, a forger, and a suicide! His delinquencies were
detected. The officers of justice were already at the door of a mean
lodging in which he had concealed himself, when the criminal contrived
to get out of a back window and effect a temporary escape. But it was
only to add crime to crime. His clothes, next morning, were found upon
the bank of the river near Wandsworth, and beside them lay an empty
phial, which it was ascertained had contained a deadly poison; and it
was conjectured that the unfortunate suicide had swallowed the contents
before he took the fatal plunge. It was, indeed, a melancholy story
of profligate life; for, it was added, that an imposing person and
fascinating address had been turned to a bad account; and that many a
family had reason to curse the day on which the accomplished _roué_, had
been introduced to their acquaintance.

I could not tell wherefore, but as I read this miserable narrative, my
blood chilled, my lips grew white, and I could scarcely reach its close.
And yet, why should it affect me? Was it not an every-day event? the
regular advance of crime--beginning with improvidence, and ending in
ignominy and death. But still the story of the suicide seemed to haunt
my memory; and sleeping or waking, the unknown criminal constantly was
present.

It was the third evening after. My father had accepted a neighbour’s
invitation; and I, preferring solitude to a scene of rustic festivity,
for which a heavy heart was badly suited, was left alone at home. As
usual, I was sitting in the window of my own chamber,--that window
from which I had watched a lover’s coming, and witnessed a brother’s
departure; and lost in painful reveries, allowed hours to slip
unnoticed. The moon had gone down; the night was unusually dark; and the
stillness was unbroken. I heard the dry leaves rustle; was it the
wind that moved them? I looked suspiciously abroad; a human figure was
standing underneath, and a voice so hoarse and hollow that I could not
recognise its tones, softly pronounced my name. I flung the casement
open, and demanded, “who was there?”

“I, Julia; your lover, your husband,” and Seymour in another minute held
me nearly fainting in his arms.

“And was my voice forgotten, Julia?” he murmured, half reproachfully.
“Well, I cannot wonder at it, for I have been ill, and am hoarse as a
raven. How cold the night is!”

“Cold! Why, Edward, your hand is burning. Stay, I will bring lights, and
get you some refreshment.”

“No, no,” he answered, hastily; “no lights, love; some curious eye might
observe them. But I am thirsty; I could drink, drink deeply. Bring
me some wine, Julia; no supper, love--I cannot eat, I am weary, very
weary.”

And was this Seymour? that hollow voice the same, to whose soft
pleadings I had yielded a young heart, and renounced the sacred
allegiance which a father claims and merits? That fevered hand,
too,--was it the ardent glow which warms the husband when he hastens
to the home of her he loves? Why this strange fancy for darkness
and concealment? The coming and the conduct of Seymour were equally
mysterious, and I dreaded to ask my husband the cause of this ominous
and unexpected return.

But I was not left long in suspense,--Seymour half drained the
flask;--and habits so temperate before, appeared to have undergone a
rapid change; for he drank like a man whose shattered nerves require
some powerful stimulus.

“Julia,” he said, “you did not expect this visit?”

“Indeed, I did not.”

“Nor when I left you did I anticipate that my return would be so sudden.
Circumstances, which for a time must remain unexplained, have rendered
it imperative that I should claim you, and our marriage no longer shall
be secret.”

“Heaven be praised!” I murmured.

“To-night, Julia, you shall go with me.”

“To-night! impossible! My father’s proud, he never would consent that
his daughter should steal from her home.”

“Your father? He shall know nothing of it. No, Julia, we must leave the
cottage privately; and, for a brief season, duty to the parent must give
place to the stronger claims of wedded love.”

“Am I dreaming? Seymour,--what would you have me do? Desert my father
heartlessly, and leave the good old man without humbling myself at his
feet, and begging the pardon I require,--the forgiveness he would grant?
Fly from this once happy home!--‘Twould break my father’s heart.--I’ll
never do it.”

“Then, Julia, we part for ever.”

“Part for ever! Seymour. Do I hear aright? Is this, indeed, your voice?
and do _you_ tell her who proved her love at the expense of filial
duty, that she must either fly from her home like a guilty woman, or be
deserted by the man who led her into error?”

Seymour perceived the threat of parting had produced a different effect
to what he had expected, and at once he changed his tone to that of
entreaty and persuasion; and, with admirable tact, appealed to my
feelings and my love. He pleaded that the separation from my father
would be but brief. I should return united to one whose position in
society was far above my own. My parent’s anger would be shortlived, and
his sorrow would be turned into joy. Where a woman’s heart is advocate,
her mind is easily convinced. I yielded a reluctant consent; and before
we parted, it was arranged that in two hours I should be ready to
accompany him, and quit a happy home to follow the fortunes of an
unknown lover. I packed some clothes, and addressed an exculpatory
letter to my father, breaking to him as gently as I could, the sad
tidings that his daughter had deserted him. Many a tear blistered the
paper while I wrote. He was in bed--possibly sleeping. I stole softly
down to place the billet on his table--but he heard the door unclose,
and inquired “if that were Julia!”

“Yes, my father; I come to say, Good night.”

The old man kissed me tenderly; and with unusual solemnity muttered as
I left the room, “Child of my heart; may God for ever bless thee!” They
were the last words I ever heard him speak.

What followed may be briefly told. At the appointed hour Seymour was
waiting, and unperceived, we quitted the village in a vehicle he had
procured. We travelled all night; and when morning was breaking, my
husband discharged the cart, and we entered an obscure inn to obtain
the rest and refreshment which to both were wanting. The morning light,
feeble at first, grew stronger; and I nearly fainted, when for the first
time I remarked the altered appearance of my husband. His light brown
hair, once so sedulously attended to, was clipped short, and the very
colour changed to raven blackness, and his skin was bronzed like that of
a gipsy. Formerly, he dressed with simple elegance; but now his clothes
were actually shabby, and put on with the marked indifference of a man
who is reckless of appearances. He had no luggage with him--the few
articles he possessed were tied up in a little bundle.

I felt assured that some terrible reverse had overtaken him; and in
this sad hour recollected the evil auguries of my uncle Josiah. But my
situation was hopeless. The last rash action was far beyond recall; and
mustering a desperate resolution, I determined to bow to my destiny, and
share the fate of my ill-starred husband. One thing I believed, that
the worst was known, and we had descended fortune’s ladder to the lowest
step. I was wrong: the extent of my debasement remained still to be
disclosed.

We appeared to wander over the country without any settled object;
and provided the route led from the metropolis, my husband seemed
indifferent whither our footsteps turned.

A fortnight passed, and we still continued to pursue what appeared to me
would prove a sad and endless pilgrimage. One evening, after a fatiguing
walk, we found ourselves settled in a road-side ale-house. Both required
some rest, and we looked forward to a comfortable night, for the house
was clean, and our reception had been civil. Alas! we had already
experienced how much an inn’s civility depends upon the appearance of
those who claim admittance! Our resources were reduced to a few pounds;
and my soiled dress and Seymour’s care-worn countenance proclaimed
our poverty at once, and by more than one landlord we had been
unceremoniously rejected.

While supper was being prepared, Seymour stretched himself upon a bench
beneath a spreading elm which stood before the door, and I remained at
a window of the room to which we had been introduced on our arrival. A
newspaper was lying on the table. I took it up, and for a few minutes
glanced carelessly across its columns. Suddenly, my attention was
fearfully awakened, my eyes were fascinated to one spot,--a scorching
lire shot through my brain,--I read the fatal paragraph a second
time,--fainted,--and dropped upon the floor.

When I recovered I found myself in bed; Seymour was beside me; I looked
wildly at him for a moment, and then, as if something horrible had
blasted my sight, I buried my head beneath the coverings; Seymour knelt
beside the bed, implored me to be calm, swore he would conceal nothing,
owned he was a scoundrel, a betrayer--his life was at my disposal--and
the sooner it was forfeited the better. After I had been carried to
my room he had searched the paper, and read there that fatal paragraph
which had disclosed to me the secret of his crime. Merciful Heaven!
Smith, the supposed suicide, and my husband, were the same!

It might have been supposed, that now fully conscious of his infamy,
I would have deserted him at once and left Seymour to his fate.
In seducing me into a private marriage, he had practised a cruel
imposition; and in persuading me, under false assurances, to quit my
father’s house and share his felon fortunes, his conduct had been base
and savage beyond all pardon. Yet, some secret yearning of my heart,
whispered that he should not be abandoned; and though Smith, the branded
criminal, was before me, I could not forget how ardently I had once
loved the gay and fascinating Seymour. I had sacrificed myself to him at
the altar; my vow of duty and obedience was recorded, and I desperately
resolved to share his fate--wretched as that fate must be.

The remainder of my sad history is but a detail of sorrow and
misfortune. I dare not dwell upon it--if I did, my brain would madden.
Before six months elapsed after my evasion from the village, news
reached England that the frigate into which William had entered a
volunteer, in the ardour of pursuit, had become embayed upon the coast
of France, and, attacked at fearful advantage, she had been fought
with desperate valour to the last, and had gone down with England’s
unconquered banner flying at her mast-head, and with the greater portion
of her gallant crew. In the return of the killed, my brother’s name was
found.

Need I tell you that his brave boy’s loss--his daughter’s base
desertion--were more than the old man could bear? They broke my father’s
heart; and a few months since--(she paused, gasped as if something
choked her utterance, and then in a hollow whisper, added)--he died!
_Who was his murderess?_

I must end these sickening disclosures. For a year, my outcast husband
and myself wandered over the country, under the assumed name of
Montague. We joined a company of strollers, and in our erratic course of
life we crossed the sea. No criminal, I sincerely believe, felt deeper
contrition for his manifold offendings than my felon husband. The sting
of remorse struck him to the heart; he pined away; and cold, and wet,
and hunger, completed what mental suffering had begun, he fell into a
rapid consumption--and it was quite evident to me that he was hurrying
to the only haven of repose reserved for him--the grave.

He died; but death to the outcast was a boon. Faithful to the last, I
remained until his parting sigh escaped. These hands closed his eyes;
and I saw him interred as a pauper in the most neglected corner of an
obscure churchyard. Had he no mourner? Yes; he had _one_. I forgot his
crimes, and all the misery he had wrought me; and the outcast’s deserted
grave was sprinkled with the tears of the woman he had betrayed.

The fosterer was deeply affected. He pressed the poor mourner’s hand,
and strove to cheer and comfort her.

“Julia!” he said, “What do you intend to do? Where do you purpose going?
May I protect you?”

She raised her eyes, and gave him a look of gratitude, but shook her
head.

“Are you returning home, Julia?”

“I am indeed about to seek a home,” she replied, with a long deep sigh.
“It must be sought beside my father’s grave; and that once found, I’ll
die there! Hush! footsteps are approaching; and now to resume a weary
journey, and--a last one!”

She rose, went to the little basin, and dipping her hands in the cooling
water, bathed her burning temples, and washed away the traces of her
tears. Marc Antony in silence lifted the bundle, and the youthful
travellers once more gained the high road, when two persons, wayfaring
like themselves, approached them.



CHAPTER II. A GENERAL DISCOVERY.



                   _“I was ta’en for him, and he for me,

                   And thereupon these errors are arose._”

                        Shakspere.

|While Mark Antony and his companion are on the road, we must leave
the man to take care of himself, and returning to the master, inquire
whether in the interim any particular “ups and downs” had occurred in
the fortunes of myself, Mr. Hector O’Halloran. I was left in bed--and
where could a safer place be found wherein to deposit a light-headed
young gentleman? But every body knows that general rules are not without
exceptions--and, the circumstances considered, by which I had obtained
possession of the quaker’s dormitory, I feel assured that the gentle
reader will wish me a safe deliverance from the same.

I will not enter into minute details of how the false positions of
myself and Samuel Pryme were finally detected; but in the parlance
of Tony Lumpkin’s respectable friend, who never danced a bear to
unfashionable music, will sum them up in “a concatenation accordingly,”
 namely, the sleepy soliloquy of the chief butler of the worthy quaker.

Jack Costigan was one of those gifted individuals who sleep at pleasure.
He had a light conscience and a heavy head; and it there was one mortal
annoyance that he abominated above the rest, it was to have any portion
of “nature’s sweet restorative” abridged. Twice had his slumbers been
invaded. He had let in one master dead drunk, and admitted the other,
who had been belated. These were grievous visitations; but, like other
misfortunes, they were over; and determined to make up, if possible, for
broken sleep, Mr. Costigan once more sought his pillow, and for a season
had been buried in “dreamless slumberings.” Alas! this Elysian state of
sweet forgetfulness was presently dispelled. In successive vollies, sand
struck the casement sharply; and “every pause between,” _a sotto voice_
appeal fell sluggishly upon the sleeper’s ear, requiring admission to
the garrison.

Now this was more than flesh and blood could stand. To two masters, as
we said before, the butler had given admission, and both were disposed
of as Christian men should be; and, as the fact is clearly understood
in Ireland, and upon parliamentary authority too, that nothing can be in
two places at once--barring a bird--it was quite clear that neither of
the Prymes could be at one and the same time in bed and in the street.
Of course, the intruder must be a stranger: he was on the right side
to run away, namely, the wrong side of the hall-door--and there let
him remain. Having come to this discreet resolution, and consigned the
unknown to the especial care of that personage more genteelly known as
“the gentleman in black,” Mr. Costigan once more turned on his pillow,
determined to all further appeals to play deaf adder, and sleep like a
watchman during the little time now left him.

But the stranger would not be denied. A sharper volley rattled against
the windows, and a voice came down the area, and softly but distinctly
pronounced, “John Costigan, I pray thee to arise, and let me in--I am
thy friend.”

“Arrah, then, feaks,” observed the butler with a desperate yawn, “that’s
my own name, sure enough; but to the divil I pitch such friendship,
whoever ye are. I see that I’ll never stand the place; for of all the
dens I ever was in, for a racketty hole this quaker’s bates them
hollow. Wasn’t I for three months second waiter at the ‘Free and asy’ in
Roscrea; and when the Blazers would tatter the house once a fortnight,
why a man could get a little sleep, while the damage was repairin’; but
here, there’s nothing but batteration. In tumbles the young chap blind
drunk, and nearly breaks my back carryin’ him up stairs. Then in rowls
the ould sinner, just off the ran-tan, wid a cock-and-bull story in his
mouth about a broken coach, to blind that stiff-backed gentlewoman that
owns him. Death and ‘nages! what a chate he is!--if one didn’t know his
trick, he might think butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth--he’s so fair
spoken: the ould decaver!”

Here a shower of sand interrupted Mr. Costigan’s soliloquy.

“Asy, bad luck to ye! Do you mane to smash the glass, ye thief? Wait
till I git the breeches on, and maybe ye won’t git a fla in ye’r ear for
disturbin’ an honest tradesman like myself.”

Having slipped on his nether garment, the butler unlocked the area door,
as from that position he could hold safer converse, having the palisades
between him and the intruder.

Never did an unhappy quaker find greater difficulty to establish his
identity; for Mr. Costigan was not an impartial judge, he having already
fully determined to reject all evidence the claimant might adduce. But
one doubt presented itself to the worthy butler--could the person he had
carried up to bed have been a phantom? Oh, no; the burden was “too, too,
solid flesh,”--a fact his aching back attested.

“Of a truth, friend Costigan,” said the youth, “I am thy master’s son.”

“Arrah, _na boolish!_” returned the incredulous pantler.

“Open the wicket,” pursued the suppliant; “thy look is good-natured; and
wouldst thou expose me to my father’s anger?”

“Arrah, none of ye’r soft solder with me,” responded Mr. Costigan.
“Divil a toe you’ll put into the house, good nor bad. Be off wid ye;
give ye’r rags a gallop, or, be this book, I’ll charge ye on the watch.”

The loud tone in which the indignant butler repudiated the real
Simon Pure had reached his father’s ears, and brought the _tête-à-tête_
to a close. The window opened; and Mr. Pryme demanded, “What caused the
noise beneath?”

“Nothing,” returned Mr. Costigan; “only here’s a rambler on the street,
that, right or wrong, wants me to let him in, and swares he’s a son of
yours into the bargain.”

“Who art thou, friend? demanded the elder quaker.”

“Thy erring son,” returned a voice, choked with shame, and almost
inaudible.

“What do I hear?--Thou, my son?”

“Impossible!” exclaimed a female voice; and Mrs. Pryme’s nightcap came
popping through another window. “Our son Samuel is long since a-bed.”

Alas! one glance confirmed the identity of the applicant; and to Mr.
Pryme the discovery was most painful--while it passed the understanding
of Mr. Costigan altogether. Doubtingly, at the bidding of his master,
the butler unclosed the door, while the old man descended to the hall
to receive his erring child, and learn the particulars of an occurrence
with which so much mystery seemed to be involved.

To the heart of a fond father, how irresistibly come the pleadings of a
first offence! The word of pardon passed the old man’s lips--the young
offender was folded in his parent’s arms--and it would be doubtful to
determine, whether the happier of the twain was he who received, or he
who had extended forgiveness.

All this was as it should be; but what the devil was to become of me?
Indeed, my hour of retribution was at hand--for the reconciliation
was scarcely completed, before it was intimated to Mr. Pryme, that an
unknown guest had honoured the mansion with his company,--that he was at
present sound asleep--that his reception had been affectionate--but it
was not considered necessary to add, that he had received more decided
tokens of regard, and been kissed by half the female portion of the
establishment.

To ascertain who this mysterious visitor might be, Mr. Pryme proceeded
at once to my apartment, accompanied by his henchman, Jack Costigan,
who, to guard against danger or surprise, had provided himself with the
kitchen poker. No ally could have been better affected than the butler;
for, by future good service, he was anxious to redeem the error he had
committed in rejecting an heir-apparent from his father’s house, as
unceremoniously as if he had been the tax-gatherer.

I laboured under the stupid inertion which succeeds a drunken debauch,
and was buried in profound repose. Unheard and unchallenged, the quaker
approached my bed, while the butler unclosed the window-shutters. The
quaker touched my shoulder gently--and in a voice as calm as if he were
addressing an honoured guest, inquired, “Friend, art thou sleeping?”

Fancying that I was ‘wakened by my servant to attend morning drill, I
irreverently responded,--

“Curse all parades! Tell Sergeant Skelton to go to Bath, and let the
Adjutant go after him!”

“Swear not,” returned Mr. Pryme; “but say, how wilt thou excuse
thyself?”--

“Oh!” I replied, still dreaming of drill and duty, “I’ll leave that to
you: say I have a head-ache--a tooth-ache--or any ache you please. In
short, tell any lie that will answer best!”

“Friend, thou dost neither comprehend my meaning, nor I thine;” replied
the old gentleman.

At the moment, Mr. Costigan managed to unclose the shutters;--a flood
of sunshine streamed in, lightened the apartment suddenly, and at once
dispelled my slumberings. I started, like a guilty thing, bolt upright
in the bed, and encountered full front, the burly form of the honest
quaker; while Mr. Costigan, poker in hand, remained some paces in the
rear, ready to aid and support his master on the first indication of
hostilities.

“My name is Obadiah Pryme--Friend, what is thine?”

The question was a regular choker. I was called on to become my
own accuser, and stand before my father’s chosen representative, a
self-convicted _roué_. Of the _finale_ of my career, what goodly promise
did its opening give! my first introduction to my guardian--a rascally
invasion of his premises,--and, were I pressed to extenuate the offence,
I could not, with Jack Falstaff, even plead that I had not “kissed the
keeper’s daughter.”

Trifles hurry on great events,--and a recommendation from Mr. Costigan,
that I should be sent direct to Newgate, roused my latent pride, and
re-established courage, that was oozing fast from my finger-ends.

“Peace, John!” returned the quaker; “Thy name, friend?”

“Is one, Sir, not unknown to you!”

“Indeed!” said the old man, with some surprise.

“I am called Hector O’Halloran!”

“Protect us!” exclaimed Mr. Pryme, with hands and eyes upturned; “Wert
thou then the companion of my erring boy, and partook in last night’s
godless revelry?”

“He was not _my companion_,” I answered boldly; “but _I_ his tempter.
I led him to commit the folly that he did--and the blame of all should
rest with me.”

The quaker gave me a benignant look, took my hand, and pressed it
warmly--and next moment my pardon was pronounced.

“Hector O’Halloran,” he said, “thy candour redeems thy crime. He who
so freely owns a fault will probably henceforward eschew the ways of
foolishness. Sleep; the morning yet is young. I am thankful that the
son of my ancient friend was fortunately brought to a home where he was
placed in safety. Thou shalt be called ere breakfast-hour arrives.”

Once more the shutters were closed. The quaker departed, and I was left
to marvel at the luck by which I had undeservedly escaped the pains and
penalties of this my first delinquency.

I slumbered away two hours, dreaming of Charleys’ lanterns, poles,
and stolen kisses, until my “man tapped at the door” with a carpetbag
containing a full equipment. Indeed, it was fortunate for me that Mr.
Pryme had sent for my servant and a refit; for the formal habiliments in
which I had masqueraded on the preceding evening now cut a sorry figure,
as John examined them one by one. The coat was changed into a spencer;
for, in the _melée_, body and skirts had parted company,--while that
garment, politely termed unmentionable, exhibited so many compound
fractures, that the tailor would have been a daring artist who would
have undertaken the repairs. Having completed my toilet, my valet took
his departure, just as the quaker’s butler announced that the ladies
were waiting for me in the parlour.

[Illustration: 0128]

When the summons to the breakfast-table was delivered, I felt it a first
draft upon the assurance of a bashful Irishman, and I would have freely
sacrificed a month’s pay, to have been permitted to slip off without any
flourish of trumpets. It was bad enough to face my worthy mentor,--him,
to whom especially both my morality and expenditure had been consigned.
But it was the quaker’s womankind whom I had most cause to dread--ladies
swindled out of a kiss under false pretences,--how the deuce was I
to encounter the chaste indignation, which the recollection of that
felonious _accolade_ would assuredly call forth? My foot stuck to the
last step of the staircase, as if it had been glued there; and there
I stood, in the comfortable position of a person who is ashamed to
retreat, and afraid to go forward. The chief butler, however, brought
matters to a crisis. Emerging from the lower regions by a back stair,
he entered the breakfast-room, and I had the satisfaction to hear him
announce, in a voice intended only to be audible to those within,
that “the drunken gentleman was in the hall,” accompanied with
a-running-commentary of, “What impudence some people have!”

The remark, under existing circumstances, was not an encouraging one;
and it would have afforded me unspeakable delight to have seen Mr.
Costigan under the bastinado. Yet nothing, indeed, but that quality
which it was insinuated I possessed extensively, would bear me through;
and, after invoking the powers of impudence, in I desperately ventured.

But to my offendings mercy had been extended. Had I been an expected
visitor, Mr. Pryme’s reception could not have been kinder,--and his
stiff helpmate inquired, “Had I rested well?” Rachael,--oh! _how_ that
plain peaked muslin, which vainly strove to hide a profusion of auburn
hair, became her! She, sweet girl, bade me a timid good-morrow, and
then, blushing to the very brows, dropped her dovelike eyes upon the
table-cloth. All this was passing strange--strange that the felonious
invasion of a quiet domicile at midnight should elicit no
objection--and, stranger still--the kiss of peace appeared to have
totally escaped the memories of all parties save myself, implicated in
the transaction!

Breakfast ended--the old lady withdrew--and Mr. Pryme asked me to walk
with him to his counting-house. Requesting leave of absence for ten
minutes to arrange some domestic matters before he should leave home,
the quaker retired from the parlour, and Rachael and I were left to
entertain each other as we best could.

For a short time our mutual position was embarrassing. I did not know
exactly what to say; and the fair puritan maintained a solemn silence,
with her sparkling eyes fixed steadily upon the carpet. It was quite
apparent that I was expected to lead off; and, after an awkward pause,
the ice at last was broken.

“Miss Pryme”--I commenced.

“Friend,” returned the young lady, “I am not thus termed; I am simply
called Rachael.”

“What a pretty name!” I replied, for want of something else to say.

“It was that of my grandmother,” returned the lady.

“Well--Rachael,” I continued, “I fear my late visit occasioned some
confusion. Certainly the mistakes of last night were singular and
ridiculous.”

“They were, indeed,” replied the pretty maiden, raising her eyes, which,
for the first time, now encountered mine; and, by a mutual impulse,
we both burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Egad, we were
thinking of the same thing; and the remembrance of that confounded kiss
of peace had thus demolished the gravity of both.

“Rachael,” I said, catching one of the prettiest hands imaginable in
mine, “I must confess my offence, and throw myself for pardon on your
clemency.”

“I have nothing to forgive,” replied the fair one, demurely.

“To its fullest extent I own my crime. The temptation, dear Rachael, was
too great to be withstood--but, as a proof of returning probity, I will
restore what was fraudulently obtained.”

“Hector,” returned the blushing girl, while an arch smile ‘play’d round
her lip and brighten’d her soft eye,’--“I admire thy honesty; but I have
heard my father say, that it is generally better to put up with a loss,
than seek restitution by doubtful means. Therefore, my friend, we had
better leave matters as they are.”

“Heaven forbid,” I replied, “that I should abuse such generosity.”

“Hector, I am ready for thee now,” exclaimed the deep voice of Mr.
Pryme.

“Farewell, dear Rachael; I have always heard that honesty was
politic--but faith, I never thought till now that it was half so
pleasant.”

“Friend Hector,” said the fair girl, with a look of rich _espièglerie_,
as she hurried from the room, towards which the creaking of her father’s
shoes announced that he was approaching,--“probity may be strained too
far. For the future, content thyself with returning what thou owest,
but add not interest to the debt that even a usurer would scruple to
receive. Farewell. May thy honesty continue; for sudden conversions are
always suspicious.”

She ran, laughing, from the apartment; and, in a few moments, Mr. Pryme
summoned me to accompany him.

At his counting-house I found a packet which had arrived from my father
by the morning’s post; and with surprise I found that it contained an
order for my starting for London without delay. He had been privately
apprised by a friend in the War-office, that an exchange might be
effected with a lieutenant who was about to quit the Peninsula, from ill
health. This would give me the full step; and I was directed to obtain a
leave between returns--repair to town at once--and deliver, personally,
letters my father had enclosed to certain functionaries at the Horse
Guards.

I promptly obeyed the order, the colonel granted my request, and Don
Juan like, I parted with Mr. Pryme--

                        “Bade my valet pack some things

               According to direction, then received

               A lecture and some money.

*****

               A letter, too, he gave (I never read it)

               Of good advice, and two or three of credit.”

Next morning I called at the quaker’s house to say _adieu_ in form,
and found the ladies at home. I sate for a long half-hour; but had I
remained till doomsday, I fancy Mrs. Pryme would have knitted on.
At last I took a ceremonious leave; and--confound all stiff-backed
gentlewomen who won’t leave young people to themselves--Rachael and I
parted without the kiss of peace.



CHAPTER XIII. MARK ANTONY IN LOVE FIRST, AND IN TROUBLE AFTERWARDS.



               “Oh, Heaven! that such companions thou’dst unfold,

               And put in every honest hand a whip,

               To lash the rascal naked through the world.”

                        Shakspere

|Fate seemed determined that on the world’s stage mine should be a
hurried _entree_; and, when I had only caught a glimpse of passing life,
that my bark should be launched at once upon the current of existence,
to float or flounder as it could. Short as my career had been, it had
not passed unmarked by incident. To fortune I was already indebted for
more than one deliverance; and believing them to be an earnest of future
civilities on the lady’s part, I resolved to take the world as it came,
put my trust in the blind goddess of the wheel, and prove the proverbial
good luck which mostly follows in the footsteps ol an Irishman.
Willingly, therefore, I obeyed my father’s orders, and on the following
evening quitted the Emerald Isle, on the pleasant and profitable pursuit
of “the bubble reputation.”

It had surprised me that, hitherto, no communication had reached me
from Mark Antony O’Toole, touching the adventures which had befallen him
since his disappearance from Kilcullen. There, his evasion, as my father
mentioned in Iris letter, had occasioned a marvellous sensation. Miss
Kitty O’Dwyer, as a mere matter of course, having been expected to
commit suicide, or die broken-hearted within a fortnight. Neither event,
however, as the fancy say, “came off.” Kitty continued in rude health,
and the fosterer’s movements remained still wrapped in mystery. But,
as it turned out, Mark Antony’s career was singularly connected with
my own--the same star appeared to rule our destinies--both were
simultaneously leaving the land of the west, apparently at the beck
of fortune’s finger; and of the twain, which pursuit was the more
crotchetty would have been a question; the fosterer, levanting for love,
and I, for glory.

We left Mark Antony and his fair companion on the road, with the world
before them, and some wayfarers, like themselves, in the rear. Whoever
the travellers might prove to be who approached the dell where the
fosterer and his friend had refreshed themselves, it was quite evident
that the school where their philosophy had been acquired was of any
order but the crying one. One manly voice trolled a jovial drinking
song, to which two others occasionally bore a bui’den. As a sharp
turning in the road, skirted with thick copsewood, masked the stranger’s
advance, their merry laugh and reckless gaiety told that Father Care
was not of “the companie and their calling and character might have been
shrewdly guessed from passing conversation and snatches of song.

“I wonder, Pat,” said one of the wayfarers, “to see you in such spirits
after parting with Nelly Blake as if your heart was breaking. Neither
of ye cared a button at leaving me watching for a long hour at the other
side of the hedge like a poacher, for fear the old priest would come out
and catch you philandering with his housekeeper. Lord, how you swore,
and she--poor girl!--believed it; but when you strove to cry and keep
her company, oh!--that was all but the death of me.”

“Well, Tom,” returned the second, “if I broke down at the weeping, you
will admit that I did not disgrace my calling, but swore like a trooper.
You’ll hardly believe how much that girl has bothered me. Hand me the
cruiskeen. Remember, Tom, for love there’s but one remedy,--and the
beauty of it is, that for every symptom it proves a certain cure,--hear
what the song says--

               “If you ere love a maid who your passion derides,

               Drink enough, you’ll find charms in a dozen besides,

               Drink more, and your victory then is complete,

               For you’ll fancy you love every girl that you meet.”

“Hallo!--who have we here? Talking of love, they seem to be a couple of
Cupid’s own. Egad, a nice girl,--and if I could but list her companion!
Lord, what shoulders he has for a pair of wings!”

In another minute the travellers were alongside the fosterer and his
friend. A civil greeting passed; and with that easy confidence with
which natives of the Emerald Isle hold communication with each other,
it was speedily ascertained that the route of the united party was the
same, until it reached a road-side inn, where the strangers announced it
to be their intention of halting for the night.

The dress and personal appearance of the wayfarers was remarkable:
one wore the uniform of a militia-man; another the dark clothing of a
student; but from the costume of the third, it was impossible to form
any opinion of what his calling might be.

He was a tall and stout-made personage, apparently of middle age,
with sandy hair and whiskers, partially intersprinkled with grey. His
countenance was particularly good-humoured--and in his light blue eyes
there was an expression of drollery and acuteness. He wore a hare-skin
cap, a dark-coloured shooting-jacket, short tights, and leather gaiters.
He was provided with a goat-skin knapsack--two wiry terriors followed
closely at his heels, and a _dhudeene_ and oak-stick completed his
appointments. The style also by which his comrades addressed him added
to the mystery of his profession: the soldier addressing him as “_ta
Copteeine_,” * and the student merely calling him _Shemus Rhua_. **

     * The Captain.

     ** Red James.

If in the captain’s _sobriquets_ and outer man there was anything
embarrassing, there was nothing about the soldier-like concealment. The
chevrons on his arm told his rank, and the pack upon his shoulder his
regiment. After announcing that he was on the route to embark with a
draught of volunteers for the Peninsula, he thus noticed his companions.

“This,” he said, pointing to the student, “is the making of a priest;
but if I can persuade him, he’ll not give them any trouble in Maynooth.
What a sin it would be to spoil a fellow cut out for a flanker; and on
a shoulder intended to carry a grenade, to hang a surplice. Leave
your breviary to your old uncle, and take _brown bess_ in place of it.
Spain’s the place, Tom. Egad, how the old priest will stare when he
finds out that I have whisked away his nephew.”

“Faith,” replied the student, “the only wonder is you did not whisk away
his niece.”

“No, no--Ellen and I must leave matters as they are until we return.
Then, I’ll marry your pretty cousin, Tom, and we’ll share Father
Dominick’s purse honestly between us. What say ye, captain?”

“Why that you must put the old man under the turf first. He would not
part with a dollar to make a colonel of ye.”

“Well, priests cannot live for ever. But whither are you bound, honest
Shemus? Are you on a medical excursion at present?”

“Is this gentleman a doctor?” inquired Mark Antony.

“He’s a man of many trades,” returned the sergeant, with a laugh. “With
Humbert he was a captain; a doctor afterwards; poaches a little now and
then; bleeds old women; ties flies; breaks dogs; cures children; kills
rats; and, in a word, is generally accomplished. His titles are numerous
as his tastes; and he still holds the same rank he had when he was out
with the French in ninety-eight.”

The captain smiled at the sergeant’s description; and the travellers
jested, laughed, and sang until they reached the public-house, where
they were to separate from the fosterer and his companion.

While the soldier, the student, and the rat-catcher settled themselves
in the kitchen, Mark Antony and the wandering girl retired to a private
room. Both were heavily cast down, for in a brief space they were to
part, and probably for ever.

“And is your resolution unchangeable, Julia?” said Mark Antony, as he
clasped her hand.

The girl burst into tears, and faintly answered in the affirmative.

“Hear me, Julia,” said the fosterer, “before you decide; and believe
that every word that passes my lips comes directly from the heart. You
say that you have no relations; no one to shelter and protect you; none
to love you. Julia, why then reject me? Why should we not unite our
fates and battle with the world as we can? Alas! I have nothing to
offer you but a warm heart and a stout arm. I’ll work for you--toil for
you--fight for you. Will you not then let me love you, Julia?”

God help the worthy fosterer! With all his soul he was ready to commit
matrimony on the moment; and without the slightest knowledge of the
means by which he might secure a living for himself, he would have
freely undertaken the maintenance of another still more helpless.

“Mark,” said the wanderer, for the first time calling him by that name,
“I value your kindness as I should; and think not, in declining to
accept your generous offers, that I am cold to your deserving. Far from
it. If any happiness were reserved for me, I feel that it would be
in uniting my wrecked and wretched fortunes to yours. Nay more; had I
enough for both, and that hereafter this blighted heart could ever love
again, I would press you to accept my wealth and my affections; for I
might safely conclude that with him who offered a husband’s protection
to my wretchedness, under altered circumstances, I could not fail in
being happy. But no; I will not swamp your young fortunes with mine. My
resolution is already formed--and we must part.”

Again the ardent Irishman pressed his suit upon the wanderer; but,
true to her determination, the fosterer’s overtures were gratefully but
firmly rejected.

“We have yet,” she said with a sigh? “three long long miles to travel.
Oh! how weary will they be!--for my heart grows heavier and heavier
still!--Ha! what mischief is abroad? Look--yonder stands that ruffian
Jew--and see, he points his finger to this window.”

“Who and what is the scoundrel?” inquired the fosterer.

“I cannot tell,” returned the girl, “he joined a strolling party, from
which I separated ere I met you. They are sought by outcasts like him
and me. Another vagabond who accompanied him, in a drunken quarrel,
taxed the Jew with being familiarized to every crime, and added, that
he was a returned convict. What his designs regarding me were I cannot
tell. When I left the wandering company, he followed--but, thank Heaven!
you came--and if he meant me harm, your protection saved me.”

In the mean time, the Jew had disappeared, and Mark Antony endeavoured
to persuade his companion that this second meeting was accidental.
The girl shook her head. Steps ascended the stairs, the door was
unceremoniously opened, and Mr. Montague entered the room, attended by
two men, who announced themselves to be officers of justice.

The girl turned pale as death; while the blood rushed to Mark Antony’s
brows, as he stepped boldly between his companion and the strangers.

“Fear nothing, love!” exclaimed the fosterer. “By heaven! I’ll murder
the scoundrel on the spot, if he attempts to touch you with a finger.”

“I told you,” remarked the Israelite, “what a desperate offender he was.
That’s the man that robbed me of my purse, and that’ere woman, a pal of
his, assisted.”

“Infamous liar!” exclaimed the accused female; while Mark Antony caught
up the poker, and prepared for rebutting the accusation with other
proofs than argument. The constables called for assistance; the Jew
retreated through the door; and the sergeant, the student, and the
rat-catcher rushed up-stairs, followed by the host of idlers who are
ever found loitering about the precincts of an Irish inn.

A scene of indescribable confusion succeeded. All asked questions, to
which none would vouchsafe a reply. The Jew solemnly protested he had
been robbed; the accused indignantly repelled the charge of felony;
while the constables insisted that all concerned should immediately
repair to the residence of a neighbouring magistrate, there to be dealt
with as appertained to justice. The whole party accordingly set forth
to undergo-the ordeal of the law’s inquiry. Mark Antony and his
fair friend, under the especial patronage of their quondam
road-companions--the sergeant, the student, and the rat-catcher; and the
Israelite aided, counselled, and consoled by the village Dogberries, to
whom, in the event of a conviction, the Jew had been, as Jews generally
are, most liberal--in promise.

On reaching the domicile of the Justice, the _posse comitatus_ halted in
front of the hall door; for, as Mr. Blundel had just fabricated a fourth
tumbler, and the water was of consistent heat, some time must elapse
before the mixture could be conveniently disposed of. At last, the
prisoners were summoned to the presence; and the accused, being duly
arraigned, the complainant was invited to detail the wrongs he had
received.

At his first interview with the fosterer, the Jew had endeavoured to
sink as much of his slang as he could effect; but now his own character
was to be supported, and his address to the seat of justice was in the
peculiar parlance of his people.

“Vy, ye see, yer vorchip, that my name is Reuben Levi. I’m a jeweller
by trade, and an honest man along of it. I comes to Hierland with some
goods; sells vot I had at a loss to get home agin; and with five pound
in paper, and three guineas and a half in goold, I was returnin
to Dublin. If the money’s mine, it’s in a green silk purse, and no
mistake.”

The Jew paused; and a reference to Mark Antony’s pocket confirmed the
statement of Mr. Montague.

“Vell, yer vorchip--ye sees I tells nothin but vots true--I was joggin
on by a lonely road, and who overtakes me but this young voman, and
that’ere chap in the welveteen fie-for-shames. I twigged them, yer
vorchip, at once; for he’s von of the swell mob, and she no better than
she ought to be. Vell, they fastens themselves upon me for a while,
until I sits down upon a ditch to rest myself, and ged rid on’em. Vell,
down she pops upon my knee and asks me for a trifle, while her pal
comes behind, and draws me clean as a whistle. I tries to grip my purse,
but--he’s a milling cove, yer vorchip--and in he pops his bunch of
fives, darkens this here bye, and laves me flat upon my back. Off they
goes like winky--and when I comes to myself, neither robber nor voman
was to be seen.”

The easy audacity with which the Hebrew impostor detailed the
particulars of the alleged robbery, actually paralyzed the accused.
The sergeant looked confounded; the student shook his head; and the
rat-catcher alone listened with incredulity, and preserved his faith
unshaken. As to the worthy justice, no doubt of the fosterer’s guilt
remained upon his mind; and all that puzzled him was, whether he could
safely convict the girl as an accomplice. The fatal order to issue the
mittimus was on his lips, when the Israelite addressed himself to “the
king’s poor esquire,” and, as it appeared, it was mercifully in arrest
of judgment.

“In speaking a few words to the worthy beak, I mean his vorchipful
honour, I hopes the veakness of my caracter will be excused, vich vos in
bein too tender-hearted from the werry eradel. I vould’nt jist wish to
have the girl clapped under the screw, nor even that’ere chap should be
lagged for life, though he’s fly to everything, from thimble-riggin to
wilful murder. So, as the blunt’s got, if yer honour will let the voman
off, and only shop the cove as stole the purse for the trifle of a
fortnight, I’ll not insist on prosecution.”

While the unblushing Jew was delivering his humane appeal, the fosterer
grew pale with rage, the girl red with indignation. There appeared
nothing but “warder and fetters for the Graeme” as the justice was in
the very act of affixing his sign-manual to the committal, when lo!
a change came over the scene--the sound was heard of wheels stopped
suddenly--and next moment, a young man, in a sailor’s dress, sprang
into the room, and exclaiming, “Julia, my lost one, have I found
thee!”--folded the wanderer in his arms, and pressed her ardently to
his heart. On the girl, the appearance of the stranger seemed to have
produced emotions of greater violence; she uttered a wild shriek,
fainted on the sailor’s breast, and was borne by her new protector in a
state of insensibility from the hall of justice.

At this unexpected dênoûment all present appeared to be astounded. The
fosterer was lost in astonishment, and the magistrate equally surprised
to see a person on whom he was about to deal according to law, summarily
removed from his jurisdiction, and by a novel proceeding, by no means so
formal and yet very like a _habeas corpus_.

While this grand _scena_ was being enacted, a quieter, but not less
interesting episode was in progress in the corner; but we must leave
the reader in temporary suspense, as, with this occurrence, we intend to
commence another chapter.

[Illustration: 0137]



CHAPTER XIV. THE TABLES TURNED--THE SAILOR’S STORY.



                   “As thou urgest justice, be assur’d

               Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir’st.”

                        Shakspere.

|Proverbs may be musty matters; but take them generally, and how
admirably do they establish facts! “Between the cup and lip” slips are
frequent and, as events turned out, Mr. Montague, of comic celebrity,
was fated to point that moral.

Nothing could have been attended with more decisive success than
the villany of the Jew. His boundless audacity had imposed upon a
weak-headed country gentleman; and the information he had acquired at
the Cock and Punch-bowl by listening at the wanderer’s door, enabled him
to describe the property, alleged to have been stolen, with an accuracy
that induced the greater number of those who heard the charge, to
believe the story of the robbery confirmed. The hour of revenge was
come. The girl, deprived of her protector, and thrown loose upon
the world, would once more be at his mercy; and the Jew’s dark eyes
brightened with fiendish delight. The man who had crossed his schemes,
and treated him with contumely, would now be tenant of a prison; and the
woman who had turned from him with contempt, and rejected his overtures
with abhorrence, might soon be taught to feel that hatred often follows
fast upon the steps of love.

But what appeared to the Jew to be the hour of his triumph, proved
unexpectedly, that of retribution; for to mortal villany Providence
assigns a limit.

The sudden appearance of the sailor, and the confusion it had
occasioned, prevented the entrance of a second personage from being
generally observed. Indeed, he slided so quietly into the room, that
he seemed modestly endeavouring to avoid any particular attention.
The stranger was a stout well-proportioned man, of middle height, and
apparently of middle age; and from dress and appearance, it would have
been impossible to guess to what order of the body politic he especially
appertained. Except for a certain wide-awake expression of the face, he
might have passed current for a mail-coachman, a publican, or a drover.
Probably, to a horse-dealer he bore the closest affinity. He was dressed
in a blue coat with gilt buttons, and extensive skirts and pockets.
His vest was scarlet; his unmentionables drab kerseymere, to which
jockey-boots were added. Round his neck a spotted silk handkerchief was
knotted; and a white hat, with a remarkably broad brim, completed his
costume.

Every eye had been directed upon the sailor and the companion of Mark
Antony; but lie of the scarlet vest seemed unmoved by a scene that had
interested all besides. Indeed, he was a person on whom effect, such
as Napoleon would term “theatrical,” would have been absolutely thrown
away. His feelings were impervious even to a fainting fit; and he had no
more _sentiment_ about him than an oyster. Gliding behind the backs of
the spectators, he reached the spot whence Mr. Montague had delivered
his address to the man of worship, and stooping to the Jew’s ear,
whispered something which possessed the charm of a spell. To the very
lip, colour fled from the sallow countenance of the Israelite. He
appeared as motionless as if he had been mesmerized; while by a sort
of sleight-of-hand the red-vested operator united his wrists together,
quickly as if it had been done by magic, next moment it was discovered
that Mr. Montague was manacled. The stranger then handed a paper to
the gentleman upon the bench, with a request that he would “back that
warrant for the apprehension of the prisoner, Ikey Lazarus.”

Of all the descendants of “the Shallows” Mr. Blundell looked the
silliest. At last, however, he managed to comprehend that the Israelite
was a returned convict, and added his signature to the order for the
Jew’s arrest. The court, “in most admired disorder,” was broken up; the
runner retiring with his captive; the sergeant and his companions to
finish a compotation from which they had been unexpectedly disturbed;
and the fosterer to seek some tidings of his lost mistress, who, as he
was informed, had been removed by the sailor in a carriage to the inn.

“When consciousness returned, the poor wanderer found herself in the
same apartment from which, not an hour since, she had been removed on a
charge of felony. She unclosed her eyes. Was it an illusion? A look of
love was bent upon her pallid countenance--and a long lost brother held
her to his heart.

“William,” she murmured.

“Dear, dear, Julia,” returned the sailor, with a kiss.

“Am I waking?--are you _alive_, William?”

“Ay, girl,” replied the sailor, “and sound and hearty as English oak
itself.”

“‘Twas said you were dead--that you had been slain in battle. How came
you here? how have you escaped?”

“The story’s long, my sister. I’ll tell it to you presently. Enough; the
squall has now blown over; and, d----n it--we shall all be happy once
more.”

“No, no, no--I shall never know peace of mind. Would that I could be
forgiven!” and tears rolled in fast succession down the poor wanderer’s
cheeks.

“Forgiven!” exclaimed the sailor. “For what, Julia?--For being swindled
by the false story of a betrayer; and afterwards, with more than woman’s
love, clinging to the scoundrel who deceived you, until the grave closed
upon his crimes.”

“I have indeed,” said the girl, with a sigh, “suffered for my offending.
Oh, when I think of it, it almost maddens me! To have deserted my poor
father, broken the old man’s heart, and by my misconduct brought him to
the grave.” She paused, for sobs choked her utterance.

“You didn’t, God bless ye, break his heart,” exclaimed the sailor.
“Had you run off a dozen times, he wouldn’t have mattered it a stranded
rope-yarn. No, no, it was other disappointments that finished uncle
Josh.”

“_Finished uncle Josh?_” inquired the wanderer.

“Ay; he’s gone to Davy’s locker, and the village has been quiet ever
since. Three clients compromised their suits within one term; that
killed our uncle, and Josh never raised his head afterwards.”

“No, no, William--my father--my dear, dear, father--” she made a pause,
and then, in a suppressed voice, added, “Is _he_ not dead too?”

“Dead!” replied the sailor. “He must have died since morning. I left him
at a town ten miles off, while I came in pursuit of you, in company with
a Bow-street officer, who was on another track, but offered to assist in
your recovery.”

“Then,” exclaimed the girl, with breathless haste, “the death I read in
the newspaper--”

“Was that of our loving uncle. I suppose it was George Gripp that
inserted the old boy’s departure; for I believe the bailiff was the only
being who regretted him.”

“And shall I once more, William, see my dear, dear, father?” said the
actress.

“Ay, Julia, and before you sleep, the old man’s kiss shall welcome you,
and his blessing seal your pardon.”

To the hurried narrative of his sister, the warm-hearted sailor listened
with the deepest interest. The sufferings she had undergone; the death
of her betrayer; her deliverance from the Jew; the kindness of Mrs.
O’Leary, and the generous protection of the fosterer, all had their
excitement, and elicited from William Rawlings by turns an execration
or a burst of gratitude. No, wonder, therefore, that when Mark Antony
joined the wanderer and her new protector, his welcome was a warm one.
And yet how mingled in life’s history is pain and pleasure!--how soon is
unexpected happiness dashed with some latent regret! The prospect of an
immediate parting alloyed the triumph of success. Neither Mark Antony
nor the quarter-master’s daughter felt at ease; and a similar cause of
disquietude pressed heavily upon the breast of both. Under different
terms, the feeling was the same; the fosterer called it by the right
name--love; the lady by the wrong one--gratitude. Had the hearts of both
been analysed, the chymist would have had results perfectly the same.

“William,” said the sailor’s sister, “you have not yet told me by
what strange fortunes, one believed to be dead so long, has been again
restored to those who love him. Oh! how vividly does that fatal
evening return to memory, when you left your sister and your home. Alas!
William, had you but known how desperately I was circumstanced, you
would not have deprived me of my brother and my adviser.”

“That unregretted relative,” replied the sailor, “now in the grave,
occasioned the rash act I then committed. No shadow of blame could have
attached itself to me; for with the unfortunate homicide which occurred
that evening I was totally unconnected. My savage uncle, who should
have allayed my fears, alarmed me by hinting at the disgrace of
incarceration; and, with the full conviction of innocence, I was weak
enough to believe him. Hence, Julia, to evade an imaginary indignity, I
madly left my home--and that at a moment, too, when my presence was most
required. The adventures which befell me may interest you, my sister,
and I shall briefly narrate them.”


THE SAILOR’S STORY

I need not tell you, Julia, that, with whatever apparent firmness I
might have taken leave of you, to tear myself from a home, a parent, and
a sister that I loved so fondly, was a trial which taxed my fortitude to
its utmost extent. It is true, that I had been long weary of inaction,
and longing after those scenes of wild excitement which war every day
presents, and which to the ardent fancy of young minds are always so
engrossing. Yet I hesitated to take the step; for, in my pursuit of that
phantom, glory, how many objects of affection must be abandoned! The
accidental embarrassment arising from the smuggling outrage of the
evening confirmed me in a course already half resolved upon. I obeyed
the impulse; parted from you, love; and at midnight found myself on
board that gallant “thing of life,”--a British frigate.

Of her own noble class of vessels, the Harpy was among the finest;
and she had a picked crew, and dashing commander. Cæsar O’Brien was an
Irishman of humble family, and yet at the early age of twenty-four,
he found himself a post-captain. But to no underhand interest was
he indebted for his rapid preferment. His career had been gloriously
distinguished; he could look back upon it with honest pride, and
claim every step he got on the score of professional deserving. Justly
considered one of the ablest officers in the service, it was strange
that upon his merits his own crew held a divided opinion. The younger
portion declared him a man without a fault; the older, however,
discovered a failing in his character.--“The captain,” they complained,
“_had too much fight in him_. It was true, he had an Irishman’s good
luck; but, in the long run, it would bring him into trouble.”

To you, Julia, the details of sea-life would have little interest. We
were stationed off the coast of France; and from our captain’s daring
character, he had been intrusted with a sort of roving commission, and
allowed to employ the frigate almost as he pleased. During a six-months’
cruise, nothing, for brilliancy or effect, could exceed the services
he _had_ rendered to his country. In every French harbour the Harpy’s
exploits were known and her captain’s name associated with those of
England’s most daring and fortunate commanders.

From the moment I entered the frigate as a volunteer, I had been
fortunate enough to become a favourite with Captain O’Brien. In a
successful night-attack upon a battery and privateer, in which we
dismantled the one, and Cut out the other, my conduct was honourably
mentioned by the first lieutenant, and the captain’s clerk having been
killed on the occasion, I was promoted to fill the vacancy. In this
confidential situation I acquitted myself with credit--and to the hour
of his death, was treated by the warm-hearted Irishman more like an
equal than an inferior.

The period of our cruise had expired, and an order came for the frigate
to return to England and refit. At sunset, the vessel sent to relieve
us was seen in the distance; and before dark, she had exchanged numbers
with the Harpy. In all our gallant crew not one heavy heart could have
been discovered. After a daring and successful cruise, next morning the
frigate’s head would be turned to the white-cliffed island from which,
for nine months, we had been estranged; and all, from “the noblest
captain in the British fleet” to the smallest ship-boy, felt the charm
which attends a return to fatherland, and slept to dream of “England,
home, and beauty.”

Three hundred men rested that night in full security--and how-few were
fated to see another sunset! Morning dawned--the breeze was light; the
ocean mists rose rapidly; gradually the sea view enlarged; and every eye
turned in that direction where the ship, arrived from England, might
be expected to present herself. At last, a sail was announced from the
mast-head, and the Harpy’s course was altered towards the stranger’s.
In half-an-hour, the ship in sight was proclaimed by the look-out men
“a heavy frigate.” The private signal was made--some minutes passed--the
signal was unanswered--and every glass and eye were directed towards a
ship now ascertained to be an enemy.

In a moment orders were given to crowd canvass on the frigate. The drum
beat to quarters; the sails were accurately trimmed; and, as if she had
determined to sustain her well-earned reputation to the last, the Harpy
dashed through the water gallantly--and for every two knots the chase
sailed, we went three.

When the frigate was under a cloud of sail, Captain O’Brien retired to
his cabin to dress, leaving orders that the progress of the chase, from
time to time, should be reported. As he passed me, he touched my arm and
whispered me to follow him. I did so. The captain desired his servant to
retire, put on his uniform, affixed a foreign order to his breast, and,
having unlocked a drawer, he took from it a sealed packet, and thus
addressed me.

“Rawlings,” he said, “from the hour you entered this frigate, I have
remarked your character and conduct. From the high opinion I formed of
both, I selected you to fill a place of trust, and I am now about to
give you what may be a last proof of confidence.

“I am the founder of my own fortune. My father was an humble curate, not
‘passing rich on forty pounds a year,’ but poor as a church-mouse, and
my mother the daughter of a farmer. I was born in one of the remotest
villages on the western coast of Ireland; and, except the advantages of
education--the only boon my poor father could bestow--I had nothing to
distinguish me in boyhood from the sons of the fishermen who inhabited
our secluded hamlet. Like them, the sea was the element I loved; and,
but for an accident, like them also, I should have lived and died upon
that element unknown.

“One evening, when I was about twelve years old, a message came from the
only publie-house the village boasted, to say that a sick stranger had
arrived and was most anxious to see a clergyman. The summons was
obeyed; and my father was introduced to an elderly man, who seemed to
be dangerously ill, and greatly exhausted by his journey. He announced
himself a lieutenant of a man-of-war; he had been for several years on
the West-India station; was now on leave of absence for bad health; and
was endeavouring to reach a town at a considerable distance from our
hamlet, to try whether native air might not yet effect a cure. The
exertion, however, had been too much for him; and on arriving at the
public-house, he found himself unable to proceed farther.

“The parson was a kind-hearted being, and as hospitable as he was poor.
The ale-house was noisy and uncomfortable, and he therefore pressed the
stranger to take up his residence at our cottage, where, with quiet
and care, it was probable that he might speedily come round again. My
father’s invitation was accepted; and in a few days the invalid was so
far restored as to be enabled to resume his journey. He took his leave
accordingly, gratefully acknowledging the kindness and attention of my
parents, to which he attributed his recovery.

“A year passed--the stranger was forgotten; and our lonely villagers had
no events to excite them beyond every-day occupations. They were removed
from the cares and anxieties of busier life; but, as events proved, they
were not secure from its common calamities.

“Typhus fever broke out in a neighbouring sea-port; the crew of a
fishing-boat caught the infection, and introduced the terrible disease
into our crowded hamlet. Numbers became its victims; and in the same
week both my parents died, and I was left upon the world without any
natural protector.

“On the evening of my father’s funeral I was sent for to the
public-house, and there, to my surprise, I found the stranger who had
been my father’s guest a year before. The sick lieutenant had been
restored to health, and was about to resume his professional duties. He
had been appointed to a ship; but before he left the kingdom, he made
our village his line of route, that he might have an opportunity of
thanking my parents once more for past kindnesses. He found those who
succoured him in the grave,--their only child an orphan, and without a
relative who could afford him protection or a home.

“A tear trickled down the cheek of the rough old sailor, as he listened
to the story of my destitution.

“‘And has he no friends, poor boy?’ inquired the lieutenant.

“‘None,’ said the landlord, in reply. ‘I believe he has not one relative
who could give him a second meal, nor a friend who--”

“‘False, by Heaven!’ exclaimed the tar. ‘He has a friend who will divide
his last guinea with him; and from this hour, I am the orphan’s father!’

“I must be brief. Lieutenant Oakley stopped that evening in the village,
and when he left it next morning I was his companion. He was a
rough, but warm-hearted sailor of the old school; and, after a
year’s probation, he succeeded in having me rated on the books of a
line-of-battle ship as midshipman. A few months afterwards, my protector
was killed in a boat affair upon the coast of Spain--once more I was
left upon the world--and at fifteen years of age I had to fight with
fortune as I could.

“Rawlings, you know now the story of my early life. Without a being to
guide my boyhood, I was flung on the wide ocean of existence. The sword
has been my talisman, and I have hewn my own road to fame. My very
destitution placed me in fortune’s track. I had no gentle ties to bind
me to the world: if I died, none would shed a tear: what, then, was life
to me?--A nothing! I staked it with a gambler’s recklessness, and I have
earned for myself the name that birth denied me.”

A noise on deck was heard. “Stay here,” he said; “I will return
immediately.” After a few minutes, Captain O’Brien re-entered the
cabin, his face beaming with delight, and its expression betokening the
confidence of anticipated victory.

“The Harpy goes nobly through it!” he exclaimed. “Blow, sweet breeze!
blow for another hour steadily--bring me alongside that splendid
frigate--and then, Dame Fortune! thy spoiled child shall tax thee no
further.”

He paused; took two or three turns across the cabin, and then resumed
the strain of former conversation.

“Time presses--and now, Rawlings, for another disclosure. Three years
ago I returned to England,--‘The happy deed that gilds my humble name
was done--I obtained promotion for the service--and wherever I appeared,
flattering tokens of popular approbation were heaped on me with
unmeasured liberality. Men cheered me as I passed, and--prouder
honour--woman smiled upon the daring sailor. To the highest circles
the curate’s son was introduced: my passport, _à coup de sabre_, which
finished a French captain, and enabled me to lay hands on the halliards
of a frigate’s ensign, before those of fifty stout boarders as myself.
I met a woman: she was older than myself a year or two; noble by
birth; and for beauty, if you sought England over--and that is beauty’s
home--you could not find her peer. She was followed and worshipped: the
proudest claimed her smiles, and the noblest coronet was offered for
her acceptance. Chance introduced me to her father; and I was a casual
visitor at his house, with men distinguished for both high birth and
unbounded wealth. Would it be credited that I was preferred by that
proud lady to all who sought her hand? I--the ocean child--before a
crowd of nobles--the humble sailor loved by the _fiancée_ of a duke! ’Tis
over;--she is another’s now: and with the heart that fate forbade being
united to mine, the mutual secret rests.

“You know enough to understand the service I require. If in the
approaching conflict my brief career shall close, the story of my love
must perish with me. In this sealed packet there are memorials, that,
living, I could not part with, and, in death, must be destroyed. It is
leaded--and should I fall, consign it to the same element where I shall
find a grave. Farewell! I feel a strange assurance, that with this day’s
events, whatever they may prove, my history is doomed to terminate. No
matter! Where could it close more gloriously?”

He said, and quitted the cabin for the deck; and when I had secured the
sealed packet in my breast, I followed him.

The chase had now assumed an interest almost impossible to be imagined.
Both frigates, in the parlance of the sea, were “staggering under a
press of canvass;” and the goal for which each vessel strained was a
small harbour, with a narrow entrance through the centre of a reef
of rocks. There, the Frenchman expected to find his safety--and we
endeavoured to cut him off from this his haven of inglorious refuge. We
were still two gun-shots astern--the harbour not a league off--the wind
began to fail--and as the Harpy sailed best with a stiff breeze, we
lost the advantage we had formerly possessed in speed. Indeed, the
Frenchman’s escape seemed almost certain. He must gain the anchorage
before we could bring him to close action; and, daring as our captain
was, surely he would not venture into a roadstead on every side
surrounded with heavy batteries, and approachable through a narrow
opening in a reef of rocks?

Alas! Fortune may be tried too frequently--and even her chosen
favourites will prove her at times capricious. Again, the breeze
freshened, and the Harpy drew fast a-head. The vessels were now within
cannon range--the chase-guns of both had opened--and at the third
discharge from ours, the main-top-mast of the Frenchman came down. It is
probable that fatal success induced our captain to take the step he did.
Instead of bringing his frigate to the wind, he held his course, and
desperately ran into a hostile harbour from which it was decreed we
never should return.

The result of this rash act was brilliant as it proved disastrous. After
a close engagement of forty minutes, the enemy’s frigate was totally
dismasted, and driven--a wreck--upon the rocks; and Captain O’Brien
having completed her destruction, endeavoured to work the Harpy out.

For a time we suffered but trifling injury from the cross-fire of the
batteries, and it was almost certain that we should weather the tail
of the reef, and clear the entrance of the harbour. The frigate was
in stays. “She’ll do it easily,” exclaimed the master; while Captain
O’Brien, with a smile of exultation, whispered in my ear, “What
think you, Rawlings, of the fortunes of the curate’s son? Hold on the
packet--my star has saved us!” Alas! his exultation was but short-lived.
A thirty-two-pound shot struck us as he spoke: the foretop-mast went
over the side--we missed stays, fell off to leeward, and settled on the
reef, within musket-range of the heaviest battery.

The seas struck the vessel so fast and heavily that it was quite
apparent she would speedily go to pieces. The captain fell mortally
wounded. He turned a dying look to me: I understood its silent order;
and the packet which contained the memorials of his secret love was
committed to the deep.

In a few minutes afterwards the fate of all on board the Harpy was
decided. A lofty swell came rolling in--the disabled frigate was lifted
off the reef--she fell over into deep water, settled, and went down;
and in her shattered hull, the dead, the dying, and the living found
a common grave; for, with the exception of myself and six others,
not another soul of that gallant crew escaped. ‘We saved ourselves on
floating portions of the wreck, to be picked up the same evening, and
made prisoners.

What calamitous events had one brief day produced! On the preceding
evening, how happily had I sought my hammock, home in my fancy, and
you, Julia, in my dreams! How was all changed! frigate and crew
buried together in the ocean deeps, and in the very moment of their
triumph!--and the poor handful that survived, consigned to a captivity
so hopeless, that to its duration no limit could be assigned!

We were marched into the interior, and secured in an old fortress,
already over-crowded with squalid creatures, half-clad, half-starved,
and to whom, generally, death would have been a deliverance--the only
one, indeed, that they, poor wretches, could look to with any thing like
certainty. At first, I thought I should have sunk into despair; but it
is strange how soon men will accommodate themselves to misery. Gradually
the cup of suffering lost a portion of its bitterness; and in the laugh,
at first torturous to my ears, at last _I_ could also join. “Let none
despond, let none despair”--there is no mortal evil without its remedy.
Before a month passed, the elasticity of my spirit returned--another
current of thought occupied my mind--my very dreams were engrossed with
projects of escape--and every bird that flitted across the prison walls
seemed to invite me to become as free as it was.

The governor was a soldier of the republic, wounded and worn out, and
for past services entrusted with the custody of the prisoners of war
collected in the fortress. He was a strict disciplinarian; stern in
enforcing obedience to the regulations of the place, but kind at
heart, and easily conciliated. After my first despondency had abated, I
endeavoured to resign myself to my fate; and by conforming to the rules
which Captain St. Simon had laid down for due maintenance of order, I
became rather a favourite with the commandant.

No one could question the bravery of Captain St. Simon; for, among
other daring acts he had performed, he had married a woman thirty years
younger than himself. The lady was very pretty, very gay, loved fêtes
and dancing, and detested the dulness of the fortress. One child had
blessed the marriage-bed of the commandant: she was a sweet girl of
three years; and in her the affections of both parents seemed to centre.
Indeed, they idolized the child; and none could know little Claudine and
not love her.

To children I have been ever partial; and with the governor’s I
soon became a favourite. I never passed Claudine without a kiss. My
attentions gratified the parents. Madame rewarded them with a smile, and
the old republican, with long narratives of all that he had done at Lodi
and Marengo.

Upon the unfortunates within the place, the effects of captivity were
variously exhibited. Some bore confinement with apparent indifference,
while others evinced a sullen despondency. One man struck me as
being more miserable than any in the fortress besides; and the fixed
melancholy visible in his air and countenance induced me to inquire who
he was, and ask the cause of his being more wretched than the rest.

His name was Aylmer, and he was a captain of dragoons. In returning from
the Peninsula, the merchantman in which he came home a passenger
had been taken by a privateer; and, to render that accident the more
distressing, the errand that brought him to England was to marry a
beautiful girl, to whom for years he had been passionately attached.
Hitherto, pecuniary considerations forbade the union; but by the death
of a wealthy relative that obstacle was removed. What must have been
his disappointment, when, almost in sight of the home of her he loved so
ardently, fate marred his promised happiness, and dashed from the very
lip the cup of bliss!

No wonder, then, that Aylmer bore this visitation with impatience.
Months wore away; interest had been used to accomplish an exchange; and
now a hope was held out that this much desired event would be speedily
effected. Once more the captive smiled; the colour returned to his faded
cheek, and his brow was no longer contracted. Alas for woman’s faith!
News came from England, that she whom he all but idolized had forgotten
the being who loved so truly,--and--that she was married to another!

From that moment Aylmer never smiled. His heart was seared; his hopes of
happiness were withered. He became a gloomy misanthrope; prowled through
the dark passages of the prison by himself; rejected every overture at
intimacy; and that which had once been a gentle heart, seemed to lose
all sympathy with the human race, and become to all its species wolfish
and immitigable.

There stood at one angle of the fortress an ancient tower of immense
height, which, for many miles, overlooked the surrounding country. By a
winding staircase the top of the building could be gained; the roof was
fiat, and encircled by a parapet not quite breast-high; and, as the
view from the summit was varied and extensive, prisoners, who would go
through the labour of ascending seven flights of granite stairs, amused
a portion of monotonous captivity by gazing in listless idleness on
scenes of busy life, which, to their state of thrall, presented a sad
and sickening contrast. This tower was a favourite retreat of Captain
Aylmer--and over the parapet of the roof he would lean alone for
hours, muttering gloomily to himself, or communing with sad thoughts in
silence.

Often, when Claudine was in my arms, I observed, that in passing us, the
expression of Aylmer’s eyes was absolutely malignant; and I marvelled
that a face so innocently beautiful as that of the child of the
commandant, did not, like David’s harp, exert a gentle influence, and
speak peace to the dark spirit of the captive. It was strange also,
that, by some curious impulse, Claudine involuntarily recoiled from this
melancholy man, and that while he continued in sight, she would cling
closely to my bosom as if there she was seeking for protection.

It was the evening of a sultry day, and the hour was come when, by
prison regulations, the _détenus_ were expected to repair to their
respective wards, and there be locked up for the night. On my way to
the gallery where I slept, I had to cross an esplanade in front of the
governor’s house. Claudine noticed me from the window, and ran out
to say “good night.” I carried her a few paces in my arms, kissed the
pretty child, set her down, and received from the fond mother a
gracious nod of approbation. The drum ruffled, it was the signal for
the prisoners to fall in for roll-call, and I hurried on. Suddenly
a piercing shriek arrested me. I turned round; Madame St. Simon had
uttered it, and one movement of her arm told the cause. Aylmer was
running madly across the esplanade in the direction of the old tower,
with Claudine struggling in his embrace.

I dashed after him at headlong speed. He sprang into the building and
bounded up the stairs--Claudine’s wild screams continued--and I heard
her calling “William!” Although Aylmer had cleared one flight of steps
before I entered, I overtook him as he jumped with his intended victim
on the roof; seized him with one arm, and twisting my hand into his
collar, half strangled him, and forced him to drop the child. Upon me
the full fury of his rage was turned, and a deadly struggle commenced.
In height and weight we were equally matched; but his maniac strength
was superhuman. After a desperate conflict of a minute, both came
heavily to the ground locked in each other’s arms, the madman uppermost.

In turn, he attempted to choke me, and I as desperately resisted.
Apparently, the phrenzy of his rage rendered him insensible to pain;
for though I caught his hand within my teeth until they met, the maniac
would not let go his murderous hold. My strength failed, I found myself
fainting, another minute and his triumph would have been complete, but
fortunately, an alarm had been given that brought assistance, and three
of the gendarmes who formed the prison guard, rushed on the tower roof
with drawn swords, tore Aylmer away, and endeavoured to secure him.

With a marvellous effort the madman shook his assailants off, and
answered their order to surrender with a laugh of wild derision--“Ha!
ha! ha!” he shouted, “you fancy that Aylmer will be a prisoner. Tell
your commander, that if that sailor fellow had not marred my scheme of
vengeance, his fair girl would have been what in another moment I shall
be--a shattered mass of lifeless flesh--and now for the leap of liberty!
Ha, ha!” he roared out convulsively, and, with a demon’s laugh, before
any could lay hands upon him, the maniac vaulted across the platform of
the tower, and we heard, some twenty seconds afterwards, the dull sound
his lifeless body made as it fell on the paved court below.

I had received some severe bruises in the deadly struggle with, the
unfortunate madman; and my throat and neck were blackened by the
pressure of his knuckles. The gendarmes supported me to the governor’s
house, wine was given me, and the surgeons of the fortress were called
in. From Madame, I received abundantly the ardent tokens of a woman’s
gratitude in tears and kisses, while the old republican, her husband,
held my hand in his, and, with the speechless eloquence of the eye,
thanked me in the silence of a heart too full to give utterance to its
feelings, for saving the treasure of his soul.

No wonder then, that with me the rigour of imprisonment was abated, and
that I was now a captive but in name. At the governor’s table a cover
was laid for me, the old man treating me as he would have done a son;
and Nina, as his wife was named, regarding me as a brother. Of course I
felt the kindness evinced by both; and I might have been supposed to
be the happiest captive in the fortress. Yet the yearning after
home continued; and many a sigh told Nina and her husband, that
notwithstanding their efforts to remove it, “a sickening void was aching
in the breast.”

“William,” said the old republican, as he passed the wine-flask over,
“Why have you been so dispirited of late? Is it within my power to make
you happier? Have you any thing to ask for?”

I kept silence.

Nina’s eyes filled--“Speak, William! speak without reserve.”

A blackbird was hanging in his cage beside the open casement.

“What would that captive ask for,” I replied, “could he but make known
his wishes?”

“I understand you,” said the governor; “and what you sigh after is almost
the only boon beyond my power of granting. For liberty, the appeal must
be made to the highest individual in the empire, and let me at once
apprise you, that _there_ you would find the ear of mercy closed. You
seem astonished--listen, and wonder then will cease.

“Our prison regulations are framed, in some degree, according to the
system of our general police; and the character and career of those
committed to my charge are carefully recorded. To the safe custody of
those who have been daring and successful, my attention is especially
directed; and while with a nameless man an exchange is effected without
much difficulty, he, who if free, might prove a troublesome enemy, is
rarely restored to liberty. Your frigate was the terror of our coast.
Your captain bore a reputation second to none among the most daring and
dangerous of your naval adventurers. You are noted in our prison record
as having won your leader’s favour, by assisting in some bold exploit
that I do not recollect at present. Believe me, my dear boy, it would be
hopeless to expect that you, and spirits like yourself, would be allowed
an opportunity of harassing the coast of France a second time. I go
to make my prison returns to-morrow. Would that I might venture the
experiment of getting your name included in the next cartel with
any prospect of success! Oh! no, no, it were idle--it were hopeless
altogether.”

That night when I retired to my cot, I felt the sad conviction that
nothing but escape could ever effect my deliverance from the gloomy
fortress, in which, it would appear that for life I was fated to remain
immured.

The next morning passed in the dull monotony of confinement. I supped
with Nina and her child. The commander was to be absent for two days,
and when Claudine retired to bed, Madame St. Simon and I were left
together. Latterly I had observed a change in Nina’s manner. There was
not the same freedom that formerly had marked our intercourse, and
while kinder than ever, I fancied that her gaiety was assumed, and
her spirits forced and unnatural. Since the evening of poor Aylmer’s
suicide, I had been transferred to a small chamber attached to the
governor’s dwelling, was exempted from attending roll-call, and left
consequently with unrestrained liberty, to wander through the prison
where I pleased. It struck eleven, the fortress was quiet, the guard
set, and I rose, to leave Nina, and repair to my own chamber.

“Good night,” I said, “my sister;” for by that name I had been permitted
to address the lady of the governor.

“Stop--William,” she replied, in evident embarrassment, “I wish to talk
with you alone.”

I sate down again beside her.

“I have remarked how ardently you are longing after freedom. St. Simon
cannot honourably effect it; and a soldier’s honour, William,
should be dearer far to him than life.”

“I know you feel the sentiment, and I am convinced that it guides your
acts, my brother.”

“I hope so, Nina.”

“And surely it should guide _mine_--a soldier’s wife--a soldier’s
orphan. I never told you my short history, William.”

“No, dear Nina.”

“I am the daughter of a sous-lieutenant, who was killed in the Low
Countries while I was yet a baby. Dying, he committed me to a comrade’s
care; and faithfully that comrade discharged what he considered a sacred
duty. I was tenderly nursed when young, and when I was old enough,
placed as a boarder in a convent. At fifteen, my benefactor’s sister,
with whom I had resided for the two preceding years, died suddenly. I
was thus left, to a certain extent, without protection; and Captain St.
Simon offered me the only one a man can give--the sacred one of husband.
In our marriage, love could not have had aught to do. He was fifty; I,
fifteen. He, for honourable motives had offered to make me his, and I,
through gratitude, consented. Five years have passed. All the happiness
which could be expected from a union so unequal in point of years,
has been mine. If I said I were happy as a wife, I should say what was
untrue. But am I not the consort of a brave old man, the mother of a
child, in whom all my love is centered?”

“And with these objects of affection, Nina, you must be happy.”

“I was,” she answered, with a sigh.

“_Was?_ Nina. Nay, nay, _you are_.”

“No, William; strong in gratitude to my husband. I feel a woman’s
weakness in the heart, and love and duty by turns obtain its mastery.
William, neither you nor I have yet seen two-and-twenty summers; and
at that age, friendship is too close akin to love to be encouraged.
My husband dare not assist you to escape--_I dare, and will_. Prudence
tells us to separate; and the act that would sully the honest reputation
of the old soldier, is not dishonourable in his wife. Yes--it shall be
done. I have already devised means for your deliverance, and when my
plan is fully matured, you shall know all. Farewell. Let us not meet
in future but in my husband’s presence.” She stooped her cheek to me, I
kissed it, next moment she quitted the supper-room, and I returned to
my chamber, to marvel how much strength and weakness, principle and
passion, can be united in a woman’s heart!

The following day the governor returned. I, as usual, took my place at
the dinner-table, and Nina met me with smiles. She seemed perfectly
at ease, I, also, exerted myself to be cheerful, and none would have
suspected that secret love was lurking in the bosoms of us both.

“I would that you had witnessed the review,” said the old soldier. “It
was, indeed, a splendid spectacle. And the Emperor looked so delighted
as the troops filed past! Well he might, a nobler or more perfect _corps
d’armée_ never was collected. Egad, the sight warmed this old blood
again; and I think there’s stuff in me for another campaign. Will you,
William, take charge of Madame and Claudine?” said the commandant,
laughingly. I made some indifferent reply--Nina’s eye met mine--it
seemed to say, the charge would have been a dangerous one.

We heard the inner gate of the fortress open, a horse’s feet clattered
along the pavement, and, in a short time, a _chasseur à cheval_
presented himself, and delivered a despatch to the commandant.

The moment the seal was broken the old man’s eye turned to me. “It is,”
 he said, “an answer to the memorial I handed to the Emperor yesterday. I
petitioned for your liberty, William; and stated, in as warm language as
I could, the grounds on which I asked the favour. I know, even from the
promptness of the reply, that my application has been rejected. Well, it
is only what I was prepared for. Let us read the terms of the refusal.
lia! I know the handwriting; it is that of my old comrade, Duroc.

“‘I am desired, by his Majesty the Emperor, to acknowledge the receipt
of a petition from Captain St. Simon. Its prayer, that the English
sailor, William Rawlings, shall be set at liberty, is hereby
peremptorily rejected.’’

“I thought so,” said the commandant with a sigh, as he let the paper
fall upon the floor. A deep and painful silence succeeded, while
Claudine picked the letter up and handed it to her mother.

“Read it, Nina--we know the worst.”

The lady complied, taking up the perusal of the document at the point
where her husband had stopped. “‘But from the moment this order comes
to hand, give the gallant Englishman the enclosed bill, and let the
preserver of the soldier’s child receive freedom from the hand of her
father.’ See! the initial of the great Napoleon is annexed,--and a note
for five hundred francs! You are free, William.’ May Heaven’s blessings
light upon our gracious Emperor!” And Nina flung herself upon my breast.
She wept--were her tears those of love or joy?

“I must be brief, Julia. By the first cartel, I came back to
England--repaired to our native village--heard, for the first time,
the sad tidings of your elopement--found my father living--my uncle
dead--and learned that, for many months, the poor quarter-master had
been in mourning for his son. To the broken-hearted old man the news
was cautiously communicated that he was not so desolate as he believed
himself. One child was restored to him as from the dead, and tidings
were heard of the wanderer. Instantly, we set out to seek the lost one,
and, thank Heaven! our search has not been vain. Yes, Julia, our once
happy cottage shall again be the home of peace; and ere the sun sets, a
father’s blessing shall seal the pardon of his returning child. And now,
before we commence our journey, I have to compensate the officer for
his trouble; and, indeed, without his assistance, I should have scarcely
found you out. Was it not a strange fatality, that objects so different
as those that brought the runner and myself from England, should have
led us to the same point?” He said, and left the room. What occurred
then and there between the fosterer and fair fugitive, may be readily
imagined. Their troth was mutually interchanged; and, “resolved in
future to do right,” subject to a father’s approbation, the lady
consented at the expiration of a year to commit matrimony a second time,
and share the fortunes of Mark Antony O’Toole.

As the travellers branched off by the roads which intersected each other
in front of the little hostelrie, their appearance, and the objects of
their present pursuits, might be taken as a _tableau vivant_ of what
life is--of what man aims at. By one road, the sailor and his sister
were hastening to restore comfort to an afflicted heart--by another,
the Jew, in charge of the officer of justice, was being conveyed to that
home of felony--a jail. The third road tended to scenes of glory; and
thither the soldier was hastening after seducing the student to quit the
cloister for the field. The fourth route the fosterer took at chance,
and reckless whither it might lead to, there Mark Antony determined
to recommence his wanderings; and “the captain” having discovered that
there was another who, for a time at least, was bent on taking the world
as it came, at once proposed to form a travelling co-partnership.

The reader may find out hereafter, that had Mark Antony declined the
offer of the rat-catcher, he might have pointed a moral, by “going
further and faring worse.” Indeed, it would have been well for me had
I the good luck of falling into as honest company, and short as the
succeeding chapter is, I think it will establish that fact.



CHAPTER XV. LIFE IN LONDON.



               “A plague upon this London! I shall have no luck in it.”

               “Your town’s a damned good-for-nothing town,

                   I wish Î never had come into it.”

                        The West indian.

|In one of those half-forgotten modes of transport, a sailing packet,
denominated the Eclipse, I departed from the Pigeon House, and with a
fair and steady breeze landed at Holyhead, after a short passage of nine
hours. In those days this feat was accounted respectable; for in their
transits from the emerald isle to the land of shopkeepers, it was no
uncommon circumstance for ill-starred gentlemen to pass so many days and
nights at sea, as to induce a belief that, in mistake, they had booked
themselves in the Flying Dutchman, and consequently, had the pleasing
prospect of sailing to eternity. I was still further fortunate in
securing a seat in the London mail. In due time I reached the modern
Babylon, transferred my person and effects from the White Horse Cellar
to a Bond-street hotel, and there, for a limited period, established my
household gods.

At this memorable epoch of my history, my first visit to the great
metropolis, life in London was very different to what it is at present.
Theatres were frequented by the upper classes, and Vauxhall was in all
its glory. An English singer was then listened to; it was not considered
disreputable to keep a native servant; and without loss of caste, a lady
might submit her head to the curling irons of an _artiste_, who had been
actually born and indoctrinated within sound of Bow bell. The clubs
were few and exclusive. People resided in lodgings and hotels adapted to
their ranks and pockets; in their mode of life a gentlemanly consistency
was maintained: and a man who in noontide was the occupant of an
edifice, erected with the costly expense formerly bestowed upon
a palace, would not, on an alarm of fire at midnight, have been
unkennelled from the back attic of a stay-maker, tenanted for the
moderate consideration of three shillings and sixpence, “paid weekly and
in advance.” Indeed, a sort of John Bullish principle pervaded society
at large. If men staked large sums on questionable events, it was
generally expected that they would pay, should their speculations prove
unfortunate. The guards were frequently relieved to music not Rossini’s.
Tailors who had never seen the Palais Royale, received instructions in
bookkeeping from divers of the nobility; and a bootmaker--tell it not in
Gath--was considered absolutely fashionable, albeit the unhappy man was
afflicted with the desperate patronymic of O’Shaughnessy.

Indeed, at this period of English history, when young and old France
were about to retire before Lord Wellington, the tone of society was
anti-continental. The aristocracy conversed in their native tongue;
meats, as Heaven sent them, might be seen frequently at the table of
a peer; and there was a vulgar prejudice against being poisoned, even
though the _artiste_ were warranted true _Parisien_. Saltations, happily
unremembered, but bearing as it is believed, a distant affinity to the
vulgar affair now termed _contre-danse_, were extensively perpetrated;
and persons engaged in the same, instead of being elegantly paralytic,
moved as if their limbs were controllable. Then, the refinement of the
_valse_ was undiscovered; and if a _cavalier_ ventured to clasp a lady
in his arms--Lombard-street to a China orange!--he would have been
kicked by husband, father, or brother, out of the room incontinently.

Assisted by my father’s letter, the great object of my journey was
happily accomplished. Within three weeks the exchange I sought for was
effected; and I was in due form gazetted to a lieutenancy in an old
regiment cantoned for the winter on the Agueda.

At the time I visited the capital, the position a stranger held in
society was generally estimated by the quarter he inhabited; and before
I started from Dublin, I took counsel touching “the whereabouts” of a
suitable abode. Mr. Pryme recommended some place with a “man’s head,”
 in a lane near Crutched Friars; while Captain Forester, a castle
aid-de-camp, denounced the same, declaring it to be only a place fit for
a bagman, and recommended Long’s or Stevens’s. Well! it was seventeen
years since Mr. Pryme had been in town, and probably Crutched Friars was
not as fashionable now as it might have been formerly. Captain Forester
infested London every season, and consequently Captain Forester must
be right. To Bond-street accordingly I drove. Alas, how blindly people
speculate upon events! Had I driven to the “man’s head” in Crutched
Friars, I should have been safer by a hundred--“and no mistake.”

The intervals between my visits to the Horse Guards were occupied
in exploring the capital from Tyburn Turnpike to Tower Hill; and by
singular good fortune, I formed an acquaintance with a gentleman to whom
London and all its wonders were familiar. He kindly undertook to play
bear-leader for the nonce and under the guidance of Colonel Santonier,
I traversed “the mighty mass of brick, and stone, and mortar,” even from
Dan to Beersheba.

The Colonel was an emigrant who, for political opinions, had been
exiled from “la belle France.” He was a royalist connected with half the
nobility of the ancient regime, his address was good, his disposition
plastic and companionable. He had seen the world extensively, and
therefore was the better qualified to introduce a neophyte like me
upon the stage of life. On quitting his native country he had been
accompanied by his sister. She was young, pretty, and accomplished; and,
as the Colonel declared, “the most artless being in the world.” I never
saw relatives more attached. They never met or parted without a kiss;
and yet, one thing struck me as remarkable, there was not the slightest
family likeness between them.

Is it surprising that an acquaintance so valuable and agreeable, ripened
into a friendship of such ardour that Damon and Pythias might have been
jealous? Most of my time was spent in the society of the Colonel and his
fair sister; and as I had jobbed a buggy, sometimes I drove my friend
about town, or exhibited Mademoiselle Adelaide in Rotten Row. Santonier
had few acquaintances, and when I had Madame by my side, I often
remarked that very impudent looks were directed towards the lady.
Once, too, when we were brought to a dead halt by the break-down of a
coal-waggon, I heard a fashionable scoundrel observe to his companion as
they passed--“Lord, Frank, what a flat that spoon is!” _Flat!--spoon!_
Hang it,--neither term surely could apply to me!

I think, had it lasted only another week, our friendship would have been
registered in heaven. We dined here and there, made short excursions out
of town, our amicable arrangements were perfect--for Monsieur Santonier
placed such implicit confidence in my honour and discretion, that
Adelaide was considered in perfect security when with me. She, sweet
girl, was so inartificial that she even owned she felt herself _minus_
a heart,--and had I been consigned to the gallows, I verily believe the
Colonel would have borne me company, and requested to be accommodated
with another rope.

It was probably a delicate sensitiveness respecting Adelaide, which made
Santonier so very particular as to those who should be admitted to
his house. With one exception, I was an exclusive visitor; for in
Jermyn-street I never met any person but a nice old gentleman with green
spectacles and a bald head, called the Baron Francheti; and every night
he added himself to the party. We had coffee, played cards, and Adelaide
was my partner, although, sweet girl, I was literally her ruin. I held
bad hands, introduced spades when I should lead diamonds, of course we
always lost, Adelaide never murmured, but handed the money to the Baron
without a reflection on my unskilful play. What could I do? Nothing but
present an indemnity in the morning; and she graciously approved the
taste of my selection, and condescended to accept the offering.

On the day I was gazetted, in company with some other aspirants for
military glory, we dined together to celebrate our promotion, and, as
became soldiers of promise, got drunk afterwards. Some managed to reach
their hotels, some stopped short in divers watch-houses; while I, under
the guidance of the star of love, headed my course instinctively to my
lady’s bower in Jermyn-street. As usual, the family party were at home.
We played; for I remember something about overturning a lamp upon the
card cloth. In a short time I dropped off the chair, was trundled home
in a coach, put to bed, and remained in deep repose, until daylight and
a thundering head-ache brought their pleasant reminiscences. I looked
to the table: no property was there, except a couple of shillings and an
empty note-case. Before I had gone to dinner, I changed my last fifty,
and stocked my pocket-book with the produce. A pleasant position! Out of
two hundred pounds advanced me by the Quaker, not a sous left, and the
hotel bill and half my appointments still unpaid!

I never had known a pecuniary difficulty before. What was to be done?
In London, and without a guinea! Should I write to my father, and tell
him that before I had been three months upon the world, I had despised
his admonitions, contracted debts, and gambled away the means given
me to discharge them? I had only to own the truth, and I should
be immediately relieved--but to _me_, how bitter would be the
humiliation--to _him_, how painful the disclosure! Hours passed: I
cursed my folly; but still I could devise no plan to remedy it; and
my brain was teeming with wild expedients, when a tap was heard at the
door, and in glided my London Palinurus, the Colonel. In his look there
was nothing consolatory, for the expression of his countenance was
gloomy, as if he had been “performing” at a funeral. He sate down at my
bed-side, took my hand in his, looked unutterable things, and then, in a
broken voice, inquired tenderly after his “dear friend’s health.”

“My health, Colonel, is not affected, beyond a drunken head-ache; but on
my conduct I cannot look back without self-reproach and shame.”

The brother of Adelaide shrugged his shoulders to his ears, and then
delivered himself of a speech, which seemed intended rather to be
exculpatory of himself, than consolatory to me. According to his
account, I would play madly on, Adelaide in despair quitted the room, he
remonstrated--all to no purpose; for the demon of play had entered into
me, and play I would. I lost the contents of my pocket-book, and “the
_leetle_ note of hand to the Baron.”

“Note of hand to the Baron!” I exclaimed, springing bolt upright in the
bed.

It was absolutely true; for a billet was brought me at the moment by
the waiter, in which the nice old gentleman affectionately requested “to
know how I had rested the preceding night, with a casual inquiry at what
bank my note for £120 should be presented?”

‘For a time I could not believe the evidence of my eyes, but read the
Baron’s billet again and again. At last, I began to fancy I had been
duped. In a moment, a flood of light poured upon my mind, a thousand
trifles were recollected, and my worst suspicions were confirmed.

The Colonel remarked a change of countenance that threatened an
explosion, and, pleading a forgotten engagement, he took a hurried
leave.

I rose, dressed, wrote twenty letters, and tore them; then ordered my
gig, drove down two streets, and returned. I passed a miserable day--ate
no dinner--drank brandy and water extensively; and retired to a private
room, in a frame of mind which a demon might find pity for, to write
letters. Write letters! Pshaw! merely blot paper.

Twilight fell--my brain was half on fire--I rejected candles--the gloom
of evening was best suited for the bitter musings of a mind like mine.
I gazed from the window, objects passed, but I saw none of them. I heard
the door open--a figure stood beside me. I looked carelessly up--it was
Adelaide. In thought I was connecting her agency with the villany of her
brother and the Baron--proofs against her appeared strong, and I had set
her down a guilty thing. No wonder that I received her coldly; and my
frigid civility semed to wound her more than actual rudeness.

“You are changed,” said the Colonel’s sister: “had I visited you once,
my reception would have been very different.”

“It might,” I said, coldly. “I did not then believe that the Colonel was
a scoundrel, the Baron a rogue, and yourself--”

“What?” she inquired.

“Why--a very convenient associate.”

“I can remain here but a few minutes. The errand is urgent--the time
short.” She took a small packet from her bosom, where it had been
concealed, laid it on the table, and then proceeded. “To a certain
extent, I admit your charges. The statement of your being-plundered is
correct, and the description of the plunderers is true; the Colonel
was a fencing-master first, a cheat and thief afterwards. The Baron, I
believe, a swindler from his cradle. Of me--ask not _what_ I _was_--know
what I am--a fallen woman--one who, in the common course of crime, has
sunk by degrees, and at last, at twenty-one, become the confederate
of thieves and ruffians. Oh Heaven! if women only knew what fearful
penalties hang upon one lapse from virtue, how few would fall!”

She wept. The tears were irresistible.

“Adelaide,” I said, “you must forgive me. I have been severe--my losses
have annoyed me. What is that parcel you desire me to take?”

“Your watch--I purloined it.”

“Good Heaven! impossible!”

“No, no, O’Halloran--it was only to secure it. Hear me--a few minutes,
and we part for ever. I am a woman--a lost one--but still my heart is
not altogether callous. I saw you--you were young and unsuspicious, and
became an easy victim. I watched the course of spoliation--you imagined
that I lost money, and generously made me a recompense. Am I forgiven?”
 she added. “And _must I leave thee?_”

“Not on my account, I trust,” responded a voice, deep as that of
Lablache, at our elbow.

We started--Adelaide hurried from the room--I remained, so did the
stranger--Mr. Hartley!



CHAPTER XVI. A SECOND DELIVERANCE.



               “_Stockwell_. So, so, you seem disordered, Mr. Belcour.

               Belcour. Disordered, sir!

               Why did I ever quit the soil in which I grew?”

                        The West Indian.

|For a minute the father of Isidora and I preserved a dignified silence.
The stern displeasure his countenance evinced was not encouraging, and
I looked the silliest young gentleman imaginable. The _contretemps_ of
this evening visit was most provoking. I had never done the sentimental
in my life but twice, and on both occasions Mr. Hartley had managed to
drop in. Turning his dark and searching eye on mine, he drily inquired,
“Whether it would be considered an impertinence on his part, if he asked
who the lady might be whom he had very unintentionally put to flight?”

I mentioned her name, not forgetting to announce also the nobility of
her descent; but had it been in direct line from Charlemagne or the
Conqueror, it would not have propitiated Mr. Hartley, if one could form
any opinion from the inauspicious “humph!” with which he received the
intelligence.

“And, my good sir, how long have you known this interesting personage?”
 he continued.


“Since my arrival in London,” I replied.

“A marvellous short time to ripen friendship to such full maturity! And
what event might have called forth that storm of sobs and kisses which I
so unluckily interrupted?”

A contemptuous sneer accompanied the inquiry that stung my pride, and
I answered warmly, that “I considered that he had neither authority nor
interest to pry into matters with which he was wholly unconcerned.”

“No right, certainly,” he observed, “excepting that which former
services may be fairly supposed to warrant.”

“Mr. Hartley,” I replied, “I freely admit that I am indebted to you for
hospitality, and also for deliverance from a disagreeable, and possibly
a dangerous restraint; but surely one who rigidly interdicts inquiry
into aught connected with himself, should also respect the secrets of
another.”

“I acknowledge the justice of your remark,” said my quondam host; “and
the noble _demoiselle_, who hangs upon the neck of the acquaintance of
a fortnight, discharging volleys of sighs, ‘hot as a furnace,’
shall remain incognita. You own yourself indebted to me for former
obligations; you have now a power of returning them; and I come here to
ask a favour.”

“It is granted, sir,” I replied, warmly, “even before ‘tis known.”

“Stop, stop,” he returned; “it is a request that is too frequently
refused.”

“Name it, sir.”

“It is the loan of money I solicit. The period brief; the repayment
certain.”

I felt my face redden, and could not find words to answer.

“Before I name the sum that I would borrow,” pursued Mr. Hartley,
without appearing to notice my confusion, “and as the loan must be
regulated by the state of your own finances, let me inquire what money
you brought to town. Men coming to London are generally well provided.”

What a question from a stranger! Surely I should resent it as
impertinent. But no--the man appeared gifted with some influence that
bent me to his will--and I muttered, that when I embarked for England my
purse had contained two hundred pounds.

“Faith, not a bad supply. Could you with convenience spare me half?”

I groaned, and shook my head. .

“Fifty, then?”

Another and a more desponding shake.

“Well, be it forty. No answer. Thirty--twenty--ten! No answer yet?
Then is my request refused? So much for the lip-gratitude of Mr. Hector
O’Halloran!”

I thought my brain would madden, as the humiliating position to which
my folly had reduced me, was thus rudely exposed by this tormenting
supplicant. I tried to speak--‘twas useless; words would not come.
Another minute passed--and Mr. Hartley’s eyes were turned on mine, as if
he would have read the secret agony of spirit which his importunity had
caused.

“Well,” continued he, “should I solicit five paltry pounds--would that
small assistance be refused?”

The question was torturous. My voice at last found utterance. I raised
my eyes, and looked full at Mr. Hartley. How well that look betrayed my
secret sufferings--the bitterest a man can know--those of self-contempt
and conscious humiliation!

“Had I hundreds, Mr. Hartley, they should be placed freely at your
disposal, and I should feel too proud in having the power of convincing
you that I have not forgotten kindnesses. I want the means--for on
yonder table lies all the money I am master of.”

“What!” he exclaimed, “only a few shillings left of two hundred pounds?”

“‘Tis true, by Heaven!”

“Then, sir, are you lower than the wretch who asks for alms upon the
road-side. You are a pauper by vice; he a beggar through misfortune.
Listen, boy, and learn how deep is your degradation. A man to whom you
were indebted for good services seeks your assistance, and whatever
might have been your wishes to render it, folly has placed the means
beyond your reach; and, to a noble spirit, how painful is the inability
of returning a former obligation! And for what did you deprive yourself
of the power of being generous? To lavish money upon knaves and
gamblers--or, still more wretched infatuation,--to win the heartless
smiles of beauty?”

He paused, as if to observe the effect of his reproof, and one glance
attested its influence. In my agitated countenance the inward workings
of the breast were visible; for I had never felt the agony of conscious
shame and self-reproach till now. No wonder that under such feelings,
this singular personage elicited step by step, every particular touching
my connexion with Santonier and his confederates. There are times
when men feel their positions so intolerable, that, with despairing
recklessness, they court no concealment, but place their offendings
in their worst light. Such feelings were mine; and, undeterred by the
strongly-expressed scorn and displeasure of Mr. Hartley, I brought the
confessions of my folly to a close.

“My words have pained you?--it is all the better,” continued my stern
monitor, “as it affords reasonable ground for hoping that the error
lies in the head, and not in the heart. Vice has no blush; and, when the
cheek reddens at the recollection of past imprudence, it may be expected
that future follies will be eschewed. But how could you have been
plundered so unsuspectingly? I only marvel that the veriest novice ever
loosed upon a vicious town, could not in one day’s acquaintance have
detected the barefaced swindling of your noble friends.”

“You seem to know them?” I inquired.

“Yes; and for that profitable knowledge I own myself indebted to Mr.
Hector O’Halloran.”

“To me, sir?” I exclaimed.

“Ay, sir, to you.--Have you forgotten my letter? and have I not
apprised you that every action of your life is under the strictest
_surveillance?_ With all your movements, from the very night you entered
London, I have been acquainted; and it is not wonderful that I should
take some interest in ascertaining who were the intimate associates of a
man, whose fortunes are to be made or marred by me.”

What a strange gentleman this Mr. Hartley was! He seemed to have
selected me as a sort of shuttlecock wherewith to amuse himself at his
own discretion, while with my future fortunes he modestly announced a
determination, in Yankee parlance, to “go the whole hog.” Strange that
I should passively submit to be thus painfully hectored by a stranger;
and, with every inclination, want moral courage to rebel! The man was a
mystery--he appeared to have a perfect knowledge of my actions, added to
the gift of ubiquity. Did I ask an impertinent question, or perpetrate
a kiss, he was sure to be close at my elbow. Was it not devilish hard,
that a man could not commit his fooleries--as Sir Lucius O’Trigger
wished to fight--“in peace and quietness?” and, when he had lost his
last guinea, that a gentleman should drop in, to deliver himself of an
admonition first, and require the loan of a hundred afterwards? I had
got myself into “a regular fix,”--and that seemed the signal for Mr.
Hartley to appear at the moment when I wished him “five fathom under the
Rialto.”

One thing was indisputable--I had been sadly fooled. Circumstances
smooth down misfortunes; and I have heard that men, who would be driven
to desperation at being cheated by a thimble-rigger, feel it only an
agreeable kind of sorrow in being swindled by a peer.--I wished to find
out the real character of my plunderers; and it would be an unspeakable
satisfaction to be certain that I had been “cleaned out” by the
descendants of some “baron bold” who had tilted on the field of
Agincourt, or at Pavia “lost every thing but honour.” Adelaide had
described them as low-born swindlers, but she might be mistaken.
Timidly, therefore, I hazarded the inquiry, whether “Mr. Hartley
knew the exact circle of society which Santonier and his companions
appertained to?”

“That question,” replied Mr. Hartley, “is a puzzler; for in every
grade, from the highest to the lowest, you will find distinctions. The
colonel’s birth may be as noble as he insinuates it to be. He was an
_enfant trouvé_, and in time, the foundling rose to be a valet. In the
Revolution, his master lost his head, and Santonier his place; he next
became a professional gambler; ‘a master of fence’ afterwards--and
lastly, the _chevalier d’industrie_ reached the climax of rascality, and
acted as a double spy. The old gentleman, in green spectacles, has
been all his life _attaché_ to ‘a hell.’ The lady’s history can only
be learned at the Palais Royal--and I doubt whether it would repay the
trouble of a research. Although the struggle may be painful, still it is
best to prepare you for the trial, a warrant from the Alien Office has
directed your amiable acquaintances to withdraw--and before to-morrow’s
sun rises, the Santoniers will have departed. An hour since the Colonel
and I had a satisfactory conversation. This money he requested me to
deliver to you.” (Here Mr. Hartley gave me some bank notes.) “And, as
to this security, it is now mine--and may I inquire, are you prepared to
discharge it?”

I took the writing,--it was a promissory note bearing my signature, and
covenanting to pay “one hundred-and fifty pounds at sight!”

“Are you prepared to discharge this honourable engagement?” he demanded,
with affected seriousness.

I shook my head.

“Then we may as well cancel it at once;” and as he spoke he tore the
paper to pieces.

“Said I not well, when I told you, that on me the colour of your future
life depended? Remember this second deliverance--one, to which a week’s
imprisonment in the haunt of drunken outlaws were a mere nothing. But no
more of this; we have other matters now to occupy us. I want you for an
hour or two.”

He took his hat--desired me to follow him. I felt myself a mere puppet
in his hands--bowed assent--and we left the hotel together.

And where was Isidora? The question was often on my lips; but my
companion was a gentleman of such explosive temperament, that I dare not
hazard the inquiry. He called a coach--I stepped in after him, obedient
as a poodle--and, according to order, honest Jarvey rumbled his
“leathern conveniency” to some caravanserai in the city, as
much excluded from the Court Circular as Mr. Pryme’s favourite
_hostelrie_--the house with “the man’s head” in Crutched Friars.

As we rolled along the streets Mr. Hartley’s manner assumed a different
tone, for he talked to me with the familiarity of old acquaintanceship,
and never for a moment recurred to my recent peccadillos. We spoke of
the engrossing subjects of the day, and on every topic he displayed that
peculiar knowledge, which one who has been long intimate with mankind
only can acquire. Keen and correct as his observations were, they
seemed to be those of a man who had quarrelled with the world; and,
inexperienced as I was, I set him down to be one whose past career had
been unfortunate, or whose future prospects were gloomy and uncertain.

When we entered the hotel Mr. Hartley led the way to the apartments he
occupied. They were situated at the extremity of a long corridor, and
isolated from the other chambers of the inn. In an ante-room my old
acquaintance Dominique was seated. Although his fanciful dress was
discarded for a plain blue livery, I easily recognised my sable friend;
and the negro’s intelligent countenance brightened as he saw me, and
offered a silent welcome. His master introduced me into a drawing-room,
desired me to be seated, apologized for a short absence, and left me to
myself.

How strange--during our long interview and drive, not a word of
Isidora!--I had once asked simply if she were well, and he had replied
in the affirmative so briefly, that it seemed to preclude any further
inquiries touching his fair daughter. I examined the apartment--no
tokens of female occupancy presented themselves--it was like the
common-place chamber of every inn, and only remarkable for the numerous
trunks and boxes it contained; and to judge from the extent of the
baggage, the traveller to whom it appertained was preparing for a final
flitting. The various packages had Mr. Hartley’s name attached; and
hence, I concluded that to Ireland he had bidden a long farewell. But
brief space was permitted for solitary fancyings: the door opened,--my
quondam host entered accompanied by a lady,--and one look told me that
she was Isidora.

When I advanced and took her hand, she coloured to the brow, but still
my reception was a kind one. Meeting under different circumstances, we
both felt less embarrassment than when I had been first presented to
her; and I thought I could perceive something in Mr. Hartley’s
manner, which appeared to give encouragement to our closer intimacy.
Occasionally he alluded to my last escapade in dry sarcastic
observations, only intelligible to ourselves; but his manner satisfied
me, that however foolish I might have appeared, still I had not fallen
in his estimation. Supper ended, Isidora withdrew; we parted with “a
fair good night;” and Mr. Hartley and I were left alone.

My host looked at the door to see that it was closed, then filled his
glass, and pushed the flask across to me.

“Hector,” he commenced.

I started; for it was the first time he had ever addressed me without
prefixing a formal _mister_ to my name.

“I perceive,” he continued, “that you are surprised to hear me speak to
you with little ceremony. Did you but know the secret history of him who
sits beside you, that wonder would be removed. The time for that is yet
to come; and you must expect my confidence only as circumstances may
require, and your own conduct shall deserve it. I told you that your
fortunes were controlled by me; and on that assurance you may place the
firmest reliance. Listen, and you may learn much concerning your own
family--more than you have yet known--and, afterwards, I will explain
the reason that made me thus communicative.”

I bowed, and remained a silent listener.

“You had an uncle. He was thrown upon the world unwisely when a boy,
left to his own guidance, and subjected to more temptation than youth
can conquer. Need I tell you, who have learned the lesson practically,
how easily intimacies are formed, which, when unchecked, prove ruinous?
By the ill-judging liberality of his father, young Clifford obtained the
means to follow the bent of his inclination. His temper was ardent--his
passions strong--he had no friend to counsel--no Mentor to direct--his
life became a whirlwind of dissipation--and with rapid strides he
hurried to destruction. Too late, the film was removed from his parent’s
eyes; and unfortunately, the steps he took to stay that course of folly
in his child, which himself had first encouraged, were injudicious.
Money was suddenly withheld; could the wild youth’s career be thus
arrested? No; false villains surrounded him, who pointed out easy means
by which a large supply was raised, only, when obtained, to be wasted
upon knaves, or lavished with reckless prodigality on those whose beauty
had been their bane. Oh! woman--thou art a blessing or a curse--and as
both, this withered heart has proved thee!”

Mr. Hartley sprang from his chair--strode aeross the room--stopped at
the window--and then, as if he had subdued a violent outbreak of secret
feeling, he resumed his seat and thus continued:

“A vicious career soon finds its termination. The mode by which young
Clifford had hitherto obtained supplies at last became unavailing, and
criminal means were cautiously proposed by his villanous confederates.
From these the youth recoiled with horror--his guardian angel had not
yet deserted him; and, like another prodigal, he half determined to fall
at his father’s feet, and ask him to bless and pardon. That blessing
was ready had he sought it--but the moment of penitence had passed. One,
with an angel form and demon heart, had thrown her spells around him;
and all that remained of moral principle, she, the foul temptress,
gradually extinguished. In a desperate emergency young Clifford
committed forgery, affixing to securities of immense amount, his
father’s name. In due time the criminal act was discovered, and to the
agonized parent one alternative alone was left--to pay an enormous sum
to the villains who had demoralized him, or denounce his child a felon,
and consign him to a felon’s doom. He sacrificed the money. Did the
mischief end there? No;--the misguided young man was now the victim of
a gang of swindlers--the puppet of a coldblooded courtesan. Deeper and
deeper they involved him, and at last, when their own detection was
impending, they made him a scapegoat to their safety, and denounced
their dupe for crimes which they had themselves committed, and of which
he, poor wretch, was guiltless.

“The fallen have no friends; and your uncle was obliged to evade the
penalty which the law would have then exacted, by abandoning the country
of his birth, to seek ignominious safety in a foreign land. There--he
lived and died--a nameless fugitive. Heaven knows in what misery the
remnant of his few and evil days were passed,--or, when the hour of
deliverance came, under what fearful circumstances death claimed a
willing victim.”

Mr. Hartley paused; the story of my unfortunate relative had affected
me, and I expressed strong sympathy for the offender.

“Well,” continued he, “it is probable that his punishment was
greater than his crime; but of that none but himself could tell. To
proceed:--from the moment young Clifford quitted England, his father, by
a mental exertion that almost appeal’s incredible, seemed to forget that
he had ever had a son, and centered all his hopes and his affections in
the child still spared him; and your mother became the object that he
lived for. There, too, it was decreed that his hopes and plans should
be disappointed. He had resolved to ally her nobly; but his air-built
castle was levelled to the earth. She eloped with a soldier of fortune;
and worse still, in the estimation of one so deeply bigoted to his own
faith, the husband she had selected was a Protestant.

“As he had banished from his heart the memory of a guilty son, so, also,
he appears to have forgotten that a daughter, whose sole offence was
love, has often sued for pardon, and sued in vain. Dead, apparently, to
human passions, and wrapped in gloomy reveries of religion without any
thing of its charities, he mistakes ascetic indifference for submission
to that Will which rules the fate of mortals. In every thing he is
directed by his confessor, and report affirms that he has bequeathed his
fortune and estates to the uses of the Church of Rome. I have heard that
you bear a striking likeness to your mother. Could you but meet this
cold old man, possibly some spark of kindred love might still be latent
in the heart, and in the living child, he might happily be forced to
recollect the long-estranged mother. But to obtain that meeting is the
difficulty. Surrounded by priests and spies, your very name, if known,
would bar you from his presence. I have taken measures to ascertain what
are the old man’s habits, and how an interview might be accomplished.
The experiment may fail--but still it is worth the trial.

“Why have I enlarged on what you knew partially already?--the fall of
William Clifford. Only to show, by startling truths, that imprudence is
too generally the path to crime; and that your career, unless arrested
as it was by me, might have ended fatally as your uncle’s did.”

“Never!” I exclaimed, passionately; “a fool I might be--a villain,
never.”

“And so thought young Clifford once--but no more of this. I feel
convinced that your fancy for play and dangerous acquaintances is
ended.”

“Indeed, Mr. Hartley, I see my folly in its true colours.”

“And now for bed,” he replied. “You to your hotel, and I to my chamber.
Let me see you early to-morrow. Should business have called me from
home, you will find Isidora, and her sable genius, Dominique.”

“You never travel far without your black attendant,” I remarked.

“He never leaves us; and for twenty years, amidst all its storm and
sunshine, he has followed my fortunes with devoted fidelity. Next to
that of my child, the greatest loss Heaven could inflict would be to
take from me that faithful negro. He comes.--Show Mr. O’Halloran down
stairs.--Once more, good night.” He shook me warmly by the hand. “One
word more, friend Hector,” he added with a smile; “you need not lose
time in a visit to Jermyn-street--the birds have flown!”

It was past midnight, if you could believe the watchman; and as I walked
slowly westward, and thought on the events of the few last hours, I
doubted their actual reality. The strange and quick succession in which
they followed, seemed like the wanderings of a dream. A second time had
I been delivered from a critical position by a person, two months ago a
stranger--and yet one, who appeared to have dropped upon the earth, for
the especial purpose of looking after me. I slept--many a vision passed
“in shadowy review.”--but one, more brilliant than the rest, was ever
before “my mind’s eye.”--Mr. Hartley, the genius of my good fortune, and
Isidora, its bright reward.

I have said already, that the destinies of my foster-brother and myself
were intimately united. Mark Antony left my father’s house to join me
in Dublin--the hand of fate had interposed--and on this eventful night,
while I reposed at Stevens’s, my _alter ego_ was “taking his rest” in
a back attic, two pair up, in a ramification of the Seven Dials--a
safe and agreeable domicile, to which his friend, the ratcatcher, had
introduced him. A cheaper lodging might have been certainly obtained;
but this was quiet and select. From slates to cellar there were but
seven families in the house--“and the beauty of it was,” as Shemus Rhua
remarked with triumphant satisfaction, “every soul of them was Irish.”



CHAPTER XVII. THE ROBBERY OF TIM MALEY.


“_My father, the deacon, wrought him his first hose. Odd, I’m thinking
deacon Threeplie, the rape-spinner, will twist him his last cravat. Ay,
ay, puir Robin is in a fair way o’ being hanged._”--Rob Roy.

|After the “sweet sorrow” of parting with the _cantatrice_, the fosterer
and his companion, as if striving to leave care behind, pushed forward
vigorously on the road; and at sunset, the steeple of the village where
they had determined to remain for the night, was visible from the high
ground they were crossing. Never were fellow-travellers in more opposite
moods; Mark Antony, melancholy as “a lover’s lute”--the ratcatcher,

                   “Brisk as a bee, light as a fairy.”

And yet the matter might have been easily accounted for--the one had
parted with a mistress--no wonder, therefore, that he, poor fellow, was
sad enough; the other was levanting from a wife--consequently he was
merry, “and small blame to him,” as they say in Ireland.

“Well, upon my conscience, Mark, _astore_,” * said Shemus Rhua, breaking
a silence of five minutes, “ye’re a pleasant companion this evening, if
a man didn’t care what he said.”

     * Anglice--darling.

The fosterer answered with a sigh.

“Why,” continued the ratcatcher, “were you married, like myself, you
couldn’t be much more miserable. Arrah! what the plague has come
over ye, man? Can’t ye take things asy like me? Hav’n’t I left an
affectionate wife behind?--and ye see I bear it like a Christian. I was
once in love myself, and, as the sergeant’s song goes, found nothing for
it but whisky. So, there’s a bridge, and here’s the cruiskeeine; we’ll
sit down upon the wall for a while, take a drop to kill grief, and just
inquire afterwards, where the devil we are going to.”

As he spoke, the worthy captain unclosed his goat-skin
knapsack--produced a flask and capacious drinking-cup, supplied
the latter sparingly from the stream, completing it amply from the
cruiskeeine--and after swallowing the larger moiety himself, he
transferred “love’s panacea” to his desponding comrade.

“That’s the thing,” exclaimed Shemus Rhua, as the fosterer emptied the
horn; “and now, Mr. O’Toole, will you tell me where I’m bound for?”

“Upon my soul,” returned the fosterer, “I don’t know where I’m going to
myself--nor do I care.”

“There’s two of us so,” observed the captain.

“I think I’ll head towards England,” said the fosterer.

“Well,” returned the captain, “I’ll go there too.”

“Push on to London afterwards, and try an Irishman’s luck.5,

“Right,” exclaimed the ratcatcher; “and I’ll stick to you like a bur.”

“But what could you do there, copteeine?’

“Ask me rather what could I not do! Are there any brats, rats, pointers,
or old women to be found?”

“Enough of all, no doubt, Master Shemus.”

“Then leave Shemus Rhua alone to make out life.”

“‘Well, captain, if you will venture, we’ll share the purse while it
holds a shilling--and when the last is gone--why, it’s only mounting the
cockade.”

“For a gentleman like me,” returned the ratcatcher with a smile, “who
had the honour to hold a commission, it would be beneath him to enlist;
but, _mona-sin-dhoul!_ wherever you go, Mark, I’ll follow like your
shadow.”

“Come along,” said the fosterer, “night is falling, and the road, they
say, is unsafe after dark. They robbed the mail last week.”

“They’ll not rob us,” returned the ratcatcher. “‘Where hard blows and
light purses are only to be got, people who understand their business,
never trouble themselves with such customers.”

“Well, Shemus, you know best; for you’re foully belied, if there was a
handier gentleman out in ninety-eight.”

“I never robbed, if robbing you can call it,” returned the captain,
“but twice; and if every thing I did besides sate as light upon my
conscience, the devil a knee I need crook to Father McShane.”

“And who _did_ you rob?” inquired the ratcatcher’s companion.

“A miser, and the king-God bless his majesty! I should have spared
him-for he’s a daeent ould gentleman, or my head would have been on a
spike at Castlebar!” *

“Well, Shemus, let us hear both exploits.”

“When I robbed the king, it was only taking saddle-bags from an honest
tax-gatherer, whom I chanced to meet ‘accidentally on purpose’ one
winter’s evening at the deer-park wall of Cloghanteeley--The man was
drunk, the horse tired, and I took care of the silver--only that,
forgetting the owner’s name, I never knew where to return it
afterwards.”

“So much for the king,” observed the fosterer; “and now, gallant
captain, for the miser.”

“I’ll tell ye that,” replied the ratcatcher.

“It was late in the winter, the year after the French, ** and Christmas
Eve, into the bargain. Well, there was to be a cake *** at Croneeinbeg
and as I was then fond of a dance, I set out after dark for the village.
Before I got half-way, who should I meet but Mary Connor. She was
the natest girl within thirty miles, and had been only married a bare
fortnight. I heard her sob as I came up, and when I bid her the time of
the day, she couldn’t answer, the poor cratur, for the grief was fairly
choking her. ‘Death an’ nous,’ says I, ‘Mary darling, has any thing
happened to yourself or the man that owns ye?’

“‘Nothing,’ says she, ‘copteeine avourneeine, **** only we’re both
fairly ruined.’ ‘Ruined?’ said I. ‘Och hone! it’s God’s truth,’ says
she-and between tears and sobs the poor girl managed to tell me her
misfortune.”

     * A disgusting penalty then attached to treason.

     ** In Connaught, for many years after Humbert’s descent upon
     the coast of Mayo, events were dated from that occurrence.

     *** At village dances, a cake is generally provided by the
     owner of the house, which the most liberal gallant
     purchases, and presents to his mistress.

     **** “Captain darling.”

“‘Copteeine,’ says she, ‘ye know Tim Maley of Ramore?’ ‘Troth, and I
do,’ says I, ‘and I know nothing good of the same lad--an infarnal ould
skin-flint, who would rob his own father if he could. Whenever I want
a sheep, I always give him the preference, and choose one that has
his brand upon it.’ ‘May the Lord reward ye,’ says she, ‘for so doing,
Well, copteeine, for two years he has been comin’ about our place,
and when the times got bad, and my father and my husband were druv’ for
rent, they borrowed money at _gompeein_ * from the miser. Well, they
thought to pay it, with and with, ** but the crippawn *** seized the
cattle, and the grate snow kilt the sheep, and the devil a _scurrick_
could they make up between them for the ould sinner, when their note
fell due. Well, ye know that Pat and I were promised for two years, but
as the world went hard against us, we were afeard to get married. On
Monday come three weeks, we were sittin’ round the fire, heavy-hearted
enough, when the latch was lifted softly. I thought it was Pat, but who
should it be but ould Maloy. In he comes, coughing, with his “God save
all here,” and draws a stool to the fire. “Ye’r kindly weleome,” says my
father. “I hope so,” says the miser, “for I am come for at laste a part
of the money that you and Pat Grady, (manin’ my husband,) are due
me.” My poor father turned pale as a cloth. “Mister Maley,” says he,
_mistering_ the ould ruffin, to plase him ye know; “you’ve heard of our
loss--may the Lord look down upon us!” The miser gave a cough, “An’ am
I,” says he, “to get nather less or more of what I lent ye?” My poor
father gave a groan. “Mary,” says the ould divil to me, “put the boult
in the door, and come here and sit beside me.” Well, copteeine, my heart
grew cold, an’ I don’t know why the fear came over me so, but I did what
he desired me, and came and sate down, but with my father betune us.
“Well,” says be, “you’re asking time, Phil Connor, an’ may be, I might
give it to ye--ay, an’ maybe I’ll do more--for I’ll make Mary my lawful
wife, and forgive ye the debt along with it.” The light left my eyes as
he said so; and when my poor father looked over at me so heart-broken,
I thought I would have dropped. “What do ye say to the offer?” said ould
Maley. “Och hone!” says my father, “it’s a grate honour ye do my little
girl; but, Mister Maley, dear, ye’r too ould for her.” The miser bit his
lip; “An’ do ye refuse me for a son-in-law?” says he, in a rage. “Let me
just talk to the gentleman, father darlin’,” says I, for I knew we were
in the ould villain’s power, and I thought that I might sofen him. My
father left the cabin, ould Maley pulled in his stool, took me by the
hand, and begun palaverin’ me, thinkin’ I would consint; “And now,
Mary,” says he, “what have ye to say? Take me, or lave me, as ye like
it.”

“Mister Maley,” I said, “maybe I may offind ye; but if I don’t spake the
truth, I’ll be guilty before God. I love another dearly, and niver could
like you; and think of the sin, and shame, and sorrow, it would cause,
if I desarted him because he’s poor, and married you because ye’r rich.
Look out for some woman of your own years, for ye’ll niver be happy
with a girl.” He hardly waited to the end, but jumped upon his legs, and
swarin’ he would lave us without a cloot, **** and beggar us root and
branch, he flung out of the cabin like a madman.

     * An Irish term for usurious interest.

     **  Anglicè--by instalments.

     *** A fatal disease to which the black cattle of mountain
     districts are frequently exposed

     **** Anglicè--a head of cattle.

“‘Well, copteeine, when Pat came afterwards, and heard the story, he
cursed, and I cried, till, in sheer despair, we determined to marry at
once--and, the Lord forgive us! we done it out of the face, and ran away
next morning.

“‘Well, we thought that God would stand our friend, and that, bad as
the ould miser was, sure he wouldn’t ruin, out and out, two poor craturs
that had just got married; but a week showed that Maley--bad luck attind
him!--was bent on our destruction. One night, and unknownst to us,
every four-footed baste my father or my husband owned, was driven to
the pound, and yesterday they were canted for anything they would bring.
Poor Pat returned three hours ago almost broken-hearted, and all I had
to offer my weary husband was a dry potatoe.’ Poor girl! she burst into
a flood of tears, and every sob she gave, I laid it heavy on my soul,
ather to right her, or revenge her.

“‘Well, copteeine,’ she went on, ‘every cloot was sould but one
milch-cow that fell lame upon the road: I looked at my husband’s sorry
dinner--and, for his sake, I determined to humble myself to that wicked
ould man, and beg from him the lame cow. Off I set, unknownst to Pat,
took the short cut across the fields, and in an hour reached Maley’s.
He looked at me as I entered the cabin, and the grin of hell was on his
face. Well, he spoke me fairly at first; “Come in, _astore_,” he said,
ladin’ me into the inside room. Feaks, I thought he was going to be kind
at last; but och! copteeine, it was only mockery he meant after all.
“An’ so ye want the lame cow?” says he, beginnin’ the conversation.
“Yis, Mister Maley,” says I, “if it’s agreeable to ye; I would ask it as
a favour.”

“Humph!” says he, pullin’ out a big key that was fastened to his
waistcoat with a string, and opening a black oak chest that was standin’
at the foot of the bed. “Do you see that bag, Mary?” says he, pointin’
to a blue one. “I do, sir,” says I. “Well, in that I brought home the
price of the cattle. Do ye see that other striped one?” says he. I told
him that I did. “Well, that’s the interest of what I lent the squire,”
 and three or four other gentlemen he named. “Now, Mary Connor,” says he,
shuttin’ down the lid and lockin’ the chest again, “if sixpence would
save you from starvin’, and Pat Grady from a jail, be this book,” and
he kissed the key, “I wouldn’t give it if you were on the gallows.” I
rushed out from the ould villain’s sight. “Stop,” he cried, shoutin’
from the windy; “as soon as the lame cow can walk, she’ll go where
the others went yesterday. There’s a cake, I hear, the night at
Croneeinbeg.--You’ll be dancin’ there, I think--ye know the heel’s
light, where the heart’s merry--isn’t it, Mary Connor?” and till I was
out of bearin’, that fiend’s laugh pierced me to the soul.’

“Well, Mark, I had made up my mind, before the poor girl had done
speakin.’ ‘Mary,’ says I ‘the ould monster shall tell truth for once.
Go home--dress yourself in your best--you’ll be my partner to-night at
Croneeinbeg--ay, and, by Heaven! there sha’n’t be a lighter foot upon
the floor, nor a merrier heart lavin’ the dance-house than your own,
Mary Connor!’

“She stared--but I pressed lier to do what I wished, and she promised
it. I waited till she was out of sight, and then jogged quietly on
towards the place wore Maley lived.

“When I got within sight of the house, I thought it rather too early to
pay a visit to the miser, and steppin’ into a quarry, sate down to
let another hour pass. Maley knew me well; but as I had a crape in my
pocket, I determined to disguise myself, pass for Johnny Gibbons, * and
give him the credit of the job. Presently I heard footstep on the road,
and up came three men. They did not see me, but I heard them talkin’.
One of them was Maley’s boy, and he was tellin’ his companions how
nicely he had given his master the slip, and stole away without his
knowin’ it. ‘If the cows brake loose,’ says he, the ‘divil a man-body’s
about the place to tie them.’ Oh, ho! thought I to myself, sorrow a
better evening I could have chosen to visit ye, Mister Maley. So when
the boys were out of bearin’, I rose up, and reached the miser’s without
meetin’ a living soul.

“I peeped quietly through the windy, an’ there was sittin’ the ould
villin two-double over a few coals upon the hearth--for he begrudged
himself a dacent fire--and two women were spinnin’ in the corner. A
dog that came out of the barn knew me to be strange, and set up
the bark.--‘What’s that Cusdhu’s ** growlin’ at?’ said ould Maley,
sharply--‘Go out, Brideeine, and see.’ I lifts the latch, and quietly
steps in. ‘There’s no occasion, Mister Maley,’ says I. ‘It’s an ould
friend who was passin’ the road, and dropped in to ask ye how ye were.’
The women gave a squall, and I thought the miser would have dropped
out of the chair where he was sittin.’ ‘Girls,’ says I, ‘I’ll stand no
nonsense. Ye have heard of Johnny Gibbons, I suppose.’ Both dropt upon
their knees, and Maley began to cross himself.--‘Up with ye,’ says I.
‘Go into that room, and if ather you brathe a whisper that would waken
the cat, I’ll drive a ball thro’ ach o’ye.”

[Illustration: 0174]

“The divil a delay they made; but away they stole, and closed the door
after them. Well, I laid the gun upon the dresser, drew a stool, an’
sits down fornent the miser. ‘Arrah, bad luck attend ye for an ould
thief,’ says I; ‘hav’n’t ye the manners to ask a man who has come ten
miles to see ye, whether he has a mouth or not?’ ‘Oh! Mister Gibbons,
jewel, it was all a forget on my part. There’s a bottle of licker in the
cupboard.’ ‘An’ the curse of Cromwell on ye!’ says I; ‘de ye think it’s
me that’s goin’ to attend myself?--Brideeine--tell the ould woman to go
to bed, an’ come out an’ wait upon your betters,--come out, I say--or
maybe yeer waitin’ for me to fetch ye?’ Out she comes, shakin’ like a
dog in a wet sack, brings the whisky, and fills a glass. ‘Now, light a
dacent candle--keep your rush-light for other company--an’ be off with
ye. Here’s yeer health, Mister Maley,’ says I; ‘the divil a better
poteeine crossed my lips this twelvemonth. An’ now for bisnis. Step down
to the room with me, if ye plase.’ ‘Arrah,’ says he, ‘what de ye want
there?’ I niver answered him, but took out a pistol carelessly from my
coat pocket, opened the pan, shook the primin’, and looked at the
flint. ‘Christ stan’ between us an’ harm! what are ye about?’ says he.
‘Nothing,’ says I; ‘only that I always see if the tools are in proper
order before they’r wanted.

     *    A sanguinary scoundrel, hanged after the Irish
     rebellion, whose name is still a terror to the peasantry.

     ** Cusdhu, literally blackfoot, although many a white-footed
     cur is so called--the Irish peasantry considering that name
     a lucky one.

Come along.’ “Well, he followed me like a spaniel--in we goes to the
room--and in a moment I spied the black oak chest. ‘Where’s the key
of this?’ says I. ‘God sees it’s lost since the fair of Ballyhain, and
that’s a fortnight come Saturday,’ said the ould miser. ‘Bad luck to the
liars,’ says I. ‘Wouldn’t it be a quare thing, now, if I could find it?’
With that I gives his waistcoat a rug, and out drops the key danglin’ to
a bit of twine. The moment I put it in the chest, Maley roared ‘Murder!’
an’ threw himself across the lid. I lifted him by the neck as ye would
lift a cur--flung him on the bed--tied him hand an’ foot with a hank of
yarn--and stuffed an ould stockin’ in his mouth. ‘Lie quiet there,’ says
I. ‘I’ll not detain ye long; for all I want here is a blue bag, an’ a
striped one.’ The ould divil struv to shout, but the stockin’ smothered
his voice, an’ the noise he made was so droll, that I couldn’t help
laughin’ till I was tired again. Well, sure enough there were the bags,
just as Mary Connor had tould me. I put them in the pockets of my _cota
more_ *--took another hank, tied Maley to the bedpost--bid him a tinder
good night--desired the women on peril of their lives to lie still till
mornin’--walked quietly out of the house, and locked the door after me.

“Well, off I goes straight to Croneeinbeg--steps into the dance-house,
an’ salutes the company with a ‘God save all here.’ Divil a merrier set
ye iver looked at, but two--an’ they were sittin’ in the corner. It
was poor Grady an’ his wife--an’, pon my soul! there was such sorrow on
their pale faces, that an enemy would have pitied them.

“‘I want ye, Pat, says I.’ Up he gets, an’ we stept out together, and
walked five or six perches from the house. ‘Pat, what’s the matter with
ye, man?’ ‘Ohone, copteeine; ye know I’m ruined,’ says he. I wouldn’t
mind it for myself, but--my poor Mary’--an’ he fairly began to cry.
‘Arrah!’ says I, ‘have done, man. De ye remember the night before
Garlick Sunday?’ ‘No,’ says he. ‘Then, Pat Grady, _I do_. Ye hid me,
when the highlanmen had run me to a stan’-still--and, with an hundred
pound upon my head, saved me when I thought none but God could deliver
me from certain death. In that bag you’ll find some money--your debt
to Maley is paid--and there’s a trifle to begin the world with. Go off.
Hide it ‘till ye want it; burn the bag; an’ now, you and I, Pat, have
cleared scores; an’ if ten pound will do it, the cake shall be Mary
Connor’s.’ ‘Oh! copteeine, jewel, let me but whisper to Mary our good
luck;’ and in the poor fellow run, to spake comfort to the prettiest
girl in the province.

“In a few minutes I returned to the dance. I looked at Mary Connor. The
rose had come back again to her cheek, and at her bright black eye ye
could have lighted a dhudeeine. ‘_The floor!_’ says I--and in a minute
it was clear. I flung a dollar to the fiddler. ‘Now, bad luck to ye,
play yir best, an’ up with--Apples for ladies and ladin’ out Mary
Connor, the divil a better jig was danced for a month of Sundays.

     * Cota more--Anglicè, great coat.

     ** The name of a favourite contredanse, exceedingly
     fashionable in Connemara.

“‘Mary,’ says I, as I pressed her hand at partin, ‘didn’t I tell truth,
my darlin’, when I said, that light as yir foot might be, the heart
should be lighter still?’ The tears--but they were tears of joy--came
stramin’ down her cheeks. I kissed them away--took up my gun--bid the
company good night--and before morning dawned, or the ould miser was
unbound, I was across the Killeries and into Connemara; an’ the best
of it is, that, to this blessed day, that robbery is left on Johnny
Gibbons. And now, Mark, I ask you, upon the nick of yir conscience, was
there any harm in returnin’ the blue-bag to the right owner, and keepin’
the stripped one myself?’

“Under such circumstances, Shemus Rhua,” replied the fosterer, “I’m
ready to turn robber when you like it. But here we are at the Four Alls;
and, faith, I hope, like a singed cat, it will prove better than it
looks.”

Indeed, in its external appearance, the village inn had nothing to
excite the expectations of a traveller. The windows were mostly without
glass; the earthen floor broken into ruts, all of which appeared
recipients for dirty water; while the ceiling was blackened with soot,
and the walls curtained with cobwebs. The landlord, looked a sot--his
helpmate, the epitome of every thing unclean. The ratcatcher pronounced
it “a place not fit to lodge a dacent dog in,” while Mark Antony,
remembering that hostelrie, where he had found “the warmest welcome,”
 drew a mental contrast between both, and thought with a sigh upon his
rejected innamorata--the lady of the Cock and Punchbowl.

[Illustration: 0176]



CHAPTER XVIII. CONFESSIONS OF THE RAT-CATCHER.


“_There are certain ingredients to be mingled with matrimony, without
which I may as likely change for the worse as the better.” A Bold Stroke
for a Wife._

|The man might have been set down a lazy wayfarer indeed who would have
sojourned a second day at that pleasant hostlerie, whose sign-board
displayed the spirited representation we have copied. Mark Antony
avowed that “he had never closed an eye,” while his companion admitted
the enjoyment of a short, but not sweet season of forgetfulness, when,
according to the confessions of the captain, the insect tribe had
assailed his person with such ferocity, that, had they only combined
their efforts, “and pulled one way, they must have dragged him into
the floor.” No wonder, then, that the journey was resumed at cockcrow.
England was the destination; and the route was accordingly directed
towards a neighbouring seaport, from which a passage in a trading vessel
to Liverpool might be obtained.

At that period--one short to look back to--the transit of the Channel
was held to be a daring exploit; and, in Irish estimation, England was
indeed, a land beyond the seas. Whether business or pleasure formed
the inducement, the latter must be considerable, before a votary of St.
Patrick would venture upon “realms unknown and great,” therefore was
the fosterer’s satisfaction, in discovering that Shemus Rhua was an
accomplished traveller, and also that, in earlier life, the gallant
captain had visited “the great metropolis.”

“It’s now three-and-twenty years ago,” concluded the ratcatcher, with a
sigh, “and, upon my conscience, to look back, Mark dear, it appears like
yesterday.”

“And what brought you to England, Shemus?” said the fosterer.

“Why, I think,” replied the captain, “a gentleman who has directed me
generally from the cradle. He keeps, they say, a warm house; and, though
he’s the best friend they have, the clargy are eternally abusing him.”

“Well, by your own account, copteeine, your guide was none of the best.
The errand, I hope, was better?”

“Neeil an suggum,” * returned the ratcatcher, “I went to run away with
an heiress.”

     * Paraphrased--“We’ll not say much about that.”

“Well done, captain.”

“Stop--I don’t mean myself, but my master, and ye know, that’s the same
thing.”

“Who was the heiress?”

“Devil have them that knows! Any body that came in our way.”

“And did you succeed?”

“Succeed!” exclaimed the ratcatcher; “Upon my soul, only we gave
leg-bail, he would have been hanged, and I left for transportation.”

“_He!_--who was he, Shemus?”

“Why, who but my ould master’s son, Dick Macnamara.”

“And the expedition was unfortunate?”

“Unfortunate! how could it be otherwise?” replied the captain. “Of all
the unlucky devils ever born under a cross-grained star, Dick Macnamara,
you were the most unlucky!”

“Is he dead?” said the fosterer.

“Dead! to be sure he is,” replied the captain. “He quarrelled with Savey
Blake, at the winter fair of Athlone; and, as the morning was wet, they
fought in the inn yard. What did the stupid fool his second do, but
stick Dick into a corner! The rain was in his face; and at the first
fire, Savey Blake, shot him like a woodcock. I was with him till he
died. Indeed, I never knew him have luck but once.”

“Indeed; and what was that?”

“When he did marry, his wife ran away from him within a quarter.”

“But your English expedition, Shemus. Arrah, man, there’s where the shoe
pinches; and I would like to know how ye got on.”

“Got on!” exclaimed the ratcatcher. “Be gogstay! from the very moment we
left home, every thing went wrong with us. But, stop--isn’t there a well
that none but a sinful man would pass? Sit down, _avourneeine_--there’s
a drop in the cruiskeein still, and when I take a cobweb out of my
throat, I’ll tell ye all the particulars of,


THE MATRIMONIAL ADVENTURES OF DICK MACNAMARA

It was the summer after the great election--and that was in the year
ninety-one--and a fine evening it was. At that time, care was far from
my Heart, and I was taking a dance in the barn with Mary Regan, my
lady’s maid, when out comes Sir Thomas’s own man to say that I was
wanted in the parlour. “Run, bad luck to ye,” says he, “and I’ll finish
the jig for ye! Arrah, make haste, man! Some etarnal villin has slipt a
paper under the gate, and the ould master’s fit to be tied. I never saw
him so mad since he was chased home from Galway.” Away I goes; and when
I got into the parlour, there I found Sir Thomas, God rest his soul!
Father Pat Butler, the parish priest--and the driver, Izzy Blake.

Sir Thomas was sittin’ in the big armed chair he always sate in. He
wasn’t to say much the worse for liker; but it was asy to persave that
he had been lookin’ at somebody that was drinkin’. The priest, och!
what a head he had! was cool as a cowcumber, and only Izzy’s nose was
a deeper purple than when he sate down, you wouldn’t know he had a drop
in. It was quite plain the party were in trouble; for, to smother grief,
the ould master had slipped a second glass of poteeine into his tumbler
just as I came in.

“Asy, Sir Thomas!--Drink asy!” said the priest. “The whisky’s killin’ ye
by inches!”

“Arrah, balderdash! Pat Butler, won’t ye let me take the colour of death
off the water, man, and me threatened with the gout? It’s the law that’s
fairly murderin’ me. Bad luck attend all consarned with the same! At the
blast of the mail horn my heart bates like a bird; for within the last
two years I have got as many lattitats by post, as would paper the
drawin’-room. Shemus Rhua,” says he, turning to me,--“did ye see a
black-lookin’ thief about the place, when ye were hunting the young
setters on the moor?”

“Arrah, Sir Thomas, if I did, don’t ye think I would have been after
askin’ him what he was doin’ there?”

“Sibby Byrn saw him thrust these d____d papers under the gate, and then
cut over the bog as if the divil was at his heels. Well--small blame to
him for runnin’--for, by all that’s beautiful, if I had gripped him, he
would have gone back to the villain that employs him, lighter by both
lugs. Sit down, Shemus. Izzy Blake, fill the boy a glass.” And then he
began, poor ould gentleman, askin’ me about the dogs; but before I could
answer him, he gave a sigh. “Arrah,” says he, “what need I be talkin’
about dogs, when, after November next, the divil a four-footed baste
will be left upon Killcrogher, good nor bad!”

“Something must be done immediately,” said the priest. “If they
foreclose the mortgage, and get a recaver on the estate, we’re done
for.”

“If we could only raise five thousand to pay that cursed claim, we might
stave off the other things till some good luck would turn up,” said the
driver.

Sir Thomas sighed. Troth, an enemy would have pitied him!

“Arrah, Izzy Blake--that day will never come! Don’t talk of good luck,
that’s over with me,” says he. “O Lord! to be baten by Peter Daly--and
his grandmother before him, keepin’ a huxtery in Loughrea--and then to
be hunted home afterwards, like a tithe-proctor! It’s enough to drive a
man to drink, or make a quaker kick his own mother.”

You see, Mark, (observed the captain, in explanation,) the ould master
had stood for the county. Well, from the time he came into possession of
the estate, of course, Sir Thomas was like his father, a Sunday man and
as he couldn’t meet the sheriff openly at the election, what the divil
does he do, but he sits out in a boat, where he could hear how things
were goin’ on, and give orders to the tenants. The Lord sees, the
cratures did all they could for a good master as he was. Didn’t they
kidnap the electors, tare down the booths, burn Peter Daly’s talley-room
teetotally,--and throw a jaunting car, with six voters, clane over the
bridge--horse, driver, and all! And what more; could they do? The money
bate us in the long-run; and it was well Sir Thomas wasn’t taken into
the bargain--for the bailiffs chased him to the very gates. No wonder
then, poor ould gentleman, that the very name of the election put him
always into a rage.

     *  In olden time, Irish gentlemen found it occasionally
     convenient to rest from their labours for six days, and only
     exhibit their persons on the seventh.

“Never mind,” said the priest, striving to say something pleasant, and
comfort the ould master; “it’s a long lane that wants a turn--and
luck will come at last. There’s yer two sisters, Sir Thomas--the best
catholics in Connemara, and ready to travel any moment that they’re
wanted--if the Lord would only mercifully take them to himself. Indeed,
they’re too good for this wicked world--and they would be far snugger in
the next.”

“Divil a chance there,” says Sir Thomas; “they’re the very counterpart
of their mother--the Lord be good to her! an she lived to ninety-seven.”

“Are ye in the lottery the year?” asked the priest. “Arrah, what matter
whether I am or not!” said Sir Thomas. “Hav’n’t I been in it since I
was a boy, and niver won any thing beyond a blackguard twenty or two?
Upon my conscience, I verily believe, if I had been bound to a hatter,
people would be born without heads!”

Well, the divil a one could point out the likelihood of luck; and the
poor ould gentleman seemed mighty disconsolate.

“Arrah,” says I, “hould up, Sir Thomas--who knows but we’ll get to the
sunny side of the hedge yet? There’s Master Dick--and if he would only
marry an heiress--”

“Be dad,” says the ould gentleman, “Father Pat, there’s sense in that.”
 The priest shook his head.

“And why shouldn’t he?” says Sir Thomas.

“Because,” returned the priest, “he’s never out of one scrape till he’s
into another. And then he’s so captious; if he was in heaven--where the
Lord send him in proper time, if possible!--why, he would pick a quarrel
with St. Peter.”

“It’s all a flow of spirit,” says the ould man.

“_It’s a flow of spirits_ that causes it generally,” says the priest;
“but it’s all your own fault, Sir Thomas, and I often tould ye so.
Instead of lettin’ him stick to his larnin’, ye would have him brought
up yer own way, ridin’ three times a week to the Clonsallagh hounds, and
shooting at chalked men on the barn door through the remainder.”

“Arrah, be quiet,” says the ould gentleman. “Though he’s my son--at
laste I have his mother’s word for it--is there a nater horseman within
the Shannon? Put Dick Macnamara on the pig-skin with any thing daeent
anunder him, and I’ll back him over a sportin’ country for all I’m worth
in the world.”

“Ay,” said the priest, in a side-whisper; “and if ye lost, the divil a
much the winner would be the better.”

“He’s six feet in his stockings--sound as a bell--he’ll throw any man of
his inches in the province, and dance the _pater-o-pee_ * afterwards.”

“Arrah,” says the priest, “if there’s no way of payin’ the mortgage but
by dancin’ the _pater-o-pee_, out we bundle at November.”

     * A dance peculiar to Connemara.

“And why shouldn’t he marry an heiress?” says the ould man.

“First,” says Father Butler, “because he has no luck; and second,
because he has no larnin’. Wasn’t I returnin’ from a sick-call only
yesterday, and as God’s goodness would have it, didn’t I meet my Lady
French’s messenger with a note?--‘Who’s that from?’ says I. ‘Mr. Dick
Macnamara,’ says he. Well, I had a misdoubtin’ about it, and so I opens
the note--and--_Mona-sin-dhiaoul!_--Lord forgive me for sayin’ so!--if
he hadn’t spelt ‘compliments’ with a K!”

“And if he spelt it with two K’s,” says the ould gentleman, “will that
hinder him marryin’ a woman if she wants a husband? I tell ye what,
there’s more sense in what Shemus Rhua says than any of ye seems to
know. Wasn’t the family as badly off when my grandfather--God rest his
soul!--ran away with Miss Kelly?”

“And where will you get a Miss Kelly now-a-days? It’s not out of every
bush you’ll kick a lady, lame of a leg, and twenty thousand down upon
the nail!”

“What was she the worse for that?” says Sir Thomas. “Don’t ye mind what
my grandfather said to Lord Castletown the week after. ‘Didn’t I,’ says
my grandfather, ‘manage the matter well, my lord?’ ‘Ye did in troth,
Ulic--and ye made a grate hit of it, if ye’r amiable lady was only right
upon the pins.’ ‘Well, my lord,’ says he--‘what the divil matter if she
is a wee bit lame? Does your lordship suppose, that men marry wives to
run races with them?’”

Well, there’s no use makin’ a long story about it. At Killcrogher things
couldn’t be worse than they were; and, when we had finished a second
bottle of poteeine, we all agreed that the divil a chance, good, bad,
or indifferent, was left, but for Dick Macnamara to marry a wife with
a fortune--and with or without a spavin---just as the Lord would direct
it.

This was all mighty well, but where was the lady to be found? Of
heiresses, there was no scarcity in Galway, if their own story was
but true; but then their fortunes were so well secured, that nather
principal nor interest could be got at.

“England’s the place,” says the ould master. “Dick would get twenty
thousand for the askin’.”

“And how is he to go there?” says the priest. “He must travel like a
gentleman, or they wouldn’t touch him with a tent pole--and where’s the
money for that?”

“Let Izzy drive the tenants.”

“Arrah, Sir Thomas! it’s asy talkin’--the divil a pound I could drive
out of them to save yer life. _Mona-sin-dhiaoul!_ ye might as well
expect blood from a turnip, or to borrow knee-buckles off a Hielanman.”

Well, we were fairly nonplushed for a time, but we got matters right
afterwards. The ould ladies, the master’s sisters, had a trifle by them,
if any body could manage to get at it. Well, the priest put it to them,
for the glory of God; and Sir Thomas, for the honour of the family. They
came down at last, and, between them, for a hundred. Sir Thomas lent
us his own pistols, and Izzy Blake passed his word in Galway for the
clothes. By St. Patrick! we were in such bad credit there, that over the
whole town we wouldn’t have got as much as would have made a surtout for
a Lochryman. * On the strength of Izzy, however, we taught book-keeping
to a tailor. His name, I mind, was Jerry Riley--and I fancy we’re in his
ledger to this day.

I’ll never forget the mornin’ we started. “We set out at six o’clock,
as we had to ride to Moylough to catch the Tuam mail. Every soul in
Killerogher was astir, and waitin’ at door or windy to see us off--some
givin’ their blessin’, and others their good advice.

“Mind yer eye, Dick!” said the ould gentleman from the parlour.

“Don’t take any thing but what’s ready,” cried the priest from the hall
door.

“Remember you’re of the Coolavins by the mother’s side,” called my lady
from her bed-room; “so look to blood as well as suet, Dick.”

“The money--the money,” cried the priest.

“Dick, dear, ye’re on book-oath to me!” whispered Mary Regan, as we
passed her.

“Don’t be quarrelling about trifles,” said the priest.

“Nor let any body tramp upon your corn, for all that,’ cried Sir Thomas.

“The money--the money, Dick--and that’s the last words of ye’r clargy,”
 roared the priest.

“Don’t miss mass, if you can,” screamed the ould ladies from the lobby.
“_Ara-gud-neeish!_” ** and father Butler signed his blessing after us as
we rode away.

“Stop! stop!” roared the ould master. “Another word, and God keep ye,
Dick! Always fight with ye’r back to the sun. Drink slow--don’t mix ye’r
licker, nor sit with ye’r baek to the fire--and the divil won’t put ye
under the table!”

These were the last words we heard--the gatekeeper’s wife flung an ould
shoe after us for luck--and away we went to make our fortune.

When we reached Moylough, the coach was standin’ before the door of the
hotel, for the passengers had gone in to breakfast; and by the time we
had taken the dust out of our throats with a throw at the counter, the
company had come out again. Two or three of them roofed it like myself;
and one lady, with blue feathers and a yalla pelisse, stepped inside.
She was a clipper! and there was enough of her into the bargain. As
Master Diek travelled like a raal gentleman, of coorse, he hopped in
too.

Well, when we stopped to change horses, Dick and the lady were thick
as inkle-wavers. “Shemus,” says he, “bring out a glass of sherry, and
a drop of water in the bottom of a tumbler, with a sketch of sperits
through it.” They drank genteely to each other, and away we rowled
again. Indeed, at every stop the same order was repated.

     *   A diminutive sprite who inhabits lakes, and seems a
     species of the Scotch Kelpie.

     **  Anglicè--Money paid upon the nail.

The lady was comin’ from the saa, and that made her dry, I suppose; and
from the time he was a boy, Dick Macnamara had an unquenchable thirst
upon him.

We reached Athlone in the evening, and stopped at the Red Lion. Dick
handed out the lady with the yalla pelisse; and ye would have thought
they would have shaken each other’s hands off. Well, a maid-sarvant took
her bandbox--Dick give her the arm--away they flourished together--and I
stayed at the inn door to see the luggage safe off the coach.

Before long the young master returned.

“Shemus,” says he, shuttin’ the door behind him, “isn’t Miss Callaghan a
spanker?”

“‘Pon my soul, she’s a cliver girl, with line action,” says I.

“Bad luck to ye!” said he, “ye talk of her as ye would of a horse. But,
Shemus, I thought as we were all alone, I would try if I could put my
_comether_ over her by the way of practice. Och! if she was only an
heiress! When I kissed her at partin’ in the hall, she tould me she
could follow me over the world.”

Well, after we had supped, Master Dick sends for me to come up stairs;
and as it was too soon to go to bed, down we sate over a hot tumbler to
settle what was to be done when we got to London. Ye see, we knew that
in England there were heiresses _galore_ *--but the thing was, how the
divil were we to find them?

     * Anglicê--In plenty.

Well, after we had been talkin’ half an hour, in comes the waiter. “Is
there one Mister Macnamara here?” says he.

“That’s me,” Dick answers.

“Mister Callaghan’s after askin’ for ye,” says he.

“Parade him,” says Dick.

So in steps an ould gentleman, clane shaved enough, but about the
clothes, he had rather a shuck appearance. He bows, and Dick bows--and
down sits the ould gentleman, an’ draws over a tumbler.

“Ye had a pleasant journey of it, Mister Macnamara,” says he, commencin’
the conversation. “My daughter says that ye’re the best of company. In
troth, she spakes large of ye.”

With that they drinks one another’s health--an’ from one thing they
comes on to another. I had pulled my chair away to the corner, ye see,
but Dick winked to me as much as to say, “Shemus, stay where ye are.”

“An’ so ye’re goin’ to better yourself with a wife?” says the ould
fellow.

“There’s no denyin’ it,” says Dick.

“Well, ‘pon my conscience, it’s the best thing ivir a young man did,
for it keeps him out of harm’s way. An’ are ye for soon changin’ ye’r
state?”

“Divil a use tellin’ lies among friends,” says Dick. “The sooner the
better.”

“Feath--an’ it has come rather sudden upon Sophy,” says Mister
Callaghan. “But, God’s will be done! Her brother will be home in an
hour. I wish there was only time to send for her mother to Roscrea.”

“What’s wanted with her mother?” says Dick.

“Nothin’ partikler,” says Mr. Callaghan, “only the ould lady would like
to see her little girl married.”

“An’ when is she to be married?” inquired Dick. “Why, as there seems to
be a hurry,” replies the ould fellow, “it may as well be done ‘out of
the face.’”

“An’ if it wouldn’t be an impertinent question,” says Dick, “arrah!
who’s to be the happy man?”

“An’ are ye jokin’?” says ould Callaghan. “Arrah, who should it be, but
yourself?”

“Myself?” says Dick. “Shemus,” says he--“the divil an appearance of
liker’s on the ould man, what does he mane at all?”

“Of coorse,” says I, “that ye’re goin’ to marry his daughter.

“Exactly,” cried ould Callaghan.

“If she’s not married till she marries me, she’ll be single for a month
of Sundays,” says Dick.

Up jumps the ould fellow in a rage--and up jumps Dick Macnamara--and
then such fendin’ and provin’, and such racketting through the
room--till out rushed Mister Callaghan, swarin’ he would be revenged
before he slept.

“When he slammed to the door, I turns round to Dick, to ask what it was
all about?

“Arrah, the divil have them that knows,” says he; “I just coorted a
little bit with the girl as we were alone in the coach, by the way of
bringin’ my han’ in before we got to England.”

“Be my soul,” says I, “ye’ve made a nate kettle of fish of it!--Arrah,
Dick, _avourneeine_--ar’n’t ye in the centre of a hobble--coorting’s one
thing, and marryin’s another--Wouldn’t the priest be proud of ye to go
back with Miss Callaghan under ye’re arm?--and with about as much money
as would pay turnpike for a walking stick.” Feaks, things looked but
quare the more we considered them; so we thought we would order a
chaise, push on to Moate, and lave Sophy Callaghan to her own amiable
family, as she was too valuable for us. But, as matters turned up, we
wer’n’t allowed to set off as asy as we intended. Before the chaise
could come round, we heard feet upon the stairs, and the door opens, and
in comes five as loose lookin’ lads as ye would meet in a day’s walk.
They were all fresh, as if they had been hard at the drinkin’,--and they
were bent on mischief,--for the second fellow had a twist in the eye,
and a pistol-case under his arm.

“Mister Macnamara,” says the first, “my name’s Callaghan. There’s no use
for any rigmarole, as the light’s goin’ fast, so I just stepped in to
ask you consarnin’ your intentions towards my sister Sophy.”

“The divil an intention have I, good or bad, about ye’r sister Sophy,”
 replied Dick, as stiff as a churchwarden.

“Then ye can be at no loss to guess the consequence?”

“Feaks, an’ I am,” says Dick; “as I’m no conjuror.”

“If ye don’t marry her within an hour,” says he, “I’ll be after sayin’
something disagreeable.”

“I’ll not keep ye in suspense half the time,” replied Dick.

“Then ye’ll marry her?” says he.

“You were nivir more astray,” replied Dick, “since ye were born.”

“Then I’ll trouble ye for satisfaction,” says he.

“With all my heart,” says Dick.

“What time in the mornin’,” said the other, “would fit ye’r
convanience?”

“We’re rather in a hurry,” says Dick, pointin’ to the post-chay that
had come round, and on which the hostler was tyin’ the traps, “to-night
would be a great accommodation, if it was the same to you.”

“Ye ca’n’t do better,” says one of the others, “than step up to the
ball-room. There’s good light still, and the room’s long enough.”

Be gogstay! Dick Macnamara closed with the offer like a man. I was sent
for the pistols, and the gentlemen called for a bottle of sherry. You
see, in case of accident, it would come well before a jury that they
drank each other’s healths, and fought in perfect friendship, for that
would benefit the survivor.

They slipped into the ball-room, and every body thought the thing was
settled, they were so quiet and civil with each other as they went up
stairs. The pistols were charged--“An’ now,” says Callaghan, “for the
last time, I ask ye, will ye have my sister Sophy?”

“Arrah, don’t lose the light in talkin’--ye have my answer already,”
 says Dick Macnamara.

Well, they were placed in the corners of the room, and a man with a red
nose asked, “if they were ready?” Both said, “Yes!”

“Fire!” says he. Slap off went both pistols like the clapping of a hand,
and down dropped Mr. Callaghan with a ball clane into his calf.--Well,
every body ran to lift him, when, suddenly, the cry of murder was raised
from the other end of the room, and out dashed a man in a shirt and
scarlet night-cap, and a fat woman close at his heels, just as they had
tumbled out of bed.

[Illustration: 0186]

“Oh, Holy Moses!” says he. “Save our lives! Murder! Murder!”

“What’s wrong with ye, honest man?” says I.

“Give us time for repentince!” says she, droppin’ on her knees. “We’re
dalers in soft goods, and obliged to tell lies in the way of bisnis.”

“For shame,” says I, “for a dacent young woman to come before company
in that way!--Arrah, put the petticoat on ye at least.” Troth, it was
no wonder the cratures were scared.--Ye see, there was a closet off the
ball-room, divided with a wooden partition; and as the house was full,
and the travellers tired, they stuck them into it for the night. Divil
a one of us, in the hurry, thought of lookin’ in; and when the man woke
with the noise, and sate up to listen what the matter was, the fellow
with the red nose cried “Fire!” and Callaghan’s ball pops through the
partition, and whips the tassel off the daler’s night-cap.

Well, for fear of any fresh shindy, I got the luggage tied upon the
shay, Dick shook hands with Callaghan, and sent his compliments to his
sister Sophy,--and away we drove to Moate; and the next evening got safe
to Dublin.

Of all the jobs ever a man undertook, the sorest was to look after Dick
Macnamara. Ye might as well herd a basketful of black-beetles, as keep
him in sight: and the two days we stopped in Dublin, though I watched
him like a bailiff, he got into two fights--rid of thirty pounds--and
snug into the watchouse afterwards. ‘Pon my soul, my heart was fairly
broke with him. When we landed at Holyhead, and were fairly out of
Irelan’, says I to myself, “Maybe we may come some speed now;” but
_Mona-sin-dhiaoul_!--our troubles were only beginnin’.

Troth, at one time, I thought we would never have reached London at all:
and as it was, we were three weeks upon the road. We never stopped for
the night, but Dick discovered some divil to detain us. One while he
would be in love with the mistress, and at another, dyin’ about the
maid--and all of them he swore upon the book to marry on his return. We
came to England to look for one woman--an’ if he had but kept his word,
we would have gone back with one and twenty; but as matters turned out,
the divil a wife we brought home at all at all.

While he would be philandrin’ at the inns, I was makin’ inquiries for
a lady that would fit us; and though I heard tell of three as we came
along, the divil an eye, let alone a finger, Dick Maenamara iver could
get on ather of them--for we had always the worst of luck. The first we
tried was the daughter of a squire, and as we were crossin’ the fence to
get into the pleasure-ground, that I heard she generally walked in,
we were spied by a keeper on the watch, and taken for poachers he had
chased before, and, only that his gun missed fire, we would have been
murdered on the spot. We made an offer at a widdo’, but Dick managed to
slip into a steel trap, and nearly lost his leg. Another trial was at a
ward of Chaneery, and we were hardly in the domain, till we were handed
over by her guardian to the beadles. They swore we were rogues and
vagabonds, and clapt us into the stocks for the evening, and give us a
free lodgin’ the same night in a place they called the cage. At last we
managed to get up to London, Dick with one skirt only to his coat, as he
had lost the other in a skrimmage with a constable; and a rap more than
three guineas and a half, we hadn’t between us to bless ourselves on!
Nobody could tell how the rest of the ould ladies’ hundred went, but
Dick Maenamara and the divil.

Well, the first thing we did was to look after our luggage, which we
found; and the next to inquire if there was a letter from Connemara
at the post-office, and sure enough there was, and every soul in
Killcrogher seemed to have had a hand in it. Sir Thomas said that he was
as well pleased that Callaghan wasn’t kilt; but the shot grieved him, it
was so low; and he begged Dick in future, to take his man as near about
the waistband of the breeches as he could. He said that the attorneys,
bad luck to them! were tormentin’ him as usual; and as he never opened
a letter now, except he knew what it was about, he tould Dick when he
wrote home, to put a cross upon the corner. Lady Mae, as we used
to call her for shortness, wished to know when she was to expect her
daughter-in-law. Mary Regan was afeard she couldn’t stay much longer
in her place--and the priest stuck to the ould tune of the
_Ara-gud-neeish_. He tould Dick to be as quick as he could; and if there
was like to be any delay, to send over a part of the fortune, as they
were greatly shuck for money. Wer’n’t we in a nate pickle--not worth
five pound in the world, and the people at home expecting thousands by
return of post!

Well, we had takin a lodgin’ near the Seven Dials; it was chape, that
was one reason; and one likes to get as near Christians as they can, and
that was another. I walked out, not well knowin’ what to do; and before
I crossed the second street, who should I drop upon, promiscuisly,
but Biddy Hagan, with a basket on her arm. She had bin dairy-maid at
Killcrogher, and ran off with a corplar that was recruitin’ there ten
years ago.

“Arrah, Biddy,” says I, “is this you?”

“And who else should it be?” says she; “maybe ye would oblige us with
your own name, young man?”

“Di ye remember Shemus McGreal?” says I.

“Is it Shemus, the whipper, at Killcrogher?” says she.

“The very same; and here he is.”

With that she blessed herself--“Holy Moses!” says she, “but ye’re
grown! Arrah, step in, an’ for ould times we’ll have a flash of
lightnin’.”

In we turns into the sign of St. Patrick, and calls for half-a-pint. I
tould her all the news, and all about what had brought us from the ould
country over here.

“Ah, Shemus,” says Biddy, “myself would travel ten mile to sarve a dog
that was iver at Killcrogher--and ye have made no speed? Och, hone, an’
more’s the pity!”

So I ups and tells her the rason we were fairly batin’--all because we
couldn’t find out an heiress, good nor bad.

“Oh, saver of the bog!” says she, “if ye’es only had the luck to have
fallen into company with Miss Figgins!”

“And who’s Miss Figgins?” says I.

“She’s the only child of ould Figgins of Puddin’ Lane, the richest
grocer in the city, an’ that’s a big word.”

“Arrah, Brideeine, _avourneeine!_--is there any way we could come across
her?”

“Arrah, the divil a one of me can tell,” says she. “It’s me that carries
home the markittin’, and the kitchen maid’s a Cork woman, born in
Cloonakitty--and we’re as thick as mustard. Be the Lord!” says she, “but
I’ll bring ye together in the twinklin’ of a bed-post, if ye’ll just sit
where ye are. Have an eye to the basket, for the house isn’t ovir onist,
if there ar’nt liars in the world;”--an’ away cut Biddy Hagan.

She wasn’t more than ten minutes, till back she comes with Oney Donovan.
We called another half-pint, and drank to better acquaintance. “Oney,”
 says she, “_astore!_ tell us all about ould Figgins’ daughter, if you
please, for this gentleman’s master has come ovir for a wife. The Lord
speed him to get the same!”

“Och, then I’m sorry to say,” says Oney, “they’ll be no dalin’ in our
house, for Miss Sophiar’s to be married a Friday mornin’.”

“Oh, murder!” says I.

“A murder it is,” says she; “thirty thousan’ goin’ to a divil ye
wouldn’t kick out of a petatay garden, because he’s rich as a Jew, and
rides in a sheriff’s carrige.”

Wasn’t this too bad? The very woman that would have fitted us to a T!

Well, we were all sorely cast down at it; so we called another pint--and
we couldn’t do less, as we were in trouble.

“Be gogstay!” says I, “couldn’t we run away with her? This is but
Munday; and if the time’s short, we must only be the handier.”

Well, blood’s thicker than water! and Brideeine, Oney, and myself
settled all before we parted. Ach of them was to be settled at
Killcrogher for life--and, after a throw at the counter, we parted till
next mornin’.

I lost half the evenin’ in makin’ out Dick Macnamara. He was the
unluckiest member iver any body was consarned with. The time was
short--every moment worth goold--and when he should have been in the way
(I’ll not bid bad luck to him, as he’s dead), where the divil should I
hoak him out, after tatterin’ over half the town, but in a back attic in
a blind alley, where he was drinking taa wid a stay-maker?

Well, short as the time was, we got all ready for the marriage; and the
devil a one of Miss Figgins’s dramed the trouble we were takin’ to get
her settled. She was what they call a Methodist, and went regularly to
chapel, and she thought she was to receive the blessin’ of the clargy on
Friday morning at some church--and we thought it better to marry her on
the Wednesday night before it, and save both ceremony and expense; and,
only for himself, the stupid fool! Miss Figgins would have been Dick
Macnamara’s wife, as sure as the hearth money.

We had no trouble in life to get plenty of help in St. Giles’--and Oney
Donovan laid Dick Macnamara in a loft that looked into the grocer’s
breakfast-parlour, from which he could see Miss Figgins, and make
himself acquaint with her fatures and her clothes. All was fixed for
watchin’ her from the chapel--and at the corner of a quiet street,
through which she had to go to her own house, a chay, with a trusty
driver, was to be ready to whip her off. Dick Macnamara was to be
quietly sittin’ inside. When she was passin’, the boys were to lift her
in, and away we were to drive like lightnin’ to a lonely house five
mile out of town, where a couple-beggar was ready to tie the knot. Sorra
nater planned thing could be--but the divil a plan was iver formed in
this world, that Dick Macnamara wouldn’t make ducks and drakes of.

Well, now that every thing was fixed, we thought it would be better to
write home, to keep all quiet in Killcrogher; and Dick took up the pen,
though he would as soon have swallowed poison. In the letter, we tould
Sir Thomas how we were gettin’ on since we came to London, and showed
him that we were in a fair way, ather “to make a spoon or spoil a horn,”
 as they say in Connaught; and we begged him to keep his heart up, and
the gates closed, till he heard from us again. We requested Father Pat
to stick to the ould gentleman, and not let him think upon the law but
as little as he could. Dick sent his love to Mary Regan, and I my humble
duty to the ladies. Sorra word we mentioned, good or bad, of our puttin’
in an evenin’ in the stocks. We also tould them a big lie, the Lord
pardon us! and that was, that we heard mass reglar, although the devil a
ather of us had listened to a single we, since we blessed ourselves the
Sunday before we left home, in the chapel of Killcrogher. No wonder, in
troth, that such a pair of hathens should have the worst of luck, for
sure we desarved it.

Wednesday came, and all was ready for the venture. The women stuck to
us like brieks; and Oney brought the news, that for sartin Miss Figgins
would attend the chapel that evening, for there was a grate pracher to
hould forth. At proper time, the postehay was in the street, and Dick
skrulged up in the corner of it. Three fine strappin’ boys from St.
Giles’s (all first-cousins of Biddy Donovan’s) and myself, took our sate
in the front windy of a porter-house, and Oney kept watch at the corner,
to give us the word when her mistress would appear. Be gogstay! we had
only called the seeond pint before Oney cuts by the windy, with the news
that the flock were comin’ out, and the woman we wanted would be with
us in less than a pig’s whisper; an’ away she pelted home, to be safe in
the house,--an’ then ye know, of coorse, she would never be suspeeted.

Up jumps the boys: “Here’s luck!” says I, turning down a cropper, in
which they joined me. We then claps on our caubeens, and slips out of
the door,--an’ sure enough, at the bottom of the street we sees two
ladies comin’ forid.

“Which is the woman?” says I to Dick, who was peepin’ from the wee windy
in the baek of the shay. “Her in the blue bonnet,” says he.

Egad, I was rather surprised at the appearance of the woman that Dick
Macnamara pointed out to us. To do her justice, she was good-lookin’
enough--but, faith, she was no chicken--and nather in dress nor action
what ye would expect from a reglar heiress, and, as Oney said, the
biggest grocer in the city. I remembered that they said she was a
Methodist--and, thinks I, maybe that’s the rason she goes so plain.

Well, I gives the word to Biddy Donovan’s cousins, in a whisper, and
in Irish. Divil a handier boys iver assisted in a job of the kind,--they
lifts her off the pavement in a twinklin’; and, before ye could say
Jack Robinson, she was fairly sated beside Dick Macnamara, with a
handkerchief stuck into her mouth, to keep down the squallin’!

Hoogh! off we starts--and I threw my eye over my shoulder as I was
sittin’ by the driver--Miss Figgins was kickin’ like the divil---but as
Dick had a fast hould of her, we didn’t mind that.

“Whoop!” says Tony Braddigin--that was the postboy’s name--“Isn’t it
eligint, Shemus, jewel?” says he. In troth, there never was anything
better managed; for we heard afterwards that not a mortal saw anything
that passed, but an ould Charley,--an’ as the Carneys ran past him--they
were, ye know, Biddy Donovan’s cousins, by the mother’s side--one of
them gave him the fist; an’, for a fortnight afterwards, he couldn’t
tell light from darkness.

“Well, by this time we were clear of the town, and it was nearly
twilight. I turned round now that we were safe, to see how matters were
gettin’ on within, and if Dick was makin’ love to her. Well, I put the
question to him in Irish, and he answered in the same:

“De ye think,” says he, “I’m not workin’ for the best--but wheniver, to
make lier asy, I tell her we’ll marry out of the face, by Jakers! she
kicks the harder.”

“Sorra soul’s within bearin’,” says I--“so take the handkerchief out
of her mouth and give her air--for maybe she’s chokin’--and that’s what
makes her kick.”

He did what I bid him--and, Lord! what a tongue she had when she got the
use of it!--and not a word for ather of us but _thief and villain_. I
disremember how she swore; but if she had been born in Connaught, the
oaths couldn’t have come asier.

“Ye etarnal robbers!” says she, “what do ye want? I have no money about
me, and I suppose I’m to be murdered!”

“We want nothing in the world,” says Dick, “but to make ye an honest
woman manin’, of course, to marry her lawfully.

“Make me an honest woman!--why, ye common thieves, what do ye mane?”

Dick made a kind of a confused story of it, but she didn’t wait to
the end. “Oh, murder! murder!” she called out--“Marry me! and get me
transported?”

“Transported?” says Dick.

“To be sure I would,” says she; “marryin’ you, and my own lawful husband
alive! Arrah, Sam Singlestich, dear!--little did I think, when I made
taa for ye this evenin’, that I would be bundled off by these villains!”

“And who’s Mister Singlestich?” says I.

“Who? ye thief of the world! but my lawful husband! Oh, bad luck attend
ye, night and day!--ye have the gallows in ye’re face,” says she,
lookin’ full at me, “and it’s one comfort, if I live to escape, I’ll
hear the Judge tellin’ ye’r fortune at the Ould Baily. Troth, and
I’ll go to see ye hanged, too, even if it cost me five shillins for an
opposite windy.”

“Arrah,” says the postilion, turnin’ sharp round at the word ‘Ould
Baily,’ and ‘being hanged,’--“what’s all this about?”

“Honest woman,” says I (for Dick seemed stupified) “who the divil are
ye?--Ar’n’t ye Miss Figgins?”

“Miss?--yer mother!” says she;--“I’m the wife of a dacent tradesman, and
the lawful mother of five children an’ I’ll show them again any within a
mile of Huggin Lane.”

“Oh,” says the postboy, jumpin’ out of the saddle--“by the powers of
pewter! we’re all dead men!” and, at one spring, he clears the fence,
and cuts over hedge and ditch like a madman.

“And,” says I to myself, “maybe I’m goin’ to sit here and be
hanged?”--and down I hops too. Dick Macnamara seemed to be of the same
opinion, for he was on the road already. We takes the country out of the
face, as if we were matched for a hundred--lavin’ the tailor’s wife and
the two post-horses--the one to look after the other.

Every body that iver rode to a fox-hound, knows that it’s the pace that
kills; and, for two miles, Dick and I crossed the country neck and neck,
takin’ every thing _in stroke_ as the Lord sent it. No wonder, when we
came to a cross-road, that both were dead baten, and that Dick called
out, for the love of God, to stop for a minute or two that we might get
second wind for a fresh start. Down we sate upon the ditch; and when I
got breath enough, I began to abuse Dick Macnamara like a pickpocket.

“Arrah,” says I, “what sins have I committed, that I’m to be ruinated
through you? If iver the divil had a fast hould of a sinner, it’s
yourself, Dick! Was there iver a man so asily put in the ready way to
make a fortune? Wasn’t the lady med out--the rough work done--and sorra
thing for you to do, but sit like a gintleman quietly in the chaise,
pay year lady some tender attention, and keep her mouth stuffed with a
pocket-handkerchif. And how beautiful ye put your fut in it! Oh, Holy
Joseph!--to run away with a tradesman’s-wife, and the mother of five
childer into the bargain!”

He began mutterin’ something about a mistake, and talked about blue
bonnets and yalla ones.

“What are we to do?” says I, interruptin’ him. “Arrah, have done wid
yer balderdash an’ yer bonnets;--havn’t ye made a pretty _gommoque_ * of
yerself? Where are we to head to? and how are we to chate the gallows?
Blessed Bridget!--to be hanged in the flower of my youth, for runnin’
away with the mother of a family!”

     * Anglice--an idiot.

Before I had done spakin’, we hears a carriage cornin’ up at splittin’
speed. We ducked into the ditch to let it pass--and at one look I
knew it to be the very chay we had brought with us on our unfortunit
expedition. The horses had run off; and as they passed us at a gallop,
we heard the tailor’s wife shoutin’ a thousand murders.

“Arrah! what’s to be done at all at all,” says I, as the carriage
cantered on. “I haven’t the ghost of a rap about me. What money have
you, Dick?”

“Five or six shillins,” says he, “to pay the turnpikes, and a light
guinea for the marriage money.”

“Ah, then, ye won’t require it, Dick, _avourneeine_,” says I. “Any
little job in future ye want from the clargy, they’ll trate ye to it
for nothin’. It’s a comfort when a man comes to the gallows, that he’s
provided with a priest.”

But what need I bother ye with all the misfortune that kem over us? Half
the time we lay out in barns, or under hay-stacks; for if we ventured
into the parlour of a publie-house, the divil a thing ye would hear
talked of but the attempt upon the tailor’s wife--with a reward of fifty
pound for the intended murderers, and a description of their persons.

At last we were fairly worn out with hunger and fatigue, without a shoe
to our feet, or a _scurrick_ in our pockets, and nothing was left for us
but to list. Accordingly, we joined the first party that we met, and the
sergeant gave us plinty of entertainment, and two pound a man. We were
to be attested the next mornin’; but as he didn’t like our looks, he put
us in the room where the corplar slept, and took care to lock the door
carefully behind him. I guessed as much, and, feaks, I determined the
divil another yard we would keep company, if I could help it; and maybe
I didn’t succeed? When we were locked in, I produces a bottle of
rum, and the corplar--who was a drunken divil--and I finished it by
moonlight, hand to fist. I lifts him into bed blind drunk; and when the
house was quiet, I wakens Dick Mac-namara, and we opened the windy
fair and asy, and lowered ourselves by the blankets to the ground. We
travelled night an’ day--exchanged our clothes for stable-jackets--and
at last, we had the luck to be taken into the yard of an inn, and there
get employment as helpers--and when at Killcrogher they thought we were
travellin’ homeward in our own coach, it’s most likely we were grazing
the wheels of his chay for some travellin’ bagman.

Well, Dick was wispin’ a horse--and the only two things in this world
he could do dacently was to warm one after a fox, and wisp him dry
afterwards--when in comes one of a recruitin’ party to ask some question
about his officer. When he went away I says to Dick in Irish:--

“The divil welcome the last visitor. Wheniver I see a bunch of ribbons
in a sodger’s cap, I always get a start, and think that it’s one of the
lads we listed with, that’s comin’ to look after his own.”

“Feaks! an’ I’m not overly asy in their company ather,” says Dick back
to me--and him and I continues talkin’ and laughin’ at how stupid the
corplar looked in the mornin’, when he found an open windy and an empty
bed.

“And so,” says a voice at our elbow, “ye gave his majesty leg-bail,
boys!”

We gave a start, and looked round, and who was standin’ close to us but
a-little dark-visaged gentleman, with a twist in the eyes that didn’t
improve him much--and by the whole look of him, the very last man you
would meet in a day’s walk, that ye would borrow money to spend in
company with.

You maybe sure that Dick and I were scared enough. “Egad,” thought I,
“we are ketched at last, and this dark divil will split upon us--and
then the first march will be to the black-hole for desarchin’; and the
second, to the gallows, for the murder of a tailor’s wife, only that
we didn’t kill her. Well, I struv to put it off as a joke, but the wee
black fellow was too deep for it and he spoke the best of Irish too.

“_Badershin!_” says he, with a wink of one of his quare eyes, “_Tig-gum
tigue Tiggeeine!_ * It won’t do, boys, I’m not in the recruitin’ line,
so ye needn’t be afeerd of me. But, as ye have been on the tramp, in the
coorse of yer rambles did ye happen to hear anything about Sir Richard
Macnamara?”

Be the powers of pewter! the question made its start.

     *   These terms being rendered into common English, mean--
     “Be quiet--you can’t humbug me.”

“No, Sir,” says I; “but if you had inquired after ould Sir Thomas, I
could have given ye a better answer.”

“What Sir Thomas?” says he.

“Why, what other, but Sir Thomas of Killcrogher?”

“Divil a such a man lives there,” says he.

“_Nabochish!_” says I; “maybe I wasn’t bred and born under him?”

“That may be true,” says he; “it’s Sir Riehard I want to see. I wouldn’t
give a _traneeine_ to be in company with Sir Thomas.”

“Ah! then,” says I, “what wouldn’t I give to be cheek-be-jowl with the
ould gentleman.”

“Divil have the liars!” says the wee fellow in return; “for if ye had
y’er wish, ye would have a ton weight of lime and mortar on the top of
ye.”

“Christ stan’ between us and evil!” says I, crossin’ myself. “You don’t
mane that he’s dead?”

“Faith an’ if he’s not,” says the wee black fellow, “they have takin’ a
great liberty with him, for they buried him in Killeroglier on Tuesday
week--and I have been tatterin’ over half England in search of his son.
Be the Lord!” says he, “ye might as well grip hould of a Banshee. * For
all the tidings I could get of him was, that a ruffin, called _Shemus
Rhua_, ran off with a tailor’s wife; and he, the villin, persuaded the
good-natured young gentleman to follow him.”

     * The Banshee is a spirit attached to old Irish families,
     who foretells deaths and other calamities by melancholy
     wailings before they occur. He is never seen.

Well, who should the little man be but a lawyer sent in pursuit of Dick;
and, without delay, we set off for home; and, when we got there, said as
little about England as we could. It was supposed that Sir Richard might
have cleared Killeroglier if he had taken the right way; but he set up
a pack of fox-hounds, and married a dashin’ lady because that she could
ride to them to fortune. A few years settled the busnis--and what Sir
Thomas had begun Sir Riehard cliverly complated. The dogs were sent
adrift, the horses canted by the sheriff, my lady boulted with a light
dragoon, and, to finish all, one wet mornin’, poor Dick was brought home
upon a door, dead as a herrin’. There’s not one stone standin’ on the
other at Killerogher; and of one of the ouldest and the best estates
within the province, there’s not a sod of it now in possession of a man
of the name of Maenamara.



CHAPTER XIX. MY GRANDFATHER.



               “ Cor. Sir, do you know me?

                   Still, still far wide!

               Phy. He’s scarce awake--Let him alone awhile--

               Lear. Where have I been?--where am I?--fair daylight                I am mightily
abused--I should even die with pity,

               To see another thus--I know not what to say.”

                        Shakespeare.

|With pleasant and profitable reminiscences of burglary and abduction,
Shemus Rhua entertained the fosterer on the road, until the worthy twain
accomplished their journey in perfect safety, and ensconced themselves,
as we mentioned before, in that safe and salubrious section of the
Modern Babylon, supposed to be under the immediate protection of St.
Patrick, and the especial _surveillance_ of the police, vulgarly ycleped
the Seven Dials. There we shall leave them to recover from the fatigues
incident to a migration, _au pied_, from “the far west,” until, like
giants refreshed, they should find themselves ready for a fresh start
upon the world, to try, as the rat-catcher philosophically remarked,
“their fortunes--any how.”

I need scarcely say that I availed myself of Mr. Hartley’s permission,
and early in the forenoon presented myself at his hotel. As I had
expected, he was from home; but Dominique conducted me to the presence
of his young mistress; and, to judge from the kindness of my welcome,
the visit was not disagreeable.

It was late when Mr. Hartley returned to dinner; and after the cloth had
been removed, and Isidora had retired, he resumed a subject that he had
casually mentioned to me before, namely, how far it would be prudent or
possible to place myself in the presence of my grandfather, and try what
impression my unexpected appearance might produce.

“I have made secret inquiries,” he said, “respecting Mr. Clifford’s
habits, to find out how an interview could be achieved, but I
have failed in obtaining any information but what is vague and
unsatisfactory; but, as Clifford Hall is only twenty miles from town,
you shall run down, Hector, and try whether fortune may not do more for
you than I can. The domain adjoins the village of ----------. There you
will find a rustic inn; and there, also, you may probably glean some
information that may direct your course of action afterwards. Thither,
at present, it would be imprudent in me to venture; but you are unknown,
and consequently you may venture safely. You will find your grand-sire
under the double thrall of his steward and his Confessor. I shall sketch
both for you.

“The former was born in the house, and reared and educated from
charitable motives by the old gentleman, from his having become an
orphan while an infant. Gradually, he rose from dependency to affluence;
in time he managed the old man’s income; and report says, that he has
secured a goodly fortune from the pilferings of the estate. It was
whispered that he had secretly encouraged Mr. Clifford’s discarded
boy in his wild and profligate career; and that, by the suppression of
letters and numerous acts of villany beside, he contrived to snap the
last link of natural affection between an angry father and a guilty son.
Certainly, in the hour of young Clifford’s disgrace and destitution,
he evinced the blackest ingratitude to one who, badly as he might have
behaved to others, had showered favours on him when a boy, and trusted
him afterwards with unlimited confidence. Such is Morley the steward;
and now we will briefly sketch Daniels the confessor.

“He is a Jesuit; born, I believe, in England, but educated abroad; a
deep designing zealot--bigoted to his own faith, and intolerant to all
besides. The great object of his existence is to aggrandize the order he
belongs to; and by the exercise of monastic influence on a mind always
superstitious, and now imbecile from age, he trusts to alienate from
natural heirs the noble estates of that weak old man, to whom he has
become a ghostly counsellor. In short, Morley and Daniels act with a
unity of purpose, but different end: the one, to build a fortune for
himself; the other, to gratify a monk’s ambition, and raise himself to a
commanding position in that order which he intends to aggrandize at
the expense of your mother and yourself. You can easily understand
that every obstacle will be placed in your way by individuals so deeply
interested in preventing the old man from being reconciled to a child
he once was so devotedly attached to; and whether you succeed or fail,
matters cannot be more unpromising than they are. They say the fortunes
of an Irishman carry him, at times, through difficulties which to other
mortals would prove insuperable. Try yours, Hector--something may be
gained--and, need I tell you?--nothing can be lost.”

I followed Mr. Hartley’s advice, and started next evening by a stage
coach that passed the village he had named; and at dusk I alighted at a
clean and comfortable public-house, intituled the Fox and Hounds.

The evening was sharp, and, as I had travelled outside, an introduction
to a snug parlour and sparkling wood-fire was agreeable. I ordered
supper and a bed; and, while the former was being prepared, considered
in what manner, and by what means, I should endeavour to obtain an
interview with Mr. Clifford. Mr. Hartley had recommended me to glean
some intelligence from the landlord, should I find him inclined to
be communicative; and, when the cloth had been removed and a correct
assortment of fluids was placed upon the table, I desired “mine host” to
be summoned to the presence.

When he appeared, I had no difficulty to ascertain at a glance that
he had pursued in earlier life the honourable trade of arms, and, like
myself, had been intended to supply “food for powder.” He was a tall,
hale, hearty-looking veteran, and stout for his years, albeit Father
Time had silvered his head and stooped his shoulders. Still maintaining
that feeling of deference when in the presence of a superior, which
military usage renders habitual, he drew himself up at the foot of the
table, and respectfully inquired “what my honour wanted?”

“Nothing, my worthy host, but your company for half an hour. The
evenings grow long, and I hate ‘to drink one hand against the other,’ as
we say in Ireland. If I guess right, you have retired from a profession
on which I have but entered recently.”

“Yes, sir,” returned he of the Fox and Hounds;--“I wore the king’s
livery for fifteen years; and, God bless him, now that I have done my
work, he allows me two-and-eightpence a-day to enable me to drink his
health in comfort.”

“You seem, when you bade Brown-Bess good-bye, to have taken up
comfortable quarters here, my friend.”

“I am, thank God, not only comfortable, but in garrison I hope for life.
When I returned home, I married the sergeant-major’s widow. Well, we
each had laid by a bit of money--put it together--took this house--and
after being five years keeping the business going on, things have gone
straight enough with us, and we are better by the half than when we
entered it. I wish every worn-out soldier had as snug cantonments for
old age.”

“Have you served abroad?”

“I began in Holland with the Duke of York, and I finished in Spain with
poor Sir John.”

“What regiments did you serve in?”

“Never but in one, the old steady fifty --th. Under its honoured colours
I stood my last field, at Corunna, and fought my first one at Malines.”

“You were in the grenadiers; do you remember who commanded?”

“As stout a soldier as ever took a company into fire--Colonel
O’Halloran.”

“Then you fought under my father.”

The retired soldier put down the glass he was lifting to his lips, and
for a moment scanned my features eagerly.

“By Heaven!--the living image of the kindest and bravest officer under
whom a soldier ever served! I am prouder, sir, in having you this night
beneath my humble roof, than if you called a prince your father.” And
stretching forward his hand, the veteran grasped mine in his with an
honest ardour that proved how deeply military attachment takes root,
and how dearly the remembrance of “auld lang syne” is cherished in the
soldier’s memory. “And now,” he said, “what is there in the Fox and
Hounds which I can offer to my old colonel’s son?”

“Nothing but what is already on the table; but possibly you could, in
another matter, render me some assistance?”

“Name but the way in which John Williams can be serviceable.”

“You know my relationship to Mr. Clifford?”

“Perfectly. I was with my gallant captain the night we stole his
beautiful lady from the convent garden. Alas! many a time it has grieved
me to the heart, to think that the old gentleman should remain so cold
and unforgiving as he is; but he is poisoned against his child by the
priests and villains who surround him. How can I be useful? What do you
intend to do?--Do you intend to call on the old man? If you do, I fear
there are those about him who will prevent it. No one is allowed to see
him but in the presence of that dark monk they call Father Daniels.
The house is guarded like a gaol, and the gates are locked against the
world.”

“I despair of obtaining an interview by open means,” I replied--“How
shall I manage it by secret ones?”

“It will be all but impossible,” said the sergeant. “I will think
over it to-night; and if a chance exist we’ll try it, hit or miss. But
soft!--surely that voice which I hear in the kitchen is old George Smith
the keeper’s? He is the only one of the old servants now remaining at
the Hall; and, only that his master has a strong regard for him, and
won’t listen to any stories to his disadvantage, he would have shared
the fate of others, and been sent adrift as they were. Father Daniels
hates him; and, faith, its cordially returned! The old keeper remembers
your honour’s mother well, and many a time he speaks of her--and I’ll
stake my pension, that he will befriend the son of her whom he still
reverences in his heart.”

As he spoke, the sergeant rose and left the room.--Irishmen are all more
or less superstitious; and I hailed it as a happy omen, that, in the
very opening of my attempt, fate should have thrown across me an old
comrade of my father. To succeed, I had scarce a hope; but, for every
reason, I was ambitious to fail respectably. I was experimentalizing
under the direction of one whose good opinion I was anxious to secure;
and I determined that when I returned to town, I would at least satisfy
Mr. Hartley that I had struck boldly, although the blow had failed.

In ten minutes the host returned, followed by an elderly man. The latter
made me a dutiful obeisance; but when approaching the table, and the
light fell strongly on my face, under a sudden impulse he caught my
hand, pressed it to his lips, and seemed to be powerfully affected.
The likeness to my mother at once established my identity; and in a few
minutes, if by the agency of George Smith I could have been placed in
that house to which I wus natural heir, it would have been instantly
effected. A half-hour’s conversation determined our course of
operations, and I learned enough regarding my grandfather’s habits to
convince me, that, with good luck, the interview I desired might be
obtained.

It appeared that in good weather, there was a favourite seat in a
sheltered corner of the park, to which Mr. Clifford generally repaired.
There he would sometimes remain an hour, while the Confessor walked
backwards and forwards reading the daily office which the rules of his
order imposed. Occasionally, Mr. Clifford employed himself with some
devotional book; and all intrusions on the part of servants were rigidly
prohibited. From strangers none could be apprehended, as none were
allowed to pass the gates.

In a thick clump immediately adjacent to the bench where Mr. Clifford
rested, it was arranged that I should lie _perdu_, and if fortune
offered the opportunity, I was to sally from my ambuscade, and seize it.
The keeper was to assist me to scale the wall, and point out the place
where I could best conceal myself--and, to the blind goddess of the
wheel, the rest was properly committed.

I know not wherefore, but that night I went to sleep with all the
buoyancy of hope, although I had no reason to think that chances wild
as mine could prove successful. In my dreams, however, results were
fortunate--every obstacle was overcome--I was reconciled to Mr.
Clifford; and, better still, united to Isidora.

After breakfast old George announced himself, and the weather was
propitious. It was one of those fine autumnal mornings which promise a
hot noon and a frosty evening. From an angle of the park wall, the lower
bough of a large beech tree extended itself. It was not ten feet above
the ground, and, by throwing a rope across, it required but small
exertion to gain it; and that done, the entrance to the park was easy.
Inside, the gamekeeper was to await my advent. The host furnished me
with what is not generally an acceptable present; but the halter--for it
was one--well nigh proved the ladder to my fortunes.

At the appointed time I made the attempt, and succeeded; and, stealing
along the shrubbery, gained the clump, and took a safe position behind
a thick holly, not six yards distant from the seat which the keeper
pointed out as the one generally occupied by Mr. Clifford.

All proceeded as I expected and had hoped--and the mildness of the day
induced the old gentleman to take his customary walk. He was attended by
the Jesuit, on whose arm he leaned; and on reaching his resting-place,
he received a book from the Confessor, and commenced reading a passage
which the monk had pointed out. In a few minutes the churchman strolled
some distance from the bench, and while I was considering the way in
which I should present myself to the old man without occasioning alarm,
to my unspeakable satisfaction, I observed a servant approach the
Confessor hastily, and after a brief communication, they both walked
away in the direction of the house.

I seized the golden opportunity, stole from my retreat, and placed
myself in front of the old gentleman, and, so silently, that he remained
with his eyes fixed upon the book for more than a minute afterwards.
Presently he looked up--he stared at me with evident surprise--for it
was a rare occurrence to find himself alone with a stranger--and in a
low tone he asked me “if I wished to speak with him?”

I advanced another step, knelt at the old man’s feet, and gently took
his hand.

“What means this?--Who are you?” he muttered.

“A son, come hither to solicit pardon for a parent--your grandchild begs
your blessing!”

“Ha! these are Ellen’s features! Merciful God!--Do I rave, or dream?
Speak, boy--your name?”

“O’Halloran.”

“Your business?--Quick!--quick!”

“Pardon for my mother.”

“Ellen, Ellen, Ellen!” he feebly muttered; and next moment be fainted in
my arms.

I was dreadfully alarmed. I thought my sudden appearance had operated
fatally, called loudly for assistance, and on looking around to see
whether my summons had been heard, observed that the Jesuit, followed by
several men, was running towards me rapidly. In another minute he was at
our side; and never, in a human countenance, were anger and astonishment
so mingled as in his.

“Remove your master!” he exclaimed to the servants. “Who are you, sir?”
 he continued, bending his shaggy brows over eyes of sinister expression,
and directing their deadly glare at me. “_How dare you_ intrude where
strangers are excluded?”

“By right of kindred!” I thundered in return.

The monk’s face blanched. “Remove your master instantly,” he continued,
“and eject this man--by force, if necessary!”

“Beware!” I said; “the man who tries it may count on broken bones!”

“Who are you?” the monk inquired, haughtily “Your name?--Your business?”

The men who accompanied him hesitated to obey his orders; and still the
old man reclined with his head upon my breast, while my arm supported
him. Certainly, of the priest’s body-guard none were gentlemen who would
volunteer a forlorn hope; and, astounded at the bold tone I used to one,
who at Clifford Hall had exercised a despotic authority, they seemed any
thing but anxious to bring matters to hostile conclusions. But when I
announced my name and relationship to their master, they all receded,
leaving the matter to be settled by the Jesuit and myself.

The Confessor, with admirable skill, at once changed his tactics, and
adopted another course.

“Mr. O’Halloran, to use the mildest term it admits, your visit has
been imprudent. Mark in the old man’s illness the consequences of your
rashness! Why did you not notice your intention? Could I have induced
your grandsire to receive you, I would have done so willingly, and thus
have prevented a shock that may prove--and I fear it will--fatal! For
God’s sake, be advised by me. Leave the park, and let your relative
receive immediate attention. You see the first effect--would you, should
he recover the first shock, expose him to a second? When he is well
enough to write, I pledge my word, you shall receive an instant
communication. If you persevere, death will inevitably ensue; and how,
may I ask, will you, forewarned as you are, excuse the rashness, the
madness, that occasioned it?”

The specious arguments of the Jesuit prevailed, and I acceded to
his proposition. I could not tell the cause that overpowered my
grandfather’s feeble strength; nor could I even guess whether it were
anger, or an outbreaking of revived affection. In my doubts, I agreed
to the monk’s proposal--saw the old man carried in a chair to the
house--and quitted the domain, perfectly unconscious whether my visit
had mitigated or confirmed his animosity.

In one brief hour that question was put to rest, and a letter, addressed
to me at the Fox and Hounds, apprised me that my grandfather considered
my mother an _enfant perdu_, and that his displeasure was unmitigable!

*****

In a remote apartment of Mr. Clifford’s mansion, that evening, two
men might have been discovered in earnest conversation; one had a
countenance sallow, cunning, and repulsive; and a figure remarkable
for its height and irregular proportions; the other was a middle-sized
elderly man, with a certain air and intelligence that might stamp him
a pawnbroker, money-dealer, thieves’ attorney, or any other profession
appertaining to the “wide-awake” school. Heed I say the twain were
the Confessor and house-steward of my grandfather? Both exhibited
unequivocal appearances of anxiety and annoyance; and though there were
wines upon the table, neither seemed inclined to use them.

“Was there ever any thing more unfortunate than this evening’s
occurrence?” exclaimed the Jesuit. “For months the old man has never
been left a moment to himself; and one unguarded interval, what mischief
has it not produced! Another interview--and all that you and I for years
have laboured to effect is totally, hopelessly---undone!”

“It is too true,” replied the steward.

“He’ll never make a will now!”

“Have we not already made one for him?” said the steward.

The priest shook his head--“That deed, my friend, will never bear
the light. We stand in a dangerous position; and had not the old man
fainted, we were ruined. Even now the mischief is not abated--he talks
of nothing but his daughter, and raves about the duty of forgiveness
which a father should extend to an erring child. What is to be done?”

The steward mused for a minute--his brows contracted, and a dark
expression passed across his face. “Father,” he said, “the intruder must
be removed.”

The Jesuit looked at his companion, but spoke not. The look, however,
said--“Would that it were done!”

“Money will effect it,” said the steward.

The Jesuit continued silent, and then carelessly observed, “I would give
a thousand pounds this cursed interview had not occurred!”

“Would you, holy father, give as much to prevent a seeond?” asked the
steward.

The Jesuit nodded.

“Enough; I shall act promptly now. Hark! A knock at the door! Come in!”

It was a message from Mr. Clifford requiring that the Confessor should
attend him instantly. Father Daniels rose.

“Stop,” he said, “till I hear what the old man wants.” And, so saying,
he left the apartment.

He was not absent long; and when he entered the chamber, he held an open
letter in his hand. Carefully closing the door, he thus addressed his
confederate:

“Said I not right--Our position is all but desperate? What think ye was
the old man’s business?--To desire the son of his repudiated daughter to
return to-morrow; and to give directions, that I should write and order
it to be so. Were that to happen, need I name the result?--all--all
lost! Well, I obeyed, and wrote this letter”------

“As he dictated?--are you mad, holy father?” inquired the steward. “Not
exactly.’Tis thus worded:--

“‘Rash Boy!

“‘Your mother’s misconduct wrung my heart, and your unwarrantable
intrusion has nearly brought me to the grave. As you dread the
malediction of an old man--desist!--_and for ever_ avoid the presence of
one who can never look but with abhorrence on the offspring of a guilty
daughter.’

“‘Tis signed--ay, and in his own handwriting too--

“‘John Clifford.’”

“Excellent! This will prevent another visit,” said the steward.

“You are too sanguine, my friend. The young man is daring;--he may make
a second effort. If he succeed--if he gain a second time the sight of
his grandfather, the tale is told. This fabricated letter may prevent
the meeting for a while--but more effectual measures to secure mutual
safety are indispensable.”

“I understand you, holy father,” returned the steward;--“money will be
necessary.”

“Money shall not be wanting,” said the Confessor. “This note
procrastinates, but does not avert the crisis.”

The steward nodded his head. “‘Tis a breathing-time, that shall not be
thrown away;--I’m off to London immediately.”

“Heaven speed thee!” said the monk; and the hand of God’s minister,
imprecating a blessing, was laid upon a wretch’s head whose avowed
embassy was--murder!

*****

To my humble counsellors, the keeper and the sergeant, I communicated
what we all considered the decided failure of my experiment. I resolved
to return direct to town--and a place was booked accordingly in the
stage. Another passenger accompanied me--and how different are the ends
which influence men’s actions! I hurried back to town to bask in the
smiles of my young and artless Isidora. The object of my _compagnon
du voyage_ was very opposite,--the gentleman was Mr. Morley; and his
embassy--nothing but to accomplish my assassination.



CHAPTER XX. A MEETING BETWEEN MEN OF BUSINESS.


“_What a dickens is the man always whimpering about murder for?
If business cannot be carried on without it, what would you have a
gentleman to do?” Beggars’ Opera._

|The scene has changed; and we must request the gentle reader to
accompany us into a close dark alley, with no thoroughfare connecting
it to the opener streets around, save two narrow and crooked passages
scarcely three feet wide. The houses are high and old-fashioned, and
front each other so closely, that from roof to roof an active man might
spring. Their general appearance betokens fear or wretchedness; for,
while some of the windows are so jealously blinded, as to prevent all
chance of _espionage_ from without, others are recklessly exposed to the
eye of the passenger, as if it were intended to display the extent of
the dirt and poverty within. The large brick dwelling at the bottom of
the court is curiously situated. At either gable, it opens by a side
door into one of the foul dark passages we have described; the front
is to the court; and the back abuts upon one of those small and
half-forgotten cemeteries, not larger than a modern drawing-room, which
may still be seen, studding here and there the more ancient portions of
that “mighty mass of wood, and brick, and mortar,” ycleped “the great
metropolis.”

Within this dwelling, there was a semblance of opulence that formed a
striking contrast to the squalid poverty that was perceptible in every
other building around it. The rooms were crowded with ill-assorted
furniture, and the walls covered with mirrors and pictures. On the
tables and mantelpiece, clocks, china, and fancy-ornaments were
incongruously heaped together; the whole looking liker a broker’s
store-room than the private dwelling of a man in trade. The place was a
receptacle for stolen property--or in thieves’ parlance, the house of “a
fence.”

In a large apartment on the first floor the owner of this singular
abiding-place was seated. He seemed a man of fifty, and his own
appearance was as curious as the domicile he inhabited. To judge by the
outline of his countenance, you would call him an Irishman, while its
character and expression were decidedly that of a Jew. Indeed nothing
could be less prepossessing than both; and the look of the man, taken
altogether, was low, blackguard, and repulsive.

On the table beside which this ill-favoured gentleman was seated, there
were lights, glasses, and decanters; a comfortable fire was blazing
in the hearth, and window-shutters, plated with iron, were carefully
secured with bolt and bar.

Mr. Brown, for so the master of the house was named, seemed occupied
with business of no common interest; and to a letter, which he held open
in his hand, frequent references were made. His actions were those of
a man placed in a situation of perilous uncertainty; for he frequently
rose from his chair and paced the room, muttering to himself disjointed
sentences, and again returning to the table, to re-peruse an epistle
which evidently contained matter of deep moment to the reader. Suddenly
he rang the bell, and its summons was answered by a personage of
remarkable exterior.

He was a hunchback, and so curiously distorted, that he seemed to be
constructed of nothing but legs and arms. From his appearance you would
guess him to be fifteen, but his face told you that he was at least five
years older; and on every line and feature of that sinister countenance
cunning and knavery were imprinted.

“Frank,” said the master of the hunchback, “who brought Mr. Sloman’s
letter?”

“The red-haired man from the City-road, who proved our last _alibi_ at
the Bailey,” was the reply.

“Humph!” returned Mr. Brown, again glancing his eyes over the
letter, and favouring the hunchback with occasional extracts from
its contents,--“‘Matter of deepest importance,’--‘not a moment to be
lost,’--‘Be with you punctually,’--‘Come through the burial-ground at
nine.’ Have you unlocked the wicket, Frank?”

“Not till I had your orders,” returned the attendant.

“Right, Frank; people can never be too guarded; but Sloman’s a safe
hand, and we have done a good stroke of business together before now. It
must be plate or jewels;--and yet I was talking to an old cracksman
this very evening, and if there had been a smash last night of any
consequence he would have been safe to know it and tell me. Unlock the
wicket, Frank--and then slip over to the Fortune of War, and try if you
can get any intelligence.”

The hunchback disappeared; and during his absence, Mr. Brown divided his
attention pretty equally between the contents of Mr. Sloman’s epistle
and those of the decanter at his elbow. In a quarter of an hour, the
hunchback’s key was heard turning in the street-door lock,--and he
presently announced, that, having made diligent inquiries from several
professional gentlemen who were refreshing themselves in the back
parlour of the Fortune of War, he was then and there assured, that
nothing had been done the preceding evening but the usual theatrical
business--with the exception of a silver coffee-pot, that had been
abstracted from a west-end hotel.

Another quarter of an hour passed--a church-bell chimed--nine was
sounded from the belfry; and, ere the clock ceased striking, steps were
heard upon the stairs, and “the thing of legs and arms” announced “Mr.
Sloman.”

The expected visitor was a large, corpulent, clumsy-looking nondescript,
with a hooked nose, and light complexion, that rendered it impossible to
decide whether he should be classed as Jew or Gentile.

At Mr. Brown’s invitation he took a chair, filled a glass, ventured
a remark touching the present state of the weather, and ended with an
eulogy on the wine.

[Illustration: 0206]

“It should be capital, for it comes directly from the cellar of a noble
lord, who is considered to be as good a judge of port as any man in
England,”--said Mr. Brown; “his head butler and I do business
pretty extensively. He’s always hard up, his woman is so desperately
extravagant; for actresses are always expensive cattle, as you know.
I have recommended him to take a rib; but he can’t stand matrimony, he
says,--at the west-end, it’s reckoned so infernally vulgar.”

“You got my letter,” said Mr. Sloman, with a significant look.

Mr. Brown nodded assent.

“We’re all alone?” inquired Mr. Sloman.

“Not a soul in the house, but Frank and the old housekeeper,” was the
reply.

“Well,” rejoined the visitor, “let us go slap to business. We have
done a little in our time, Mr. Brown, and I flatter myself to mutual
satisfaction.”

Mr. Brown smiled affirmatively.

“Every transaction between us,” continued Mr. Sloman, “safe, honourable,
and agreeable.”

“The last stolen bills were devilish awkward to manage,” observed Mr.
Brown, “and things became so ticklish, that they were returned to the
parties for three hundred. Not a rap more--no--upon my honour!”

“Nothing in the bill line,” observed Mr. Sloman, “at present.”

“Glad of it,” returned Mr. Brown. “Is it a crack?--plate, jewels, or--”

“Quite another line--In a word, a thousand’s offered--get the thing
done, and we divide!”

Mr. Brown started. Two things occasioned this disturbance of
constitutional self-possession; the first was the largeness of the
consideration, and the second, an intimation that the business was in “a
new line.”

“Who are the parties, and what’s the business?” was the inquiry.

“Of the one I know nothing; of the other, particulars are contained in
this sealed paper. The party who communicates with me, forbade it to be
opened until the thing was put in train.”

“Well, how the devil,” said Mr. Brown, “can I enter on a business that I
know nothing of?”

“I only know generally,” returned Mr. Sloman, “what it is.”

“Go on,” said Mr. Brown impatiently.

“There is a person in the way--he must be removed;” said Mr. Sloman in a
whisper.

“Murdered, of course,” observed the host.

“Upon my soul, Mr. Brown, I am quite surprised at the unprofessional
nature of your remark. Do you see any thing particularly green about me,
to lead you to suppose that I would make myself accessory before fact? I
neither know the man, nor will know anything of the man; or what _is_ to
become of him, or what _will_ become of him. I got this sealed note, and
that there _flimsy_ as retaining fee,” and he held up a sealed packet,
and a bank note for a hundred pounds, both of which Mr. Brown took and
examined most attentively.

“That’s sealed close enough,” he said, laying down the paper on the
table; “and that’s _genuine_,” he added, after submitting the bank note
to an investigation before the candle, to ascertain the authenticity
of the water-mark. “Is the five safe?” he said, still playing with the
hundred in his hand.

“I’ll freely deposit that hundred as security,” returned Mr. Sloman,
“and now, in a word, is the thing in your line? Will you do it?”

“Do what?” responded Mr. Brown, with a look of innocent surprise.

“My dear Brown,” returned Mr. Sloman, “what the devil use in dodging
with a friend?”

“It’s you that’s dodging,” replied the amiable host; “pray may I read
this paper?”

“Read it, if you please, but tell me nothing of the contents.”

“You’re a deep-un,” Slowey and Mr. Brown again passed the bank note
between the candle and his eye. “Undeniable!” he muttered, and next
moment he retired to the corner of the apartment, at the special
solicitation of Mr. Sloman; and then having broken the seal of the
packet, Brown read the writing, while Sloman, in perfect ignorance of
its import, drew the decanter closer, and as cocknies say, “assisted”
 himself liberally to the contents.

When the worthy owner of the house had read the scroll, the effect upon
him seemed astounding. His frame appeared convulsed, the lip whitened,
and the hand that held the paper seemed scarcely able to retain it. He
read it again and again, and then, crumpling it in his grasp, returned
to the table, filled a glass of brandy, and drained it to the bottom; an
example faithfully followed by his excellent friend, Mr. Sloman.

“Well, Mr. B., what say you?”

“This simply--the business shall be done.”

“To the satisfaction of the parties concerned?” inquired Mr. Sloman.

“Yes; or you may keep the four hundred.”

“He is to be disposed of, so that he shall give no farther trouble.
Remember that, Mr. Brown.”

“The grave is the best security for that,” returned the host.

“Stop, stop; don’t tell me any particulars. Only let the thing come off
like a business transaction,--you understand me?”

“Perfectly responded Mr. Brown.

“And you undertake it?”

“I do,”--and in that understanding pocket this retainer and Mr. Brown
put the bank note into his breast-pocket. “Come, as matters are
arranged, let us have another bottle.”

“No, no, no,--I must return to the person waiting your reply.--He will
be impatient.”

“Who are the parties, Sloman?--honour bright.”

“By heaven! I know no more of them than you do; nor, stranger still,
does the agent who proposed the affair to me. Best assured the thing is
ably planned, and there are deep ones at the bottom of it.”

“Ay, and I promise you that it shall be as ably executed,” responded Mr.
Brown.

“To a gentleman of your experience,” said Mr. Sloman, with a bow,
“it would be impertinent to offer advice. The fewer number of people
employed in the job, (remember, I know nothing of it,) why the less
chance there is of splitting.”

“Mr. Brown assented by a nod.

“To an honest tradesman, like yourself, or a lawyer of character, like
me, any thing to compromise us would be detrimental.”

A parting glass was drunk,--and the payment, its mode and certainty, all
being carefully arranged, the excellent gentlemen separated with a warm
shake of the hand, protestations of mutual esteem, and a God bless you!
Mr. Sloman was emancipated by the churchyard door; the hunchback locked
the grating; and Mr. Brown, having interdicted all visitors for the
night, excepting the favoured few who had the private _entree_ of his
domicile, sate down “alone in his glory.”

The step of the hunchback was heard no more, as he had dived into the
lower regions which he inhabited. Mr. Brown looked suspiciously about
him for a moment, and satisfied that he was in perfect loneliness
and security, he burst into a passionate soliloquy, and strange, the
language it was uttered in was in Irish!

“Who says that he who waits for vengeance will not sooner or later find
a time? Ha! the hour at last is come, when that heart, proud man, which
I cannot reach myself, shall bleed profusely through another’s. Let
me look back. I remember well the moment when the jury returned my
conviction, and the judge, to strike terror into others, sentenced me to
eternal banishment, and ordered me to be transported from the dock. My
prosecutor stood leaning against the bench, and returned my glance of
impotent revenge, with one of supercilious disdain, as a lion would
look upon a cur. Thirteen long years I dragged out in slavery--and such
slavery, to one, who like me, had known the comforts which appertains to
a gentleman’s dwelling! I escaped--reached England--fortune has smiled
upon me, and I am wealthy--no matter how the money came--and none
suspect me--none know me as a returned transport save one, and with her
the secret’s safe. I never can be detected here for, fortunately for me,
it was believed I failed in my escape, and was drowned attempting
it. Has wealth engrossed my thoughts--has money made me happy? No,
no,--vengeance, vengeance, haunt my very dreams! But it was not to be
obtained--I dared not venture near the man I hate--the attempt would
have been too perilous--I should be known, and if discovered, without
the power of inflicting injury, I should be myself the victim, and my
ruin would gratify the man I loath. Heavens! can it be true, and is the
hour of vengeance come at last? It is! it is! Denis O’Halloran, before
a third night pass, the worm you despised and spurned in your hour of
triumph, shall sting you to the soul! Now for the means. That Hebrew
barterer in blood, who has changed his name and calls himself a
Christian--he gave a necessary caution. I’ll follow it--the
fewer employed in such a deed the better. Ha, I have it! The
body-snatchers--ay--they are the men. I can manage it through Frank.--He
was one of them, but the labour was too severe for him. That devil-boy
has in that puny frame-work, the ferocity of a tiger, and the cunning of
a fiend; he loves mischief for itself, and doats upon a deed of blood.
Yes,--the resurrectionists are the men; and they so readily manage
to rid themselves of the carrion afterwards. There are three of
them--surely enough--all young men, and two of them were pugilists. He
is described as tall, active, and powerful, and his father’s son
will not be wanting in the hour of danger;--but what is one man to
three?--Hark! the street-bell rings--I expect nobody to night!--Hush,
here comes the boy.”

As he spoke the hunchback entered, and announced that “the gipsy’’ was
passing, and wished to speak to Mr. Brown.

“Saints and angels! the very person that I want! Show her up. Ay--we
need a decoy--in every mischief, woman can be usefully employed.”

The announced one entered Mr. Brown’s great chamber, and addressed him
with the familiarity of an old acquaintance.

“I leave town to-morrow,” she began--

“I doubt it,” was the reply.

“Why?” asked the gipsy, sharply.’

“The reason you shall know presently. Mary,” he continued, “have you
forgotten events that happened nineteen years ago?”

“Can they ever be forgotten, Hacket?--my own disgrace--my brother’s
murder.”

“And yet, Mary, you have not the reason to recollect them that I have.
You were never banished.”

“Was I not worse than banished?” returned the gipsy. “See what my life
has been since I was disgraced and driven from my native land--with one
passing gleam of happiness, a scene of guilt, and crime, and misery.
Once my wandering career was stayed; I was loved, and raised from
poverty; I was sheltered, protected, educated. My wayward destiny had
found a home at last; and the evening of a troubled life promised to
end in peace and quiet. Accident in a moment robbed me of him on whom
my future fate depended--and I was again cast upon the world, when I had
experienced enough of happiness only to estimate its loss more acutely.
Have not misery and suffering been my companions since? I have felt the
indignity of a gaol; I have been the inmate of a madhouse; I am now a
half-crazed wanderer. Homeless and friendless I’ll live; and when the
spirit passes, no holy lip shall breathe a prayer for the soul’s repose
of a nameless outcast, who probably will perish on a dung-hill.”

“And what would you give for vengence on him whose fickle love caused
you this misery and shame? Listen, Mary; before three suns go down in
ocean, vengeance shall be ours!”

“How? speak, Hacket?”

“Denis O’Halloran shall be childless--through the son’s heart I’ll reach
the father’s.--Attend!”--and Hacket rapidly detailed the outline of the
foul conspiracy.

“With lips apart, and eyes fixed intensely on the narrator’s
countenance, Mary Halligan listened in silence. Suddenly the street-bell
rang once more, and Haeket was called away, leaving the gipsy alone.

“And so the son’s to be slaughtered to break the father’s heart,” she
muttered,--“and he thinks that I am savage as himself, and that I will
aid him in his deed of blood. Alas! he little knows that woman’s first
love can never be obliterated. Five and twenty years have passed. I saw
him recently; for the impulse was irresistible, and I crossed the sea
to gratify the wish. Time had blanched his hair, the stoop of years had
slightly bent his lofty carriage; and an empty sleeve told that he had
been mutilated on the battle field. He passed me carelessly; but when
I spoke, turned, as if the voice that fell upon his ear had been once
familiar. He replied to me in kind accents, and gave me some silver as
he walked away. Did I see him then as he was? Oh, no; I only saw the
bold and handsome soldier, who, in the mountain glen, taught me first
to love; and could I harm him because he trifled with a heart that never
loved another; and, like an infant’s toy, threw it from him when the
newness of the gift was over? No; Denis O’Hallo-ran, thy boy shall be
preserved; or she whom you wooed, and won, and deserted, will perish
in the effort. Ha! I hear the tiger’s foot upon the stair; and now to
deceive him.”

All that the scoundrel proposed, the gipsy warmly assented to--and I was
placed under instant _espionage_. The thing of legs and arms, ycleped
Frank, watched my outgoings from the hotel.--Hacket, through the
hunchback’s agency, settled with the resurrection men the price of my
destruction--and all required, was a fitting opportunity to accomplish
it.

Two modes presented themselves--secret murder or open violence. The
first was infinitely preferable, had my habits been irregular, and
that consequently I could have been seduced into some of the convenient
slaughter-houses, with which the metropolis then abounded. Places there
were enough; but the difficulty was, how should I be gotten there? Women
were employed, but Isidora proved a counter-charm. Scented billets,
couched in ardent language, reached me daily; but the assignations were
disregarded. Could letters be credited upon ladies’ hearts, I had done
prodigious execution but I acted like “a man of snow,” and out-josephed
Joseph. To Mr. Hartley I even submitted these amatory effusions, and in
his company I actually kept two or three appointments. It was observed,
probably from some blinded window, that another person was in my
company, and that no attempt could be made upon me with success; and
like Hotspur’s spirits “none did come, though we did call for them.”
 Unknown to each other, Hacket and I played a deep and desperate game,
the stake was life, and--as the cards turned up--I won it.

Why that a regular Emeralder like me, whose native soil is known to be
favourable to the growth of gallantry as it is unfriendly to that of
reptiles, should play deal-adder to the call of beauty in the streets,
the following chapter may possibly account for.



CHAPTER XXI. MY TWENTIETH ANNIVERSARY.



               “Cats. Cæsar shall forth: the things that threatened me.

               Ne’er looked but on my back; when they shall see

               The face of Cæsar--they are vanished.”

               “Ham. Oh most pernicious woman!”

               “‘3d Mur. Tis he--

               2d Mur. Stand to’t.”

                        Shakespeare.

When I met Isidora in her mountain home, her graceful person, aided by
manners particularly _naive_ and gentle, had fascinated me, and taught
me, for the first time, to feel the influence of love. Hers was the
artless beauty that man never gazes on unmoved--the coldest heart would
own its power--and mine at once admitted it. But when a closer intimacy
banished the timidity which a secluded life and conventual education
naturally produced--when she looked no longer on me as a stranger,
expressed her opinions freely, and conversed without restraint--I found
her gifted with intelligence beyond what so young a life could warrant,
and a spirit, in ordinary events, mild, gentle, and endearing, but
one, if necessity required, capable of that devoted fortitude, which so
frequently, in pain and poverty, raises woman superior to misfortune,
and distances immeasurably the boasted heroism of man. I was now, by the
permission of Mr. Hartley, constantly in the presence of his daughter.
At his table a cover was reserved for me, and I was an inmate of a
neighbouring hotel. In the various places visited by strangers to the
metropolis, I daily accompanied Isidora; for in concerns of deeper
interest her father seemed entirely engaged. I sailed with her on the
river--I rode with her in the parks. Is it then to be wondered at that
boyish fancy ripened into a strong and endearing passion?--one that no
secondary impression could afterwards efface, and which, like the star
of hope, brightened the darkest hour of my career, and finally crowned
success with that best benison of heaven--woman’s love.

On the third evening after my unsuccessful attempt to effect a
reconciliation with Mr. Clifford, we had strolled westward, and,
returning through St. James’s Park, sate down to rest upon a bench
beside the Serpentine. In the story of my life it was a day never to
be forgotten; for I had told Isidora what could not have been a secret,
and, amid tears and blushes, she had owned that to her father she could
give now-only a divided heart. He who has loved at twenty, and excited a
kindred passion in the object of his regard, can only fancy what I felt.
The world seemed strewn with roses--the sky without a cloud. Was not
Isidora mine? and rich in woman’s love, what else was to be wished for?
Alas! how many trials were before me, ere that haven of happiness was
won!

I mentioned before, Mr. Hartley’s business was so engrossing, that from
breakfast time we rarely saw him until he returned late to dinner. The
evening was closing, and the chimes of St. Martin’s steeple warned us
that we should resume our walk. The bench on which we had been sitting
was directly in front of a clump of trees; and on moving a pace or two,
we perceived, for the first time, that a tall and singular looking woman
was standing immediately beside us, although until we had risen the
shrubs effectually concealed her. Her figure and attitude were graceful,
and the outline of the countenance fine--with a complexion so dark, and
eyes so brilliant, that they at once betrayed a gipsy origin. She was
past the middle age--but when a girl, she no doubt possessed the beauty
for which that singular race are so remarkable. She regarded me with
fixed attention; her eyes glancing slightly at my fair companion,
and then settling upon mine with a stealthy expression of inquiry. We
attempted to pass her, but she raised her arm, and signed that we should
remain.

“What do ye want, good woman?” I said, as I offered her some silver.

“Not money,” was her reply, and she pushed back the hand I had extended.
“I would speak with you, and speak with you alone.”

“With me! You can have no business with a stranger”--

“With strangers I have none. With you I have important business,”
 returned the gipsy.

“I am unknown to you, my friend.” She smiled incredulously, and then
peering sharply at my face, she measured me with a glance from head to
foot.

“Yes, I could not be mistaken--the air, the height, the figure--all,
all, are similar. The same firm step and haughty carriage; ay, and the
eye and lip too are his; the rest, the softer features of his mother.”

Isidora, startled at the wild attitude and address of the wanderer,
clung closely to my arm for protection. The gipsy noticed it.

“Lady, from me you have nothing to dread. I may not be able to serve
you, and who would injure you? Give me your hand. Nay, fear not.”

“Pshaw!” said I, “we have no faith in fortune-telling and I smiled.

“That smile too is his father’s. Come, lady, let me but look one
moment.”

I pressed Isidora to comply with the gipsy’s request; and, with a smile,
she presented her hand to the fortune-teller. The latter scanned the
lines attentively, and then whispered something in my companion’s ear,
but in a voice so low, that to me it was perfectly inaudible. Its effect
upon Isidora was striking. In a moment a burning blush suffused her
cheeks, and eyes, turned before upon the sybil in playful expectation,
were instantly cast upon the ground. The wanderer smiled.

“Nay, lady,” she said, “take not what I have told you as any proof of
skill; a boy who saw half what I did unperceived would readily have
guessed that secret. One look more. Your love will end prosperously; but
the time is hidden from me. Trials and disappointments interfere, but
prudence and patience will overcome them. May you be happy! It would be,
in sooth, a pity if sorrow should dim so sweet an eye, or cloud a brow
so beautiful. And now, to see what fate designs for you, sir.”

The kindly tone of voice in which she conveyed her wishes for Isidora’s
happiness of course had its full influence on me, and I freely presented
the hand she desired--but still a sceptic smile accompanied the offer,
and showed that in palmistry I was an unbeliever. She affected not to
notice it, but proceeded with her mystic examination.

“Well,” I said, laughing, “what has fortune in reserve for me?”

“Much that I can see, and more that is wrapped in mystery.”

“Proceed.”

“I see present danger, followed by perilous adventure. The end, however,
looks happy.”

“The danger,” I exclaimed; “whence and from whom?”

“The source I see; the time’s uncertain.”

“Pshaw! this is mere folly--some proof. Give me this, or I shall say
your art is all speculation on the common results of life, and founded
on chance of circumstances.”

“Ask, and I’ll answer you.”

“My name?” I inquired.

“Hector O’Halloran.”

“Well, I was not aware you knew me. That knowledge is easily acquired.
My profession?”

“Your father’s. Am I right?”

I bowed.

“What else do you require from me?” said the woman.

Isidora had turned pale; for the readiness with which each question
had been answered, seemed to infer that the gipsy really possessed the
intelligence she boasted.

“Come,” I said, “one question more, and that if answered shall make me a
true believer;--tell me my age!”

“Well--let me think a moment,” she returned, and placing her open hand
across her forehead, she seemed for a few moments to tax her memory, as
if engaged in mental calculations.

“Ay, that was the year,” she muttered; then, turning to me, she coolly
answered, “On Thursday next you will be twenty.”

She paused; and the surprise visible on my countenance announced to
Isidora that the answer was correct.

“And now, one word before we part;” and she laid her hand upon my
shoulder--“Hector O’Halloran, beware! or your twentieth birthday will be
as bloody as your first.---- Before we part, give me one promise.”

“Name it,” I replied.

“When I require you to meet me--when a writing with these marks attached
to it, shall be placed within your hand”--and she gave me a
scroll--“will you obey the order?”

I answered boldly in the affirmative.

“‘Tis well. Though my summons come in storm, and darkness, and at
midnight, as you value life, obey it. Though beauty smiles, and music
charms, leave all when that mystic signature is presented.”

Isidora and I turned our eyes on the scroll. It contained only a couple
of initials--but annexed was a singular hieroglyphic, representing a
heart perforated with a dagger. I smiled at the device, while Isidora
became deadly pale. The wanderer saw the colour leave her cheek; and
with a gentleness of voice and manner intended to remove alarm, she thus
addressed my fair companion:--

“Lady, fear nothing; all will yet be well,--and by courage and caution
danger shall be arrested. Go, and God bless you! Remember what I
have said and you have promised. You have deadly enemies; but, Hector
O’Halloran, you have one devoted friend. Ay, and humble as she is, trust
to her; and if she do not save, she’ll die in the attempt.”

Ere the words were spoken, the gipsy had vanished behind the bushes,
leaving Isidora and myself in marvellous astonishment at a scene equally
unexpected and incomprehensible.

When we reached home, Mr. Hartley was waiting for us; and after dinner,
when _tête-à-tête_, I recounted our adventure in the Park. He listened
attentively to the detail, and asked me many questions, to which,
however, I could give no satisfactory replies.

“I am at a loss,” he said, “to fathom this singular affair. The woman
could have no object in creating an unnecessary alarm, and yet her
communication was so vague, that one cannot even guess what the danger
is, or from what quarter it may be expected. Still her caution is not
to be despised, and we must be upon our guard, until it pleases your
swarthy friend to be more explicit than she has been. One course must
be pursued. We must keep strangers at a distance, and look at all as
enemies.” He took the note I had received from Mr. Clifford on the
evening after our interview, and read it carefully.

“It is his signature indubitably,” he murmured. “These well-remembered
characters are not to be mistaken. Had he received you kindly--had he
evinced the slightest symptom of abated displeasure when you addressed
him--and did a hope remain that time could mitigate his callous feelings
towards an erring child--I would, in that case, have suspected that
in the monk you had that secret enemy of whom you have been warned to
beware. But no--the Jesuit is secure; the dupe is all his own. He will
be contented with rendering all future attempts to gain the old man’s
presence unavailing. That he can effect, and more would be unnecessary.
To me, the occurrence is involved in mystery too deep to be even guessed
at, and it seems one that time only can unravel.”

Although to the amatory effusions which reached me by every post I was
cold as St. Senanus, when he was so barbarously virtuous as to warn a
single lady off his premises at midnight, still to woman’s fascination I
was not altogether insensible. By singular accident, I had encountered
a girl of extraordinary beauty in my walks; and though her demeanour
was modest and retiring, I still fancied that I did not pass her by
unnoticed. She was apparently under eighteen; and to the sweetest face
imaginable, united a faultless figure. Her mourning dress was simple and
becoming; and her general appearance indicated an humble respectability.
To have insinuated aught against the constancy of my passion for
Isidora, should be, as Lord Ogleby says, “by all the laws of love, death
to the offender,” but still, when we passed each other in the street, I
found myself involuntarily look round. Once, I imagined that the
pretty incognita directed a furtive glance at me; and then, blushing at
detection, she bent her eyes upon the ground, and walked hastily on, as
if prohibiting any attempt on my part to address her, had such been my
intention. But by a strange accident, the introduction that propriety
forbade, chance effected.

My birth-day came. I thought upon the sybil’s warning in the Park, and
I confess that it was anything but an agreeable reminiscence. I was
not afraid--for what had I to fear? It was “an air-drawn dagger” that
impended; but still I was far from being quite at ease. The day was
gloomy; a fog obscured the sun; the dull atmosphere would damp the
lightest spirits; I felt its influence on mine; and when I reached St.
Paul’s, the gipsy’s warning haunted my memory, and it seemed to announce
emphatically a coming evil. Her words rang in my ear, and I thought I
heard Her again repeat, “Hector O’Halloran, beware! or your twentieth
birth-day will be as bloody as your first.” I mused upon the
prophecy--“The ides of March were come.” Well, the sybil said that
courage and caution would overcome the threatening danger. Both should
be exercised; and a few brief hours would fulfil or falsify the augury.

These sombre thoughts were suddenly interrupted, for directly before me,
and scarcely distant a dozen yards, I recognised the graceful figure of
the fair incognita, whom fortune, good or evil, appeared determined to
throw across my path continually.

Should I address her as I passed? I wished to do so, but hesitated.
Suddenly a man hurried rudely along, and pushing with violence against
the pretty unknown, she staggered a few paces and would have fallen on
the flagway, had I not sprang forward and caught her in my arms. The
scoundrel who had done the mischief, dreading the consequences of his
brutality, hastened away, and was speedily lost in the fog.

Fortunately, a tavern was immediately at hand. I supported her in;
obtained a private sitting-room, the assistance of the females of the
house, and the incognita was speedily recovered. We were then left
alone. I received her warmest acknowledgments for my kindness; and thus
encouraged, I pressed my inquiries to learn who she was, and, with the
timidity of a girl unaccustomed to hold converse with a stranger, by
degrees I learned the fair one’s history.

She was the orphan of a soldier. Her father, a lieutenant in the line,
had fallen at the assault of Badajos; her mother, years before was dead;
and her only living relation, an aged aunt, who, from infirmities, was
unable to leave the house. They enjoyed a trifling independence--one
that required careful management to render it sufficient to meet
moderate wants, and maintain a respectable position in society. Hence
she accounted for the necessity imposed upon one so young of appearing
frequently in public.

Over the simple story of a life, she threw a shadowing of romance that
strongly interested me. In alluding to the narrowness of her means, my
fair acquaintance mentioned circumstances which could not but engage my
sympathy. Her aunt had fallen into the hands of a grinding solicitor,
and been plundered accordingly; for how could an infirm old woman obtain
redress, when opposed to a satellite of the law? Her father had demands
upon the Government when he fell in his country’s cause; but with no
interest to support it, the claim was made and rejected. No wonder,
then, that Irish chivalry at once prompted me to offer myself her
champion, and I expressed a strong desire to visit her aged relative.
With some hesitation, she acceded to the request, and named, for a
reason I have forgotten, a late hour that evening for an interview.

Were I asked what had excited this curiosity regarding the history of a
stranger, and with what objects I sought a closer acquaintance with the
incognita, I could not answer the question. To Isidora my allegiance
remained unshaken; and yet some secret impulse urged me to cultivate an
intimacy, which prudence should have interdicted, and every bond of love
forbade.

The day appeared interminable. It wore away at last; and the hour drew
nigh when I was to meet my young incognita. I told Isidora of my morning
adventure; but I suppressed the fact, that an evening interview was to
follow it. I feared that Mr. Hartley, from the habitual suspicion with
which he scrutinized every transaction of life that bore a questionable
feature, would not approve of my becoming patron to a girl so pretty and
unprotected as the soldier’s orphan, and therefore I kept that intention
to myself. Some business called him out--my mistress complained of
head-ache, and retired--the clock struck nine--I rang for my cloak
and stick--for of late I never went abroad after dark without a stout
shillelah--and, as I was leaving the room, Dominique placed a sealed
paper in my hand, which he said had been just left with the porter by a
person who disappeared the moment it was delivered.

The billet was short; and the curious device attached to it, announced
that it came from the gipsy. It ran thus:--

“Meet me on the right-hand side of Blackfriars Bridge, leading from the
City, precisely at midnight. The crisis is at hand! I wish to prepare
you for it! Fail not!”

I read the writing twice, and determined to arm myself well and obey the
summons punctually. Mr. Hartley was from home. No doubt he would appear
ere the hour of meeting arrived, and I waited his return for half
an hour, but in vain. The evening wore heavily away--I thought of my
appointment with the fair incognita--there would be time enough to keep
it, and it would fill up an hour agreeably. I left the hotel, and walked
briskly towards the place where the soldier’s orphan told me she would
be in waiting.

I reached the “trysting place,” and stopped before the entrance of a
narrow lane, which the lofty houses on either side rendered still more
gloomy. That mass of masonry, St. Paul’s, flung its deep shadow over
the space beneath it; and there I halted, looking towards the opening
between the houses, from which I expected that my incognita would
present herself. I was not kept long in waiting. A slight dark figure
flitted past, and a soft voice asked, in well-remembered accents,
“Is that you?” It was the soldier’s daughter. She took my arm; and
under her guidance, I entered the gloomy alley from which I had seen her
issue.

But I must pause. ‘Where was my foster brother? and how was that worthy
personage employed? He, whose fortunes I have described as being so
strangely united with mine--where was he now, when the crisis of my fate
was coming? Stay, gentle reader. Leave me for a few minutes with
the young lady--remember, the expedition was conducted on platonic
principles--and let us inquire what befel Mark Antony O’Toole, and his
excellent ally.

During the first week that Mark Antony and the rat-catcher favoured the
modern Babylon with their company, no adventure of particular interest
had fallen to the lot of either. As both these excellent personages
enjoyed the perfect use of their limbs, their peregrinations were
numerous, and every interesting object the metropolis contained, was
visited from Tyburn to the Tower. In these agreeable excursions, as yet
no opening to future fortune had been discovered. It is true, they had
seen the world, and made sundry valuable acquaintances; and in return
for _blue-ruin_ and _heavy-wet_, received excellent advice, and also,
a special invitation to attend the obsequies of a lamented gentlewoman,
who had shuffled off this mortal coil in a back attic, two pair up,
in Leg-lane. As this last token of respect to departed worth was to be
strictly private and genteel, the sticks were taken from the visitors on
the first landing-place as they arrived, and deposited in the ruins of
a clock-case, by a man with a wooden leg, who attended funerals as
chief mourner, and balls as master of ceremonies--and by this useful
functionary Mark and his friend were ushered into the apartment, where
all that was mortal of Mistress Ellinor Malone was lying in state.

The company were already assembled, amounting to some thirty of both
sexes, all friends and relations of the deceased, and natives of the
Emerald Isle--and nothing could be more imposing than the general effect
which the chamber of death presented. Mistress Malone was laid out upon
a bench, with a frilled cap upon her head, and a plate of snuff upon
her bosom. On one side, stood a three-legged table supporting an unequal
number of lights; and on the other, there was a goodly supply of gin,
porter, and tobacco. Around the room the company were seated, each
gentleman supporting a lady on his knee; and, to judge from appearances,
a more united company had never been collected in St. Giles’s.

Being the latest arrivals from “the ould country,” the ratcatcher and
his young friend obtained particular attention--and on being presented
by the single-legged gentleman, they were received, in person, by the
disconsolate survivor.

“Mister Macgreal, ye’r kindly welcome--and the same, to you, Mister
O’Toole--we’ll brook ye’r name, for it’s a good one! I’m in grate
afliixskin, as you may parsave--but God’s will be done;” and Mr. Malone
crossed himself. “Patsey Doyle, fill the gintlemen a cropper ach--and
put a drop in the bottom of a glass for myself, to drink to better
acquaintance.”

The glasses being duly filled and emptied, Mr. Malone feelingly
continued.

“Och, boys, af ye but knew my loss. There ye lie, Nelly! could as a
crimpt cod; an when ye were sober--to be sure it was but seldom--the
divil blister the better wife in St. Giles’s--an that’s a big word.
Come, gintlemen, take a pinch out of respect for the dead--Lord rest
her--amen!--and then draw a sate, an make yerselves agreeable. Patsey
Doyle, there’s a lemon-box in the corner--fix it, _avournene_, for the
gintilmen--an now, Mistress Braddigen, may be yee’d obleege us wid a
song.”

The lady, an agreeable exception to professional melodists who never
sing when people want them, immediately complied with the request of Mr.
Malone; and having, as a necessary preliminary, removed all bronchial
obstructions with a _johny_ of “cream of the valley,” she executed with
feeling and effect that beautiful ballad, intituled “The night before
Larry was stretched”--and the well-merited plaudits of a delighted
audience had just rewarded the exertions of the fair singer, when two
fresh arrivals were added to the company.

The visitors were of the softer sex. One, was a stout gentlewoman of a
certain age, whom he of the solitary leg announced as Mrs. Bunce--and
the second, a very pretty young one, was also introduced as Mrs. Spicer.
The fosterer and his friend, being the only gentlemen who could afford
accommodation to the new comers, the master of ceremonies deposited
the stout lady upon the knees of Shemus Kkua, while to Mark Antony, the
honour “of bearing the weight” of Mrs. Spicer was entrusted.

The discernment evinced in the collection of the company would have been
in itself a sufficient guarantee for its general respectability; and
hence, the intercourse, on all sides, was easy and unreserved.

“‘Pon my sowl! a ginteeler party I hav’nt been to these six months,”
 observed Mrs. Spicer to the fosterer, after she had turned down a _flash
of max_ to ‘a better acquaintance,’--“and Malone--Lord comfort him in
sorra!--shows the best of respect to his desaste lady.--I hope there
won’t be any ruction the night, and that the wake will go off agreeable.
The Connaught stockin’-man, who was bate at Phil Casey’s ball a Friday
night, died this evenin’ in Guy’s Hospital. He left his death, they say,
on Playbe Davis, for hitten him, wid the smoothin’-iron, when down.”

“I was rather afeard, Sally, dear,” observed Mrs. Bunce to Mrs. Spicer,
“that cross ould file, yer husband, wouldn’t let ye out the night.”

“And not a toe would I have got over the trashold ather,” returned Mrs.
Spicer, “only something he heard druv him into the Minories, to ask
after the carakter of a chap who came to lodge with us last Monday. By
gogstay, if the ould ruffin comes home early, and finds me out--may be
there won’t be a purty _too-roo_ kicked up? Well, the divil may care--as
Punch said when he missed mass!” Then, in a lower tone, she addressed
herself to the fosterer.

“He’s so gallows jealous,” said the lady, “that one hasn’t the life of
a dog. He, and his other wives”--(for it would appear that in the
connubial line Mr. Spicer had dealt largely)--“were always murderin’ one
another--ay, and before the beak every week, and sometimes twice too.
How, I have been married to him two months come Saturday, and sorra
mark he could show agen me but one black eye--for I can bare a dale of
provokashin--and that he brought upon himself too.” She then continued
to remark, that Mr. Spicer’s temper was but indifferent, and when he
had “the cross glass in” a saint wouldn’t stand him. He had also “a
most aggravatin’ tongue,”--and that evening, in alluding to a former
acquaintanceship which had existed between herself and a drummer in the
Guards, he used terms of so little delicacy, that a mutual interchange
of compliments resulted--Mrs. Spicer, receiving the contents of a pewter
pint, which token of connubial endearment was as promptly acknowledged
with the boot-jack, by which it appeared an upper tooth had been
effectually removed without the assistance of a dentist--a loss, on Mr.
Spicer’s part, ill to bear, as it was the only specimen of natural ivory
he possessed.

In such light and pleasing conversation an hour passed unheeded--for
minutes winged with pleasure fly unnoticed. Harmony prevailed; and, by
a philosophic effort, Mr. Malone forgot his loss, and at the request
of the company, and assisted by a violin accompaniment of the gentleman
with the wooden-leg, he chaunted “The Groves of Blarney.” It is right to
observe that, in the selection of the song, an affectionate deference
to the taste of the deceased was observed, the said “Groves” being
an especial favourite of his departed companion. If ever wake proved
pleasant, Mrs. Malone’s bade fair to be so. All were happy--Mrs. Bunee
declared the ratcatcher an agreeable man--and the sooner that Mr. Spicer
looked after his truant spouse the better--for, were the truth known,
Mark Antony was making a wild inroad on a heart that hitherto, had not
“loved wisely, but too well.”

“A change came o’er the spirit of the” night--the door unclosed--and a
square-built man, with a grizzled head and most infelicitous aspect, was
seen in the door-way, fixing a basilisk glance on “that fair frail one”
 who rested on the fosterer’s knee. An interjectional remark from Mrs.
Spicer left the identity of the personage indubitable--as she observed,
“That’s the ould divil, and no mistake--and maybe there won’t be a
reglar shindy!”

Though the gentleman paused in the doorway, he lost no time in opening
the conversation.

“So ye’r there, Sally Spicer!” and the remainder of the sentence was
couched in language which the Court Journal would pronounce irregular.

“And where else should I be, ye ould, batter’d-out apology for a
Christian?”

“Come out o’ that--tramp home--an may be ye wont catch it!”

“Can ye spare another tooth convaniently?” responded his rebellious
helpmate.

“I’m waitin’ for ye, Sal!” returned the elderly gentleman, with a
mysterious crook of the finger.

[Illustration: 0221]

“Ye may go to Bath,” replied the fair one, “and if that does’nt agree
with your constitution, why go to ------” and she named a locality of
much higher temperature.

“I say, Sall, ye vont go, vont ye?” and Mr. Spicer made an advance three
steps nearer to the lemon box.

“Not the length of that nose of yours, and its the longest and ugliest
in the room. If it would’nt be an impertinent question, Mr. Spicer, what
did ye do wid ye’r other nine wives?--By gogstay--if all the neighbours
say is true, Bluebeard was a gentleman to ye!”

The remark was an unhappy one. A lady, whom Mr. Spicer in earlier
life had honoured with his hand, had been found dead under suspicions
circumstances, which rendered it a doubtful point to determine
whether her sudden exit was attributable to gin or strangulation. In
consequence, Mr. S. had to enter into a lengthened explanation at the
Old Bailey; and “having the luck of thousands,” the jury gave him
the benefit of a doubt, and finally left it upon gin. The allusion,
therefore, touched rather a tender point, and hurried matters to a
crisis.

Mr. Spicer sprang forward, and seized his lady by the arm--and Mark
Antony, retaining the other, put in a decided remonstrance. In Scott’s
parlance--

               “Few were the words, and stern, and high,

                   That mark’d the foemen’s jealous hate;

               For question fierce, and proud reply,

                   Gave signal soon of dire debate.”

Mr. Spicer, discommoding himself of his coat and neckcloth, made a
sporting offer to fight for five pounds, which Mr. O’Toole accepted,
only making the consideration love, and not money--a proposition that
was received with general applause.

To all official accounts of modern battles, “preliminary observations”
 are prefixed. In early life, Mr. Spicer had been professional--but,
obtaining what he considered a safer line of business, he abandoned the
ring, to repose himself under the shade of his own laurels. Blinded
by the green monster, he reckoned a little too much upon his former
science, forgetting the odds that youth and superior size had placed
against him. Both parties had their backers.--“Now, old-un, mind your
dodge!” exclaimed the supporters of Mr. Spicer--while the admirers of
Mark Antony, recommending the “young-un to be awake,” added, “that the
ould file was a deep dodger;” and intimated that it would be advisable
to “look sharp to his left daddle, for that was his nasty one.” One
other appeal--and a last one, came from the corner; “For the sake of
Jasus, to keep the skrimmage as far from the corps as they could.” The
admonition was the cry of wisdom, and it was disregarded accordingly.

A briefer conflict never disappointed a sporting assembly. The artful
dodge, on which Mr. Spicer depended, failed; and in trying his left,
he received a _per contra_ favour that brought the battle to a close. A
flush hit sent him into the corner with astonishing velocity; and in his
rapid transit, he took with him not only the master of the ceremonies,
but also, the mortal remains of Mistress Malone, and the whole apparatus
on which the defunct lady had been extended.

At this appalling catastrophe, the outbreak of the chief mourner was
responded to by “the cry of women.” The single-legged professor declared
his ruin complete, that instrument from which he discoursed such
excellent music being “_in smithereens_,” while it was exceedingly
doubtful, whether that Mr. Spicer was not defunct as Mrs. Malone. When
the first uproar had partially subsided, the corpse was lifted by the
ladies--the polygamist raised by his friends and allies--and the fiddler
allowed to regain his perpendicular as he best could--while the admirers
of Mark Antony, after eulogizing his pluck, and paying a delicate
compliment to his powers as “a punisher,” hinted that it would be
prudent to withdraw, that it might be ascertained if Mr. Spicer had been
gathered to his fathers, or whether he was only “kilt, not killed and,
finally, until the mortal remains of Mrs. Malone should be duly reported
_in statu quo ante bellum_,” which, being translated, means “stretched
genteelly as before the shindy had occurred.”

To the ratcatcher the prudence of an immediate retreat was manifest; and
while general attention was divided between “the dying and the dead,”
 the fosterer and his friend quietly levanted, leaving, what a few
minutes before had been an harmonious assemblage, in most admired
disorder.

The rapidity with which Irish rows are commenced and concluded is
proverbial. Under the directions of a sailor, the wreck was cleared;
and Mr. Spicer, whose advent had brought on the battle and “crossed the
obsequies, and true-love’s rights,” was declared to be still a living
man; and being resuscitated by gin and neighbourly attention, he
was once more committed to the care of his gentle helpmate. The dear
departed one again received

                   “The latest favour at the hands

               That, living, honoured her;”

and the wake being restored to pristine solemnity, the afflicted husband
resumed his seat, vented his sorrows in soft melody, and again gratified
the company with a song. What were the after-proceedings at Mr. Malone’s
evening party we are not prepared to say; but no doubt some notice
touching the wind-up of the symposium, might be discovered by the
curious in the police chronicles of the time.

On the following afternoon, the funeral of Mrs. Malone was correctly
“performed;” and on the same evening on which I had made my _entree_ on
the world, that lamented gentlewoman bade it a last adieu. The mourners
separated at the grave-yard, each to return to his respective vocations;
and the captain and the fosterer retired to the Fox and Goose, to
deliberate on affairs of paramount importance. The question was one
of ways and means; and, as it would appear, the subject had not been
considered until circumstances imperatively required that financial
arrangements should be entered on.

“What the devil’s to be done?” observed the ratcatcher. “We’re down to
thirty shillings between us--and a week’s rent due to-morrow.”

“I thought, before now,” returned the fosterer, with a sigh, “that
something would have turned up--but I’m afraid, copteeine, we settled
in the wrong quarter of the town for any thing but love, drink, and
fighting.”

“Feaks,” said the ratcatcher, “and I’m pretty nearly of the same
opinion. Mark, jewel--what if we step over to the other side of the
city--and may be we might hear of something that one could turn his hand
to?”

“It’s too late this evening,” replied the fosterer.

“Not at all, Mark--it’s scarcely gone eight.”

“But Shemus, the truth is, I have a bit of an engagement.”

“Where, and what to do?” inquired the ratcatcher, suspiciously.

“Why,” said the fosterer, “just as they sodded Mrs. Malone, a girl
slipped this letter into my hand.”

“What is it about?”

“Nothing, but an invitation to tea.”

“Taa!” ejaculated the captain, horror-struck. “If ye take to
taa-drinkin’, Hector, _avourneeine, its over with ye!_ What destroyed
Dick Macknamara but these accursed taa-parties? May the devil smother
the first inventer of the same!--And where are ye invited to?” The
fosterer, instead of answering the inquiry, presented the billet he
had received in the grave-yard to the honest ratcatcher, who, with some
difficulty having managed to decypher the writing, read the contents,
which were as follow:--

“leg lane, thursday, six o’clok.

“dear Sir,--i was gratley Consarnt you shood get in Trubbil on my
Acount last Nite, and the Naybors alow ye Behavd lik a Reglar gentleman.
Spicer’s gon to the Sittay on bisnis that’il keep him All evenin’--So if
you Cood make it Convanient to slip in fair an asey About 8 o’clok, wee
wood have a Cup of taa, an’ sum Agreeabel con-versashin. The Favir of
yer Compnay will grateley Obleege,

“Yours to Comand,

“Sarah Spicer.”

“P. S.--For the Seak of Geesus, don’t let aney body no Nothin’ at the
Fox and Gose--they’r’ Sure to split, an’ no mistake. If Mister Magrale
wood sit in the wee Windy next the Door of the Fox, and the divell druv
Spicer horn, he’d be sure to see the oul screw Turnin’ the corner, and
have Time to give us the offis.

                   ‘My Pen is Bad, my ink is pale,

                   But my Hart too you will niver fail.’

                        “Your Lovin’ friend, S.-- S --.”

          “n.b.--You’l Fine the door onley shut too--Push, an’ it will Opin.

                   “Yours, as Before.

          “Too Mister Otool, ecc. &c. &c. &c.”

“You would not be mad enough to go,” said the captain, as he returned
Mrs. Spicer’s flattering invitation.

“And how can I get over it?” inquired the fosterer.

“Now mark my words--for you’re bent on it, I see,” continued Shemus
Rhua--“your taa-drinkin’ will end in trouble. They say here, that
Spicer’s house is notorious for harbouring the most desperate characters
in the Dials. If you’re caught--no fair play like the wake--but you’ll
be set on by half a score, out and out, murdered, and no one to assist
you. Mark, _astore_--stay where ye are!”

But, like his greater namesake, Mark Antony, led by Dan Cupid, seemed
determined to run blindly to destruction; and, disregarding the
warnings of the ratcatcher, he resolved

                   “To love again, and be again undone”--

and accordingly departed for the domicile of Mr. Spicer.

Shemus Rhua, when left alone, ensconced himself in the casement
described in the lady’s letter, as “the wee windy next the door,” to
take out-post duty for the evening, and secure the fosterer against
surprise. Full of dark forebodings, he recalled to memory the divers
misfortunes which had befallen his unlucky _protegee_, Dick Macnamara,
and all were clearly attributable to his unfortunate predilection for
drinking tea; and therefore, that Mark Antony’s visit to Mrs. Spicer
would prove disastrous, he fatally anticipated. Between every blast of
the _dhudheeine_, he turned a suspicious eye to the corner of the street
from which danger might have been expected, and proved himself thus
invaluable as a videt, as he had been prudent as a counsellor.

The door of Mr. Spicer’s mansion was exactly in the state that the lady
had described it--and, yielding to his push, the fosterer found himself
in the presence of the lady.

Aware that time was valuable, Mrs. Spicer, after mutual wishes of
good health had been ratified by a glass of rum, proceeded at once to
business. She hinted at the infelicity of her marriage--and expressed
her determination to effect a divorce according to the forms of St.
Giles, by which the tedious formalities of law are avoided, and no
necessity exists for troubling the House of Peers. Of course, she must,
as a prudent woman, provide herself with a future protector; and, in
brief terms, she confessed the secret of her love, and tendered her hand
and fortune to the safe custody of Mr. O’Toole.

How much soever the fosterer might have been flattered into a temporary
flirtation by the declared preference of a pretty woman, still, true
to the _cantatrice_ and plighted faith, he declined the offer. But Mrs.
Spicer was not easily to be refused; and considering that charms might
do much, but money more, she added that inducement. Taking a key from
her bosom, she proceeded to unlock a strong cupboard built into the
Avail of the apartment, and, from external appearances, formed for a
place of security.

“This,” she said, “is the place the ould fellow keeps his cash in--and
may be ye’ll be after askin’, how I came by the key?--Feaks, an’ I’ll
tell ye.--You see, Spicer used to get mixed when any of the lodgers
would stand the liker--and we had a cracksman over-head, and he was
so smart a young man, and so obligin’! Well, I picks the ould file’s
pocket, an’ he blind drunk; and, before he woke again, Sam Parkins had
fitted this one to the lock. Poor Sam!--he was a spicy cove not like the
dark sneaking body-snatcher that came after him.’Gad, I’m half afeerd to
go up the stairs at night, for fear I would tumble over a stiff-un in
a sack, as I did last Tuesday comm late from Con Halligin’s
house-warmin’.” As she spoke, she applied the key, while the fosterer
was lost between feelings of astonishment and disgust.

“Stop! What are you doing?” he exclaimed. But the deed was already done,
and Mr. Spicer’s treasury feloniously opened to inspection. From this
depositary, his faithless spouse produced a small box; and on lifting
the lid, the fosterer perceived that it contained a number of bank
notes, with money in every variety of coinage, being the produce of that
worthy gentleman’s long and industrious life. The lady looked at her
intended lover with a smile of triumph--

“You see, Mark dear, I won’t go to you empty-handed.”

“Whose property is that?” inquired the fosterer, suspiciously.

“Whose but the ould screw’s,” returned the lady. “Say but the word, and,
Mark, every shilling shall be yours.”

“What! would you rob? and rob your husband too?” ^

“Ay, and not leave the ould rogue a mag to bless himself upon,” returned
the unblushing offender.

“Let me out!” exclaimed the indignant fosterer. “By heaven! I should
fear if I remained longer that the roof would fall!”

“Stay, Mark darline”--and Mrs. Spicer endeavoured to arrest the escape
of her refractory admirer. “Where will you get one that loves you so
tenderly, and that will bring you such a lump of money into the bargain
as myself?”

“And how is that money to be gotten?” returned the fosterer,
indignantly. “By the worst robbery of all--the plunder of a husband by
the woman who should stick to him to the death!”

“Stay, just and hear me.”

“Not another minute!” exclaimed Mark Antony. “Every moment I remain
here, I feel as if I were giving encouragement to a thief.”

It has been said, that “hell has no fury like a woman spurned; and Airs.
Spicer proved that truth. Her colour fled the glow of passion with
which she had vainly urged the honest Irishman to share her ill-acquired
wealth, changed to the ashy hue of hatred and, springing suddenly
forward, she placed her back against the door to bar the fosterer’s
egress. He took her arm, and firmly but quieth, repeated his
determination to leave the house.

“Never!” she exclaimed, “unless you take _me_ with you.”

“Are you mad, woman?” returned the fosterer; “and would you keep me here
until your husband returned, and discovered jour villanous intentions
against himself?”

At the moment, a strong force from without dislodged the lady from the
door, and the voice of the ratcatcher continued,--“And, upon my soul!
that may be done without much loss of time, as the honest man and
a couple of d----d ill-looking acquaintances, are coming round the
corner.”

The announcement of Mr. Spicer’s advent produced an instant and awful
effect on the feelings and countenance of his amiable consort.

“Holy Antony!” she exclaimed; “we’re all ruined and undone. Off with
ye at once!” and she sprang forward to the window, and after a hurried
glance down the street, added, in a voice of terror, “Lost! lost!--it’s
too late--and there will be murder! Ha! I have it--quick, quick!” and
after locking Mr. Spicer’s treasury, she rushed up stairs, followed by
Mark Antony and his guardian genius, Shemus Rhua.

Mrs. Spicer stopped before a door on the first landing-place of the
upper story, and unlocking it, introduced her visitors into a dark
apartment, filled with lumber and old furniture; and having cautioned
them to be silent, as every movement could be heard in the next room,
she hastily retired, with an assurance that she would deliver them from
captivity so soon as she “made the ould screw safe.”

“‘Pon my conscience,” whispered the ratcatcher, “we’re in a nate
situation, Mark _astore!_ What did I tell ye ye’r taa-drinkin’ would
bring us to? Cromwell’s curse on the importer of the same herb, say
I--for luck nor grace niver attended them that took to it! Here we are,
as snug as if we were in Newgate, and that’s pleasant.”

“Hush, Shemus,” returned the captain’s companion; “they’re come!” as the
steps and voices of several men were heard ascending the lower stairs.

During this brief colloquy, the ratcatcher and his _élève_ had each
applied an eye to a fissure in the wood-work; while, ensconced in
darkness, they saw distinctly afterwards all that passed within. The
room and its occupants are easily described.

The former was a comfortless attic, with a blinded window, a truckle
bed, and a few mean articles of furniture. In one corner, there were
mattocks and shovels, with other implements of unusual formation, used
by gentlemen in the resurrection line; while in another, there appeared
a choice collection of jemmies, skeleton keys, and every tool employed
in burglary; all bespeaking that the tenant of the room was a person of
general acquirements, and equally an adept, whether taken as a cracksman
or a body-snatcher.

The appearance of the twain was most remarkable. The elder was, a
stout, ill-visaged, swarthy Hebrew, with voluminous whiskers, and a most
repulsive face; the other, that thing of legs and arms, whom we have
already introduced as the confidant of Mr. Brown.

“How devilish dark!” remarked the hunchback.

“The better at times for business,” returned a second voice.
“Stop--there’s a tinder-box on the table;” and the sparkle of flint
on steel, was followed by the steadier glare proceeding from a lighted
candle.

It was quite apparent that the caution to remain silent from Mrs. Spicer
was necessary; for through the chinks in the crazy wood-work of a door
which divided the apartments, the slightest sound was heard distinctly.

“We’re full late, and the sooner we are off the better,” returned the
first speaker.

“We’ll be time enough for some people, for all that. A man can’t go
without his tools, Master Frank; and just keep yourself quiet, and I’ll
be with you in a shake.”

“Make haste, Josh. All’s ready; and fortune has done more for us than I
could expect.”

“Well,” said the Jew to the hunchback, “and how is the trick to be
done?”

“Safely,” replied the other. “Julia Travers has got him to meet her.
Lord, what a girl it is!--There’s not a decoy in London to be compared
to her. He believes her to be a soldier’s orphan--and she played her
game so deep, and dressed so well too--I would have passed her myself
in the street, and never suspected she was anything but a regular
respectable. Well, Jim and the smasher are waiting at the dark turn
of the alley--we follow--and while the chap’s attention is engaged in
front, his back will be to you.”

“I understand ye; and this shall settle matters.”

The ruffian took from the implements of his villanous profession, a
murderous weapon formed of whalebone and lead, and then producing a
glass and bottle, the hunchback and he drank a glass to good-luck,
extinguished the candle, and, locking the door of the apartment,
descended the staircase, and closed the street door heavily.

Before the fosterer and his friend could express their mutual
astonishment, the key was turned in the door of the closet where they
had lain _perdue_, and Mrs. Spicer presented herself.

“Hush!” she said, “for the sake of Heaven!--My husband has gone for a
minute to the Fox!--Hurry--or we’re ruined!”

She took Mark Antony’s hand--piloted him down stairs--the ratcatcher
followed--and when both had gained the street, she shut the door
suddenly, leaving her lover and his friend, as they say in Ireland, “on
the right side to run away.”

The rapidity with which Mrs. Spicer had effected their deliverance,
enabled Mark Antony and his companion to reach the street so close upon
the heels of the ruffians, that they saw them turn the corner. By a sort
of mutual consent, they too took the same direction; and, keeping the
scoundrels in sight, regulated their movements as they proceeded. As the
clock struck ten, St. Paul’s churchyard was at the same moment
honoured with the presence of divers personages--to wit, myself and the
_incognita_, the Jew and the hunchback--and, by a strange accident, the
fosterer and Shemus Rhua. How singular--that my deliverance from certain
death should have been effected through the agency of my foster brother!

While the parties paused for a few moments in the church-yard, the brief
remarks that passed indicated the feelings and business of the triads.

“How imprudent this meeting must appear, sir! and how unguarded in a
female to venture out at this unseasonable hour!” was whispered in the
softest voice imaginable to some remark of mine, as I passed the arm of
the _incognita_ through mine.

“By Heaven, the thing is safe!” said the hunchbacked villain, in an
under-tone, to his confederate. “See how blindly the poor flat runs into
the snare, and follows the beck of the deepest dodger that ever
betrayed a fool! Stick close; and mind your blow! Oh, that I had man’s
strength!--there’s not in Britain one who loves a daring deed more
dearly.--Would that the arm was equal to the heart!--How I shall delight
to see that tall idiot, who would stare or smile at my deformity,
grovelling on the earth, and wondering how he contrived to get his skull
cracked, while he thought only of Julia’s charms, and fancied himself in
full security.”

“Can ye see them, captain?” whispered the fosterer; “I can’t distinctly,
the night’s so dark.”

“Many a darker one I have watched the soldiers pass me on the heather,
after I was an outlaw,” replied the ratcatcher. “I see a man and woman.
See, they turn to the right, under yonder drowsy-looking lamp; and
there--those other two--one the dark scoundrel we overheard, and the
cursed cripple he was talkin’ to. What are we to do, Mark?”

“Stick to the villains like a brace of blood-hounds,” replied the
fosterer.

“I don’t half like it,” said the ratcatcher; “remember, Mark, how nearly
I was being hanged about the tailor’s wife. There’s sure to be murder;
and, holy Mary! all this comes out of taa-drinkin’!”

Through dark and intricate turnings, the soldier’s daughter conducted
me. I found the arm that was locked in mine tremble, and yet the night
was far from cold. As we advanced, the lanes became darker and less
frequented, and I could not avoid remarking, how dreary and deserted the
immediate neighbourhood of my young friend’s residence appeared to be.
She replied--the tone of voice was agitated. Was she ill? I asked the
question, and gently put my arm round her for support. Suddenly, some
terrible emotion convulsed her.

“No--no--no!” she exclaimed: “not for thousands will I do it! There’s
guilt enough upon my soul already!”

“Come, Julia,” I said, not clearly hearing what she said; “I must get
you assistance. Come on.”

“Not another step,” she murmured. “Return--quick, quick--away, away!”

She caught my hand convulsively, turned her lips to my ear, whispered
in a deep, low voice, “Ten paces further, and _you are murdered!_” and
bounding from my side, vanished in the darkness, leaving me the most
confounded gentleman that ever followed that will-o’-the-wisp--a woman.



CHAPTER XXII. I ESCAPE--BUT MR. SLOMAN MEETS WITH AN ACCIDENT.



               “_Malcolm._ This murderous shaft that’s shot,

               Hath not yet lighted; and our safest way

               Is, to avoid the aim.”

               “For ‘tis the sport, to have the engineer

                   Hoist with his own petar.”

                        Shakspeare.

|It was pitch dark, and the locality as much unknown as if I had been
dropped into Kamschatka. What the devil was I to do? I threw my cloak
off, rolled it round my left arm, and firmly grasped my sapling;
then, commending myself to the especial protection of St. Patrick, I
endeavoured to retrace my steps.

I blundered on for half a minute, a low rascally whistle immediately
in my rear assuring me that I was in vicarious society, from which the
sooner I parted company the better. Moving a pace or two forward, my
steps evidently attracted the attention of the scoundrels, for a low
voice inquired, “Is that you--Josh?”

I never felt less inclination to be communicative, and silently
continued my retreat. The suspicions of the cut-throats were confirmed.
I heard a voice desire his comrade to “Come on,” adding, with an oath,
“the bird’s alarmed!”

It was idle attempting to steal a march upon an enemy already on the
alert; and a dreadful conviction shot across my mind, that escape from
assassination was hopeless. To be coldly butchered in the dark--to be
hurried from the stage of life at the very moment of my entrance on
it--and in the spring of manhood to fill a bloody grave, with
every thing prospectively before me which renders human existence
desirable--the thought was horrible. These feelings were but momentary,
and other ideas filled my mind. To resist to the uttermost--to display,
even in death, a tiger-like ferocity--this changed the current of my
thoughts, and a soul-sinking despondency gave place to the terrible
calmness which desperate circumstances produce. I quickened my pace--my
steps fell heavily on the pavement--the murderers increased their
speed--and both parties rushed forward in the dark; I at random, and
they in the full expectancy of attaining their object, and gaining the
recompense which was to be contingent on my destruction.

Acquainted with the locality of the dark lanes in which I found myself
unfortunately involved, the scoundrels closed upon me fast, and at last
I was regularly brought to bay.

“Back, villains!” I exclaimed.

“All’s right--that’s he--at him, Jim!” was responded.

In one thing the darkness favoured me. My sapling was unperceived;
the ruffians closed fearlessly--and the first intimation that they
had “caught a tartar” was by the bolder of the twain being sent to the
ground with a crashing blow that shattered his jawbone, and rendered him
_hors de combat_. His companion instantly fell back, and I was about
to wheel round and continue my retreat, when a heavy blow from behind
knocked off my hat, and a knife grazed my arm through the folds of the
cloak that, fortunately for me, had formed its protection. Need I
say that the fresh assailants were the bravo and hunchback? while,
encouraged by their assistance, the scared ruffian resumed the
offensive.

[Illustration: 0233]

My chances of escape appeared utterly hopeless. The ruffians, by
dividing my attention on either side, had enabled the hunchback to creep
in and grasp my legs within his long and bony arms. Happily the knife
dropped from his hold in his first attempt to stab me, and the night was
too dark to enable him to pick it up again. I strove to shake him off,
but the wretch clung to me with that virulent tenacity with which a
reptile coils itself around its victim. In the attempt to free myself
from the cripple, I struck my foot against a stone, stumbled, and,
before I could recover my footing, a blow brought me to the ground, the
assassins sprang in, and my fate seemed sealed.

That brief space of exquisite agony I shall never forget. Oh, God.’ how
hard it is to die! and die, as I should, by felon hands, prostrate and
powerless, murdered “i’ the dark,” without the satisfaction of even in
an expiring effort “stinging the wretch that stung me.” That moment’s
misery was ended. Steps were heard. I hallooed “Murder!”

A voice, and, saints and angels! an Irish one, replied.

The hunchback then hastily cried, “Quick!--strike!--brain him!”

I caught the miscreant by the throat as the last word passed his
lips--and next moment two figures flitted past my fading vision, as a
blow fell upon my head, and laid me senseless.

Presently I awoke as from a dream. A man supported me; another put a
cup of water to my lips; and a couple of crippled watchmen held their
lanterns over us. I looked at my supporter; he was strange. My eye
turned to his companion. In the dim light his features were not
remembered--and yet the hand that held the water to my lips was my
foster brother’s. By degrees consciousness returned.

“Where am I?” I muttered.

“Arrah, the Lord only knows!” responded the ratcatcher.

“Was I not attacked--stabbed--knocked down? Who were the assailants?
Where are they?” I continued, as wandering recollections of the past
flitted across my memory.

“Sorra one of us knows who they were; but if you searched London
through, you would’nt pick out an uglier couple. One was a spider-built
divil without a back, and the other a black-muzzled thief of a Jew,
with whiskers you could hang your hat on. They’re off--had luck pursue
them!--and among these twists and turnings, ye might as well look for a
rat in a rabbit warren, as ferret them out, the ruffins of the world!”

I rose with slight assistance, but staggered like a drunken man, and,
preceded by the watchmen to give us light, walked slowly on, leaning
on the arms of my deliverers. We reached a public-house at no great
distance; and having committed me to the care of the landlord and
Shemus Rhua--guided by a Charlie, Mark Antony set out to find a surgeon,
perfectly unconscious who the stranger was, whom timely assistance had
so miraculously preserved from murder.

He returned; the discovery was made; and need I describe what a
meeting between persons attached by the tie of fosterage, under such
circumstances, would be? I heard the detail of my deliverance. The
surgeon dressed my wounds, and pronounced them merely flesh ones; for
the knife had only razed the skin, and, in the dark, the blow
intended as a _coup de grace_, had missed the head, struck against the
kerb-stone, and fallen on the shoulder lightly. That I had been marked
out for deliberate assassination, the gipsy’s warning, the adventure
in Mr. Spicer’s house, and the discovery of a clasp-knife and _jemmy_
dropped on the field of battle, sufficiently established. We received
those trophies from the venerable conservator of the city’s peace, paid
him a fitting remuneration for the services of his lantern, and parted
nearly at the same spot from which a woman’s wiles had so recently
seduced me--to wit, St. Paul’s; I to return to my own inn by a hackney
coach, and the ratcatcher and my foster brother to repair to the place
from whence they came, with an arrangement to meet next morning--

               “That we would all our pilgrimage dilate,

               Whereof by parcels we had something heard,

               But not intentively.”

I drove to Mr. Hartley’s residence. He was at home; and as Dominique had
signified that I was anxious to speak with him before he retired for the
night, he was waiting my return in the drawing-room. I found him leaning
against the mantel-piece, buried in deep thought. His back was turned
from me; and as I unclosed the door softly, for a few moments he was
unconscious of my presence.

“Might he be trusted yet?” he muttered to himself. “I think so--for he
loves her. Would it not be premature?” He raised his eyes--“Ha, Hector!
returned! What means that patch across your forehead?”

“An attempt,” I answered, “has been made upon my life, and failed.”

“Indeed! Where--and by whom?” he asked eagerly.

Here was I again in trouble. To recount the evening’s “moving accidents”
 without a formal introduction of the soldier’s daughter, would, as a
narrative, prove lame and inconclusive, as to enact Hamlet with the
omission of the Prince of Denmark. I doubted whether Mr. Hartley would
approve of my advocating the young lady’s claims upon the government;
and, from his starched notions respecting female propriety, it was most
probable he would consider a nocturnal interview not exactly a regular
procedure. I commenced accordingly, “in fear and terror,” as the lawyers
say; told a confused story of meeting a girl in a fog; blundered at
bringing her into a tavern; and totally broke down when we met in
St. Paul’s churchyard, on our way to the domicile of her respectable
relative. As we proceeded in the dark, no doubt I stammered more.

“Come, Hector,” said Mr. Hartley, “out with the whole truth; I hate half
confidence.”

On I went. With the acute auditor I had to deal with, it would be
useless to attempt concealment; and he listened with deep interest, and,
as I fancied, no trifling mixture of displeasure, until I brought my
story to a close.

“You have had a marvellous deliverance, Mr. O’Halloran”--(He _mistered_
me, and that looked squally)--“and you seem a man born to be the dupe of
villains, through the agency of that worst of curses, a vicious woman.
One would have thought that your recent escape from spoliation and
disgrace by that amiable coterie in Jermyn Street, would have made
you rather cautious in forming acquaintanceships with strangers, and
believing every fabricated tale you heard. I am a candid man, and pardon
me, while I give you a proof of my sincerity.

“I credit your tale, and totally disbelieve your motives. You could
not be fool enough to remain for a second, in ignorance of the true
character of this lady of the fog; for none but the profligate of her
sex would accede to the request of a young gentleman of twenty-one,
and, at first sight, grant him a nocturnal interview. This may seem
impertinence in me, who, apparently, have no right or interest in
inquiring into your love affairs--although I must confess, that in the
selection of your female acquaintances you have not been particularly
fortunate.”

“However imprudent, or, indeed, improbable my conduct may appear, I
assure you, sir, upon the unblemished honour of a gentleman, that
my motives were precisely what I described them,” I replied, with a
firmness of voice and manner, that at once guaranteed my truth.

Mr. Hartley looked at me for a moment. He saw that his suspicions had
hurt me; and, convinced of my sincerity, he held out his hand, which I
accepted.

“Hector, I believe you, and acquit you of every thing but concealment.
Did you know the deep interest I feel in all that concerns your
character and future fortunes, you would forgive me in testing your
motives and actions so rigidly as I do, and have done. No more of this
at present. Where is that scrawl you received this evening from the
woman whom you encountered with my daughter in the park? Your hand is
feverish. Although you may not feel it at present, you could not have
passed through the deadly struggle you have described uninjured. To bed,
friend Hector; Dominique, a second time, shall look to your wounds, and
I for once play gallant, and keep your appointment with the lady of the
bridge. Hark! the clock chimes. Half-past eleven. The ‘trysted hour’ is
twelve.”

I assured Mr. Hartley that I neither required leechcraft nor repose, but
was most willing he should bear me company. The negro was summoned; his
master gave orders in a whisper; I filled a glass of wine and water; Mr.
Hartley unlocked a mahogany case, presented me with a brace of beautiful
pistols, and put another brace into his own pockets; told me they were
loaded; and next moment the sable functionary appeared with a dark
lantern in one hand, and a bludgeon in the other. All we required was
the companionship of the ratcatcher and Mark Antony, to enable us to
take, regularly to the road, and rob every coach within sound of Bow
bell; at least, so said Mr. Hartley.

Were it possible, the night was darker than when I kept my assignation
with the soldier’s orphan. Three quarters chimed; and ere the hour of
meeting struck, we were punctually at the place appointed.

The bridge was wrapped in fog; and the two or three lamps that still
burned, flared such a dull and yellow light, as merely rendered
“darkness visible.” The night was raw and chilly, and, save a few
passing citizens, “few and far between,” the causeway of Blackfriars
was deserted. It was an hour when none but the unfortunate are abroad; a
night when only the houseless are encountered. All that was orderly
were in-doors; and the elderly gentlemen, to whom watch and ward were
entrusted, properly declined to exhibit a bad example of being found
upon the streets, and ensconced themselves in comfortable corners of
the night-houses most contiguous to their respective beats, leaving the
dreary pavement to persons of indifferent reputation. No wonder, then,
that we found ourselves in unmolested possession of the bridge. I took
a position at that extremity which the gipsy’s billet had pointed out;
while Mr. Hartley and his attendant occupied the recess immediately
opposite my post.

A quarter chimed--another--and another. At last, dull as a muffled
drum, one heavy stroke boomed from the clock-tower of St. Paul’s, and
announced the first hour of morning.

“Hector,” said Mr. Hartley, as he crossed the bridge, “it is useless
to remain longer here. Your prophetic friend for once has broken her
promise.”

“‘Tis false!” replied a voice within half-a-dozen paces--“she is here!”
 and a figure too much concealed for recognition flitted from the centre
of the bridge, and boldly joined us.

*****

Again the scene must change; and once more we shall carry the indulgent
reader into the close alley where Mr. Brown’s domicile was situated,
and, at half-past eleven, introduce him to old acquaintances--the worthy
owner of the mansion, and Mr. Sloman, his respected friend.

They were seated at the table, with all the appurtenances that rendered
their former interview so pleasant; but the present mood of the worthy
couple was very different from the former one. The countenances of both
betrayed anxiety and impatience. To plot is one thing--to perpetrate
another; and a deed of blood propounded and agreed to on their first
meeting, was now in course of execution. No wonder that the scoundrels
felt ill at ease; not that either felt the slightest compunction for
hurrying a fellow-creature into eternity; the failure of the attempt
was what they dreaded, with a fear, if the deed were done, that some
circumstances should attend it which ultimately might compromise their
safety. They drank, but the wine had no flavour; or if it had, it failed
to call forth their approbation. They spoke but little; the sentences
that passed were brief and in an under tone; and at the slightest noise
without both started; each appearing impatient for intelligence, and yet
half afraid to hear what the result had been.

“What the devil can delay them?” observed Mr. Brown. “The thing should
have come off an hour ago.”

“They may have failed,” replied Mr. Sloman; “or have done it, and been
detected; or--but, thank God, I know nothing of the matter.”

“Pish! as much as I do,” returned the owner of the mansion.

“How can you say so, Mr. Brown?” returned Mr. Sloman, angrily.

The host directed a meaning look at his visitor.

“Slowey, how soft you are! Well, don’t fear; in England there’s not a
better hand at cracking a skull than Josh Levi; and at the knife--the
creature’s too weak for anything but light work--I’ll back Frank for a
hundred.”

“Damn it, don’t tell me particulars,” exclaimed the lawyer. “I wish all
was over; I safe in Mary Axe; and you with your four hundred snug in
pocket.”

“Is the cash right?” inquired Mr. Brown.

Mr. Sloman deigned no reply; but, producing a leather case from his
side-pocket, he reckoned over nine bank notes.

“I don’t know a nicer thing to look at, than a clean hundred-pound
flimsey fresh from the Bank,” observed Mr. Sloman, playfully.

Suddenly the street-bell rang, and a low and peculiar whistle followed
the sound. Mr. Brown started.

“By Heaven! that’s not Frank’s signal,” lie exclaimed. “Something is
wrong, or the hunchback would be the first to bring intelligence.”

Another, and a louder ring, told the impatience of the midnight visitor;
and Mr. Brown descended to the lower story to ascertain who it was that
at this late hour required admission. The answers from without satisfied
him that the stranger might be let in. The chains rattled; the bolts
were drawn; again the door was carefully secured; and Mr. Brown
returned to his state apartment, accompanied by a very repulsive-looking
gentleman, namely, the swarthy Israelite, who earlier in the evening had
been reconnoitred by the captain and his companion while lying _perdu_
in Mr. Spicer’s lumber-room.

The ruffian’s face was flushed, one eye was swollen and discoloured,
the collar was torn from his coat, and blood-stains were visible on his
hands and linen. His whole appearance was that of a man recently engaged
in some sanguinary affray.

A pause ensued. Mr. Brown filled a glass of brandy, which the Jew
drained to the bottom.

“What news, Josh?” said the host, in an under tone. “Is the job done?”

“No mistake about it,” returned the bravo.

“You had a tussle for it,” remarked the host, as he threw a careless
look over the outer man of the dew, which gave ample indication that the
affair he had been recently employed in, to him had proved no sinecure.

“I tell you what, Mr. Brown, I have been in the general line of bisness
these fifteen year; lifted three stiff’uns of a night; been shot at
half-a-dozen times; got lagged; escaped transportation; and gone through
as much rough work as any man in the trade; and in the course of my
practice, 1 never had a tougher trial than to-night. Another drop of the
brandy, if ye please.”

“But is the thing right, Josh?” inquired Mr. Brown, who always came to
business.

“Safe as a trivet! I’ll tell you all.”

“No, no--curse particulars!” exclaimed Mr. Sloman. “You may mention
the thing in confidence to Mr. Brown. I know nothing of what you are
alluding to, remember that.”

“‘Well, no matter, Slowey; Josh and I will talk it over presently. But
where is Frank? No harm done him, I hope. I wouldn’t lose that hunchback
for a hundred.”

“Is he not here?” was the Jew’s unsatisfactory reply.

“Here? No! We have expected him an hour ago,” returned his master.

“Then I’m blowed if I know any thing of him.”

“But out with it. Tell us how matters went,” said Mr. Brown.

“Not in my presence,” exclaimed Mr. Sloman, springing from his chair.

“Well, if you’re so devilish leary, you may go into that there closet,”
 and he rose and opened a door, through which Mr. Sloman immediately
retreated; “and Slowey,” continued Mr. Brown, in a lower voice, “you’ll
find a slit in the door, and hear as much through it as will suit your
purpose.”

“I don’t like that’ere chap, he’s so etarnal cautious,” observed the
Jew to Mr. Brown, when he returned. “If men mean wots right--as they
ought--why be afeard to talk on bisniss?”

“Hush!” returned the host, as he applied his finger to his nose; “and
now about the job, old boy. Drink slow, Josh; a third glass will smother
ye.”

The Israelite replaced the brandy he was about to bolt, and then
continued his narration, which, though delivered in a low voice, was
perfectly audible in Mr. Sloman’s concealment--the fissure in the wood
having been cunningly constructed for the purposes of professional
espionage.

“Well, ye see,” said the bravo, commencing his murderous narration,
“Frank and I--and he’s a handy little creature for a thing of legs
and arms--were true to time at St. Paul’s; and there we spied our man
reg’lar in tow with Julia. Away they goes together, and we follows close
behind. When we comes to the place, the girl had mizzled, and Jim
and ‘the smasher’ gone too soon to work; and, my eyes--if they hadn’t
cotched it heavy! At him we goes from behind; Frank with his gully, and
I with this here preserver;” and the scoundrel exhibited the murderous
implement he used. “I niver, nowhere, saw a chap more wide awake.
He fought like a good-un; and he was so knowin’, that it was almost
impossible to draw him. At last Bill and I divides his attention, while
Frank gripped him round the legs. He stumbled, fell, and the game was
up; for I fetched him a blow across the skull that would have shattered
a horse’s head, and left him dead upon the kerb-stones. Before I could
strike again--for one likes to make things safe, ye know, Mr. Brown--two
chaps jumps in as if they had riz out of the paving-stones. ‘The
smasher’ was grassed in a moment--and I knocked clean away. I nivir
got sich a nasty one in my life! I was all astray after it--and I know
nothing more whatsomever, only lights came up, and fresh ones joined the
others. I sneaked off as well as I could, reeling like a drunken man,
and leaving our customer dead as a mackarel.”

“You’re sure he’s done for?” inquired Mr. Brown.

“Done for!” and a second time the scoundrel produced his implement of
murder. “Is there a skull in England that would require a second blow of
that small article?”

“The man is safe enough, no doubt,” returned Mr. Brown; “but what
can have happened to Frank? Hark--by Heaven! he’s at the door!--All’s
right!”

The signal was a curious imitation of angry cats, accompanied by a low
sound upon the house-bell. Mr. Brown at once hurried down, and gave
admission to his hunchbacked favourite, who followed him to the
upper-chamber, accompanied by the ruffian called “the smasher.”

To the joint inquiries of the Jew and Mr. Brown, the deformed one gave
satisfactory replies. It appeared that in the act of falling, I had
kicked the weak wretch from me with such violence as drove him across
the narrow lane; and before he could gather himself up again, the
fosterer and his friend achieved my rescue. Self-preservation was now
the hunchback’s care; and, crawling away unperceived in the confusion,
he coiled himself in an obscure corner, from which, though concealed
himself, all that passed subsequently was visible. Thence, he witnessed
my recovery, and saw me, with slight assistance, leave the scene of the
attempt upon my life. In several efforts to get off, the scoundrel had
been nearly detected; and when he did succeed, he and his confederate
were delayed by the removal of their disabled comrade; and hence, an
hour elapsed before he could reach the dwelling of his worthy master.

“Where’s Bill?” was Mr. Brown’s first inquiry.

“Stretched with a broken jawbone in the Fortune of War,” was the reply.

“It seems the job was any thing but an easy one. But it’s done--and
that’s a satisfaction.”

“It would have been,” returned the hunchback, “if I had not dropped the
gully.”

“What the devil do ye mean?--Isn’t he finished?”

“No more than you are,” was the answer.

The Jew broke in with a coarse contradiction, and swore lustily that I
was regularly defunct.

“Well, all I can say,” continued the being of legs and arms, “that for a
dead gentleman he spoke as plain as I do. He was a little groggy when he
got up, but in a few minutes he walked away as steadily as I can.”

“Damnation! Speak low--but all is overheard--and the reward is lost, I
fear,” muttered Mr. Brown.

“The worst of it is,” continued the hunchback, “that my name is on the
knife, and Bill has dropped his jemmy.”

“Ay, and the least clue will send the Bow-street villains after us
immediately.”

“I won’t remain another moment,” exclaimed Mr. Sloman, hurrying from the
closet, and catching up his hat.

“Stop, my dear friend; all may be yet put right. Frank, bring these
gentlemen to the parlour. They will require a bit of bread and cheese
after their exercise; and when I have spoken a few words to Mr.
Sloman”----

“That an’t my name!” exclaimed the alarmed lawyer, as the scoundrels
left the room. “Damn it, Mr. Brown,” he continued, “how can you be so
stupid? I thought I was dealing with a safe man of business. What the
devil do ye call men by their right names for?”

“It was an oversight,” returned the host. “Don’t mind, Slovey--all’s
safe here--and we’ll do the job better the next time we get an
opportunity. Do we touch upon account to-night?”

“Not a rap!” exclaimed Mr.. Sloman, peevishly; “but won’t you return the
hundred?”

Mr. Brown answered only by a look, but that look was an expressive one.
It said, or seemed to say, in the elegant parlance ol the present time,
“Don’t you wish you may get it?”

“I want to be off,” observed the lawyer, seeing that all chance of
restitution was hopeless, “and I don’t like to be stared at by those
body-snatchers in the parlour. The scoundrels never forget a man; and,
as I attend the Old Bailey professionally, they might remember me on
their trial, and call upon me to speak to character.”

“Stop, my dear friend, a minute where you are, and I’ll do the business
effectually. Do take a little brandy and water before you start. It’s
not to every body I give that Cognac,” and the host left Mr. Sloman to
refresh himself before he should set out upon his return homewards.

The hunchback and his companions were seated at a table in the lower
room, when Mr. Brown glided softly in. They had drunk freely, for the
failure of the night seemed to have occasioned a general annoyance.

“By Heaven!” said the larger of the Jews, “I never, in the ring itself,
received such punishment. And then the risk--and nothing for it. The
attempt at murder is now a hanging matter. There’s law for ye! Well,
I suppose that chap Sloman will make us some amends, and come down
handsome, as he should do, for our being regularly served out in trying
to oblige him.”

“You’ll never find grace or gratitude in a lawyer,” returned the
hunchback.

“If he does not stump up, why I say he has no conscience,” observed the
smasher, “but here is Mister Brown.”

“What are we to have for this night’s trouble?” inquired the stouter
Jew.

“Sloman won’t stand a rap, because the thing’s a failure. I tried him
hard; but he won’t bleed, nor come down with a single flimsey; and yet
I’d give a hundred for what he has in the side-pocket of his coat; ay,
and gain another by the bargain.”

“You would, would ye?” inquired “the smasher.”

“Ay, and drop a pony over and above. Come here, Frank;” and Mr. Brown
retired with the hunchback, and left the ruffians to commune with
themselves.

What passed between the owner of the mansion and his favourite is wrapt
in mystery. The former returned to the apartment overhead, “to do
the civil thing” to Mr. Sloman; the latter, to arrange some pressing
business with his confederates in the parlour. In ten minutes Frank
announced that “the gentlemen below” were gone; and Mr. Sloman, having
expressed his satisfaction at the intelligence, buttoned his coat
closely over the side-pocket where his note-case was deposited, put on
his wrap-rascal, wound a shawl around his throat to secure it against
the night air, was conducted to the churchyard door by the host, and
respectfully lighted out by the hunchback.

“No failure, I hope, next time, Mr. Brown,” was the lawyer’s
valediction.

“_It’s all made safe already_. God bless you, Mr. Sloman!”

And these excellent gentlemen parted with a hearty “Good night.” Frank
closed the door, Mr. Brown returned to his great chamber, and Mr. Sloman
hurried away in the direction of his own residence.

An unbuilt piece of ground, not a hundred yards from the small cemetery
we have described as the place on which Mr. Brown’s house abutted, was
early next morning the scene of public curiosity. There, a man had
been discovered dead; his skull fractured by the blow of some blunt
instrument, and his pockets rifled of every thing they had contained.
Within an hour the body was duly recognised. The deceased was Mr.
Sloman.

Who were the murderers? Gentle, reader, I think you have a shrewd
suspicion already. But “time tells many secrets,”--so says the Gaelic
adage; and as none have doubted its accuracy, we’ll wait for further
information on the subject.



CHAPTER XXIII. SUNDRY OCCURRENCES NARRATED-MR. BROWN AND HIS FRIENDS IN
TROUBLE.



               _Murderer_. Safe in a ditch he bides,

               With twenty trenched pashes on his head;

               The least a death to nature.”

                        “Yolk-fellows in arms,

               Let us to France!”

                        Shakspeare.

“You are late, my friend,” I said, as the gipsy stopped beside me and
Mr. Hartley.

“I am too late to warn you against the attempt, but in good time to
apprise you of the extent of the danger you have eseaped, and implore
you, as you value life, to profit by it,” was the reply.

“You are then aware that I have been assailed, and providentially
rescued?”

“I am.”

“Did you witness the attempt upon my young friend’s life?” asked Mr.
Hartley.

“No; had I been near enough, the attempt would never have been made.”

“Then you must have obtained a knowledge of it in a marvellously short
time after the occurrence.”

“I have,” replied the gipsy; “and, as time is precious, I shall at once
tell the means by which I gained that information. I had received an
intimation that certain agents would be employed, and, anxious to learn
the plans that would be adopted, I repaired to a place where I was well
aware the ruffians could be met with. Earlier it would have been useless
to have sought them--crime and darkness are companions--and the boldest
ruffian of the party dared not venture from his skulking-place in the
broad light of day. I went and found them, not preparing for their
murderous essay, but foiled in the attempt, and venting, in impotent
execrations, their rage at disappointment. From one maimed wretch I
heard the particulars of their night adventure, after his companions,
leaving him to my charge, had gone to report their failure to the
scoundrels who had employed them.”

“And after the danger’s past, you come to congratulate my young friend
on his deliverance! Methinks, it would have been doing better service
to have apprised him of his peril, and not entrusted his escape from the
murderer’s knife to the accidental assistance rendered by some passing
strangers.”

“Had I not already cautioned him sufficiently?” returned the gipsy. “If
he allowed himself to be made the dupe of an artful woman--one with the
semblance of purity and innocence veiling a heart that from infancy
has been familiarized with crime--and whose beauty seems to be given so
lavishly, only to render her a greater curse to the community--was I to
blame? All that a woman’s art could do was done. Were he the offspring
of first love, his safety eould not be dearer to a mother. Once more,
Hector O’Halloran, I come to warn you. Danger is averted, but not
passed; and I repeat my former admonition: regard every stranger who
approaches you as an enemy!”

“But, woman, with the knowledge you possess, why not end this state
of insecurity? Tell us whence danger is to come--denounce his
assassins--and the laws of England are quite sufficient to protect my
young friend from those who seek his life.”

“To save is one thing, to betray another; and I would preserve his life,
if possible, without compromising that of one whom I know to be his
deadliest enemy. But of one thing rest assured--should no other means
succeed--the guilty shall be sacrificed and the innocent preserved.
Farewell. Trust implicitly in me. Early to-morrow expect to hear from
me; and stir not from home until my letter shall be delivered.”

She turned away; we heard her steps receding in the darkness. Presently
the sounds became fainter until they died away, and we returned to our
own hotel, very little wiser than when we left it.

“I cannot even fancy who our foemen are,” said Mr. Hartley, as he leaned
thoughtfully against the mantel-pieee. “At times a vague suspicion
crosses my mind. That monk, and his associate, who have enthralled your
grandfather, and estranged the dotard from the child who should have
been the solace of his age, they look no doubt upon you as a dangerous
rival. But were their fears greater, and did they wish, even by
violence, to rid themselves of one who might mar their schemes, still
the villany would require some time ere it could be sufficiently matured
for execution. The secret motives which actuate that mysterious woman
are also impenetrable, but her fidelity is beyond a doubt. Well, Hector,
we must needs be ever on the alert until time developes more than we
know at present. And now, to bed.”

We separated for the night; and never did the slumbers of a private
gentleman prove less refreshing than mine. I dreamed eternally of every
thing abominable. One time, the gipsy was sounding into my attentive ear
her mystic warnings; the next, with smiles, sweet enough to bother any
saint in the whole calendar, that demon-girl was beckoning me along dark
and dreary passages,--and I mechanically following, although perfectly
conscious that she lured me to the grave. No wonder that next morning I
rose with an aching head; and then, for the first time, ascertained
the extent of the injury I had sustained. It is true the hurts were
superficial; but from the number of bruises my arms and back exhibited,
many blows had fallen on both, although at the time they were unfelt by
me.

I was the last personage to present myself at the breakfast table.
I found Isidora there, pale and agitated; for Mr. Hartley had just
acquainted her with my narrow escape from assassination. To do him
justice, he omitted every particular of my having undertaken to arrange
Miss Julia Travers’ claims upon the government; and, as “good men blush
at the record of a virtuous act,” I was delighted to find that my
beneficent intentions regarding the soldier’s orphan were silently
passed over. When I took her hand in mine, I felt it tremble; and,
from the manner of both, had Mr. Hartley been ignorant of our attachment
before, that morning’s meeting would have betrayed the secret to one far
less discerning than he was.

As breakfast ended, the postman’s knock was heard; and presently
Dominique presented several letters to Mr. Hartley and myself. His
appeared to be full of interest, from the attention with which he
perused their contents; and mine, to me, were equally important. One was
from my father, and it apprised me that he expected to get me placed
on the staff of one of his old friends, a general officer, commanding a
brigade of the army now advancing towards the Pyrenees; and the other,
a formal notification of my appointment, with an order for my departure
forthwith for the Peninsula, by a sloop-of-war, which was to sail on the
third day from Portsmouth for Passages, laden with money and military
stores.

While I was reading my despatches, Mr. Hartley rose suddenly and left
the room, to reply to one of his that required an immediate answer. More
unwelcome intelligence never met the eye of a soldier of fortune,
than the unexpected order to leave England now appeared to me. How
differently the route for the Peninsula would have been regarded a
fortnight since! Involuntarily I raised my eyes--and they encountered
those of my gentle mistress. She had perceived that the letters I had
just received contained news of no ordinary interest. I rose, and seated
myself beside her, and gradually announced that the hour of parting was
at hand.

I need not describe the scene that followed. Those who have loved as we
did, can guess it well; and fancy what the “cold in blood” could never
know nor feel. Isidora’s hand was locked in mine; and my flushed cheeks,
and her tearful eyes, told too well, how agonizing the first severance
of love is. Suddenly the door opened--Mr. Hartley entered--he paused
a moment in surprise; and, while she was covered with blushes, and I
astonished beyond the power of free agency, he advanced and stood before
us.

“Soh!--what means this folly, may I ask?”

The tears flowed faster down his daughter’s cheeks, while I,
unconsciously, still held her hand in mine, and merely pointed to the
letters that were lying on the table.

Mr. Hartley read them hastily, and, without evincing any mark of
displeasure at the discovery he had made, he beckoned gently to his
daughter, and next moment she was seated on her father’s knee, her arms
clasped fondly round his neck, and her head rested on his bosom.

“Isidora,” he said, in that soft tone of voice with which he always
addressed his favourite, “I have been already prepared for this
discovery; and had I been unfriendly to the growth of an attachment
which I have witnessed with satisfaction, I would have discouraged the
unrestricted intimacy which has existed between you and my young friend,
and which in youth is ever too dangerous to be permitted.
I think I have known the world too long, to have any doubt upon my
mind respecting this gentleman’s feelings towards you, my child; but,
nevertheless, I will inquire of him whether I have correctly formed this
opinion.”

My reply was a florid declaration of youthful passion, whose ardour
elicited from my gentle mistress a look which told me that my love was
faithfully reciprocated.

“‘Well, I believe you, Hector. Circumstances have hurried matters on
more rapidly than I had expected. I have watched you suspiciously; for
he who would trust his earthly treasure to the keeping of another, will
be guarded ere he parts with it. I am satisfied that all which I value
will be safe. Continue to deserve it; and when events, now in slow
progress, shall have come round, and prudence justifies the step, this
hand, Hector,”--and he placed Isidora’s in mine--“the dearest gift a
father can bestow, is yours.”

Young love is eloquent, and I warmly expressed my gratitude.

“An hour ago I considered that the time had not yet arrived, when you
were entitled to demand my confidence,” continued Mr. Hartley; “I have
now given you the strongest pledge of my personal regard; and you have
a claim upon my unlimited confidence, which shall be freely admitted. We
dine at six; and afterwards you shall know some particulars of the story
of a man, whose very existence none, save yourself and this loved child,
suspect. Little did you imagine that, in the stern monitor who blamed
your follies, a kinsman was cautioning an unschooled novice against
those seductions of vicious society which so often wreck the happiness
of youth. None could have taught the lesson better than himself. He
had erred and paid the penalty--and a life of peril, suffering, and
disappointment, has scarcely redeemed the obloquy and disgrace which
his earlier indiscretions had brought upon a name, which, but for
his offendings, should have been second to none in Britain. Hector
O’Halloran, you stand in the presence of one, who, tempted, ruined, and
rejected by all, became a castaway and an exile--I am Edward Clifford.”

Was I dreaming--or was it a reality, that the man who had exercised such
mysterious influence over my thoughts and actions, was closely united to
me by the bond of blood--my mother’s brother--my grandsire’s heir--but,
dearer tie than all--the father of Isidora! My brain was in a whirl,
when Dominique unclosed the door to announce that two persons were
below, and anxious to see me. I informed my uncle--for that relationship
with him I shall claim for the future--that the strangers were
my deliverers; and in a few minutes after Isidora had retired, my
foster-brother and the honest ratcatcher were formally introduced.

Of the Irish relationship that existed between me and Mark Antony
O’Toole my uncle was already apprised, and he received the fosterer
accordingly as if he had been an old acquaintance; but, touching
the private history of Shemus Rhua, we were both as yet in blissful
ignorance. All we knew was, that in the hour of danger, he had proved
himself a jewel above price; but that he had arrayed himself in arms
against the house of Hanover, eased Tim Maley of his purse, bled an old
woman, or ferretted a rat, were interesting passages in the captain’s
life which we had yet to learn. Neither of my friends looked to the best
advantage. The ratcatcher, in the _rookawn_ of the preceding evening,
had been favoured with a black eye--and the fosterer came out of
action minus a skirt, with the addition of an awkward fracture in
his unmentionables. Both had the appearance of gentlemen who had been
recently in trouble, and from their “_shuck_ * look,” had they presented
themselves as bail, it is doubtful whether a fastidious justice of the
peace would have accepted either, without instituting a slight inquiry
into their “whereabouts” and general effects. I believe the meeting of
last night was, on both sides, a fortunate occurrence. Never did man
receive succour when he needed it more opportunely than I; while the
fosterer and his friend had already experienced some difficulty in
struggling against an exhausted treasury and wardrobe. A liberal present
from Mr. Hartley (for that name must be for the present retained)
placed the finances of the twain once more in a flourishing condition. I
supplied the fosterer with an outfit for his outer man; the captain made
a judicious selection from a fashionable emporium in the vicinity of
Monmouth Street; and in a couple of hours, a happy change in both had
been effected, and their persons were gay as their hearts.

     * Anglice--shaken, or shabby.

The morning wore away. No tidings from the gipsy had arrived; and Mr.
Hartley and myself had just come to a conclusion that something
had changed her intention of sending me a dispatch, and that it was
unnecessary to wait longer at home in expectation of the promised
billet. The fosterer and captain had returned from their morning’s
excursion; and Mr. Hartley, having heard their adventure at Mr. Spicer’s
on the preceding evening, was considering the best method in which that
information could be employed to discover who might be the conspirators
against my life. He was listening a second time to a narrative of their
imprisonment in the lumber-room, where Mark Antony had ensconced himself
to avoid the ire of an elderly gentleman, who, like Mr. Spicer, had “not
loved wisely, but too well,” when the negro entered the drawing-room,
and handed me a sealed letter, whose folding and address bore evident
appearance of carelessness. I unclosed it hastily--the private mark
annexed announcing that the gipsy was the writer. The contents were
these:

“Well may it be said that the ways of Providence are inscrutable; for
vengeance so sudden as to pass belief, has fallen on those who last
night endeavoured to effect your destruction. Come to the Green Man
immediately.’ There you will see those who employed, and those who
undertook to murder you. Notice nothing which may occur; and appear to
take no more interest in passing events, than any stranger in the room.
Follow me when I leave the house, and let your friend accompany you.
Fail not!”

“We shall punctually attend the lady’s invitation,” said Mr. Hartley, as
he perused the scroll for the second time, “and we will also take that
henchman of yours and his companion with us.”

Accordingly, these useful allies were dispatched, with proper directions
to find the place appointed; and in half an hour, Mr. Hartley and I
started in the same direction.

On arriving at our destination, we found the street was crowded, and
intense anxiety was visible in the countenances of a very numerous
collection of idle people, to whom every act of atrocity gives interest.
Indeed, it had been found necessary to close the tavern doors against
all, excepting those who might professionally or profitably claim a
right of entrance. The appearance of my uncle and myself, however,
secured admission, and we were conducted into a spacious club-room,
which had been selected wherein to hold the necessary inquest on a
murdered man. A crown, judiciously applied, obtained convenient seats
immediately beside the defunct lawyer and the persons suspected of his
murder; and the fosterer and his companion had standing room assigned
them, behind the chairs with which we had been graciously accommodated.

That spacious room had witnessed many an hour of revelry. With the
dance, the song, the laugh, and every outbreak of “tipsy jollity,”
 its walls for years had been familiarized. The present was a different
scene. It was an inquisition for “blood spilt” by man; and the victim
and his slaughterers were placed in the immediate presence of each
other.

The deceased remained in the same state as when he had been discovered
in the morning, and even the position in which the body had been found
was scrupulously preserved. No doubt existed as to the cause of death,
for the skull was extensively fractured, and _post mortem_ appearances
evinced that unnecessary violence had been employed; for any of
half-a-dozen injuries inflicted on their victim by the murderers would
have proved mortal. The features were painfully distorted; and the
passing agonies of the departed man had been severe. Not an article of
value was found upon the corpse; the pockets were turned out, and showed
that robbery had succeeded murder.

From the dead my eyes turned to the living. Five men were seated on a
form, and behind each individual a man of peculiar appearance stood,
whom Mr. Hartley told me in a whisper, belonged to a celebrated
community long since extinct--Bow Street runners. On the persons who
occupied the bench the gaze of all within the room was concentrated, and
I examined them, from right to left, attentively.

The first was genteelly dressed, and his general appearance was superior
to that of his companions. His exterior exhibited tokens of vulgar
opulence; and watch, and brooch, and ring, all valuable, told that had
he been criminal, the plea of poverty could not be used in extenuation.

Beside him a man was seated, whose dress was shabby and general
appearance disgusting. His head was swathed in a bloody handkerchief;
and it was announced that, in a murderous affray on the preceding night,
his jaw-bone had been severely fractured.

The third was a blackguard of ordinary stamp; but the fourth and fifth,
Mark Antony and his companion at once recognised as old acquaintances.

“By the hole in my coat!” said the ratcatcher, in a whisper, “I would
swear to that dacent couple in a thousand. That _critch_ * without any
carcase, good nor bad, and the dark-muzzled scoundrel beside him--more
betoken, I think it was himself, the murderin’ thief, that giv me the
black eye.”

     * Anglice--a hunchback.

I looked at the scoundrels, with whose appearances the reader is already
familiar. Gracious God! was I so nearly hurried from existence by
the bludgeon of that truculent-looking Jew, or the knife of that
contemptible hunchback? But my thoughts were speedily turned into
another channel. The coroner took his place; the jury were empannelled;
and the inquest formally commenced.

[Illustration: 0249]

It would be unnecessary to trespass upon the reader’s patience, and
narrate in detail every particular attendant on a mercenary murder. The
money intended to procure my death, by a singular accident, caused
the assassination of the guilty wretch who had been the hired agent to
effect it. In the remote place, and at the untimely hour when Sloman
met a doom he merited too well, it was supposed that the foul deed would
have been effected in full security. Guilt plots cunningly, but a higher
influence mars the best-laid schemes. An outcast, without a roof to
cover her, had crept for shelter into a dilapidated building, and,
unseen and undiscovered, overheard the murderers arrange their plans.
She saw them waylay the devoted wretch, knock him on the head, and
afterwards, by the light of a dark-lantern, plunder the dead body.
When they retired, she followed unperceived, and traced them into the
dwelling of their employer. She acquainted the Bow Street myrmidons of
the transaction; led them first, to the place where the murdered man was
found, and afterwards, to the house where she knew the ruffians had been
harboured.

It is a singular fact, that the most cautious villains rarely escape
surprise. The hunchback, excited by the adventures of that busy night,
had drunk more deeply than was his custom. His weakly constitution
soon owned the effect of liquor; and, in his confusion, he left the
street-door open, although, in drunken wisdom, he fancied that he had
effectually secured it. By that neglect, the officers obtained an easy
entrance--and the murderers were seized “red-handed,” and in the very
act of dividing the plunder of their late employer. The facts were
already strong against the whole of the accused; but the hunchback’s
confession rendered the guilt of his confederates past a doubt. He
became king’s evidence; and the wounded bravo, whose fractured jaw had
prevented him from sharing in the murder, corroborated the testimony of
the thing of legs and arms. Mr. Brown, and “the ruffians twain,” whom he
had employed to cause a vacancy in the twenty ------th, by ridding
the world of me, were fully committed--as I heard afterwards on the
Peninsula, in course of law, were tried, found guilty, and suffered a
felon death.

We watched the proceedings at the inquest, which occupied several hours,
with an interest that can be readily imagined.

Although the perpetration of a greater crime had thrown the attempt upon
my life into the background, and steps were no longer required, either
to secure my safety or bring to punishment those who had endangered it,
still the cause of the assault upon me was so incomprehensible, that
both my uncle and myself were anxious to trace the conspiracy to its
source. Nothing during the inquiry transpired that in any way appeared
to be connected with me; and, faithless to her promise, the gipsy had
not attended. Although the room was crowded by a mob of the curious
of either sex, had she been in the throng, from the singularity of her
costume I should have easily recognised my mysterious acquaintance.
The proceedings having ended, the jury were discharged, the prisoners
removed, and the crowd dispersed rapidly.

“Come, Hector,” said Mr. Hartley, “the lady of the bridge, like others
of her sex, is not always to be depended on. Where can that mysterious
gentlewoman be?”

“At your elbow,” responded a voice.

We started, and looked round. A woman, respectably attired, but whose
features were partially hidden by a close bonnet that seemed formed to
conceal the face, was standing immediately beside us. Could this be that
wild wanderer who had accosted me in the park, and met me on the bridge
when all but the outcasts of society were at home? I had no time left
for closer examination--she tapped me gently on the shoulder--and, in a
low voice, desiring me to follow, she mingled in the crowd. Mr. Hartley
and I quietly obeyed the signal; while Mark Antony and the ratcatcher
joined the rabble in the street, who were waiting to offer some
unenviable tokens of the estimation in which Mr. Brown and his
associates were holden, before they took a final departure for durance
vile.

We kept the gipsy well in sight, and observed her turning into another
public-house at no great distance from the Green Man. We entered it,
and were conducted by the barmaid to a back apartment, here we found the
fair one seated.

The latter term is not used unadvisedly; for a finer woman, of a certain
age, could not have been found in the metropolis. Nothing of her former
wild and sybil-looking air remained--the eye had lost its keen and
searching glance--the voice was softened--the very manner seemed altered
with the dress; and when she laid aside her bonnet, Mr. Hartley and I
freely admitted that the face disclosed to us had once been positively
beautiful. When the door was shut, she turned her dark intelligent eyes
on mine, and regarded me in silence for a minute.

“Yes!” she said; “how striking is the likeness between the son and sire!
and what painful recollections does that singular resemblance bring
back! ay, though twenty long years of exile have passed away! But no
more of this. Mr. O’Halloran, you see before you one who can hardly
say whether she should love or hate the name. Time chills the deadliest
enmities; and even jealousy and blighted hopes will own its soothing
influence; and I, who should look upon you as an enemy, felt in your
recent hour of trial all the agonizing uncertainty a mother only knows,
when the child of her first affections is exposed to peril. With my
early story, and wayward fate, it would be idle to detain you. None
have passed through greater vicissitudes of fortune; none have sinned or
suffered more than Mary Halligan!”

I started. “That name’s familiar!--Were you the peasant girl--”

“Through whose mistake Knockloftie, and all within its walls, were saved
from violence and murder; I am that person. Ay, fallen, as I may now
appear, I was innocent, admired, wooed, won, and deserted! Pshaw!--‘tis
but a common tale in woman’s history! No matter--‘tis past--it seems a
dream; but, O God, it is a fearful one! I have not, however, come
here to speak about myself. I come to tender my poor services to the
child--for, from the bottom of the heart of her he wronged, the
father is forgiven! Wild as my career has been, used as I have been to
startling occurrences, still, the events of the last few days appear
to me rather the coinage of a distempered brain than actual realities.
Never did Heaven’s anger fall so suddenly and severely on the guilty;
and never was the innocent so miraculously preserved. Strange, that the
same day on which a life commenced, should have been twice chosen to end
it by secret violence!--and stranger yet, that the same hand, which
in infancy designed to crush you in the cradle, in the very hour of
manhood, but for Heaven’s mercy, would have consigned you to a bloody
grave!”

“Who was the intended murderer?” we both eagerly demanded.

“He was one whose name is perfectly familiar to you. Did you ever hear
the colonel speak of a person named Hacket?”

“A hundred times. He was the villain that would have betrayed the old
castle and its inmates to a band of murderers. They assailed it on the
first anniversary of my birth-night, and were bloodily repulsed. I
often have heard my father execrate that scoundrel’s treachery. Another
perished by his hand--”

“Stop! name him not. There were in the world two beings whom I regarded
with divided love. One perished. Would that it had been by any other
hand. I have forgotten--no, that were impossible--but I strive to banish
from memory all that occurred upon that fatal night.”

“Then Haeket was the person who devised and attempted my murder?” I
exclaimed.

“No--another sought your life. He was but the agent of that person.”

“By whom, then, was the wretch employed?”

“Of that I am utterly uninformed; and, strange as it may appear, Hacket
was left in equal ignorance. If any knew the secret, it was the murdered
man--and with him it rests. Have _you_ no suspicions? Have you crossed
the path of love, or barred the road to wealth? Are there any whose
interests you have thwarted? Are you an object of hatred or of fear?”

I shook my head; but Mr. Hartley replied to the inquiry.

“There are, Alary--and more than one, the dearest objects of whose
hearts this youth will one day overturn, as the child throws down the
card edifice in a moment, which has cost him a world of pains to build.”

“Look _there_, Hector O’Halloran! _There_ will your secret enemy be
found.”

“Right, by heaven! You are on the sure track, my friend,” returned my
uncle. “Where will deadlier feeling harbour than in the bosom of a monk,
thwart but his ambition? or in that of a sordid scoundrel, who trembles
for wealth acquired by knavery? Were you acquainted with recent
occurrences in which our young friend has been connected, my life upon
it, your conviction would be confirmed as to the quarter from which the
danger came.”

“And am I not worthy of that confidence?” inquired the gipsy, in a tone
that showed herself offended.

“Undoubtedly,” returned Mr. Hartley. “One day more, and I will give you
ample proof of the dependence I place in your fidelity and discretion.
That day I would devote to my young friend. It is the last he will pass
in England for a time.”

“What! is he then leaving England?”

“He is ordered to the Peninsula, and sails on Thursday evening.”

“Heaven send him better luck than his father! God knows whether you
and I shall ever meet again!” she said, addressing me. “May the best
fortunes of a soldier be yours! Farewell! I saw your first and your
twentieth, and may your next be a happier anniversary than either!”

She wrung my hand. I left the room, but Mr. Hartley remained, and a
quarter of an hour passed before he joined me in the street. We walked
to the hotel, and there the fosterer and his companion were in waiting.

“Mark, I am ordered off. What can I do for you before I leave England?”
 I said, addressing the former.

Mr. O’Toole merely answered with a sigh “hot as a furnace.”

“Where shall I find you on my return? and how will you dispose of
yourself in the mean time?”

“Dispose of myself?” returned the fosterer, like an echo. “Why, am I not
also, ready for the Peninsula: Arrah! what would they say at Killucan,
if you went to the wars, Master Hector, and I remained at home?
_Mona-sin-dioul_, if I went back, the very dogs would not acknowledge
me. But, love apart, where can I put in a happier twelvemonth? Have I
not listened, till my heart beat again, to the old colonel’s talking
to the priest about the time when he stormed that village in the Low
Countries where he lost his arm. Often have I fancied that I saw him
bursting through the streets at the head of his noble grenadiers,
scattering the French column like a flock of sheep, while the shout of
‘Liberty’ was answered by a thundering ‘_Faugh a ballagh!_’ It would be
cruel, Hector, to leave me behind you--I will be no burden to you.”

He placed a little packet in my hand; and turning to the window, the
poor fosterer sentimentalized in secret, while I perused a letter he had
received after we had separated at the inquest. With the course of Mark
Antony’s love adventures, that gentle affair with Miss Biddy O’Dwyer
excepted, I was altogether ignorant--and I felt interest in the
fosterer’s epistle. I read it accordingly; and, could woman rise in the
estimation of one who loved as I did, that artless letter would have
raised her.

“You have followed me to England. In that you have violated our
agreement; but my heart offers a ready apology for the offence.
I told you that twelve months must pass before we met again; and in that
resolution I am confirmed. My brother has wildly ventured to the coast
of Spain, on secret service connected with some of the guerilla chiefs
in Arragon; and, in the mean time, I am resident in the family of the
village clergyman. Mark, I am happy, because I am once more respectable.
Let me remain until the year elapses under this good man’s dwelling--and
then that wanderer whom you protected in her hour of destitution, will
prove to you that she has not forgotten her deliverer.

“Do you remember, dear Mark, that when you rescued me from that villain
Jew, you flung your purse into my lap, and pressed me to accept it? If
that circumstance has eseaped your memory, it lives, and will ever live,
in mine. Use prudently the small sum enclosed; and when another supply
is needed, remember that the desolate female whom you generously
saved from more than death, has now the means, and wish to prove her
gratitude.”

The epistle contained sincere expressions of affection, and was
subscribed “Julia.”

“Why, Mark, what the deuce is all this about? and who is this lady, who
forks out her fifty pounds, and subscribes herself “most affectionately
yours?”

“I’ll tell you again, Master Hector. But won’t you let me go with you?”

“Faith, my dear Mark, I never intended that you should remain behind.
Have we not been to each other as flint to steel from child-hood? Where
should I now be but for your rescue? When boys, our joys and sorrows
were the same; and now, as men, Mark, upwards or downwards, our fortunes
shall run together.”

“I thought you wouldn’t leave me,” said the fosterer.

“And pray,” inquired the ratcatcher, “what the divil is to become of
me? You can volunteer, Mark, but I am too old; and were I younger, I
wouldn’t much like to ‘list; for I fancy that the guerilla line would
be more in my way of business. But let us all go together. Blessings on
that outspoken elderly gentleman they call Mr. Hartley! He’s short in
the grain as eat’s hair, but the heart and purse are open. Here I am,
new rigged from head to foot--ay, and rich as a Jew--bad luck to the
whole community of them, root and branch!” and the captain put his
finger to the eye which had been damaged in the last night’s contest.
“It was that long-whiskered ruffin that giv me this token of regard.
Will, all’s settled, and we go together, any how.”

It would have been useless to offer any objection to the determination
of the gallant captain; and, after a consultation with my unele, it was
soon agreed that my fosterer should join one of the regiments of the
brigade I was attached to, as a volunteer, and the ratcatcher enact
_valet de chambre_ during my absence.

Time pressed. Mr. O’Toole gratefully acknowledged, but returned the
fifty pounds sent him by his mistress; swore fidelity and everlasting
love anew; and by the munificence of Mr. Hartley, we all--to wit, the
ratcatcher, the fosterer, and myself--were amply provided with that
indispensable requisite for opening a campaign, properly designated “the
sinews of war.” My future companions took their departure for the Seven
Dials, to bid their loving countrymen, there dwelling, an affectionate
farewell. An Irish parting is always accompanied by a heavy drink, as
sorrow is proverbially dry. No doubt the symposium, like every other
pleasant carouse, ended in a general engagement; for when the twain
honoured me with a visit next morning, I remarked that the gallant
captain had been accommodated with a second black eye, probably
conferred upon him as a keepsake by one his agreeable companions.



CHAPTER XXIV.



               _Blanch_. Now shall I see thy love; what motive may

               Be stronger with thee than the name of wife?


               _Const_. That which upholdeth him that thee upholds,

                        His honour!”


                        ------“I know thee well;

               _But in thy fortunes_ am unlearn’d and strange.”

                        Shakspeare.

I never sate out a more melancholy dinner than that with Mr. Hartley and
his daughter on the last evening of my sojourn in the metropolis. Mine
honoured uncle was gloomy and abstracted. Isidora looked the very
image of despair; and I felt any thing but martial satisfaction at the
immediate certainty of having an early opportunity afforded of “fleshing
my maiden sword.” Like the courage of Bob Acres, my military ardour was
hourly evaporating from my finger-ends. A month since, the prospect of
being shot at was a matter of indifference; but in that brief space
my feelings had undergone a marvellous change. From childhood, I had
listened to my father’s stories as he “told how fields were won,” and
caught the enthusiasm of a man, every inch a soldier. But then I knew
not what it was to love--I had not felt the witchery that attends a
first attachment--the confession of mutual passion as yet had not fallen
my ear, soft as angels’ whispers to sleeping infancy. I had loved, and
sued, and was accepted; and now this sweetest dream of life was to be
broken; and from one dearer than all that earth contained, I was to be
separated for a long period--perhaps for ever! I came rapidly to the
conclusion, that glory was well enough in its way; but still it was an
awkward business to have to seek it at the other side of the Pyrenees;
and, had it pleased Heaven to bring about a general pacification, I
think that 1 would have borne the disappointment like a philosopher.

I took no formal leave of my gentle mistress, for that unnecessary
infliction of pain Mr. Hartley very properly inhibited. Our parting, as
she left the drawing-room for the night, was probably warmer than was
customary. She little imagined that I was to start at cock-crow for
embarkation; and, in the expectation of meeting me at breakfast, she
sought her apartment to court the soft influence of the drowsy god in
vain.

“Hector,” said Mr. Hartley, as he addressed me, “I regret that you are
at this moment obliged to leave me; for something tells me that a crisis
in our mutual fortunes is approaching. Were it any thing but the call
of honour that takes you from England, I would at once ask you to forego
it.”

“Believe me, my dear sir, never did a more unwelcome order come than
that which Ï am about to obey! Could I but honourably decline it,”---

“Oh, no--that were impossible! Wellington has assumed the offensive, and
every eye in Britain will watch the progress of his arms. A country’s
call is sacred, and it must be obeyed. God knows, in periling your
safety, and exposing you to the common chances of war, I make a
sacrifice that few could estimate. There is one tie that binds me
alone to life; and, save for that alone, the sooner a spirit, soured by
misfortunes, and wearied of a world it despises and detests, were freed
from this ‘mortal coil,’ the better. But were I in the grave, who would
watch over the happiness of that being whom I idolize?--To one only
would I entrust that holy charge. Need I name him?--Yourself!”

I gratefully thanked my uncle for the~proof of confidence he had given,
and he thus proceeded:

“As my life and actions must appear to you involved in mystery and
concealment, it will not surprise you much when I tell you, that for
years I have been intimately informed of every occurrence that happened
in your father’s house. A stern necessity of secrecy obliged me to
remain unknown and unsuspected. Had I been where I was supposed to be
for twenty years--in the grave--I could not have been more removed from
the knowledge of the world than I have been; and the reason I selected
that wild and retired abode where you first found us, was to insure the
incognito, which your interests and Isidora’s demanded; for, strange as
it may appear, from earliest infancy, you were destined for each other.”

“You really astonish me, sir!”

“When you hear my story that surprise will cease. With my past life none
were even partially acquainted but a beloved child and faithful servant.
You shall know more of that dark and painful history than they ever did;
and when you have heard all that I have suffered and endured, then say
whether, but for one endearing tie, a life, wretched and valueless as
mine, would have been worth retaining for an hour. Fill, Hector--fill
freely--many a day may pass before you and I shall meet again!”

I obeyed him. Rising from the table, he took a few turns across the
apartment; it seemed an exertion to regain composure; it was successful.
He resumed his seat, emptied his glass to the bottom, and thus
commenced, what was to me a narrative of perilous adventure, but
all-engrossing interest.


MY UNCLE’S STORY

The career of vice is generally a simple history; a progressive advance
from bad to worse, as the feelings deaden and the conscience, becomes
seared and callous, by degrees. My earlier follies might have been
easily arrested by parental intervention, but Mr. Clifford was reserved
and proud; his displeasure was evinced by frigid mannerism, and his
reproofs conveyed in the cold terms of general disapprobation. He never
reasoned to the understanding--never appealed to the heart. I listened
to him as I would to a lecture; and I came away without the slightest
impression having been made upon an ardent disposition, which under
better management might have been awakened and reclaimed.

My ruin at last was consummated. I was discarded by my father; avoided
by the good--deserted by the bad--and, finally, driven from the land,
dishonoured and disgraced, where, by inheritance and birth, I should
have held a proud position.

Months had passed since I had been alienated from an angry father. The
means by which I had managed, for a time, to obtain the sums of money
my extravagance demanded, had been overtaxed, and consequently, my
resources were completely exhausted. The woman who lured me on to crime
and ruin had heartlessly abandoned me, and those who had plundered me of
hundreds refused me a shilling to buy bread! For a whole day I had not
tasted food, and for two nights no roof had sheltered me--and without
any definite object in my wanderings, I had turned my steps to the home
from which I had been long since rejected. I was ashamed to let any who
had known me in the palmy days of youth witness the degradation that
crime had caused; and, after night-fall, avoiding the village, I stole
unperceived through a broken paling, and, like a thief and not the heir,
entered the grounds of Clifford Hall.

William Morley had been in boyhood my favourite companion. Although his
birth was menial, I treated him, from regard, rather like an equal than
an inferior. My purse was ever open to his wants; and my attachment
gradually obtained for him the notice of my father. Step by step, he
rose in Mr. Clifford’s confidence, until he gained an influence over his
easy master that none besides possessed. I fancied him a friend; and I
had every reason to suppose him one, for his professions of regard
were warm, and his assurances of gratitude unbounded. When the kindly
relations between my parent and myself were first disturbed, I trusted
to Morley’s good offices to extenuate my offendings, and soften down the
displeasure of an angry father. He promised to exert his influence to
the uttermost. I believed him; followed his advice; and acted as he
counselled. Alas! I little dreamed that Morley was all the while a
deadly enemy, and that he was sapping to the foundation any slight
remains of parental affection, and alienating the father from the
child. Why should he thus play me false? and wherefore wear the mask of
friendship, and hate me in his heart? Unconsciously, I had provoked his
deadliest animosity by crossing his path in love.

Morley was in heart a libertine; but he had sufficient cunning to
conceal it from the world. A village beauty had been the object of his
pursuit for months; and fascinated by her superior attractions, his
secret attentions were incessant, and there was no reason to doubt but
they would ultimately be rewarded by success. I returned, after a long
absence, to the Hall. I heard of Mary Davis. A glowing description of
her charms was given me. I saw her--report had only done common justice
to her beauty--and I became her slave. My attentions flattered her
pride--and the heir of Clifford Hall supplanted the son of a deceased
menial. In a word, the weak girl eloped with me--deserted her peaceful
home for a brief career of splendid profligacy; broke her poor mother’s
heart; drew down on me the lasting displeasure of my father; and
rendered Morley my enemy for life. But of the consequence of my
misconduct, 1 remained as yet in ignorance.

To obtain his revenge, Morley worked secretly and steadily. Every act of
imprudence was artfully communicated to my father; while the treacherous
scoundrel led his confiding master to believe that he was kindly, but
unsuccessfully, endeavouring to hide from him the criminal proceedings
of his child. My slightest failings, blazoned by false colouring,
appeared enormities. My letters in explanation were suppressed; the
breach between us became wider every day; Morley’s demoniac ingenuity at
last was crowned with full success; I was discarded--looked upon as one
dead--consigned to poverty and degradation--and became a beggar and an
outcast.

What was the villain’s triumph, when, stealing through the shrubberies,
I sought the well-remembered window of his apartment! Lights were
burning, and there sat Morley. He had numerous papers and accounts
before him; bank-notes and gold were spread over the table carelessly;
and a bottle of wine was opened, from which, as I peeped in, he
liberally helped himself. Heavens! how low had I fallen!--how abject did
I feel myself! With me, indeed, the cup of misery was at the overflow. I
dreaded to knock! I--the born-heir of all around, fearful to disturb the
son of my father’s menial! At last I mustered sufficient resolution to
tap gently on the casement. The steward expected a different visitor.
He seized his hat, hurried from the room, locked the door carefully, let
himself out by a private entrance, of which he kept a key, and in
another minute approached the evergreens to which I had retreated, and
softly pronounced a woman’s name.

“Morley!” I timidly replied.

“Ha!--a man’s voice!--Who’s there?” he demanded.

“An unfortunate--your old playfellow--he who once was your master’s
son!” I answered.

“Heavens!” he exclaimed. “Is it possible! And have you _dared_ to
venture hither?”

“I once thought,” I replied dejectedly, “that none would question my
right of entrance to this domain, which by birth and descent is, or
should be, mine. I am indeed fallen!”

“What do ye want?” he demanded, as I fancied, in a haughty tone. “Why
have you disturbed me at this unseasonable hour?”

“Dire necessity obliged me to come here. I am perishing; food has not
crossed my lips since yesterday. I am without a home,--the humblest
shelter would be acceptable.”

“I cannot offer you one. Were it known that I spoke to you, or gave you
the slightest assistance, your father would discharge me.”

“Is his anger, then, so unmitigable?” I asked in a desponding voice. “It
is beyond the power of being appeased. Advisedly, he would not breathe
the same atmosphere that you did; and the most welcome tidings he could
receive, would be those that assured him that you were no more return ed
the steward.

“I am starving!--pennyless! By Heaven, I will crawl into these
evergreens, and die in sight of that mansion which once was destined to
be mine.”

Morley started at the declaration. “Pshaw!” said he, with an appearance
of more feeling than before; “this is mere folly! Let me see--I dare not
afford aught but temporary relief; and in doing so I risk the loss of
Mr. Clifford’s favour, were the thing discovered. Stay; I will bring you
some refreshment, and see whether I cannot do something to save you from
actual starvation afterwards he then returned to the house, and in a few
minutes reappeared with the remnant of the supper he had eaten, and a
portion of the wine I noticed on the table. I ate ravenously--drank to
the bottom of the flask--and then listened to the false scoundrel as he
thus continued:--

“I have a relation in London, who perhaps might enable you to leave
the country for a season. It is possible that time might soften your
father’s animosity, were you removed beyond his notice; and the violence
of his resentment might happily cool down. Here. It is a guinea, and
some silver; ’twill carry you to London; and when you get to town,
inquire at the Post Office, and you will find an anonymous letter
to give you future directions how to act. To save myself from ruin,
requires the greatest caution on my part. Push forward to the next
village on the London road; and when you have reached the metropolis
to-morrow, you will be fully instructed what to do. For Heaven’s sake,
stay not another moment!--Steal secretly from the park, as you entered
it; and all I can do for you shall be done.” He hastily left me, as if
in fear; I heard him bar the private entrance, and observed him
close the shutters of his chamber, while I, in a state of humiliation
bordering on insensibility, obeyed the order, and, like a felon, stole
out of that domain where, two years previously, my will was absolute.

I slept at a mean public-house; but what a luxury was a bed to me!
and yet the lowliest servant on my father’s establishment would have
rejected what his fallen child gratefully received!

Next morning I put myself on the roof of a coach which in other days
I had frequently driven. Neither guard nor coachman remembered me. Of
course, the vulgar scoundrels had heard of my downfall. Well, they only
imitated men of better birth! They forgot me when it was convenient.

I entered London. It was the anniversary of a victory^ and I remembered
it well. Two years before, by a singular coincidence, I had driven in
with my own four-in-hand--and as the slang went then, it was “the best
appointed drag in England.” Mary Davis was on the box. Ah, two years
had made a difference! I was a pauper on a stagecoach--Mary Davis,
a wanderer on the streets! A ice, with her, poor girl, commenced
in luxury, but to both it brought what it generally does--ruin and
disgrace!

The paltry supply that Morley had given was half consumed by my journey;
and I sought one of the humblest hostleries which London, in its
infinity of accommodation, presents. The extent of my degradation
had nearly stupified me; but next morning I went to the Postoffice
to inquire for the promised communication, scarcely caring whether
it arrived or not. The steward, however, had been punctual; and the
expected letter was delivered. It was brief--written in a disguised
hand--and merely desired me to call at some rascally place in one of the
worst localities of the oldest portion of the city.

I proceeded to find out the street, and with some difficulty succeeded.
The person I inquired for was from home, but I was directed to a low
public-house in the neighbourhood, and there I found him in company
with several blackguard-looking personages. The room reeked with tobacco
smoke; the table was splashed over with spilt liquors; the ceiling
in many places had fallen in; and the contrivances to stop the broken
casement, and exclude the air, were extraordinary. The man I sought
took me to an inner closet, called for a stoup of gin, shut the door
carefully, and then proceeded to business.

“You are the gentleman Mr. M. has recommended to me?’’ said the
stranger.

“I am that unfortunate person.”

“And you want to leave the country for a while? Well, there’s no great
difficulty in doing that, if a person was not very particular about the
way he travelled. It’s only getting lagged, you know.’

“_Lagged!_ I don’t understand you.”

“Don’t ye?” replied my new acquaintance. “Why I’m certain I speak plain
English. I mean, if you did not mind transportation, why you could
travel at the king’s expense. But I see you’re raw. Well, I’ll try how
far I can oblige the gentleman who takes an interest about ye. Let me
see--I have some appointments to keep which will detain me all morning;
but meet me at eight this evening in the Borough,” and on the back of an
old tavern bill he scrawled, in villanous characters, the place and hour
of meeting; told me to be punctual; drank the gin; desired me to pay
for it; and conducting me to the door, left me to wear the wretched day
through in any way I pleased.

If I might form any opinion from personal appearance, Morley’s friend
was every thing but respectable. ‘Well, he was the fitter acquaintance
for an outcast like me. I had none better left; and at the appointed
time I crossed over London Bridge, to seek the place where the interview
with the stranger was to take place.

The house was found. I asked for Mr. Pilch, and was conducted into a
private room. He was seated in the corner, with several companions round
the table. They were gambling when I entered; but they put away the
greasy cards, and then one by one dropped out, leaving Morley’s friend
and me together.

“I think I have arranged this matter to your satisfaction,” said he,
“and secured a comfortable passage for you to the States. The vessel
will sail the beginning of next week, and you will have no time to lose
in getting your outfit ready. I have been commissioned by a friend, who
shall be nameless, but who you may possibly make a shrewd guess at, to
give you what money you may require and, taking out a pocket-book, he
handed me several bank notes. You will excuse the liberty I take, in
hinting that this money is intended to cover the necessary expenses
attendant on a long voyage, and not to be idly wasted; and therefore
I recommend you to secure it well, and use it prudently. What!” he
exclaimed, as he perceived me about to put the notes into an outer
pocket of my coat; “do you carry money so loosely on your person?--in
London too, where you cannot enter a tavern or cross a street without
encountering a plunderer? Come, my young friend, take a lesson from
an old and leary cove like me. Keep but one flimsey out for present
purposes, and secure the rest, as I do, in the neckcloth.”

He put his hand across the table and undid my handkerchief, folded
the bank notes carefully within it, and then returned it to me. One
five-pound note he desired me to put into my purse. My purse!--many a
day had passed since I had needed such a conveniency.

I pocketed the money, and the stranger took his leave, appointing,
however, another meeting at the same hour and place tomorrow.

I remained after he was gone musing before the fire. I was astonished
at Morley’s unexpected generosity, and I secretly censured myself for
having doubted the attachment of my old playfellow and friend. His
bearing towards me on the night of my stolen visit to Clifford Hall
was now perfectly accounted for. I thought it, at the moment, cold and
heartless. I now perceived that it arose from a caution imposed by
stern necessity; and the secrecy observed in the manner in which he
had conveyed the liberal supply, now confirmed it. Even to the agent he
employed I had been guilty of injustice. It is true, the man was neither
prepossessing in appearance, nor polished in address; but the candid
manner in which he exhorted me to be prudent, and the care with which he
secured my money against accident, all proved a friendly interest in
my welfare; and when I left the public-house, I admitted that I had
slandered mankind, in imagining that pity for misfortune was banished
from human hearts.

As I quitted the Coach and Horses, I remarked a man drawn up in a corner
of the gateway, and standing in a position that intimated he wished to
escape my notice. He wore a white hat, and, from rather a remarkable
coat, I easily recognised him to be one of the men I had disturbed at
play, when I entered the back room in search of Mr. Pilch. Well, he
might have some private reasons for concealment; and it was no atfair in
which I had any interest. I strolled onwards towards London Bridge, and
happening to pass the shop of an out-litter, I stepped in to make some
purchases for my voyage. The selection of different articles delayed me
half an hour. Once I observed the man with the white hat pass the door;
and again, I detected him peeping through the window. He was probably
an idler; and I continued to purchase what I wanted in the shop. The
articles were tied up; the account written and presented; I handed the
shopman a five-pound note; he desired me to endorse it. I took the pen,
and wrote a fictitious name, as I had determined to drop that on which
I had brought so much obloquy and disgrace already. The man handed some
change in silver, and I took up the parcel, and left the shop.

I had nearly reached the extremity of the bridge when I heard footsteps
behind, and perceived several men running in the direction in which I
was walking. They came up rapidly; and, in another minute, I was
seized, pushed into a shop, and charged with felony. My identity was
certain--the parcel confirmed it; and, to my horror, I heard the captors
accuse me of passing a forged note. The charge astounded me; I could not
speak, and my silence was mistaken for a tacit acknowledgment of guilt.

I turned my eyes in mute despair at the men who surrounded me. By
Heaven! one of them was the white-hatted stranger, who had been playing
at cards with Mr. Pilch! It was providential, he could corroborate the
statement I commenced. He had seen me--was a friend of Mr. Pilch--his
evidence would be invaluable. I told the manner in which the money was
obtained. My statement elicited a laugh of derision from the hearers.
I appealed to the gentleman in the white hat, but the gentleman in the
white hat disclaimed all knowledge of me, and goodnaturedly added,
that he fancied he had seen me once before, at a fair he mentioned, in
company with a party of the swell mob. My pockets were searched. Nothing
to criminate me further was found. I casually looked round, and
saw “White-hat” wink at-an officer, and point significantly to my
handkerchief. It was instantly loosed and opened. My name was worked
upon it in the dark hair of my faithless mistress; and five other notes
were found; they were examined--and all of them pronounced forgeries!

For a minute, I felt as if my heart had ceased its pulsations, but,
gradually, I became conscious of the position in which I was placed.
None could doubt my guilt. Could any deny that I was a felon? I, with
forced notes concealed upon my person, of which I had uttered one
already under a fictitious name. The observations of the crowd
occasionally reached me. There was no difference of opinion as to my
destiny--my career would close upon the scaffold!

Oh Heaven! if thoughtless youth could only fancy the agony of soul I
felt, how many would be deterred from crime, and saved from ruin! To
die!--to perish in the very opening of my manhood! And how die? Like
a dog--stared at by a gaping crowd--pitied by some--laughed at by
others--choked--hanged!

“Never, by Heavens!” I muttered to myself,--“Never shall a Clifford,
no matter how fallen, die such a felon-death! The grave is open for me;
what matters it whether it hide me now, or in a brief space after? Come,
man thyself, Edward Clifford, for a last effort--and die!”

Nothing remained but to convey me before a magistrate for committal.

The crowd retired; the officers took me away in custody. My passive
conduct throughout, led them to set me down a heartless wretch, with
whom hope was at an end; and mine seemed

                   “The composure of settled despair,”

which enables the criminal to meet his doom in sullen apathy. How little
they suspected the dark thoughts which then occupied my mind, or the
deadly purpose which I meditated!

An old watchman held my collar in his feeble grasp, and two or three
others surrounded me. The mob kept generally in advance of us, to enable
them to frequently indulge their curiosity with a view of the criminal.
Before we had moved a dozen paces, I made a sudden spring, shook off
the man who held me, overturned another in my rear, and started off, at
headlong speed, to gain the bridge which was immediately contiguous.

A wild outcry announced my escape; an instant pursuit succeeded. The
mob were the only persons I had to fear; for the old men who watched the
city then, wrapped in their great coats, and encumbered with poles and
lanterns, were incapable of rapid movements. Several persons, however,
kept me well in sight; they little knew that death, and not deliverance,
was what I aimed at; and they raised a cry to warn the passengers who
were approaching in the opposite direction. I saw several men draw
themselves across the bridge to bar my farther progress. I stopped,
leaped upon the balustrade--“Seize him!” cried a dozen voices--they were
the last words I heard--I muttered one brief adjuration to Heaven to
pardon the act I was about to commit, closed my eyes, sprang from the
battlement, and the waters closed over me!

Mr. Clifford paused. His usual stern composure was unequal to conquer
the agitation which the terrible recollections of early imprudence
had brought back. A short silence was unbroken, when suddenly the door
unclosed, and the dark functionary presented himself, and handed me
a letter of most unprepossessing appearance. He announced that the
messenger would not leave without an answer--and ill-timed as the
interruption was, my uncle signalled me to break the wafer. I obeyed,
and communicated to him the contents of the following singular
epistle:--

“_For Captain Hectur O’Haleran, esquare, or Mister Hartlay, if he’s
out_.

“Honered Sir,--

“i am sorray too inform ye we are in Trubbel and at Present undir the
Skrew in the Watehouse they call Watlin Street, and all Contrarey to
sense and Justis. We went into a dacint-lookin’ house, with a Woman
without a head for the sign of it, and cald for half a pint, and sat
down fair and asey at the fire, when in coms three Blakgards. Immadately
they begins to rig us. ‘Morra, Pat,’ says one of them. ‘Devil a worse
guess ye iver med, young man,’ says I. ‘Arrah!’ says he, ‘Does ye’r
mother know your out?’ ‘What the blazes have ye to say to my mother?’
says I. ‘What a hole you could make in a saucepan of patatays the night
she was married!’ says he; and then he goes on aggravatin’ us, and
abusin’ the old country, swarin’ Saint Patrick wasn’t a reglar saint at
all, and not fit to powder Saint Gorge’s wig, af he wore one. ‘Oh! by
the groves of Blarney,’ says Mr. O’Toole, ‘the divil wouldn’t stand this
i’ so he offs wid the coat, and offered to box the biggest of the lot
for thirty shilhns. “Well, they agrees to it at wonse, and Mark and the
big’un set-to. Sorra handier boy iver it was my luck to meet with! he
made nothin’ of the chap--a couple of rounds settled his hash, and
he gives in. “Well, what does they do? insted of comin’ down with the
battel money, they charges us on the watch, and we were bunddled off
here, as if we were a pair of Pickpockets. We sends off to the Dials to
say we were in trubbel, and before half an hour, there was the full of
the street of dacent acquaintances. Some wanted to give bail, others
offered to pull down the watchouse; and an honest man, whose father came
from Ballyhawnis, went off to knock up the Priest, and get him to write
us a Carakter. The divil a one of the bailsmen the constable would touch
with the tongs; and so here we remain, snug and warm in the Black hole,
unless your honir will bee plased to get us off.

               “I Remain, till Death, your Obediant Servint,

                        “James McGrale.”

“Poscrip.--There’s a Poor woman here, the lord Pity her, callid Finigen.
I forget her own name, but she has a Brother that lives under magor
Blake, and her unkel was parish priest of Carintubber, a Man grately
respected. I often heerd my father spake about him--as he cured the
Failin’ siknis with a charm, and plaid butifully on the Fiddel. Well,
she’s in quod, the crater, for just Nothing at all. She had words with
a vagabone that lives in the back Attick, and he insinevated, in the
Presens of the hole lodgers, that she wasn’t aney better than she ought
to be. ‘Misses Finigen,’ says he, ‘might I fatague ye for a sqint
at ye’r Marrige lines, if ye happen to have sich an article in ye’r
pocket,’ which ye know was as much as sayin’, the Divil a certifikit she
had at all. The crature couldn’t but resint it, and she took the fire
out of the vagabone’s left eye wid a brass Candelstik she had in her
fist--and that’s all she’s loked up for. Maybe your honir would Include
her in the Bail--the lord sees it would be Charatey.”

“N. B.--I forgot to Say the Blakgards offered to make it up for
ten shillins, half in drink, and half in money--but it’s such an
Impisi-shin, that nather mark or Me would listin to it.”

“P. S.--For the sake of the blessed Mother cum soon, or they’ll have the
Roof off the Watchouse, and then We’ll be Trunsportid for life. The more
I see of this Unsivilized Country, the Better plased I am that we’re
lavin it.

               “No more at Presint from

                   “Yours to Command,

                        J. McGrale.”

“Plase answir by Return of post--I mane by the boy wid the red hair
that carries this. Remembir Mr. O’Toole and me to Mister hartlay and his
Daughtir, onley we don’t know her name. Also to mister domnik, the Black
gentleman, whose as Civil and well manerd as a Christian, for all that
he’s so dusky in the skin.

“J. M.”

“In Heaven’s name,” I exclaimed, when I finished the ratcatcher’s
epistle, “what is to be done with these scoundrels?”

“Perhaps the better course to be pursued would be to leave them where
they are, allow their excellent friends to pull down the watch-house,
and then the Government will provide for them in New Holland. But I
suppose we must interfere for once in their behalf.”

The landlord of the hotel was summoned, and requested to effect the
deliverance of the prisoners, a task that was easily performed. The door
again was shut, and Mr. Clifford resumed his melancholy narrative.



CHAPTER XXV. MY UNCLE’S STORY.



               “The waters heave around me; and on high

               The winds lift up their voices. I depart

               Whither I know not; but the hour’s gone by

          When Albion’s lessening shores could grieve or glad my eye.”

                        Byron.

|I cannot describe the sensations I felt, momentary as they were, while
descending from the balustrade of London Bridge; but from the instant I
struck the surface of the water, all recollection ceases. A considerable
time elapsed before consciousness returned, and when it did, I found
myself in the cabin of a Welsh coasting vessel, with a woman, her
husband, and their son, (the owners and crew of the little schooner,)
chafing my limbs, and using every simple means of resuscitation which
their scanty resources could supply. Nothing could exceed the pleasure
these true Samaritans evinced, when they perceived that their efforts
had proved successful. They had no suspicion that he, the object of
their care, had been hounded like a felon to do the desperate deed he
had attempted; but, from the occasional remarks I overheard, they set me
down as some desponding wretch, who, from very weariness of living,
had rashly ventured on that fearful remedy, hateful alike to God and
man--self-murder.

When perfectly restored, they made a bed for me before the fire,
administered some spirits with caution, left me to my repose, and I sank
into a profound sleep, which continued until morning. When I awoke. I
found that my kind preservers, overnight, had dried my wet clothes; my
breakfast was already prepared--and when I had eaten it, at my request
they rowed me ashore in their small skiff, and landed me at Tower
Stairs, with three shillings in my pocket, and not a friend upon the
earth.

I entered a low tavern--a house of call for seamen--and seated myself in
the most obscure corner of the dark and smoky tap-room. Several men were
round the lire with pipes, and pewter measures, and to the latter they
frequently applied; while others were sleeping on the benches, like men
after a debauch. They were evidently sailors, but they had not the free
and honest look and bearing which generally distinguishes that careless
and warm-hearted class of men. Their dark and weather-beaten faces
were those of men habitually drunken, and indicated service in tropic
climes--while, from their air and manner, you would pronounce them, at
first sight, to be lawless men--bold and reckless ruffians.

“I say, Bob, wasn’t that job last night upon the bridge a funny one?”
 said a swarthy fellow to an equally ill-looking companion.

The latter removed his pipe, knocked the ashes out upon the table,
replenished it from a seal-skin pouch with fresh tobacco, and then
leisurely replied:--

“It was, Jim; I have tipped them leg-bail in my time, but the chap last
night gave them, wliat I calls, river security and he laughed hoarsely
at his own wit.

“Well,” observed the first speaker, “I likes a plucky cove; he wouldn’t
let them have the satisfaction of hanging him; and that jump in the dark
robbed them as planted him, of blood-money--ay, and sarved them right, I
say.”

“You may depend on it, Bob, he was a green’un. No doubt a first offence;
otherwise he would have taken chance of flaws and failures at the Old
Bailey; for it was only scragging after all.”

“Have they found the body yet, I wonder? I’d like to know whether it was
any of our pals, Jim?”

“He’s sure to float the ninth day--he won’t lie longer at the bottom.
They won’t go to the trouble of draggin’ for him, will they, Bob?”

“They’ll drag to little purpose,” I muttered from the corner.

The fellows turned round and looked at me.

“And what is there about that dead-un’s carcass that a creeper should
not grip it? Let me see--how was the tide?--it was Jack water at the
time. I’ll bet a dollar he’s not lower down than Lime-house.”

“I’ll wager twice the sum he’s not half so far,” I answered, with
desperate composure.

“And where do ye say he is?” asked the fellow, with a stare.

“Here!--in this room!--seated on this chair!--and talking to you at this
moment!”

“Well!” exclaimed the sailor, “if that ain’t a rum confession. I never
knew in my born days, a man that passed forged flimsies split upon
himself before.”

“Nor would I, had I done so--I am innocent.”

Both ruffians laughed.

“I said the same thing myself once,” said the darker fellow of the
twain, “and I could not out of twelve men, good and true, get a single
soul to believe the story.”

[Illustration: 0269]

A couple of the sleepers wakened up. One of them stretched himself,
yawned, and inquired, like a person still half asleep, “What’s all that
gammon about innocence, forged notes, and blood-money?”

Why, Captain, this here cove is the chap who jumped off the bridge; and
as he’s innocent, I suppose he’ll go quietly to them he bolted from last
night, and get hanged to prove it.”

“More fool he,” observed the man whom they called captain. “Had I taken
that plan to convince the world of my honesty, I should have been, ten
years ago, dangling among the scare-crows that ornament Dogs’ Island.
Let’s hear your story, youngster; you have told too little, or too
much--enough to hang you twice over--so out with the remainder; we’re
men of honour; though, if we swore it, the world would hardly credit,
it.”

I had no motive to court concealment; to me, life and death were equally
indifferent. The funner portion of my history I kept to myself, but
freely narrated the villanous conspiracy of ------ --------, and his
agents, to fix a charge of felony upon me first, and bring me to an
ignominious end afterwards.

“I never heard of a plant better laid and executed,” said the captain,
as I finished the detail of my last night’s adventures. “Never was man
booked safer for the gallows; you had a close escape. Well, ‘touch and
go’ is good pilotage, they say--I’ll tell you what to do. I sail for the
coast of Guinea this evening; we’re short-handed; it’s a voyage that’s
not much fancied, and I can’t persuade men enough to ship. They give a
cowardly preference to low wages, and no fever; but you have no choice
between that and hemp, you know. If it’s in you, Joe Barton is the man
to make a sailor of you--What say ye?”

“That I embrace your offer cheerfully.”

Mr. Barton extended his hand, and, with the hold of a vice, grasped
mine. Then pulling from his pea-coat pocket a canvass bag filled with
dollars, he counted thirty down, and shoved them across the table.

“There’s two months’ wages in advance. It’s a toss-up that you’re
dead in half the time. No matter; I will run the chance--go with Bob
there--he’ll take you to a slop-seller, who’ll fit you out in no time,
he’ll not refuse to join in a stoup afterward. Don’t object; it may
be the last either of you will take in England. Be on board, drunk or
sober, at eight; and now be off, for I have some matters to attend to.”

I obeyed the mandate of my new commander, purchased some clothing fitted
for the sultry climate I was about to visit, joined the vessel before
the appointed hour, sailed at midnight, and bade a long--I prayed an
eternal--adieu to England.

We reached the Downs, having cleared the river safely; and there, I
might add, that the good fortune of our voyage terminated. Could aught
better be expected? No; the errand and the agents were infamous alike.
We were bound to Africa to trade in human flesh, although, professedly,
we had left England to bring home hard-woods, ivory, and gold-dust.
But no honest trading was intended; we went out regularly prepared
to perpetrate the worst cruelty that savage man can fancy when
he contemplates deeds of crime--prey on the being that wore God’s
image--violate every bond of nature, and sever the ties which common
humanity holds dearest! Speak of the slave-dealer and the highwayman!
Pshaw! compare them not.

When I said, that after we lost sight of the shores of England, our
fortunes proved indifferent, the statement must be qualified. In
the first object of the voyage we were successful, and carried, in
comparative safety, a full cargo of slaves to their destination;
that is, we managed to land _alive_ two-thirds of the wretches we
had kidnapped. We brought eternal misery with us, and left endless
wretchedness behind. But already the vengeance of God was upon us--fever
accompanied our accursed ship; and, one by one, the villain-crew which
originally left England died off, and greater villains--were that
possible--supplied the places of the departed.

The hour of retribution was at hand--the decree had gone forth--and
vengeance was impending on the guilty. We returned to “the coast”--as
that of Africa, in particular, was termed--shipped a full complement
of slaves, and once more proceeded on our iniquitous voyage. During ten
days we made good progress. The captain and his hellish crew, elated
with apparent success, indulged in ruffian revelry. They drank, and
danced, and sung; and while despair and death reigned in the crowded
hold, the deck presented a saturnalia that fiends might have delighted
to share.

But on the eleventh day that unhallowed revelry ended. The wind dropped
suddenly--ominously. In one short hour not a ripple was seen upon the
sea; and, far as the eye could range, a burning surface of bright blue
water encircled us. The next sun--the next--and yet the next, rose and
sank, and not a breeze was felt, and not a cat’s-paw crept over the
distant ocean. Ten more passed; and still we drifted idly on the
glassy surface, like some sea-bird reposing on the deep. Food failed us
fast--that was bad; water rapidly diminished--that was worse. The hold
became a pest-house. Contagion below produced an increase of fever
above. The negroes died off by twenties; the crew, one after another,
disappeared, till, of thirty-six seamen who left the Gambia, fourteen
alone remained; while half of that small number were so debilitated that
they could scarcely stand; and the few who still remained effective,
were quite unequal to that disgusting duty, of disencumbering the waist
of the human carrion which every hour accumulated. All hope to carry
any portion of the accursed cargo to its destination was over. The dead
putrified; the living, maddened by thirst and hunger, had broken their
chains, and, like rabid animals, could not be approached! One only
course remained, and the ruffian-crew determined to batten down the
hatches, fire brimstone underneath the slave-deck, destroy what life
remained, and make the pest--a charnel-house!

Night was properly chosen for the execution of this diabolical act; and
I saw the combustibles which were to effect it duly prepared. To witness
this wholesale murder of two hundred victims was more than I could bear.
I, who had ever revolted from the horrid vocation of a slave-dealer,
fancied, that in all which had befallen us, I saw the vengeance of the
Deity let loose on our accursed bark; and when at midnight I was placed
at the wheel, and my villanous companions were occupied in murderous
preparations, from the davits I lowered the only boat could swim,
slipped over the ship’s counter unobserved, and paddled quietly away. In
a few minutes I was called for--my evasion was detected--a dozen muskets
were discharged after me at random; I heard bullets dip upon the water:
but I plied my oars vigorously, and in a few minutes was out of range.

I paused, took breath, and looked around. The ship lay in shade, looming
immensely; all else sea--sea--sea! I searched my pockets, and found two
biscuits; but I was without water! Under a tropic sun, a thousand miles
from land--no water! The very thought was enough to madden one; but,
presently, other feelings banished that horrible conviction.

[Illustration: 0274]

My eyes were turned towards the slaver. Before this, I knew that the
infernal deed must have been consummated, and that, to protract the
lives of some dozen guilty wretches, two hundred innocent victims had
been immolated! A feeble gleam twinkled from the vessel; it faded into
darkness; and a dull mass, shapeless and colourless, showed me the spot,
where, upon the waveless ocean the felon-ship lay sleeping.

I looked again. Suddenly, a blaze, as if some inflammable matter had
been ignited, burst from the slaver and dispelled the darkness. The
outline of the vessel became distinct; the flame waxed stronger still;
every rope and sail was visible; and I could perceive figures on the
deck, rush to and fro, as if in wild disorder. The glare grew redder
yet--the ship was in a blaze from stem to stern--and in their nefarious
attempt to suffocate their victims, the villains fired the vessel!

I turned the boat’s head towards the burning ship; and after rowing a
short distance back, rested on my oars. I knew that if I attempted to
near the vessel, the skiff would be overcrowded, and all must perish.
Shrieks, wild and maddening, like those of despairing men, were
heard--every inch of canvas which had hung dangling from the yards, was
wrapped in fire, and the loftiest spars were burning! It was a grand,
but terrible spectacle; and I strained my eyes to gaze upon it until the
red glare pained them. At once, a column of brilliant light mounted to
the skies, followed by a heavy, dull, concussion, which came trembling
over the water, and rocked my little skiff. A cloud of smoke succeeded.
Suddenly the light vanished; darkness returned denser than before--night
and stillness resumed their silent reign. The magazine had exploded--and
the slaver was now buried in the depths of ocean!

In tropic climes, night is but a name, and morning broke immediately. I
gazed over the ocean expanse, as the first glow of sunshine reddened
its surface, bright and unruffled as a mirror, excepting one small spot
ahead, which was covered with floating wreck. There, the slaver had
gone down, and I looked fixedly in that direction. On a scathed beam, I
fancied I could perceive a human form attached. I rowed to the place. To
the half-burned portion of the wreck, a fine negro lad was holding with
desperate tenacity; but he was nearly exhausted, and it was with much
difficulty I could drag him into the boat. In a few minutes he was
sufficiently recovered to know that I had rescued him from death,
and with looks of mute intelligence he seemed to thank me for timely
succour. I gave him a biscuit; he seized and ate it ravenously. No
wonder, poor boy! for five long days, food had not passed his lips. With
expressive signs he intimated that he would hereafter consider himself
my slave; and by looks of encouragement, in return, I assured him of
protection. It was a simple contract after all, and made under unusual
circumstances; but it has lasted, and will last, for life. That negro
youth was Dominique.

Before I had time to smile at the mockery of a forlorn wretch like
myself, assuming a momentary superiority over another cast-a-way, saved
mercilessly from an easier death to perish by the more dreadful agonies
of thirst and hunger, a light air came stealing over the glassy sea.
I looked anxiously to windward. Far off, a breeze darkened the blue
water, and in ten minutes we felt its influence, and our boat danced
merrily on the tiny waves which curled the ocean for as sight could
wander. I felt as if Heaven had been appeased, and vengeance satisfied;
and hope once more replaced the dark despondency to which I had
abandoned myself, as one whose doom was sealed.

Nor was that cheerful foreboding unfulfilled. Within an hour, and dead
to windward, a speck appeared upon the edge of the horizon, and seemed,
by slow degrees, to rise gradually from the ocean, until a goodly ship
presented itself to the eye; and down she came before a leading breeze,
with all the canvas set her spars could spread. We lay directly in her
course. I hoisted a signal on an oar, and it was seen and answered--for
presently the stranger took in sail, lowered a boat, sent it to our
assistance, and “I and my man Friday.” as worthy Robinson would say,
were kindly received on board a vessel that proved to be a Portuguese
trader, bound for the Brazils. My story was readily believed, namely,
that our ship, an honest merchantman! had accidentally caught fire,
and all except the negro and myself had perished. No doubt could be
entertained of the correctness of this statement, for our deliverers
had seen the blaze, and heard the explosion, when becalmed, at too great
distance to render us relief.

I was landed safely in Rio Janeiro, and another epoch in an eventful
life began. The history of seven years would require too much time to
give it in detail--it must be confined to a brief summary. The owner of
the vessel that had picked me up was a merchant of high respectability.
The tale of my escape from a burning ship and ultimate starvation,
had interest, and, pitying my destitution, he offered me a berth in
a coasting vessel which belonged to him--I accepted it, and in a few
months became its captain. I traded for him honestly and successfully,
and rose by degrees rapidly in his estimation. Every year brought me
fresh tokens of his confidence and esteem, until at last, I became
a partner in his business. In every commercial adventure fortune
befriended us; and when the old man died, and the affairs of his house
were finally arranged, I, who had landed on the wharf of Rio without a
second shirt, found myself a merchant of repute, and possessor of thirty
thousand dollars. I must add, that I had assumed the name of Hartley,
and that, during this season of good fortune, my faithful negro shared
and enjoyed that period of treacherous sunshine.

And yet, during this prosperous career, I was secretly unhappy. Year
after year, the English residents returned with the independence they
had acquired, to die in the land which gave them birth. To me, as I
bade them an eternal farewell, every departure caused fresh misery, and
probed to the very quick a wound that none suspected was rankling in
my breast. I had no country. What was father-land to me? I, a degraded
outcast--stigmatized with crime, believed to be a felon and a suicide;
and from the memory of whose existence, my very father, if living, would
recoil. And yet the fancy of returning to England haunted me. I thought
of it--dreamed of it--till at last, unable to combat the inclination, I
determined, at every hazard, to indulge the wish, and revisit the “land
of my sires,” were it but to die there.

I made the necessary preparations to effect my design--converted my
property into specie--secured a passage for myself and faithful follower
in a vessel bound for England, which, with several others, were to start
under convoy of a sloop of war. We sailed on the appointed day; and,
as I then believed, bade an eternal farewell to the shores of South
America.

What was my motive for returning to a land where my name was a disgrace,
and where he whose feelings towards the offendings of a child are
lenient, a father--ay, a father--would repudiate me with contempt? It
was to cleanse that name, stained as it was with youthful indiscretions,
from the plague-spot that human villany had attached to it; and now
with the command of the means by which justice in England can
be secured--money--wipe away the felon charge which had driven me
undeservedly into exile and disgrace, and expose the guilty to the
world--ay, though the last guinea of a fortune, which years of toil, and
danger, and privations, had acquired, should be expended to attain the
end.

For a week our little fleet progressed steadily across the ocean. Old
merchantmen were then the dullest sailors imaginable; and with every
inch of canvass we could spread, the sloop of war, with topsails on the
cap, was frequently obliged to heave to and wait upon our lazy barque.
Indeed, the vigilance of the convoy-ship was rendered necessary from
the circumstance of a very suspicious vessel having been discovered for
several successive mornings at sunrise, following in the wake of the
fleet, and hauling off whenever she observed that she had been noticed.

On the sixth evening, the weather, which had hitherto been remarkably
fine, threatened a change; and at midnight, the wind had considerably
freshened. The security of the ship would have pointed out the prudence
of making preparations for a gale, and putting the vessel under easy
canvass; while, from the dulness of our sailing, and the certainty that
a suspicious stranger was in our immediate vicinity, it was absolutely
necessary that we should keep our place in the fleet, and avail
ourselves of the man-of-war’s protection. In this dilemma it was
determined to trust to fortune, and “carry on.” We had certainly, two
dangerous alternatives to choose between--threatening weather, and an
enemy’s privateer. The latter fear was predominant; and although every
minute skyey appearance became more alarming, we still kept a press of
canvass on the vessel--and consequently, it was our fate to verify an
old saw, in avoiding Seylla, to fall into Charybdis.

In the darkness, a squall struck us suddenly; and before everything
could be let fly, our three topmasts were over the side, and our worst
apprehensions were about to be realized.

It was but a passing gale which had wrought us all this mischief; and
when morning dawned, the weather had moderated into a light and steady
breeze. The fleet was out of sight; and we were unable, from the
weakness of the crew, to clear away at once the wreck of fallen spars
and sails that cumbered us. We were lying a log upon the water, while
our more fortunate companions were bowling away before a wind directly
in their favour. One sail only was in sight, and that was steering in
the same direction with the convoy. For a time, from being dismasted, we
were not discovered by the stranger. But suddenly he changed his course,
hauled closely to the wind, and soon presented to our startled view,
the same long, black, suspicious-looking brig, which for days before had
occasioned a general uneasiness.

We had no chance of escape, even had our spars been standing; and in
an hour the suspected vessel was within musquet range. No doubt of
his country and calling remained. A French ensign was flying at his
peak--his long dark hull showed eleven ports a side--his decks were
crowded, and he looked a regular rover.

Had we a wish to resist, the means were wanting; and at the first hail,
a boat was lowered, and our captain went on board. In return, two
boats, filled with armed men, rowed to us from the privateer; the rovers
mounted our decks, and the work of plunder commenced busily. I had no
hope from the first, that my property could by any possibility’ escape
detection; and a very few minutes put that question at rest. A
foreign seaman, whom we had shipped at Bio, gave information to
the prize-master; and I had the misery to see the acquisition of an
enter-prizing life pass into the possession of the sea-robbers who had
captured us.

From the disabled condition of the ship, all design of taking her into
port was abandoned by our captors; but every thing that was portable,
even to the sea-chests of the crew, was removed on board the brig. The
whole day was consumed in stripping our luckless vessel; and when at
nightfall the enemy left us lying still a wreck upon the ocean, I found
myself in the same condition as when, seven years before, I had landed
on the beach at Bio--without a second shirt, a second dollar, or a
second friend. Of the latter, I possessed a faithful one--Dominique
remained. He had resisted every inducement held out by the French
captain to join the privateer. Poor faithful fellow! when the fickle
goddess smiled, he had shared my fortune; and adversity had no other
effect than to confirm his devoted attachment.

When the spoilers had taken their departure, nothing but lamentations
were heard. The humblest mariner had lost his all, the wages he had
already earned, or the little venture he was bringing home to England,
in the honest hopes of realizing enough to render a wife or parent
comfortable. There was but one of that ship’s company preserved a sullen
indifference; I, who had been stripped of more than all together, kept
a moody silence, and uttered no complaint. All was gone at “one fell
swoop”--the prospect of revisiting my native land--the hope of clearing
my calumniated character from the unmerited obloquy whieh designing
villains had heaped upon it--the means by which I expected to have
effected it--of all, one luckless day had robbed me! The stupid calmness
of despair tied my tongue, and gave to my countenance an unearthly
composure, which many might have mistaken for philosophic resignation.
But the bosom within was tortured--my’ sorrow was too great for
language to convey; and, thunderstruck with the sudden visitation I had
undergone, I was debating whether it were not at once better to end
an existence not to be endured, and--“unannealed and unforgiven,” in
defiance of his canon against self-murder,--venture desperately into the
presence of an angry God.

These impious thoughts were mercifully terminated. I looked up, an eye
was bent on mine. It was Dominique’s; and the mute expression of that
faithful negro spoke its deep sympathy for my misfortune, and intimated
an eternal attachment. A sudden revulsion of intent succeeded the
promptings of despair. I had lost wealth--but had I not a friend? A
stern determination came over me to live and dare Fortune’s worst; and
when my dark follower placed silently a goblet in my hand, I drank the
wine to the bottom, and swore no matter how darkly fate might frown, she
should not crush my spirit.

“All’s gone, Dominique. We have no errand now to England.”

The negro answered with a groan.

“Shall we commence life anew, and again seek fortune in each other’s
company?”

The hand I stretched out the negro pressed to his lips respectfully; and
with a meaning look, told me that we should sink or rise together.

The plunder of the ship was followed by a scene of drunken
insubordination--for the bad example which the captain set, the crew
had followed; and on the second evening we were still a wreck upon the
water, our top-gear over the sides, and none in temper or condition
to repair the damage we had sustained, and replace our lost spars
with jurymasts. On the third morning the ship’s company had become
sufficiently sober to commence a work, that should hwe been long before
effected--and I was sleeping in my cabin, worn out with the mental
suffering I had undergone, when my slumbers were gently broken by my
sable attendant, to acquaint me that another, and an equally dishonest
looking vessel, was bearing down upon us fast, and barely a league to
windward.

I hurried upon deck, and a glance confirmed Dominique’s announcement.
The stranger was a large topsail-schooner, with raking masts, a long
black hull, and Spanish ensign floating from her gaff-end. Her sailing
properties were admirable; and her whole appearance told that she was
neither adapted for, nor employed in peaceful commerce. When she rounded
to under our stern, I counted nine ports aside--a huge pivot gun was on
a traverse between her masts, and her decks seemed full of men. She
could not be mistaken for a moment; she was a rover, a slaver, or a
privateer, and, probably, all by turns.

An old adage * says, that a traveller already disencumbered of his
property, feels little uneasiness in presence of a highwayman; and
certainly, to me the appearance of this rakish schooner was a matter of
perfect indifference. I saw her back her topsail, and take a position
that placed us “end-on,” under the fire of her starboard guns.
Immediately a boat was lowered, and twenty men pulled from her side and
boarded us. This second visitation, and within eight-and-forty hours,
caused but little sensation in the ship. All that was valuable was
already gone; and the new comers must be men of uncommon industry and
research, if they could discover much that was worth removal. Indeed,
the style in which the Frenchman had cleared every thing away worth
notice, could never be surpassed, and proved that in sea robbery his
crew had attained perfection.

     * Cantabit vacuus coram latroae viator.

Sad was their disappointment, when our new captors found that they had
fallen in with a mere bone from which the marrow had been carefully
extracted. Still, however, there were some necessaries that might prove
useful; and sails, cordage, water and provisions, were unceremoniously
conveyed on board the schooner. Presently, a second boat pushed off from
the rover’s side; and it was notified that the captain, in person, was
coming on board to ascertain how a prize so promising should prove so
very unproductive.

“What a cursed misfortune,” said he, in reply to the account his first
officer gave him of our hwing been thoroughly plundered, and that only
twenty hours before. “By Heven, I am half inclined to make sail after
the privateer, and make him divide or disgorge the booty.”

“‘Twere idle,” said the lieutenant; “Heven knows what course he’s
steering. And even if we overtook him, what certainty have we that he
would not be able to hold his own with us? They say he carried twenty
guns, and was chokeful of men. He’ll dodge the convoy while he dare, and
trust to accident for a second God-send. No, no--it was a cursed chance,
no doubt--the luck was all John Crapo’s--and no use crying over spilt
milk, you know.”

The reasoning of his lieutenant appeared to satisfy his superior, that
the misfortune he had sustained in coming upon us after the Frenchman’s
visit was irretrievable, and, accordingly, he submitted to it like a
Christian man; but still he could not avoid making an occasional lament
over what he termed “the blackest of bad luck.”

“Thirty thousand dollars--hard silver--all one property--besides other
most valuable plunder. Was ever ship so unfortunate! But who was the
unlucky devil who lost the money? Did he drown himself at once, or is he
still on board?”

The lieutenant pointed quietly to me; and the captain crossed the deck
to the place where I was standing, with my arm leaning on the bulwark,
as if nothing particular had occurred.

“So, Sir, I hear you hwe been cleaned out; and, as they tell me, to a
tolerable tune?”

“I have,” I answered; “can you put me in the way of recovering the
loss?”

“I!” said the stranger in surprise; “how the devil should I?”

“Then, as I am already plucked to the last feather, your honest
companions have nothing to deprive me of, and you can neither serve nor
injure me. Is not that a comfort, captain?”

“Come, my good sir,” replied the rover, “you need not be so snappish;
though, ’pon my soul, the loss of thirty thousand dollars is nothing to
joke about. But stop; have I ever seen that face before?”

“That question you can best resolve yourself,” I answered; “yours has
been seen by me, I fancy, for the first time; and, let me add, worthy
captain, I sincerely hope for the last one too.”

“Indeed! would it be too much trouble to ask you to look at it a second
time?”

I complied carelessly with the captain’s wish, and examined the features
and figure of this new intruder. The face was swarthy, sunburnt, and
had, what the Irish happily term, “a devil-may-care” expression. The
person of the stranger was square and well-compacted; his dress was
composed of cotton and nanquin--textures best suited to the climate. In
the silken sash which bound his waist, he had secured a watch, a dagger,
and a brace of pistols; all apparently very valuable. He wore a jewel on
his finger; diamond rings in either ear, and a gold-laced hat, fit for
a vice-admiral, completed his showy and singular costume. He was a very
young man, apparently not more than five-and-twenty.

“And pray, Mr. Jones, or Mr. Thompson, or by whatever name besides you
called yourself in the Fancy, six years ago upon the coast, now that you
hwe finished your survey, may I inquire if you can yet recollect an old
companion?”

I started. He had mentioned the slaver’s name correctly, and also the
false appellation by which I was known on board that accursed vessel.

“I have heard of that slave-ship,” I replied; “she foundered at sea, and
none escaped but--”

“You and myself,” responded the stranger carelessly.

“You labour under a mistake, she perished by fire, and none escaped--

“But _you_; and how you managed it I don’t know. As for me, I gave
leg-bail in the Gambia. Come, Jones, Thompson, Robinson, or any thing
you please to call yourself, fear nothing from me. I owe you a debt
of gratitude. I shipped myself in that villanous slaver, a
runaway-apprentice; and, when struck down by fever, and dying of thirst
upon my passage out, the only hand in all that rascally ship’s company,
to whom I was indebted for a drink of water to slake my burning thirst,
was your’s; and now, seven years after, I survive to prove to you that
kindness to a destitute boy has not been, and shall not be forgotten.”

“It seems you know me,” I replied; “and concealment would be idle. It
is, indeed, too true that all on board the slaver perished, save that
negro who attends me, and myself.”

“Ay,” said the rover; “but you may recollect that a boy was missing the
night before you sailed. I was that lost one; and, from weariness of
a miserable life, and disgust at the horrible duty imposed upon me, of
attending to the slave-hold, every feeling had revolted. I bolted from
the vessel; escaped a fate that none survived but you; passed through
a thousand hair-breadth adventures; and now command the Flambeau--the
sweetest schooner that ever spread canvass to a breeze. Come, I bear
you have lost every thing again but life; try your luck once more with
Captain Raleigh; and rest assured, that he who succoured the fevered
boy, shall secure the friendship of the commander of the Flambeau,--a
craft by some called a privateer, and by others set down--may Heaven
forgive them!--as nothing better than a pirate!”

I listened to the rover’s invitation. There was much that would induce
a man, circumstanced as I was, to accept it; I seemed a being marked out
for misfortune--for whom no happiness was predestined, and one, for whom
fate had reserved the phials of her wrath. Captain Raleigh marked my
hesitation.

“Come,” said he, “time presses. You brought me, and for little
advantage, I regret, out of my course this morning, and I must regain
it speedily. You are, as far as I am concerned, a free agent. Come with
me--you will be welcome; stay where you are--a hundred dollars are
at your service, to begin the world anew, and the best wishes of the
runaway apprentice you nursed on his passage to the Gambia. I’ll rejoin
you in five minutes--a time sufficiently long for a man to come to a
decision, as well as if he dreamed over it for a twelvemonth.”

He turned, walked to another part of the vessel, and gave orders to his
crew to man their boats, and prepare for returning to the schooner.

Dominique had been a silent, but a most attentive observer of my
tête-à-tête with Captain Raleigh, and I beckoned him to approach.

“The hour for parting has arrived, Dominique, which, three days since,
neither you nor I could have anticipated; but so fate wills it. A new
and perilous career lies before me, the ocean surface must be my home,
and its deeps shall furnish me a grave. England, the land of freedom,
is your happier destination. Go, my tried and trusty friend; follow some
one of brighter fortunes than him you leave; and may your future fate be
what your attachment and fidelity to me so richly merit!”

The negro did not speak for a few moments--tears fell first upon the
deck--at last, he turned a look of mild inquiry upon my face, and, in a
broken voice, asked “in what he had offended me.”

I was assuring my sable follower how truly I estimated his worth, and
how deeply I felt the necessity that should deprive me of his services,
when Captain Raleigh joined us. He held a bag of dollars in his hand.
“Here--catch,” he cried, as he tossed the money to me. “And now, ‘to
be or not to be, ay, that’s the question.’ There’s Shakespeare for you.
Confound the bard of won;’twas he that made a rover of me; and but
for Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, I, Harry Jones, had never been Captain
Raleigh, but probably, at this blessed hour, a thriving citizen on
Ludgate Hill, slicing off lutestring for a dowager, or assuring some
pretty girl how beautifully the last new ribbon harmonized with the
colour of her hair. Heigh-ho! I might have been happier. Happier! pshaw!
nonsense. Yard and shears are only fit for woman’s hand; this is the
tool for man’s”--and he touched the hilt of his cutlass. “But what’s the
matter with your dark companion? Has he, too, lost some dollars by the
accursed visit of the Frenchman?”

“I have lost more--far more,” replied the black, “the preserver of
my life--the master whom for seven years I followed--my friend--my
benefactor--him have I lost. He tells me that I must leave him--leave
one from whom I thought death alone should separate me.”

“And will you follow his fortunes, and take your chance on board the
schooner?”

“Follow him!” exclaimed the negro; “oh, were that allowed, Dominique
would be too happy.” ^

“Give me that honest fist of yours,” returned the rover. “No matter
what the colour of the skin may be; the heart’s the thing for me. Well,
you’ll take your chance, and seek new fortunes in the Flambeau?” he
continued, addressing me.

“I have no other choice,” was my reply.

“Come, you have no luggage to remove, I fancy; John Crapo saved you that
trouble. Jump in; the boat is ready.”

I followed this new director of my destiny; and the whale-boat quitted
the vessel’s side, where, but three short days ago, I was owner of
thirty thousand dollars, to commence a roving life--a career of criminal
adventure--its close--at best an ocean grave--or, what was likelier far,
the plank, * the yard-arm, or the gibbet.

     * A piratical method of drowning.

I shall pass over an epoch of three years, the crowded history of which
was more than enough to fill the story of a life. Would you know it? ask
in every Spanish port, from Chili to Panama, what was the Flambeau, and
who were her commanders? They will tell you, that that pirate barque,
though for years resting in the caves of the Atlantic, still carries
terror in her name. They will say, that Raleigh was daring, rash,
and sanguinary; but that, with the audacious courage of the boldest
buccaneer, Ramirez was merciful; and that the blood of innocence or
old age had never stained his hand. Who Raleigh was you know; who
Ramirez--you may fancy.

A year had passed since Raleigh had perished in a wild descent upon
the Spanish Main; and Ramirez, his successor, had assumed a command for
which his daring and good-fortune had qualified him preeminently. Much
wealth had been acquired; and it was believed that the Rover Captain had
transmitted large remittances, in specie and valuables, to Europe. In
one of the secret inlets with which the Caribees abound, the Flambeau
had been refitted, provisioned, and made ready for a fresh adventure.
The crew were all on board, and nothing delayed the schooner’s sailing,
but the unaccountable absence of her commander. A week before he had
set out for a distant town, to meet a secret agent. The business was
speedily transacted, and Ramirez had left the city he had visited, to
rejoin the Rover’s crew. Day after day passed; the worst suspicions were
entertained--it was believed that he had been assassinated; and a
deep gloom spread over the whole of the lawless community, who justly
regarded Ramirez as the ablest commander that ever trod a rover’s deck.
Many conjectures were hazarded; three days elapsed, when a canoe paddled
one evening on board the Flambeau, and delivered a letter addressed to
the second in command, in the well-known hand-writing of the captain.
In that epistle the mystery was cleared away; wonder succeeded
apprehension; and wishes so often and so warmly breathed by the rover’s
crew for the safety of their leader, were exchanged for imprecations on
his head, and deadly vows of everlasting vengeance; and one, who was
an hour before the idol of that lawless band, would have found in every
individual who composed it, a willing executioner.

What could hwe caused this singular change of feeling?

In the letter addressed by Ramirez to his lieutenant, he stated that he
had determined to abandon a roving life for ever, and assured him that
every attempt to ascertain his motives, or discover his retreat, would
be equally unwailing. The investment of valuable property on the general
account of the predatory community had been faithfully executed. He
promised that every secret connected with his late confederates should
be buried in his grave--and the eternal silence of his black companion
might be equally confided in. The letter concluded with the warmest
wishes for their future welfare--with a strong entreaty that they should
abandon a dangerous career, which, no matter how long fortune smiled
upon it, must inevitably incur an ignominious termination.

Mr. Hartley paused, and took from his pocket a small sealed packet,
carefully tied up.

“Hector,” said he, addressing me, “the remainder of my sad history would
be as painful for me to narrate, as you to listen to. In these detached
papers you will find my chequered and adventurous career faithfully
outlined. At intervals, ‘few and far between,’ when I could look back
upon the past with tolerable composure, these unconnected documents
were written; and any portions of the tale which may not be sufficiently
intelligible, your own fancy must fill up. I have not shrunk from being
the chronicler of my own shame; but I have not nerve or courage to be
the narrator of suffering so terrible, that reason was unseated, and
Heaven alone, through gentle agencies, saved me from total despair. Save
one--my child--no other eye has rested on these papers--none other will;
for, when you restore them to-morrow, the record of crime and sorrow
shall perish. Farewell! At dawn of day expect me. Sleep soundly,
boy;--may never recollections of the past rob you of rest, as they will
me!”

He shook my hand, bade me good night, and retired to his chamber; and
I, burning with curiosity to learn all the particulars of a “strange
eventful history,” broke the sealed packet, and read the following
details:--



CHAPTER XXVI. MY UNCLE’S STORY CONTINUED.



               “Gent.--Help!--help!--O, help!

               Edgar. “What kind of help?

               Albany. Speak, man.

               Edgar. What means that bloody knife?

               Gent. ‘Tis hot!--it smokes!--

                   It came even from the heart of--

               Albany. Who, man?--speak!

               Gent. Your lady, sir--your lady!”

                        King Lear.

The city of Quito was brilliantly illuminated; it was the anniversary of
its patron saint, and, in honour of their holy founder, the convent and
church of the Ursulines presented a spectacle of dazzling splendour.
The latter was lighted with a thousand tapers, and the great altar was
ornamented with all the monastic treasures which a devotee delights
to view. Crucifixes and sacred vessels, in gold and silver, and of
surpassing beauty, were liberally exhibited; while relics, in jewelled
cabinets, were on this, the high festival of Saint Ursula, brought from
their hallowed shrines, to delight the eyes and gladden the hearts
of the faithful. A long array of dignified ecclesiastics, in gorgeous
robes, filed in procession through the lofty aisles, while censors
blazed, and the pealing organ thundered forth its “jubilate.’” Within a
large extent round the city, all that was noble, wealthy, or religious,
on this her glorious anniversary, were assembled to do honour to their
fwourite saint,--while salvos of artillery from the ramparts, and the
rolling fire of _feu de joie_, rose at times above the choral swell,
adding to a religious pageant, the anomalous associations which a
battle-field and “heady fight” would give. To complete the effect of
this splendid spectacle, the proud, the brwe, the beautiful, followed
humbly in procession after monk and nun--the men bearing perfumed tapers
of coloured wax--while the women strewed flowers as they moved along
before the blessed relics of their sainted patroness.

Leaning against a pillar of the two, two personages of very different
appearance, viewed the procession with that interest it was so well
calculated to excite. One, from his quiet air and sober dress, seemed
a man engaged in some peaceful avocation; he might have been a notary, a
doctor, or a trader. The other, a young, tall, and handsome cavalier,
was richly attired in a fanciful costume; rapier and poignard were in an
embroidered belt; rings of costly workmanship glittered on his fingers,
and a jewel of exquisite brilliancy sparkled from the looping of his
richly-plumed hat. As the procession moved slowly on, the gay stranger
might hwe been overheard addressing his more sober companion, to inquire
who the actors in the passing scene might be; and while he bent his head
in differently as every succeeding relic passed, and bishop and mitred
abbot, one after another, defiled before him, the irreligious stranger
never asked their names.

“Yon stately man in the rich cope and alb is the holy prior of San
Augustin;--he exorcises devils----”

The gay foreigner impatiently interrupted his soberer companion. “Hang
the fat prior!--we have no devils to be exorcised.”

“And see, yonder thin black priest--he is the canon of San Roque,--the
best preacher that ever mounted pulpit.”

“There leave him, my good friend,--I hate the drowsy race. Ha!--Who is
that noble-looking person in the green uniform faced with gold?”

“That is General Paez. Saints and angels!--here comes the archbishop of
--------”

“Never mind the archbishop. Who is the silver-headed veteran with the
hat and scarlet plume?”

“Oh, that is Admiral Cordova. But the Dominican who bears the
banner----”

Again the irreligious foreigner broke in. “Confound them both! bearer
and banner. Look, man!”--as another, and the fairest portion of the
procession, walked slowly past the pillar, strewing flowers as they
moved along. “Ay,” said the stranger, “that sylph-like girl, with blue
eyes, is worth all the monks and cardinals who ever said an ave,
or carried a blessed candle. But see!--mark you that lovely girl
in silvered satin?--she with the ebon locks, and downcast eyes. How
beautiful is that air--the easy movement of her walk--the grace with
which each flower drops from her hand! I must not, dare not look.”

“‘Twere better not,” remarked the soberer of the twain; “she is for the
last time in worldly company: in another week she enters the convent of
Saint Agatha, and she will be professed immediately.”

“Professed!” exclaimed his companion,--“what means that? But see--the
procession halts!” and at the moment, the beautiful _religieuse_ stopped
at the base of the very pillar against which the gay stranger had taken
his position.

“Who is that sweet girl?” said the latter, impatiently.

The sudden halting of the long array caused the fair flower-bearer
to look up, and her eyes encountered those of the stranger which were
turned upon her in breathless admiration. The beautiful devotee coloured
to the brows, and again her eyes dropped upon the tesselated pavement.
It was probably from agitation that a small bouquet, composed of the
most delicate flowers which a tropic clime produces, fell unconsciously
from her hand, when, unperceived by any but the lovely _religieuse_ and
his own companion, the stranger picked it up, pressed it for a moment
with ardour to his lips, and then carefully deposited the floral
treasure in his bosom. Again the procession moved, the beauteous devotee
exchanged a passing glance; and if it were intended to reprove the
boldness of the daring adventurer, or express sorrow at the loss of her
fragrant bouquet, neither feeling was conveyed, for the look was the
sweetest one imaginable.

“Now by every saint upon the calendar, and the list is longer than
the muster-bill of a line-of-battle ship, it’s all over with me--I’m
lost--destroyed--undone. Who is that angel in woman’s form? Speak!”
 exclaimed the stranger, passionately.

“The loveliest girl in Grenada,” returned his companion.

“Pshaw! tell me not what I know already--but her name? her family? Come,
out with all you know, man.”

“It’s a long story,” replied the civilian.

“No matter,” returned his friend, “tell me anything connected with that
charming devotee, and I’ll listen although the tale lasted to eternity.”

“Captain,” replied the other,--and he whispered the title by which he
addressed him softly in his gay companion’s ear,--“‘ware love!--Cupid
himself would find no welcome on board a vessel called the Flambeau.”

“Out with the story!” exclaimed the stranger; “or I’ll break through the
procession, and ask it of the sweet girl herself.”

“Well,” said the civilian, with a smile, “to keep you clear of the
Inquisition for an insult to a fwourite saint like blessed Agatha, I
will tell you all I know. Sit down upon this marble pediment, and we can
speak without any one hearing us. Marked you the greyheaded commander,
dressed in a blue uniform, with two crosses at his breast?”

“To be sure I did: the worn-out admiral who bore a candle in the crowd.”

“Well, the taper is fitter than the sword for the hand of age to carry;
no doubt, many a day since, the old gentleman has been laid up in
ordinary.”

“He would be anything but flattered could he but overhear our
conversation,” continued the companion of the gay stranger. “In
ordinary! Not he, faith!--It is barely six months ago since he married
the----”

“Widow of some gouty general,” exclaimed the other, impatiently.
“Pshaw!--no more of him.”

“He married,” responded the civilian, “no widow of a gouty general, but
Inez de Liomana.”

“An antiquated virgin,” said the stranger, with a smile; “of high
family, holy life, and on the wrong side of sixty.”

“Never did a man guess wider of the mark: she was one of the prettiest
girls in the province, and on the right side of seventeen,” observed the
civilian.

“But what the devil does it interest me,” exclaimed the stranger,
“whether an old gentleman exhibits his dotage, by committing matrimony,
or any other similar absurdity? I don’t want to know anything about his
wife.”

“But you wish me to favour you with full particulars touching his lovely
daughter.”

“His daughter!” said the stranger: “Is yonder peerless beauty indeed
that old man’s child?”

“His only child. She pays the penalty of an act of dotage, for the old
fool’s marriage consigns her to a convent.”

“Monstrous!” ejaculated the stranger: “What! bury beauty like her’s
within a living grave! By Heaven! I’ll escalade the convent walls
myself, and liberate that lovely victim; ay, though I perished by the
hands of the Inquisition for the sacrilege! But why, if the old man
played the fool, should she, poor girl, be immured for it?”

“To gratify the selfish vanity of a weak old dupe. Inez was the orphan
daughter of a poor knight of San Iago; and on her father’s death,
without friends or fortune, she was destined to take the veil. Educated
at the same convent with the heiress of the admiral, she came to visit
her young companion before the vows should be pronounced, that would
sever her for ever from society. The old man saw her, and, struck with
her beauty, fancied that he loved. He told his tale of folly. Inez
detested the seclusion which awaited her. A splendid home--a life of
luxury--the name of wife--a lover--coupled with a title, were offered
and accepted. Inez is vain and ostentatious, and a sudden rise from
humble orphanage, has almost turned her brain. She indulges in every
extravagance, and the doting admiral, they say, yields to every
solicitation, no matter how expensive; and thus a fortune, sufficient
to support the rank and establishment of a grandee, has been found
inadequate to meet the profusion his silly marriage has entailed; and
to gratify the extravagance of his youthful consort, the old dupe has
determined that his only child shall be sacrificed, to enable him to
meet the extra demands made upon his purse, by the capricious girl
whom he has been weak enough to marry. And now, Captain Ramirez,
you know as much as I do of every thing connected with the lovely
_religieuse_.”

“By Heaven!” returned the stranger, passionately, “friend Sanchez, I
will know more, or the fault shall not be mine. But see--the procession
is about to move. Whither will these fat drones steer to now? Stand
fast; they’ll pass again. I would not lose the chance of another
angel-glance of yon dark eye, for this brilliant in my hat; and the
water is the purest in Grenada.”

“And what would you give me, could I procure you an interview? Ay,
captain, stare not so incredulously; an interview!--not exactly
tête-à-tête; but in the presence only of a youthful step-dame, and
myself, your very humble servant,” said the civilian, with a smile.

“Give!” exclaimed the stranger; “change your query, Signor Sanchez, and
rather inquire, what would I not give. Pshaw! the thing’s impossible.”

“Would you wager one hundred dollars on the event?” inquired the
Captain’s companion.

“No,” returned the stranger; “but I’ll bet you three to one, and in
hundreds too.”

“Done,” was the brief reply.

“And _done_. The wager’s made. Prepare your money, Master Sanchez. Were
it but for exciting false hopes, every dollar shall be exacted, whether
they be begged, borrowed, or stolen. But, saints and angels! here she
comes.”

Again the long array filed past in solemn mardi; and a less devout
spectator could not have been discovered in the crowded assemblage
than Captain Ramirez. The archbishop of Moldivia glided on in stately
dignity; and the stranger regarded the haughty prelate with as little
veneration as the neophyte who waved a perfumed censer in his rear. On
came the thin black canon of San Roque; and the ablest preacher in the
province elicited no more notice. In fact, two objects engrossed the
gallant captain’s attention--one was the old admiral with the yellow
taper; and the other that lovely devotee, his daughter.

She passed the pillar closely as before. To the stranger, the crowded
procession contained a single object, and his ardent gaze sought that
one only in the throng. She came; for a moment she raised her soft and
speaking eyes,--they met those of the stranger. He took the flowers from
his bosom--pressed them to his lips. The fair devotee observed the act;
and the glance that answered it, would not induce a lover to despair.

“Now,” said Captain Ramirez, as the ceremony ended, and the numerous
spectators issued from the church, “if ever man were fairly ruined, I
am he. Friend Sanchez, how gladly would I tell thee out three hundred
dollars!”

“Indeed!” said the civilian; “I’m happy to assure you, that that
pleasure is reserved for to-morrow.”

“‘Would I dare think it so,” said the captain, with a sigh; “but how is
it to be done? Are we to pick locks, scale walls, commit-murder, or--”

“Heaven forbid!” returned Signor Sanchez; “we will effect it by no
felonious means, or I shall agree to forego the benefit of the wager.
Rest assured, that the entry into the admiral’s domicile shall be
peacefully achieved. Come, supper will be waiting; we will finish
afterwards a flask or two to the health of the peerless Camilla; and,
it by the hour of siesta to-morrow, I have not lightened your purse by
three hundred pieces, why, worthy captain, then write Juan Sanchez down
a very ass.”

Morning came. The gay stranger was early a-foot; for, were the truth
told, the sweet _religieuse_ had spoiled the captain’s sleep. Presently
his host joined him. The morning meal was discussed; and the stranger
reminded Signor Sanchez that he had net forgotten the wager made on the
preceding evening.

“I should be sorry if you had, noble captain, for it would be to me
the loss of a sum in sterling silver, that we traders do not every day
realize so easily.”

“Well, my friend, when is the trial to come off?” was the inquiry.

“The bet shall be speedily decided; and, in one hour hence, the pocket
of one of us will be lighter than it is at present: I could give a
shrewd guess, Captain Ramirez, which of them it will be.”

Half the time wore away, when the essay was to be made; and the stranger
became momentarily more impatient.

“I fancy you may prepare,” said the civilian, “for your interview with
Camilla.”

“What preparations are necessary?” inquired the stranger; “my hat and
sword are on the table.”

“Where they shall peaceably await our return. You must adopt a more
respectable appearance. Doth these gay trappings; and, for the occasion,
pass as my assistant. There is a modest-looking dress at your service,
in the next room; and when you have put it on, the box you are to carry
will be ready.”

In a few minutes the change of costume was completed. Don Juan Sanchez
set out for the admiral’s residence, with a jewel-case under his arm,
and Captain Ramirez, attired like a sober citizen’s attendant, followed
dutifully with another, largely stocked with artificial flowers, and
divers other articles which interest the fair sex. They reached Don
Manuel’s residence, in the Plaza; and the moment Sanchez and his
assistant presented themselves, they were freely admitted, and conducted
to a waiting-room, until their arrival should be formally announced to
the consort of the commander.

“Captain,” said the civilian, in a whisper, “how many dollars would
you give to be off? Your wager’s lost. Well, take some from me, and
I promise you a glorious opportunity. I am the bearer of an emerald
necklace--the young wife will be sufficiently occupied in its
examination: and could you not, in the interim, dispose of some of your
wares to the old man’s daughter?”

“Egad, I’ll try. But, honest Sanchez, I fear I can manage the retail
business but indifferently. I’m in the wholesale line, you know. Here
comes the lady’s page.”

A richly-dressed negro-boy summoned the civilian and his companion to
the presence of Dona Inez. They found her in a magnificent apartment,
resting in luxurious indolence upon a splendid couch, while the lovely
devotee was arranging some beautiful flowers in a crystal vase, in
another corner of the chamber. Sanchez bowed with deferential humility
to the haughty beauty; a civility she scarcely returned; and then,
advancing to the sofa, he presented a casket, with its brilliant
contents, for the inspection of the lofty Doha.

In a moment the attention of the consort of the admiral was enthralled
with the jewellery that this costly casket presented, and frequent
exclamations of her admiration told how ardently she responded to the
commendations of the merchant, as he pointed out the beauty of every
gem.

“Pedro,” said the civilian, “show that box of mine to yonder lady.
Flowers, merely, your excellenza; fit only for young ladies about to be
professed.”

The companion of Juan Sanchez instantly obeyed the order of his
superior; and, crossing the apartment, disclosed the treasure’s of his
box.

“The flowers are pretty,” said the beautiful Camilla with a sigh, “but
I do not require any. They tell me there are enough in the garden of the
convent. Heigh-ho!”

“That wreath, lady, is reckoned beautiful,”--and the companion of
Juan Sanchez selected what lie considered the most valuable of the
collection. “Would you deign to accept--no, no, I mean, would you oblige
me by buying it?”

The fair Camilla gracefully declined the purchase.

“Or that--or this one; any--all.” There never was a more importunate
flower-dealer.

“My friend,” replied the lady, gently, “indeed there is nothing here
that I require. You mistake me; I am destined for a life that forbids
all mortal luxuries. Show these things--and, indeed, some of them are
very beautiful--to yonder lady, my father’s--” she paused, the name was
not a pleasant one to pronounce--“_she_ will probably buy them. I do
not need them; and if I did--but no--down, down, proud heart--” and she
turned aside to hide a tear.

“Nay, lady, accept them; and, in return, repay me with your prayers.”

The intended novice waved her hand, and moved a step or two.

“Stay, lady; stay for one moment. I have a flower here, an empress could
not purchase; let me, pray let me, show it you.”

“Indeed!” said the fair girl, as she turned round.

“It is too precious to entrust within this casket, and therefore I
enshrine it here.”

As he spoke, the stranger took from his bosom a bunch of flowers, and
placed them in Camilla’s hand. Instantly a burning blush rose to her
very brows. A few rapid sentences fell from the stranger’s lips; a
billet was placed softly in no unwilling hand; when the entrance of the
admiral disturbed the course ot love and traffic in which the civilian,
and his excellent companion, were so busily engaged.

“I dare not ask him for so much money to-day,” said Dona Inez, in a
whisper; “but promise me to keep the jewels until Friday, and then come
here.”

The obsequious merchant gave the necessary pledge, and, followed by his
attendant, he made an “humble obeisance,” and quitted the mansion of Don
Manuel de Cordova.

Friday came. Again the visit was repeated: other brilliants had been
added, in the interim, to the rich display that Juan Sanchez had
previously exhibited; and the stranger’s flowers had been replaced
with others of rarer kinds, and more exquisite fragrance. No wonder,
therefore, that both collections were examined with an increased
interest; and, in the wife and daughter of the admiral, that each found
an ardent admirer. At the especial request of the former lady, the final
selection of jewellery was postponed until the following Monday. Camilla
was then to spend that her last day with the world; for the next day was
to witness her private reception into the convent of Saint Agatha, to
prepare herself for the formalities of an immediate profession.

Monday came, and the diamond-merchant presented himself punctually at
Don Manuel’s door. He was alone, and his friend the flower-dealer no
longer accompanied him. He knocked, but admission was refused; and
the porter informed him, that his lady declined that day receiving any
visitors. There was a strange confusion visible through the whole of
the admiral’s establishment; and servants hurried to and fro, with
an anxiety apparent in their looks, like that of men to whom some
surprising occurrence had been recently made known. In a few hours,
the cause of this commotion was whispered over the city, and created
universal astonishment. The admiral’s fair daughter, Camilla, who in
a few days was to have become the betrothed of Heaven, had, on the
preceding night, eloped from her father’s mansion, and not a trace
of the beautiful fugitive eould be discovered. The day passed, and no
tidings were heard of the lost one: and the most extensive inquiries
produced but little information. It was ascertained that a fishing-canoe
had observed a felucca cross the bar, and, at an unusual time of tide,
stand out to sea--and a stranger, whose brilliant appearance occasioned
a sensation in the city, had suddenly departed from the hotel where
he lodged, accompanied by his black domestic. Months succeeded
days--Camilla was never heard of; and many and marvellous were the
surmises as to the means and manner, by which the lovely daughter of Don
Manuel de Cordova had been so mysteriously spirited away.

Three years slipped away. Don Manuel de Cordova was gathered to his
fathers; and after the briefest period of mourning, which a decent
respect to the memory of one who had bequeathed her his whole fortune,
would allow, the young relict had bestowed her widowed hand on a wild
and dissipated grandee. Of the lost Camilla no tidings were ever heard,
and her strange disappearance remained as much a mystery as it was on
the morning after it occurred.

Another event had caused immense joy along the coast. A celebrated
rover, which for years had infested the neighbouring seas, had been
driven on shore and destroyed by an English cruiser. Indeed it was full
time that the Flambeau’s predatory career should be terminated. While
she had continued under the command of a person who called himself
Ramirez, her spoliations were restricted to what is considered allowable
to vessels occupied in free trading, and no acts of violence had ever
been permitted. But for some unknown cause that captain had mysteriously
disappeared, and under his successor, the rover became a regular
pirate; and, from the extent of her depredations, her destruction became
indispensable. In effecting this, most of her lawless crew had fallen,
and the remainder were driven into the woods, where, as it was hoped and
expected, they would be speedily arrested and brought to that justice
which so long they had managed to evade.

In one of those sweet glades which are found occasionally in the
pathless forests of the south, aud show, amid the interminable extent of
dank weeds and underwood by which they are environed, like an oasis in
the desert, the summer residence of a wealthy planter had been erected.
The front verandah of the building opened on a piece of open land, which
stretched its green and velvet-looking surface gently downwards, until
it rested on the bank of one of those deep inlets which debouch into the
mighty rivers that intersect the southern portion of America; while
the rear of this romantic retreat was overhung by woods composed of
the noblest trees the earth produces, and in every variety of tint and
foliage. The house itself was of slight construction, and designed only
for temporary habitation; for, like other proprietors of opulence, the
owner possessed a splendid mansion in a seaport some fifty leagues lower
down the river; a place better suited, both from comfort and society, to
form a permanent residence; and his visits to this distant estate were
merely for the purpose of superintending a numerous gang of negroes
engaged in felling hard woods, and in enjoying the amusements of hunting
and shooting, which boundless forests and prairies abundantly afforded.
All in and about this rustic abode evidenced both wealth and taste,
and presented every elegance and luxury that was adapted to a tropic
climate.

It was a warm and lovely night; the musquito curtains were closed, and
in a very elegant saloon the owner of this sporting-lodge and his family
might hwe been discovered.

A sweeter scene of domestic repose could never hwe been selected by a
painter than the group within exhibited. A man, stout, handsome, and
in the flower of life, had his dark eyes fixed, with pride mingled with
affection, upon a female younger than himself by at least a dozen years.
Nothing could be lovelier than the beautiful countenance he looked upon,
as hanging over a sleeping child that rested in her lap, a mother’s
looks of love were bent upon her slumbering treasure. Behind the lady’s
chair, a tall finely-proportioned negro was standing with a silver
salver, on which were fruits and wine; while a beautiful Chilleno girl
waited at her mistress’ side, to receive her sleeping charge. Presently
the infant was committed to its nurse’s arms. The negro placed his
refreshments on the table, and, with the fair Chilleno, immediately
quitted the apartment, leaving the planter and his lovely wife to the
society of each other.

The lady rose and looked out from the lattice on the lawn, and as she
crossed the chamber the grace of her figure was displayed. It boasted
no longer the airy elegance of girlish symmetry: the flower was in its
bloom--the form exhibited womanly maturity; and it was apparent that
her’s was that endearing situation, which doubly claims a husband’s
tenderest care.

Evening had changed to midnight; not a breath of wind rustled the lewes,
or rippled the glassy surface of the river. All were asleep but the
guilty; and yet, at that lone hour, a group of men were circled round
a fire beside a sandy cove, on which a boat was drawn ashore. They were
all armed; and while some were preparing supper, others kept a vigilant
look out. They had the air and appearance of wild and desperate men; and
their conversation, maintained in that low tone which evinces suspicion,
confirmed their lawless character.

“What an infernal accident,” said one of the rovers, “to run her smack
upon a sunken rock, and lose the vessel after boasting that he knew
every creek and cove from Chiloe to Cape Francisco.”

“He’ll never lose another,” observed a second scoundrel, coolly. “But
Gaspard is over ready with his pistol. Before the schooner’s copper
had scraped the coral a second time, Diego was dead as a mackarel. Poor
devil!--the skipper allowed no time for explanations.”

“Ay, and the captain was right,” observed a truculent ruffian, whose
features were scarcely visible from the matted covering of coal-black
hair, which hid them from chin to forehead. “I’m half sorry, too, that
we lost the blundering fool--he didn’t mean it after all. There’s
but a handful of the old Flambeaus left, and one now-a-days can’t trust
to strangers.”

“What a lucky craft that old Flambeau was,” said the first speaker: “her
equal for success, in Captain Ramirez’ time, was never known. And then
he kept all so nicely out of trouble; and though men grumbled at him now
and then, why, in the long-run, he proved a wise-one. He valued no flag
but one; and a yard of British bunting was a vessel’s full security. If
we met an English trader short of water, why he supplied it freely; were
provisions wanted, he put us on short allowance, and divided to the last
biscuit with the starving crew. Well, the first ship--French, Dutch,
or Spaniard, Portuguese or Dane--we met with afterwards, he made up
the loss--ay, and helped himself to a double quantity, because he had
succoured the distressed. Well, the foreigner probably complained to
the first broad pennant, when he reached a harbour, when in dropped a
disabled ship to tell that in her distress she had got all she wanted
from the Flambeau. Had the gallant Ramirez remained, the finest schooner
that ever crossed the line would be as she used to be, breasting the
waters like a sea-gull. See what fell out: Gaspard couldn’t stand
temptation, but must fall foul of a rich Jamaica-man,--and in a month a
clipper sloop is dispatched to regularly run us down; and sticks to
us like a bloodhound, until, like our namesake, we were regularly
extinguished. Ah! poor Flambeau!”

“It’s all true. We never knew the old captain’s loss, till after we had
got a new one; and many’s the time Gaspard has heard that told him,
when he didn’t like it. But where has he wandered to? He’s full an hour
away.”

“He’s not lost, however; for see, he comes along the cove.” Of all that
lawless company, assembled round a midnight fire, the new comer looked
the greatest ruffian.

“How now,” he said, assuming an air and tone of command, “is supper
ready yet? There’s no great cooking required, Master Sambo,” said
he, addressing a mulatto who appeared to be the cook; “scanty fare at
present, lads--fish, fish, fish! No matter; better luck again. Come,
let’s have it as it is. Step to the boat, Soto, and bring us that runlet
of Hollands. Curses on that stupid scoundrel, who, with plenty of sea
room and smooth water, lost a vessel so foolishly!”

“He paid for his mistake upon the spot: you’re clear with him, captain,”
 growled another ruffian.

“Ay, were he my brother, he should have fared no better. But, come, my
lads, eat, drink, and bless the saints afterwards, for giving you the
commander you have.”

“I wish,” said another rover, “we could rather persuade them to mend our
fare a little. Nothing but river fish--one worse than another, and the
best not fit for a nigger’s banyan day. I fancy we’ll fare still worse;
the vessel gone, and not a chance of getting another! What the devil
could have brought us here? Toiling at the oars for a hundred miles up
a river, where nothing could be met with but timber rafting down the
stream. Pish! a pretty way to lose a schooner. I say, what drove us
here?”

“Silence!” said the captain; “and I’ll tell you.”

“I wish you would,” returned the other, in a mutinous tone.

“Revenge!” was the stern reply; “revenge and plunder!”

“Revenge sounds well enough,” returned the former speaker, “and plunder
better still. But on whom have we any cause of vengeance, fifty leagues
from ocean? ‘Who are we to find here, among mango trees and cockatoos?
And as to plunder, there’s nothing to be picked up but drift wood; and
there’s a chance---a raft floating down the river, and only a brace of
niggers guarding it!” and the fellow laughed in derision.

“Peace,” roared the captain, sternly. “Pass the runlet; and at its third
round, I’ll tell you why we came.”

“Is Dutch courage required to-night, captain, that we must be drunk, or
half-seas over, before you tell us what brought us here?”

“By Heaven! Juan, you will drive me further than I wish,” and the
captain laid his hand upon a pistol.

“Hold! hold!” exclaimed half-a-dozen voices; “no more of that to-night.
No use in mincing matters; the schooner’s sunk, and what are we to
do?--keep here, and rob fishing canoes, as we did to-night, to furnish
out a rascally existence? or seek the bush at once, and band ourselves
with nigger runaways? Captain, it won’t do.”

“Hear me, men,” exclaimed the captain, passionately. “‘Tis true the
vessel’s gone: well, that’s no fault of mine; but for the plan--revenge
and plunder. Don’t they sound well together?”

“Ay; let’s hear it,” said a rover.

“You all remember Ramirez?”

“Ay, ay,” was generally responded.

“You thought him--”

An outbreak from the band prevented the captain from finishing the
sentence.

“Ramirez,” said the man whose face was ensconced in hair, “was the best
commander that I--and I’m twelve years in the free trade--ever sailed
under; ay, or ever will.”

“In action, cool as a cucumber,” rejoined a second.

“And,” added a third, “in real danger, fierce as a wild cat; and with
all his wits about him, too.”

“Night nor day, I never saw him disguised in liquor,” observed another,
who was so particularly drunk, that he could barely articulate. “You
might trust him with uncounted gold--”

“And to his ship’s company,” added a sixth, winding up the eulogium,
“he was true as needle to the north.”

“Well, comrades,” said the captain, moodily, “I’ll allow that Ramirez
was a good commander, an able seaman, stout leader, capital hand at a
pinch, slept always with his starboard eye open; but he was--” and he
paused.

“What?” cried a dozen voices.

“The falsest villain that ever betrayed a gallant crew!”

“No, no, no,” was repeated by a dozen voices.

“I’ll give you proof positive. He disappeared; but none of you could
tell, or even guess, the wealth he carried with him. None suspected him;
for all of you thought him a nonesuch. Well, what was he all along?
why, nothing more nor less than a hired spy. He gave the cruisers secret
information of all that passed in every port we entered as free traders;
and, in return, they never looked after him. Well, he got blown on the
coast at last; and, when he could no longer carry on the game, he left
the Flambeau to her fate. And how long after he had deserted ship and
comrades was it before the British bull-dogs were let loose upon the
sweetest schooner that ever swam the sea?”

“Ay, ay, captain,” observed a rover, “that’s all well enough; but
recollect, that in the time of Captain Ramirez, men never walked the
plank; nor did he, like a common ass, make free with English bunting,
and put his hand upon the lion’s mane. If a doubtful sail appeared in
the gulph, why an English merchantman would run under the Flambeau’s
stern for protection; and, there’s no use talking, Captain Ramirez
stood so high with every skipper in these seas, that, d----n me, were he
sentenced to be hanged, I think they’d hardly get men enough in a whole
ship’s company, to man the fall that sent him to the fore-yard. No,
no; he never intentionally left the schooner. Poor dear soul!--he was
murdered, and that’s my opinion.”

A dozen voices answered in a willing affirmative.

“Dolts and madmen!” shouted the captain; “he lives! ay, lives! Why stare
ye thus, like fools?--Ay, lives in luxury and splendour: the richest
planter in the province; the highest among the high; and all bought by
what?--falsehood, and deep, deep treachery!”

“Impossible!” exclaimed the rovers.

“True, by the light of heaven!” returned the pirate chief. “He lives;
ay, and is sleeping at his ease--wealth around him, and beauty in his
arms--not half a league from the very spot I stand on.”

“Captain Ramirez alive, and wealthy, and within cannon-shot?”

“If Captain Ramirez be not, there’s one that will answer just as well,
although he has dropped a former title, and taken the plainer one of
Hartley.”

“Come, captain, no riddles, if you please; we’re plain seamen, and can
only understand a plain story. If Ramirez is alive, and as you have
described him, why, all you said against him must be true. Men neither
come back from the grwe, nor do they pick up doubloons in the woods,
like hiccory nuts. If your tale be true, Ramirez is a traitor and a
rogue; and, were there no other hand to do the job, I’d row a hundred
leagues for the mere pleasure of cutting the throat of scoundrel that
sold us all.”

“Juan, the right pluck is in thee still,” returned Gaspard, with a smile
of demoniac satisfaction. “What say ye all, lads?”

“Why, that he who wouldn’t do as honest Juan says, has no manhood in
him,” responded a rover.

“Come, pass the good liquor round, and then for booty and revenge!” From
hand to hand the runlet passed, until the contents were drained to the
very bottom. Maddened by ardent spirits, burning under the belief of
having been betrayed, and excited by the hope of plunder, the ferocious
band prepared for violence and bloodshed. Their arms were examined; the
simple plan of attack explained by the ruffian leader, who had already
reconnoitred the dwelling of his intended victim; the boat was carefully
drawn up, and hidden in the tall reeds which fringed the river’s bank;
water carried from the stream, and flung on the red embers of the fire;
and, in Indian files, one after another, the ruffians took a narrow
path cut through the tangled underwood, and followed their truculent
commander.

Did no eye, save that which looks alike on innocence and guilt, observe
them? Yes; the slwe, whose canoe they had despoiled, directed by the
fire, had traced the marauders, and, concealed in the thick brushwood,
overheard their plans of murder. While making their final preparations,
the negro glided through the coppice like a snake, and ran, at headlong
speed, to alarm his devoted master. He reached the dwelling safely; but
it was to alarm, and not to save!

The planter’s country-house was wrapped in night and silence; the lights
were extinguished, and the inmates buried in deep repose. From the lord
to the serf, all felt the influence of that peaceful hour; and in the
woods where he had toiled all day, the negro slept in his wigwam as
soundly as his master; for, as the Indian adage goes,

               The lightest heart has ever the heaviest eye-lid.”

At that still hour, a dusky figure stole underneath the verandah of
the planter’s house, and sought a window in the rear. Twice, he tapped
gently on the lattice; the third time, the sound was sharper--and it
was heard and answered. To a person within, the negro communicated some
intelligence, and the next moment a door was cautiously unclosed, and
the late visitor admitted.

Whatever the tidings were, which this untimely messenger had brought,
they seemed to have created an unusual sensation. From window to window
lights flashed rapidly, and human figures flitted to and fro. But the
alarm as speedily subsided; the lights disappeared; and darkness,
denser apparently than before, returned; and the ominous silence that
succeeded, rendered the recent hurry the more remarkable.

The interval of this singular repose was brief--it was but a treacherous
calm. Armed men issued quietly from the cover of the woods, and,
halting at a little distance from the sleeping house, they held a rapid
consultation. Presently, dividing into two bodies, they approached the
planter’s dwelling. One moved stealthily to the front--the other as
cautiously stole round the rear. The marauders calculated upon effecting
a surprise, but the negro fisherman had warned the inmates of their
danger; and on the first attempt to force an entrance, a double
discharge from a lower-lattice stretched two of the assailants on the
ground; while, in the rear, the attack proved equally disastrous.

It might hwe been expected, that, astounded at a sanguinary and
unexpected repulse, the villains would have abandoned their design. But,
desperate men, they brought with them desperate means, and, at the order
of their leader, they flung lighted combustibles into the thatch which
covered the edifice; and retiring for shelter behind the nearest trees,
maintained a fusilade upon the house, and waited with demoniac patience
the rapid progress of fire--their terrible auxiliary.

In a few minutes the roof was in a blaze, and the upper story,
constructed entirely of wood-work, caught fire. Coolly the murderous
ruffians watched the flames as they enveloped the edifice from front to
rear; and assured of the result, they watched the crisis with fiendish
pleasure.

It came:--all--above, below--the building was sheeted in fire. Suddenly,
the negroes broke out from the blazing pile, and rushed towards the
woods for safety. Two male slaves were instantly shot down--the others
effected their escape.

“Now, lads, look sharp,” roared the demon leader of the gang; “the
traitor will bolt immediately. No mercy for Ramirez!”

The words were scarcely uttered before a white man, only half-dressed,
and bearing a female in his arms, sprang from the burning ruins,
followed closely by a tall powerful negro, with a bundle grasped by his
left arm, and a cutlas flaming in his right hand. The leader dashed past
the trees where the murderers had taken their stand, at headlong speed,
apparently as little embarrassed with the female form he carried, as if
his burden were an infant. The negro kept directly in his master’s rear.
A yell arose: half a dozen shots were discharged--but not a bullet found
its mark.

“By Heaven! the villain will escape us!” roared the pirate-captain,
rushing from his concealment in pursuit. Another of the gang had already
crossed his path, but the fugitive discharged a pistol, and shot the
assailant dead. The occurrence caused a moment’s delay. It was a fatal
one: for Gaspard overtook his intended victim, and struck fiercely at
him with a dagger. It missed the heart it aimed at, but found a sheath
in the bosom of her whom the fugitive supported; and before a surer blow
could be delivered, with one trenchant sweep the negro’s cutlass cleft
the villain to the chin. The wood was gained--the fugitive believing
that he held a living body in his arms! Alas! that precious burden was
only a breathless corpse!

That was the last effort of the murderers. A gang of wood-cutters,
alarmed by the blaze and firing, had hurried to their master’s domicile,
while the murderous crew, eight in number, retreated to the woods; and
for that time, darkness and a tangled copse concealed them.

They tell me that for an hour I gazed on the loved one in stupid
indifference. I can believe it well: the blow was stunning. Not a slave
ventured to approach me; for even their dull natures respected the
berewement this terrible calamity had brought on. Gradually Dominique
placed himself before me, holding my infant in his right arm; for the
left that clasped it when we broke from the burning pile, had been
wounded by a random bullet.

“What would you, Dominique?” I inquired, in tones of deep despondency.

“Vengeance!” exclaimed the negro, in a voice of thunder. “Leave to
woman’s hands the duties owing to the dead, and let us together hunt
down the murderers. Vengeance! vengeance!”

The voice of my faithful follower changed at once the current of my
thoughts. I raised myself, looked proudly round, and called for food
and wine. I ate bread--‘twas a form; I drank wine--that was reality.
I seized my rifle, dagger, pistols; Dominique armed the hardiest of my
slaves; and, before the sun rose, we set out to visit blood for blood.

I was absent for three days and nights. I started warmly on the
death-chase, and never was one more keenly followed up. I seemed
insensible to fatigue--heat, hunger, thirst were disregarded.
Of five-and-twenty vigorous axe-men, accustomed from infancy to
forest-life, by the second evening eighteen were worn out, and unable to
proceed; and yet I and Dominique--and he with a wounded arm--pursued the
traces of the murderers with unabated ardour. I ate not, slept not, but
drank brandy and shed blood. Seven of the eight had already perished;
but that eighth one lived; and without that ruffian’s life, my vengeance
was incomplete. On we went once more, and the human hunt continued.

We found the wretch, at last, stretched beneath a tree--worn down,
impassive, unresisting. I drew a pistol from my belt--looked at the
doomed one for a moment. Three had fallen, resisting, by my hand: as
many more by Dominique’s.

“No,” I said, as I replaced the weapon; “desire the slaves to
string that felon up; thou and I, my friend, cannot stoop to be his
executioners!”

I returned--witnessed the obsequies of my wife. That scene was too much
for one already excited by maddening influences; my senses wandered--and
memory deserts me.

Along, long gloomy epoch follows--ten years; long, long years! Mine was
a melancholy state of being; for they neither could call me mad, nor yet
pronounce me sane. My child was placed in a neighbouring convent:
she grew--was happy; and became, as the nuns averred, the favourite
_pensionnaire_ of a dozen. I saw her seldom; for when I did, the
striking likeness between her and her angel-mother for days unsettled
reason. Meanwhile, worldly events went prosperously; and, Heaven knows,
without the slightest wish to increase possessions already more than
enough to defray every desire and want, still wealth flowed in upon me;
and, in the list of rich Chilian proprietors, my name stood high.

There was one period of the year when my reason was invariably
disturbed; the anniversary of Camilla’s murder. The whole of the events
attendant on that frightful tragedy came back to memory; and the scene
was vivid to the imagination as if it were really being again enacted.
All was before my eyes--darkness and fire; slaughter; the death chase;
the funeral; and then insanity closed the fearful drama. The domestics
were always prepared for this awful season; and Dominique remained with
me like my shadow.

It chanced that a week before this sad anniversary, an English botanist
passed a country-house, where I was for the time residing, and, stopping
with me as a guest, he observed the gloom and depression of my manner.
Having delicately inquired the cause, and made himself master of all the
circumstances connected with the appalling visitation which I expected
in another week, he asked permission to remain. This was granted,--and,
directing his attention to the peculiar symptoms of my disease, he at
once pronounced it curable. This bold assertion startled my household,
who, for ten years, had witnessed the annual return of my insanity, and
always accompanied, as it was, with unabated violence. But he
seemed confident; and I felt a secret assurance that, through the
instrumentality of this man’s skill, Heaven’s mercy was about to
be extended to me, and that blest gift, reason, would be eventually
restored. I placed myself, and all upon my establishment, during the
approaching period of my mental aberration, under the absolute direction
of the stranger.

I was not deceived; and the result proved that I had calculated soundly
on the ability and experience of my unknown visitor. Dreading that it
might increase my excitement, the Chilleno doctors had inhibited the
visits of my child. The Englishman adopted a different course: Isidora
was sent for from the convent, and she ministered to a mind diseased
and the soft influence of filial love, like the melody of David’s harp,
effected a gentle cure, and soothed into tranquillity a spirit for so
many years perturbed.

By the stranger’s advice, I determined to quit the country, and return
to my native land. I disposed of my estates, transmitted my fortune
safely to England; and, with a dearer treasure far, my gentle Isidora,
sailed for the island-home of freedom, and landed on my native shores,
after having been a wanderer and alien for one-and-twenty years.

A long absence had rendered European manners strange; and, for a time,
I felt myself unequal to the novel task which a return to England had
imposed, that of mingling in society. For two years, Isidora and I
wandered through every portion of the British islands, for the Continent
was then closed against the traveller. Time, change of scene, and the
constant presence of my darling child, effected a mental cure, and
verified the assurances given me in South America by my able physician,
that my recovery would be permanent. I wished at least to have the
semblance of a home, although the very name recalled my past calamities;
and, in order that I might fall back, when wearied with the world, on a
retirement congenial to my fancy, I purchased that wild retreat in
which our first acquaintance was so singularly formed. Thither, I have
occasionally retired to enjoy solitude and my child’s society. Ours,
indeed, seemed stolen visits on the world,--and we both felt that calm
pleasure only to be estimated by those who hwe lived for each other
and alone, when, like wild birds to their nest, we sought and found the
peaceful seclusion which our mountain home afforded.

Your visit, Hector, rekindled feelings long suppressed, and spurred me
to exertions that, probably, under other circumstances, I should hwe
wanted nerve to undertake. Strange as it may appear, for several years
I watched your progress into manhood. The first impressions when we met
were favourable; and a more extended acquaintance has corroborated them.
For your sake, and for Isidora’s, I have sacrificed my own yearnings
after solitude, and come upon the stage of life anew. My existence is
unknown; my errand unsuspected. Should I succeed in my present objects,
a noble inheritance shall be restored to the rightful heir; and should I
fail, I have a consolation left, in feeling that I have fortune’s gifts
at my disposal, and amply sufficient, so far as wealth can confer peace
and independence, to ensure both to my children. You mark the term--Can
he to whom Isidora’s happiness is to be confided be aught but a son to
me?”

The record of an eventful life was ended; and I bound those documents
together, the perusal of which had occasioned an intense but painful
interest. It was long past midnight. At day-light it was necessary that
I should be stirring; and I retired to bed, to snatch a few hours of
repose.

I was still asleep when a gentle touch upon the shoulder dispelled my
uneasy slumbers, and the faithful follower of my uncle’s fortunes told
me it was time to dress, and that the camarados of my intended voyage
and campaigns were afoot, and waiting in the court-yard. Indeed, the
ratcatcher’s presence was intimated already--for in perfect indifference
as to what might be the complexion of our future fortune, Shemus Rhua
was croning an Irish ditty. I dressed by candlelight, descended to the
eating-room, and there found “mine honoured uncle.” Alas--Isidora was
not there to say farewell. She slept, poor girl, little dreaming that
we had already parted; and that many a month and stormy passage in a
soldier’s life must wear away, before I should be permitted to return
and claim her plighted hand.

“Hector,” said my uncle, with a sigh, as he received the papers he had
entrusted to me, and immediately committed them to the fire, “you
are now in full possession of every secret of my life. ‘Tis done--the
disclosure is made--and I have nothing either to communicate or conceal.
No more of this; the clock chimes,--and our hour of parting hurries on.
I am going to deprive you of a follower, provided you can dispense with
the services of Captain Macgreal, and that he is willing to transfer
his allegiance to me. Pray step down; and if the ratcatcher has no
particular objection, let me have his valuable assistance till you
return. ‘Strange fortunes produce strange bedfellows,’ a proverb says;
and singular positions require as singular agents. Odd as it may appear,
in the tangled web I shall have to unravel, I may be beholden for
success to that wild woman who seems devoted to your interests, or
this wandering personage, who appeal’s equally attached, and willing to
follow where you lead.”

A brief communication with Shemus Rhua effected my uncle’s wish; and the
ratcatcher placed his services at the disposal of Mr. Hartley. Sooth
to say, the captain’s previous experience of a martial life had left no
craving in his breast after “the bubble reputation.”

Nothing could be more picturesque than the departure of the fleet
from Portsmouth; and years afterwards, memory recalled the poet’s
description, and I could have imagined that Byron had been a
fellow-passenger. The morning was brilliant. The signal gun was
answered. All were immediately under way.

                        “I ween, a full fair sight;

               When the fresh breeze was fair as breeze can be,

               The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight,

               Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right,

               The glorious main expanding o’er the bow,

               The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight,

               The dullest sailor wearing bravely now;

          So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow.”

Shall I confess the truth? Never did an Irish cadet start for a scene
of glory with less enthusiasm. In the retirement of my father’s house,
every newspaper that arrived had brought with it fresh details of
British victory,--and I longed, like another Norval, “to follow to the
field” any honest gentleman who would hwe taken the trouble to show me
the shortest way of getting a quietus--miscalled, the road to glory. A
few months had, however, wrought a marvellous alteration; and but for
the shame of the thing, I verily believe, I should hwe exchanged with
some Captain Bailey of the day, and, without requiring “the difference,”
 forsworn the trade of arms, excepting the bloodless duty appertaining to
country quarters.

Now I was regularly committed. The dullest spirit would catch a noble
impulse. The fields of Roliça, Busaco, and Salamanca rose in glorious
recollection; another feeling succeeded the regret attendant on a first
separation from the object of a first love; and, before the second sun
went down, I should hwe scorned an ignoble return, until “with war’s
red honours on my crest,” I could hwe proudly claimed my affianced one.
Speedily the true mercurial temperament of the Green island returned. I
joined the reckless merriment of all around: we drank, and laughed, and
sang. Nothing could be more prosperous than the voyage.

               “On, on the vessel flies; the land is gone,

               And winds are rude in Biscay’s sleepless bay.

               ‘Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon,

               New shores descried make every bosom gay;

               And Cintra’s mountain greets them on their way;

               And Tagus dashing onward to the deep,

               His fabled golden tribute bent to pay;

               And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,

          And steer ‘twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap.”

On the sixth evening we disembarked at Belem; and with my foster
brother, Mark Antony O’Toole, I sprang from the frigate’s launch,
and, for the first time, set foot on that scene of British glory--the
Peninsula.



CHAPTER XXVII. I JOIN THE CANTONMENTS OF THE ALLIED ARMY--LIEUTENANT
CROTTY’S INTERVIEW WITH LORD WELLINGTON.



               “Sir James. Surely you exaggerate a little?

               Papillon. Yes--yes, this interview will sink him.

               Young Wilding. True to the letter, upon my honour.”

“Why he will tell you more lies in an hour than all the circulating
libraries put together will publish in a year.”--The Liar.

|I had scarcely landed when I received the unwelcome intelligence
that General ----------, to whose staff I had been appointed, had been
wounded on the retreat from Burgos, and in consequence obliged to resign
his command, and return to England invalided. I felt the disappointment
severely--but as the corps that I had previously exchanged into was at
Valencia, with the Anglo-Sicilian army there collected, much as I
should have desired “to follow to the field” the victor of Salamanca,
I determined to join my regiment without delay, and “flesh my maiden
sword” the ensuing campaign, under the colours of the old and honourable
Twenty-seventh. Ignorant of the route by which I could cross the country
to the eastern coast of Spain, and anxious to see that gallant army
under whose conquering banners I had anticipated a glorious opening to
my career in arms, after a three days’ sojourn in Lisbon, I left that
city of filth and splendour in company with half a dozen officers
_en route_ to join their respective battalions--some, in return from
leave--and others, like myself, to smell powder for the first time.
A captain of an Irish regiment was of the party. He was a gay,
honest-hearted, blundering countryman; and from the graphic sketches
D’Arcy gwe me on the road of all attached to the battalion I was about
to join, from the junior Ensign of sixteen, to the old stiff-backed
Colonel of sixty, I became so familiar with the corps, that I almost
fancied at first sight I could have placed my hand on every head, and
identified the individual--and, on the evening when we entered the
encampment of the regiment, I felt perfectly at home, and entered the
rude mess-room as much at ease, as if, after a temporary absence, I was
merely returning to join some old acquaintances.

It was a memorable epoch in the military history of Britain, when, early
in the second week of February, 1813, I found myself in the cantonments
of the fourth division on the banks of the Agueda. Like all sublunary
affairs, war has its season of repose; and those mighty masses of armed
men, who but a few months before had stood in threatening array in
presence of each other, were separated by mutual consent to recover
their losses and fatigues, and prepare for renewed exertions. Each had
selected that portion of the country best adapted for obtaining supplies
and reinforcements. The allied infantry were cantoned generally on the
Agueda and Douro--with their cavalry in the valley of the Moudego,
and round Moncorbo. One Spanish corps passed the winter in Gallicia,
a second in Estremadura, and a third garrisoned Ciudad Rodrigo. Of the
French armies, the head quarters of the northern was at Valladolid; the
southern at Toledo; and those of the centre, including King Joseph and
his guards, were established at Segovia. In military circumstances, the
rival armies found themselves, at the end of the preceding autumn, in
a position similar to that of men who have fought a battle in which
neither have come off conqueror. Both had sustained enormous losses
without countervailing advantages; and each required its casualties
to be replaced, and its discipline restored. At the opening of the
campaign, fortune went as heavily against the enemy, as it did against
the allies at the close. From the 18th of July, when the French passed
the Douro, until they recrossed it on the 30th, their loss might have
been set down at fifteen thousand men, and the allies at about a third
of that number. While, from the time when Lord Wellington broke ground
before Burgos, until he halted on the banks of the Huebra, in retreat,
chiefly from drunkenness and military irregularity, eight thousand of
the allies were rendered _hors de combat_.

No wonder therefore that to both armies, winter presented a seasonable
period of repose, and that both willingly accepted it. Nearly one third
of his army were in hospital, and hence Lord Wellington deemed that rest
for it was indispensable. Nor could his opponents avail themselves of
this weakness, and continue active operations, for the French supplies
were insecure, and their bases of operation disturbed by Partida bands,
which were every where swarming on their flanks and in their rear.
Indeed each army dreaded that the other would resume hostilities; and
when a report prevailed that Soult, who was upon the Upper Tonnes,
meditated an invasion of Portugal by the valley of the Tagus, and
Wellington had, accordingly, removed the boat bridges at Almarez and
Arzobispo, the French, equally afraid that the allies might cross the
river, destroyed all means of passage at other points which the English
general had overlooked as unnecessary.

Such was the military position of the allies in the field--one that,
abroad, rendered the question of ulterior success an uncertainty;
while at home, the failure before Burgos renewed loud expressions
of discontent, which the brilliant opening of the late campaign had
partially subdued. England was divided into two great sections; one
party advocating the necessity of continuing the Spanish war, and
another decrying it as a ruinous experiment. What Salamanca had effected
in establishing the policy of maintaining the struggle on the Peninsula,
the retreat to the Agueda had undone; and the balance of public opinion
respecting the expediency of abandoning the contest in Spain was
restored. “The ministerial party had expected far too much, and
consequently their disappointment was proportionate: the opposition had
raised the wolf-cry until the country had ceased to dread it; and they
caught desperately at what proved a last pretext, to reiterate their
denunciations, and abuse him who conducted, and those who planned
the war. Ministers were denounced for continuing the contest, and for
starving it--Lord Wellington both for inactivity and for rashness--for
doing too little and too much” *--for wasting time at Madrid, and
for attempting a siege with means so inadequate, that nothing but an
enormous expenditure of blood could possibly obtain success.

     * Maxwell’s Life of Wellington,

But to the clamour of party and the calumny of faction, he, since
happily surnamed “The Iron Duke,” turned an indifferent ear; and the
same proud feeling that on the heights of Guinaldo had sustained him,
when a less assured courage might have faltered, enabled him now to
regard the malice of political opponents with contempt; and, perfectly
undisturbed, to direct the energies of a master-mind to the completion
of those great means by which alone a great end could be accomplished.
Profiting by past experience, the internal economy of the army
underwent a sweeping reformation. Abuses were sought for, detected, and
removed--every hospital was cleared of men who feigned illness to evade
duty--and from every depot idlers were driven back to the columns
they had abandoned. Supplies came liberally from England, proving the
illimitable resources of the island-home of freedom; and the great
captain of the age was thus enabled to organize the most splendid force
that ever took the field--one, so perfect in every arm, as to warrant
its constructor, years afterwards, when the greater number of those
gallant spirits who had composed it were sleeping in the grave, to make
the proud and proven boast--that “with that army which had crossed
the Pyrenees, he could do any thing and go any where.” No wonder that
brilliant era of his life is still readied in cherished remembrance by
the old Peninsular; and as, deed after deed, he details the conquering
career of that matchless host, with which he crossed the Agueda to halt
only on the banks of the Garonne, he may raise his head with military
pride, and exclaim, “Pars fui!”

Of two hundred thousand men under the direct command of Lord Wellington,
the Anglo-Portuguese, amounting nearly to seventy-five thousand bayonets
and sabres, were the flower. From the first moment of the Peninsular
contest, the British infantry had established its superiority; and now
the cwalry and artillery were superb. Every thing required for field
service had been skilfully provided. A fine pontoon train accompanied
the army, and ambulances were provided for the accommodation of the sick
and wounded. Other means to increase his comforts were also afforded to
the soldier; and, for the first time, tents were supplied for shelter
in the field, while the cumbrous camp-kettle was replaced with others
of smaller size, and lighter material, as better adapted for all the
purposes of campaigning.

During the suspension of active operations on both sides, and while the
French and Allied armies were quiet in their respective cantonments,
that restless enemy, the Partida bands, were busily employed. Longa, in
the vicinity of Burgos, was actively engaged in harassing the marauding
parties of the enemy, interrupting their communications, and surprising
their detached posts; while Hina, in Arragon and Navarre, carried on a
desultory warfare with equal success. Another less celebrated but not
less active leader was “the Friar,” (El Frayle,) who, with a numerous
band admirably organized, kept Valencia in confusion. Indeed, the
Guerillas had now become as formidable in numbers as they had ever been
audacious in their mode of warfare. No longer confining their operations
to the cutting off of foraging parties and the interception of convoys,
they fell upon strong detachments, and almost invariably with success;
until at last no courier could pass the roads, nor even a battalion
of seven hundred men move from one garrison to another, without the
protection of an escort. Such was the military attitude of Spain when I
joined the fourth division.

In a dilapidated farm-house I found my future companions in arms seated
at a comfortable dinner, although a stranger looking mess room was never
occupied by gentlemen of the sword. It had been the grand apartment of
the dwelling of a farm proprietor; the house was generally in ruins,
but this wing had been judiciously selected for the _symposia_ of the
gallant Twentieth, inasmuch as the roof was nearly weather-fast. The
table was a collection of old doors placed upon temporary supporters;
and as every member of the body politic furnished his own conveniency of
sitting at “the board,” the especial method of accommodation depended
on the ability or fancy of the individual. Some, in superior luxury,
had deposited their persons on a camp-stool, while others were contented
with a block of wood, a basket, or a broken arm chest. The table
appointments were not unique, for every person found his own; and
nothing was held in common property save the viands and the wine.

But a lighter-hearted community than the gallant Twentieth could not
have been discovered. The hardships of the retreat to the Huebra were
still in vivid recollection; and now, anticipating similar privations,
but attended by more glorious results, the present was their only care;
and over the head of the master of the revels the apposite motto “_Carpe
diem!_” had been inscribed with a burnt cork. Heralded by my loving
countryman, I was introduced in terms of commendation that brought
the colour to my cheek. I received, consequently, a warm and soldierly
reception; and before I retired to a shake-down offered me for the night
in the tent of the junior major, I called every man by an abbreviated
name--or, at least, as many of the batch as a memory, slightly
obfuscated, could manage to remember.

“Upon my sowl!” observed a short and snub-nosed captain, with an accent
redolent of “the far west,” “that’s dacent wine; and the divil that
brings it should be encouraged.--Here’s your health, O’Halloran; and
in return you’ll call me Philbin, if you plase;--and now that the owld
colonel’s gone, may I live to see you senior captain of the regiment,
and then I know who’ll command it,--and that’s myself.”

To this delicate and disinterested compliment, I replied in suitable
terms.

“And what the devil keeps Peter Crotty?” inquired a second.

Ignorant of the occasion of his absence, I inquired the causes from my
quondam friend, and learned that the absent gentleman had gone up to
head-quarters with certain regimental returns; and that his reappearance
had been eagerly expected, to ascertain what reliance might be placed
in the rumoured intelligence that an earlier commencement of field
operations might be looked for than the season could be supposed to
warrant. Peter Crotty, however, did not appear; an hour passed--the said
Peter was cursed and envied according to the mood of the individual;
it being universally resolved, that he, Peter, had popped into some
hospitable cantonary, and got drunk for the honour of the service.

“Lord! what a congregation of lies Peter will have to get rid of in the
morning,” said the captain of grenadiers.

“I beg your pardon--he’ll deliver himself of the cargo in a shorter
time--for that’s his cough, for a hundred!” responded a light-bob.

The lieutenant’s ear was correct; for in a few moments the denounced
absentee modestly presented himself.

Had our meeting been in Kanischatka, I should have claimed Peter for
a countryman at first sight. He was a stout, well-timbered fellow, of
soldierly setting-up, and, as far as appearance went, perfectly content
with himself, and at peace with all the world. To say that he was drunk,
would not be true; to assert him sober, might have raised a controverted
question: but leave it to the most charitable, and they would freely
admit that Peter Crotty, in Connemara parlance, “had been looking at
somebody drinking.”

“Arrrah, astore!” observed Mr. Philbin; “may the divil be your
welcome! Here have we been waiting these six hours, expecting a little
news--while you, no doubt, have visited every wine-house between our
quarters and Frenada. By this book!” and Captain Philbin raised a horn
drinking-vessel devoutly to his lips, “I’ve a mind to report you in the
morning to Sir Lowry.”

“Never listen to him, Peter,” observed the grenadier; “you must be
thirsty after your long ride.--Put that down your neck first, give us
some fresh intelligence afterwards, and stick as close to the truth as
you can conveniently.” And he presented to the new-comer a nondescript
tin vessel, filled to the brim with wine.

Peter Crotty had really been thirsty; for he turned down the cup to the
very bottom.

“Arrah--what kept ye, Peter?” inquired the first speaker.

“What kept me?--Why, business, and Lord Wellington.”

“Nonsense!”--

“It’s true. Divil a one of me could get away, good nor bad?”

“Any thing wrong in the returns?” inquired the grenadier.

“Oh, sorra thing; for he gave us the height of applause.”

“Did the aide-de-camp tell you so?” asked a listener.

“What aide-de-camp?--Don’t I tell ye it was himself?” observed
Lieutenant Crotty.

“Himself? Arrah--the divil an eye ye laid upon him, unless ye happened
to see him lighting off his horse,” observed Captain Philbin.

Peter Crotty answered this remark by a look of silent contempt.

“He’s in for it,” whispered my next neighbour, softly. “I’ll back him
for a regular rigmarole of lies against any man in the Peninsula. But we
must humour him.----“Well, Peter, and was his lordship commonly civil?”

“A pleasanter-spoken man I never was in company with,” was the reply.

“And he did seem pleased with our morning-state?--The aide-decamp told
you that?”

“Not at all; it was his lordship. ‘Crotty,’ says he--”

“Oh!” whispered my friend the major, “that’s conclusive.--All’s right
when Peter uses the present personal.”

“Ay! ‘Crotty,’ says he,”--observed another, “But you have had a long
ride; so before you begin a longer story, take the cobwebs from your
throat.”

Again the tin cup was replenished--once more Peter Crotty refreshed
himself; and then to a very attentive auditory he commenced the detail
of a recent interview with the “great captain.”

“Well, you see, I only got the returns from the orderly room at
twelve; and as I had ten miles to ride, off the mule and myself jogged
immediately. Nothing particular occurred on the road, barrin’ I met
Soames and Hamilton, and--

“Oh, d--n Soames and Hamilton!” exclaimed two or three voices together.

“Well, we had a drop of wine, and on I pushed without delay,--except
half an hour with the Eighty-eighth; and we had a sort of a lunch of
an over-driven bullock, the rump-steak,--by-the-by, it was cut off the
fore-part of the shoulder, and as hard as the divil’s horn.--We had a
throw of rum-and-water afterwards--”

“For _one_, read _three_,” observed another of the audience.

“Well, I reached Frenada--rode up to the door--gave my mule to an
orderly--stept into the ante-room, and handed in the returns--”

“And, as the evening was wet, I suppose they allowed you to sit down,”
 said Captain Philbin.

Lieutenant Crotty turned a wrathful look upon the speaker, and then
continued his narrative.

“The door was open, and every word that passed within I heard plainly.”

“‘Arrah! what’s that?’ said his lordship.

“‘The morning-strength of the Twentieth, my lord,’ replied the
aide-de-camp.

“‘Divil welcome the bearer!’ says the general. ‘Isn’t it cruel hard,
that a man can’t have a little pace and quiet, without this eternal
botheration? Tell the fellow to come to the door; and ask him who
he is.’ “Be gogstay! I made bold to answer, ‘It’s me, Lieutenant
Crotty--plase your lordship.’”

“‘Crotty!--Crotty!’ says he; ‘Is it Peter Crotty, of the Twentieth?’”

[Illustration: 0309]

“‘The same, my lord,’ says I.

“‘Arrah, then,’ replies the general, ‘I wouldn’t for a thirty-shillin
note ye had gone home, without my seeing ye. Peter, step in and be off’,
and shut the doer after ye,’ says he to the aide-de-camp; ‘I’m not at
home, if any one inquires this evening. And now, Grotty dear, draw a
camp-stool, and bring your heels to an anchor.--Ned, says he, for they
called one another by their names; ‘hand Mr. Crotty a glass. And now,
Peter, raise y’er elbow a trifle, and fill fair. Is there any news
astir:’

“‘Nothing,’ says I, ‘unless your lordship has it.’

“‘Had ye anything to ate on the road?’ says he. ‘We could get ye a
broiled bone in half a jiffy.’

‘Too much trouble,’ says I, ‘my lord; I took a bit with the
Eighty-eighth, as I was coming along.’

“‘Oh! bad luck to the same lads, Sir Thomas Picton,’ says he.

“‘They’re makin’ an ould man of me, the thieves! The divil
himself--Christ pardon us! wouldn’t keep them tolerably reg’lar.’

“He didn’t say ‘Christ pardon us!’ Peter.”

“He did,” returned the narrator. “Do you think that he stopped to pick
and choose his words in the company of friends?”

“Well, go on Peter.” *

“All this time, Sir Thomas, and General Paekenham, never said a
word; but, like a priest after confessions, they lathered away at the
drinking.” _ _

“‘Did you hear lately from y’er family:’ says his lordship to me.

“‘Arrah! the devil a scrape I had from Ireland these nine months,’ says
I.

“‘I see what y’er lookin’ at,’ says he, as he caught me throwin’ a
sheep’s eye over at a card-table in the corner--‘are you for a rubber,
Peter, to help us to put in the evening?’

“‘Feaks! my lord,’ says I, ‘I’d be afeard, as I’m rather out of
practice.’

“‘Make it five an’ ten,’ says he; ‘y’er the divil at that, no doubt, as
the boy said his mother was at the praying. Come, Ned,’ says he,
‘down with y’er dust, and we’ll cut for who’ll have Peter Grotty; and by
my soul, up comes a red knave. ‘By the powers of pewter, Peter, ye’er my
own!’ says my lord.

“‘Oh, then, y’er welcome to him, if he was better,’ says Sir Thomas. And
he seemed cross at losing me.

“Well--my Lord desired Ned Packenham to make us a tumbler each--and down
we sit;--myself as stiff as a new-made quartermaster, although, if God’s
truth was told, I hadn’t a skurrick in my pocket to mark the game with.

“‘Here’s luck!’ says his lordship, finishin’ his tumbler at a pull.
I forgot to mention, that Sir Thomas stuck to the sherry, and Ned
Packenham helped himself to a sketch of brandy in the bottom of a glass,
and took it nate, without water.

“Well, I cuts a black deuce, so the dale was mine; and up turns the ace
of hearts afterwards. His lordship winked his left eye when he saw it.
‘Be the powers,’ says his lordship, ‘your mother must have been in’
the yeomen, or she’d never have had such a son! Many a Sunday ye play’d
cards upon a tombstone instead of goin’ to mass; God forgive ye for the
same, Peter!”’

“Colonel Burn wants Lieutenant Crotty immediately,” said a mess waiter
from the door.

“Oh, holy Mary!--I forgot to report myself!--and, may be, I won’t catch
it from the ould lad?” exclaimed the partner of Lord Wellington, as he
sprang from the barrel he was seated on, and hounded after the messenger
in desperate alarm, while a roar of laughter accompanied his hurried
exit. A _dock an durris_, for we were all Scotch and Irish intermixed,
passed from hand to hand, for the departure of Lieutenant Crotty
appeared to be the signal for a general dispersion; and I accompanied
the hospitable friend who had offered me a sleeping corner in his tent.

Presently, the cantonments became quiet, and light after light
disappeared. Within musket range, five thousand men were sleeping, and
yet not a sound was heard but the measured step of “the relief” as it
went its rounds, or the loud challenge of the sentry, answered by a
whispered countersign. To me, this seemed the opening of a new epoch in
my life. I now felt myself a soldier. The camp was to be my future home;
and, stretched around me, lay the victors of many a field, with whom,
side by side, I was to view, for the first time, the flash of “red
artillery.” My couch was fern, my pillow a bullock trunk; and, wrapped
in my cloak, I sought the balmy visit of the drowsy god, but sought it
vainly. A feverish excitement had banished sleep, and I could not but
envy the profoundness of my companion’s repose, whose heavy breathing, a
minute after the brief petition of “God bless us!” had passed his lips,
told how sound were his slumbers. I dosed at last--dreamed of siege
and battle-field, while gentler thoughts floated at times among these
martial visions, and love and war were singularly blended. Day dawned,
a bugle sounded, the drums beat the _réveillée_, and instantly the camp,
hitherto so silent, was all life and bustle, like an alarmed bee-hive,
as the startled soldiery issued from tent and hovel. In a few minutes
each regiment formed on its respective parade; and the fourth division
was reported under arms, as a horseman, attended by an orderly dragoon,
galloped along the front of the cantonment. On reaching the flank of the
line, he reined up his horse and rode slowly past, directing an eagle
glance at every regiment that composed the division. The drums rolled,
arms were presented, and I had no difficulty in recognising in the
plainly-dressed stranger, one who had already divided the attention of
the world with the great Napoleon--the victor of Assaye--the hero of
Salamanca--Lord Wellington!



CHAPTER XXVIII. A SPANISH INN THE EMPECINADO--AND A SURPRISE.



               “True courage grows in proportion to the increase of danger.”

“This arm shall make a corpse of him who hesitates when danger calls, or
retreats when it presses.”---The Robbers.

|Having brought two or three letters of introduction to some veteran
soldiers who served with my father in the Low Countries, the delivery of
each ensured me a hospitable welcome at their respective cantonments.
A month had nearly been consumed in rambling visits, when it was
officially intimated, that as the armies were preparing for active
operations, the presence of every officer would be expected at the
head-quarters of his regiment. With deep regret I made all arrangements
for a journey to Valençia; and having procured mules and a guide to
secure the transport of the persons and property of my fosterbrother and
myself, I set out at dawn of day, on the 7th of March, to pass through
Toledo and Cuenca, and reach the head-quarters of the Anglo-Sicilian
army, to which my regiment was attached.

The route lay between the French outposts on one side, and a hilly
country on the other, infested by Partida bands; and, sooth to say,
it would have been difficult to decide on which hand lay the greater
danger. From the French scouting-parties it would be desirable to
preserve a respectful distance; and for Guerilla civility, we should be
mainly indebted to the protection afforded by a British uniform.

As the head-quarters of the south were established at Toledo, the
enemy’s posts were extended over the country in front of that city, to
keep open the communications, and enable their foragers to bring in any
supplies they could obtain. Hence, these roads were rendered dangerous
by the constant visits of French pickets and marauders; and, by the
advice of our friend the muleteer, we leaned towards the mountains on
our right, after we had crossed the Ibor by an unguarded ford below the
Hospital del Obispo.

From the moment that we cleared the cantonments of the allies, our route
assumed a dangerous character that gave it an additional interest. It
ran through a debatable land, subject alike to flying visits from the
allied cavalry, French scouting parties, and guerillas; while, here
and there, a few disbanded men, of every country and calling, were
occasionally encountered, who stopped the wayfarer, be he Trojan or
Tyrian, with a lofty-minded impartiality worthy of the school and spirit
of Jack Sheppard, easing him of life and purse together, without any
impertinent inquiry of, “Under which king, Bezonian?” In plain English,
from robbers of high and low degree, the routes connecting Estremadura
with Valencia were rendered almost impassable; and it was nearly a
toss-up to the traveller, whether the person who called “Stand and
deliver,” was brigand, forager, or partida.

Though the roads were hewy and the rivers swollen, yet, as the weather
was remarkably fine, for a few days the fosterer and I roughed it pretty
comfortably. It was a new passage in the life of both--and full of
youthful vigour, and eager for adventure, we got on gallantly.

On the fifth evening we reached a little hamlet pleasantly situated on
the river Sedana. Here, the muleteer had several acquaintances, and
the owner of the posada was his cousin. Our journey that day had been
unusually long; and, therefore, the intelligence that a good supper
and snug shake-down awaited us on our arrival at Villa Mora, was
particularly gratifying. As we wound down the mountains, the sun set,
the vesper-bell was heard, and the village lights sparkled through the
haze of evening. We urged our mules forward to gain the halting-place,
as the sky, for the last hour, had presented certain appearances, which
the guide apprised us were always considered to be forerunners of a
tempest.

We passed through the village street and alighted at the door of the
posada, where we were hospitably received, and inducted to a large
and lofty apartment, which answered the double purpose of kitchen and
parlour. Fuel was added to the fire, and due preparations made for
further entertainment. As the guide had predicted, the night became wild
and wet; and, accounting ourselves to be most fortunate travellers in
gaining our shelter before the storm burst, we took a position on a
settle where we could enjoy the comfort of a blazing wood-fire; and,
what was equally agreeable to hungry wayfarers, personally inspect
culinary operations while supper was in progress.

An hour passed--the table was spread--and the muleteer, having stabled
his long-eared charge, entered the kitchen, and seated himself at the
foot of the board. The host deposited a huge leathern bottle in the
centre of the table, which, as he avouched, contained wine of exquisite
vintage, and the meal was about to commence, when a trampling of horses’
feet was heard without, and the landlord rose hastily, and, with every
appearance of alarm, peeped suspiciously from the casement.

“Three travellers,” he exclaimed, “by San Marco. The Virgin be praised;
I feared some of those French robbers had returned once more, and that
we should be plundered by them for the hundredth time.”

I rose and looked out, but it was too dark to discover who the late
visitors might be. One seemed superior to the others; for he flung
the bridle of his horse to a companion with an air of authority, and
quitting the court-yard, entered the kitchen of the posada.

He was evidently a gentleman of little ceremony; for he stalked direct
to the fire--threw his sombrero carelessly to the attendant--desired the
landlord to hang up his cloak to dry--unbuckled a belt, to which a long
toledo was suspended--deposited a carbine and brace of pistols on
a bench--and then took a seat at the head of the table, with as much
indifference as if he had been the host himself.

[Illustration: 0316]

When disencumbered of hat and cloak, the very singular air and figure
of the stranger fastened my attention. His face would have puzzled
Lavater--it was one that you could not look upon without a nameless
feeling of suspicion and alarm, and yet, take each alone, and the
features were positively handsome. Hair, eyes, moustache and beard, were
black as the raven’s wing; and the complexion, dark as a gypsy’s. The
face was well-proportioned--the teeth white and regular--I never looked
on an eye more lustrous, searching, and intelligent; and the forehead
was nobly expanded. But the _ensemble_ was the worst. It bespoke a stern
determination, close akin to ferocity; and betrayed a disposition, stern
of purpose--ardent in regard--immitigable in vengeance.

The stranger’s figure was athletic and commanding--sufficiently
substantial for any feat of strength, and yet not too cumbrous in its
proportions for light and active exercise. His under dress was plain.
He wore a close green jacket and pantaloons, with tawny boots and a buff
waist-belt, in which a weapon, like a highland dirk with a buck’s-horn
handle, was secured. Such was the exterior of our new companion.

While I examined the stranger with deep attention, a hurried look, on
his part, round the table, appeared to satisfy his curiosity touching
the company to whom he had introduced himself. His assumption of
superiority was at once apparent; and, with the easiest manner
imaginable, he usurped a regular dictatorship of the venta. Raising the
drinking-vessel that stood beside his platter, he signalled the landlord
to fill it from the goat-skin, and at one strong draught emptied it to
the bottom, and indulged, afterwards, in observations more remarkable
for candour than compliment, touching the cellars of the posada.

“Bah!” he exclaimed, contemptuously, “call ye that thin liquid, true
Carvallôs? Hast thou no conscience left thee, man?’Tis well enough
wherewithal to wash a supper down; but see, honest friend, that you find
us something better for the evening. Ha!--this podrida’s passable;
and these partridges seem tolerably roasted. On with more viands. Two
friends of mine will presently be here. They have good appetites; have
ridden twenty leagues, and fasted as many hours. Need I say more?”

Whoever the stranger was, his orders were not disregarded. The
maritornes of the venta renewed her culinary labours; and the host
voluntarily departed to see that the horses of the late guests had
been properly accommodated, and make researches in his wine-stores,
afterwards, to try whether a flask more congenial to the taste of the
dark stranger might not be procurable. The latter, towards myself and
foster-brother, evinced from the first, decided symptoms of civility;
and among us three there appeared to be a friendly rivalship as to which
of us should hold out longest at the podrida. Were the hostleries in the
Peninsula frequently obnoxious to such visitors as we proved, I verily
believe that half the innkeepers in Spain would have been insolvent in a
twelvemonth.

“Faith, gentlemen,” observed the stranger, “to judge by the performances
of each other, we seem all in excellent health. No sauce for supper
after all, like a twelve hours’ ride through the mountains. What, ho!
Sir landlord! Wine--I say; and none of that valuable vintage you keep
for muleteers and travelling friars, who pay their scores in aves and
credos. What news, gentlemen?” he said, addressing us, “What is the
English Lord about; and will he soon be on the move again?”

I assured him that on these points I was in blessed ignorance--told the
simple tale of my journey to Valencia, and its causes--and, in return,
asked his advice touching which route I should adopt, as the one most
likely to be free from the French.

“You could not have made that inquiry from a better person,” he replied.
“I know the mountain country indifferently well; and if you place
yourself under my guidance, I shall ensure your safety to Cuenca.
Thence, to Valencia, I shall be able to obtain a passport that the
partidas will respect. Ha! I see my companions have scented supper in
the stable. Sit down, Jose; thou and Velasquez have seen more than a
single cork-tree since you heard the matin-bell.”

Following the example of their chief, the strangers deposited their
mantles and sombreros on a bench. Both were well armed; and each placed
his weapons immediately contiguous to his seat, like men who dread and
guard against surprise.

I thought nothing could have exceeded our late attack upon mine host’s
partridges and podrida. Pshaw!--as trenchermen, we could not hold a
candle to the worthy twain, who now went to work as if they had
been steadfastly resolved to clear out the posada of every edible it
contained.

At last they, too, were forced to cry, “enough” and we all united in
a closer circle round the fire, while the wine-flask made a frequent
circuit of the company. Dark and repulsive as the stranger’s countenance
might be, as “sweetest nut has sourest rind,” he seemed at heart
an excellent camarado. Indeed, we were no longer strangers. I spoke
unreservedly--told him my objects and intentions--and, in return,
obtained counsel and information. It struck me as being remarkable how
very intimately the stranger seemed acquainted with the cantonments
occupied by the allies, and the facility with which he named the
strength and formation of every corps that occupied them. Touching the
positions of the French armies, he was equally well informed--and, with
the Spanish dispositions, perfectly familiar.

“Ho--ho!” he exclaimed, holding the empty flask between him and the
lamp; “the bottle’s dry. More wine, there! Come, gentlemen,” he said, “I
shall play host to-night. I felt it rather an uncertainty this morning,
whether I should have found the posada tenanted by friends or enemies;
but the doubt has been agreeably resolved.”

As he spoke, the landlord entered--placed a flask upon the table--and,
having extracted the cork, was preparing to retire, when the dark
stranger motioned him to sit down; an invitation, which it appeared to
me “mine host” would rather have declined than accepted.

“Fill thy horn,” said the master of the revels; “I would ask a few
questions. There are none present but those to whom a true Spaniard need
never be afraid to unbosom himself. In that jacket lie honour and good
faith.” He pointed to my uniform. “And for my friends, I will be their
security.”

I never, in my life, saw a host less flattered with a guest’s civility.
He took a seat--filled a cup--drank our good health--and appeared
excessively uncomfortable.

“Your name, my friend, is, I think, Gonsalvez--and I would ask some
questions touching some of your acquaintances in Villa Moro. Speak
out; and--” the stranger lowered his voice to a deep tone, that made me
shudder--“what is more to the purpose, speak _truth!_”

The landlord winced--while my dark-visaged friend, in a careless voice,
continued--

“You had occasional visits from the French cwalry during the winter.
There was a squadron of the 5th chasseurs à cheval here for a month.
Where did their commandant reside?”

“He quartered himself at the alcade’s,” returned the host.

“Did he ever visit the postmaster?” asked the stranger.

“Frequently,” was the reply.

“What age is Jose de Toro?”

“Sixty--or more.” returned the host.

“And what the age of his wife”

“Younger by forty years,” was the reply.

“Then Jose de Toro was a fool to marry as he did. Was Captain Hillaire
particularly intimate with the lady?”

“They said--but Lord! in a village they say many things that are not
true--they said that the poor postmaster was almost jealous. After a
little time the scandal wore away; and Jose de Toro and Captain Hillaire
were the best friends imaginable.”

“Base villain!” muttered the dark stranger, between his clenched teeth.
“Well, my friend, if the alcade and postmaster found the society of the
French so agreeable, how did the Cura feel?’

“He never could disguise his hatred; and for some days he was kept in
close arrest, until the pretty wife of Jose Toro pleaded to the handsome
captain for her old confessor, and obtained his liberty.”

“Humph!” said the stranger.--“What is the nearest post that is at
present occupied by the French cavalry?”

“The nearest!--praise to the Virgin!--I have heard from a traveller is
at Areanza--some half score leagues from Toro.”

“‘Tis well,” muttered the stranger.--“Get me a trusty messenger; and
mind that he be _trusty_--or--‘’ he looked the rest, the landlord
perfectly understanding it. Egad! I never saw anything more expressive;
it was a look that conveyed more than any language could express. One of
his companions rose, and looked from the casement.

“How soon,” he said, “the storm has abated! The moon has risen; and
a finer night to take a hurried march and surprise a sleeping outpost
could not be found.”

“I wish it were otherwise,” returned he who seemed the leader. “And yet
ten leagues from a French picket, methinks, is tolerable security.
Go, Velasquez,--and see that this packet be sent forward, safely and
swiftly. For his messenger’s fidelity I hold the landlord accountable.
Tell him that;--and whisper in his ear, that the guest he entertains
to-night is ----------” His voice dropped, but a smile of sinister
expression told the rest.

From a secret pocket the dark stranger drew out a splendid watch. “Past
midnight. Come, gentlemen, one round more, and then for bed: we must all
be astir by cock-crow.”

The bottle for the last time made its circuit. Velasquez returned after
despatching the packet, accompanied by the host bearing a lamp. He
conducted us to a long gallery, containing at least sleeping apartments
for a dozen; but the only occupants that night were the strangers, the
fosterer, and myself. Where the muleteer bestowed himself I knew not;
but subsequent events sufficiently explained the reason why we were not
favoured with his company.

No stronger proof of caution and insecurity could be required than the
care with which each individual arranged his clothes and arms. Every
weapon was placed in a position to be ready for the owner’s hand; while
the business of the toilet was dispensed with altogether, as we
all stretched ourselves on our woollen beds without undressing. The
Spaniards crossed themselves devoutly; the fosterer repeated a short
prayer; I cried “God bless us!” and in ten minutes all within the
spacious chamber slept profoundly.

Several hours must have elapsed, and still my slumbers continued
unbroken. Suddenly an uneasy dream disturbed me, and I started upright
on the mattress. The lamp was burning gloomily; and the sleepers round
the chamber were fast as watchmen. I listened--noises low and indistinct
without excited my attention. The sounds were such as men make when they
attempt to move unheard. I glided out of bed, and peeped cautiously
from the lattice. By Heaven!--the court-yard was filled with dismounted
dragoons, and one glance told me that they were enemies.

The elder Spaniard lay on the bed next to mine, and I laid my hand
softly on his arm. In a moment his dark eyes were turned suspiciously on
mine, as I stooped my head and whispered that we were betrayed. He heard
the intelligence without any apparent emotion, slipped quietly from his
couch, and looked for a moment on the court-yard. I heard him muttering
to himself, “Ten--fifteen--twenty--forty in all: the odds are great, and
we, too, cut off from the stables. Ha!--let me think--there’s but one
hope--the gate first--the river afterwards--ay, there lies the only
chance of our deliverance.”

Flitting from couch to couch, he awakened his sleeping companions.
They seemed to be men accustomed to similar visitations, for not an
exclamation escaped their lips, nor even by a word did they betray the
least alarm. A finger, pointed towards the casement told its silent
tale; and each, as he arose, peeped from the window on the moon-lit
court-yard, and immediately comprehended the extent of his danger. In
a minute every man was armed and ready for the coming struggle; and we
looked to the dark guerilla for orders, as soldiers to their leader.

“In a position like ours, safety consists in daring. No matter how great
the disparity in numbers, we must not wait to be attacked; but push,
at the sword’s point, for the gate--reach the river if possible--spring
boldly in, and trust to the Sedana for our freedom. One word more--if
you can--escape;--but if the hour is come, fall sword in hand, and let
the dying effort be vengeance on the oppressor.’Tis time for action.
Strike bravely, my friends: in every blow lies death or freedom. And
now for the attempt: in five minutes the Empecinado will be a lifeless
corpse, or free as the mountain eagle!”

“And are you that dreaded chief?” I inquired.

“I am indeed Juan Martin Diez: he whose dreaded by-name has carried
terror with it to the boldest enemy of Spain; who lived the scourge of
the oppressor, and will die, inflicting injury while his hand can hold
a sword, and venting his last breath in curses upon those who would have
enslaved him!”

We drew up silently behind the entrance of the posada; all the bolts
save one were quietly withdrawn, and that one the Empecinado held.
Presently a man approached, struck the door loudly, and in a haughty
tone demanded instant admission. Never was order more promptly obeyed.
The Spaniard removed the last fastening--the door was suddenly flung
open; a discharge from the carbine of the Empecinado laid the nearest
Frenchman dead upon the threshold where he stood; while bounding from
his concealment like a tiger on his hunters, the guerilla chief sprang
headlong among a group of the chasseurs, cutting down a trooper right
and left, and shouting in a voice of thunder, “_Guerra al Cuchillo!_”

A sudden onslaught from desperate men is always formidable; and the
enemy, never imagining that those whom they expected to surprise, would
resist, still less attack, a numerous and well appointed detachment,
were quite unprepared to oppose this unexpected irruption from the
posada. The guerillas fought with the recklessness of men who feel that
they must succeed or perish; while, as circumstances occasionally make
heroes, the fosterer and I, considering that in a close and furious
_mêlée_ there is no respect for persons, imitated the example of
our worthy confreres, and, as I was afterwards informed, made a very
promising _début_. The atfair was short and sanguinary. Before the
French could recover from the surprise, nearly a dozen were killed,
wounded, or beaten down; the gate was gained, and for escape, the
chances were decidedly in our favour.

But, as it unfortunately turned out, a part only of the French
detachment had entered the court-yard of the posada, while an equal
number remained mounted outside the gate. The sudden uproar from within
put the outliers on the _qui vive_, and consequently they were ready
to receive us. Surprised, but nothing daunted, the Empecinado and his
companions fought with desperate ferocity; and the French cry of “Down
with the brigands!” was fiercely answered by the Spanish slogan,
“War to the knife!”

The conflict now was hopeless; each of us was engaged with three or four
chasseurs, some mounted and some on foot. I had seen the commencement
of the fray, but, as is the frequent fortune of war, I was not fated to
witness its termination. A blow from the butt of a carbine stretched
me upon mother earth--and when my senses returned, I found myself a
prisoner, and in the same apartment of the Venta, where on the preceding
night I had supped in perfect comfort and security.

I looked round--the room was filled with soldiers--and the only faces I
could recall to memory, were the dark and sullen countenances of the two
companions of the Empecinado, who were seated on a bench immediately in
my front, closely hand-cuffed to each other. Both had received divers
sword-cuts on the head; and their coal-black hair, matted with blood,
added to a ferocious expression of the features, afforded a perfect
picture of a captive brigand. Upon the wounded partidas, looks of
deadly vengeance were directed by all who surrounded them. Many of the
chasseurs had been wounded; and in the recent affair, five of their
companions had fallen; and one, whom they all regarded, the second in
command, and a young officer of great promise, had been stabbed to the
heart by the Empecinado.

“Where am I? Where are my companions?” I muttered.

“Escaped!” returned one of the wounded guerillas, with swage exultation.
“Escaped, my friend; to take ample vengeance for thee and me upon these
murderers.”

“Silence!” dog exclaimed a chasseur, striking the captive a sharp blow
upon the shoulder with the flat of his sabre-blade.

I never witnessed such a look as the insulted, but impotent guerilla
directed at the Frenchman. Could rage, and hatred, and revenge, be
concentrated in a glance, that look expressed them all.

“Oh, that this hand were free,” he murmured; “and that it clutched
the knife that never failed it yet; and then, robber--.” He left the
sentence incomplete; but none required further words to convey its
purport.

A noise without, was heard. It was the measured step of marching men
and in a few minutes the _elite_ companies of the 16th Voltigeurs,
entered and piled arms in the court-yard. Whatever was the cause of
this military movement, its scale seemed far too extensive for the mere
purpose of arresting two or three individuals who had made themselves
obnoxious to the invaders; and this suspicion was confirmed, when it was
announced that Colonel La Coste, the chief of General Laval’s staff, had
arrived in person, to direct the _promenade militaire_, as the Frenchman
termed this midnight expedition.



CHAPTER XXIX. THE EXECUTION.


“_Charles_. Be not afraid of danger or of death; for over us presides a
destiny, which cannot be controlled. We all hasten to the fatal day:
die we must, whether upon a bed of down, the field of battle, or the
scaffold; one of these must be our lot.”--The Robbers.

|A few minutes elapsed, when a movement among the soldiers near the
door attracted my attention, and Colonel La Coste, attended by several
officers of inferior rank, entered the kitchen of the posada. The
commander was a soldier of the republican school; a hale, stout, man of
sixty: one who, like the best of the French officers, had risen by
merit from the ranks, without family, descent, wealth, or education. The
honest boast of La Coste was, that he had been the architect of his own
fortunes, and had raised himself to distinction. The colonel was highly
esteemed as a soldier; but, if the times when his career commenced are
remembered, it maybe readily supposed that La Coste was loose in his
moral principles, cold to human suffering, and indifferent, provided the
end were gained, as to the means that he employed in attaining it. The
sternest hearts have generally some softer point that unites them to
their fellow men, and the rude soldiers was no exception. That solitary
place in his affections was occupied by the orphan of his sister;
Henri le Ferre was the sole object of the love and ambition of the old
republican--and, dead to others, the young lieutenant of chasseurs was
dearer to that cold-hearted soldier than all the world beside. In the
career of life, the most unpitying do not escape mortal visitations,
which force the heart to feel. Henri had perished in the recent
affair--and the misery that he himself had probably inflicted upon
others, was about to fall on the head of one, whom sympathy for human
suffering had never turned from a purpose which he conceived that duty
pointed out.

When he entered the apartment, he appeared excited and out of temper,
muttering to himself as he approached the fire, and then, turning short
round, he drew himself up haughtily between the manacled guerillas and
myself.

“So,” he said, sarcastically, “Captain St. Pierre, methinks, to-night
you have had but indifferent success. Five soldiers lost, the great
brigand escaped, and these paltry scoundrels, fit only for hanging _in
terrorem_ at a market-place, the sole fruits of a bloody, and, as it
has turned out, a bootless expedition! How could this possibly occur?--a
squadron of chasseurs, checked, defeated, by some half dozen--call them
not soldiers--but banditti! Ay, Captain St. Pierre, _defeated!_ Has
not the only captive we aimed at escaped ye? Except as examples to the
peasantry, these fellows are not worth the snapping of a flint--or value
of a halter. Is not this failure--defeat?”

“Colonel La Coste,” returned the captain of chasseurs, “much of what
you say is true. We counted with too great confidence upon surprise, and
overlooked the danger that lies in desperation. It has, indeed, turned
out a sorry _promenade_--little gained, and much, unfortunately, lost!”

“Where did the brigands escape to?--where did they seek shelter?--why
were they not pursued?” continued Colonel La Coste, speaking with
breathless rapidity.

“The Empecinado, with one companion, have fairly got away,” replied
Captain St. Pierre; “the other three are in your presence.”

“The other three!” exclaimed Colonel La Coste,
contemptuously--“Bah!--what matters the capture of these small
scoundrels, when the greater bandits have escaped? have they indeed got
off? and how, in the devil’s name, did they effect it?”

“I would half believe, through the especial assistance of the black
gentleman. To steel and lead they seemed impervious, or they never could
have been proof against one hundred shots and sword-cuts. By Heaven!
their escape appears miraculous! They gained the river, plunged into
the swollen stream, and under a biting fire, while bullet after bullet
struck the water before and behind, they reached the opposite bank
unhurt, scrambled up the bank, and were instantly lost in the thick
cover of yonder cork-wood.”

“Were they not followed, hunted, pursued? Is Henri after them?” inquired
the colonel, with impatience; but the question was unanswered. “Speak,
St. Pierre!--where is my nephew?--close on the brigands’ footsteps?”

The captain shook his head.

“What mean ye?” exclaimed the old republican; “Is he hurt, or wounded?”

“Worse--”

“Worse!--what, dead?”

“Dead!” was the suppressed reply.

“How?--when?--where? I know the worst;--go on, St. Pierre.”

“Colonel La Coste, my heart bleeds to tell the story. Henri, your
adopted son, and our beloved companion, is, indeed, no more! The felon
leader, who has escaped us for the present, singled your nephew out and
stabbed him!”

“Great God!--Henri!--my son, my hope, my pride, fallen--and thus
to fall! Die in the court-yard of an obscure posada, and perish
ingloriously like a peasant in a drunken brawl--Henri! Henri!”

A long and melancholy pause succeeded.

“Where is my nephew?” exclaimed the old man, suddenly.

“Here,” returned Captain St. Pierre, and his voice faltered.

“Well, let me see thee, Henri, even though it be in death.”

When I had been removed into the posada, I was for some time insensible
to everything that passed, and, unknown to me, the body of the young
lieutenant had been carried in, deposited on a bench immediately beside
me, and covered with a military cloak. Some of the chasseurs who stood
between me and the dead officer, now moved aside, and others brought
lights, while the covering should be removed, and the veteran “look his
last” upon the only being whom he loved.

In _post mortem_ experience I was a novice. Of course, like every Irish
boy who made his _entrée_ on the world five and forty years ago, I had
seen a criminal hanged, and a gentleman shot occasionally. To do him
justice, old Doctor Dozey, “our very learned and approved good master,”
 was an indulgent and considerate divine; and as the school was in
an assize town, where hanging-matches and affairs of honour came
off frequently, we were always, on such occasions, favoured with a
half-holiday, to enable us to have a sly peep at the proceedings.
Although I had often been “in at the death,” yet with the exception of
Mr. Sloman, I had never seen the defunct after this mortal coil had been
shuffled off; and hence the appearance of the countenance, where death
had been violent, was new to me. I turned my eyes to the bench where
the body of the Frenchman lay, and, for many a day afterwards, the dead
man’s face was painfully recollected.

I was told that the departed soldier had been considered particularly
handsome, but looking at his countenance after death, I never could have
imagined it. Its expression was that of one whose spirit had departed
in intense agony, and every feature was distorted. I saw his companions
shudder as they looked upon the corpse; and, after one hurried glance,
the old colonel turned his eyes away, and signed to a chasseur to
replace the cloak, which had been removed to permit him to view the body
of his fwourite nephew.

“_Now_ for another duty,” the old man muttered. “Place these prisoners
before me!” and, drawing himself stiffly up with his back to the fire,
he remained in gloomy meditation, while the guerillas and myself were
conducted from our benches, and drawn up in front of a judge from whom,
were the countenance an index of the heart, little mercy could be hoped
for.

“Who are ye?” he said, addressing himself to me; “you wear an English
uniform--stolen from the living, or stripped from the dead?--say which.”

“Neither,” I returned, boldly; “mine is the dress that my rank entitles
me to wear--I am a British officer.”

“And wherefore the companion of brigands? Why are you the confederate of
these murderers?”

“I am not their companion,” was the reply; “I knew not who or what they
were. By accident I met them here last night.”

“You knew them not, and yet you ate with them, drank with them, fought
with them.”

“I did.”

“You shot a French chasseur, and cut down a second, as I am informed.”

“It is true; these things I did in order to effect escape.”

“Then, did you not meet these bandits here by previous appointment? Are
you not a spy--ha?” exclaimed the colonel.

“No--this posada lay directly in my route, as I was bound for Valencia.
Chance brought these men and myself together, and I knew nothing of
their designs, their names, nor their occupations. On this head, my
guide, the muleteer, will satisfy you.”

At this period of the proceedings, Captain St. Pierre whispered
something in the colonel’s ear. It was a corroboration, on his part,
that the statement I made was true. The colonel nodded, and thus
continued:--

“My friend, St. Pierre, confirms your story. I have had the honour of
meeting your countrymen in the field, and they have taught me to respect
them. The English are stout and gallant soldiers; and at a soldier’s
hands are entitled to that honourable consideration which the brave
give and receive from each other. But these brigands with whom you have
unhappily associated,--these murdering, dastardly, Spaniards------”

“False, by the Virgin!” exclaimed the younger partida of the two: “No
dastards, robber!--Look out in yonder court-yard--you’ll see there a few
mementos of a Spaniard’s vengeance; and if you lift yon cloak again, you
will find, that though he departed somewhat hurriedly, the Empecinado
did not forget to leave behind a token that will bring him occasionally
to your remembrance.”

“The Empecinado!” exclaimed a dozen voices.

“Ay, Juan Diez!” was the answer.

“Hell and furies! Mount every man; cross the bridge, Captain St. Pierre;
surround the cork wood--they may still be lurking there. I’ll give you
twenty voltigeurs. Carry them _en croupe_. They will beat the coverts
that horsemen cannot enter. Bring back, dead or living, the enemy of
the emperor--the murderer of Henri Lefevre!” The guerillas laughed
scornfully. “The cork-wood!--Will Juan Diez stay there to listen to the
nightingales?” said the younger.

The order was instantly obeyed; the horses of the chasseurs resaddled,
and, with a dozen picked sharpshooters to scour such portions of the
wood as might be impenetrable to the cavalry, Captain St. Pierre rode
off to recover a reputation he considered tarnished by his recent
failure; and, dead or living, bring back to his commander that dreaded
chief, the Empecinado.

The preparations for this new expedition consumed nearly half an
hour; the Spaniards sullenly resumed their seats; I sunk into sombre
meditations; and in short, everybody, captives and captors, appeared
superlatively unhappy. It was a relief when the door opened, and Colonel
La Coste entered the kitchen of the posada, accompanied by a person who
bore the appearance of a civic magistrate. Once more the Spaniards were
placed before their judge; and the Alcade, for such the stranger proved,
assented silently to all the French commandant decreed.

“I know not, nor ask your names--you are rebels to the king, and false
to France and your country!”

“A lie! by the immortal Judge!” boldly returned the elder partida.

“True to Spain, ay, true to the last. Pshaw!--Abridge this mockery. We
are doomed--we know it. Speak the sentence, and let the spirit, as it
was ever, still be free!”

“You know all the circumstances of this case already,” observed Colonel
La Coste, addressing himself to the Alcade: “these men are traitors.
What penalty should be exacted for treason and rebellion?” The Spaniard
looked confusedly around, turned his eyes aside, and then, in an under
tone that scarcely reached the ear, he muttered, “Death!”

Low as the voice was in which the opinion was delivered, it fell upon
the ready ear of the younger of the partidas.

“Death!” he exclaimed, “and doomed to that dread penalty by a
countryman?--Countryman!--no, no,--the craven has no country. Live,
Julian Lopez, live for a brief time; but let me add the terms on which
that wretched existence of thine shall be continued. From the hand that
tenders a petition, dread the knife. Reject the food offered thee--it
will be drugged. Touch not the wine-cup--it will be poisoned. Well,
though thou escape these, a more infamous fate will be reserved for
thee: you will perish on a tree; none pitying, and all pouring
out execrations as you go along. Some galley-slwe will affix the
felon-halter; and when the carrion is committed to mother earth, every
true Spaniard as he passes the unholy spot that covers it, will
strike his boot upon the clay, and mutter ‘Curses on the ashes of the
traitor!’”

“Stop!” cried the commandant. “Advance these criminals;--you guess your
doom----”

“Guess?” asked the elder partida; “no, no--to guess would infer
uncertainty. We know it well. Thou and I, Jose, shall die as many better
patriots have died before us.”

“You are friends of that dark brigand, whom you call the Empecinado?”
 observed the French commandant.

“It is indeed a proud distinction you confer, in calling us friends of
that bold enemy to French oppression.”

“You share his confidence?” continued the colonel.

“Undoubtedly,” returned the elder; “ay, and I believe as much as any
living men.”

“You knew his errand here, then?”

“Yes.”

“Name it!”

Both the partidas laughed contemptuously

“You trifle with me, villains! But, by Heaven! I will no longer trifle
with you. Cammaran,” he said to a voltigeur, “get your men under arms;
throw the gates of the court-yard open; admit the villagers, and prepare
for an instant execution. Let twelve files load; we’ll join you in five
minutes.”

The officer left the room, and the old soldier thus continued:--

“Time presses: are you prepared to die?” he said, addressing the
condemned.

A proud glance from the condemned conveyed the guerillas’ answer to the
commandant.

“Would you avert your fate?”

“Willingly!” replied the elder of the two.

“Wherefore? and by what means?” said Colonel La Coste.

“I’ll tell you briefly,” replied the elder: “I am no soldier; I was born
on the banks of the Sedana, and inherited a farm my ancestors had tilled
for centuries. We lived then in humble opulence. My father died; I
succeeded to his small possessions, married as suited my lowly rank,
and was as happy as love and contentment can make an humble man. Twice I
became a father: need I add that this fond tie bound me still closer to
the partner of my home and heart? Your armies overran the country; but
for a time the remoteness of our hamlet protected us. Where was the
dwelling, however isolated, that at one time or other escaped the
fearful visits of your marauders? A foraging party entered our hamlet.
They took what they would, and none resisted; they ate, and drank, and
plundered--none offered remonstrance or complaint. I was from home--and
I tell the tale as it was told me afterwards. Within that solitary
hamlet, there lived some of the fairest peasants in Toledo. The morning
rose upon them in happy innocence--when it set they were ruined and
dishonoured. Maid and matron alike were exposed to licentious brutality.
My poor Inez told me the story of her wrongs, and made me swear eternal
vengeanee on the villain who had robbed her of her honour. He was the
leader of the party, and that enabled me to trace him. Where he went, I
followed--ay--followed close as a bloodhound on the trail. Night and
day I dogged his steps. When he removed, no matter how distant were his
quarters, there did I, his evil genius, appear. Nine months passed,
and still I never could strike a certain blow--but he who waits for
vengeanee seldom waits in vain. The moment came at last, and in the
publie square of Salamanca I stabbed him to the heart. Vengeance was
satisfied: and did I then return to my home? _I_ had no home--it was
a ruin. My farm was wasted; my cattle taken away; I found my wife a
maniac--for insult and cruelty had deprived her of reason. I sought my
children--they were beggars, living on the bounty of the charitable.
What could I do but swear vengeance anew, and band with those gallant
spirits who were in arms against the oppressors of their country. Well,
you ask me, would I live? I answer, _yes_--not that life to me is worth
the holding; but for the sake of that poor maniac and her starving
orphans--still would I live.”

While he told his simple story the recollection of his wrongs supported
him; but the allusion to the sad calamities which French barbarity had
entailed upon his wretched family evidently affected him; and I observed
that the dark eye which lately flashed defiance was moistened with a
tear.

“Spaniard, what wouldst thou give for life?” demanded Colonel La Coste.

“Aught that became an honest man,” was the reply.

“I will name the terms, and then say wilt thou accept them and be free?”

“Speak!” said the guerilla.

“Thou knowest the Empeeinado--thou art in his confidence--his haunts are
known to thee;--couldst thou, if at liberty, find him out?”

“Were my foot free upon yonder mountain, I eould within six hours hold
Juan Diez by the hand,” returned the condemned.

“Enough. A thousand Napoleons are on his head. Wilt thou place the enemy
of France within my power?”

“Never!”

“Think--thy life hangs upon the answer: wilt thou win gold and freedom?”
 repeated the Frenchman.

“Never!--the word is spoken.”

In a moment the younger Spaniard threw the arm that had remained
unshackled around his comrade’s neck.

“Velasquez,” he said, “I doubted thee, and feared that thy courage might
fail. Thou hast much to bind thee to life; but is a life of infamy like
that false traitor’s,”--and he pointed to the Alcade,--“is such worth
holding?--No. But as thou hast addressed this our executioner, so too
will I.”

Colonel La Coste knitted his brows together, and the young guerilla thus
continued:--

“I am indebted to you; I have escaped the insult offered to my
companion, for you did not propose life to me at the expense of faith
and honour. Velasquez has told you a sad history--now hear mine. I am a
soldier’s orphan--I have no kindred left; for when my only uncle, the
good old canon of Seville died, I saw my last relative on earth
committed to the grave. I was then a student, and, but for
circumstances, would have been, most probably, a monk. You came, and
war, and violence, and insult, followed in your footsteps. Day after day
I heard the hateful tale of French oppression, until my blood became
gall, and I burned to take vengeance on the invaders. The slow and
cautious movements of regular warfare were unsuited to a spirit active
and ardent as mine; I sought a daring leader, and found him in Juan
Diez. For three years I have followed the Empecinado. Would you know
more of me?--ask who I am? Mine is a title seeond only to my leader’s--I
am ‘The Student,’ Jose Martinez!”

He ceased, as he announced his name. La Coste, the moment that the words
w’ere uttered, signed to a chasseur, whispered some secret order, and
then, turning to the guerillas, he coldly pronounced their doom.

“The time is short,” he added; “have either of you aught to ask for?”

“I would wish,” replied the elder Spaniard, “to spend a few minutes with
a priest.”

“The Curé shall be sent for,” replied the French commandant; “and thou,
young man--hast thou no request to make?”

“None from _thee!_” returned the Student, boldly. “Here! Landlord, fetch
me a cup of wine!”

The order was obeyed: and holding the untasted horn in his hand, he thus
continued:

“‘Tis the last wine that I shall drink! Tell the Empecinado, also,
what was the last pledge that passed the lips of José Martinez!---‘Viva
Espana!--Mueran los Franceses!’” * And he emptied the cup to the bottom.

     * Live Spain!--Death to the French!

The Cura obeyed the summons of the French commandant, the manacles were
removed from the wrists of the captives, and the priest retired to a
corner of the kitchen, apart from all besides, to shrive the condemned
offender. Scarcely ten minutes passed, before Velasquez rose from his
knees, and, with a face that bespoke a perfect resignation to his fate,
stepped back to the place where his fellow-sufferer, the Student,
was standing, still holding the empty wine-cup in his hand. The Cura
motioned Martinez to retire--he obeyed; the shrift was short, and, in
five minutes, the Student rejoined his companion in misfortune.

“Are the prisoners ready?” said Colonel La Coste to the priest.

Both the partidas returned a steady--“Yes.”

The Frenchman waved his arm, and, with a voltigeur on either side, the
condemned guerillas left the kitchen of the posada for the court-yard.

I followed in the crowd--in fact, I was not regarded as a prisoner. I
mingled with the chasseurs, and, in the interest which the coming event
occasioned, I seemed to be forgotten altogether. We entered the fatal
enclosure--and although the villagers had been summoned to witness the
execution, not a dozen of the peasantry were to be seen; and, on their
affrighted countenances, horror and indignation were apparent.

In the centre of the court-yard, twenty voltigeurs were drawn up in
double files, with ordered arms, and commanded by a lieutenant. A dead
wall was directly opposite, at the distance of twelve paces; and thither
the Spaniards were conducted by their escort.

Colonel La Coste took his stand on the right of the firing party, some
half dozen paces from the subordinate officer that commanded it; and, on
either side, the chasseurs and peasantry formed a line of lookers-on.

The Colonel advanced two steps, as the Cura kissed and blessed the
sufferers for the last time.

“Wilt thou be free?--you know the terms,” he said, addressing the elder
of the partidas.

“No!” was calmly answered.

“Enough!--your blood be on your own head, and not on mine.”

Turning to the second he thus continued:--

“Young man, pause--death is bitter! thou hast many a day of life and
happiness before thee, if thou wilt but choose wisely.”

“I have chosen!” was the calm reply. “And now permit me an indulgence--a
few last words. I see the faces of deadly enemies around me, and, on the
blenched countenances of some dastard Spaniards, who stoop and kiss the
foot that presses on their necks, I look in vain for sympathy; but the
very walls around me will find a tongue, and the last message of ‘The
Student’ will be correctly carried to his friend, the Empecinado. Tell
him I died a true and faithful Spaniard. Tell him, that my friend and
I were slaughtered in cold blood, and that we expect at his hands ample
and immediate vengeance! Proceed!--art thou ready, Velasquez?”

A silent inclination of the head was returned by his fellow-sufferer, to
the Student. Colonel La Coste signalled to the officer, and the firing
party shouldered arms. A dead silence prevailed, and, at the movement of
the muskets, my heart beat wildly as a startled girl. Many of the French
soldiery turned pale, and but a very few looked on the scene of
death with indifference. The emotions of the peasants were now beyond
concealment, and tears and prayers were freely given to the sufferers.

“Are you ready?” inquired the commandant.

The elder Spaniard bowed, while the Student boldly exclaimed, “Ready!”

Colonel La Coste nodded to the lieutenant; at a motion of his sword, the
firing party came to the present, and the next moment the fatal word
was given--a volley answered it--and Velasquez and his companion dropped
dead on the pavement of the court-yard. Hastily, a cloth was thrown
over the bleeding bodies, the court-yard was cleared, the soldiers were
ordered to rest and refresh themselves, and I returned to the kitchen
of the posada, at the same time a guest and prisoner; and, in the same
apartment, and within twelve hours,--I supped with the departed, and
breakfasted with their executioners--Such is the fortune of war!



CHAPTER XXX. THE RESCUE.


“_A kinsman is part of a man’s body, of his
heart, but a foster-brother is a piece of his heart._” Waverley.

|Those who have been familiarized with warfare, know well, from personal
experience, how callous it renders the heart to human suffering. To me
these scenes were new--and to witness my fellow-men coolly hurried
to eternity, without even the mockery of a trial, had occasioned a
sensation too painful and powerful to be overcome. When, therefore,
Colonel La Coste and his officers sate down to breakfast, I felt mine,
indeed, to be a sorry appetite. The dead guerillas in the courtyard were
still before my eyes, and men with whom, in the full pride of youth
and health, I had taken my evening meal last night, were now “stark and
stiff;” and my morning repast was to be shared with their executioners.
I could not forget them; they rose to my imagination like Banquo’s
ghost, and completely marred my appetite.

Colonel La Coste, who in his own rough way had played the part of a
kindly host, guessed the cause of my depression, and endeavoured to
remove it. He had been three years a prisoner in England, and spoke our
language tolerably.

“Come, my young friend,” he said, “courage!--‘Tis but the chance of war,
and thy thraldom may be short. Think not that Frenchmen do not respect
those to whom they are opposed; and while a stern necessity renders
example indispensable, they know how to distinguish between the brigand
and the soldier. Eat, and muster thy philosophy. When but a little
older than thyself, I underwent a protracted captivity--Did I sink into
despair? No, faith! A sous-lieutenant, without friends or money, I taxed
my wits to make a stand against misfortune--ay, and I succeeded, too.
There is in England many a tooth-pick case, the handywork of Colonel La
Coste, to which tooth-picks and their cases, the said colonel has been
often indebted for a dinner. Think not, that because I inflict just
punishment upon brigands, I cannot pay due respect to a fellow-soldier
in misfortune. Give me your parole--and, while with us, you shall be a
captive but in name.”

“I thank you, sir,” I answered, “but when a hope of deliverance remains,
I never will, by a solemn promise, rivet the chain that binds me. I know
all chances of escape are desperate, and, without even having seen an
army in the field, that I shall be transferred to the hopeless bondage
of some inland fortress. I will give no parole, and if fortune favour
me, I will be free, or----”

“So--I understand you! Well, try your chances, and let me take care
to mar them. Your parole once given, Mr. O’Halloran, no officer of this
detachment should have been more at liberty than yourself; but as it is
refused, you will excuse me in treating you as I should the commonest
prisoner.--No matter, we understand each other perfectly. You have
been candid, and I forewarned. Have I your parole while we continue
here--here, in this posada?”

“Certainly.”

“And you will not attempt escape?”

“No; even though my good friend, the Empecinado, beat up your quarters,
my dear colonel.”

“Well, to breakfast now. Durimel?” he said, turning to his aide-de-camp,
“this gentleman is under no restraint; and while we remain in the
village, the gates are open to him.”

I bowed. “I am now upon parole, colonel--I feel flattered with this mark
of confidence; and lest I might be run away with by these wild partidas,
I shall wail myself of the protection of your voltigeurs, and confine
myself within the enclosure of the posada.”

Colonel La Coste appeared pleased at the frankness with which I
addressed him, and nothing could surpass the civility of his officers.
Perfectly acquainted with the accidental circumstances which introduced
me to the Empecinado and involved me in the _melee_ of the morning, I
was complimented on my first essay; and more than one of the gallant
Frenchmen, expressed a sincere regret that my effort at escape had not
proved more successful. The colonel washed down his breakfast with a
hearty stoup, while, with the loquacity of an old soldier, he favoured
us with military reminiscences.

“Would you believe it, Mr. O’Halloran, that your name is perfectly
familiar to me? 1 am a soldier of the old school, and commenced my
career at thirty. My first campaign was in the Low Countries, opposed to
your present commander-in-chief, the Duke of York; and, at his retreat,
I was in the advanced guard of the Republican army. On both sides,
supplies were scanty, and as our discipline was not then particularly
strict, men wandered here and there to make out a supper, if they could.
Though in years a man, I was a raw soldier in experience; and one foggy
evening I straggled from the outposts, and, at last, totally missed my
way. The accursed dykes of that most beastly country confused me, and
the further I went, the more I got confounded. I tumbled into two or
three of their dirty canals, and escaped, half smothered, between mud
and water, until, after an hour’s wandering, I at last found myself
within the British outposts and regularly at my wit’s end.

“A light was burning from a casement; I crept on, evaded the sentry in
front, and peeped through the window. Within, one man was seated, and
the epaulets on his shoulder told me that he was a field officer. My
case was hopeless. In a Dutch fog, within the lines of the enemy, the
bridges guarded, the boors unfriendly--how, in the devil’s name, had I a
chance of escape!--and, adopting a desperate resolution, I determined to
trust to the generosity of an enemy. I tapped lightly on the casement,
and the English officer rose, and opened it. ‘Who’s there?’ he asked. ‘A
poor hungry devil that has lost his way!’ said I. He told me to proceed;
and I honestly informed him that I had been four-and-twenty hours
without food, and that, in seeking some. I had got out of my own lines,
and into sundry canals--was half drowned, half frozen, and half
starved--and, to sum the story up, regularly perplexed, and bedeviled.
He laughed--told me to come in--gave me a draught of genuine
Schiedam--pointed to a table, where the remnant of a capital supper was
unremoved--and told me to eat heartily; [‘gad, he had no occasion to
repeat the invitation;) I did so--again drank heartily from the
long-necked bottle, and then modestly inquired whether I was a prisoner,
or not?

“‘Heaven forbid, _pauvre diable!_’ he answered with a laugh--‘No,
no--Wert thou a spy--three dips in a Dutch canal, with the mercury
below the freezing point, would be punishment enough. I have tonight
the outpost duty--I’ll pass you--and should you encounter some wandering
Englishman, repay the debt!’ He then left the room; I followed--he saw
me across a bridge where the outlying picket lay--and in an hour, I
found myself once more with my regiment. Is it not singular that his
name was similar to yours?--and that, three days afterwards, I met him
in the streets of Tyle, bayonet to bayonet? The headlong charge of the
British grenadiers overpowered us; but I heard, with unfeigned regret,
that my gallant friend and host had been severely wounded, and lost an
arm.

“Well, my son, when fortune turned against your countrymen, often
and fervently I prayed, that should more misfortunes overtake Colonel
O’Halloran, some good chance might place him in the hands of his
grateful enemy, Corporal La Coste.--have you ever heard of such a
person--a man of my own time of life, ay--old enough to be your father?”

“In the latter observation, my dear Colonel, you are perfectly correct,
as the gentleman in question stands precisely in that relation to me.
Well--it is strange enough, that you were indebted for a supper to the
parent, and repaid it with a breakfast to the son!”

In a moment the old republican folded me in his arms.

“Welcome,” he said, “son of a brave and generous enemy! May your career,
my child, be as gallant but more fortunate than your father’s; and may
you return to your native land with a well-won reputation, to cheer the
winter of the old man’s age--I once hoped the same from thee, Henri!”

He looked for a moment to the corner of the chamber where the dead
chasseur was laid--a tear trickled down his cheek--he brushed it hastily
away--then rose and crossed over to the casement, to conceal emotions of
a softer nature, which, in his stern estimate of a soldier’s character,
he considered unworthy of its dignity. In a few minutes he recovered
his composure, and was ready to receive the report of Captain St.
Pierre--who had just returned to the village, after an unsuccessful
effort to discover the retreat of the dreaded guerilla.

The captain of the chasseurs announced the failure of the expedition in
terms that showed how deeply its want of success had mortified him.

“We scoured the woods,” he said; “we searched every hovel for a league
around us; questioned every peasant that we met, and used threats and
promises in vain: and we are back, Colonel La Coste--the men worn out,
the horses wearied--and we could neither find a trace, nor glean the
slightest intelligence of the murdering brigand, who, for this time, has
unfortunately eluded detection.”

Rest was absolutely necessary before the cavalry could resume their
march; and, as a mountain-pass crowned the Toledo road at a league’s
distance from the village, and rendered the route particularly
dangerous, it was determined that the party should remain at the posada
for the night, and march at sun-rise. The dead chasseurs were honourably
committed to the grave--the soldiers ordered to refresh themselves--the
day passed over--night came--and, after every precaution had been
taken to secure the party against surprise, I found myself once more
in undisputed possession of the hard mattress on which I had rested
the preceding night. War, like misfortune, introduces people to strange
bed-fellows, and I never saw that adage so strikingly confirmed. Colonel
La Coste slept on the Empecinado’s bed. Where were the wild and Swarthy
partisans whom I had seen stretched on those couches now occupied by
gaily-dressed chasseurs? Cold and lifeless in the court-yard;--all
suffering at an end--life’s fever over!

At dawn of day the trumpet sounded; and as I had never undressed,
I quitted the crowded gallery to enjoy the morning air. I found the
court-yard in strange confusion, and the spot where the dead guerillas
lay, encircled by a number of the soldiery. I stepped forward; the men
made way for me; and one of them pointed out a paper affixed to the
Student’s breast. It was a placard, couched in Spanish, the words being,
“_Meuran los Franceses!_”

When the occurrence was reported to Colonel La Coste, nothing could
exceed his rage at the insult, excepting his astonishment at the
audacity of venturing on an attempt, that if discovered, involved the
certain death of him who tried this dangerous experiment. All connected
with the posada were subjected to a rigorous examination; but nothing
was elicited that could attach suspicion to any particular individual.
I knew not wherefore, but the occurrence raised some hopes of a speedy
deliverance; and I felt a strong conviction that our march on Toledo
would not be effected without interruption; and the event proved that my
conclusions were correct.

We marched at six o’clock; and what a scene of melancholy loneliness the
deserted posada must have presented after our departure! The crowd of
glittering soldiers gone--the only occupants, the affrighted inmates,
and the dead guerillas. We rode slowly through the hamlet; I, mounted on
a horse that two days before had carried an enemy’s chasseur. It might
have been fancy--I thought the faces of the villagers had a sinister
expression as they looked after the French soldiers, while in more than
one hurried glance, I saw sympathy evinced for me.

When we cleared the village, Colonel La Coste rode up, and signalled
that two chasseurs, who rode on either side of me with unslung carbines,
should fall back.

“Mr. O’Halloran,” he said, “your parole is ended--are you willing to
renew it? If so, ride in any part of the column you think fit, and
consider yourself at perfect freedom.”

“Colonel,” I replied, “to do so would be to abandon my last hope of
liberty. Treat me as a close prisoner; I will not give the pledge you
ask from me.”

He looked at me suspiciously.

“Is there any secret understanding with the enemy? have you received
any private information? What hope of escape can you have? The escort is
strong--our soldiers vigilant.”

“Still--hopeless as they may be, 1 will not throw chances away. I tell
you honestly, Colonel La Coste, that I will use every means of effecting
an escape--”

“Which I shall take precautions to render impracticable,” he added.
“I have a stern duty to perform; and even though it cost mine ancient
friend a son, La Coste shall not be wanting.”

He waived his hand--the chasseurs resumed a place at either side--and
one took my bridle in his hand. The commandant addressed them--

“Should this gentleman endeavour to get away, or should an attempt be
made to rescue him that seems likely to succeed, shoot him on the spot.
We lost one that we should have captured; we must not lose another.
Look first, to this gentleman’s security; and secondly, to his comfort.
Impose no unnecessary restraint--but deliver him safely at Toledo, or,
mark the consequences!--your lives shall be the forfeit of his liberty,”
 he said--spurred his horse forward, and took his place at the head of
the column, which had now left Casa Mora in its rear.

The line of march ran through a country, wild, picturesque, and
difficult. A sierra of steep ascent was immediately in our front--the
summit crowned with broken crags--and the sides clothed thickly with
ilex, cork, and olive trees. As we advanced, the woods grew thicker, and
the road was surmounted by rocks on either hand. It seemed as if it had
been originally a great water-course, which human labour had converted
into a passage through the mountain. We approached the gorge of the pass
with military caution. Videttes preceded the advanced guard; and, on
either side, voltigeurs were thrown out in extended order, to feel the
woods, and keep the flanks secure. Colonel La Coste, after making every
disposition against surprise, joined the centre of the column, where I
was riding with my friends the chasseurs, who had been so particularly
entrusted with the pleasant duty of dispatching me on the first alarm.
The Colonel ordered them to fall back once more; and, satisfied that we
were secure from any molestation, he indulged again in fresh details of
some of the many scenes and services which he had passed through during
his adventurous career. Still, evidently he was not at ease; and as we
entered the defile, he could not repress feelings of apprehension.

“What an infernal guerilla-pass it is!” he half spoke, half-muttered
to himself: “The country and the men seem formed for each other,
and designed for cut-throat warfare. And the manner the road winds,
too,--you cannot see fifty yards in front for rocks and thickets. We’re
near the summit. Heaven be praised!--for, sooth to say, Mr. O’Halloran,
this is not exactly the place where I should wish to have the honour of
trying conclusions with your esteemed friend, the Empecinado.”

The road made here a wide and sudden sweep, dipping into a hollow in the
mountain-ridge. Right in front, a pinnacle of rock appeared to bar all
farther passage, and the path was scarped from its side. The hollow way
on either side was bordered by thick underwood--and nothing eould be
more suspicious-looking than this wild and difficult gorge. Again
Colonel La Coste rode forward to the front, to restore the order of the
column, which had become crowded and disordered, from the narrowness and
ruggedness of the path.

Before, however, the commandant could reach his advanced guard, a
vidette galloped hastily back, and announced that the road in front was
entirely blocked up with trees, formed into a strong abatis, impassable
to cavalry. The chasseurs were halted, and the light infantry ordered
forward to remove the barrier by which the further-progress of the
column had been thus arrested. Nearly at the same moment, the rear-guard
were suddenly fired on from thickets on either side, while a number of
partidas rushed from their previous concealments, and, in a few minutes,
effectually closed up the narrow road which the detachment had already
passed, by throwing trees and rocks across it. That the French party
were completely surprised, was now but too apparent. The voltigeurs, in
attempting to force the abatis, had been shot down by dozens; and every
knoll, or rock, which overlooked the pass, swarmed with guerillas, who
commenced a murderous fire from their long-barrelled fowling-pieces, and
that, too, upon the close ranks of an enemy where every bullet told.

The old republican had ridden forward to encourage the voltigeurs to
force the abatis, that the column might fight its way through the gorge
in which it had been entangled--but he was shot through the heart, and
dropped dead from his charger. The suddenness of the attack--the fall
of their leader--the appearance of countless enemies on every side,
completed the panic, and paralysed exertions which, under ordinary
circumstances, the enemy would have made. To a stern demand to
surrender, the voltigeurs replied by throwing down their arms, while
the chasseurs hastily dismounted, and endeavoured to obtain protection
behind their horses, from a constant and deadly fusilade. Some had
endeavoured to escape through the underwood--and a few succeeded in the
attempt--but the greater number were cut down; and presently resistance
ceased.

The suddenness of the surprise--and the rapidity with which the affair
had terminated in the destruction or capture of the French detachment,
seemed magical.--No attempt had been made to carry the orders of Colonel
La Coste into execution, and my danger was confined to the ordinary
chances of receiving a flying bullet by mistake.--From the moment a shot
was heard, my captors lost all heart, and appeared to consider their
situation desperate: generally mercy was extended--and in a time
inconceivably short, the prisoners were secured, and stripped of every
thing that was deemed worthy of notice by the guerillas.

From the neat and uniform appointments of the French soldiers, the eye
turned in surprise on the strange and motley appearance the guerilla
band presented. Every individual was dressed and armed after his
especial fancy. All were differently equipped; and had not sad realities
presented themselves, the whole might have been imagined a military
masquerade. The costumes of several countries were united in a single
dress. The flaring scarlet and light blue jacket of an Estremaduran
hussar--the shaco of a French chasseur--pistols and saddle of English
manufacture--the long straight sword of the cuirassier--the brown
Spanish sash, and leathern cartouch-box, with an Arragonese or Catalan
escopeta, were not unfrequent equipments of the same brigand, as the
French invariably entitled them. *

     * Leith Hay.

Although none of the captives escaped plunder, and many were cruelly
insulted in the operation, it was singular that all the partidas treated
me with respect, and left me unscathed in person or effects. Presently
a buzz around me attracted my attention. A man was forcing a passage
through the crowd, and the guerillas civilly made way for him. He was
dressed and armed in the same wild and incongruous style which marked
the costume of these irregular partisans; and he looked as much the
brigand as if he had served a regular apprenticeship to the profession.
Great, therefore, was my astonishment when I heard him pronounce my
name; but greater still, when he seized both my hands in his, and
half said, half sobbed--“Hector, _avourneeine!_--Have I found my
foster-brother once more?” It was, indeed, the lost Mark Antony; and, as
far as one could judge by appearances, the fosterer had neither received
damage in the late affray, nor in his morning swim over the Sedana.

“Holy Mary!” he exclaimed. “Is this yourself, Master Hector? Well, I
never expected to see you alive; though that black gentleman, with the
long name, strove all he could to give me comfort. May the Lord reward
him for the same!--and upon my soul, for a perfect stranger, he showed
the greatest affection for us both After we were safe out of fire, and
taking breath for a minute in the cork-wood, I asked him, fair and
easy, what he thought had become of ye? ‘’Gad,’ says he, ‘I think its a
toss-up between shooting and hanging. The chances are, that your master
was finished in the affray; but if he escaped that, he is sure to be
throttled in the morning. Don’t be cast down,’ says he, ‘if they string
up our absent friend, I’ll hang twelve Frenchmen in his place, and you
shall keep the reckonin’.’ It was very civil on the gentleman’s part,
but, ‘faith, I was better pleased, an hour afterwards, when a goatherd
brought us intelligence that you were safe and sound, and the other poor
devils dead as a door-nail. But here he comes--a mighty pleasant sort
of friend, but sorra worse enemy one would meet in a month of Sundays.
Indeed, I have no reason to complain of him; a better comrade I never
travelled with--I have lived like a fighting-cock since we came
together; and as my clothes were made ribbons of in the skrimmage, here
I am rigged out anew from top to toe.”

As he spoke, the partida leader approached, wrung my hand ardently with
his, and warmly congratulated me on my safe deliverance from French
bondage, and in having escaped any material injury in our outbreak from
the posada, and the more recent attack. Confiding the duty of removing
the prisoners, horses, and plunder to Villa Toro, he requested me to
walk with him to the head of the pass. As we proceeded along the scene
of action--if such an affair might so be termed, where the loss was
entirely on one side, and no resistance had been offered--I was struck
with the strange alteration the appearance of the road had undergone.
Ten minutes since it had been strewn with dead chasseurs and
sharpshooters, dressed in their showy uniforms, and fully and
effectively equipped. Not a soldier could be discovered now; but in
their places numerous corpses might be seen stripped of every covering,
and in a state of nudity, that almost rendered identity impossible.
One body, however, I distinctly recognised:--the white hair, and stern
expression of countenance, even after death, could not be mistaken:--the
dead soldier was the old Republican--Colonel La Coste.



CHAPTER XXXI. THE TRIAL.



                   “Proceed to judgment; by my sou!, I swear.

                   There is no power in the tongue of man

                   To alter me.”

                        SHAKSPEARE.

|I could not pass the still bleeding corpse of the old commander without
gazing for a moment on the body, and expressing my sympathy aloud. The
Empecinado directed a careless look at the fallen Frenchman.

“Yes,” he said, “La Coste has fought his last battle; and he who would
wish that the event were otherwise, would be indeed his enemy. I have
one weak point of character, Mr. O’Halloran, and occasionally, forget
the man in the soldier. The Spaniard who struck for freedom had in La
Coste a ruthless foe. By the orders of him and another, I have lost, as
you know, two brave companions; and within an hour after ‘the Student’
breathed his last, the dying commands of my friend were carefully
conveyed to me. Vengeance he demanded--vengeance I swore should be
exacted--and I doomed his murderers accordingly. From my fixed purpose
no earthly intervention could have saved the devoted commander--but
the chances of war have averted an ignominious end. He died a soldier’s
death--I don’t regret it;--and the halter, designed for him, is reserved
for some less fortunate camarado. No more--the morning has been a busy
one. Come, we need refreshment. Follow me!”

He led the way through an opening in the _abatis_ made by the removal
of a tree, ascended the steep rock behind it, and when we gained the
summit, we found there a guerilla _déjeuné_ prepared. The scene and meal
were wild alike. Substantial viands, a leathern bottle of capacious size
filled with wine of superior excellence, a few rude platters, the rock
our table, the sky, cloudless and blue, the canopy--while a rivulet,
clear as crystal, trickled at our feet through the deep hollow of a
mountain ravine, whose volume of water varied at seasons from a torrent
to a thread. Above, the rugged pinnacles of the wild Sierra overhung
the place we occupied--while below, the broken road wound through the
underwood, which by turns revealed or hid it. The lower portion was
crowded with the guerillas and their prisoners in march to Villa Moro,
but the upper presented a less pleasing spectacle. It was thickly
studded with the bodies of the slain--an hour ago “instinct with life,”
 but now mutilated, cold, and naked.

We found two chosen friends of Juan Diez waiting to share the morning
meal. As the dark complexion of the guerilla leader had given the
Empecinado his by-name, so also, the person or profession of his
companions had obtained for each a _sobriquet_. One was a low-sized man,
of extraordinary muscular proportions, who, from a distortion of his
left hand, was termed El bianco, or “The Maimed.” The other retained the
title of his former calling; and although the missal had long since been
abandoned for the sword, he still was designated “El Cura.” Than the
respective dresses and appearance of these partida chiefs, nothing
could be more dissimilar. The “Maimed One” wore the simple costume of
an Estremduran peasant--while the rich uniform of a _chef-d’escadron_ of
Joseph’s lancers of the guard, was adopted by the churchman, whose tall
and martial figure seemed never intended for one, whose sphere of action
should be confined to the drowsy duties of cell and cloister.

At the invitation of Juan Diez, we assumed a Roman attitude, and
stretched ourselves upon the rock; the fosterer modestly falling back,
as if he considered himself unworthy of breakfasting in such goodly
presence. The Spaniard noticed his secession.

“What ho!” he exclaimed, with a smile,--“hast thou no appetite
to-day?--or after sticking stoutly to a comrade in the fray, wouldst
thou desert him afterwards at feasting time?’Tis not the world’s way in
general--and men love to see the cork drawn, who hate the sparkle of a
sabre. Sit thee down,” and he pointed to a place beside himself. Then
turning to his companions, the Empecinado thus continued:--

“I told you, my friends, how narrowly I avoided the trap which French
gold and Spanish treachery had baited for me. I planned and led a
desperate effort at escape--and never was man more gallantly supported.
This youth and I succeeded. ‘Twas all mere accident. We kept our
legs and gained the river. My brave friend here,” (I coloured at the
compliment like a peony,) “and our murdered brethren, were beaten down
and captured. It is marvellous how the whistle of a passing bullet
accelerates one’s speed--and faith, I never fancied I could run so
fast. If my camarado here proved that in the fray he could use his arms
stoutly, in flight nothing but a goatherd could keep him company. Fast
as I ran, he still ran faster--and we fairly outstripped pursuit, save
that of two rascally voltigeurs, who had thrown away their musquets, and
thus lightened, were enabled to keep close at our heels. We neared the
river--ten paces more would gain the bank--and then escape would be
pretty certain. I turned my head to see what number of the enemy pursued
us. A score came straggling after at various distances, and, fifty yards
ahead of their companions, those two accursed sharpshooters led the
chase. I wished the scoundrels hamstrung; but, thanks to our Lady! the
Sedana was at hand. Alas! it seemed fated that I should not reach its
waters. An infernal vine-root crossed the path--it caught my foot--down
I came; and, as I believed, my doom was sealed,--captivity first, and
death afterwards. My young companion heard my fall; and checking his
course, he boldly turned to assist me to escape, or share my fate if
taken. With a blow he felled the leading voltigeur, and while the other
hesitated to close with two desperate men, I regained my feet, and
in another moment I and my brwe preserver were breasting the swollen
stream, and jive minutes found us in safety on its farther side. Yes, my
stout comrade--but for thee, France would have been freed of one of her
worst enemies, and Spain have lost a faithful son. Juan Diez owes thee a
life--and the dearest wish of his heart is, that a time may come when he
can repay thy gallant service.”

“On their own merits modest men are dumb,” and therefore, in the
Empecinado’s narrative of our outbreak from the posada, I omit that
honourable mention was made of the superior style in which I finished a
chasseur, and rendered a second member of the same distinguished
corps _hors de combat_. But decidedly, Mark Antony was the lion of the
morning. Before his high deserts, mine sank immeasurably--and from the
gentleman with the maimed hand, and his pious _confrère_. El Cura, we
both received flattering tokens of friendship and respect. As to me,
there was not a French throat in the peninsula, were it only to be got
at, that would not be slit at my solicitation; and had the fosterer made
the request, the French detachment would have been decimated without
a doubt, to prove the high place he held in the personal esteem of the
Empecinado.

We despatched our breakfast, the guerillas prepared to move, called for
their horses, and provided a couple for Mark Antony and me, which an
hour before had carried different riders--namely, poor La Coste and his
aid-de-camp. As we wound down the mountain-road, leading to Villa Moro,
the Empecinado pointed out the thickets his followers had occupied, and
dwelt with evident satisfaction on the plan and execution of his late
successful surprise. And yet, like an unskilful engineer, the mine he
had charged for the ruin of another, had nearly caused his own. The
alcade and postmaster were false to their country, and in the pay of the
invaders. They knew that a French scouting party had secretly advanced
within two leagues of Villa Moro, on the night we arrived at the
posada--and having gained imperfect information that a guerilla movement
was contemplated, they suspected that the late visitors at the village
inn were probably connected with the attempt, and despatched our
muleteer, to apprise the French commandant that suspicious strangers
were in the venta, where they could be easily apprehended.--Acting
on this intelligence--correct enough so far as it extended--La Coste
executed a rapid night march, which failed in its object, and terminated
in disaster and defeat.

Before we reached the little town, the prisoners, with a numerous
escort, had crossed the Sedana, directing their march upon the mountains
which divide Murcia from Toledo. As we rode slowly down the streets,
_Vivas_ greeted us on every side--the women being the loudest in their
acclamations. One circumstance I afterwards had cause to recollect.
Nearly in the centre of the village, I observed a house of superior
appearance, having a court yard in front, with a beech-tree of unusual
size, whose spreading branches extended nearly over the whole area of
the enclosure. The Empecinado turned a careless glance on the building
and the tree.--“That beech will answer”--he muttered--and without
another observation, rode forward and entered the yard of the posada.

It was crowded with dismounted partidas, whose horses were picketed and
feeding--and in my life I never saw more savage countenances than
those which were half hidden and half seen beneath the shadow of their
dark-plumed sombreros. In a remote corner, some dozen French voltigeurs,
bound two and two, were drawn up. An ominous silence prevailed--in the
pale faces of the prisoners, intense anxiety was marked--their guards
only conversed in whispers--and it appeared that all were in expectation
of some coming event, which seemed dependent on the arrival of the
Empecinado.

From the living my eye turned to the direction where I had witnessed
the execution of “the Student” and his friend.--The bodies, however,
had been removed,--but the spot where they had fallen was readily
discovered, for here and there, patches of cement had fallen on the
ground, detached from the wall where the bullets of the firing party had
struck the brick-work.--Juan Diez cast a gloomy look from the place his
friends had met their death to that captive group, whose suspense as to
their fate the presence of the dreaded chief would presently remove--and
without uttering a word, he entered the well-remembered kitchen of the
posada--the curate and El Maneo following, and the fosterer and I with a
few partidas bringing up the rear.

It appeared that this singular chamber was destined to present
alternately images of life and death, and in quick succession the venta
became the house of mourning and of feasting.--On the same table where
I had supped with the Empecinado and La Coste, the bodies of the dead
guerillas were laid out side by side, the village priest kneeling at
their feet, land offering a mass for their souls’ repose. Until the
religious duty was performed, the partida leaders observed a respectful
silence--but when the Cura rose up and departed, the Empecinado
addressed his companions:--

“You have heard,” he said, “the dying injunction of our lost comrade,
when he confided to me the sacred duty of executing vengeance on those
who murdered him. That hour is come, and ere high noon, blood shall
be repaid with blood. To those without, their doom shall be speedily
communicated; and on the same spot, and by the same means by which our
brethren perished, their slayers shall be slain. So much for retribution
on the enemy. Another task is to be performed--greater criminals
remain--and justice sternly demands her victims. Diego,” he continued,
pulling out his watch, and turning to one of the partidas, who seemed to
follow his movements as an orderly, “Go out--apprise the condemned that
in fifteen minutes they will be in eternity. The time is short--the
priest must be the busier. Deliver this watch to Juan de Castro; and
when this hand stands there--he knows the rest--and then conduct the
other prisoners hither.”

He whom the Empecinado had addressed as Diego made no reply, but bowed,
and left the kitchen. In a few minutes he returned, and we looked
anxiously to the door to discover who the other criminals might be.

The first who presented himself, from dress and appearance, was
evidently a hidalgo, or Spanish gentleman. The second bore a lower
Stamp, and appertained to the middle order of society. The third, to our
unbounded astonishment, was our quondam fellow-traveller, the muleteer.
The arms of each prisoner were bound behind his back with a common
halter, the end of which the partida, who conducted the criminal, held
within his grasp.

On the countenances of the prisoners despair was plainly written; and
if one ray of hope still remained unextinguished in their bosoms, the
chilling address of Juan Diez would have quenched it.

In dead silence they were placed in a line, and at the foot of the
table, where the bodies of “the Student” and his comrade were extended.
Bending on the devoted wretches a scowl of indescribable ferocity, the
Empecinado thus addressed them:--

“Spaniards--but in name--false to your God, faithless to your
country!--have ye aught to say why a felon death should not be instantly
awarded?”

The hopeless agony which the faces of the criminals thus addressed
exhibited, shall never fade from my memory. Colourless--wordless--their
white lips moved; but not a syllable was articulated but the single
supplication, half lost, half heard, of “mercy!”

“Mercy!” returned their stern judge, “Mercy!”--and he laughed.
_Oh! what a laugh it was!--“Mercy, and from  me!_ Look round gaze upon
your victims--and then ask mercy from Juan Diez But softly, we must be
just. The mockery of a trial was extended to our comrades, and a similar
act of justice shall be meted out to you. I shall be the accuser, and
those shall be your judges and he pointed to El Manco and the Curate.
Yes, justice ye shall have; and I swear, by the decree only of these
worthy gentlemen, life or death shall be determined!”

He placed his hand within his jacket, and then slowly pulling out
several written documents, selected two or three, and then proceeded
with his address.

“Answer me briefly--speak truth--for, remember, the first falsehood
ensures the transfer of yonder halters from arm to neck. Jose de Toro,”
 he continued, turning to the postmaster, “knowst thou this handwriting?”

The person questioned gave a hurried look at the well remembered
characters, and, with the sickly hope that, leaning on a straw, still
clings desperately to life, he at once determined to betray his guilty
companion.

“Noble sir,” he muttered, “that writing is the alcades.”

“Thou hearest,” said the Empecinado, handing the fatal document to
the Cura. “Honest Sancho thou wert bearer of a letter, two nights ago,
addressed to Captain St. Pierre. Wouldst thou know it, honest Sancho?”
 and the word _honest_ hissed sarcastically between his teeth.

To the unfortunate muleteer, life was dear as to the postmaster. He
took the fatal packet in his hand, looked at it attentively, and then
replied, that he had indeed received it from Jose de Toro, under a
promise of ten dollars for its safe delivery, which promise had been
faithfully fulfilled.

“Ho! Ho!” exclaimed the Empecinado, “said I not truly that thou wert
_honest?_ ‘Tis marvellous what virtue lies in a yard or two of hemp.
There, Cura, read that letter also, and then thou and El Manco will know
what will be due to justice. What proves the alcade’s letter?”

“That the writer is a traitor, and in French pay,” was the brief reply.

“And what, the worthy postmaster’s?”

“That he is a sworn confederate.”

“And what, Cura, wouldst thou term the caitiff who advisedly was bearer
of treacherous intelligence?”

“I would say that, in effecting the villany of others, he was on a par,
in guilt, with the traitors who employed him.”

“And now, El Manco, be it thy duty to pronounce sentence on these
offenders.”

The maimed one answered this appeal by directing a concentrated look of
hatred and vengeance at the convicted. Neither the alcade or De Toro had
power to speak a word; but the luckless muleteer cried lustily, and in
the name of every saint, for mercy and forgiveness.

“Well,” said the partida chief, “‘twere wrong to keep you in suspense,
as one fate awaits ye. But we will justly apportion it according to your
respective ranks.”

Here the muleteer, under fallacious expectations, broke in with a loud
torrent of future loyalty and everlasting gratitude.

“Stay, fellow, keep thyself cool awhile,” said El Manco, drily. “Thou
know’st the proverb, surely--‘Hallo not until ye clear the forest;’
and now listen to your sentences. With due consideration for thy rank,
alcade, thou shalt ornament a topping branch of your own beech tree. The
postmaster must needs content himself with a lower bough. And for thee,
good fellow,” and he addressed himself to the trembling muleteer, “no
matter to what limb they attach thy worthless carcase, provided thy
feet clear the court-yard by a yard or two. Off with them--let them have
_five_ minutes; and, by San Jago, that will be longer by _four_ than the
knaves deserve!”

Never, on a shorter trial, were men condemned, nor sentence more
savagely delivered. To a ruthless judge, appeal or remonstrance would
have been equally unwailing; and they were removed from the posada to
the tree in a sort of sullen and stupid unconsciousness. Their shrift
was short--the last sad ceremony hurried over--and, as the fosterer
afterwards observed, “they were hanged before they could find time to
bless themselves!”

The passing scene was one that would dwell long upon the fancy.--One
may view the dead with indifference--the trial’s over--the goal
is past.--But who can look upon “a thing of life,” whose thread of
existence a few short minutes will sever, without recoiling at the
thought? So much had these sad reflections occupied my mind, that I
forgot there were others besides those on whom I had just looked my
last, who were standing on the confines of eternity. But these musings
were interrupted. Without, a rolling volley was suddenly delivered. It
knelled the doom of the luckless voltigeurs--and by a similar impulse,
Mark Antony and I sprang from the bench, and rushed forward to the
casement which looked out upon the courtyard.

For a moment the smoke from the guerilla muskets partially obscured our
view--but as it rose upwards, we saw the unhappy sufferers stretched in
a line before the wall--dead, or rolling in the agonies of death. There
was one singular exception;--an officer appeared to have escaped--for he
stood upright and firmly on his feet, with his hand across his bosom. In
military executions, some loaded muskets are always reserved to abridge
the sufferings of the condemned, should the volley of the firing party
fail to end existence. But the partidas were willing executioners--every
piece had been discharged--and though the Frenchman boldly called on
them to “fire!”--the order was not obeyed.

[Illustration: 0346]

To rescue the gallant victim was my instant determination, and I
appealed warmly to the Empecinado in his favour. The Spaniard shook his
head--and the Cura and El Manco protested against any exercise of mercy.
The guerillas commenced reloading--in a few brief moments the deed
would be effected, and remonstrance of no avail--but a sudden impulse of
generous ardour eventually proved successful. The fosterer bounded from
the casement to the courtyard--sprang through the crowd, passed along
the front of the firing party, clasped the condemned soldier in his
arms, and swore in very excellent Irish, and by every saint he could
remember at the time, that to reach the Frenchman’s body, the bullets
must pass first through his.

There was not a partida in that wild band who did not personally
estimate Mark Antony as the saviour of their chief--but still the
fosterer’s was a dangerous and doubtful experiment. It was interposing
between the tiger who has tasted blood, and the victim already
underneath his paw. Dark looks were turned upon the preserved and the
preserver--and muttered oaths were heard, like the distant growl which
heralds the bursting of a thundercloud. The Empecinado, who witnessed
the occurrence from the casement, however, lulled the coming storm--and
in a voice that to be heard was to be obeyed, he commanded the surviving
prisoner to be conducted to his presence; and next moment Lieutenant
Cammaran entered the kitchen of the pesada--on one side guarded by a
guerilla--on the other supported by the honest fosterer, who still, for
better security, encircled the Frenchman with his arm.

Scott says that “a kinsman is part of a man’s body, but a fosterbrother
is a piece of his heart.” The truth of the remark never came so home to
me before. In infancy, the same bosom had sustained us,--in childhood,
our joys and sorrows were the same,--in youth, Mark Antony had followed
my fortunes, and in manhood preserved my life. No wonder, that for
him mine was indeed a brother’s love. But I never felt so proud of our
relationship, as when I saw the fosterer confront the guerilla chiefs,
with his arm locked firmly round the poor French voltigeur.



CHAPTER XXXII. THE PARDONED VOLTIGEUR.



               “_Portia_.--It must not be; there is no power in Venice

                   Can alter a decree established;

                   ‘Twill be recorded for a precedent;

                   And many an error, by the same example,

                   Will rush into the state--it cannot be.”

                        Merchant or Venice.

|I never met a man who appeared to have made his mind up to die with
more dignity and determination than Lieutenant Cammaran. He had already
almost undergone the bitterness of death; as yet his fate was an
uncertainty--the sword continued suspended by a hair--and still the
expression of his manly countenance was perfectly undisturbed, and
neither lip nor eye-lid trembled, he planted his foot firmly on the
floor, and, calmly and resolved, awaited a doubtful result--the turn of
the die, on which life and death depended.

How he had escaped mortal injury seemed the miracle: two balls had
passed through his chaco, his epaulette was divided by another, the
jacket perforated by several, and yet not one bullet of a dozen aimed
at him had even razed the skin! In such a presence, and under such
circumstances, to remain unmoved, required a powerful exercise of moral
courage. Few there were, who bore the name of Frenchman, who would have
coveted an interview with Juan Diez. El Manco, in desperate severity
towards the invaders, bore even a more terrible reputation than the
Empecinado; and although the Cura was a learned and pious churchman,
as it might have been presumed, still, from divers exploits ascribed
to him, in which unbounded liberties had been taken with life and limb,
there was not a follower of the intruder who would not have preferred an
interview with the archenemy himself.

“Thou hast been condemned to death,” said Juan Diez, addressing the
prisoner.

“I have,” replied the captive, steadily, “and the only marvel is that
the sentence has not been yet completed.”

“Humph! But for the thoughtless interference of this rash young man,
that marvel would have been ended speedily,” returned the Empecinado.
“Hast thou aught to ask before----” And he made a pause.

“The experiment shall be tried more successfully,” said the Frenchman,
coolly. “Yes; I have an orphan daughter! My poor Pauline!--thou hast no
mother to protect thee--and in an hour thou wilt be fatherless! I would
send her all I have--my parting blessing; and, with your permission,
write a brief letter, which this kind and gallant youth will, I have no
doubt, endeavour to get safely conveyed to Paris.”

“_Mona sin diaoul!_” exclaimed the fosterer, drawing the back of his
hand across his eyes, “Miss Pauline shall get it, though I walked every
inch of the road, and committed highway robbery for my expenses.”

“Thy request is granted. Diego, bring my portefeuille hither. And make
the letter short,” continued El Manco, coldly; “I have some ten leagues
to ride after thy execution; I’ll wait until it’s over, for I hate to
leave a job half done.”

“Gracious God!” I exclaimed; “surely this cannot be serious! Pause,
Don Juan!--One so miraculously preserved--the very hand of Providence
visible in his escape!--Would you slay him?--deliberately, coldly, slay
him? No, no, I can’t--I won’t believe it. You are brave!--the brave
are not assassins; and this would be an act of butchery! You would not
sanction it. Did I conceive it possible that you would, by Heaven, the
worst remembrance of my life would be, to think that you and I had ever
fought side by side, and hand and heart together!”

The Spaniard coloured; but a sarcastic smile was the only reply he
vouchsafed.

“I am too warm, Don Juan; like that of your own land, Irish blood is
hot. Forgive me if I have offended you.” A gracious smile from the
Empeeinado was returned, and conveyed a gracious pardon. “Now let me ask
a favour: make me in gratitude your debtor; I have a claim on you. From
the surprise, three nights ago, _I_ risked nothing but captivity; by the
French I should have been honourably respected; and had I determined
on escape, a fitter time and better opportunity would have been readily
found to attempt it. With _you_ circumstances were different, nay,
desperate. With you ‘twas but a choice of deaths--the sword or halter
the alternative--while I had only to remain quiet, and not a hair of
my head would have suffered injury. Did I fail you then?--Did my foster
brother? No; we perilled all, fought by your side, and hewed out a path
by which you escaped a death more certain, even than that which now
awaits this unfortunate gentleman.”

“Stop, Mr. O’Halloran,” said Juan Diez, interrupting me. “All you have
stated is correct; and the only difficulty in the case is to
reconcile gratitude with duty. I see a course by which matters may be
accommodated; and, from your interference on his behalf, I will save
this Frenchman; that is, provided he accedes to terms. There are none
here but those he may rely on. Listen, prisoner, and pause before you
answer me.” He took an open packet from his breast. “These papers,
in cypher, were found carefully concealed upon the body of your late
commander: you were his secretary, and know the key; give me the means
of reading the contents, and thou art free as yonder bird.” A pigeon
passed the casement at the moment. “Hast thou not the key?”

“I have,” returned the captive.

“Speak--disclose it--liberty is thine; and none shall ever know the
means by which I obtained a knowledge of the secret.”

“First, may this tongue be palsied!” And the captive drew himself
proudly up.

“To the court-yard, then!” returned the Einpecinado. “No more, sir,” he
said, perceiving I was about to urge anew my claims upon him for late
service, “have I your final answer to my proposal?” he continued,
turning to the condemned.

“Fixed and final!” was the firm reply.

“And upon my conscience, as a true Catholic,” exclaimed the fosterer,
“a dirtier proposal, Mister Empecinado, I never listened to!--you would
have the honest lad here turn traitor, after hanging three dacent men of
the same profession scarcely half an hour ago!--Arrah, have ye neither
conscience nor decency, Don Juan?”

“What ho!” returned the Spaniard, “art thou, too, upon me?”

“Mr. Empecinado--and God sees I’m not quite certain whether I’m right or
wrong in mistering you--but if it’s wrong, why leave it on my ignorance.
We have been comrades for three days, and from the little I know of
ye, I would go through fire and water to serve you; more by token, the
coldest swim I ever had, I took in your company over that river the
other morning. No matter about that--the glass of brandy we had from
that friend of yours in the cork wood set all to rights afterwards.
Well, as I was saying, ye spoke civilly of me not two hours ago fornent
these gentlemen--him with the crooked claw, and his reverence in the
colonel’s jacket. Now all I ask you is a trifle. Honour bright, Don
Juan! Don’t ye mind, after the swim, and over a glass of brandy-nate,
you offered to hang a dozen Frenchmen as a mark of friendship to me and
Master Hector there? It’s not much I want; only just let one neck alone.
Do, Empecinado, _avourneine_! Arrah, do, and take my blessing! Why, man,
it would be murder, out and out, to harm him. Arrah, just look at the
state ye have reduced him to!--you have drove two bullets through his
cap; and as to his jacket--and may be the best the crature has in
the world--it’s cut into so many ribbons, that, upon my conscience, a
respectable scarecrow would be ashamed to wear it in a wheat-field on a
Sunday. You know I’m the last man that would interfere in matters that
don’t concern me.--Did I part my lips, good nor bad, when ye sent the
three gentlemen to the gallows a while ago?--and if you hanged raff of
their kind out of the face--for as well as I could understand they were
bailiffs or attorneys--sorra one of me would blame ye if ye strung them
by the score. But this poor crature--let him go--and take Mark Antony’s
blessing.”

Warm as was the fosterer’s appeal, it did not shake the stern resolution
of the Empecinado; and a cold movement of his head negatived the
supplication for mercy.

“And won’t ye, then, be after letting him off?” continued Mark Antony,
warming into Hibernian eloquence, while his cheek flushed, and his dark
eyes kindled. “Ye spoke a while ago about my doing you a civil turn--let
this poor fellow free, and I’ll do ye twenty more, if you’ll only put
me in the way. But if ye’re baste enough to murder him--_mona bin
diaoul!_--the next time you’re in a skrimmage, and tumble over an ould
tree, may the divil pick ye up for Mark Antony O’Toole. That’s all I
have to say--Tiggum thu?” *

     * Anglice,  “Do ye understand?”,

The speaker paused. Most of the fosterer’s address Juan Diez
comprehended; and such portion of the speech as had been delivered in
Irish, being expletive, were not very material. To the appeal, however,
he turned a deaf ear, and directed, that after his letter had been
written, the prisoner’s sentence should be carried into immediate
effect. I was about to remonstrate, but Mark Antony, having the ear of
the Court, thus continued:--

“And is this your answer?” he exclaimed. “Ah, then, Empecinado, I have
done with ye! Ay--and for all your fine speeches, I’m be-ginning to
think you’re no great shakes, after all; and as to your promises,
they’re very like what they call pig-shaving in Connaught--much noise
and little wool. Come along, Hector, jewel! we won’t remain to see this
poor gentleman fairly murdered. God forgive the whole of ye! I put
the sign of the cross betune us.” And here the fosterer made a crusial
flourish with his thumb in the direction of the guerilla chiefs. “I can
only say, that if there are three gentlemen in Spain certain of a warm
corner in the next world, I’m just at present taking a parting peep at
them. Good morning to ye all. I’ll be obliged if you’ll send one of your
understrappers to put us on the right road; and I hope, Mister Diez,
that the next dacent lad ye tatter out of bed at cock-crow, to drag into
a _rookarn_ first, and a river afterwards--why--that you’ll trate him
civiller than ye did me.”

There are few who are proof against eloquence, natural or acquired; and
on all it has power alike, whether it be exercised in the fish-market
or the Four Courts. On some men it may have opposite effects; and the
florid appeal that carries away the judgment of the one, will only alarm
the suspicions of another; and thus, the same jury, that on the showing
of Mr. Charles Phillips, values an abstracted lady at a thousand pounds,
after a prosy address from Sergeant Roundabout, will estimate a similar
loss only at a sixpence. Mark Antony had very awkward judges to address;
like his greater namesake, “he was no orator,” and possibly it was all
the better for his client. We have some doubts, had Mr. Joseph Hume
denounced the international illegality of despatching Lieutenant
Cammaran of the 16th Voltigeurs, with the arithmetical precision with
which, in the House of Commons, he would calculate the waste of human
breath, that the brass band of the Guards inflicts on this distressed
country,--we have doubts, up say, whether the Empecinado would have been
a convert. Had the Liberator of Ireland blessed or banned for an hour
by Shrewsbury clock, it would have been all the same to El Manco--and to
the remonstrance of the Bench of Bishops, aided by a rescript from the
Pope, the Cura would have irreverently played “deaf adder.” And yet,
with such unmanageable authorities to deal with, Mark Antony’s eloquence
prevailed.

“Stop!” cried Juan Diez, as the fosterer turned his back sullenly
round, to wait while the condemned soldier conveyed to his orphan a last
farewell.--“Will nothing but this Frenchman’s life acquit the service
that I owe thee?”

“Nothing,” returned Mark Antony.--“what other favour could ye grant
me? Hav’n’t I the free use of my limbs, and ten dollars besides in my
pocket?”

“Well--if it must be so--I will not let thee leave me in thy debt.
Frenchman--thou art saved!”

“Then, Pauline, thou mayst yet receive from living lips, that blessing
which a dying hand was tracing!” and springing from the bench, the
voltigeur flung his arms around the fosterer, and pressed him to his
bosom.

“Heaven forbid,” said Juan Diez, addressing Mark Antony--“that I had
many creditors like thee! Well--no matter--have I now acquitted all
claims upon me to the full?”

“No, Empecinado,” I returned--“I am as yet unpaid.”

“Go on, my friend.--What wouldst thou have me do?” said the Spaniard,
graciously.

“Complete the favour--and add liberty to life.”

Juan Diez paused--looked at El Maneo and the Cura.

“What shall I answer? I swore that nothing should avert his doom--and
thought nothing could have shaken the resolution.”

“I _know_ that nothing human should have shaken _mine_,” observed El
Maneo. “Life spared, liberty is a trifle--grant it, Juan Diez, if you
please.”

“And I,” said the Cura, “will not object.--Great men have occasional
weaknesses, and at times, I have found myself rather softer hearted than
I should be. Empecinado,’tis sinful to break an oath,--but Holy Church
is merciful.--Hang me the first half dozen of these robbers who fall
into your hands, and thou shalt have absolution; the penance--that thou
shalt fast from flesh meat the first day when you cannot conveniently
find it.”

At this merciful annunciation of the worthy clerk, Juan Diez laughed.

“I thank thee, Cura,” he replied; “but when I make my shrift, I will
seek another confessor. Come, the morning passes, and ‘tis time we were
wending towards the mountains. Gentlemen,” he continued, turning to
the fosterer and me, “our short companionship is about to terminate. If
gallantry could attach me to brwe men, and make me regret a separation,
I should have abundant reason to grieve that I am about to lose ye; but,
sooth to say, for our wild warfare you are not exactly fitted, and, like
my excellent camarado, the Cura, you have a little too much softness at
the heart. From intelligence I have received since we first met, I would
advise you to abandon your original intention of crossing the mountains
to Valencia. Suchet’s movements are suspicious,--the roads are
unsafe--crowded with ladrones--all desperate men, who would respect
no passports, were they guaranteed by every authority in Spain. If you
choose to persevere----”

“No, Don Juan,” I replied; “I will return to the allied cantonments. I
have, in obedience to orders, endeavoured to reach my regiment. I
have failed; and, to say truth, I don’t regret it. I shall resign my
commission, if required, and serve under Lord Wellington a volunteer.”

“Such being your intention, I would recommend that you return by the
shortest and openest route. Should you touch upon a French outpost, this
gentleman will protect you,” and he pointed to Lieutenant Cammaran; “if
you fall in with the allied cwalry, you will return the compliment; and
should you tumble upon any friends of ours during the journey, you carry
a passport that every partida on the peninsula will respect. Ho, Diego!
bring me yonder writing-case. Fortunately, sir, you do not require it at
present,” and the Empecinado smiled as he addressed the reprieved one.

“Thanks to these noble Englishmen, I do not,” returned the lieutenant.

“I beg your pardon,” replied Mr. O’Toole; “I can’t exactly tell what
countryman I am, because I was born at sea.”

“Wine!” cried the Empecinado. “Ho, landlord! stir thyself. Thou know’st
my taste--none of that sorry stuff that would poison a Manolo. Let’s
have some fit for Christian men. Remember, honest Gonsalvez, thou hast
rarely such honourable guests. Here are three foreigners of distinction;
and there a holy churchman. Of my friend here,” and he pointed to El
Manco, “I shall say nothing: and modesty forbids me speaking of myself.
Come, let thy wine be good, or, by San Juan, we’ll quit thy venta
altogether.”

With a low bow, the alarmed innkeeper hurried off. As he passed us, the
expression of his countenance was ridiculously intelligent; and to the
last sentence of the Empecinado, said, or seemed to say, “I wish to
Heaven you would!”

The wine that the host produced no doubt was excellent, for its effect
upon the company was marvellous. Juan Diez jested with the Curate; the
Frenchman and fosterer conversed in broken English; occasionally El
Manco vouchsafed a relaxation of the facial muscles, which he intended
to represent a smile. All seemed happy but the innkeeper; and on his
dull countenance terror and anxiety were imprinted. On him the lively
sallies of his distinguished visitors were lost; and the only occurrence
at which his sombre features lightened was when a guerilla entered the
apartment, and announced that the horses were saddled in the yard.

While the party resumed their cloaks and weapons, the Empecinado
beckoned to me, and I retired with him to a corner.

“Is there aught in which I can oblige you? Speak freely,” he said.

I thanked him, and answered him in the negative.

“How is thy pocket lined, my child?” was his next question.

I assured him my purse was liberally supplied.

“I can spare thee a dozen pistoles,” he added.

I acknowledged the kindness, but declined the offered subsidy.

He looked suspiciously around, and then took a packet from his bosom,
and placed it in my hand, unseen.

“Conceal these papers, and deliver them carefully, with my duty to
Lord Wellington. They are written in cipher; but I know that he has a
key that will unravel their contents. I feel assured that they contain
important information, for I have learned through a channel where I
never was deceived, that the expedition of La Coste was originally
intended for no other purpose, than to enable him to communicate with
another commandant to whom he was directed to transfer these papers
safely. A movement of two strong detachments to secure the delivery of
a letter is a sufficient guarantee, my friend, that the contents are
momentous. Let us go. El Manco is impatient. Outside the village we
part--thou, to the low country; I to the mountains.”

“Art thou hearing a confession in yonder corner, Empecinado?” inquired
the monk.

“No, Cura, I would not usurp the functions of the church with one of its
brightest ornaments immediately beside me. I was merely giving my young
friend here a slight hint of what Juan Diez has experienced, and I’ll
once more repeat it.” Then, turning to me, he added aloud, “‘Tis an
uncertain world, and many a brilliant opening in a young life has darkly
closed. Should fortune frown, friends fall off, enemies prevail--in
short, should thy young career be darkened as mine was suddenly, take
thy chance with Juan Diez; and thou, my friend,” and the Spaniard
addressed the fosterer, “thou, too, wilt any time be welcome; and, as we
crossed the Sedana, we’ll swim or sink together.”

So saying, the guerilla pointed to the door. We took the hint, and
passed on. There the worthy host stood, cap in hand, bowing us out, as
it became customers of distinction. I would have stopped and demanded a
reckoning, but Mark Antony was of opinion that such a proceeding
might have been an offence in the sight of our patrons and protectors.
Certainly, I saw no bill paid or delivered; and I have reason to believe
that the guerilla leaders were of the school of ancient Pistol, and
consequently gentlemen of too good taste to stoop to an inquiry into
accounts. And yet proofs of disinterested regard were not wanting to
Senhor Velasquez. I overheard the Empecinado, as he passed, impress on
this favoured innkeeper the immediate necessity of replenishing his bins
with better wine, and restoring his stable-loft, which needed repair
sorely. In my presence certainly none of the circulating medium passed;
and, to use fashionable parlance, I verily believe the unfortunate
proprietor of the posada was regularly victimized by all.

We entered the court-yard; and, thank Heaven, for the last time. A score
of guerillas, mounted and dismounted, were in waiting. Cammaran passed
through with averted eyes; but I ventured a look at the well-remembered
spot which, within eight-and-forty hours, had witnessed a double
execution. The voltigeurs were lying as they fell; the bodies weltering
in a pool of blood, or exhibiting, in other cases, no mark of violence
whatever. One I passed by was a mere lad. His death must have been
instantaneous--one fracture in the jacket was opposite the heart--the
countenance was tranquil; and a smile played upon the lip. Could that be
death? I knew it was, or I could have fancied well that he was dreaming
of absent friends, and calmly indulging in a siesta.

I was delighted when we cleared the court-yard. El Manco and the Cura
were waiting for us--presently, Juan Diez rode up; and, followed by an
escort of some score of cavalry, we, for the last time, passed along the
street of Villa Moro.

I had witnessed enough of guerilla life to render it thoroughly
disgusting. War at best is bad; but “war to the knife” is only tolerable
for savages. All the romance of partida daring had passed away. I had
seen it in its naked light, and found its real character--a ruthless,
reckless disregard to every feeling which binds mankind by a common
tie--by turns suffering without complaint, and inflicting without
compunction. Such were my impressions as I slowly rode along the village
street; and had they needed any confirmation, the scene reserved for me
would have been quite enough.

On the huge beech tree I had already remarked in front of the house
of the chief magistrate, three human bodies were suspended. The
Empecinado’s passing observation, and El Manco’s sarcastic address while
dooming the unhappy offenders, came back vividly to my recollection.
The sentence had indeed been executed to the very letter, and alcade,
postmaster, and muleteer, were hanging precisely as the “maimed one” had
decreed it.

The worst feature of the savage picture remained--six wretched orphans
who had witnessed the expiring agonies of their father were still
screaming from the windows from which they had seen him die, and from
fear, insensibility, or both, their immediate neighbours dared not, or
did not, offer the slightest mark of sympathy under a berewement that
would have touched all but savage hearts. The fosterer turned pale; the
Frenchman shuddered; the Empecinado regarded the dead men with a marble
look.

“El Manco,” observed the Cura with a smile, “Jack Hangman has done thy
bidding, and the alcade overtops his friends.”

“Ay,” returned the ‘maimed one;’ “this ever be the fate of traitors!
Would that every oak in Spain bore such acorns as yonder beech tree!”

I was sick, nauseated, disgusted. Death--death in every shape! and
from the bottom of my heart, I blessed God that my acquaintance with
my excellent friends was to determine so speedily. Until we cleared the
village I preserved an unbroken silence; and when Juan Diez pointed to
a place where our respective roads branched off at the distance of a
furlong, my bosom felt as if it were lightened of a load, and, as Doctor
Pangloss says, “I breathed again.”



CHAPTER XXXIII. THE GUERILLA’S GIFT.



               Bring forth the horse!--the horse was brought;

                   In truth, he was a noble steed.”

                        Mazeppa.

|A few minutes’ easy riding brought us to the spot where the roads
diverged, and where it had been previously arranged that we should
part company. We took leave of El Manco and the Cura; the fosterer and
Frenchman turning their horses’ heads in the direction of Toledo, while
the partidas took the mountain route. Consequently, the Empecinado and
I were left alone, the escort passing on, with the exception of a single
horseman.

“I know not wherefore, Mr. O’Halloran, but I feel more reluctance in
saying the word ‘farewell’ than is my wont. The chances against our ever
meeting in this world are enormous. Well, it matters not--‘tis but a too
frequent occurrence in life’s history--the parting from those we esteem.
Believe me, I shall ever look back on our brief acquaintance with
pleasure, and wish you the best fortunes that attend a soldier--death
or distinction. If I live, you will hear of the Empecinado.
The tale may not be flattering; it may be of enemies destroyed, of
villages laid in ashes. Men will speak of him as of a demon, and women
cross themselves when they hear his name pronounced; and yet, Mr.
O’Halloran, I was once such another as thyself. Mine, at thy own age,
was the same ardent and disinterested courage, that at the posada risked
life to save a stranger; and when the flush of blood had cooled, I would
have recoiled, like thyself, from treading on a worm. And I was happy. I
had a home on the sweet banks of the Huebra. I had a wife--a child. The
Madonna’s features at the altar, where we plighted our bridal vows, were
not lovelier than Camilla’s--the infant’s on the holy Virgin’s knees,
not sweeter than my boy’s. I lost both, Mr. O’Halloran--lost them--but
_don’t ask how!_ In one brief day, Juan Diez’s nature changed, and he
became what he is, cold to the misery he inflicts on others, from the
fearful remembrance of what he underwent himself. But enough; sometimes
recall the Einpecinado to thy recollection, and think on the inn of
Villa Moro. Thou shalt have one token to bring me to thy memory--‘tis
this horse. He is a titling gift; black as the rider he carried in
safety through as great extremity--ay, even as that we encountered the
first morning that we met.”

I thanked him warmly, but declined to accept the charger.

“Well, it would appear that in turn Juan Diez is to ask a favour and be
refused,” he remarked, with an appearance of disappointment.

“Not so, Empecinado. I am too grateful for the past to incur fresh
obligations. Why, look but at the value of the animal! My foster
brother, as we rode together, was observing, that he doubted whether
there was a more beautiful charger in Spain.”

“I question if there be; and yet I got him cheap enough. He cost me but
a three hours’ ride. To be sure, the night was dark, and the road the
worst on the frontier. He was the fwourite steed of one of Spain’s worst
enemies; and the pistols, which you will find loaded in the holsters,
were a gift from Napoleon to his minion. On the borders of Portugal
I cut off a small detachment, escorting plundered property for better
security to Ciudad Rodrigo. Of these spoils, Junot was the chief
proprietor. I divided them among my band, but kept this charger, partly
from personal regard for the French marshal, and partly as a memento of
my success.”

Still I declined the Empecinado’s present.

“Well, let us change the terms. If you will not receive, you shall
purchase; for I am determined to get rid of him. Are you aware that I
have increased my stud this morning by eighty-three? I think I can spare
one. Come, will you accept or purchase?”

I smiled; and jestingly replied that a long price was beyond the means
of a young subaltern.

“But we can afford _long_ credit,” said the Empecinado, in the same
playful mood.

“Worse still, Don Juan. My father is an old soldier, and in his
catalogue of military offendings, debt holds a prominent place.”

“Pause, my friend, until you hear the terms of sale. To your companion,
I owe a life. His shall be the horse. Settle the price with him, and to
_him_ transfer the value. But no more of this. The roads are sometimes
puzzling to a stranger, and that follower of mine”--he pointed to the
mounted guerilla--“will accompany you to the first town where mules and
a guide are procurable. You may trust him implicitly; in everything he
will direct you; he is true as steel, and could lead you blindfolded
from one end of Toledo to the other.”

He pressed my hand, sprang into the saddle of the troop-horse I had just
vacated, and, with a kind adieu, cantered after his companions, who were
now fully half a mile ahead, and, in a round trot, hurrying towards the
highlands. A turn in the road speedily concealed him--and it was the
last I ever saw of Juan. Diez.

I soon overtook my fellow-travellers. On what subjects they had
previously occupied themselves I cannot guess, but my advent caused the
fosterer to be rather anxious to hurry what seemed an undecided monetary
transaction to its close.

“Oh! the divil a _shurrich_ they would leave ye--the thieves!” observed
Mark Antony to Lieutenant Cammaran.

“_Shurreeke!_” repeated the Frenchman,--“what you mean by _shurreeke?_”

“Not a music,” said the fosterer, in explanation.

“Music--music!” and Lieutenant Cammaran shrugged his shoulders.

“That is--not the king’s picture in your pocket, to keep the divil out
of it,” continued Mark Antony.

“The devil in my pocket, and the king to keep him out--I do not
understand at all,” said the Frenchman, with a sigh.

“Oh,” cried the fosterer, in despair, “it’s all useless knocking sense
into the head of a foreigner. What a loss it is the man does not speak
Irish, and I’d make him comprehend me in a jiffy. I was just mentioning,
that as these guerillas had cleaned him out, he would be all the better
of five or six dollars till he got home, poor fellow. But why are ye
riding the dark gentleman’s horse? Lord, what a figure! If I ever get
hanged for horse-stealing, it will be for borrowing such another. But
where’s that Mister Empecinado, as they call him?”

“Trotting as briskly to the mountains as a thick-winded French
troop-horse will carry him,” I replied.

“Do you mean the one you rode?”

“I mean it;--we have made an exchange.”

“An exchange?” The fosterer gwe a whistle. “So it was jockeying you
were? Well, God sees I never suspected that Mister Diez was in the line,
and fancied that he used halters on two-legged animals only. Did you
stand a knock?--and what did he allow ye for the old trooper?”

“Nothing.”

“‘Well, let me see if he’s all right. You offered him _eighty?_--and
you’ll pay the money if anybody leaves you a fortune.”

“Eighty!--Pshaw! Look again, Mark.”

The fosterer made a circuit, and examined that horse which erstwhile had
not borne “the weight of Antony,” but the Due d’Abrantes.

“Oh, upon my conscience, I’m fairly puzzled. He’s up to fourteen stone
with fox-hounds; and, unless he’s a deceiver, he has _the go_ in him.
May be, ye promised a _hundred?_”

“A hundred! Why, Mark, I fancied you knew something of a horse--_a
hundred?_”

“Stop for a minute. Mister Cammaran, would ye be so civil as to hold the
bridle?” and down got the fosterer. “I’ll just slip my hands over his
hocks. Clean as a whistle! What’s that, inside the off leg?--It’s a
lump of clay. Feaks, I thought it looked like a splint at first. Did you
examine his wind?”

“Never asked a question about it,” I observed, carelessly.

“Then ye’r done to a turn. Oh! Mister Empecinado, may the divil’s luck
attend ye! Spakin people fair and asy, and only waiting to walk into
them afterwards! Did ye even get an engagement?”

“Not a line;--I took the horse on chance!”

“Feaks! and ye might as well, I fancy; for I suppose if he was a regular
roarer” (here be it understood the horse and not the Empecinado was
meant), “all the attorneys in Connaught couldn’t find Mister Diez out,
and serve him with a latitat.”

“But what is the horse worth, Mark? Never mind latitats and attorneys.”

“Worth? In Balinasloe he would fetch a hundred readily.”

“Only a hundred?”

“Well, if he took the pound-wall kindly, ye might lay on thirty more.
Did he gwe you a dacent luck-penny?”

“Not a farthing,” I replied.

“Well, after all, the Spaniards are shabby divils in horse-dealing.”

“Mr. O’Toole,” I said gravely,--“without allusions to luck-pennies,
pound-walls, splints or spavins,--what is this horse worth?”

Mark Antony scratched his head, an invariable remedy resorted to by an
Irishman in a puzzle. “If he’s all right--feeds well--”

“Come, come--take all for granted.”

“Well,” said Mark Antony, “hee’s value for a hundred and fifty, or he’s
the biggest thief on earth. But I know there’s not a wink on Mr. Diez,
and he laid it on pretty heavy.”

“Which, light or heavy, you ingrate, will be yours,” and I repeated the
terms of the bargain.

The fosterer was confused.

“Well, in faith, Master Hector, they’re the quarest people to deal with
I ever met with. One while ye’r drinking with them fair and asy; the
next jumping into a river to save ye’r life. Here, half-a-score of men
are shot: there, another batch are hanged. The fellow that sleeps beside
you to-night is dead as a mackarel the next morning. All--hanging and
shooting--and you can nather make head nor tail of what it’s all about.
That _critch_ * they call El Manco strings up the postmaster, I suppose,
because he mislays a letter; and the Curate throttles the mule-driver
for no other reason than that he delivered another safely. Troth, I’m
right glad that we have parted company, although grately obliged to Mr.
Diez for his civility. Indeed, I think he’s the best of the batch. El
Manco has the gallows in his face; and if it wouldn’t be sinful to spake
ill of the clargy, that father what-do-ye-call-him in the colonel’s
coat, is one of the loosest-looking parish-priests I ever came across.
But, come, let us jog on; the evening appears gloomy, and the Lord only
knows where we are to put up to-night. If one could get into some quiet
house for a wonder--not that I expect to sleep--for sorra thing I’ll
drame of for a month of Sundays, but gallowses, guerillas, dead men, and
every kind of divilry besides.”

     * Anglice--“cripple.”

Before Mark Antony had done speaking, the partida rode up, pointed to
the dark appearance of the sky, and intimated that we had three leagues
to ride before we should reach our intended quarters. We took the hint
accordingly’, and spurred forward in the hope of reaching our halting
place before the rain came on.

We were disappointed. On the verge of the horizon, distant lightning
began to scintillate like northern-lights; and, hardly audible, now and
again the growl of a coming storm fell upon the ear. Momentarily the
flashes became more vivid, the thunder became more distinct, large drops
fell, and the guide declared that the tempest must burst immediately,
and the first shelter we could reach would be a happy deliverance. There
was a venta immediately beside us. It was remote, ill-kept, and bore but
an indifferent reputation. If we could put up with bad fare and other
inconveniences, there we would find shelter. If, however, we would risk
a drenching for more comfort, we must abide the storm, and push on. We
held a brief consultation. Suddenly the sky appeared to open; a flash of
blue lightning issued from the riven cloud--we felt its heat distinctly;
a peal of thunder, such as I had never heard before, succeeded; and with
one voice we cried out for the neighbouring venta. The guerilla turned
instantly sharp off into a narrow and neglected road, diverging on the
left from the main route. We followed on the spur, and just as the rain
began to fall we galloped into the yard of an inn, which had been once
an establishment of considerable extent.

Unpromising as it might appear, that evening it was eagerly desired.
A furlong off we saw half-a-dozen horsemen spurring down the hill, and
evidently bound for the same destination. As precedency belongs to
the first comers, we were determined to secure that best point in
law--possession; and while the guerilla and Mark Antony led the horses
to the stable, the French voltigeur and I entered the house, occupied
the best corners of a bad kitchen, and made immediate inquiries into
the actual state of the larder and wine bins. Alas! neither question
was replied to satisfactorily. All was answered in the past. On Tuesday,
there had been a side of goat--three travelling merchants pronounced it
excellent; on Wednesday, the same trwellers finished a pig--the best
the landlord had killed since St. Stephen’s; on Thursday, there had been
partridges; (Friday, being a meagre day, was omitted in the account;)
on Saturday, pigeons and a podrida. Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday,
every thing was also excellent, and so varied that the host could not
correctly enumerate the delicacies under which the table groaned. But,
unluckily, to-day, and by a most calamitous fatality, nothing was to be
had, good, bad or indifferent!

Before this miserable report had been concluded, a bustle in the yard
announced the arrival of the wayfarers whom we had observed pricking
down the hill; and while we were still listening to some wretched
expedients which the landlord was proposing as an apology for a supper,
two of the new comers made their _entrée_. They approached the fire,
after having laid their wet riding cloaks aside; and the difference
between the external appearances of the twain was so very ridiculous,
that, by mutual impulse, Cammaran and I interchanged a smile.

One seemed an hildalgo of the Quixotic school--a thin, tall, shabby
half-starved looking gentleman. His gait was stiff and lofty; and at
first, the unhappy man seemed to labour under a delusion that we would
resign a corner in his favour. Speedily that error of opinion was
removed; and he ascertained, that upon us the imprint of his dignity
was lost. He therefore contented himself with taking a place before the
fire, demanding, in lordly tones, attendance, and more fuel,--“but none
did come, though he did call for them.”

The other was a round, stumpy, well-fed, happy-looking little man, now
touching close upon the grand climacteric. The world had evidently
gone well with him, to judge by what, in Ireland, they would term “a
cozey-character” of countenance. He poked the fire, but complained not;
talked of the wild evening, and blessed the saints he was under shelter;
hoped, rather than expected, that we might obtain a supper; concluding
with a Christian-like expression of resignation, that really would
have done honour to a Turk. New appeals were in the interim made to the
landlord. The hidalgo swaggered; well, as the fancy say, it was “no go.”
 The voltigeur stormed--the answer invariably was, “I don’t understand
ye.” The little man was responded to by a shrug; and all we could learn
from him of the posada was, that the past had been a land of Goshen--the
future bade fair to exceed it--but that the present was a dreary blank,
which might be beneficially employed for the soul’s health in the shape
of mortification. As for me, I should have objected, in Falstaff’s vein,
to fast “upon compulsion,” when the door opened, and in came our partida
escort, the fosterer, and three of the most ferocious-looking scoundrels
I ever laid an eye upon, “armed to the teeth.”

“Why, how now,” exclaimed one of them,--“nothing like supper yet?”’

“Don’t be in any hurry.” said the little man; “Senhor!--there was one
here, I think last Tuesday, and very excellent--roast pig, a podrida,
and some partridges; and should you happen to pass this way within a
fortnight, you’ll come in for a leg of a very promising porker, provided
they can only catch him in the beech-wood.”

The strangers began to storm; the host appeared, reluctantly underwent a
searching examination; and nothing transpired, but that there had been,
and would be, entertainment. A most unsatisfactory discussion ensued.
The hectoring of the ill-looking gentlemen, who had just joined us, had
no effect; and as they say in England, that there is a certain “Duke
Humphrey,” who keeps a most inhospitable table, I began to fancy that
he had another establishment in the peninsula, and that for our sins, we
had unluckily stumbled on the house; but, glory to the Empecinado! I was
again beholden to him for a supper.

Taking the host aside, the partida commenced a whispering conversation.
What was the subject none could guess, but momentarily the argument
waxed warmer. The guerilla gesticulated--the landlord drew up his
shoulders to his ears. At last the horseman’s countenance assumed a look
of ferocity that threatened ruin to the venta and all appertaining
to the same; and plunging his hand into his bosom, he suddenly
produced--not a knife, as the host apprehended, to judge from the
rapidity of his retreat--but a paper, of small dimensions, whose writing
appeared to possess a cabalistic influence.

“Read!” cried the partida, furiously. “And if thou wouldst not have this
old building reduced to ashes, and afterwards swing at thy own sign-post
before eight and forty hours pass, lead these gentlemen to a fitting
chamber, and prepare their supper incontinently. Dost thou hesitate,
fellow?--be it so--I will faithfully acquaint the Empecinado how
willingly his orders were obeyed.”

“By every saint in the calendar!” exclaimed the unhappy innkeeper, “you
wrong me, sir. A dog sent hither by that most respected gentleman, would
be more welcome than another man’s horse. I fly to obey your orders. Oh!
that we had but killed the pig this morning! But the will of Heaven be
done!”

The effect of Juan Diez’ name upon the host was scarcely more potent
than it appeared upon the guests generally. The hidalgo lost a moiety of
his self-importance, the handy-looking little man became uncomfortable,
the audacity of the spados vanished, and every look in the company was
turned deferentially towards me, the Frenchman, and the fosterer.

That this honest innkeeper had not held promise only to the ear, was
forthwith evidenced. Culinary operations commenced, and the whole venta
was immediately in an uproar. After despatching a sorry meal of black
bread and goat’s-milk cheese, washed down with a glass or two of _aqua
ardiente_, the ill-visaged trwellers pleaded business, and took their
departure, although the rain fell fast, and the next house of call was
more than two leagues distant. Presently the host appeared, and, with
a profound bow, announced that the chamber for our reception was in
readiness. We rose and left the kitchen, and were conducted into a
half-ruined sort of hall, to which, however, a tolerable wood fire and
spread table gave a comfortable air. A leathern bottle was on the table,
to which we immediately applied; and, with an assurance that all haste
consistent with superior cookery should be employed in the preparation
of an excellent supper, the host left us to ourselves.

“Not bad wine, by Saint Anthony!” exclaimed Lieutenant Cammaran.

“You have had some experience of Juan Diez as an enemy,” I replied; “now
what think you of him as a friend?”

“Think of him?” said the voltigeur: “why, that I would rather travel
Spain with his letter of introduction in my pocket, than even with an
autograph of the Emperor’s. He is a most estimable gentleman, were
it not for that infernal fancy he has of using hemp and gunpowder
so liberally. No matter: as my neck’s safe, here’s your health,
_Empecinado_!”

“But,” observed the fosterer, “did you remark the effect the first
whisper of his name had upon the thieves who set out upon their travels
for the evening? They’re regular highwaymen, for a hundred,--up to
everything, from stripping a priest of his vestment, to stealing a
pinafore from a child. By the Lord! I thought they would have choaked
themselves struggling with cheese that would have soled a shoe. But
here’s the old fellow of the inn,--I hope to tell us something about
supper.”

The host announced the welcome tidings that in a few minutes our repast
should be paraded: and further added, that he was commissioned to
inquire whether we would permit the two gentlemen who had remained in
the kitchen, to join our company--and the host was ready, even upon
oath, to guarantee their respectability. The lineage of the hidalgo was
so ancient, that all traces of it were lost; and of the doctor, Fame
spake loudly, as a personage who could do anything but raise the dead.
To this double application I returned a gracious reply; and in five
minutes a powerful odour of garlic and onions was felt in the direction
of the kitchen, and the innkeeper re-entered with a huge turreen.
heralding to our presence the descendant of Don Quixote, and his friend
the short stout gentleman.



CHAPTER XXXIV. FARTHER ADVENTURES--MEMOIR OF THE VOLTIGEUR.



               “She turned her face unto the wall.

                   Her colour changed to pallid clay;

               Long ere the dews began to fall.

                   The flower of Ettriek lifeless lay.”

                        The Queen’s Wake.

|Never was a Lord Mayor’s dinner put on a table with more ceremony,
than that with which our supper was served up; and yet, the whole
entertainment was embodied in one tureen. What its contents were, none,
save those who designed and fabricated the medley, could even pretend
to guess at. In an ocean of oleaginous liquid, a lean fowl was floating,
surrounded by shapeless substances, which might possibly be either
“fish, flesh, or good salt herring.” It looked grease, and smelt
garlic. The host, however, praised it excessively, and so would an
Esquimaux; but I am morally certain, it was the last thing, in the shape
of a light supper, that either Paris or Abernethy would have recommended
to a dyspeptic patient.

And yet it was marvellous how much the lean hidalgo and the little
doctor, “who all but raised the dead,” managed to consume, and seemed
delighted with their fare. To me, it was an unspeakable relief when
the abominable composition was totally removed; and indeed, for an hour
afterwards, the apartment was not endurable.

Early, the hidalgo and physician were summoned to their dormitory and
withdrew; and we agreed generally that it was a prudent step on the
gentleman’s part, the mess he had swallowed considered, to sleep with
his doctor in the apartment.

From the general appearance of the establishment, we had no reason to
expect that the sleeping department would be an exception to the rest,
and consequently we were in no hurry to make the experiment. Some very
wretched wine was exchanged for better, on a hint from the guerilla,
that there was such a person as the Empecinado in existence. The
Frenchman was exceedingly companionable; the night was wet and stormy;
the partida heaped on wood, as if the host had been proprietor of a
forest; and we still sate on, regardless of sundry intimations from the
innkeeper, that the clock of a neighbouring monastery had “gone twelve.”

“And was this your first adventure, gentlemen?” inquired the voltigeur.

“Our first in Spain,” I replied; “and certainly, in no smaller portion
of human life could more unexpected incidents have been crowded, than
into those which have just occurred.”

“It is true,” returned the Frenchman; “the opening of my military career
was sufficiently eventful, but yours exceeds it far.”

“May I ask where the scene lay?” I demanded of the lieutenant.

“It commenced,” he replied, “under the most brilliant successes which
ever intoxicated a conqueror--in Germany--only to witness the greatest
reverses which ever overtook insatiable ambition. I served, gentlemen,
in that accursed country, where the bones of three hundred thousand
gallant men are blanching--that grave to the glory of France, that
boundary to the ambition of Napoleon--Russia.”

“And were you engaged in that luckless expedition?” I inquired.

“I was. Mine is but a brief history; and as you heard me, under peculiar
circumstances, make allusions to my orphan child, I will, in a few
words, tell you her father’s story, and briefly detail the adventures of


THE VOLTIGEUR.”

“Like most of the distinguished officers in our service--but do not,
gentlemen, suppose for a moment that I include myself in the list--I am
humbly born. My mother was the daughter of a vine-dresser--my father,
ranger of a forest. You see that I lay no claim to ancestry--but the
villagers assert that my parents were the handsomest and fondest couple
in the commune. Their course of love and life was brief alike. My mother
died in giving me birth--and three years afterwards my father was shot
accidentally by a _chasseur_, while hunting in the forest of which he
had the charge.

The grief felt and expressed by the Seigneur at this unfortunate
occurrence was deep and lasting. At once he adopted me, and I became an
inmate of the chateau. There I was brought up and educated; and having
evinced an early taste for music, that talent was cultivated, and
at eighteen I played on several instruments, and my singing was
particularly admired.

The Seigneur had an only child, a daughter. He had been early left a
widower; and naturally of retired habits and sombre disposition,
he lived in comparative seclusion, dividing his time between two
all-engrossing objects, the chase and his daughter’s education.
Pauline was now fourteen, and of very opposite temperament to her
father--sprightly, spirited, and affectionate--every action was the
effect of impulse. Poor Pauline! like many in the world, she acted
first, and thought of it afterwards.

With the father and the child I was equally a favourite. To the
forest I accompanied the Seigneur, when he hunted: and for Pauline,
I dressed her flower-garden, sang _chanson d’amour_, and played in the
evening on the flute. How long, in that remote domain, I might have
continued to dream life thus away I know not. The great event in my
history occurred--I was drawn in the conscription, and the guitar was
exchanged for the musket.

For three years I followed the eagles of the Emperor. Battle after
battle was won, and kingdom after kingdom submitted, and was partitioned
or disposed of in whatever way was pleasing to the conqueror. Europe was
almost at Napoleon’s feet; and, save to England alone--that indomitable
enemy to his colossal strides towards the subjugation of a world--his
voice was law. After the signature of the treaty of Tilsit, there came a
short and deceitful calm. Many of the soldiery obtained leave to revisit
that land a Frenchman loves so dearly. I was of the number; and one
sweet September evening, he who had left the chateau, half-huntsman
half-troubadour, presented himself to the Seigneur and Pauline, a
sous-lieutenant.

What a change three years had wrought upon us all! The Seigneur had
become grey as a badger. I left Pauline a girl--I found her a woman; and
the bud of beauty was now mature. On me the alteration was still more
striking: and in the countenance of the dark-browned soldier, bronzed by
climate, and marked with a sword-scar, it would have been difficult to
recall the laughing features of the youth, whose morn was passed idly in
the chase, and his evening in singing love-ditties to the moon.

The poor Seigneur knew nothing of the world. The hunter boy was a safe
companion for his daughter--the soldier a dangerous one. No suspicion
crossed his mind. I again took up my residence in the chateau.
Pauline was more than pretty; the place was sadly remote; we were both
musical--youth, loveliness, and music! Pshaw! these cleared his way, and
Love slipped in.

The Seigneur was rich--and on wealth he set great value. His lineage was
old; and nobody in Provence attached more importance to descent. He had
began to fancy that it would soon be time to look for an alliance
for his daughter; and he occasionally made sly inquiries touching the
ancestry and rent-rolls of his neighbours. Great, however, was our
surprise, one afternoon, when he suddenly announced that he had nearly
concluded a marriage treaty between Pauline and a wealthy proprietor.
This information, at first astounding, only precipitated what would have
more tardily occurred. We were married secretly, the next evening;
under other circumstances, we might have been dreaming of it for another
fortnight.

It was fortunate for us that the Seigneur was proverbially slow in all
his movements; and his intended son-in-law equally cautious. Neither
would stir an inch, excepting under the especial direction of his
notary. All the time, the intimation simply that a hymeneal treaty was
in progress being deemed quite enough to render Pauline a consenting
party. The suitor was a fool, who considered every woman would feel
honoured by being allied to him; and the simple Seigneur could never
comprehend, that any daughter should or could do otherwise than what her
father exactly pointed ont. Poor man! while he was arranging matters to
secure a son, he would have come nearer to the mark, had he been making
preparations for the reception of a grandaughter.

Lost in lovers’ dreams, Pauline and I saw day after day pass; and
frequently, when we spoke of a discovery, which circumstances would
render inevitable before long, we laughed and trembled at the effect it
was likely to produce upon her father. It is true the event was somewhat
distant; and as long as it were possible, the secret must be kept. But
a more sudden blow was impending--it fell, and both were rendered
miserable.

If ever man were drunk with fortune, it was Napoleon. He had reached the
highest pinnacle of human fortune, that the wildest ambition could soar
to; yet, blinded by prosperity so dazzling, he was dissatisfied,--and,
forming the most romantic projects, like a desperate gambler, he risked
all that he had gained--“wearied his good genius, and provoked his
fate.” In a word, he first commenced an unjust and impolitic war here,
in the peninsula, and followed that madness out by a still madder
act--the invasion of Russia.

Although for more than a year, the hostile attitudes assumed by Napoleon
and Alexander, showed mistrust on both sides, few suspected that
the crisis should come so suddenly. The remoteness of the Seigneur’s
estate--the little intercourse he held with any who knew what was
passing in the world, left us in blissful ignorance. And the first
intimation I had, that I was about to enter on a bloody and disastrous
campaign, was a peremptory command to set out for Dantzic at an hour’s
notice. The sudden order prevented Pauline and me from taking any steps
to communicate the secret of our marriage; and at the moment when woman
requires the greatest attention from a husband, I was obliged to abandon
the home of my youth, and her whom I had sworn to cherish and protect.

Already the routes through Germany were crowded with enormous masses of
fighting men. Never, in modern warfare, was such an army collected and
set in motion. Conceive more than five hundred thousand combatants, of
all arms--including sixty thousand horsemen, and twelve hundred pieces
of artillery! The very enormity of the vast machine would have required
a superhuman mind to direct it.

I need not dwell upon the campaign. On we went!--on--on--on! as if urged
by an overruling fatality. The Russians prudently retired--that was
called fear--the weather for a few days was moderate; and our leader
madly fancied that the horrors of the icy north were fabulous. Oh! how
fatally that fallacy of his turned out!

I pass the less interesting portion of this tragic campaign. The mind
that conceived the monstrous undertaking, could not be sane. The haughty
assumption of the Emperor struck many a thinking soldier as being
incompatible with the statesman’s prudence; and when assuming the mantle
of prophecy, and in reply to a temperate appeal, exclaiming, “a
fatality involves them; let their destinies be fulfilled!” he rejected
conciliatory advances, and flung the scabbard from the sword, more than
Talleyrand pronounced, that Fortune and he had shaken hands and parted;
and the sad results of that mad aggression upon Russia proved its truth.

A circumstance occurred, that looked like an evil augury; and, to the
superstitious, foreboded evil results. Although the month was July, at
Pilony a rain storm nearly overwhelmed the men and horses of a whole
division. Of the latter, several hundreds were lost; and at Lismori,
a thunderbolt fell into the bivouac of the Old Guard, and destroyed
several of our veteran soldiers.

But the decree was passed; and our leader pushed forward where the
finger of destiny pointed. At Witepsk, the enemy presented themselves
in order of battle, after retiring, in perfect order, and holding every
inch of forest through which we passed. That they were intimidated,
was a manifest absurdity; their skirmishers held the ground boldly and
freely,--mingled with ours as they advanced. From the audacity with
which they awaited our approach, and singled out individuals, we lost
some valuable officers; and in the very centre of his escort, General
Roussel was pistoled by a Russian dragoon. It was evident that policy,
not fear, induced the enemy to recede. In a cavalry affair, the next
morning, a regiment of chasseurs were charged, and heavily cut up by
some squadrons of the Cossack Guard, and nothing but the immediate
support of an infantry corps saved them from destruction. Napoleon was a
looker-on, and directed the movement by which the regiment was rescued.

On the heights beyond the Lonchesa, we observed the whole Russian army
in position. A battle would be received, and we bivouacked, waiting for
morning, to fail on. At day-break we were, under arms. Where was the
enemy we were to assail? On the preceding night, Barclay de Tolly had
abandoned his position; and that, too, with so little precipitation,
that the very route he took was doubtful;--neither dismounted guns, nor
dead horses, pointing the line of his retreat. The youngest soldier,
as he passed over a country ravaged and deserted, began to suspect the
reason that a conflict had been declined. It was masterly policy; and
the sacrifices it cost in the outset, were amply repaid in the end.

At this period of the advance, we suffered dreadfully from heat and
scarcity of water. Many a _veille moustache_ asserted that an Egyptian
sun was more endurable. Then, the weather would change suddenly,--rain
fall in torrents,--and, from the difficulty of the roads, render
marching almost impracticable. We thought our hardships severe enough.
Little did we imagine those that remained in store!

Smolensko was fought--and, after a doubtful contest, the victory was
gained.--Gained! When the city could no longer be defended, the Russians
fired it, simultaneously, in an hundred quarters; and the fruits of a
bloody conflict was a town laid in ashes by the very men who held it so
desperately to the last!

On other points, the French arms were equally successful; and here it
was believed that Napoleon would pause; organize Roland--hold Riga,
Witepsk, and Smolensko,--and wait the return of spring. But, having
dictated terms to the conquered, even in the palaces they had
occupied--regardless of desert roads and coming winter, without
magazines or hospitals, and, leaving the Moldwian army in his rear, he
determined to march direct upon “the sacred city.” It was said, that the
prudent of those around him, remonstrated strongly against this act of
madness; but the Emperor’s resolution was not to be shaken.

On we went; and the Russians, to cover Moscow, received battle on the
heights of Borodino. With nearly equal numbers, two hundred and fifty
thousand combatants were for twelve hours engaged in murderous conflict.
Night ended it. The victors bivouacked on the ground they had gained at
a sacrifice that shocks humanity--and the vanquished retired in perfect
order, leaving the conquerors a field of battle. O God! such a field
as the morning of the 8th disclosed!--sixty thousand dead or dying men,
interspersed with five-and-twenty thousand horses.

Well, the road to Moscow was open, but every step we advanced showed the
madness of the proceeding. If we reached a town, we found it in a blaze;
if we met a village, it was totally deserted. Cattle were driven off;
provisions burned or buried; the peasantry had risen _en masse_ and
every man’s hand was against us; but still our infatuated leader
persevered in his mad career, and recklessly pushed on.

It was fondly supposed, that Moscow once gained, our hardships
would terminate, and a winter of repose reward the privations we had
undergone. That hope was false; Moscow, like the meanest village we had
seen ruined, was also devoted to destruction. We entered it at noon; few
inhabitants had remained; and none were seen in the deserted streets but
a few felons who had left the jails, and some wretched outcasts of the
other sex. Every dwelling, from the palace of the noble to the shop of
the meanest artisan, was abandoned. The churches alone contained any
living occupants, and they were the wounded only, or those whom age or
infancy had rendered incapable of retiring with the remainder of its
inhabitants from the doomed city.

Although an army was in the place, still it looked a splendid desert.
Every soldier whom you met was loaded with costly plunder. It appeared a
city of enchantment. Houses, splendidly furnished, invited the passer to
go in; and he might have freely traversed every sumptuous room which
the building contained, and met with nothing living. It was, in truth, a
fearful picture of deserted magnificence.

Suddenly, an alarm was heard. It was not caused either by secret
surprise, nor an approaching enemy. At several points a dense smoke was
visible; flames broke out in different quarters of the city; no water
was to be procured, nor engines could be found; and a fearful rumour
began to prevail, that Moscow had been determinately fired.

It was too true. By an act of desperate devotion, every private feeling
had yielded to public necessity--the most extraordinary national
sacrifice which history records was decreed and executed--and “the
sacred city” was laid in ashes, by the hands of those who regarded it
with a holy veneration, approaching to idolatry.

To Napoleon the destruction of Moscow was a blow neither expected nor
remediable. The stake, for which he played the wildest game, was at the
same moment, won and lost. To reach the city of the Czars was the object
for which he cast every prudential consideration to the winds--and what
resulted? He dated a few despatches from the ruins of a city, to gain
which two hundred thousand soldiers were to form the sad consideration.

The fire momentarily increased--the wind rose, blew in a fatal
direction, and the flames spread fearfully. There were quarters which
the raging element had not reached, but incendiaries fired the houses,
and the whole city was speedily sheeted in one broad blaze, far too
irresistible for human agency to arrest. Then followed violence
and rapine. Those of the inhabitants who had not removed, secreted
themselves in vaulted cellars, or the remoter portions of their houses,
most likely to afford concealment; while others remained before shrine
and altar, trusting to their sanctity for protection. From all, the
angry element obliged those unfortunates to retire. They were forced
into streets where bands of drunken soldiers mingled with galley-slaves
and robbers, launched by sad accident as a curse upon the world again,
and maddened now by intoxication. With all the excesses of plunder,
they mingled the most degrading and horrible debauchery. “Neither
nobility of blood, the innocence of youth, nor the tears of beauty,
were respected. The licentiousness was cruel and boundless; but it
was inevitable, in a savage war, in which sixteen different nations,
opposite in their manners and their language, thought themselves at
liberty to commit every crime.”

That night I never rested for a second. Though removed from the
immediate vicinity of the conflagration, the lurid glare of the burning
city penetrated the closet in which I sought repose, and female shrieks,
and deeper cries of murder, fell loud and frequent on the ear. To add to
the horror of the hellish scene, even animal sufferings were added. The
watch-dogs, chained at the doors, had not been liberated: and as the
flames reached them, their howlings were heart-rending.

God forbid that I should ever witness such a scene again! The next day
came. The fire raged more furiously than ever, and murder and violence,
and every villany, continued. I strove, if possible, to fly from human
crime and suffering; and in the evening found myself clear of the
walls of Moscow, in a suburb totally detached, and, to all appearance,
entirely deserted.

Generally, the houses were mean, and had belonged to the humbler
classes, who live in the environs of a city. Here and there, houses
enclosed with gardens and high walls were interspersed; and, as I
afterwards understood, were residences of wealthy merchants, who neither
would incur the expense or affect the display which the occupancy of
nobler mansions within the walls demanded. I looked back--the city was
in a blaze--a sheet of fire and smoke, by turns, as the flames were fed
or smouldered. The lonely suburb, whither I had wandered, was deserted,
but not ravaged. Indeed, here the plunderer would have only wasted time,
when within there was so much to repay the most boundless cupidity.

Accident directed me: 1 turned down a narrow passage; a lane led to
a garden-gate; it was open, and the ruins of wliat had been a pretty
country house were visible. The garden was destroyed--the shrubs and
fruit-trees broken--many hoof-marks were apparent in the soft earth;
and litter strewed the ground, and showed, that the evening before the
Emperor entered Moscow, an advanced picket had made, the chateau and
grounds its bivouac. No living thing was visible; a dog-chain hung
beside the door of the ruined mansion. Even that was a mute testimony of
abandonment.

I was still looking at the deserted building, and fancying the happy
home it might have been but a few days since, when a wild and piercing
shriek was heard from the rear; and a young girl rushed from behind the
house, followed by two Polish lancers, and both were infuriated with
brandy. One seized her in his arms. I called on him to desist; but he
held her with a firmer grasp, while his companion confronted me--and in
a moment both sabres were unsheathed, and we commenced a deadly combat.
Of the two, I was the better swordsman;--pressed the villain hard--and
would have cut him down.--I heard a wild scream,--a blow from behind
stunned me--a dreamy recollection followed of others fighting. The rest
is blank.

I awoke--where was I? Candles burned at my bed-side; and an old man, and
a girl, particularly handsome, sate at either side.

“Where am I?” was my first question. The girl replied, in tolerable
French, and assured me I was in perfect safety, and all around me were
friends. Gradually, my memory came back; and in the young female at my
side, I recollected her whom I had protected.

It appeared, that in the affray I had with the lancers, I had been cut
down by a treacherous blow from the comrade of the fellow I was engaged
with. The cries of the girl, and the clashing of sabres, alarmed the
family, who came to my assistance too late to save me from injury, but
in time to revenge, what they believed to be, my death. The villains
were despatched without mercy--their bodies concealed till night,
and then carried to a distance, and thrown into a sewer,--a necessary
precaution, to prevent the suspicion that might arise should they have
been discovered, and their deaths have occasioned inquiry.

Where was I? I looked around, and saw that the apartment was vaulted,
and lighted by a lamp. Everything was not only comfortable, but
luxurious--and Polowna--for so the fair girl who nursed me was
designated, at my request explained the mystery.

Her father and kinsmen were merchants: and when Napoleon menaced Russia
with invasion, with more forethought than was generally exercised,
they prepared against a visitation that, though not probable, was still
within the range of possibility. Beneath their country house, cellars of
spacious size had been originally constructed, with a secret entrance,
wherein to deposit merchandise which the Russian laws declared
contraband. Though long disused, in this season of insecurity they were
prepared for a different purpose. When the field of Borodino proved
unsuccessful, and Napoleon approached the sacred city, Strenowitz, as
the merchant was called, had everything valuable transferred from the
chateau to the cellars; and having laid in all necessaries for supplying
his family and servants during their confinement, the dwelling was
apparently deserted,--and even those who resided in his immediate
neighbourhood, believed that he had followed the example of the
wealthier Muscowites, and removed into the interior. The destruction of
the chateau, by the picket who had occupied it, added to the security
of the family;--a ruined house held out no inducement to the plunderer;
and, excepting the evening Polowna was surprised by the marauders who
had wounded me, and paid the penalty with death, the concealment of
Strenowitz escaped any visitation from the enemy, during the period that
Napoleon continued to occupy his dearly-bought conquest.

My recovery was tedious,--the scull had been slightly fractured; and
hence great care was necessary. Never was a soldier more tenderly
attended to; and had I heart to spare, it should have been offered to
Polowna. To quit my concealment would have compromised the safety of my
young preserver; and, indeed, until after Napoleon abandoned Moscow, and
commenced his calamitous retreat, I should not have been able to leave
my couch.

Too late the Emperor found the terrible truth confirmed, to which he had
hitherto obstinately refused credence. We could no longer remain in
that ruined capital, which he had risked everything to obtain; and
Lauriston’s mission to Kutusoff proved a failure. The 22d of October was
the day of our deliverance. The young guard retired from the ruins of
Moscow; and, in an hour afterwards, a tremendous explosion announced
that the last work of destruction was completed, and the Kremlin was no
more.

The retreat of the invading army forms a frightful picture of
retributive suffering. It shall be passed over;--one fact will tell
its fearful history.--Four hundred thousand splendid soldiers, at the
opening of the campaign, passed the Neimen: on the 13th of December,
which may be taken as the termination of the retreat, scarcely twenty
thousand men recrossed that fatal stream.

For my own part, I had long since been reported dead; and when my health
was sufficiently restored, when the exertions of my excellent protectors
obtained my liberty, and I rejoined the skeleton of my regiment, I was
looked upon by the few survivors as one returned from the grwe. But
every league that brought me nearer to France seemed to remove a weight
from my bosom, and my heart beat lighter. Pauline, in all her pride of
beauty, was before my eyes--and in fancy, I was a father. I obtained
leave to return home for the recovery of my health--and I hurried to
that home where the smiles of my young bride would welcome me. Alas!
Pauline was in the grave, and a broken-hearted old man and helpless
orphan, occupied a dwelling in all the gloom of bereavement, which once
was the abode of loveliness and plighted faith. I listened to the sad
narration half stupified with grief. Pauline had confessed her secret
marriage, and had been forgiven. The hour of trial came; and, at
that dreaded moment, the intelligence of my supposed death was rashly
communicated--and it killed her! Enough; I bore the visitation like a
man; and when an order came to join a battalion of my regiment in Spain,
I willingly obeyed it. You know the rest; and, but for you, if the
dead are united in another world--as my heart fondly tells me that they
are--I would have been with thee, Pauline!

He stopped; a tear trickled down his cheek; and, to divert the sadness
of his thoughts, I proposed that we should retire for the night. The
host lighted us to a dirty and comfortless apartment; and, without
undressing, we threw ourselves on the outside of the bed-coverings,
and, wrapped in our cloaks, were speedily asleep. We were still fast
as watchmen, when the guerilla roused us. For all, he had agreeable
intelligence. There was a post established lately by General Laval,
but two leagues off, occupied by a party of French lancers.--that the
voltigeur could join easily. A few miles, in an opposite direction, a
squadron of Julian Sanchez light cwalry were cantoned; and once with
them, the fosterer and I would be in safety. Accordingly, after an
early breakfast, we took leave of each other, each to follow out his
respective fortunes, and, not improbably, meet again--upon a field of
battle.

One thing I must not forget: when summoned to the court-yard to mount
our horses, we found the hidalgo and his friend, the little physician,
settling accounts with the worthy host. On certain charges in the score,
the parties held very opposite opinions. A long and bootless argument
ensued; and, as disputants occasionally will part, the monetary
transaction of the morning seemed to have raised neither in the
estimation of the other.

In turn I advanced to the landlord, paraded my purse, and demanded in
what I was indebted for great hospitality, excellent wine, and a supper.

“That would kill the divil!” was an addition of the fosterer’s.

With a profound bow, the host begged to leave the consideration entirely
to myself, and forthwith I produced a guinea. I never saw joy so
strikingly displayed: every line of the landlord’s face expanded--the
lip curled graciously--the eye sparkled; when a change as suddenly came
over it, and the countenance at once changed to the very picture
of despair. What could have caused this change? I turned my head.
Immediately behind me the partida guide was standing, his finger in a
monitory position, while his dark eye told the rest.

“Not for worlds,” faltered the unhappy man, “would I accept one real for
any poor service I could show a dog--I beg pardon, Senhor,--a gentleman,
who has the honour of Don Juan Diez’ acquaintance!”

The guerilla motioned us to ride on. I did not look back, but a groan
reached me from the doorway of the venta, as if a heart had broken.
There was no mistake about it--the landlord was the sufferer!

[Illustration: 0373]



CHAPTER XXXV. RETURN TO THE ALLIED ARMY--LETTERS FROM ENGLAND.



               “King Henry. How now! what news? Why com’st

                   thou in such haste?

                        King Henry VI.


               “Juliet. O, for a falconer’s voice.

                   To lure this tassel-gentle back again!”

                        Romeo and Juliet.

|The absolute authority exercised by the Partida leaders over the
Spanish population, was apparent in the readiness with which their
orders were obeyed--and of this, the independent style in which we had
lived at free quarters for the last week, would have been a sufficient
guarantee. Not contented with the demolition of his supper and the
occupation of the state apartments, we found that “mine host” had been
laid under farther requisitions, and obliged to remount the Frenchman
and Mark Antony, whose horses were sent back by two villagers to the
mountains.’ To a casual inquiry that I made touching the safe delivery
of the animals, the guerilla, who accompanied us, replied with a stare
expressive of surprise that a doubt should be entertained upon the
subject; and then pointing significantly to his neck, he led us to
clearly understand, that nothing insures punctuality and despatch like
an occasional application of the halter.

In the course of an hour’s ride we fell in with the party we expected,
and our guide delivered us over to their safe keeping, That night
we were entertained at the expense of an alcade, who loaded us with
civilities, and would listen to no hint of ours touching remuneration in
the morning. The extent of his hospitality, and the anxiety he evinced
to anticipate our wants, drew forth from me a flattering eulogium. As I
proceeded, the guerilla leader merely shrugged his shoulders---and then
privately assured me, that this generous functionary was one of the
greatest scoundrels in the province, and that he was more than suspected
of intriguing with the French. “He fancies that he blinds us--no
matter--we know him well--all I shall say, my friend, is--that for the
horse you ride, I would not have my neck in the same insecurity.”

As he spoke, we gained the crest of a hill which commanded an extensive
view of the flatter country that lay beneath, and from a small wood, at
a league’s distance in our front, we perceived the smoke of a large fire
curling upwards. The partida pointed to the spot, and told us that there
a picket of light German cwalry was bivouaced, and therefore, that his
escort was no longer necessary--then bade us a friendly farewell--and
in half an hour the fosterer and I found ourselves once more within the
allied outposts.

On announcing myself to the officer in command as the bearer of a
private despatch for Lord Wellington, I was furnished with a fresh horse
and the escort of a couple of dragoons--and leaving the Empecinado’s
present to the care of the fosterer, I immediately rode off to reach
head-quarters at Frenada.

As I passed through the different cantonments, I fancied a general
activity prevailed among the soldiers, which formed a striking contrast
to the quiet and repose in which, a week before, I had left the allied
camp. On the roads I had frequently encountered convoys moving in
various directions, and the commissariat department seemed to be
particularly on the alert. With an Irish officer, who was riding in the
same direction, I entered into conversation for a few minutes, while
I and my escort breathed our horses over a rough road that rendered a
quicker movement dangerous; and from him I ascertained that the allied
army was in perfect readiness, and it was the general opinion that “Lord
Wellington had mischief in his head!” As he spoke, wheeling round a
bending of the road, we came suddenly in sight of another that crossed
it at right angles; and at a quarter of a mile’s distance, observed a
staff-officer, followed by an orderly dragoon, riding towards the point
of junction at a pace which led me to infer that, like myself, he was
the bearer of despatches. “Talk of the devil,” exclaimed my loving
countryman--“may the Lord forgive me for saying so!--but that’s
himself!” The hint was quite sufficient--I spurred my horse, cantered
safely over as rugged a causeway as man could meet with--reached the
cross-roads--and halted at the point of junction, before the allied
commander gained it.

On perceiving me pull up, Lord Wellington reined his horse in, and a
brief colloquy ensued.

“Your name?”

“O’Halloran.”

“Whence come you?”

“From the Empecinado.”

“Where is he?”

“Heaven only knows.

“Your business?”

“To deliver a French despatch.”

“Are you aware of the contents?”

“No--we could not read it;” and I placed the packet in his hand. At one
rapid glance his eye ran over the secret characters--

“Ha! I have the key,” he muttered; then placing the document in his coat
pocket, he desired me to ride on, report myself at head quarters, wait
there for further orders, gave his horse the reins--and thus ended an
interview that had barely occupied a minute.

I remembered the marked politeness which he had lavished upon Peter
Crotty, and marvelled that his lordship had not the civility to even bid
“good morning” to a gentleman, who had risked a broken neck to carry him
a sheet-full of hieroglyphics.

I obeyed the order; and intending to hold myself, in readiness, in the
event of his lordship requiring any further information respecting the
singular manner in which the intercepted despatch had been obtained and
confided to me, was seeking some place wherein I might deposit my person
in the interim, when whom should I stumble on in the street, but the
fortunate object of the Great Captain’s hospitality--Lieutenant Crotty!

“Arrah!--murder--is it you?” was Peter’s opening inquiry.

I assured him of my identity.

“And who would have expected to meet ye here?” continued Peter; “and
what the divil druv ye back?”

“Why--I returned on an errand similar to your own on the morning of
that auspicious day when I had the pleasure of first making your
acquaintance.”

“And what was that?” demanded Mr. Crotty--“for upon my conscience I
forget it.”

“Nothing more, than to transact a little private business with Lord
Wellington.”

“Have ye met him yet?” inquired Peter.

“Merely on the road; I expect, however, to be favoured with an evening
interview.”

“Ah, then,” responded Mr. Crotty, “a pleasanter gentleman ye never met.
I hadn’t time to finish my story; for I remember that ould bothering
divil of a Colonel called me off. Well--when I rose to come away, he,
that’s Lord Wellington, says to me, ‘Arrah, Peter, won’t ye sit a little
longer?’ ‘Bad manners to me,’ says I, ‘but it’s more than I dare do.’
‘What a pity ye’r in such hurry,’ says he, ‘I suppose, however, it can’t
be helped at present; but the next time ye come, Peter, put ye’r best
breeches into your portmantle, and stop with us as long as ye can.’”

“And is his lordship generally so hospitable and polite to every body
that drops in with a message?”

“Oh, then, upon my sowl! he’s not. And if I swore it on a bag full of
bibles, there’s some of the divils here that wouldn’t believe me.
For one, there’s Major Fitzmaurice--and, Holy Mary! now that I mind
it--hasn’t he a whole bundle of letters for you! and he’s in the town
too.--Well, I’m not bothered with letter-writin, and that’s a comfort.
What would they have to tell me from home, but that rack rents would be
their ruin--and what could I say in favour of this villanous country,
where, if a man at times happens to have a dollar in his pocket,
he couldn’t get a drop to wet his whistle, although it was dry as a
lime-burner’s wig, because the people have neither change nor daceney.
But--see--there’s the man I spoke about--and now, may the Lord bless ye,
if it’s possible.” So saying, and pointing out Major Fitzmaurice, Peter
bolted round a corner, as he termed it, “for a rason he had of his own.”

In Major Fitzmaurice, I easily recognised the kind personage who had
shared his tent with me on mv first appearance in cantonments.

Like Peter Crotty, he also expressed much surprise at seeing me again,
when, as it might have been supposed, I was _en route_ to Valencia.

“I have a packet of letters for you,” he said; “and in hope that I might
meet with somebody bound for the east of Spain, I have carried them in
my pocket. How fortunate to have dropped upon you! I came in to dine
with some friends on the staff who are quartered in Frenada; and, if
you have no better engagement, you shall join them with me, and in the
evening we will return to the old shop. There it stands as formerly--the
same mattrass and bullock-trunk--and ‘ceade millia fealteagh.’ Talking
of trunks--I saw Peter Crotty leave you. He has put a finish to
his celebrated visit to Lord Wellington. Did he tell you of ‘the
portmantle,’ as he calls it, and his ‘best breeches’ into the bargain?”

“All these important facts were faithfully narrated to me.”

“Then come along--I’ll give you your despatches when I find my great
coat; and by the time you have perused them, dinner will be ready.”

I found, on opening the packet, four letters addressed to me, and two
to the fosterer. Mine were respectively written by my parents, my uncle,
and my mistress--and, may Heaven forgive me! love left duty in the
back-ground, and Isidora’s was the first seal broken.

I could scarcely believe that the letter I perused was hers. Not a year
since I met her a timid and retiring girl--she had never mingled with
society--to her, man was strange--she blushed when addressed--and if she
answered,

                   “Back recoiled, she knew not why,

                   E’en at the sound herself had made.”

But now, girlish apprehension had given place to woman’s firmness,
and with gentle but modest sincerity, she repeated her assurances of
attachment, told me how much pain my absence caused, and urged me, “if I
loved her,” to return.

My lady mother, of course, claimed next precedency. Her letter was dated
from London--for thither she had proceeded, as it appeared, accompanied
by her honoured lord. It breathed the warmest wishes of maternal
anxiety for my safety--hoped, as I was ill a Catholic country, that
I occasionally attended mass; hinted that my father became more
intolerant, since the priest had cursed Mark Antony for his truant
conduct to Biddy Toole--wondered what had brought them, meaning my
father and herself, to England--and on this point, she seemed at a dead
loss even to imagine what the object of their singular migration would
prove to be. It had been suddenly occasioned by the receipt of a letter;
and whether the poor dear Colonel was come over to speculate in the
stocks, or raise a regiment--which latter might God forbid! the thing
was equally mysterious. She had been introduced to a Mr. Hartley and his
daughter--English Catholics, and the nicest people in the world.
Would to Heaven, she continued, that, instead of following a horrible
profession, in which body and soul were equally endangered, I would
marry Miss Hartley--and, avoiding the dear Colonel’s example, settle
down for life with the general complement of legs and arms. There was
an extensive repetition of affectionate rigmarole in prayers and wishes;
but the gist lay, lady-like, in the Postscript.

“Remember the gospel I bound round your neck. Preserve it--but open it
only in extremity.”

Mr. Hartley’s epistle was purely diplomatic, and couched in such general
terms, that while they conveyed a meaning clearly, had the letter fallen
into the hands of my grandfather’s confessor, I question whether the
Jesuit himself could have unravelled it. All, as he led me to
understand, went prosperously. My parents were on the spot, and
perfectly unconscious of the action of the drama. He, Mr. Hartley,
wished me to return as quickly as I could with proper respect to
character. He concluded with one comprehensive sentence--“The cards play
favourably--the crisis is at hand.”

Had I expected to glean any information from my father’s despatch, I
should have been grievously disappointed. He had come to London, as
he admitted, “the Lord knew why.” The mysterious present of 500L. had
reached him in annual course, and the letter which enclosed it, conveyed
a wish to visit the metropolis, that he deemed prudent to obey. To a Mr.
Hartley, he had been especially recommended as a person deeply engaged
in some secret proceedings, which might prove of important advantage
to his family and himself. As yet, Mr. H. had not explained what these
proceedings were; but, as he had assured him, the Colonel, that I
was cognisant of all, and that in a few days himself should be fully
informed on the subject, he had, for delicate reasons, forbore to press
an explanation. The rest of the letter was rambling and unimportant. It
detailed the cursing of Mark Antony, and his own feud consequently, with
the priest--a disquisition upon out-post duty--attack in close columns,
and movements by echelons. It then proceeded to state, that as Mr.
Hartley had assured him that my stay on the Peninsula would be short,
and my speedy retirement from the army a certainty, he, the Colonel,
would recommend me, as I had lost my staff appointment, to decline going
to the east of Spain, retire from the Twenty-seventh, and continue with
Lord Wellington’s army as a volunteer. I should thus see more
service and sharp fighting--in my case a great desideratum. Acting
independently, I might have frequent opportunities of distinguishing
myself, which otherwise would only come in regimental routine. Every one
expected that the next would be a splendid campaign. For his own part,
he had hoped to have slipped over for a few months when the army took
the field, but the bare hint at the intention sent my mother into
hysterics. Here was a parenthesis about “weakness of women.” The whole
concluded in his observing that, if I had luck, many opportunities might
present themselves; but breaches, field-works, and defended bridges,
were especially recommended for me to try my hand upon. The Lord might
even send “a forlorn hope” in the way--that would be a happy chance--but
then “people must not be too sanguine.”

Indeed, more ingenious instructions forgetting a man securely shot,
were never penned by an affectionate parent. The means were so easy
and comprehensive, that I could have half persuaded myself that Mr.
Clifford’s steward and confessor had been of the number of counsellors
whom the worthy Colonel had called in.

I had just completed the perusal of my varied correspondence, when my
friend the Major called for me, and announced that dinner was waiting.
I accompanied him to another apartment, where I found half a dozen
gentlemen, whose “trade was war,” congregated around a table less
remarkable for correctness of appointment than solidity of fore. None
give and receive a wanner welcome than soldiers upon service--I met a
kind reception from all; and the meal and the evening passed pleasantly.
There are few places where more singular characters are encountered than
at a mess-table. We had one short gentleman, whose happiness consisted
in the belief that he was always uncomfortable and superlatively
wretched; and hence his conversation, from cock-crow to curfew, was an
eternal _jeremiade_ about dead mules and stolen bullock-trunks, tough
beef and damp linen, with “all the ills that flesh is heir to.” He had
been wounded in one action, and in the next charged and overthrown by
a drunken dragoon, who, in the _melee_, mistook him for a Frenchman. In
short, from friends and enemies, in common, he had received abominable
treatment; and latterly, had narrowly escaped being poisoned, by
drinking wine from a store-cask, in which, after an undisturbed
possession of a week, the mortal remains of a drowned drummer had been
unexpectedly discovered. On this evening, he feelingly related a recent
atrocity perpetrated by an Irish batman, who had burned the only boot in
his possession, in which an angry corn could obtain repose. He ended
the lament with the customary _finale_ to all his grievances; namely,
an individual inquiry of, “What the devil drove him to this infernal
country at all?”

“I imagine, my dear Neville, the gentleman you name had an active agency
in driving us all here--if men would only speak the truth,” observed
Major Fitzmaurice. “I fancy he was close at your elbow, Richards, before
you quitted London.”

“At my elbow, certainly,” replied the hussar. “Had I kept that quiet, I
should have been still doing duty at the Horse-guards.”

“And may I inquire, my young friend, what might have formed the
immediate inducement of your favouring us with a visit?” continued
the Major, addressing a volunteer upon his right--“Did you shake the
elbow--teach tradesmen book-keeping--shoot a friend who differed with
you in opinion?--or--”

“None of these delinquencies have I committed. I am suffering for the
sins of another,” was the reply.

“What a pity!” said Fitzmaurice; “and your friend, the sinner, pays the
penalty by proxy--very convenient for him but rather hard on you. Would
you oblige us with particulars?”

“‘Tis a short story,” said the volunteer, with a smile;--“An accursed
cousin of mine paid some delicate attentions to the wife of his
next-door neighbour; and, unfortunately, I was acquainted with the
proceedings. ‘A d--d good-natured friend’ informed the little doctor,
that his lady and my kinsman were fitting him for a state of beatitude,
and ‘the injured husband’ commenced legal proceedings, to recover
compensation for the loss he had sustained. Loss! To get rid of a
regular virago, who lalopped him three days in the week, and made him
miserable for the other four. Had the doctor possessed a spark of
generosity, he would have given my wicked kinsman a service of plate,
devil as he was! Well, though every body knew the truth, it was
necessary to lug me in, as evidence, to prove it. ‘If you appear,’
said the defendant, ‘you’ll be my ruin, Tom;’--‘If you don’t, I’m done
brown,’ said the doctor,--but to make all right, I’ll get an _ne
exeat regno_.’ Here I was in a regular fix--between my cousin and the
chancellor--the devil and the deep sea.’ I had no alternative but to
bolt at once, and come here, hurry-scurry, like a sheep-stealer.”

“‘Well, there is one thing certain,--the devil was at the bottom of your
business. And pray, may I inquire why you, Sir, sought this _refugium
peccatorum?_” said Fitzmauriee, to a pale gentleman nearly opposite.

The person addressed “looked unutterable things,” and sighed profoundly.

“Ah--I see it. Nothing transportable,--not even suspicion of debt?”

The pallid gentleman shook his head.

“Then your sufferings are sentimental. Come--make a clean breast, and
you’ll sleep all the sounder.”

“‘Twas woman’s falsehood,” returned the “pale lover.”

“Oh--indeed!”

“Yes--Julia, false as thou wert, this widowed heart shall never own
another image than thine own.”

“But who was Julia, and what did she do?” inquired the Major, with
provoking insensibility.

“Who was she?” returned the desponding Lieutenant,--“that secret shall
perish with me.”

“Well--no matter; but what the devil did she do? Had she a kick in her
gallop?--or--”

“No,” said the bereaved gentleman; “I loved, and wooed, and won her,--as
I fondly fancied. I urged my suit, and pressed her to name the day that
should seal our mutual happiness;--I would have wedded her--but, alas!
she left me for another. That, Sir,--ay--that fatal visitation, made me
the wanderer and the outcast that I am.”

“Bless me,” replied the Major, “how heavily you took it! Now, is it not
funny enough, that an occurrence, opposite as the antipodes, actually
bundled me into the Peninsula a second time?”

“Indeed! my dear Major,”’ I replied.

“True, sir;--the ease was desperate--and nothing but expatriation could
have saved me from the bonds of Hymen. The lady would not be denied; and
to escape connubial captivity, I levanted at an hour’s notice.”

“Were the inquiry not impertinent, nor one that would painfully recall
the past and probe the breast too deeply, I should feel curious to learn
the particulars,” I observed.

“Faith, my dear fellow, I have been, as you properly suspect, the victim
of a too sensitive heart, and have suffered accordingly. But here goes
to make a clear confession, and give you the leading incidents of my
amatory adventures. I omit, of course, skirmishes of love with _femmes
de chambre_, dress-makers, gentlewomen wayfaring in stage-coaches,
or encountered _gipsying_ a mile or two from Islington or the
Elephant,--appertaining to the _corps de ballet_, or met with at a
conventicle in the afternoon--sheltering in July, under a portico, from
a shower, or lost in November, in a fog. I shall pass over all diurnal
notices in _The Times_, beginning with ‘should this meet the eye,’ and
affairs transacted by the agency of twopenny postage. But why detain
you? Fill, gentlemen--I fear you’ll find the story very long, and, what
is worse, very melancholy and affecting.”



CHAPTER XXXVI. CONFESSIONS OF MAJOR FITZMAURICE.



               “Say I love ‘many’--well, dear soul, I do;

               Rut the bright object of my heart is ‘one

               I love a thousand flowers, of every hue,

               For all are beautiful, though similar none;

               I love a thousand stars, for all are bright,

               And with their radiant beauty cheer the sight.

               ..........I have, as thy sweet lips complain,

               On many a lip of ruby banqueted.-’

                   Triojias Wade.

|I have ever been romantic. At twelve I wrote poetry--for by that name
my grandmother was pleased to designate my melodies--and at sixteen
was regularly in love. In two years more, I left “England, home, and
beauty,” “to seek the “bubble reputation.” Need I say what agony that
parting with the fair one caused? How convulsively Clara sobbed, and how
awfully I swore in return, when I received from her hand a ringlet--hue,
sunny--binding, violet-coloured silk--which was duly deposited over the
fourth rib--left side--with a solemn adjuration, that there the said
ringlet should abide and dwell until the heart it covered had ceased to
beat, and the lungs adjacent should exercise their expiring functions,
in murmuring warm but feeble prayers for the happiness of the donor.

At nineteen I carried the colours of the --th into action at Salamanca,
but I lament to say, that the honour of carrying them _out_ was reserved
for another gentleman of the sword.

“There’s a d--d ill-looking tirailleur, covering me dead,” observed a
brother ensign, to whom “the king’s banner” had been entrusted.

“I’m devilish, glad to hear it,” I responded, “for I thought the
scoundrel was levelling at myself.” *

     * True anecdote.

My supposition was, unfortunately, correct; for before I had done
speaking, a bullet broke the colour-staff, passed through the arm that
held it, and took temporary possession of my person exactly opposite the
spot, where the _gage d’amour_ of my absent Clara had been deposited.
I dropped--two rear-rank men picked me up instanter--and, though the
action was particularly hot at the moment, they insisted on bearing me
from the field. The anxiety which these worthy men expressed for the
safety of their officer was astonishing, and I think they would have
never halted until we had been out of range of the Cadiz mortar, had the
same mortar been in battery at Salamanca.

“Where the devil are ye going with the lad?” exclaimed an eighty-eighth
man, who was hobbling on as fast as a wounded leg would allow him, to
try, as he termed it, to overtake his “darling Faugh-a-ballaghs.”

“To obtain medical assistance,” responded both my Samaritans.

“Then ye had better return,” said the Ranger. “Devil a doctor’s within a
mile of you, except an assistant surgeon, who is lying under yon wall in
mortal alarm.”

My humane friends at once decided upon employing the gentleman lying
under the wall, and I was accordingly committed to his care. “Faint the
din of battle bray’d,” and the doctor recovered his self-possession as
the roll of musquetry became feebler and more distant--the ball was
extracted--I was removed to the house of a gentleman immediately
beside--confided to the tender mercies of any who would undertake them;
while my deliverers--the greatest cowards who had ever been inflicted on
a fighting regiment--considering the plundering had commenced, set
out to try what industry would acquire; and, as I verily believe, the
assistant surgeon “bore them company.”

Upon my conscience, into a nicer family circle an Irish ensign never
contrived to drop himself. The senhor was a steady, sober, respectable
gentleman, who went regularly to mass, and never drank in the morning.
His lady managed him, the farm, and the domain--rent of the latter not
excessive--and the daughter--oh, murder! three years have passed, and as
yet I have never managed to forget Agatha’s foot and ancle! But then
her eyes--St. Senanus could have never stood a second glance; her teeth
would have put a foxhound’s to the blush; and, as the old song goes,--

               “Her hair was as flick as the devil.”

Well, she nursed me--her mother offering at matins and vespers a prayer
for my recovery and conversion, and her father spending the morning in
asking after news, and putting the evening in, by giving me the result
of his inquiries.

A fortnight passed--and as one wound healed, another opened. Agatha was
ignorant of French, I innocent of Spanish. “With the exception of a
monk or two in Salamanca, not a soul (out of the army) spoke Irish; and
hence, poor girl! from a neglected education, we were rather puzzled
to explain the rapid growth of mutual affection. In time we might have
succeeded--but one fine morning in August, a field officer, accompanied
by a staff surgeon, dropped into a neighbouring village where some sixty
lazy vagabonds were malingering. Of course, they were all ordered to
their regiments, and I, with a senior officer, desired to look after the
scoundrels.

“Agatha!” I said, as I held her to my bosom the morning that I
marched, “Agatha, would that I could remain in this sweet thraldom to
eternity.--Curse that bugle! I wish to God the fellow had been shot
through the lungs instead of the arm--Agatha!--”

Here sobs broke in--

“Pat, Pat. Do you really regret to leave me? and will you--”

“Return in a month, and make ye Mrs. Patrick Fitzmaurice.”

She flung herself upon my breast--placed a little billet in my
hand--inquired how many days in England we reckoned for September;
when a gruff voice exclaimed behind, “Mr. Fitzmaurice, Major Oldham is
waiting to see the detachment march off, and if you’re not at his elbow
in a pig’s whisper, why, he swore by the eternal frost! he’ll report you
to the general to-morrow morning.”

“Agatha, my own Agatha!”

“Pat, my darling Pat!”

A long, last, kiss (vide the Corsair, for a particular account of a kiss
of this description) succeeded--“Fall in, men,” said the sergeant, and
in another minute poor Agatha was on the sofa, and I in the street.

“Agatha!” I exclaimed, as I passed the window whence, “like Nioobe, all
tears,” she watched the detachment move off, “Agatha, on that festival
you named, expect me.”

“And that’s Tib’s eve,” * said an incredulous scoundrel, who overheard
the promise--The bugler played Paddy Carey--an angle of the street
intervened.--It was the last I saw of Agatha.

     * An Irish festival, which is said to fall “neither before
     nor after Christmas.”

When we halted for the night, I took the little packet from my breast
and examined its contents. It contained a billet that professed eternal
constancy, and a tress of glossy hair, black as the raven’s wing.

“Yes, Agatha, this memorial of our love shall rest beside that heart
which is all thine own. But softly, Mr. Fitzmaurice! Is there not
already a tenant in possession? Pshaw! Poor Clara! What fools boys are!
Ha, ha, ha! and I _really_ did fancy I was in love? One cannot help
laughing at the recollection. Let me see--light brown--Well, the hair
is pretty hair enough--but, shafts of Cupid! to compare brown with
black!--the very thought is high treason in love’s calendar. Still will
I preserve a memorial of thee, my sweet _blonde_--and therefore,
sunny ringlet, I’ll commit thee to--my wilting desk!” The transfer was
effected, and the tress of glossy black promoted to the secret pocket
of the jacket, in front of fourth rib--left side--_vice_ light brown,
“placed on the retired list.”

A year rolled over--the anniversary of my birth came round. It was
a sweet October evening, and I stole out from the crowded hall of my
father’s mansion to meet my gentle Lucy. All around was so calm, so
quiet, and so lovely, that the coldest heart would own its influence,
and even a professed woman-hater, for once renounce his heresy, and
“plead for pardon.” And who was Lucy? The sweetest girl in Roscommon!
Her father was the village curate, not passing rich on forty pounds a
year but half starved with a wife and six children upon a hundred. Lucy
was the eldest child, and when I left England three years before, she
had promised to grow up particularly handsome. I returned--we met by
accident--for her father’s circumstances were too humble, and his spirit
too high, to allow him to maintain terms of intimacy with my family. It
was in one of those sweet green hint’s, bounded by hawthorn hedges and
overspread with apple trees, whose boughs bent under the load they bore,
that I saw her for the first time after my return. If ever rustic-beauty
was calculated to ruin a man’s peace, it was such as Lucy Delmer’s. A
lovelier dice I never looked at--but it was its expression that did
the mischief. The deep blue eye, that turned on the ground from man’s
approval the cheek, which one whispered word reddened to the very brow;
those lips, which Suckling poetized and Cupid might have sworn by--but
why dwell on the loveliness of Lucy Delmer? I came, I saw--reversed the
proverb--and was conquered.

The locality of my father’s house was exceedingly remote, and so was the
parsonage--and hence, though Lucy had numbered seventeen summers, the
tale of love had never yet been heard. No wonder, then, that to my
ardent suit her young heart was not indifferent. She did not tell me
so--but, without much difficulty, I guessed the secret.

She was punctual to the hour.--The lane was made for lovers--so
sweet--so unfrequented.

“Ten thousand thanks, my sweetest Lucy, I feared this lonely spot might
have alarmed you, and made you change your resolutions.”

“Oh no; with your protection, what had I to fear? But why were you so
desirous to see me? I know there is a dinner party at the hall!”

“It is my birth-day, Lucy--and before my last one, we carried Badajoz,
by assault. From a soldier I purchased this chain, and have kept it as
a memorial of that eventful passage in my nameless history.” I threw it
round her neck: “And now, my sweet Lucy, the spoil of war becomes the
bond of love.”

“Dear Pat,” said the blushing girl, in reply; “would that I had some
token to offer in return;--I am poor----------”

“Rich, beyond Potosi,” I exclaimed; “ay, and throw El Dorado into the
bargain. These nut-brown tresses would manacle Dan Cupid if he came on
earth, and replace Berenice’s in hewen afterwards. Give me one lock!

“Hush--I hear footsteps.--Farewell, dear--_dear_ Pat.”

“Adieu--dearest, _dearest_ Lucy.”

We separated. A villanous whistle was perpetrated at a short distance.
It was a herd-boy of my father’s--and as he passed me in the lane, I
rewarded his melody with a thundering box, that changed “Nora Crina”
 into “a lament” that might have been heard a mile off.

That night, when I retired I found a letter on my table, and broke the
seal. Lucy’s fair hand had indited the billet--and within was enclosed a
lock of “nut-brown” hair, which Mr. Truefit of the Burlington Arcade (I
forget the number) would have knelt to and worshipped incontinently.

“Lucy--my loved Lucy.” I I exclaimed; “little did I fancy, that from
thee love’s influence was to be learned for the first time.--_The
first?_--Easy--Lieutenant Fitzmaurice, Saints and angels!’tis the
festival of the blessed Agatha--the very evening you promised, a year
ago, to return to----. Ah! Pat--Pat--What have you to say for yourself?”

What a special-pleader love makes man! In ten minutes, I had ascertained
to my own perfect satisfaction, that in Agatha’s case I had jumbled up
gratitude with friendship, merely made a mistake, and called the mixture
by a wrong name. It was quite certain that ny feeling for Agatha was
only brotherly after all--and that night the secret drawer of of’
writing-ease contained a second treasure; for the jet-black tress was
safely deposited beside the brown one.

This my third _liason_ was short, but very ardent, while it lasted. Mr.
Delmer discovered that we met--instituted inquiries--and learned the
secret of our love. Well aware that an alliance with one whose only
dower was innocence and beauty, would be objectionable to a family
aristocratic in every feeling like mine, he delicately hinted the state
of affairs to Sir Edward Fitzmaurice, and removed his daughter to the
house of a distant relative. I had written for renewed leave of absence,
as the original term had expired--and to my surprise received a refusal,
point blank, from Colonel Markham, accompanied with a peremptory order
to rejoin. The truth was, my loving father had written privately to the
commander, and told him that I meditated matrimony with the daughter
of a curate; and to that holy estate, the Colonel being an inveterate
enemy, he readily became a consenting party to disturb our course of
love.

For a week after I rejoined at Gort, I rejected invitations to tea, left
the mess sober, and refused to be comforted. By night, Lucy’s ringlet
lay underneath my pillow--and by day, rested on a breast within which,
as I religiously believed, the image of the loved one was enshrined
to eternity. This extraordinary change on my part, excited a general
inquiry--some opining that I had rats in the garret, and would require a
gentle restraint and antiphlogistic regimen--while others asserted that
I was about to turn Methodist, and were anxious to know whether I had
attended field preachings, or been heard to swear since my return. Still
my melancholy remained unabated, and I levanted before the third pint
of wine--a proceeding in a corps of sharp drinkers, considered totally
unregimental. Various were the surmises as to the ruinous results
which this unhappy alteration in my habits must occasion. The
assistant-surgeon suspected I might drop into a decline; and the
red-nosed major added, that I would drop into Pandemonium afterwards.

At this period an event occurred that formed another epoch in my
history. The captain of grenadiers, a pleasant gentleman, remarkable for
taciturnity and an honesty of purpose that would warrant your drinking
with him in the dark, in retiring from the mess-room to his lodgings
in the town, with three bottles of Page’s port under his belt and in
Christian charity with all men, forgetting that an open cellar lay
directly in his route, popped in head foremost, and was found an hour
afterwards by the relief, dead as Julius Cæsar. By this deplorable event
I got the step and the company together.

The day after the accident, Captain O’Boyle came into my room to offer
his congratulations. He lamented the loss the regiment had sustained. It
would be many a day before the fellow of the departed could be found--a
man who never bothered people with argument, confined himself to “yes
and no,” and would as soon forge a bill, as pass the bottle without
filling honestly. However, the Lord’s will be done! It would have been
all the better if he had taken the senior major. He, Peter O’Boyle,
would have got the step, and the removal of a toast-and-water man would
have been a happy deliverance. “Now I think of it, Pat,” he continued,
“I had a long chat with Miss Maginnis about you, at that tea party with
the French name, which her mother gave the night before Bob Purcel
broke his neck. D------d dangerous to lewe cellars open with a drinking
regiment in town, and men obliged to stagger home after dinner to their
cribs. Well, you must know that Flora Maginnis is “a regular clipper.”
 You wouldn’t match her in the province--takes a country side as the Lord
has made it--never cranes a fence--thinks no more of four-feet, coped
and dashed, than you would--sweet girl--no humbug about her--worst of
it, no fortune--old Denis not worth a ghost--six hundred a-year--spends
twelve. Well, as I was saying--‘O’Boyle,’ says she, ‘what the devil sort
of a spoon is that chap Fitzmaurice?’”

“Heavens and earth!” I mentally soliloquized, “what would my gentle Lucy
say, to hear her beloved Pat denominated ‘a devil of a spoon!’”

“‘The fellow,’ says she, ‘can neither ride nor drink, I hear; what is
he good for? I wish to God he had broke his neck instead of that poor
dummy, Bob Purcell.’”

“Egad, Pat, I took your part like a true friend, and stuck to you like a
brick.”

“‘By my oath,’ says I, ‘Miss Flora, you were, never more mistaken in
your life. It would do your heart good to see him seated on the saddle.
Why, he brought Marmaluke in, a beautiful second at Knockcroghary, and
only he rode over a blind beggarman and broke his back, he’d have won
the cup in a common canter. Then, as to head--I never saw him fairly on
the carpet but twice. He’ll take off his two bottles without trouble,
and troop the guard after it, steady as the serjeant-major.’”

“‘And where the devil does the fellow hide himself?’ says she. ‘Dick,
ye’ll deliver a friendly message for me. Tell him I’ll run him one round
of the course for a new bonnet, weight for age,--and say, if he does
not trot out to mama’s _soirée_--ay--that’s the name she called it--next
Sunday, I’ll go myself to his cursed den, and draw him like a badger. If
I don’t, may I never get a husband!’ There’s no use refusing, Pat, for
she swore, d----n her if she wouldn’t.”

“Oh, my gentle Lucy!” I ejaculated, “no oath would fall from, thy sweet
lips but the murmured vow of eternal constancy!”

“Eternal what?” responded Captain O’Boyle, who had but partially
overheard my rhapsody--“If it’s Lucy Dogherty ye mean, I wish ye had
been at the brag-table with her last Monday evening, when Mrs. Middleton
laid down three natural aces,--Lord--she swore like a trooper. But
you’ll go to the _soirée_, as they call ‘tea and turn out’ in this town,
or Flora Maginnis will drop into your den, with a ‘God save all here.’
What will I say about a round of the course? Pon my sowl! it’s worth
yir while to lose a bonnet, just to see how beautifully she sticks upon
the pig-skin--‘ye’ll come, won’t ye, and I’ll call for ye.”

“I suppose I may as well go with a good grace,” I replied--“your friend,
Miss Flora, being a lady, ‘not to be refused,’ as ‘the fancy, call it.”

“That’s right. Give us a glass of water, with a sketch of spirits
thro’ it. I wonder what the divil tempts me to eat broiled bacon in the
morning!”

Captain O’Boyle’s request being complied with, he bolted the diluted
alcohol, and presently took himself off.

On the appointed night, he called and conducted me to the Sunday
_soiree_ of “Mother Maginnis,” as the mama of Miss Flora was familiarly
termed at the mess. Why this maternal appellation had been conferred
upon the lady, I could never exactly learn--but by that _soubriquet_
she had been known for half-a-score years successively to every marching
regiment. We found the company already assembled. Some played brag,
some played loo, but Captain O’Boyle led me direct to the piano, where,
encircled by a crowd of red-coats,’two ladies were playing a duet; and,
on its termination, in due form he presented me to Miss Flora.

She was indubitably a fine animal--a handsome face, a splendid figure,
and the most magnificent head of auburn hair imaginable. On Captain
O’Boyle announcing me as “his friend, Captain Fitzmaurice,” Miss Flora
made a rapid inspection of my outer man from top to toe, and then, as if
satisfied with the survey, she gave me a hand, white as alabaster, which
I took respectfully in mine.

“How are you, Pat?--Isn’t it _Pat_ they call ye?” said the lady. “Why
the devil don’t ye shake my hand?--you take it as gingerly in yours, as
if ye had hold of a hot poker. What do ye ride? Can you manage twelve
stone without wasting, and on a ten-pound saddle?”

“What a question at first sight?” I mentally ejaculated. “Ah! Lucy, my
absent love, were thou and I together, ours would be a softer theme than
ten-pound saddles!”

[Illustration: 0389]

“Will you play brag?” she continued.

I shook my head.

“So much the better. That old tabby, in black velvet, would cheat her
father; and she, in the blue turban, rob a church. They play into each
other’s hands--client first, divide afterwards; they would do you brown’
to a moral in half an hour.”’

“Oh! Flora, Flora,” exclaimed her companion; “how can you say such
horrid things?”

“Because they’re true,” returned the young lady: then turning to me,
she continued, “Come away into the corner, and we’ll have a quiet hit.
D’Arey, go find the back-gammon table, settle the men, and snuff the
candles; it’s the only thing you’re good for.”

A sheep-faced young gentleman instantly obeyed the order; and Miss Flora
Maginnis and I sate down _tete-a-tete_.

If ever there were two beings who differed from each other wide as the
antipodes themselves, they were Flora aforesaid, and my absent mistress.
I had endeavoured to imagine what “a clipper” was, according to the
parlance of O’Boyle; but my fancy sketch fell infinitely short of the
original. An hour glided pleasantly away; and when supper was announced,
Miss Flora and I proceeded to the table, mutually pleased with each
other.

I had written to Lucy immediately on my arrival at head quarters, and
for several days awaited an answer to my epistle with all the impatience
of a lover. At last, the long-expected letter came; and my heart
throbbed wildly when I read the post-mark; I pressed the billet to my
lips, muttered that quotation from Pope, which insinuates that letters
were invented in hewen, and broke the seal. The “Dear Sir” commencement
gave me a chill; and the conclusion, “Your’s, sincerely,” froze me to
an icicle. Indeed, a colder composition never met a lover’s eye. It
expressed gratitude for my sentiments of affection; spoke of the barrier
that family and fortune interposed between us--followed that blow
up with a disquisition on prudence and “proper pride”--declined all
continuation of correspondence as irregular--and concluded with a
belief, on her part, that “it would be better for both that the past
should be forgotten.”

As I perused the letter, I found the colour waning on my cheek. Was this
her constancy?--were these her sentiments? She who I thought had warmly
reciprocated my love--she, whose whole heart I fancied mine for ever!
Unconsciously my hand approached my breast; and ere I reached the cold
conclusion of the letter, that ringlet, which a few minutes since a
diamond would not have purchased, was torn from my bosom, and committed
with that heartless billet which dispelled my dreams of lore, to the
secret drawer, where brown and black lay quietly reposing. Fool that I
was! I never suspected that a proud poor father had dictated every line.
The hand was Lucy’s; but had I looked attentively at the paper, I would
have discovered that it was blistered with her tears. Alas! that fact I
never knew for years, and not until Lucy was another’s!

Every body knows, that the best preparatory state of mind a man can find
himself in for falling in love with the first woman that he meets, is
immediately after he has been piqued by the falsehood or indifference
of another. My introduction to Miss Maginnis was therefore effected
in the very nick of time--she seemed a godsend direct from
Cupid.--Romeo-like, I changed from Rosalind to Juliet--commenced active
operations against the heart of Flora, and fancied I could love her. We
rode, and walked, and danced--ran one round over Breafy course--I was
beaten by a neck; and on the following Sunday, Flora annihilated
the devotions of half the congregation, by appearing at church in a
lancer-cap, obtained “per mail” from Dublin, and, even by her enemies,
pronounced “a little love.”

In this state of affairs an event occurred that brought matters to a
crisis. A day never passed in which notes were not interchanged between
me and Flora; and one fine morning, her maid was ushered in, and proved
the bearer of a billet. As I fortunately preserved our correspondence, I
can favour you, gentlemen, with faithful transcripts.

“Dear Pat,

“I hear you were drunk last night, and, in getting home found the street
too narrow. What a humbug, to pass yourself upon people for a milk-sop!
My aunt Packer will be married thirty years next Thursday; and as
she annually recalls the memory of that misfortune, she gives, on the
evening of that disastrous day, her customary hop. Will you drive me
over? If you don’t, I’ll get across in the Parson’s rumble, and you may
go to ----------” There was here a _hiatus_ in the manuscript; but a
fancy sketch of “a gentleman in black,” with his tail under his arm,
enabled me to guess my destination. To this affectionate appeal I thus
responded:--

“Dear Flo.

“As you permit me to make a choice between ‘the place below’ and your
aunt’s ball, I’ll choose the latter. Set me down your man! I’ll pick you
up at eight, ‘and no mistake.’”

Punctual to the hour, I called on the appointed night. Flora was true as
a clock, and deposited her person and effects safely in the dog-cart.
My horses were fast steppers; and in an hour and sixteen minutes, we
reached my aunt Packer’s. I am thus particular about _time_, for I
backed myself against it, three to one--in kisses. Certainly I gave
Flora sporting odds. She lost, as a gentlewoman should lose, came like a
trump “to book,” and met her engagements honourably.

As we approached “my Aunt Packer’s” domicile, we found that “_more
hibernico_” the parish had risen “_en masse_,” to have a peep at the
festive throng. With some difficulty I took my drag pretty safely
through the crowd, removing only one toe in the transit--and having
deposited Miss Flora in the hall, while she “regulated her curls, and
repaired damages” generally, I fought my way to the assistance of my
servant, who was making vain but desperate efforts to obtain standing
room for the cattle in certain ruinous buildings denominated stables,
which were crammed with a pleasing variety of quadrupeds; but by bribing
one car-driver, and bullying another, who had spilled me the night
before into a wet ditch, I induced them to remove their prads to some
place else, and thus make room for mine. This exploit having been
achieved, I entered “the merrie hall,” to claim my partner, who had
intimated that she should await there my return, and honour me by making
her grand _entré_ on my arm.

She was ready for action when I reappeared; and as we passed through the
mob of “tinints’ daughters,” who choaked the hall and staircase,
nothing could be more complimentary than the remarks--That’s Miss Flora
herself,” observed a redshank. * “Isn’t she the girl, after all?”

     * Redshank--a term applied in the kingdom of Connaught to
     young ladies who dispense with shoes and stockings.

“And that’s her sweetheart, I suppose, beside her.--Ogh! but they’ll
make a cliver couple,” rejoined a second.

“Is the match all settled?” inquired an elderly gentlewoman. “It’s all
as one, and just as sure as if the priest had on the vestment,” was the
reply.

To me, of course, these remarks were particularly flattering; but still
to the matrimonial conclusion, I did not respond “Amen!”

On ascending to the state apartment we found the company formally
collected; and in the doorway observed a little man, very corpulent,
and blessed with an efflorescent nose that would have brought eternal
disgrace upon a water-drinker. He was dressed in a green coat with brass
buttons, a speckled vest, and inexpressibles that once had been nankeen.
I particularly noticed the tie of his white neckcloth. The bow was
voluminous, and the muslin that encircled his throat affixed so loosely,
that it was apparent the wearer had determined that his powers of
deglutition should receive no interruption.

“That’s Uncle Dick,” observed my fair companion; “no wonder that Aunty’s
so proud of her bargain.”

“How’r ye, Flo?” said Mr. Packer.

“Morrow! Dick,” was the dutiful return. “Who’s that wid ye? Mr.
Fitzmaurice, I suppose.”

“What a guess you made! If you go on this way, you’ll be tried for
witchcraft at last,” said Miss Flora.

“Mr. Fitzmaurice, ye’r welcome--glad to see ye in Ballymaccragh.
Fine night--but could drive over the bog. Maybe ye’d step down to
the wee back parlour, and have a glass of naagus, or a drop of the
other,--naked, or in company.”

“A glass of naagus, or a drop of the other--naked or in company,”
 responded Dick’s affectionate niece, mimicking her respected relation
like an echo; “do you think Captain Fitzmaurice drove thirteen miles to
drink hot _scalteeine?_ One would suppose you kept a potheine house.”

“But I wanted to introduce him to the naabors.”

“The naabors!” returned the young lady, mimicking Uncle Dick to the
life. “And a blessed lot the neighbours are! Kelly, and Brophy, and
Kinsella,--a parcel of savages, who only know when whisky’s over-proof,
and a bullock fit for market. But, Dick, why don’t you take heart when
you are in Athlone, and treat yourself to a new pair of fye-for-shames?
And look at his cravat!” so saying, she caught the ample bow, and
whisked it round, until it met the spot where the hangman would have
placed it. “Now, be off, Dick; keep yourself and _naabors_ out of my
sight for the evening, and I’ll settle sixpence a-day on you for life!”

I think our introduction to “my aunt” was about as affectionate
and reverential; and I began to comprehend the meaning of the word
“clipper.” No matter; she was the finest animal in the collection;
and what was it to me, if she denounced the scarlet turban of the lady
hostess, and traced its importation to the same ship that, thirteen
years before, had wafted Uncle Dick’s unmentionables from China? We
laughed at the company and ourselves, flirted, danced three sets before
supper, two _ditto_ after it,--passed every thing, next morning, on the
road--and I popped her down at her papa’s, at half-past seven--she to
dream of marriage, and I of God knows what.

It was two o’clock before I toddled into the mess-room. Others had been
nearly as late as I; for the little snub-nosed major and Captain O’Boyle
were just concluding their breakfast, when I joined them, and ordered
mine.

“Cursed nuisance country routs,” growled the short commander;--“horse
kicked by a vicious mule--kettle not boiled after supper--rheumatism
left hip--and lost three rubbers at whist, and five pound ten at
_lammy_.”

“Egad! for my part, major, I was delighted with Mother Packer, and my
Uncle Dick.”

“Many true words said in jest; I’ll bet five pound he’s your uncle in a
month--and no mistake.”

“My uncle?” I returned, with a stare.

“Ay--double the bet, too;--d--d quick promotion yours--Captain, first
week in the month--Benedict, two gazettes afterwards.”

“Upon my soul, I do not comprehend you. Pray, my dear major, what are
you driving at?”

“Driving at?--aye, last night’s drive settled all. When do ye come to
the scratch? All friends here;--no use in humbug.

“Why, what the devil do you mean?”

“Mean--get your neck into the halter--slow march up the aisle--she looks
down, and you delighted--Parson reads ‘love, honour, and obey, _clerk
cries_ ‘amen,’--kiss your bride--chariot and four--white favours--boys
shout--door shuts, and away ye go! That’s the time of day!”

“A graphic picture, major. But who are to be the _dramatis personae?_”

“Who? yourself to be sure; aided and abetted by Flo Maginnis.”

“I marry! My dear major, _when_ have I been pronounced insane?”

“Insane--no--no--parson says it’s an honourable estate--bound to take
his word. But I wish to God you would get your worthy uncle to put a few
slates upon the stable--horse running at the nose, this morning, as if
he had the glanders--Air, excellent thing but, d--n me, half the roof
off, too much. I’ll just toddle down to the postoffice--coach by this
time in”--and Major Belcher took himself off.

Of course, when he was gone, I requested Captain O’Boyle to tell me what
he had been hinting at; and I had the agreeable satisfaction to learn
that my immediate union with Miss Maginniswas pronounced certain. Aunt
Packer, on being assured by him, the captain, that I was not a confirmed
drunkard, as she had heard formerly, observed that “Flora had got out
of bed with her right foot foremost, the morning that she met me,”
 insinuating thereby, that Flora had been in luck; and, after our
departure, Mr. Packer, in a neat and complimentary speech, had proposed
our health and happiness, with an other, on his part, to bet five pounds
that he would be a grand-uncle within the twelve month.--“But here’s the
serjeant, with the letters. Any news, Jones?”

“Nothing,” responded the serjeant, “but a draft of a captain,
two subalterns, and sixty rank and file, for first battalion--off
immediately--transports waiting at Cork.”

This unexpected intelligence changed the current of our conversation.
O’Boyde went out to ascertain what names were first upon the
roaster--and I retired to my barrack-room, to inquire whether I was
really on the eve of matrimony, or not.

I had been for above an hour in a state of dreamy confusion, when a
light tap was heard at the door. I announced myself at home--and in came
Sibby Callaghan.

“Ah! pretty one--is it you? Come here--give me a couple of kisses first,
and then tell me how your mistress is.”

“Be quiet, captain. Oh! murder--if Miss Flora only knew it.
Feaks--joking apart, it’s a shame and scandal, and you going to be
married in a week or two.”

“Married! Sibby.--Who the devil put that folly in your head?”

“Oh, I know it all. Isn’t Mr. Dominick, the master’s brother, and Tom,
and Peter Blake, and their sister Emily, and Julia Dwyer--they call
her Julia, but her right name’s Judy--ay, faith, and a dozen more blood
relations--arn’t they all written for? But I must run down to Miss
Byan’s, the milliner; and maybe you’ll have an answer for this note
ready for me, at my return.” And off went Sibby Callaghan.

In desperate trepidation I broke the fair one’s billet, and an auburn
ringlet, silky and glistening, fell from its envelope upon the table.

“Dearest Pat,

“That lock of hair you turned around your finger when you stole a
parting kiss, this morning--‘Will you for my sake keep it?”

“Curse upon parting kisses,” I muttered.

“I have written to that beast Brophy, to whom my father gave some
encouragement, to say that, like a dead heat, the match was off. Would
you wish to see the letter, before I send it?”

“Come up for coffee. We’ll have a quiet chat--and, like a dear good boy,
go to roost early.

“Thine,

“Flora.”


“Oh!--it’s all over.” I muttered. Was ever man run into matrimony so
ridiculously? What’s to be done? Knock again,--“come in.”--And in slided
Captain O’Boyle.

“What the devil’s wrong with you?” was his opening address, “have ye
seen a ghost--or received a call from the sub-sheriff? or”--

“Worse--worse,” I responded, with a sigh. “I’ll be married, whether I
will or not. Nothing can save me.”

“Oh--I expected it,” returned the captain. “Then, of course, you’ll
leave the regiment, and poor Phipps has no chance of getting you to take
his turn for the Peninsula?”

“No chance!” I exclaimed; “I’m ready in half an hour. Aye, that’s
an opening for escape. But stop; I must answer a note. There’s
cherry-brandy in the cupboard,--take a glass, O’Boyle, and hand me
another, merely to keep you in countenance. So here goes--listen!

“‘Dearest Flo,

“‘I shall ever treasure the dear ringlet you have given me, and, no
matter where I am, shall look upon it as love’s talisman.’”

“Stop!” exclaimed Captain O’Boyle,--“what the devil’s a talisman?”

“Oh--hang it! no matter.” It’s I don’t know what myself--but a word,
very commonly introduced into tender correspondence.

“‘As to that beast Brophy, as you properly term him, I feel some
delicacy in offering an opinion. Were I he, I should at once accept your
proposition, and declare ‘off by mutual consent.’

“‘If possible, I shall be with you for coffee, and attend to your advice
religiously.

“‘Dear Flo,

“‘Always yours,

“‘Pat.’”


I had scarcely sealed my billet when love’s messenger announced herself.
The presence of Captain O’Boyle precluded any converse between me and
the spider-brusher; and after receiving her despatch, Sibby Callaghan
disappeared.

It was at once decided that I should levant that very evening, leaving
the detachment to the care of the subalterns, whom it was arranged I
should join in Cork. Captain O’Boyle discharged my accounts in town; my
servant packed my traps; and I had stepped down to take a little air in
the barrack-yard, when once more Sibby Callaghan presented herself. She
placed a billet in my hand; I squeezed hers in return--whispered I would
send an answer when evening parade was over--and broke the seal.

“My dearest Pat,

“Have I misunderstood you? Then is my peace of mind gone for ever! Oh
no--I won’t believe it. You would not win a virgin heart, and throw it
idly from you! Rest assured, idol of my soul! that there is no bliss in
life comparable to wedded happiness.

“Yours, and yours only,

“‘Flora.’”

I wrote an immediate reply:--

“My dearest Flo,

“I am certain your estimate of connubial fidelity is correct; but at
present, you must excuse me from trying the experiment.

“Always and affectionately,

“Pat.”

“D--n it,” said Captain O’Boyle, “you must be clean out of the town,
before Flo gets that choker. The whole gang will be collected in the
evening. But, Lord! she wouldn’t wait for any assistance, but beat up
your quarters at once. There’s only a serjeant’s guard at the gate, and
that would never keep her out.”

What is valour to discretion? Captain O’Boyle’s were the words of
wisdom, and I profited by them accordingly. A chaise and four were slyly
introduced through the back entrance to the barrack--the gates closed
for half an hour--and before Flora received my note, I had left Gort six
miles behind, and set pursuit at defiance.

Would you believe it? until I reached head-quarters here, I felt
particularly uncomfortable. Conscience upbraided me; and I fancied the
probability of an ill-regulated but too ardent temperament like Flora’s
being forced into the commission of some desperate act; and when I
unclosed my secret depository, I looked at the auburn ringlet, and
breathed a fervent prayer that Heaven would enable the poor girl to bear
up against her visitation. As it resulted, I had disquieted myself in
vain--for three week’s ago, I received a Roscommon Journal, with “P.
O’B.” written upon the corner of the envelope. I looked it over rapidly;
and one paragraph at once set my heart at rest.

“At Cloonflin church, by the Reverend Doctor Dowdell, Ignatius Brophy,
Esquire, of Curnafin, to the elegant and accomplished Flora Maginnis,
only daughter and heiress of Dennis Maginnis, of Ballybawn, County of
Roscommon, and Ballynamudda, County of Mayo.” It was regularly recorded
who gave the bride away, and also the route they took to spend the
honey-moon; but I’ll not be too particular.

As the gallant major ended, a servant entered and whispered in the
president’s ear.

“You are wanted,” he said, turning to me. “You will be sure to find us
here on your return.”

I rose and left the room; and outside, found an orderly waiting in the
street, to say that Lord Wellington wished to see Lieutenant O’Halloran
immediately.



CHAPTER XXXVII. MY INTERVIEW WITH LOUD WELLINGTON AND FURTHER
PARTICULARS TOUCHING PETER CROTTY.


_Falstaff_. “Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me. The brain of
this foolish-compounded clay, man, is not able to vent any thing that
tends to laughter, more than I invent, or is invented on me: I am not
only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men.”--King
Henry IV.

|Although the evening was well advanced, all within and without the
quarters of the Commander-in-chief indicated a business-like activity,
and gave a silent earnest that an important crisis was at hand. Three
dragoons, the bearers of as many despatches, were riding on to their
stables--while a couple of orderlies lounged backwards and forwards in
front of the building; but excepting the sentries at the door, there was
nothing about the residence of Lord Wellington that would distinguish it
from the quarters of a general of brigade. On my name being announced, I
was conducted into a large room on the ground floor, where at one table
several noncommissioned officers were employed in transcribing official
documents--and at another, two engineers were measuring distances on a
large map, from which they were making, what appeared to me, a skeleton
draft of the great features of the country. In a few minutes an
aid-tie-camp came in, and informed me that his lordship was now engaged,
but that he would be happy to receive me presently--politely invited me
to take a seat--and then left me to myself.

I never found an establishment that so little realized the glowing
picture which Peter Crotty had so fancifully sketched. From his report,
one would have imagined that head-quarters had been the selected home
of social pleasure, with “Laughter holding both his sides,” and Bacchus
aiding and assisting. I found it a very different concern; and had the
domicile belonged to La Trappe, business could not have been carried on
more quietly than it was. The serjeants seldom raised their heads from
the table--the engineers conversed in whispers--and the place was as
silent as the clerk’s office of a solicitor, with the head partner in
bad temper in the room.

Still I fancied that there might be a secret symposium unapproached by
the _profanum vulgus_, and to which none but the elect, with a favoured
few like Peter Crotty, gained an entrance. Yet it was marvellous how
well they managed matters in the house. No sound of distant merriment
fell upon the ear--no explosion followed “the jest which set the
table in a roar.” The walls must be confoundedly thick, or the company
singularly prudent--you could have heard a cat cross the floor--and yet
not an outburst of “tipsey jollity” was audible.

While lost in vague surmises as to the causes which might have
occasioned this strange alteration in his lordship’s style of living
since Peter Crotty had favoured him with a call, a servant opened the
door, and requested Lieutenant O’Halloran to follow him. We crossed
over to an opposite apartment--the attendant announced my name--and
I found myself in the presence of him afterwards surnamed, the “Iron
Duke.”

I never was more surprised than at the general appearance of my lord’s
“great chamber.” Neither bottle nor glass were to be seen--the cards
eluded discovery--and I could detect nothing in “the sporting line”
 except one solitary chess-board. The apartment contained not one article
that could have been dispensed with. The table was over-spread with
papers--and at one end, an aid-de-camp copied letters--at another, a
private secretary wrote from the dictation of the Commander-in-chief.

“Sit down, Mr. O’llalloran,” said his lordship--“we have deciphered
your despatch--and the information it contains is very valuable. May I
inquire under what circumstances the packet fell into Juan Diez’ hands?”

I briefly narrated the particulars.

“It is genuine, no doubt; indeed it bears the stamp; but documents have
been occasionally fabricated, which have misled people who did not take
pains to test their authenticity. You appear to have had a good deal of
adventure during your _séjour_ with the Empecinado. They say that Don
Juan is an off-handed gentleman at times--hangs a man first, and makes
inquiries afterwards--ha?--Is it so?”

“‘As far as I can judge, my lord,” I replied, “such is his general
practice. I found him a very excellent friend; but he’s the last man in
Spain whom I should wish to make an enemy.”

I saw that his lordship was interested in the details of my recent
adventures, which pictured strikingly the wild and ferocious style of
war which the partidas carried on. Once or twice he was pleased to
pay me a compliment; and he expressed unqualified satisfaction at
Mark Antony’s bold and successful intervention to save the condemned
voltigeur. Half an hour slipped away, coffee was brought in, and I was
about to take my leave, when, turning round, as if a thought had struck
him suddenly, Lord Wellington observed--

“I had a comrade of your name,--whether now dead or living I know not.
We served together in the Low Countries, and both commanded regiments
during the retreat. At Tuyl he particularly distinguished himself”--

“And on the occasion,” I added, “lost an arm.”

“The same;--is he related to you?”

“He is my father,” I replied.

“Then, Mr. O’Halloran, you are the son of a good and gallant soldier, he
retired from the service I presume?”

“Twenty years ago, my Lord. But he is still in heart the same. Were it
not for my mother’s influence, I am persuaded that, one-armed as he is,
he would have been with your lordship before now.”

“I wish he was,--and, maimed as he is, I will freely take him, and give
in exchange half-a-dozen gentlemen of his own rank, and with the usual
assortment of limbs.--I am pretty certain I should be a-gainer by the
bargain.”

Fearful of intruding upon his time, I bade Lord Wellington
goodnight,--received a courteous return--and hastened back to the
company I had quitted, highly flattered with the reception I had met
with, although neither offered a glass of wine, pressed to play cards,
nor even desired, when I came again, “to bring my portmantle.”

That night I returned with Major Fitzmaurice, and took up my old
quarters in his tent; and as we smoked a cigar and discussed some brandy
and water, I gave him an account of my interview at head quarters.

“Your reception, my dear O’Halloran,” said the major, “though not so
friendly as Mr. Crotty’s, was still very flattering indeed. What a
revolution his Lordship’s habits have undergone within one brief month!
He seems to have booked himself against cards, and abandoned brandy and
water altogether. It would also appear that, finding “villanous company
would be the spoil of him,” he has exchanged his old acquaintances for
a lot of less sporting characters. And yet how the world may be led
astray. There are people who would persuade you that Picton never
touched pasteboard in his life, and that Packenham would as soon
take poison, as “brandy without.” Ah--Peter, Peter, thou hast no
parallel,--the brain to fabricate such a lie--and the brass to enable
thee to give it utterance! Well--we’ll put him on the gridiron tomorrow,
and if he bears the scorching, why he deserves the first company that
falls.”

Next morning, the fosterer and my charger arrived safely; and, with
Major Fitzmaurice, I consumed the day in wandering over the cantonments.
Unpractised as I was in military affairs, I could not but observe the
striking contrast which the Peninsular regiments presented to that
raw soldiery, whom I had been accustomed to look at, before I quitted
England. Here, the unfaded uniformity of dress was wanting; not two
jackets were of one shade; trowsers were patched with any colour
the wearer could procure; and, provided his shoes were good, his
appointments clean, and his musket in efficient order, the other
externals of the soldier were but little regarded. But it was when under
arms that the superiority of that unequalled army was observable. The
ease with which it moved--the precision of every evolution--the
facility with which a brigade manoeuvred, correctly as it were a single
regiment--while an air of confidence was traceable on very face, and
the whole looked like men who had made the trial--established, and felt
their superiority.

It was late when we returned; the dinner-drum had beat, and we found our
rough but happy circle already united around the table.

Our homely fare was speedily discussed, and the evening carouse began.
There is no society on earth like that collected in a mess-room, or one
in which men unbend with such security, and where the tone or temper
of every individual is imperatively required to accommodate its
peculiarities to the occasion, and harmonize with all around. Hence, in
military communities, badinage never becomes coarse, argument captious,
nor language vulgar and offensive. On the present occasion, my
unexpected return was warmly welcomed, and all seemed to take a
brotherly interest in my recent deliverance.

“Upon my conscience,” observed Peter Crotty, “ye had the luck of
thousands, after all, Mr. O’Halloran. As to that fellow with the hard
name, and black wized complexion, though he made ye a present of a
stolen horse, in my mind, he’s little better than a common highwayman.
Did ye see my Lord last night?”

“Oh yes,” I replied, carelessly. “Was he in good humour?” said Peter.

“Excellent!” was the reply.

“And asked you to sit down?”

“He did--most civilly.”

“Was there any drink going?”

“Nothing but coffee.”

“Well, I wonder at it!” said Peter, with a shake of the head.

“Not at all. Probably his lordship had been a little too liberal the
night before,” observed the major.

“Any company wid his lordship?”

“None, Peter,” responded the major. “An aid-de-camp told Mr. O’Halloran,
that the card-parties had been postponed until your new breeches arrived
from England.”

“I heard another story,” observed Captain Fenwick. “They say--God knows
whether it be true or false--that Sir Thomas Picton got a bad dollar in
change the night Crotty got drunk at head-quarters--and Peter being the
only suspicious person in the room, they have, of course, left it at his
door.”

Mr. Crotty appeared a little fidgetty; but still continued to show
fight.

“I regret to hear the last statement made by Captain Fenwick,” returned
Major Fitzmauriee.--“Any inconvenience arising from the non-arrival
of Peter’s inexpressibles, would have been but a private concern--but
passing bad dollars is a more serious affair, compromising, as it does,
the honour of an old and distinguished regiment. If the report be true,
that Peter palmed off base money upon Sir Thomas Picton, why, he’s
nothing better than what the swell-mob call ‘a smasher’--and the offence
is additionally aggravated, because that, under a conviction he was
playing with respectable men, Sir Thomas thought it unnecessary to ring
the dollar on the table, as if he were in a silver hell.--But where are
you going? I know you are on duty--but, hang it, Peter, you need not
visit your guards this half-hour. Oh, Peter, I’m sorry to say, this
evasion on your part looks very like guilt--and if you don’t clear the
matter up satisfactorily in the morning, I’ll apply for a regimental
inquiry.”

“He’s off!” said a lieutenant of light infantry. “Of all Peter’s flights
of fancy, that jollification at head-quarters will prove the most
fatal.” Turning to me he continued:--

“Peter Crotty, Mr. O’llalloran, is one of the best men on earth; and all
he requires is, to meet with a true believer. Don’t be alarmed at some
of his revelations--he’s not so truculent as at times he represents
himself. For example: he’s pleased to make frequent mention, when he has
dipped into the second bottle or fourth tumbler, as the case may be, ‘of
having once pursued an unfortunate author on the banks of the Suir for
a whole summer’s day, and despatched him with the thirteenth shot.
Of course, on his own showing, you would write him down a determined
murderer.--Not at all. I believe the most rascally scribbler that ever
blotted paper, might live to four score, and Peter never volunteer to
be his executioner. The fact is, that in the pleasant part of Tipperary
which witnessed the nativity of our friend, it is customary, when a
couple of t’s come together, to change the second into an h, and hence
it was an _otter_, and not an _author_, that he put to death.”

“And I will bear testimony,” said Captain Fenwick, “to Peter’s
gallantry. When I was knocked down at Podrigo, and lay at the foot
of the great breach, I saw honest Peter crown it--and with some dozen
hair-brained devils, like himself, he fought on the summit, hand to
hand. The French, when the lesser breach was carried, gave way--the town
was won--and Peter, with a fortunate few, gained the streets without
sustaining personal injury. Two days afterwards he visited me in
hospital, bitterly lamenting the total loss of a skirt, which had been
bodily removed by a bayonet thrust. ‘Bad luck to him for an unlucky
thief!’ was Peter’s indignant observation. ‘He tattered the only jacket
that I had; and though the tailor has been on the look-out ever since,
the devil a skirt he can fall upon that will match it!’”

“Gentlemen,” observed the assistant-surgeon, “you have borne an
honourable testimony to my excellent friend and countryman, Mr. Crotty,
as a person of lively imagination, and a stout soldier besides. I beg
to complete the merited eulogium, by assuring you that Peter is a good
catholic into the bargain. Captain Fenwick noticed his conduct during
the assault--and I accidentally witnessed his Christian temperament,
immediately before the division moved into the trenches on that glorious
and bloody evening. With three others, Peter and I held a ruinous
apartment of an old farm-house in joint tenancy, and my corner was
divided from the rest, by a blanket suspended from a line. When the
division was under arms, I discovered that I had left some instruments
behind which might possibly be required, returned consequently, to the
house, and while hunting for them behind the blanket, I heard Peter
Crotty open the outer door and come in. He, too, was in search of
something he had forgotten--and in a false assurance that he was
perfectly alone, he commenced ‘thinking aloud,’ and I kept quiet.

“‘Holy Mary!’ he ejaculated, ‘you have the best interest in heaven, and
that every body knows. If I had as good at the Horse Guards, I would
be a colonel in a fortnight. Oh, bad luck attend ye, Tim Doyle’--and he
kept rummaging through an old bullock-trunk.

“‘There’s no finding anything after ye, you drunken sweep! Well, blessed
Virgin, this is likely to be a bloody night; and the Lord, of course,
will take his dealing trick out of the regiment,--glory to him--nobody
can complain of it. But, sweet Lady--all I wish is, that it won’t be as
it was at Badajoz, in funeral order, but just let him take them fairly
as they stand. There’s three field-officers with the regiment, and we
can easily spare one of them;--a couple of captains, ye know, would
never be missed out of the number--and as to the subalterns, why let him
have his own way about them. Oh, murder! there go the taps. If I live to
come back, Tim Doyle, I wouldn’t be in your jacket for a new thirteen.’
* Again the drum ruffled--Peter shut down the trunk-lid, slammed the
door after him, and hurried off to join his company--making his final
exit in muttering a prayer to the Virgin, and an imprecation upon Tim
Doyle.”

     * Anglice--a shilling.

Early next morning. I was agreeably surprised at receiving an order from
Lord Wellington to attend him that afternoon. I rode over accordingly;
and once more found myself in the presence of him who had been destined
to restore the tarnished glory of the British arms, and after a
brilliant career of conquest, terminate a doubtful struggle by a
crowning victory. I found him immured in business--and yet the details
of his bureau seemed to go on as orderly and methodically as the
arrangements of a merchant’s counting-house. On seeing me, he beckoned
me to come forward.

I think I have been able to meet your wishes, Mr. O’Halloran.

Take this note to General R------. As yours is only to be a short
sojourn, he has kindly offered to make room for you on his staff. No
thanks--and waving his hand, the interview ended.

Delighted at my good fortune, I rode off to the head-quarters of the
fourth division--presented my credentials--was introduced to one of
the most gallant soldiers that ever commanded a brigade--and made
the acquaintance of the best fellow upon earth--his aid-de-camp, Tom
F-------



CHAPTER XXXVIII. OPENING OF THE CAMPAIGN--BATTLE OF VITTORIA.



               _King Henry_. “Yet, God before, tell him we will come on,

               Though France himself, and such another neighbour,

               Stand in our way.


               If we may pass, we will; if we be hinder’d,

               We shall your tawny ground with your red blood

               Discolour.”

                        King Henry V.

|Many a summer has passed away since the spring of manhood saw me on
the Agueda--and the sear of middle age finds me recalling the brief but
brilliant reminiscences of that “crowded hour of glorious strife” which
followed. Time has sprinkled my hair with “wisdom’s silver”--the
blood, which once the slightest impulse hurried from the heart, flows
temperately--“wild youth’s past”--and I now look back with painful
pleasure to one brief era of a life, for which, could it be lived again,
I would cheerfully forego years of calm and spiritless enjoyment.

Is not this an ungrateful declaration of thine, Mr. O’Halloran? With
every human blessing that can render existence happy, hast thou not been
munificently gifted? Thou hast never known the stringent pressure of
necessity--thou hast not felt the withering agony of unrequited love--no
false friend has abused thy confidence--no lovely woman “stooped
to folly,” and made thee blush for her inconstancy. Hast thou not a
home?--the pledge of holy love has lisped upon thy knee--the smiles
of beauty which never beamed upon another, have brightened at thy
presence. What wouldst thou more? Upon my conscience, Mr. Hector
O’Halloran, thou art a most unreasonable Irish gentleman.

I said, that I looked^ back upon this epoch of my life with “painful
pleasure.”--Well, that association of opposites he who has passed the
meridian of existence can easily understand; for in the story of a
life, pain and pleasure are generally found close companions. The pulse
quickens when Vittoria, Sanroren, and San Sebastian pass in “shadowy
review”--but the heart sickens when I recall the memory of him, at whose
side I witnessed the enthusiastic heroism of that noble brigade, to
whom he so often pointed out the path to victory. In long and cherished
remembrance will that honoured name be held. To a lion’s heart he united
a woman’s gentleness--the soldier followed him through love--his rivals
admired and praised him. Why did he not die in the blaze of battle,
where the noblest soldiers upon earth contended for a doubtful
victory?--Why did not his glorious spirit wing its flight “from
cumbring clay,” in that wild mountain pass, in which it gained its
immortally?--Why, on “red Waterloo” did he not find a lifting grave?
Alas! it was otherwise appointed and one of the noblest soldiers whom
Britain ever claimed, perished by an ignoble hand. *

The middle of May found the allies, in perfect unity of purpose and
admirable efficiency, ready to open the campaign, and orders had been
already transmitted to General Murray and the Spanish commanders on
the eastern coast, to commence initial operations. Gradually, and in
a manner not to occasion alarm in the French cantonments; the allied
divisions were concentrated and advanced, and the supporting Spanish
corps were put in march to co-operate. Bad weather, heavy rains, and an
accident to the pontoon-train, delayed the opening of the campaign.
It was but for a few days. On the 16th, Graham threw his infantry and
artillery across the Douero: Hill moved forward to Bejar; and on the
22d, Lord Wellington marched with his right wing towards the Tonnes; and
the practicability of the noblest conception that ever a great military
genius matured, was now to be proven. “A grand design,” and grandly
it was executed! For high in heart and strong of hand, Wellington’s
veterans marched to the encounter; the glories of twelve victories
played about their bayonets; and he, the leader, so proud and confident,
that in passing the stream which marks the frontier of Spain, he rose in
his stirrups, and waving his hand, cried out--“Farewell, Portugal!” **

     * It was said--I know not with what accuracy--that Major-
     General Ross was shot by a sneaking scoundrel ambushed in a
     tree.

     ** Napier.

To oppose the fiery movements of the allied general, the enemy should
have been combined, and in readiness; but they were equally unprepared
and unsuspicious that an advance would be attempted. Napoleon’s orders
to concentrate on the Tonnes, had been fatally neglected; and no
preparation had yet commenced to evacuate the capital, if such a step
should become necessary. Joseph was at issue with his generals; the
latter on bad terms with each other; and, strange as it might appear,
in a country laid open to unmerciful contributions, subordinate officers
were acquiring wealth, while the king was without a guinea, and his
major-general (Jourdan) actually subsisting upon credit. Every commander
seemed to think and act for himself. Joseph issued orders, but none
obeyed them--some general asserted that Lord Wellington would attempt to
turn the French right;--others declaring that he would march direct
on Madrid. One would have it that the north would be his field of
operation,--another maintained that it would be the south, and in
concert with Sir John Murray. All were referring to what might be the
future, when the initial movements were already made; and Wellington was
over the Esla, before, it was known in the enemies’ cantonments that a
division had been even put in march!

None, save a military reader, can estimate this wonderful and successful
operation. A part of Sir Thomas Graham’s corps traversed a distance
of more than two hundred miles, its route running through the Tras as
Montes, the wildest district imaginable. Over a rugged surface--hitherto
unknown to any save the shepherd or muleteer--forty thousand men, with
artillery, and all the equipages of war, were passed and placed in
safety on the further banks of a river unopposed--not a French general
believing that even a cloud was collected, when the tempest had already
burst!

Merely waiting one day at Toro, to unite his left with the Gallician
army, and enable the rear of his own divisions to close up, the allied
general pushed rapidly for the Carion, his own troops beautifully in
hand, and either flank protected by Spanish regulars and partidas.
Too late, Joseph Buonaparte felt the danger of his position;--when the
danger was discovered, it was irremediable; for with the certain stride
of victory Wellington marched forward. The Pisuerga and the Arlanzan
were passed, to use the language of an historian, “easily as if they
contained no water”--and Burgos, that once had foiled his efforts,
perished by the same hands which formerly had held it so successfully.

Thus far Lord Wellington’s rapid advance had been attended with splendid
success; but bolder operations, and followed by more brilliant results,
remained behind. On the 13th, masked by his own cavalry, and a swarm of
Spanish partidas, he suddenly marched by his left, to turn the
sources of the Ebro, place his army between that river and the Reynosa
mountains, and cut the enemy from the sea. It was a bold and judicious,
but difficult and precarious, attempt; and one from which a nervous
commander would have recoiled. The line of march ran through a mountain
country, whose features were singularly rugged. The valleys were deep;
gullies and ravines constantly presented themselves; and the roads,
narrow and broken, were unsuited for the transport of field equipage and
artillery. Still Lord Wellington persevered; and, nobly seconded by his
gallant followers, every obstacle was overcome. When the ordinary means
of moving forward the artillery were found impracticable, the guns were
dismounted, and lowered or swayed over precipices which threatened to
bar their farther progress. On went the Anglo-Portuguese divisions, in
ceaseless march; and, after six days of incessant exertion, the allied
columns issued from their mountain routes, and entered the deep valley
of Vittoria.

As yet I had never been fairly under fire; our march from the Esla
to the Zadora had been one of manouvre, Lord Wellington turning
every position with admirable skill; and the slight collisions which
occasionally resulted, occurring always between the light troops. One
irregular but dashing affair, on the preceding day, had taken place
unexpectedly, between a part of the light division and Maranzin’s
brigade, at the entrance of the valley of the Boveda, in which the
French were severely handled, and narrowly escaped with the loss of
their baggage, and five hundred men.

We reached Espigo, after a very long march, late in the evening of the
18th; and early next morning, moved on to Bayas, in the hope of forcing
that pass, and cutting off the armies of the south, and centre. But
Beille had taken a strong position, with the army of Portugal, to cover
their passage through the defile of La Puebla. We were directed to
attack in front, while the light division turned their position. A brief
affair ensued, during which the armies of the south and centre threaded
the defile, and came into line behind the Zadora. That object gained,
Reille fell back, and crossed the river, and we bivouacked for that
night upon the Bayas.

It was apparent to all that a great and decisive battle was at hand;
King Joseph, with his immense pares and ambulances, was still in front
of Vittoria; and although two huge convoys were ready for France, and
one had been already despatched, still the quantity of baggage that
remained was enormous, and the number of carriages almost incredible.
The whole of his miserable Court had followed the steps of the royal
fugitive. Traitors to their country, they had no mercy to expect; and in
flight alone, was safety. The immense quantity of military stores--the
accumulated mass of private plunder, collected for years before, and now
heaped together in the confusion of a hurried retreat--the encumbrance
of a numerous body of nobles and civilians,--all these tended to render
Joseph’s position the more embarrassing.

If he retreated without a battle, all must be lost. He
vacillated--valuable time slipped away--and at last he determined to
“stand the hazard of the die;” and accordingly, took a position in front
of Vittoria.

On the evening of the 20th, we received intelligence that the French
were resolved to accept battle the next day; and it was ascertained that
they were busily engaged in fortifying the ground that Marshal Jourdan
had selected. I was now on the eve of my first field; and a feeling of
anxiety and restlessness kept me waking, while two or three veterans,
who were huddled into the same tent, slept so soundly that I envied
them. At day-break the camp was in a bustle. The third, fourth, seventh,
and light divisions, which formed the infantry of the centre, got
speedily under arms; and, accompanied by a powerful artillery, and the
whole of the heavy cavalry, we crossed the ridges behind which we
had pitched our tents, and over a rugged and difficult surface, moved
stoutly and steadily towards the points marked for our separate attacks.
We took a position in front of the bridge of Nanclares, covered from
the enemy’s fire by broken ground and underwood, and there awaited the
movements of the third and seventh divisions, whom rougher ground and a
greater distance had hitherto prevented from getting up.

About ten o’clock the action began, by General Hill seizing the village
of Puebla, and Morillo attacking the heights that domineered it. A
doubtful and protracted struggle for the possession of the latter
ensued. The French supported Maranzin, who held it; and Sir Rowland
detached Colonel Cadogan, with two battalions, to sustain the Spaniards.
Fresh troops, from time to time, came into action. Villatte’s division
were drawn from the centre, to maintain the heights. Hill reinforced the
assailants; the contest still was doubtful; but Sir Rowland ended it by
crossing the Zadora, pushing through the defile of Puebla, and carrying
the village of Subijana de Alwa.

Three hours had passed; and amid the intervals of the fire at Subijana,
a distant cannonade was faintly heard upon our left, and indicated that
Graham was up, and coming into action. The light division had already
crossed the bridge of Très Puentes; one brigade of the third had forced
that of Mendoza, and another, with the seventh division, forded the
river, and attacked the French right, in front of Margarita. We were
desired now to advance; and, passing the bridge of Nan-clares, were
followed by the heavy cavalry, who, forming on our right in squadrons,
connected us with Sir Rowland’s left.

Already, fearing that he should be turned on both flanks, Joseph had
issued orders to retreat; and, covered by a cloud of skirmishers, and
under a tremendous fire of fifty pieces of artillery, he retired his
columns on Gomecha, where his reserve was posted. Now the battle was at
his height; the third division carried the village of Arinez, the 52d
stormed Margarita; and the 87th seized Hermandad. But the last struggle
was yet to come. Reille still maintained himself on the Upper Zadora,
and, with eighty pieces of artillery in full and rapid play, the wreck
of the armies of the south and centre were enabled to fall back, and
make their last stand, between the villages of Ali and Armantia.

For a moment the storm of artillery arrested the onward progress of the
allies. The battle raged furiously; but the struggle was fated to be
short. Cole ordered the fourth division to advance. On rushed its
noble battalions, untamed by a terrible cannonade and a heavy and
well-supported musketry. The heights on the left of those occupied by
the French were carried, and the doubtful conflict ended in a total
route.

Throughout the day I had been busily employed. I occasionally carried
orders; and the steadiness with which my noble horse faced fire,
attested the value of the Empecinado’s present. I had procured at
Frenada a very respectable animal, on which to mount Mark Antony; and,
to do him justice, the fosterer seemed to follow like a shadow where I
went. Just as we crowned the height, General R-------- who was leading
the column, beckoned to me, and I was directly at his side.

“Gallop back. Tell ---------- to launch the cavalry boldly--see!--
the French infantry are mobbed, and running!”

I had half wheeled round to convey the order, when, suddenly, my gallant
charger gave a convulsive shudder, and sank under me. I sprang from the
saddle before he had time to roll over, and called on the fosterer to
dismount--made one step to take his horse, and execute the order, when
a sharp stroke smote me on the head. All around became confused--memory
fled--and for a time I recollected nothing but indistinctly.

When I did recover, I found myself under a small knoll, which sheltered
us from ranging shots: the fosterer on one side, a twentieth grenadier
on the other; and my excellent and valued friend Peter Grotty, seated on
a dead horse, _vis-à-vis_, and giving orders for my resuscitation.



CHAPTER XXXIX. SAN SEBASTIAN.



               “But, hark! that hewy sound breaks in once more,

               As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

               And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

               Arm! arm! it is--it is--the cannon’s opening roar!”

                        Childe Harold.

|To the buzz of voices round me I had been fully conscious for the
last five minutes; but the first words I understood distinctly, was an
earnest inquiry, on the part of Lieutenant Crotty, regarding the safety
of what he termed “the stolen horse;” and great was his sorrow on
learning that the charger was defunct.

“Blessed Bridget!” he exclaimed; “what a pity! Worth two hundred, if he
was worth a taaster. * Well--it only shows that old swin’s true--What
comes over the old lad’s back, whisks away under his belly. But I would
like to know what the divil killed the rider? I’ve groped him all over,
and sorra scratch I can find upon him but this clip upon the head, and
many a worse I’ve got often at a hurling match. As he’s dead, however--”

     * Anglice,--Tester, a sixpence.

“I am not dead, Peter!” I muttered.

“Then, upon my sowl I’m glad to hear it from such good authority!”
 returned Mr. Crotty. “Give him another taste out of the canteen! If
there’s life in a man, brandy’s the thing to find it out. Here we
are--safe and comfortable against every thing but shells;--I thought I
heard the whiz of one of them a while ago--may the curse o’ God light
upon their inventor! You must know 1 have a mortal dread of them--and
I’ll tell ye why.--The day before Salamanca, when Marmont and my Lord
were watching each other like two pickpockets, the column halted, to let
the men cook dinner, if they had any to cook. Well--I had none,--so I
set out on the ramble, to see if luck would stand my friend--and who
should I find behind a big rock, and eating cold pork, but Pat Dogherty
and Charley Blake, of the ould “rough and readies,”--the 13th. “Peter!”
 says Charley, “didye get ye’r dinner yet?” “Divil a pick!” says I; “and,
what’s more, I wish somebody would tell me where it’s to come from?”

“Draw a chair,” says he, jokin’, “and take share of the pork.”

“Arrah, niver say it again,” says I, so down I pops upon the grass, and,
feaks, made a beautiful dinner of it. Well--out came the canteens, in
coorse; and we begins drinkin’--when bang goes two or three guns from
the hill opposite us, on which the French were marchin’.

“What’s that?” says Charley. “Nothing,” says Pat Dogherty, “only that
thief Marmont is bent upon some roguery; and just wants, by kickin’ up
a row, to draw off the old lad’s attention--manin, ye see, Lord
Wellington.”

“Blessed be God! we’re as safe here as if we were in
Kilmainham Gaol,” says I, looking up at the rock that was between us
and the French. “If Marmont batters away till he rises the price of
gunpowder, he’ll do us no harm.” Well, Pat Dogherty stepped round,
to see what the firing was about--and Charley Blake had lifted the
canteen:--“Here’s the pope!” says he, taking a pull of the spirits; and
giving the health of his reverence out o’ compliment to me, because he
thought I was a Catholic. As he said the words, down drops an eight-inch
shell between us. “Murder!” says I, rowlin’ myself down the hill, like
a butter-firkin. “What’s that?” says Charley, who was always a stupid
divil, and never could bear to be interrupted in his drink. Och! before
I could make him sensible, bang went the shell! and when Pat and I got
up, we found Charley as dead as a mackarel; and dinner, drink, and Pat
Dogherty’s new cloak-case, blown regularly to the divil! No wonder I
hate the whiz of them---- “Well, how do ye find yerself?”

[Illustration: 0411]

“Oh--pretty well; but a confounded dizziness of the head annoys me.”

“Well,--take another drop. Look round, Mark--isn’t that the name ye
answer to? Turn a man or two over, and you’ll find a fresh canteen, for
this one’s empty.”

Indeed, there was no great difficulty in obtaining a liberal supply;
for the hollow that Peter Crotty had selected as uniting safety with
comfort, was thickly studded with dead and dying men: and there was
scarcely a corpse, particularly a Frenchman’s, from which a canteen was
not obtainable.

In the mean time, the roar of battle gradually subsided into a
spattering fire of musketry, interspersed by the booming of heavy guns,
as the horse artillery hung upon the French rear, and cannonaded the
dense masses of broken soldiery who hurried off in the direction of
Salvatierra. But, lightened of their anus, and covered by their cavalry
who still showed a steady front, they reached Metaueo, closely followed;
there night ended the pursuit, and the victors and the vanquished
claimed that season for repose which previous fatigue had rendered so
desirable to both.

There is no defeat on record, in which a beaten army lost so much and
lost so little, contradictory as the statement may appear. The
whole _materiel_ of war, the entire park of artillery, with stores,
ammunition, trophies, treasure, and the most enormous collection of
plunder that ever an invading army attempted to carry from the country
it had for years despoiled, fell into the hands of the victors, or
rather into those of the degraded wretches who followed them,--while in
men the French loss scarcely exceeded that of the conquerors.

Before we had been an hour on the field, we were picked up, stowed
away in a French calech, from which a _danseuse_ on King Joseph’s
establishment had been ejected--and carried through the wreck of the
enemy’s plunder and military stores, into a city it had only vacated
at midday. Mr. Crotty’s wound was not very important, as the ball had
passed clean through the thigh, and the hemorrhage been stopped by
a proper ligature. Mine was a more serious accident, and gave me
considerable annoyance for several weeks after it occurred. It is true
that I had much reason to be thankful, if I would only put faith in the
report of my medical attendant; for he demonstrated, clear as an axiom,
that had the ball struck me the eighteenth part of an inch in “fuller
front,” it would have popped through the “os frontis” to a moral, and I
should have been then “past praying for.”

Three weeks elapsed--the painful effects occasioned by the contusion
gradually subsided, and within a month I was perfectly convalescent. As
to Peter Crotty, his disabled member was speedily restored--and, at the
end of a fortnight, he could have danced the _pater-o-pee_. One thing
occasioned some surprise. Lord ‘Wellington, in the excitement of his
victory, forgot to make personal inquiries after his old partner’s state
of health,--and although his hospitality embraced the _elite_ of his
prisoners, and even the captured ladies were guests at his table during
his brief sojourn at Vittoria, by some unaccountable oversight, a cover
for Peter Crotty was forgotten--and if an invitation had been sent him
for a quiet rubber at head quarters, unfortunately, it never reached its
destination. Crotty, however, ascribed this apparent forgetfulness to
its true cause--a press of business--and on one occasion, when we nearly
ran against his lordship in the street, Peter bolted round the corner,
feeling, very properly, that greetings in the market-place consumed
valuable time, and between old friends were quite unnecessary.

The subsequent operations after the victory of the 21st of June, though
not very important in themselves, proved the forerunners of great
events. Soult came from Germany, by Napoleon’s order, to assume the
chief command and rally the beaten armies. Joseph Buonaparte’s royal
puppetism ended, and he retired into France--and Wellington followed
up his victory by advancing to the Pyrenees, blockading Pampeluna, and
regularly investing San Sebastian.

At Vittoria the mixed character of which an army is composed, was
strikingly exhibited. Never, in the history of modern warfare, did
defeat tempt the cupidity of the soldier with more extensive or more
valuable booty,--and, to use the words of the historian, “the fighting
troops marched upon gold and silver without stooping to pick it up.”
 But to others, the display of wealth was too trying for their moral
endurance to withstand--the onward step of victory was stayed for filthy
plunder, and, to the eternal disgrace of the delinquents, it was
known that some officers, forgetting caste and honour, shared in “the
disgraceful gain.” The evil consequences were so mischievous, as in some
degree to paralyse the subsequent operations, and rob Vittoria of what
would have otherwise been its grand results. The soldiers, instead of
preparing food, and resting themselves after the battle, dispersed in
the night to plunder, and were so fatigued, that when the rain came on
next day, they were incapable of marching, and the allied army had more
stragglers than the beaten one. Eighteen days after the Victory, twelve
thousand five hundred men, chiefly British, were absent, most of them
marauding in the mountains. *

     * Wellington Despatches.

No wonder, then, that the promptest means were used to thin the
hospitals of the sick and wounded, and forward the convalescent to their
regiments. Peter Crotty had been declared “ready for action and with
some fifty privates and non-commissioned officers pronounced food for
gunpowder” again. I determined to keep him company,--and on the morning
of the 18th of July, we quitted Vittoria, a month after we had entered
it, and took the route to rejoin the fourth division in the Pyrenees. We
reached Leyra on the 22d, and then learned that San Sebastian had been
sufficiently battered to warrant an assault--and, as it was generally
believed, the attempt would be made next day.

Here was a noble opening for young ambition. Within a sharp ride of a
beleaguered city--and it, too, on the very point of being carried by
assault! Why, my father was a very prophet--and the glorious contingency
he had only regarded with the eye of hope, was absolutely thrown by
fortune in my way. I was also a free agent--and while Peter Crotty, “a
man under authority,” of necessity, headed towards the mountains with
“his charge of foot,” I had only to turn to the sea--and if I pleased,
gain laurels in the breach, or there get “a quietus.” I consulted the
fosterer--and he at once declared that it would not only be shameful but
sinful, to let slip an opportunity of the kind, “for the Lord only knew
when such luck would fall in our way again!”

Peter Crotty was taken into the number of our counsellors--and he
confirmed Mark Antony’s reasoning to the very letter--accompanied by a
long jeremiade at being prohibited by duty from engaging in an agreeable
excursion. He, Peter, would never forget Badajoz--Lord! what fun there
was after it--he did not particularise the fun that was _at_ it, nor
detail the pleasant accompaniments of men being blown up by the company.
He, Peter, had been wounded, and resided afterwards at a widow’s
house--a friendlier little woman he never met with,--she was better to
him than a bad step-mother--they went regularly to mass--and he, Peter,
was happy as the day was long. Indeed, he had great doubts about the
propriety of marrying her at once--but her husband, not having “gone to
glory,” but to Mexico, although he had not written for six months,
still the devil, meaning the husband aforesaid--might be alive after
all.--“Oh! blessed Mary 1 what fun you’ll have!” concluded Peter. “You
may rob a church, murder a bishop, and bad luck to the inquiry, good nor
bad, afterwards.”

Pleasure thus unexpectedly presented, and accompanied with such
brilliant advantages, was not to be declined; and as I had recovered my
lost horse, and procured a stout mule for the fosterer, we took the
road to glory--namely, the cross one running through Gozueta to San
Sebastian.

The defeat at Vittoria rendered the maintenance of this ancient fortress
an object of great importance to the French. Hitherto the place had been
greatly neglected, and even a part of its artillery removed. Instant
orders, however, were issued by Joseph Buonaparte to restore the works,
replace the guns, and render it, as far as possible, defensible. A
garrison under General Key was hastily thrown in--and that of Gueteria,
after blowing up that place, reinforced it--stores and provisions were
sent by sea from France--whither, also, an enormous influx of Spanish
and French refugees, who had sought safety in the city, were directed
to repair--and with a brave garrison--and better still--a determined
governor, San Sebastian prepared, by a vigorous and, as it was expected,
a successful defence, to emulate those of Rodrigo, Badajoz, and Burgos,
which had conferred so much honour on their respective commandants.

The investing army, amounting to about ten thousand men, was composed
chiefly of the fifth division, and two Portuguese brigades,--General
Graham commanded in chief--General Oswald _en second_--and Colonel
Dickson directed the siege artillery, amounting to forty pieces of
different descriptions, but all of heavy calibre.

On the night of the 10th, operations actively commenced. On the morning
of the 17th, a strong outwork called San Bartolomeo, with the adjacent
suburb of San Martin, were carried by assault--and on the 20th, the
whole of the batteries commenced breaching at once, without having
first ruined the defences--a departure from established practice which
afterwards occasioned a galling failure, attended with a hewy loss of
gallant men.

It was the evening of the 23d, when I and my foster brother topped a
rising ground, which commanded a more immediate view of the beleaguered
city, and the investing army which encompassed it. For fifteen miles the
booming of hewy artillery gave us full assurance, that, if our intent
was “up to the breach!” we were still in excellent time. The thunder of
the British batteries seemed to redouble as we neared the fortress--and
while the fire of the besieged was slack and feeble, compared with
that of the assailants; the roar from the Chofre batteries was
continuous--and the practice so beautiful and correct, that a new breach
on the right of the main one, had been formed by that day’s fire, and
the wall for thirty yards exhibited a perfect ruin.

It was a sight which, suddenly presented to an eye inexperienced in the
“circumstance of war,” would never fade from memory. The sun was nearly
setting--but there was no lack of light to induce the besiegers
to silence the fire of their guns. The mortar battery, erected the
preceding day to destroy the defences, and ruin a stockade which
insulated the high curtain on the land front, had set the houses in the
immediate vicinity of the great breach in flames; and, as they spread
rapidly, the safety of the town from that wild element appeared as much
endangered, as from the impending outburst of human violence. Although
in immediate expectation of the assault, this calamity did not abate
the confidence of the gallant old man who commanded; but for a day,
and under an erroneous belief that the burning houses would isolate the
breach if carried, the fearful trial was postponed. All was ready to
deliver the assault--the storming parties were in the trenches--but on
the morning, the fire still raged with such unconquered violence, that
it was dreaded it would prove as formidable to the assailants, as it had
been found embarrassing to the assailed--and consequently the storm
was delayed, a circumstance, it was said, that abated the ardour of
the troops, and tended much to produce the unfortunate failure which
occurred next morning.

That awful pause--the day of the 24th, was not like the calm which
precedes the tempest. The batteries on the Chofre sand-hills opened
again, and a whirlwind of heavy shot enlarged the ruins at the breaches,
and, as it was hoped, injured the defences materially. The fire of the
garrison was nearly silenced--and while the means of aggression
were evidently reduced, they laboured diligently to render those of
resistance formidable and efficient. A cavalier that commanded the
curtain was armed with field pieces--and every point, whether of the
castle or the hill, which looked upon the breach or its approaches, was
furnished with heavier artillery. The _fausse brave_ beneath which
the storming parties must advance, was lined with shells and other
destructive missiles, to be rolled down upon the assailants as they
advanced along its base--while every house within musket range was
loop-holed, and the breach carefully retrenched; but even had it been
crowned successfully, still a sheer descent of fifteen feet remained
before the assailants could reach a street composed entirely of burning
houses.

In war, there are wonderful accidents which lead frequently to failure
or defeat--and from fortuitous circumstances, great results arise. In
carrying a parallel across the Isthmus to reach the land defences, the
working party broke through the water-course of a ruined aqueduct.
An engineer boldly crept into the dark and narrow drain--explored it
carefully--and at the end of two hundred and thirty yards, found himself
separated from the counterscarp only by a door, and directly in face of
the right demi-bastion of the horn-work. Here fortune had befriended
the besiegers, and supplied them with an admirable mine. The engineers
formed a globe of compression at the extremity, and loaded it with
an enormous charge of powder--and though this dangerous operation was
effected under the feet of the French sentries, none took alarm, and the
work was silently and effectually completed.

The plan of attack was to assault the greater and lesser breaches
together, when the spring of the mine, formed in the head of the
aqueduct, should give the signal. It was expected that the explosion
there would fill the ditch of the horn-work with rubbish--and in the
confusion and surprise, the Portuguese might possibly escalade at that
point, and effect a lodgement in the place. The Royals were directed
against the great breach, supported by the ninth regiment--and the
thirty-eighth were ordered to carry the smaller one. An _elite_
detachment, formed of the three light companies of these regiments,
attended by an engineer and ladder party, were designed to have
escaladed the high curtain, while the breaches were assaulted, and clear
the enemy from it with the bayonet; and to this party, Mark Antony and I
attached ourselves.

Soon after midnight, the storming parties with the columns of attack
entered the trenches--and within three hundred yards of the breaches,
waited impatiently for sun-rise, when it had been arranged that the
assault was to be given.

There is no use in concealing it--that interval of two hours was the
most anxious passage of my history. I felt that, as it on the hazard
of a die, life or death depended. Darkness and silence prevailed--the
latter only broken by the thunder of the breaching batteries, which
were kept in full play upon the breaches and defences. Many an anxious
inquiry was made to know “how time went,”--many an eager look was cast
eastward to watch for early dawn--but hundreds were fated never to
witness the rising of another sun. While it was still dark, the globe of
compression formed in the head of the aqueduct was fired. The storming
parties rushed forward from the trenches--and the work of death began.

The explosion of the mine was unfortunately not heard at the Chofre
batteries, and the guns, instead of ceasing, continued in full play upon
the place. Hence, the assailants as they advanced, were scourged by a
double fire, and suffered more from the grape of their own batteries
than the enemy’s cannonade. The narrow slip of ground by which the
stormers approached the breaches, contracted between the river on
one side, and the retaining wall of the horn-work on the other, was
embarrassed with rocks and pools of water, and consequently, the
movement of the column became disorderly. Under a withering fire, the
breach was gained--up flew the leading officers--a few gallant soldiers
followed--but the supports moved slowly--the troops came straggling to
the breach--and instead of mounting to the assistance of the gallant few
who had already crowned the ruins, the greater portion of the assailants
stopped at the bottom, and interchanged musketry with the French who
lined the ramparts, and kept up a deadly fusilade on the disordered mass
below. The towers of Los Hornos and Mesquitas opened a hewy flanking
fire; and from the St. Elmo and the Mirador, grape fell in torrents
upon the broken column--the Castle threw shells with great
precision--grenades were flung from the ramparts--a stream of fire
issued from the loop-holed houses--while flames raging behind the
breach, seemed to forbid approach, even had offensive means been
unemployed.

Still though the men fell by fifties, their officers endeavoured to
rally them and crown the breach anew; but every moment the chances of
success became more desperate. The regiments got intermixed, and that
terrible confusion of troops mobbed in a narrow space between the breach
and the Urumea, became irretrievable. At that moment the remnant of our
light companies pushed through the disordered column, and Campbell, its
chivalrous leader, followed by a daring few, gained the summit. Mid-way
up, my foster-brother fell--while I, with a dozen or two, a second
time reached the rampart. We held it but a moment. Under the storm of
musketry all went down; and there were but two or three standing, when a
bullet stretched me beside those with whom “life had ended.”

It was the final effort; the remnant of the assailants hurried off, the
regiments mobbed together, to seek shelter in the trenches; marking,
unhappily and too plainly, the lines of the advance and retreat with the
bodies of the dead and dying. The French fire ceased; and although the
British batteries opened with redoubled violence on the enemy’s defences
to cover the retirement of the shattered columns, several of the gallant
defenders of the breach braved the storm, to remove the wounded within
the town, and save them from the indiscriminating destruction which the
British artillery poured alike on friend and foe.

For a minute I was unconscious of what was passing; and when memory
returned, I was in the act of being turned over by a French soldier, who
found, that from hwing fallen on my face, my present position was not
exactly favourable for his intended operations. I looked wildly round;
several men in blue uniforms were examining the fallen soldiers, who
lay thickly on the summit of the breach as lewes in autumn. Different
objects influenced the examination: some were seeking plunder--others,
on a nobler errand, were separating the wounded from the dead, to remove
the former out of fire, and obtain for them surgical assistance. As the
grenadier rolled me over, an officer stepped forward and inquired if I
were “living or dead?” The voice was perfectly familiar; with my cuff I
wiped away the blood, which, trickling from my forehead, had partially
prevented me from looking at the speaker before. “Is that Cammaran?” I
muttered, as I caught a glance of his well-remembered features.

[Illustration: 0418]

“Ha!” exclaimed the Frenchman,--“‘my name! Sacre!--who have we here?
Baise his head, Antoine. By heaven!--the very man on earth I would shed
my heart’s blood to save!” Next moment he was kneeling at my side--and
held me gently in his arms, until I was lifted by four soldiers from the
ground, and removed carefully from the breach and out of the range of
fire.

“Are you much hurt, my friend?” inquired the gallant Frenchman. “And
where is your companion, my brave deliverer?”

“Alas!” I replied, “I fear that he is lost to me. He fell half way up
the breach--and--”

‘Ere my reply was given, Cammaran, after directing the party to bear
me to a neighbouring church which the French had converted into an
hospital, rushed to the breach again. Calling on a soldier to follow,
he descended the ruins of the broken wall, and, among a heap of dead and
dying, commenced looking for the object of his search. It was a daring,
an almost desperate attempt; for, irritated at the failure of the
storming parties, every gun in battery was madly turned against the
breach and curtain, and showers of round and grape-shot splintered
against the unbroken masonry, or knocked the rubbish wildly about,
occasioning double danger to all within its reach. Undismayed, the
gallant Frenchman persevered; and to his unfeigned delight, in a man who
had raised himself upon one elbow and was gazing despondingly around, he
recognised the person he risked so much danger to discover--his former
camarado--the fosterer.

With the assistance of the grenadier who accompanied him, Mark Antony
was carried safely from the breach; and in a few minutes after my
wounds had been carefully dressed, I had the happiness to find my foster
brother placed on a mattress beside my own, and hear the French surgeon,
on a hasty examination, announce to Captain Cammaran the gratifying
intelligence, that Mark Antony was “not past praying for” yet, but, with
moderate good luck, might still survive, to do “the state some service,”
 and figure in another breach.



CHAPTER XL. CAPTIVITY.



               “Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;

               Their tongues prefer strange orisons on high;

               Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies;

               The shouts are France, Spain, Albion--Victory!”

                        Childe Harold.

|Day broke through the stained windows of the church; and the cannonade,
so fierce and incessant when I was being carried from the breach, died
suddenly away and not a gun was heard. I inquired what might have caused
this extraordinary silence, and learned from an hospital-assistant that
an hour’s truce had been agreed on between the besiegers and besieged,
to permit the wounded to be succoured, and allow helpless wretches who
would otherwise have been drowned by the rising of the Urumea, to
be carried beyond the influence of the tide, and taken either to the
trenches or the town. On this work of mercy Cammaran was absent; and, as
Mark Antony and myself were sufficiently recovered to converse, we
began to make mutual inquiries touching our present position and future
prospects.

“Upon my conscience,” observed the fosterer, “now that we have made the
experiment, I can’t say that I can either discover the advantages your
honoured father held out by letter, or the fun Mr. Crotty described by
‘word of mouth,’ as attendin’ these same sieges and assaults. To my
mind Vittoria was the thing;--beautiful day-light;--your enemy decently
before ye--if a man dropped, his comrades stepped over him as if they
were treading upon eggs, and he was removed to the rear with every
civility, to find a full flask on every body he turned over, if he only
had the luck to be settled in a decent neighbourhood. Here--if this be
fun, may the Lord deliver us from such fun in future! We are stuck down
for two hours shivering in a ditch. Whiz! goes a mine--‘That’s our
mine, and the signal,’ says one engineer--‘The divil welcome the news!’
says a second--and off we go blundering in the dark, the Lord knows
where. Before we’re well in motion, bang goes another explosion! ‘That’s
the enemy’s says another--and not a doubt about that, for up go the
forlorn hope, body and bones. ‘Push on, lads,’ cry the officers;--one
falls over a d-----d rock, another souses into a pool of water; on one
side the French are firing like the divil--on the other, and I suppose,
out of personal respect, our own batteries consider it a compliment to
knock us over by the dozen. Well, we top the breach at last--and a
beautiful prospect it is!--In front, a jump of twenty feet into a
blazing house, or you’r shot down right and left, like crows in a
wheatfield. “Arrah!” said Mark Antony, “if your father wrote every day
in the week, not forgettin’ Sunday, the divil a such a night of pleasure
will I put in if I can help it. But, Mister Hector, what do ye suppose
they’ll do with us?”

“Why, possibly, keep us here for half our lives, and send us into France
to put in the remainder of them pleasantly.”

“Ah, then, if they do,” said the fosterer, “they’r cuter * than they
think. By all that’s beautiful!” and Mark flourished his sounder arm
over the blanket,--“I’ll be off in a fortnight.”

     Anglice,--more cunning.

“No, not so soon,” said a voice--laughingly; and Cammaran stepped from
behind a wooden screen which had hidden him while approaching. At the
same moment a salvo of artillery thundered from the Chofre battery--the
guns of San Sebastian replied. The truce had expired--and the game of
death had recommenced.

“So end civilities,” said the Frenchman; “still it is comfortable to
know, that the calls of humanity have been attended to. I have applied
for what you call in England ‘a billet’--that is, the commandant’s
permission to reside during your convalesence in a private house,
instead of being exposed, as you would be otherwise, to the
inconvenience of a crowded hospital. For this indulgence I have given my
_parole_, and that leaves you at liberty to visit any part of the city
within the _enceinte_ of the place when you are able to walk abroad.
I know that my good friend here, even if leg and arm were not _hors
de combat_ as they are, would scarcely run away, when that act would
compromise my honour.”

“Oh--by this book;” exclaimed the fosterer, raising himself upon his
elbow--“we’re fairly ruined, Hector _avourneeine!_ Here we’re regularly
on the langle. Arrah--Mister Cammaran, dear, I know ye meant it for the
best--but, why the divil did ye make a bargain of the kind? De ye
think ye could get dacently out of it? Och--if we were only back in
the country we were in, when we first became acquainted with that
Empecinado, as they call him--it was no sayin’ what luck might turn up
still. This moment, going to be hanged--the next, drinking as if ye were
at a priest’s funeral. ‘Turn him out to be shot,’ was the order one
minute--while, ‘turn him for brandy and water,’ was the next. One minute
you wern’t master of a _scultogue_--the next ye were riding in the
saddle of a French marshal. Of all the inns I ever stopped at, I never
met any where they pay scores as they do in Spain. You go to bed in
peace and quietness, and you’re bundled out before you’re well asleep,
to be told, that you must light your way through a yard-full of hussars,
and swim a river afterwards that would give a water-dog rheumatism for
life. You stop at the next public house, and receive all manner of
civility. Of course, you’re expected to pay up. Not at all: one black
look from an ill-visaged gentleman who accompanies you; and the account
is rubbed off the slate in a jiffy. Excepting there was over much
shooting and hanging--a pleasanter excursion I never would desire--but,
may the Lord forgive us! we were not sufficiently thankful at the time.”

“Well,--my dear friend,” said Captain Cammaran, with a smile. “My
engagement is only binding while you are invalided. When perfectly
recovered, my parole is easily recalled--and I have no doubt you will
be very comfortable in La Mota. Plenty of fresh air--and free liberty to
seek any corner you may fancy, as the least unlikely for a shell to
drop upon. In the mean time, I recommend you to accept the billet I have
obtained--and by the way, in the house of a Spaniard in worse odour with
the old commandant than Don Francisco La Pablos, you could hardly have
been established. But I have already ordered apartments to be prepared,
and will see that every attention shall be paid to you. This place will
be presently intolerable, and the sooner you remove to your new quarters
all the better.”

The last remark was unhappily correct. The church filled rapidly with
the wounded. Every minute fresh sufferers were brought in--and the
scene of butchery--merciful and necessary--which commenced, was to us,
particularly disgusting. It was wonderful how differently men submitted
to sad alternatives,--death or amputation. One, an officer of faultless
symmetry, sternly rejected the advice of his kind attendants. “Nothing
but the removal of the fractured limb can save you--you will die,
otherwise,” said the French surgeon. “Well--be it so,” returned the
sufferer calmly, “death is preferable to deformity. Lose no time with
me--you may be serviceable to my poor comrade.” Immediately beside him,
a young lad was stretched--I should say he was not nineteen---a
fine, florid, healthy looking Englishman. His wound had been a severe
contusion--and a passing observation of the French surgeons, announced
that his was a hopeless case. And yet, death visited him in mercy. He
appeared to undergo no pain--and in fancy, conversed with a “darling
mother” and his “little sister,” as he termed them--babbled about green
fields and expired with a smile upon his lips, under the firm belief
that he had returned to the home he loved, and was re-united to those
dear objects whom he idolized.

I never felt myself more relieved, than when a French fatigue-party
came, to remove, me on a stretcher. Weak from loss of blood--dispirited
at the painful recollection that I was now about to undergo
imprisonment, to whose duration none could name the limit--every thing
around was calculated to increase those feelings of despondency. The
gloomy building seemed desecrated by the purposes it had been turned
to--and where the faithful had worshipped, the penitent had told the
tale of sin and shame, and been forgiven--where love had been hallowed
by holy rite, and supplications for the soul’s weal of the departed
had arisen--in that the temple of peace, war’s horrid consequences were
exhibited--and, in all the terrible variety which attends on death by
violence, many a spirit was escaping from its mortal coil.

The house where I was about to take up my residence was situated
close to the harbour, and, being at a distance from the breaches, was
consequently, out of the fire of the besiegers. As we passed through the
streets, I could not but remark the melancholy and deserted appearance
that all around presented. The shops were unopened--the private
dwellings jealously closed up--and the terrified inhabitants seemed not
yet satisfied that the assault had failed, and danger was over for the
present. When we reached the domicile of La Pablos, we found that
our arrival had been duly announced. We were admitted into a narrow
court-yard--and at the door of his mansion, the owner was waiting to
receive us.

The appearance of my future host was not particularly prepossessing.
Although stricken in years, his carriage was lofty and unbroken--and the
expression of his countenance seemed that of a proud and daring spirit,
obliged to bend for a time to circumstances, and stoop to a thraldom
from which it secretly recoiled.

The Spaniard showed the way in--and I was placed on a comfortable bed,
in an apartment very clean, but very plainly furnished. At the opposite
side of the hall, a room had been provided for Mark Antony--for whose
transit to these his new quarters, after I had been safely deposited,
the stretcher and fatigue party were despatched.

“I will send you some linen--and that is more than many of our people
could afford. In turn of duty, the escort of the convoy which marched
for France on the 19th fell to my lot--and bitterly I lamented that
I was not fated to witness the defeat, which we all considered as so
certainly attendant on Lord Wellington’s advance upon Vittoria. The
thing seems incomprehensible--and even yet we regard the king’s disaster
almost as a dream. Well--let it pass--_c’est fortune de guerre_. The
Emperor’s lieutenant is in the Pyrenees--and now, my Lord Wellington,
look sharp!”

“Might not that cautionary hint, my dear Cammaran, be equally
serviceable to your friend, the Duke of Dalmatia?” I replied, with a
smile.

“No--no. From secret intelligence which has reached the fortress, a
very few days will end your leader’s visionary prospects. What! enter
France--carry the war over the frontier, and pollute the sacred soil!
The thunderbolt is charged--and the hand is already present that will
hurl it. But I must go. Duty will engage me the whole day, but in the
evening I will visit you.”--Then turning to our host, Cammaran commended
me and my companion to his especial attention.

“Let nothing in this case be wanted, Senhor--you stand already not
very favourably with the Governor. Adieu, for a time, my friend”--and
pressing my hand, the Frenchman took his departure.

I never saw a countenance on which scorn, hatred, and revenge, seemed
struggling for mastery, until I noticed that of Don Francisco. When
the door of the court-yard closed, he poured forth a torrent of
anathemas--then turning to me, his features instantly relaxed--and
approaching my couch he took my hand in his.

“Stranger, you are welcome. The name of Englishman I respect--and the
Spaniard is an ingrate who does not. If my manner in receiving you was
not as warm as it might have been, ascribe it to the true cause--the
pestilential presence of yonder foreigner. The sight of these insolent
oppressors turns my blood to gall--their very language is discord to my
ears--I hate them with all a Spaniard’s hatred. But why display impotent
rage in words?--‘Tis womanly--yet still, while the hand dares not
strike a blow, the tongue finds some relief in venting the feelings of a
surcharged breast--a maddened brain--in curses.”

I looked at La Pablos. His features were convulsed with passion. I had
heard that many severities had been exercised by the French during the
Peninsular conflict--and I concluded that Don Francisco had been one
of the unhappy Spaniards who had suffered from the oppression of
the invaders. The arrival of the fosterer, for that time, ended our
conversation--the host quitting me to attend to this his second guest,
and minister to the wants of Mark Antony.

Four days passed away--I had sufficiently recovered to be enabled to
leave my room; and, leaning on the arm of a French soldier, who was
daily in attendance on me by a special order from the Governor, I walked
for a short distance every morning on the ramparts which overlooked the
bay. My wound, though severe at the time that I received it, was one
that healed rapidly--the bullet having slanted from the rib it struck
against, and instead of taking what would have been otherwise a mortal
direction, it inflicted a painful, but fortunately what proved a
superficial injury, The fosterer was also convalescent--the ball had
passed through his thigh without injuring the bone in its transit--his
arm healed rapidly--and in a few days more the learned leach who
attended us, announced that Mark Antony would be, as the fosterer termed
it himself, “right upon his pins again.”

So far we had reason for self-gratulation--and as far as kindness from
the host, and constant attentions on the part of Cammaran would go,
we had no reason to complain of our captivity. But other circumstances
allayed the satisfaction we should otherwise have felt--for every day
the prospect of deliverance became more distant, and matters assumed a
gloomier aspect.

Lord Wellington, on hearing of the miscarriage at San Sebastian, came
down from the covering army to ascertain the causes of the failure, and,
as it was reported, to adopt immediate means to remedy the disaster, and
make himself master of the place. But, alas! our hopes that the speedy
capture of the city would restore us to liberty again, ended on the
morning of the 27th. Overnight, the batteries had been disarmed and
the guns removed to Passages--the siege was turned into a blockade--and
taking advantage of the confusion, the garrison sallied from the
horn-work, surprised the soldiers in the trenches, and carried back more
than two hundred prisoners. Rumour also was busy on the wing. It was
said that Soult had already taken the offensive--that the allied forces
in advance, had been attacked, defeated, and driven back--and an order,
directing Sir Thomas Graham to march on the Bidassoa with all his
disposable troops, confirmed the unwelcome news.

The intelligence that Napoleon’s lieutenant had actually commenced
operations to relieve Pampeluna and San Sebastian, and afterwards
celebrate his maker’s birth-day in Vittoria, was perfectly correct.
On the same morning and hour, while we had made our sanguinary and
unsuccessful attempt upon the fortress, Soult commenced his daring
operations, by driving in the pickets and scaling the pass of Altobisco.

Although desperately outnumbered, the allies held their mountain
position most obstinately--and for hours the combat raged with unabated
fury, among wild and Alpine heights five thousand feet above the level
of the sea. This protracted defence allowed time for others of the
allied brigades to come, while a dense fog prevented the French
marshal from executing the general attack he intended to have made with
overwhelming numbers. Cole held his position with comparatively little
loss--and when night came, finding his right turned at Orbaiceta, he
cleverly retreated during the darkness, carrying ten thousand men safely
through mountain passes, which rendered a regressive movement in
the face of thirty thousand French bayonets a delicate and dangerous
attempt. The position of Roncesvalles was consequently abandoned--and
the first great effort from which Soult had expected far different
results, left him with the allied brigades still like lions in the
passes, and seven leagues of Alpine country interposed between him and
Pampeluna, the grand object of his operations.

On the morning of the 26th, the French marshal resumed the offensive.
A day of occasional combats and severe marching, while the English
generals slowly and steadily fell back, produced no greater results
than those attendant upon yesterday. Night came--and Soult, with altered
convictions as to the probability of eventual success, waited for
morning to try his fortunes in the field anew.

The third trial was certainly more propitious. The Aretesque and Maya
passes were attacked in great force, and, aided by a partial
surprise, the French were enabled to drive the pickets back upon their
supports,--and eventually, but after the most desperate fighting, the
allied position was won. Four Portuguese guns were captured--and the
French, elevated by this success, pressed the reduced battalions, who
still retired, but slowly and sullenly, blocking up each ridge or pass
they defended with the bodies of the dead and dying. At six o’clock,
completely worn out with fatigue, their numbers reduced to a third,
their ammunition almost expended, the rocky heights of Atchiola were
about to be abandoned--but at the moment, a brigade of the seventh
division came opportunely up--the battle was sternly renewed, and the
French forced to retire from the disputed mountain, and occupy the pass
of Maya which they had won so dearly. In these sanguinary and protracted
combats, Soult, with an expenditure of fifteen hundred men, gained a few
miles of mountain and four disabled guns--a miserable trophy for such a
waste of blood.

Nothing could surpass the triumph of the garrison when the intelligence
of the marshal’s advance was confirmed--and the affairs of these three
days mountain warfare were grossly mistated. Roncesvalles and Linzoain
were described as brilliant actions--glorious to the arms of France;
while Maya was exaggerated into a crowning victory.

But the hours of Soult’s temporary success were numbered. On his return
from San Sebastian, Wellington heard of the French attack on the evening
of the 27th, and hurrying forward to San Estevan, which he reached the
morning of the 28th--there ascertained the true position of affairs.
His plans were formed with his accustomed rapidity and decision--and
he determined to concentrate in front of Pampeluna, and retreat by the
valley of the Lanz.

In the meantime, the fortress profiting by the cessation of the
investment, received ample supplies of stores and ammunition by sea
from France, and in return transmitted back the sick and wounded,
thus getting relieved of the most troublesome incumbrance with which
a beleaguered city is incommoded. New defences were planned
and executed--former damages repaired--the works were generally
strengthened--the magazines stored with powder and provisions--and
San Sebastian was, in this interval, rendered stronger than when the
besiegers first broke ground.

All these events to me held out a melancholy prospect. It was already
intimated that on the first favourable opportunity the prisoners would
be forwarded to France--and in that case, captivity and the war would
be coeval. A yearning after home momentarily increased. Isidora was ever
present--and I cursed the hour that, for the bauble, fame, I had quitted
the land of liberty and love. Mark Antony bore thraldom even more
impatiently than I. He cursed France, Spain, and Portugal in a
breath--read a letter from the rat-catcher once a day--and another, I
fancy from the lady of his love, “every minute i’ th’ hour.”

“What the devil are we to do, Mark?” I inquired, after we had groaned in
unison until both were weary of complaining.

“Do!” exclaimed the fosterer, “Give the thieves leg-bail, and ‘cut our
lucky’ the first opportunity.”

There was wisdom in Mark Antony’s advice, and I determined to follow it.



CHAPTER XLI. BATTLES OP THE PYRENEES.



               “If I begin the battery once again,

               I will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur,

               Till in her ashes she lie buried.”

                        King Henry V.

|The exultation of the French garrison at the reported victories which
had crowned the efforts of Soult for the relief of Pampeluna was but a
short-lived triumph--for an attempt vauntingly commenced, and certainly
very gallantly carried out, had been signally defeated.

Picton, followed closely by Soult, had retreated through the valley of
the Zuberi before day-break. On nearing Pampeluna, the English general
found that the fourth division had already passed Villalba; the garrison
of Pampeluna had sallied and spiked a battery--the blockading Spaniards
were in terrible confusion--and every thing bore the appearance of
disaster. With a stern hardihood, which formed the best point in
Picton’s military character, he determined at once to turn and offer
battle to the pursuers--and accordingly, formed in battle order upon the
ridges of Miguel, Escova, and Christoval; thus masking the fortress he
came to relieve from Soult’s view as he issued from the valley of the
Zuberi.

The French marshal felt little doubt that the object of his previous
efforts was now about to be realized. Within two leagues of
Pampeluna he followed a retiring army, and in another hour would be in
communication with that fortress. What, then, was his surprise, when
on emerging from the valley, he found the third division and Morillo’s
Spaniards in position on the bold and rocky chain rising in front of
Huarte, and Cole more immediately advanced, in possession of the heights
near Zabaldica which command the Huarte road? Hastily he adopted and
executed a bold movement to form a line of battle; but, while that was
in progress, another and a greater actor appeared suddenly upon the
stage; and when he came, the tide of Soult’s fortune turned, and defeat
followed in his footsteps.

On quitting the Bastan on the 27th, Lord Wellington learned at Ostiz,
that Picton had retired on Pampeluna, and, riding at speed to Sauroren,
he perceived Clausel’s divisions in full march, and with an eagle-glance
discovered from the direction taken by the French columns, that the
allied movement through the Lanz must certainly be intercepted. There
was not a moment to be lost; an order was despatched that the troops
should move bodily by the right towards Oricain, a village nearly in the
rear of the mountain position taken up by Sir Lowry Cole.

In issuing this hurried order, one of war’s romantic incidents occurred.
The despatch was written on the parapet of the bridge; and as the
staff-officer who carried it, rode out of one extremity of the village,
the French cavalry galloped in at the other; while the allied commander
dashed quickly up the hill, and joined the allied troops who held it.
His appearance was sudden, unexpected, and electrical. A Portuguese
battalion raised an exulting cheer--the name of _Wellington!_ passed
from regiment to regiment, accompanied by a thundering huzza; while, by
a strange coincidence, Soult was at the moment so immediately in front,
that the rival commanders were pointed out distinctly to each other. The
evening passed without any striking effort. Soult examined the allied
position under the fire of his light troops--a thunder-storm ended the
skirmish, and both sides determined on a trial of skill and strength
to-morrow.

The 28th, a day ever memorable in peninsular history, found both sides
prepared for action. Soult, intending to crush the left of the fourth
division, and ignorant of the march of the sixth, made dispositions to
enable him to attack Cole’s left and front together, while Reille, at
the same time, should carry the height held by the Spaniards and the
British 40th. The former effort turned out a fatal experiment; and the
blow intended to crush the allied brigade before it could be assisted
met with a tremendous counter-stroke. “Striving to encompass the left
of the allies, the French were themselves encompassed.” Suddenly a
Portuguese brigade appeared upon their right; the sixth division showed
itself as unexpectedly in front; the fourth turned fiercely on their
left; and, scourged at the same time by a front and flanking fire, the
French columns were driven back, men falling fast on both sides; for the
French fought desperately, but in vain.

The struggle for the mountain produced still bloodier combats. A hermita
crowned the height, and the chapel was held by a regiment of Portuguese
Caçadores. Against it a column issued from Sauroren, and, heedless of a
sweeping fire that fell upon it with deadly violence, as in close order
it steadily pushed up the hill, the ridge was crowned, and the Caçadores
obliged to abandon the hermita. But Ross’s brigade were at hand,
and with a headlong charge the heights were cleared, and the chapel
recovered with the bayonet. A second time the French rallied, advanced,
and were repulsed--but other columns were coming into action. The right
flank of Ross’s brigade became exposed--for a Portuguese battalion gave
way--a heavy column of the enemy pressed on, and the British regiments
retired for a time, but was only to return more fiercely to the attack.
“Charge succeeded charge, and each side yielded and recovered by
turns.” At that moment, Byng’s brigade rapidly advanced; while two noble
regiments of Anson’s--the 27th and 48th--rushed from the centre, bore
down everything before them, and the French were literally pushed down
the heights by close and murderous fighting, which Wellington termed
“bludgeon work.” On the hill occupied the 40th and Spaniards, Reille’s
attack had failed for, although the regiment of El Pravia gwe way,
flanked by a Portuguese battalion, the 40th held its ground immovably.
Four times the French topped the height--four times they were pushed
down by the bayonet; each charge heralded by a cheer, and each repulse
bloodier than the preceding one; until, at last, strength and spirit
equally exhausted, they refused to follow their officers and gave up the
trial in despair.

The 29th passed quietly--both sides required rest--and to each some time
was necessary to get their dispersed brigades again together. Not a shot
was interchanged that day; but never did a more ominous tranquillity
forerun the hurricane of war. It was now evident that all idea of
re-entering Spain must be abandoned. The front displayed by
Lord Wellington was not to be forced; and the French cavalry and
artillery--only encumbrances in a mountain-country--were ordered to fall
back and retire to the Bidassao. While waiting for D’Erlon to come up,
Soult received intelligence which induced him to change his original
plans, and he determined to throw himself between the allies and the
valley of the Bastan, thus securing a close communication with the
French frontier, and falling back on his reserves, while, by a bold and
well-combined movement, he might fortunately effect one great object
of his advance into the passes of the Pyrenees,--the relief of San
Sebastian.

Although unhappily non-combatant, still the operations of the contending
armies which, day after day were severely engaged, or placed in the
immediate presence of each other, to us were of absorbing interest. The
first reports that reached the fortress were sadly disheartening; but on
the fourth morning, a striking alteration was visible on the countenance
of our friend Cammaran, when he called to announce “tidings from the
host.” His mercurial temperament, yesterday in the very ascendant of
fever heat, had sank almost to zero, and it was very amusing to observe
the ingenuity with which, while admitting stubborn facts, he still
endeavoured to apply palliatives to his disappointment--

“Ah--sacre! what a country to operate in! Legs were of no use among
those accursed Pyrenees,--men should have wings. What splendid
combinations were those of the Emperor’s lieutenant! Only for broken
roads, ruined bridges, infernal gullies, and inaccessible mountains, the
Duc’s movement would have been a march of victory. He would have been at
Vittoria on the 16th.”

“Pshaw!” I said, breaking in on the detail with a laugh--“He would never
be contented to stop there. Why not push for Madrid at once?”

“Ah, you smile,” my friend replied Cammaran, with a sigh. “But, peste!
the d----d fogs confused the general movements. One division went
astray--another was obliged to halt--columns marching over precipices
could not keep time. Ah! those accidents saved my Lord Wellington; the
delay enabled him to collect his scattered corps, and when the Marshal
cleared those infernal valleys and defiles with scarcely half the _corps
d’armée_ disposable, there--Sacre Dieu! was your general in front of
Pampeluna with all his divisions up and in position!”--

“And honest Jack Soult discovered that all his magnificent combinations
and previous success, had ended in his catching a Tartar!--Ah! Cammaran,
I feel for you, my poor friend. But out with it at once--or I’ll
compassionately do it for you. The upshot is, you have got a confounded
thrashing”--

“No--no--no;” exclaimed the Voltigeur. “The plan of operations is only
changed--”

“And the Emperor’s lieutenant has postponed the birth-day entertainment;
and, in place of resting on the Zodorra, he will be over the Bidassao in
a day or two. Well, I can feel for you. But custom reconciles people to
contingencies; and latterly you have been so regularly beaten that it is
a novelty no longer.”

The Voltigeur smiled, shrugged his shoulders, pleaded duty in excuse
for a brief visit, and hurried away--I suspect to avoid my _badinage_,
which, at the time, was anything but agreeable.

Indeed, judging from the scanty information I received, the deductions
I had drawn of ulterior consequences proved correct. As yet the French
Marshal had only witnessed the complete miscarriage of all he had
designed and hoped for: but now, the penalty of the failure was about to
be exacted.

In pursuance of his altered plans, on entering the valley of Ulzema,
where he overtook D’Erlon, who had already reached it at the head of
five divisions, and with a sixth (Martinier’s) in his rear, the French.
Marshal instantly determined to crush the corps under Sir Rowland Hill
posted on the ridge of Buenza. All was in his favour--the allies
were scarcely half his strength, and the left of their position was
vulnerable. The attack was fiercely made, as fiercely repulsed, and
every effort against the allied flanks was unsuccessful. Finally,
numbers enabled the French marshal to turn the position: but Hill
steadily retired on Equaros, and there, joined by Campbell’s Portuguese
brigade and Morillo’s Spaniards, he again boldly stood his ground and
offered battle. But Soult declined an action--and, contented with
having gained the Isurzun road, he determined to force his way to San
Sebastian; but it was decreed that, like Pampeluna, the fortress on the
Urumea should be abandoned to its fate.

Wellington had penetrated the designs of his able opponent, and, with
characteristic decision, prepared to meet them with a counterstroke.
With him, to decide and execute were synonymous; and in the second
conflict at Sauroren, the intended blow was hewily delivered. It will
be enough to say that, in the conflicts which ensued, the French were
completely beaten. On the allied side the loss of men was heavy in
killed and wounded, amounting to eighteen hundred. On the French it
was enormous--two divisions--those of Maucune and Couroux were almost
destroyed--the general disorganization was complete--Foy cut off from
the main body altogether--three-thousand men were prisoners--and nearly
as many more rendered _hors de combat_. It was not the severe losses he
had sustained which alone embarrassed the French commander. The allies
everywhere were gathering around him in strength--his troops were
overmarched and dispirited--his position untenable--all idea of
advancing on San Sebastian abandoned--and the only door open for retreat
was to gain the pass of Dona Maria, and by forced marches fall back on
San Estevan. Accordingly, at midnight, his troops were put in motion to
reach this dangerous defile, and thence, by ascending or descending the
Bidassao, regain the French frontier. How painful this retrogressive
movement must have been, may well be fancied. Now “the leader of a
broken host,” and smarting the more keenly from defeat, because he had
too presumptuously affirmed a certainty of success, and assured his
troops of victory.

Nothing could be more critical than Soult’s position; and while
Wellington supposed that he intended entering the Bastan by the pass of
Villate, the French marshal was too close to Buenza to hazard a retreat
by the valley of the Lanz. Indeed, his situation was so dangerous, that
a less determined commander might have despaired. His only means of
egress from these mountains was by a long and perilous defile leading
to an Alpine bridge, and both were overlooked by towering precipices;
while, from holding a shorter and easier line of march, the chances were
considerable that Wellington would anticipate his movements, and reach
Elizondo--Graham seize Yanzi before he could arrive there--Hill fall
on his flanks and rear, if obliged, as he should be in these events, to
take the route of Zagaramundi--and, in the end, even if he fought his
way to Urdax, he might find that position preoccupied, and his retreat
finally intercepted. Fortune averted the great calamity; but still
safety was to be purchased at a heavy sacrifice.

As he had dreaded, Soult’s rear-guard was overtaken near Lizasso--was
attacked--defeated--and saved only by a fog which opportunely covered a
hurried retreat. At Elizondo a large convoy with its guard was captured;
but the crowning misfortune was impending, when, ignorant of Lord
Wellington’s proximity, Soult halted in the valley of San Estevan.
Behind the ridges which overlook the town four allied divisions were
halted--the seventh held the mountain of Dona Maria--the light, with a
Spanish division, were in hasty march to seize the passes at Vera and
Echallar.--Byng had reached Maya, and Hill was moving on Almandon. Every
arrangement to enclose the retreating army was complete, and never, in
military calculations, was the destruction of an enemy more certain,
than that which awaited Soult. Unconscious of his danger, the French
marshal gave no indications of alarm. With him, there was no appearances
to excite suspicion,--no watch-fire indicated the presence of an
enemy--no scouting-party was seen upon the heights. Two hours more, and
the fate of the Emperor’s lieutenant would have been sealed, when one
of those trifling incidents occurred, which in war will render the most
studied and scientific efforts unwailing, and extricate from perilous
results, those who have dared too much, but to whom despair is happily
a stranger. Possibly, in the varied fortunes of a life “crowded with
events,” never did accident tax the Great Captain’s philosophy more
severely.

Unseen himself, Wellington with an eagle’s glance watched from a height
the progress of his combinations. The quarry in the valley rested
in false security, even when the falcon on the rock was pluming
his feathers and preparing for a fatal stoop. A few French horsemen
carelessly patroled the hollow, and although a hundred eyes were turned
upon them, they saw nothing which could betray the presence of an enemy
or excite alarm. At that moment three plunderers crossed their path.
They were seized, carried off; presently the alarm was beaten, and in a
few minutes the French columns were under arms and in full retreat: and
“Thus,” to quote Napier’s words, “the disobedience of these plundering
knaves, unworthy of the name of soldiers, deprived our consummate
commander of the most splendid success, and saved another from the most
terrible disaster.”

Although its total _déroute_ was narrowly werted, no army suffered for
a time more severely than the retiring columns of the French. Cumbered
with baggage, embarrassed with the transport of the wounded, confined
to a strait and difficult mountain-road, no wonder that the whole mass
of fighting and disabled men were occasionally in terrible confusion.
The light troops of the fourth division appeared upon their right flank,
and, moving by a parallel line, maintained a teasing fusilade. The
bridge leading to that of Yanzi was strongly occupied by a battalion of
Spanish sharp-shooters. D’Erlon, profiting by the inaction of Longa and
Bareenas, forced the pass; but Reille was not so fortunate. The
light division, by an unequalled exertion, crossed forty miles of
mountain-country by one incessant march; and they had already crowned
the summit of the precipice which overhangs the pass to Yanzi at the
perilous moment when Reille’s exhausted column was struggling through
the “deep defile.” Never was a worn-out enemy placed in a more terrible
position. On one side, a deep river with rugged banks; on the other, an
inaccessible precipice, topped by an enemy secure from everything
but the uncertain effect of vertical fire. The scene which ensued was
frightful. Disabled men were thrown down, deserted, and ridden over. The
feeble return to the British musquetry produced no reaction. The bridge
of Yanzi could not be forced; and night came opportunely, permitting the
harassed column to escape by the road of Echallar, leaving, however, the
wounded and the baggage to the victors.

The last struggle was at hand. Soult, with an indomitable courage which
even in defeat established his military superiority, by powerful and
personal exertions, rallied his broken troops, and once more formed in
order of battle on the Puerto of Echallar, with Clausel’s diminished
corps in advance on a contiguous height. But that stand gave but
a breathing-time. Two British divisions were already pushed on to
re-occupy Roncesvalles and Alduides--Byng was at Fadax, Hill on the Col
de Maya--and the light, fourth, and seventh divisions in hand, and ready
to fall on.

The affairs which followed were very singular, and mark the moral effect
which success and disaster exercise upon the best soldiers in their
turn. The light division was pointed on Santa Barbara to turn the
right of the enemy, the fourth were desired to make a front attack by
Echallar, and the seventh moved from Sumbilla to operate against Soult’s
left. Outmarching the supporting columns, Harness brigade, boldly
assailed the strong ridges occupied by Clausel’s division: and, with a
daring courage worthy of the good fortune which crowned it,
actually drove from its mountain-position a corps of four-fold
numbers to his own. It is true that Clausel’s troops had been beaten,
overmarched, and dispirited. Already they had been thrice bloodily
defeated; but that six thousand tried and gallant soldiers should be
forced from a rugged height by a brigade not exceeding sixteen hundred
bayonets, is an anomaly in war which seems difficult to resolve to
common causes.

The last affair was that of Ivantelly. On that strong mountain the
French rear-guard had taken its stand, and although evening had set in,
the soldiers fasted two days, and a mist obscured the heights, the light
troops mounted the rugged front and drove the enemy from that, the last
ridge, which, in the course of nine days’ operations, had been assailed
or defended.

In the course of those sanguinary and continued combats, known by the
general designation of the Battles of the Pyrenees, the Allies lost
seven thousand _hors de combat_. The French casualties were infinitely
greater; and a moderate estimate, framed from the most impartial
statements, raises it to the fatal amount of fifteen thousand men.

It was with feelings of unqualified delight I listened to Cammaran’s
doleful admission that Soult was over the Bidassao, and the battering
guns, which, under an alarm, had been embarked at Passages, had been
again re-landed, and the siege was to commence again. Sufficient
proof of this intention was quickly manifested, for the trenches
were repaired, San Bartolomeo armed anew, and the convent of Antigua
furnished with heavy guns to sweep the beach and bay, if necessary.

Whatever might have been the feelings of the governor and his garrison
when the tidings of Soult’s failure were confirmed, still, like
gallant soldiers, they showed no lack of confidence in themselves, but
redoubled, their exertions to increase all the means within their power
of defence, and repel the second assault as effectually as they had
repulsed the former one. On the anniversary of the Emperor’s birth, the
inhabitants of the city and the troops who invested it, were apprised
of the event by frequent salvos of artillery; and when night came, the
castle exhibited a splendid illumination, surmounted by a brilliant
legend, “_Vive Napoleon le grand!_” visible distinctly at the distance
of a league.

On the 19th, the long-expected siege-train arrived from England, and on
the 22nd, fifteen heavy guns were placed in battery. On the 23rd another
train was landed. On the 25th all the batteries were armed and reported
ready to commence their fire; and on the 26th fifty-seven pieces opened
with a thundering crash, and in one unabated roar played on the devoted
city, until darkness rendered the practice uncertain and ended this
deafening cannonade.

The result of the siege was what might have been anticipated, when
Wellington, with adequate means, had issued his order that the place
should fall. On the morning of the 31st the assault was delivered, and
after a long, bloody, and doubtful struggle, the fortress was carried.

Would that with the fall of that well-defended city the sad detail
of “siege and slaughter” closed! “At Ciudad Rodrigo intoxication and
plunder had been the principal object; at Badajoz, lust and murder were
joined to rapine and drunkenness; but at San Sebastian the direst, the
most revolting cruelty was added to the catalogue of crimes.” *
Thank God! from witnessing that horrid scene, the fosterer and I were
exempted. In accordance with Mark Antony’s advice, I had determined to
give General Key “leg-bail” and on the night of the 27th, Dame Fortune
behaving towards us like a real gentlewoman, we contrived to get clear
of San Sebastian before our friends the besiegers could manage to get
in.

     * Napier.

But that event, in this my hurried but “eventful history,” requires
another chapter.



CHAPTER XLII. A NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE, AND PREPARATIONS FOR ESCAPE.



               “_Arthur_. Mercy on me!

               Methinks, nobody should be sad but I; .

     * * * By my Christendom,

               So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,

               I would be as merry as the day is long.”

                        King John.

|Nearly a month had passed--a month of dreary captivity. It is true
there was not a prisoner within the walls of San Sebastian who had less
reason to complain, but still I felt myself a prisoner. Cammaran.
as far as means allowed, anticipated every want. I was under no
_surveillance_--the city was open to me--I wandered where I pleased--and
every sentry I passed saluted me. The voltigeur was a general
favourite,--the story of his deliverance had been told in the garrison,
and even with more romance than had attended it; and every French
soldier we passed pointed out the fosterer and myself as the preservers
of a gallant comrade. If we met a group of officers, the moniteur, the
cigar-case, or the snuff-box were hospitably presented to me; and could
Mark Antony have drank “pottle deep,” he had only to turn into a French
guard-house, and every flask it contained would have been placed at his
disposal.

Such were my relations with the enemy; but the bearing of my host was
sometimes hard to understand. It was professedly kind; but the manner
was forced, and repulsive. His habits were retired--no overture to
intimacy had been made--beyond the detached portion of his mansion where
I had been located at the first, the rest of his domicile was to me
a _terra incognita_. Of his establishment I had never seen but two--a
particularly dark-visaged youth, with a cutthroat cast of countenance,
and a woman of seventy who was deaf, or pretended to be deaf. Still, our
wants wire carefully attended to, and at times Senhor Francisco asked
after my health in a tone of voice that would lead a person to imagine
the man was sincere in the inquiry.

“Upon my conscience,” observed the fosterer, as he presented himself one
morning at my bed-side, “I have a fancy this house isn’t over good. If
banshees played upon the fiddle, I would swear that I heard one these
three last nights in the garden that we see behind the window of my
room. Arrah--do you think the place was formerly a madhouse? Except
Newgate--and, blessed be God, I can only spake of it from description,
the devil a such a place for locks and bolts I was ever in before. Has
the ould gentleman, do ye think, much money? Every window barred up like
a watchhouse--but they would require, for all that, to be looked over,
for I have managed to remove two of mine,--and if I live till to-night,
I’ll have a walk in the garden.”

“No--no--Mark; that will never do. We must not intrude upon Don
Francisco. He may have some secret to conceal.”

“Troth! and ye’r right,” returned the fosterer. “May be he has a
private still at work, or does a little in the coining. But, faith, no
matter--I’ll have a peep to-night. But if he’s forging notes, or making
bad dollars, what can he want with the music?”

“Music!” I repeated.

“Yes; I hear a guitar every night, and two nights ago saw something very
like a ghost--”

“Or rather very like your grandmother”--and I burst into a loud laugh.

“Oh--I knew you would make fun of me. Well--no matter. She was the
height of Serjeant Antony, and he’s six-feet-six without his shoes--and
as white as your own shirt--not, in truth, that that’s anything
remarkable, for worse washerwomen than we meet with here you could
hardly find if you were on the look-out for a fortnight. But there’s no
use in talking. There’s a tall white woman parades the garden; and if I
live till the old Don is fast asleep, I’ll be through the window, if I
break my neck.”

I confess, that although I could not listen without a smile, to Mark
Antony’s description of the lady-like spectre that honoured the garden
with her presence, and then and there discoursed “most eloquent
music;” I felt, notwithstanding, a more than common curiosity on the
subject,--and while I reprobated the fosterer’s removal of the bars
which obstructed his communication with the spot she haunted, as an act
but slightly removed from burglary itself, still my scruples were easily
overcome when he proposed that I should keep watch with him that night.
The retreat was beaten in the fortress--supper-hour came--the host, as
usual, presented himself, to make inquiry whether aught was wanted that
had not been already provided--and then, after wishing us “Good night,”
 we saw him secure his gate, and retire to that portion of his premises,
from which, with all the jealous reserve observed in an Eastern harem,
we had been, as we were pleased to call it, inhospitably excluded.

“Well,” said Mark Antony, “I suppose the man intends to be civil, but
he has the quarest way of showing it. Although it’s his own wine we’re
drinking, the divil a drop he would ever take in company.
Give me that Empecinado, after all! God forgive me! I did’nt value him
at the time, as I should have done. What, though he had an offhand way
of shooting Frenchmen and hanging justices of the peace, the moment the
job was over he was as pleasant a gentleman as ever stretched a boot
under mahogany, But as to this dark-looking divil--why, we’re here well
on to a month, and he was never the person to say, ‘Mister O’Toole, have
ye a mouth upon ye?’”

An hour passed--we finished a second flask of the surly Spaniard’s
montilano--and the fosterer proposed, that while we apparently retired
for the night we should extinguish the lamps, and then commence our
vigil.

It was accordingly done--and, gliding into Mark Antony’s dormitory, we
began our “watch and ward.”

An unbroken stillness permitted the slightest sound to be heard
distinctly; and we therefore conversed in whispers. The contrast that
night in San Sebastian presented to the day, was singularly imposing.
The deafening roar of the allied batteries had ceased, and the city was
wrapt in a calm but ominous tranquillity. Too distant from the breaches,
we did not hear the working-parties, who sedulously employed the hours
of darkness in erecting new defences, and restoring others which the
daily fire of the besiegers had destroyed. Another hour passed--no
guitar was heard--no sprite “wicked or charitable,’’ flitted past the
casement. We heard the reliefs go round--the sentries changed--and all
again was silent.

“All--Mark!--Mark!” I whispered in the fosterer’s ear--“The senhor’s
montilano has been uppermost in your brain, I fancy, on these same
night* when this musical apparition was afoot. Are you sure that your
imaginary guitar was anything but wind whistling through the window?”

“By all the crosses in a highlandman’s kilt, the music I heard,”
 returned the fosterer; “but whether it was a guitar or a fiddle I’ll not
take on me to swear. Stop--hush!--Holy Mary! If that’s not music, the
divil an ear has Mark Antony!”

The fosterer was right. It was the distant tinkle of a stringed
instrument--and at times I fancied that I heard voices talking in
suppressed tones, and in the direction of that part of the building
which senhor La Pablos had reserved so exclusively to himself.

“Now, Hector,” said the fosterer, “maybe you’ll call me drunk after
this? What’s to be done? ‘Pon my conscience, I think Mister Pablos is
anything but neighbourly, with his tea-party every evening, and not say
to people who have done him the honour to take up their quarters in his
house, Mr. O’Halloran, will you, and that young gentleman along with
you, meaning myself, step over, in the family way, and take share of
what we have?”

“Why, then, upon my soul, I think it is, Mark!” was my reply.

“Then I may as well take the loose bars out?” said the fosterer, suiting
the action to the word--and before I could put in a feeble remonstrance,
he established an aperture in the casement, through which any one of
slighter dimensions than a common-councilman could easily slip out.
“Hush!--the guitar again!”

“Ay--and by Saint Patrick! some company to listen to it!--Oh! the divil
a one of me will remain longer without hwing a peep at the party, if I
can.”--And as he spoke, the fosterer popped through the casement, and--I
lament to make the confession--next moment I was after him.

We found ourselves in a small garden thickly planted with shrubs and
fruit-trees, and encompassed by a lofty wall; several narrow walks
intersected it, and the termination of one was bounded by a wing of the
Spaniard’s domicile. Through a chink in the shutters, a stream of light
escaped; and thither the fosterer moved silently, I bringing up the
rear.

There was no doubt that from this apartment the voices and the music
had proceeded which we heard in the fosterer’s dormitory. I peeped in. A
party was grouped about a table covered with game, fruit, and wine--and
a lamp, suspended from the centre of the ceiling, enabled us to examine
the company.

Five men were seated round the board, which was also graced by the
presence of two personages of the softer sex. I never saw a party
collected at a supper table whose appearances and pursuits were
evidently so opposite. A burly monk sat directly in front of the
treacherous fissure in the window-shutter. He was of no ascetic order;
but a Christian man, on whom good fare was not thrown away; and, even
if the lamp went out by accident, one on whose honour you could place
reliance, and drink with in the dark. Two others of the party wore the
costume, and had the general air, of Spanish traders. The fourth was a
man of wild and formidable exterior; his arms, his dress, his bearing,
all betrayed that his was no peaceable profession--and Mark Antony
hinted, in a whisper, “that if the Empecinado had a brother in the world
the dark gentleman with the pistols was the person, and no mistake.”
 The fifth was an English seaman--at least his costume and carriage would
infer it. He seemed a fine athletic man, and, though his back was turned
to the casement, the fosterer observed in an under-tone, that the sailor
would thrash the company collectively.

In years and appearance the females were still more dissimilar than the
men. One well advanced in life was tall, slight, deeply pockmarked,
and generally forbidding. The other--she sate beside the priest--had
scarcely numbered twenty summers, and on a lovelier face, a finer form,
the eyes of two interloping Irishmen never peeped through a split in
a window-shutter. “Och! murder!” ejaculated Mark Antony, _sotto
voce_--“That’s the Ghost--and is’nt she a darling?”

One seat was unoccupied. To whom did it appertain? Our host, no doubt,
and wherefore was he absent?

“What an ould troublesome thief he is!” whispered Mark Antony, pointing
to the vacant chair. “Where the divil do ye think he’s scouting to? when
every body’s asleep or better employed, as they are within. I only wish
that we were of the company--Isn’t it a comfort to see his reverence
set such an elegant example? How beautifully he raises his elbow--that’s
what I call honour bright! No skylights, and he fills to the top every
time the bottle passes him.”

“Hush! I thought I heard something move behind us.”’

“Well, upon my soul, I fancied, myself, that I heard a rustle in the
bushes,” returned the fosterer--“If old surly is on the ramble, and drop
upon us unawares, what a pretty figure we should cut!”

“Come, Mark, let us return to our old quarters; we risk the unpleasant
consequences attendant on discovery, without any object to be found--”

“See--the sailor rises!--and the sooner we’re off the better. May God
bless that pretty face of her’s--if I could not stop here all night to
look at it; but, come along.”

We retired as quietly as we had advanced--the fosterer leading the
retreat. No sound occasioned alarm--no ghost of Patagonian proportions
crossed our path. We reached the lattice through which we had invaded
Don Francisco’s garden. Mark Antony pepped his head and shoulders
through the aperture; but never did a man withdraw both more rapidly.
A dark-visaged Spaniard pointed a pistol from within, while, without, a
person immediately at our elbow, in a low, but peremptory voice, ordered
us “to stand.” The tones were perfectly familiar; indeed, there was no
doubt touching the identity of the speaker, for Senhor La Pablos stepped
from behind one of the thick shrubs.

[Illustration: 0440]

“So, gentlemen,” he commenced, while every word came hissing ironically
from between his teeth--“Methought it was only Englishmen who were
forced upon my unwilling hospitality. I was mistaken, it would seem, and
appearances favoured the deception. I believed my house; was occupied by
men of honour; but I have harboured French spies, it would appear.”

“Oh--stop--Mister Pablos, if you plase,” exclaimed the fosterer, “divil
a bigger mistake ye ever made in yer life. Arrah--what puts that into
yer head?”

“I judge men not by their assertions, but their acts,” returned the
Spaniard coldly--

“Senhor,” I said, addressing the angry host, “you certainly have reason
to question the motives of our midnight intrusion; but I declare, upon
the honour of a British officer, it was entirely a silly trespass--one
that I cannot justify, but one from which, towards you, no mischief
was designed. Let it be overlooked, and I promise, that while we remain
beneath your roof, we will confine ourselves to whatever portion of your
premises it may be your pleasure to restrain us.”

“Captain O’llalloran,” returned the Spaniard, coldly, “whatever
your intentions may have been, your conduct warrants me to draw very
different conclusions than the motives you have been pleased to assign.
The safety of myself---my family--those who are connected with me--all
require me to guard against treachery. True, it has rarely come
concealed beneath an English uniform--and, I am half persuaded, you
harboured no evil against me and mine; but you came here under a
suspicious introduction. I am a devoted man, and now completely in your
power. You have seen too much--and yet too little. In one brief sentence
I speak your doom--a stern necessity compels me to be severe--cruel--if
it please ye better. One course alone remains to be pursued; I must
secure myself, my friends, my wife.”

“That’s her I took for the ghost,” said the fosterer, apart--“and the
divil a foot I would have put into the garden but for the same lady.”

“Hush! Proceed, sir,” I answered.

“Nothing can make us safe, but death or deportation. Walk with me,
sirs. ‘Twere idle to remonstrate here, or to refuse obedience to my
order”--and, with the perfect confidence that he had made no statement
which he could not effectually support, the Spaniard stalked on, and the
fosterer and I followed.

“Well--Mr. O’Toole,” I said, as, like two convicted culprits, we
sullenly retraced our steps. “A pretty kettle of fish you have made of
it!”

“Oh!”--groaned the fosterer--“the game’s up. The curse of Cromwell light
upon the country! Is’nt it hard that a man can’t slip out of a window to
take a little air without having his throat cut?”

As he spoke we reached the extremity of the garden. La Pablos unclosed a
door. We entered the same chamber where, two or three minutes since, we
had witnessed a scene of social comfort. There the remnant of the supper
stood--but the company were gone, and their places had been filled by
personages of a very different, and a very dangerous exterior.

It was hard to define their appearance. Their garb was that of
mariners; in all besides, they looked banditti. My impression was not
singular,--for the fosterer, in a whisper, declared that, “compared
with these villains, the guerillas were regular gentlemen.” All were
armed--and I should say, there was not a member of this respectable
community, who, like Friar Tuck, would hesitate on resorting to the
“carnal weapon,” were it needed.

Our trial was shorter, even, than a drum-head court martial. Senhor
Francisco stated the offence, and then simply inquired what the safety
of the commonwealth demanded. The twelve judges were never so unanimous.
In the multitude of counsellors there was but one opinion--and that,
though differently expressed, resolved itself into one pithy adage,
namely--that “dead men tell no tales.”

From the apparent character of those around me, I certainly considered
that I should be defunct to a moral before morning; but Mark Antony
boldly demurred to the sentence: and put forward the reasons why death
and execution should be stayed; but as the fosterer’s plea involved a
confused story about ghosts and music, I question whether it would
have carried an overwhelming conviction of our innocence to the dread
tribunal before whom we stood. As it turned out, however, we were not
on the verge of death, but, happily, on the eve of deliverance--and in a
brief space, the colour of our fortunes changed.

While the senhor was listening, and with marked incredulity, to the
fosterer’s defence, a noise was heard without, and the personage who
bore the appearance of an English seaman, but who, from his position
at the table had eluded our former _espionage_, burst suddenly into the
apartment.

“What the devil is all this I hear about spies, and land-loupers?” he
exclaimed. “Are these the chaps?--Egad--this here one,” and he pointed
to me, “looks too honest to play traitor. But, what!--Do my eyes deceive
me?--why, dash my buttons--it can’t be possible--but it is--an old
messmate by heaven! What, Mark--am I so changed, that William Rawlings
is forgotten?”

It was indeed the brother of the fosterer’s mistress; and the next
moment, like Homer’s heroes, their hands were locked together, and the
pleasure of an unexpected meeting, was expressed in sea parlance on the
one part, and an eloquent admixture of English and Irish on the other,
which must have been perfectly unintelligible to the auditory, as I
could but partially comprehend it.

With the host, a brief conversation put matters in excellent train. As
regarded felonious designs, we received an honourable acquittal; and
better far, the welcome assurance was made, that before two suns rose,
if luck were on our side, we should be clear of the fortress and free as
the ocean-bird itself.

We returned to our own apartments, accompanied by William Rawlings. The
senhor was full of mystery and business; and, I presume, the gentlemen
of the spado school were equally engaged; and, consequently, from
the sailor we learned the particulars not only of our host’s domestic
relations, but, what was of more importance, the means and the
probability of effecting an immediate escape.

Senhor La Pablos, it appeared, was a contrabandista, and did business
on a most extensive scale. His principles were neither considered
particularly nice, nor was he a patriot of the purest water; albeit, he
hated the French with an intensity which Dr. Johnson himself would
have admired. The senhor’s antipathy to the invaders, arose rather from
private than from public considerations. He had acquired much wealth as
honestly as smugglers generally do, and, year after year, the invading
commanders laid him under heavy contributions, and obliged him to
disgorge extensively. Senhor La Pablos had also been blessed with a
very young and a very pretty help-mate; and on a short excursion to
the frontier in the course of business, on his return he received the
unwelcome intelligence that the lady of his love had levanted the
second day after he had bidden her a tender, but as he, “good easy man,”
 believed, only a temporary adieu. He had replaced her loss as speedily
as it could be effected--and as the successor of the lost one was
equally fair, and might prove, “alas! for womankind” equally frail, he
secluded her as much as possible from common gaze; and, certainly, he
had never intended that we, during our brief sojourn in his hospitable
mansion, should have been introduced to the family circle. “But now for
more important matters,” said the sailor; “it would waste time to tell
you by what course of events I got connected with these contrabandistas,
and shut up for the last month in this confounded fortress. I think
escape tolerably secure--but could we but command one hundred dollars,
it were certain. These Spanish smugglers are cold, calculating
scoundrels--every movement is made for a mercenary object--but if they
receive the consideration for their services, they are proverbially
faithful, even to death itself, in a punctual performance of what they
have undertaken.”

“How unfortunate!” I exclaimed. “Thrice the sum required is lying with
my baggage outside, and all I am at present master of is this valueless
ring, and a holy keepsake from my lady mother. Would your friends,
Rawlings, deal in relics of marvellous value? for I doubt not that this
I bear upon me is such.”

The sailor smiled.

“They are true Catholics, I have no doubt; but I fancy they would prefer
plain silver after all.”

“Blessed Mary!” said the fosterer, “I wonder where the old lady got
this charm,” for I had drawn my mother’s amulet from my bosom. “She told
you,” he continued, “never to open it.”

“Oh, no, Mark, I was directed when necessity pressed me, to use a free
discretion.”

“Why, then,” returned the fosterer, “we will never be in a greater mess,
Mark. Open it, Hector, dear! Not that I believe in charms, although I
remember an old man at home that would cure cows when they were fairly
given over by the smith.”

“Well, Mark, your curiosity shall be gratified.” I opened the silken
envelope, unfolded a sealed paper--no relic was there--but, what
answered our present necessities far better--an English bank note for
fifty pounds.

“Ah--long life to her ladyship!--wasn’t she considerate?” exclaimed Mark
Antony. “Talk of relics--isn’t that a beautiful one!”

“But will it answer our purposes, Rawlings?” I inquired.

“Senhor La Pablos would tell you not; but you will see how soon he will
discover more dollars than we require, and take his chance. But no
time must be lost--‘tis past midnight;--and within three hours we must
succeed or fail. Get ready. When the time comes for the trial, minutes
may crown or mar it,” he said--left us to ourselves:--and while the
fosterer made up a change of linen, I sate down, and conveyed, my
parting adieus to my friend the voltigeur.

Rawlings was not long away. He returned, having completed every
arrangement, as he said,--and the following night was named as that on
which we should make the attempt that would ensure our liberty, or rivet
our fetters if we failed. The fosterer and I retired, but not to sleep;
and we were early afoot, and waiting for some more intelligence from the
honest sailor regarding our nocturnal enterprise, when the captain of
voltigeurs, as was his custom, dropped in to make his morning inquiries.

“Am I to congratulate or condole?” said Captain Cammaran, when he made
his morning call. “You are pronounced fit for service by the surgeon; my
_parole_ consequently has expired--and no doubt you will be required in
a day or two to interchange it for your own.”

“I won’t give it,” I returned.

‘“You are wrong, my friend,” replied the voltigeur: “nothing can result
from your refusal but personal annoyance. You will be sent into La Mota,
and, I regret to say, there the prisoners are miserably inconvenienced.
Think of it well, O’Halloran; escape from the fortress is nearly
hopeless; why, then, add to the _desaremens_ of captivity? Courage!--an
application has already been made in your fwour: why not, at least, wait
patiently until an answer is returned by the minister of war?”

“My dear Cammaran,” I replied, “the reasons why I should not be patient
are manifold. In the first place. I am in love, and wish to return
home; in the second place, I am sick of San Sebastian, and very weary of
contemplating the surly features of my host Senhor La Pablos, agreeably
diversified, it is true, with an occasional visit from an old Leonora,
deaf as a door-post, and the attentions of an interesting male
attendant, who, if he be not hanged within a twelvemonth, why I’ll
forswear physiognomy for ever.”

“Oh! indeed, and you’ll have no occasion,” observed Mark Antony: “the
gallows is written in his face, and, as they say in Connaught,--Master
Pedro is sure ‘to spoil a market.’”

“Bah! my good friend, I have a remedy for all,” returned Cammaran; “one
poison neutralizes another--you must find another mistress: and if you
are tired of your quarters, why we can look out for others which may
prove more agreeable.”

I shook my head.

“Well--well--don’t refuse rashly. Tell them you will consider it for a
day or two--and trust to the soldier’s best dependence,--you call it,
happily, in English,--‘the chapter of accidents.’ Farewell!--I will call
early to-morrow.”

“And the birds will be flown,” added the fosterer, as Cammaran closed
the door and bade us, as we then believed, “a last good morrow.”

I never felt so impatiently as on that last day when I remained a
prisoner in San Sebastian. The sun went gloomily to the ocean, the
sea began to rise and break upon the beach, and with the evening as it
closed, the weather became worse, and a very skyey appearance heralded
a coming storm. Darkness came--the lamps were lighted--the ill-favoured
attendant laid supper on the table, uncorked a flask of wine, and, as he
always did, vanished without making a remark.

“I never will have anything but a poor opinion of that Senhor Pablos,”
 observed the fosterer; “he’s an inhospitable divil, or on the last night
he had the honour of entertaining two gentlemen, he would have had the
common manners to have introduced them to his wife, and taken a _dock
an durris_ with them afterwards. No matter--here’s luck!--and who knows
where we’ll drink the same toast to-morrow evening?”

“It were, indeed, difficult to say, Mark. But, hark!--footsteps are in
the court-yard.’Tis unusual. But, see!--the door opens. Is it possible?
Why, Cammaran! This is a late hour for a visit.”

“It is,” said the voltigeur; “but I have a presentiment that you and I
are about to part.”

I felt the blood mount to my cheeks. Were then our plans known, and our
intended escape discovered?

“What mean ye, my friend?” I returned, assuming an air of indifference.
“No, no,” I continued evasively. “Warmly as, through your kindness, I
may have been recommended to the War-Minister’s consideration, I must
not hope the application will prove successful.”

“You mistake me. It is another chance that probably may end our
acquaintance. I am on duty to-night.”

“And so are we,” observed the fosterer, in Irish.

“The fact is, we are going to try a sortie. The general has most
handsomely put the detachment under my command. If I succeed, I
shall gain promotion--and if Fortune favour me, I’ll sweep your works
extensively before I re-enter the fortress. Well, these things are not
effected without broken heads--and I have come to have a parting glass
with two friends I estimate so dearly.”

The occasion of the visit relieved me from desperate alarm. The
Frenchman sate for an hour and then took his leave, to make the
necessary arrangements for the intended sortie, which was ordered to
commence at two o’clock.

Before the voltigeur had cleared the court-yard, Rawlings, attended by
La Pablos, presented themselves by a private door which communicated
with the garden. The sailor’s looks told that affairs went prosperously.

“All is ready for our attempt. The French sally before daybreak--and in
the noise and confusion on the land-side, we shall be enabled to
lower ourselves from the curtain, and gain the beach. All depends upon
ourselves--and for the fidelity of our associates, Senhor La Pablos
holds himself responsible. You must shift your rigging, however--and
here come your traps.”

The ill-visaged attendant brought me two suits of clothes of such
anomalous cut and composition, as left it impossible to say for which
element they had been especially intended. The host and sailor drank to
the success of the expedition--the bell from the tower of San Sebastian
beat twelve--the fosterer told each stroke--and then put up a pious
supplication to Heaven, that this might be the last time he would ever
count the same!



CHAPTER XLIII. ESCAPE FROM SAN SEBASTIAN, AND RETURN TO ENGLAND.



               “A sad miscalculation about distance

               Made all their naval matters incorrect.”

                        Don Juan.


               “She look’d as if she sate at Eden’s door.

               And griev’d for those who could return no more.”

                        Ibid.

|The fosterer and I lost no time in making a hasty toilet--and in five
minutes our outer men had assumed as ruffianly an appearance as that of
any _contrabandista_ in Biscay. The tower clock of the cathedral struck
two; and I remembered that Cammaran had mentioned that this would be the
hour on which the garrison would sally. Excepting the hollow moaning of
the wind, and the occasional drifting of the rain against the casements,
all around was still; and, dark as the night was, I remained gazing at
the court-yard expecting the appearance of Rawlings and his associates,
with all the intensity of hope and fear which a man will feel, when on
the eve of an attempt that will achieve his liberty at once, or
rivet his chains more closely than before. All was quiet--no ghost
appeared--no tinkle of “the light guitar” was audible--when, suddenly,
a dull discharge was heard from La Mota, and a shell, bursting over the
bay, “gave signal dread of dire debate,” and announced that the sortie
was being made.

Within ten minutes the din of war “disturbed the night’s propriety.”
 The guns of San Sebastian opened, the Chefre batteries thundered their
reply, while a hewy fusilade on the isthmus, pointed to the place where
the besieged and the besiegers were fiercely fighting; and where, for
a doubtful result, death or distinction, Cammaran played the desperate
game a soldier ventures. The fire went rolling forward, therefore, the
French gained ground, and so far the surprise had been successful. At
the moment a hand touched my shoulder--a voice whispered that “all was
ready;” I turned--the speaker was William Rawlings.

Had I stood upon ceremony, and wished to bid Senhor La Pablo, and that
comely dame, his lady, “a fair good night,” neither of the parties
allowed the opportunity; consequently, I descended at once to the
courtyard, and there found two ill-favoured gentlemen in attendance,
and, under their guidance, wc proceeded to effect--or at least
attempt--our deliverance.

The effort was admirably timed. The sally of the besiegers had been
checked, repelled, repulsed; and the spattering fire which had hitherto
rolled steadily forward across the suburb of San Roman, now rapidly
receded, while, from the trenches, the fusilade became every moment more
heavy and more sustained.

On quitting the court-yard of La Pablos, we made a sudden turning,
entered a dark lane, and found two men in waiting. A few short sentences
were interchanged in low whispers, and we proceeded under the guidance
of one who seemed to have undertaken to pioneer the party. The firing
every moment became more violent; and, as the scene of strife was on the
land-side, the attention of the sentries stationed on the defences next
the bay was misdirected. We gained the centre of a curtain connecting
two bastions, unperceived; and, by means prepared already for effecting
a descent, glided down the wall unchallenged, and reached the beach in
safety.

So far the work went bravely on but the most hazardous part of the feat
was yet to be performed. Although my poor mother’s secret treasure had
been required by the _contrabandistas_--according to their story to pay
for the hire of a _chasse-marée_, as Jack Falstaff kept “his charge of
foot” in light marching order, properly considering that linen was to
be found on every hedge, so, our naval contractors prudently declined
“taking up a vessel” especially for our transport, when one might
as easily be borrowed without troubling the proprietor to become
a consenting party to the loan. This arrangement was made known to
Rawlings and myself, for the first time, when we had actually
reached the water: but the Biscayan assured us that “nearly a dozen
_chasse-marées_ were anchored at a stone’s cast from the shore, and
beside us there was a small fishing-boat, ready for the launching; we
had only to row quietly out, slip into the first vessel we could find,
take a peaceable possession, if allowed, and if not, forcibly eject the
owners for want of civility; “cut our lucky” and their cable by the same
operation, and then stand boldly out to sea.

“Why, honest José,” observed the sailor to the leader of the smugglers,
“it appears that we are to pay for our deliverance first, and fight for
it afterwards.”

The person addressed returned an evasive answer.

“Well, no matter--it seems the business must be done,” continued
Rawlings, “and the sooner we go about it the better. Lend a hand,
lads--Softly with the launch! we may be nearer our intended prize than
we imagine. How fast the wind rises! Upon my soul, on a darker night or
more unpromising weather, men never went on a cutting-out party.”

In another minute the fisher’s boat was in the water, and we embarked.
It was one of those small skiffs in which women are frequently seen
fishing on the eastern coast, and hence, we were crowded so closely
as to render the least movement dangerous, the water reaching to the
wash-streak of the boat. As the wind was dead off the beach we had no
occasion to use our oars for any purpose but to direct our course, and
out we went, drifting in the dark, and upon what the fosterer termed
“the devil’s expedition.”

“What,” he remarked, “was swimming the Sedana to this? Everybody knew
that a river had a bank; but here, the first land we would touch on
might be Achil Head or Gibraltar--and he, Mark Antony, would be glad to
know what was provided in the eating-and-drinking line for this voyage
of discovery?”

But these speculations as to our final destination were speedily
interrupted, for William Rawlings’ practised eye had caught the dim
outline of two or three small craft riding at anchor. Silence was
rigidly enjoined, and the Englishman steered the skiff upon the centre
_chasse-marée_, and desired us, in a whisper, to board the moment the
boat’s gunnel scraped the vessel’s side.

It was quite evident that we were not to be so fortunate as to effect a
capture by surprise. The heavy firing of the cannonade and musquetry,
attendant on the sortie, had roused the crews, whom we heard distinctly
conversing from deck to deck, as our boat neared their anchorage.
Fortunately, from the extreme darkness, and the diminutive dimensions of
the skiff, we were within an oar’s length of the _chasse-marées_ before
we were discovered. To a hasty challenge, a contrabandista replied that
we were friends--an assertion on his part, which subsequent experience
proved much at variance with our proceedings.

The lowness of her deck allowed us to board the coaster without trouble,
and a short, scuffling fight ensued which was over in a minute.
Although more numerous by half, the surprise of this nightly visitation
distracted the Frenchmen, and they made but a feeble stand. One was
flung overboard by a smuggler, an example promptly imitated by
the fosterer, who took the same liberty with the person of the
skipper--while three or four took the water of their own accord.
Rawlings cut the cable--the jib was instantly run up--the vessel canted
with her head to sea--the fore lug was set next minute--and, before,
the astonished crews could persuade themselves that their consort was
regularly carried off, we were beyond the reach of the few muskets which
they managed to get hold of in the confusion.

A brief consultation followed our success; and it was agreed that we
should stand right out to sea, to avoid meeting with any of the French
privateers who were creeping along the coast occasionally, and also
afford us a fair chance of falling in with one of our own cruisers.

When morning broke, we had gained an offing of nearly twenty miles.
The fire of the Chofre batteries had recommenced with daylight; but a
smoke-wreath, now and then, from the Castle and island of Santa Clara,
with a grumbling sound, like that of distant thunder, and only when a
squall came off the land, were all that told us that, with the sun’s
appearance, the deadly struggle had commenced anew. Other cares were now
presented. Had the _chasse marée_ aught on board that a prudent soldier
like Major Dalgetty, would declare by every war regulation absolutely
necessary? The inquiry produced a painful disclosure. On board this
ark of liberty, there were salt fish and fresh water for a day’s
consumption! I thought Mark Antony would have fainted when the heavy
tidings were gently broke by the chief contrabandista, who should, per
agreement, have been ship-agent and commissary together. The truth was,
my poor mother having been inhibited from imposing penance and fast on
me in right of certain marital engagements, had laid upon the unhappy
fosterer an additional quantity of both--and if there were two things on
earth to which Mark Antony had an invincible antipathy, cold water was
the one, and salt cod-fish was the other.

“Oh! we’re regularly murdered now;” ejaculated my foster brother.
“Blessed Virgin! What the divil do ye call that dark gentleman who got
the fifty-pound note? I would just like to ask him a civil question, if
he intends sleeping quietly in his bed after nearly drowning us first,
and starving us, as it appears he intends to do, afterwards. If we ever
reach Ireland, by my oath, I’ll take an action against him, and”--

“Hist! You’ll have no occasion,” if my sight be accurate replied the
sailor. “The cloud is over her again. Keep the craft away--and ease the
sheets a trifle. Right--by everything that’s lucky!--a man-o-war brig!
No mistake about that; a man can read it in the cut of her topsails.”

The vessel which Rawlings had espied, in a short time was clearly
visible. Under single-reefed topsails, jib, and spanker, she was
close-hauled as her course required, while we flew down direct before
the breeze. Santa Clara disappeared, “the wide, wide sea” was round us,
the cruiser and ourselves the only occupants of ocean--and in an hour,
we were safely deposited on board Her Majesty’s eighteen-gun brig,
“the Growler.” The _chasse-marée_ was turned adrift as worthless--and
a promise made on the part of Captain Hardweather, that we should be
accommodated with a passage home--the Growler being on her return to
England--while our companions, captive, and contrabandista, Tyrian and
Trojan, should be put on board the first coaster we fell in with--none
of the parties having the slightest inclination to visit the island home
of liberty, and take up their abode in a prison-ship.

Had Cupid exchanged with Rolus “for the nonce,” he could not have
afforded to his votaries more favourable winds. The Growler liked a
stiff breeze, and during the run home she had no reason to complain. The
fourth evening we were reported to be in the chops of the channel,
and on the sixth, were snug at anchor in Spithead. No difficulty was
occasioned in the debarcation of our personal effects; and, if all
military adventurers returned in the same condition from the field of
glory, I suspect the trade of war would not be considered as affording
a safe investment for the capital of a younger son. During the passage
home, a change of linen was effected by a friendly loan, and every
outward habiliment, from shoe to schako, when we landed, was borrowed
property. By the kindness of the brig’s commander, I was introduced to
a banker, through whose agency I raised the necessary supplies; and one
brief day wrought on all a marvellous change for the better. The second
evening, on looking in the pier glass of the hotel, I had some doubts
touching my own identity--Mark Antony was of opinion that he should be
scarcely recognized by his own dog--and William Rawlings had actually
set two barmaids by the ears, and left an impression on the too tender
hearts of both, which required a full fortnight to obliterate.

Our journey to town was common-place. The “whips” kept sober, and hence
we had not the exciting incident of “a spill.”--

Robbery being obsolete and utterly unfashionable even in the novels of
these Boetian days, though we crossed “a blasted heath,” none called
“Stand and deliver!”--and the passengers, one and all, seemed so
apathetic regarding life and property, that one would have thought
such heroic personages as Dick Turpin and Jerry Aberhaw had either not
existed or that they were utterly forgotten.

Nearly three months had passed since letters reached me from England.
The immediate advance of the army, the quick and constant series
of events which followed it, my detention at Vittoria first, and my
captivity afterwards, rendered it almost impossible that communications,
addressed as they would be to the head-quarters of the fourth division,
to which I had attached myself, should reach me during this short and
adventurous passage in a life of “marvellous uncertainty” while it
lasted. Brief as the season was that intervened since I had heard aught
from those I was most interested about, how many “changes and chances”
 in that small circle might not have occurred? I envied the philosophy
of the fosterer and his brother-in-law elect. Neither harboured a doubt
that all “at home were well.” At home!--What does not that simple phrase
embody? For a time I took courage from the example; but, when we reached
the White Horse Cellar, whence the fosterer, “with lover’s haste,” set
out to claim a bride, and the sailor to embrace a parent and sister, to
whom he seemed ardently attached--then, left alone, I felt all the dark
forebodings of one who dreams of nought but happiness and yet tremble
lest fortune, in some capricious humour, may have already dashed the
untasted cup away. Thanks to the gods! these sombre doubts were nothing
but “idle phantasies.”

If ever the director of “a leathern conveniency”--cabs, gentle reader,
were then unknown--was put regularly to the pin of his collar to keep
time with an impatient gentleman, the unhappy wight who drove me was
that person. At last we readied the street--I jumped out--paid honest
jarvey double--inasmuch as he averred that his “near-side un,” a roarer
before, was ruined for life by desperate driving--and “the outsider”
 would not be worth a bean for a fortnight. I knocked _piano_ at the
door--an old woman opened it--“Was Mr. Hartley at home?” She could
not answer the question, for Mr. Hartley had not lived there these
two months. Saints and angels! what misery! It was brief. A young
lady-looking personage unclosed a parlour-door, and acquainted me that
the arrival of some Irish relations had rendered it necessary for Mr.
Hartley to take a larger house; that, for the benefit of country air, he
had selected one some ten miles distant from the city,--adding, that
the family were well, as a servant had called that morning with some
message, from the ladies. She gave me my uncle’s address, and in
half-an-hour 1 was speeding to Bromley Park, as fast as a light
post-chaise would carry me.

Some seven miles from town, the last village was passed, and the
remainder of the drive ran partly through shaded lanes, and partly over
open commons. At a roadside hostelrie, within a gunshot of my uncle’s
dwelling, I discharged my carriage, committed the light portmanteau
which contained my wardrobe to the safe keeping of the landlady, and
set out, under proper directions, to find the place where love and duty
alike urged me to proceed.

I easily discovered the abode of “my fair ladie.” The exterior bore
all the appearance of respectability; and, though the light was but
indifferent, the entrance-lodge, palings, and close-clipped hedges,
announced it to be a gentleman’s retreat. The mansion stood upon a lawn
not far removed from the highway; lights flared from the lower windows,
probably those of the apartment where the family were collected, and, by
a singular impulse, I determined to escalade the enclosure, and have a
sly peep, _incog._ at those within.

I turned from the high road into a grassy lane which skirted the palings
of a shrubbery--and tried them once or twice, but they were confoundedly
high, and in excellent preservation. I pushed on--not a practicable
breach to be discovered--and my uncle’s mansion seemed as difficult
of _entrée_ as San Sebastian itself. Should I proceed, or abandon the
attempt as hopeless? “Turn back!” said Common Sense,--“Go on!” and
Adventure, jogged my elbow. I hesitated--a circumstance kicked the
doubtful balance.

Within an open gateway to a field, I perceived a horse placed in the
keeping of some low-sized personage evidently seeking concealment under
the deep shelter of the hedge. I spoke; none answered. Why was this
horse in waiting? It looked suspicious. Some felony was intended;
burglary, or, more probably, exhumation. I strolled on a few yards
farther--three or four railings had been recently sawn through,
affording sufficient room to creep in by, and, without a second’s
consideration, in I went.

I crossed the soft green turf, and proceeded in a straight direction
towards the mansion, guided by the lights which had first attracted my
attention on the road. A clump of evergreens suddenly shut them from my
view, and I paused to determine whether I should turn to the right or
to the left. While still uncertain, I thought something moved within
the trees--I listened--whispers fell upon my ear, and next moment two
figures glided from the clump, and crossed into what appeared in the
darkness to be a belt of young plantations, stretching along the lawn
and reaching to the lane from which I had effected my entrance. Who
might these men be? Poachers, in pursuit of game, or keepers, on
the look-out to prevent their preserves from being spoliated. When I
recollected the horse I had detected concealed beneath the hedge, I came
to the first conclusion--the men, no doubt, were poachers; and the
animal had been left in charge of some confederate, to enable them to
carry up to town the produce of their night’s marauding. In this belief,
I proceeded cautiously to the hall, determined to apprise mine honoured
uncle that knaves had “broke his park,” and possibly, might “beat his
keepers.” But another scene, and one to me of deeper interest, drove
hares, pheasants, and poachers from memory altogether.

When I cleared the clump of evergreens I found myself directly in front
of the mansion, and as the windows reached nearly to the level of the
lawn, the interior of the apartment was seen from without distinctly.
All within bore the appearance of luxury and elegance.

The furniture, the plate, the paintings, the lights, were in perfect
keeping with each other. In the panorama of life many such a scene may
be discovered. It was evidently the dwelling-place of wealth--but not
the abode of happiness.

Four persons occupied the chamber, and formed a striking group. The
_partie carrée_ consisted of two persons of either sex. On a sofa, a man
past the meridian of life seemed in earnest conversation with a lady,
who was still in the pride of matronly beauty; the expression of her
face was that of settled melancholy; and it appeared that he who sate
beside her was offering consolation--but in vain. The lady was my
mother--the gentleman, her brother, and mine honoured uncle.

At the opposite side of the apartment the other twain were seated, and
thither, after one hurried look at those upon the sofa, my gaze
was turned and there remained. My father, with Isidora on his knee,
encircled her waist with his solitary arm, while her head was resting
on his bosom, and her hands clasped wildly round his neck.--Oh! what a
change a few brief months had made! The sweet bud of promise I had first
seen in its mountain solitude, had flowered into loveliness--and the
woman, not the girl, was before me. Her face was turned towards the
window, and as the lights fell upon it, every feature was distinct as if
I stood beside her. Her’s was not the calm sorrow of my mother--it was
the wilder outbreak of the youthful heart, which vents its sufferings in
sobs and tears; and while my uncle and his sister conversed in whispers,
the voices of my father and my mistress were audible outside the window.
I could have easily suspected the cause of all this grief, had I but
looked upon the table and the floor. On the former lay an open post-bag,
and several letters with broken and unbroken seals: on the latter, a
newspaper was spread out at my father’s foot, and, no doubt, the
evil tidings it had contained occasioned the anguish and distress I
witnessed.

“Oh! tell me not to hope,” exclaimed the fair girl, “I cannot dare not.”

It was painful to listen to the reply. The voice endeavoured to assume a
steadiness which its broken tones belied; and the feelings of the father
and the soldier conflicted sadly, as the tongue held out false and
feeble hopes, which the speaker’s heart secretly believed to be
illusory.

“Grieve not, my sweet girl,” said the veteran, “He is only returned
‘missing.’ No doubt Hector has been made prisoner, carried into the
place, probably wounded--”

“Wounded!” exclaimed the listener, “No--no--no--Dead dead and I am for
ever wretched”--and again the head of the fair sufferer sank on the
bosom which had supported it before.

I cannot describe my feelings; my heart was bursting to announce my
safety, and I only hesitated to know how it could be most safely done--a
moment ended the doubt.

“Do not despair, Isidora--my _own, own_ daughter.” The words came
choakingly from his lips--the word _daughter_ was too trying the chances
were that he was now childless--and he hastily turned his head away. I
saw a tear stealing down his cheek--and when the soldier’s eye is moist,
the heart, indeed, is full.

“Cheer up, my dearest Isidora, all may yet be well--Hector may live--”

I could not control the impulse--

“_He does live!_” burst from my lips involuntarily.

[Illustration: 0455]

“Saints and angels!” exclaimed Mr. Clifford, springing from his chair,
and flinging the casement open--“True! by every thing providential!
Himself! Hector--and in safety!”

As he spoke, I jumped through the window. My lady-mother uttered an
exclamation of joy, and sank back upon the cushions of the sofa. My
mistress sprang from my father’s knee, and fainted in my arms.

“And, of course, you re-deposited the young lady upon the place from
whence she came, and flew dutifully to the assistance of your mamma, Mr.
Hector O’Halloran?”

Mr. Reader, I never reply to impertinent questions; but, _entre nous_,
I rather imagine that the resuscitation of the elder gentlewoman, was
entirely committed to her husband and Mr. Clifford.



CHAPTER XLIV. THE CRISIS APPROACHES.



                _North_.----“Every minute now

               Should be the father of a stratagem

               Yea, this man’s brow, like to a title-leaf,

               Foretells the nature of a tragick volume.”

                   2d Part of Hen. IV.

|A letter I had received on my return to the head-quarters of the fourth
division, after my _séjour_ with the Empecinado, had apprized me that
events in which my future fortunes were involved, hurried rapidly to
a crisis. My communications with England had then ceased; and, on
my unexpected return home, I found I had opportunely arrived when my
presence was most desirable, and the _dénouement_ of the drama was at
hand.

Without wearying the reader with the details of my uncle’s proceedings,
we will bring their results before him, up to the evening when at
Bromley Hall I popped so unexpectedly through a window, and frightened
two amiable ladies into fainting-fits.

It was the evening of a sultry day, the harvest had commenced, and, over
a rich and picturesque expanse of country, far as the eye could range,
the sickle was busily employed. On an elevation, in a domain of noble
extent, a gentleman far advanced in years, was seated on a rustic bench,
under the expansive shadow of an oak the growth of centuries. At times
he looked at the busy and interesting scene which the landscape all
around presented--and then resumed the perusal of a newspaper. The
domain was Clifford Park--the old English gentleman was my grandfather.

At the side of a copse, not many yards distant from the bench where the
owner of the park was seated, another and a very different personage
might have been discovered. She was a gipsy-woman of middle age, and
seemed busily employed in gathering sticks wherewith to cook her supper.
The old gentleman looked at her with some attention. For the last three
evenings he had remarked her at the same hour and on the same spot. The
regularity of her appearance had therefore excited some curiosity--and,
beckoning her to come forward, he took his purse from his pocket, and
presented her with some silver.

On receiving this munificent present, the gipsy curtseyed reverently to
the ground--the old gentleman resumed his newspaper, and waved his hand
as a signal she should retire; but she made a step closer to the bench,
directed a speaking look at Mr. Clifford for a moment, then threw
a suspicious glance around, and, in a low voice said, with some
hesitation, “We are alone, sir,--Dare I speak to you?”

The old gentleman for a moment regarded the speaker with marked
astonishment. The manner, rather than the words, was startling; but he
nodded a mute assent.

“For many a week I have sought this opportunity; but you are so closely
watched, that, hitherto, I dared not venture near you--I have tidings--”

“None, woman, that can interest me,” said the old man, with a melancholy
sigh. “There is nothing in this life to give me pleasure, and little
connected with it that could cause me pain. No tie binds me to the
world--”

“And yet you have a double one--the dearest to ordinary hearts, have you
not a daughter and a grandchild?”

“Stop, woman,--who are you?”

“The humble instrument of Heaven, destined, I hope, to restore to
the parent’s arms, a child alienated far too long--Ah! here comes yon
meddling priest! Would you even yet have the remnant of your days made
happy, be here to-morrow evening--and, for your own sake, be silent.”

“I will,” said the old man impressively. The gipsy assumed her former
attitude of deep humility, curtseyed to the ground again, resumed the
bundle of sticks she had collected; and, as if she had not perceived
him coming, turned into the direct path by which the confessor hastily
advanced.

They met; the gipsy made her humble obeisance, which the priest returned
by a searching glance. In the handsome features of the wanderer there
was nothing to excite suspicion, and he simply asked “what was her
business with Mr. Clifford?”

With a face beaming with delight at having received a large and
unexpected gratuity, the gipsy unclosed her hand.

“See, reverend sir, what his noble honour has bestowed upon the poor
wanderer!” and she pointed to the silver Mr. Clifford had just given.
“It is many a long day since I was mistress of so much.
Reverend sir, you are not angry at my gleaning a few sticks? Believe
me, poor Mary will do no injury to the trees. You look a kind-hearted
gentleman. Heaven grant you long and happy days!”

What will not the mystic influence of beauty effect? The cold churchman
looked at the supplicant for a moment--a soft black eye was eloquently
turned on his, as, “with lips apart,” disclosing teeth of pearly
whiteness, the gipsy timidly awaited his reply.

“How lovely she must have been in woman’s noon-day!” the confessor
involuntarily muttered. “You have the permission, you ask. Take care
it be not abused.” Again the gipsy curtseyed, and the churchman passed
on--giving her, in return for an outbreak of ardent thanks, unbeliever
as she was, his parting benedicite!

*****

Days passed--the weather continued beautiful, and the lord of Clifford
Hall might have been seen on his fwourite seat beneath the old oak tree
every afternoon--generally, the confessor close at hand, and the gipsy
gathering sticks in some of the copses at no great distance. Twice she
contrived to convey a sealed packet to the old man unperceived; and,
on the following evening, after he had perused their contents, she saw,
with unspeakable delight, that what he had read was not displeasing. The
letters were from his long lost son, cautiously worded to sound the old
man’s secret feeling, lay the ground-work of a disclosure, and prepare
him for coming events.

It was on the third evening before I had so very unexpectedly presented
myself at Bromley Hall, that, just as the light was failing, a man,
evidently in an excited mood, paced slowly back and forwards in front
of the ancient oak in Clifford Park, which we have already described as
being a fwourite spot with the owner of the domain. Besides the extended
view over the surrounding country which this rising ground commanded
from its crest, the front and back entrances to the park were
visible--and towards both, the lonely visitor turned frequently an
anxious look. At last, as if wearied with his solitary vigil, the
confessor--for it was he--broke into a rambling soliloquy.

“It is strange, what has delayed him--two long hours beyond the time he
told me he should return! I can scarce believe that I am waking. He
who for years has been the creature of my will--who thought as I
dictated--who acted as I pointed out--who in my hands was but a mere
automaton, whom I wound and directed as I pleased--that he should thus
miraculously assume an independence, and break through the thrall that
bound him.--By mine order, ‘tis marvellous--‘tis scarcely credible! That
cursed interview with his grandson laid the foundation of the whole--and
yet I fancied that I had remedied the mischief, and extinguished the
yearnings of natural affection which the youth’s sudden appearance
rekindled in the old man’s breast. But the last fortnight has crowned
the mystery. Three long years--the old man never penned a letter. Were
private communications to be made, I was summoned to indite them. Was
business to be transacted, the steward was always the amanuensis. But
now, he sits for hours alone--and writes, and transmits letters daily,
and by the hand of one who hates my creed, and with whom I dare not
tamper. What can be done? Never was a game more critical--one false
move, and all is lost. The tidings ot the evening too, are ominous. His
lawyer to be here to-morrow his errand, strictly secret too. What augurs
that but mischief? By every saint, I know not how to act. True, I have
not let the harvest pass without gleaning plentifully--and, better
still, I have secured the reward of many an anxious scheme. But to
see the grand object of my ten years of toil and artifice slip from
my grasp--even at the moment when the course of nature should have
consummated the triumph of sound conceptions, ably and patiently carried
out--Ha!--a horseman--‘Tis he--I’ll reach the hall before him.”

While the steward rode hastily to the stables, the priest had
reached the mansion and retired to his private apartments. There, he
impatiently waited the return of his confederate--and, in a lew minutes,
the steward presented himself. If the confessor fancied that himself had
startling tidings to communicate, one glance at the steward’s agitated
countenance, assured him that heavier news had yet to be unfolded.

“How now!” he muttered. “You seem disturbed. Has ought occurred to cause
us more disquietude?”

“We stand upon the brink of ruin,” was the reply.

“Go on--whence comes the threatened danger?” inquired the churchman.

“From the grave!” returned the steward.

“The grave?”

“Ay, holy father--well may you betray astonishment. One believed dead
for five-and-twenty years not only lives, but actually resides within a
few miles of where we stand.”

“Whom mean ye?” said the priest.

“Edward Clifford!”

“Impossible!” exclaimed the churchman. “He died in misery and exile.’Tis
some impostor.”

“It is the true man, by Heaven!”--“Think ye that one who hated him as
I did--who was robbed of the object of his love who swore eternal
vengeance, kept the vow faithfully, and wrought the secret ruin of him
who wronged him--think you, holy sir, that he could ever forget one, at
the same time, the offender and the victim. No--no--ordinary injuries
pass from the memory in time but insulted love lewes a burning
recollection in the heart, which death alone obliterates.”

“By the holy saints!” exclaimed the confessor, “your tidings are
astonishing.”

“You have not heard the worst,” continued the steward. “Give me some
wine--for faith, my nerves are sorely shaken by the occurrences of this
afternoon. Fill your glass, father, and listen to a tale, singular and
wonderful as any which, even in the confessional, may have reached your
ears.”

“You know that the object of my ride to-day was to trace, if possible,
the person with whom the old man holds his dangerous correspondence.
Every inquiry failed--and I was returning a sadder, but not a wiser man
than when I left you, considering what channel I should next try to seek
the information we require, when simple accident discovered the perilous
position in which we stand--one that, in danger, infinitely surpasses
any thing which our gloomiest apprehensions could have fancied.

“A short time since, a stranger, named Hartley, took Bromley Hall for a
few months; and there he immediately removed his establishment. It was
on a small scale, ‘twas said, but in every respect that befitting a
gentleman; and as Mr. Hartley was retired in his habits, and visited
with no one in the neighbourhood, his arrival made no sensation in the
country; he was scarcely known beyond his own domain, nor did any one
inquire who he was, or whence he came.

“On my return this evening, after an unsuccessful mission, close to ‘the
George’--a road-side house contiguous to Bromley Hall--my horse cast a
shoe, and I stopped to have it replaced. While the smith was doing it, I
strolled from the forge and sauntered down a shaded lane; within an open
gate a fallen tree was lying, and as the evening was close, I turned in
and sate down to rest myself upon its stem. Presently, at the other side
of the paling, I heard footsteps move cautiously along. An opening in
the fence enabled me to ascertain who the person was--and you may easily
fancy my astonishment, when I recognised the gipsy woman, who, for the
last three weeks, has been every day in Clifford Park under the
pretence of gathering fire-wood. Although surprised for a moment at her
appearance, I remembered that the wandering habits of her people throw
them across one’s path in every direction where business calls; I rose
to return to the forge and resume my ride, when suddenly the gipsy
stopped, looked suspiciously around to see that no one had observed
her, then drawing a key from her bosom she applied it to a wicket in
the paling, and the next moment entered the grounds of Bromley Hall, and
disappeared.

“Strange and mysterious fancies crossed my mind--I determined to watch
her movements, but how was I to follow? I continued my researches along
the park palings, and at last discovered an opening occasioned by the
removal of several slabs, for what purpose I cannot pretend to guess.

“I found myself in a thick plantation, left all to chance, and blindly
wandered on. Imagine my surprise when, not forty yards off, I suddenly
perceived the gipsy in deep conversation with a stranger. They spoke
in whispers, hence I could not overhear a word that passed; but I saw
distinctly a letter pass from her hand to his, and the action of both
during their brief conversation was marked and energetic. At last the
interview was over, and both returned towards the wicket in the paling
through which the gipsy had entered Bromley Park.

“The path wound through the plantation, and at not a yard’s distance
from the spot where I had concealed myself, but fortunately a thick
holly hid me effectually, and yet permitted me to observe the faces of
the persons who approached. Almost within arm’s length the man paused
suddenly--

“‘And is he so far prepared for the extraordinary revelations which are
about to be made?’ he inquired in a low voice that thrilled through my
very soul.

“‘He is’--returned this infernal agent. ‘He knows that his grandson is
recalled--that Hector’s father is already in England--that his daughter
is ready to fly to the bosom from which she has been so long estranged.
Nay, more--I have darkly insinuated that many a wild youth, after years
of wandering, has returned; and plainly hinted that a son lost to him so
long might live--nay, _did live!_’

“Could I believe the evidences of my senses, holy father? Was it a
dream? Oh! no, no--all was fatal reality.

“‘Mary,’ returned a voice, whose tones were unchanged as when I last
heard them in this very room--‘Mary, your services have made me for
life your debtor, and to his humble but faithful ally, I trust, in a few
days, Edward Clifford will prove his gratitude.’”

“Clifford--the exiled, the discarded, the dead! What! he
returned--received--restored to life! Impossible!” exclaimed the
confessor springing from his seat, and shivering to pieces on the table
the wine glass which he had held untasted in his hand, while Morley
recounted his strange adventure.

“True, by every thing sacred!” returned the steward.--“On they passed--I
caught a glimpse of his well-remembered features,--years and climate had
laid their hewy imprint on them, but in outline, they were those of
my former play-fellow. The light and springy figure of the boy were
gone--and a stout and compact form now stood before me, and just such as
I remember Mr. Clifford’s was some thirty years ago. Holy father, Edward
Clifford is alive, and not seven miles from where we sit.”

“I do not put faith in witchcraft,” muttered the priest--“but this
strange tale of yours would almost make me a believer. Well--we both,
it would appear, are on the eve of ruin. I, in expectations which I
conceived to be sure as certainty itself--and your acquisitions, my good
friend, methinks are sadly jeopardized.”

“Mine jeopardized!” exclaimed the steward--“More than that, reverend
sir--I shall be ruined, beggared, and undone. It is not the blow itself,
heavy as it is, but the suddenness of the stroke that annihilates me.
Could I but have had the warning of a month--in that brief interval, I
might have so arranged, that when I bent to the storm--as bend I must--I
might have sought another country, possessor of ten thousand pounds;
ay, and carried with me too the rents payable a fortnight hence. If
ever calamity fell heavily on man, it has fallen upon me--and by such
agency--the only beings upon earth whom I, at the same time, hated and
injured most.”

“Yes,” observed the churchman, half in soliloquy and half addressing
himself to his companion--“the mystery is cleared--and the old man’s
altered bearing is now sufficiently accounted for. Worse yet--the
mischief is beyond all remedy. One duped so long and so completely, when
once the mind is disabused, becomes ten-fold more suspicious than they
who have never been deceived. Mr. Clifford is exactly that sort of
character. His thoughts and acts are now as clearly revealed to me, as
if I had listened to every communication made by that artful woman, and
read the secret letters he has written and received. For how long, did
this returned prodigal mention to his female confederate, that these
intended disclosures were to be delayed?”

“The phrase was vague,” replied the steward. “In a few days’--ay, that
was the term he used.”

“A limited time, indeed, for action--but brief as it is, I will avail
myself of the lull, and not await the bursting of the storm,” observed
the confessor.

“And will you leave _me_ alone to face the coming tempest?” inquired the
steward, with evident alarm and surprise. “Holy father--have I not ever
been to you a faithful friend? have I not acted as you directed? have
not my own interests been frequently sacrificed to yours? Has not your
word with me been law--your advice implicitly followed--your plans
zealously carried out? I was ever your ready and your willing agent--and
now, in the hour of need and danger, will _you_ desert me?”

A pause of a minute ensued.

“Morley,” returned the confessor slowly--“I cannot see how my remaining
here could serve you. You wish to delay events--to avert them would now
be idle as to war against the elements. But how can breathing-time be
gained? Mine own interests would make a short interval before discovery
shall take place, as desirable as is respite to the criminal; but, by
mine order--I cannot devise any plan that could promise even probable
success. We stand upon a loaded mine--and who can say the moment when
the engineer will fire the train?”

“Still, reverend sir,” continued the steward, “have we not days to
count upon--and what might not hours, were they but well-employed,
accomplish?”

“Yes,” returned the priest--“days certainly may be reckoned on--and,
under ordinary circumstances, much might be effected in the mean-while.
But in this case--one so hopeless and so desperate--when the very grave
would seem to have given up its dead--and when--”

“The grave must receive the living in return. Ay, father, there is but
one chance left,--Clifford dies--no alternative remains but death for
him--or disgrace, and poverty, and banishment for me.”

“No more of that,” exclaimed the cautious churchman. “Pause ere you
act--and weigh well the consequences. England, for such experiments, is
a dangerous country. Remember your former attempt on young O’Halloran.
What a disastrous failure! Four lives were sacrificed--while he, the
destined victim, passed through the trial unharmed! ‘Twere better,
possibly, my friend, to yield to circumstances, and--”

“See myself impoverished and insulted. I am no favourite with the
country,--they view me as an upstart--and often has that cutting truth
been told me to my face. The tenants on these estates secretly dislike
me. As matters stand, their bad feelings are not exhibited--but let the
change come that we anticipate--then, like a cry of hounds, every voice
will be united against me, and I must either skulk cowardly away, or be
hunted to the death, while the man I hate, have hated, and will while
life remains detest, he will be received with acclamation, and trample
on a fallen enemy whose neck is already in the very dust. No--no--though
life be lost in the attempt, near as he fancies himself to this, his
long estreated inheritance--he never shall be nearer. Father, I start
instantly for London. We must act--ay, and act immediately.”

“Of these things I remain in ignorance,” returned the confessor. “But
if you risk this perilous attempt--safety and success in every mortal
venture, depend upon two simple qualities--prudence and promptness.
These two, in human actions, are worth every cardinal virtue beside.
Farewell--I too have cares which, for hours to come, will keep me
watching.”

The confederates separated--each to carry out his own particular
object. The confessor had only the future to regret--the past he had
secured--and consequently, he had neither a necessity or a wish to
join in Morley’s dangerous experiments. With the steward, matters were
altogether different. In rash confidence, all that he had cared for
hitherto, was to accumulate--and hence, his ill-acquired wealth had been
so clumsily invested, that time was absolutely necessary to enable him
to regain possession of his property. That time could only be obtained
by a fearful and perilous attempt. But no course besides remained--and
Morley started that night for London.

*****

The evening was wild and blustering--doors creaked--windows were
unusually noisy for that season of the year--and those who had a
fire-side, were too happy to find themselves at home. “The George” was
entirely deserted; for the stragglers who had dropped in after sunset,
alarmed at the threatening appearance of the weather, took a hurried
refreshment, and pushed forward to gain their abiding places before
the fury of the night should break. Three trwellers, however, still
remained. They had required and obtained an apartment for their especial
use--and a fire hwing been lighted in the parlour of the hostlerie, the
wayfarers there bestowed themselves.

One, who seemed to play the host, was a man of respectable appearance,
and beyond the middle age. He might be a farmer, a lawyer, a trader--but
it was clear he was not, in common parlance, a gentleman. The others
were of a caste immeasurably inferior. One was tall, burly, and
dark-visaged--the other, short, slightly-framed, and sandy-haired. The
countenances of both were particularly repulsive--and a stranger would
have found it hard to determine whether they were knaves, or ruffians,
or both.

He who appeared “lord of the revel” seemed ill at ease. He rose from
his chair--looked for a moment from the window--muttered something about
“foul weather out of doors--” returned, sounded a hand-bell which had
been placed beside him--ordered supper to be hastened, and brandy and
water to be brought in, to fill the tedious interval.

The order was obeyed--“the maid of the inn” departed--the door was
closed--and each of the company, by an involuntary impulse, looked over
his shoulder to ascertain that no eaves-dropper was near. He who played
the host seemed in no mood for revelry, and merely sipped the glass
before him--the lesser of the strangers also drank sparingly--but the
tall ruffian turned down the tumbler considerably below its centre,
pushed its diminished contents further on the board, and then leaning
a pair of overgrown hands upon his knees, and bending forward until his
head, by slow progression, had made a Turkish obeisance to the superior
of the company, in slow and pointed terms he begged respectfully to
inquire, “what business had brought himself and--” he merely pointed to
his companion--“on such short notice to the country?”

“Business--and that, too, of consequence,” was the brief reply.

“All right,” returned the stouter ruffian. “Business is very well in its
way--but I’d like to understand the nature of the job before I undertook
it. Light work is well enough, but when it comes, Mr. Thingembob--for I
don’t know y’er name--to what we calls _heavy_, wot means, ye know, hemp
or transportation--why then men must look about them, and ax a question
or two before they takes on.”

[Illustration: 0465]

To this judicious remark the smaller of the two assented by a gracious
inclination of the head--while the question, so homely put, appeared to
have disconcerted their respectable patron, for he did not answer for
a minute, and then the reply was evasive. After passing a flattering
encomium on the character of the late Mr. Sloman--whose irreparable loss
was deeply to be regretted--he hinted that, in his line of business,
there was now a blank. His unhappy death, and the equally unhappy
consequences which followed, had left a dreary void. It was impossible
to find a professional gentleman equally talented and trustworthy.
Undoubtedly, men of high honour and strong nerve could be found--and
therefore, rather than run risks, he, Mr. Jones, as he was pleased to
call himself, would prefer doing business with principals, and having no
humbug among friends.

What a strange epitome of life the scenes enacted at an inn would
furnish! How dissimilar in rank, in object, in vocation, are those
whom every apartment of this human halting-place receives in turn! The
care-worn and the careless--the miser and the spendthrift. Opulence,
with unassuming carriage--penury, vainly attempting to brazen out its
wretchedness. A noble, in title old as the conquest, rests in this
chamber to-day--to-morrow it will be tenanted by a bagman, who never
heard that such a being as his grandfather had existence. This evening a
bridal party occupy the inn. They dream of naught but happiness--theirs
is a fancy world--their road of life is carpeted with roses--they leave
next morning. Who, next in succession, fill the same apartment on the
morrow?--a coroner’s inquest, to ascertain what caused the suicide of a
village beauty, “who loved not wisely, but too well.”

While Mr. Jones and his friends were thus engaged in the large, parlour
upstairs, in a small back room behind the bar of “the George,” two other
personages were comfortably located. One was the jolly hostess, whom
nothing but “rum and true religion” could have upholden, seeing that,
in the brief space of ten years, she had been thrice a mourner. Finding,
however, that in marital luck there is no faith “in odd numbers,” she
had judiciously concluded on risking the fortune of an even one; and,
at the moment when Mr. Morley was bargaining with his amiable companions
above stairs, the widow of “the George” was endeavouring to ascertain
whether a matrimonial arrangement was likely to “come off” below.

“A mighty cold place these cross roads must be in the winter; and I
don’t wonder, Mrs. Tomkins, that you’re uncommon lonely--and especially
in the long nights. How short the days are gettin’!”

“Ah, Mister Magavarel--”

“Macgreal, if you please, Mrs. Tomkins.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the lady; “but, as I was saying, I’ll never
get over Christmas as I am. Though I look stout and hearty, I am but a
timidious sort of woman after all;--a fight in the kitchen knocks me of
a heap, and noises after night put me totally from sleeping afterwards.”

“All! then I pity ye, Mrs. Tomkins,” returned the suitor; “after sodding
three dacent husbands, no wonder that a fourth would be in ye’r way, now
that the could weather’s comin’ on. It was only yesterday I was sayin’
to Mister Dominik, the black gentleman at the park, “Dominik,” says I.
“What?” says he. “If ever,” says I, “I’d venture to go before the priest
in company wid a woman, it’s Mistress Tomkins, of the George, would be
my choice.”

“And isn’t it strange, Mister Macgreal, that you never took a wife?”

“‘I was over bashful when a boy, and feaks! my modesty never quitted me
afterwards,” returned Shemas Rhua, looking as innocently in the smiling
face of the landlady of the George, as if he had never crooked a knee
before Father Peter Fogarty at the altar of hymen.

Shame on ye for a deceiver! If the honest woman who owns you in
Connemara were but at your elbow, and overheard your insidious attempts
upon the too-tender hearted Widow Tomkins, I would not be in your coat,
Shemas Rhua, for all the rats and rabbits you’ll kill this side of
Christmas!

To what lengths Captain Macgreal might have urged his treacherous
suit, it would be difficult to fancy, but the sudden entrance of
Mrs. Tomkins’s attendant, fortunately for her lady’s peace of mind,
interrupted the further oratory of the false ratcatcher. She delivered
some trifling message.

“If ever,” continued the maid of the inn, “murder was written in a
mortal countenance, you may see it in the faces of two of the fellows
above stairs. Lord! if they stop here to-night, I shall never close an
eye!”

“Who are they?” inquired the ratcatcher.

“Heaven only knows,” was the reply. “They came into the house about an
hour ago, and from the appearance of their shoes, I should say they had
walked some distance. They inquired for a Mr. Jones; and on being told
there was no person here of the name, they called for some ale, and said
they would sit down and wait for their friend’s arrival. Presently the
man they asked for arrived on horseback, dismounted, spoke to the others
for some minutes, requested to have the use of a private room, and they
retired together.”

“You may depend upon it, the errand that brought them here is not an
honest one. Could you but see the suspicious looks they throw round them
when I enter or lewe the room!”

“We’ll soon know more of both themselves and the business that brought
them here,” returned the buxom widow. “You must know, Mister Macgreal,
that a dark closet I keep for my private use, is divided from the large
sitting room up stairs by a boarded partition, and there are cracks in
the paper through which you can see what passes in the other room,
and hear every word that’s said. Many a stolen kiss I’ve witnessed
there--and many a tale of love I’ve listened to. Follow me softly. But,
Lord! what was I going to do? Venture myself in the dark, and with an
Irish gentleman! Oh! I won’t move a step, unless Susan comes along with
us.”

“Honour bright!” exclaimed the ratcatcher.

“And you know there must be somebody left to mind the bar,” added the
spider-brusher.

These observations were conclusive, and after an assurance of great
discretion on the Captain’s part, the lady agreed to venture herself
alone, and even in the dark, with the bashful Irishman.

Without occasioning the slightest alarm to the guests, who occupied the
“great chamber” of the George, the ratcatcher and his fair companion
ensconced themselves in the closet, and as it would appear, too, at a
moment when the negotiation had assumed a business-looking character,
and matters were drawing to a close.

“We understand one another perfectly,” said Mr. Jones.

“I must allow it,” replied the larger of the ruffians, “that you have
come straight-for’ed to the scratch, Mr. Jones; and I hopes you vo’nt
take it amiss, that we axed that part of the coal should be posted
before we undertakes the job. Ye see, it’s what we calls heavy
work,--nothing like greasing a man’s fist before he commences, it makes
him go at the bisniss slap, because he knows that the rowdy will be
stumped up when all’s right afterwards. It’s now late enough, so if
you’ll show us the way into the park, and point the right-un out, we’ll
make matters sure to-morrow night, and no mistake.”

“I am satisfied you will acquit yourselves like men of spirit,” was
the reply. “Proceed down the lane that turns to the right, and when I
discharge the reckoning, I’ll mount my horse and follow. At the second
gate--you will find it open--wait for me.”

“The ruffians twain” rose and left the room, their employer called a
bill, ordered his horse to the door, and quitted the hostlerie. The
Captain prepared to follow him, and having kissed the landlady, a
liberty for which he received a severe reproof, accompanied, however, by
a general invitation to drop in as often as he could, “the George” in
a few minutes was totally deserted, and Mrs. Tomkins issued orders that
her premises should be closed for the night, with a passing remark to
her attendant, of “what a nice man Mr. Hartley’s keeper was.”



CHAPTER XLV.



               _Gloster_.--“I was a pack-horse in his great affairs.”

                        King Richard III

               “Thou art in London--in that pleasant place

               Where ev’ry kind of mischief’s daily brewing.”

                        Don’ Juan.

|A quarter of an hour elapsed before the confusion my sudden entrance
into the drawing-room of Bromley Park occasioned the inmates, had
entirely subsided. I ran briefly over the narrative of my capture and
escape--accounted for the non-appearance of the fosterer--was assured,
notwithstanding wounds and “durance vile,” that I looked particularly
healthy--and in due course returned, as in duty bound, a shower of
compliment. The Colonel was particularly anxious to know why a lodgment
was attempted on the breach, without battering down the defences; and in
support of his opinion, made some extensive quotations from Vauban
and Carnot. He also wished to inquire, why the false alarm upon the
land-side, when the globe of compression was fired with such success,
had not been turned, like the feint of the third division at Badajoz,
into a real attack? Mr. Clifford asked the exact date to which my last
advices from England had reached me, that he should take up his details
therefrom. My mother was solicitous in ascertaining how often Mark
Antony had attended mass; and was rather anxious to find out whether the
fosterer had fasted upon Fridays, and figured frequently at confession.
Poor Isadora’s were whispered queries, and more readily and willingly
replied to:--“Had I really thought of her?” and “Were the ladies of the
Peninsula so handsome as they had been represented?” The answer to the
first was an ardent affirmation, and to the second I gave a faithful
assent--for the finest features of Isadora’s beauty were decidedly
Spanish.

The entrance of two former acquaintances, Dominique and my loving
countryman, the ratcatcher, induced the ladies to withdraw, and retire
to their respective apartments. From the faithful negro I received an
ardent welcome; and the Captain was graciously pleased to express his
satisfaction at my return. Indeed, the outer man of the latter was so
changed for the better, that I might have passed him on the road and
not recognised my former ally. The eccentric habiliments in which he had
migrated from “the far-west,” had given place to the smart costume of
an English game-keeper; and as the Captain was a stout, careless-looking
fellow, no wonder he had found fwour in the widow’s sight, and had been
pronounced by that experienced lady, “a nice man.”

After Dominique’s congratulations, and Shemas Rhua’s “ceade fealtagh”
 had been duly delivered, the latter, in sentences equally compounded of
English and Irish, the ratcatcher announced himself to my uncle, as the
bearer of important intelligence. He had been taking a turn round the
park, he said, after night-fall, with the gun under his arm, on the
look-out for poachers, and in the course of his rambles had dropped into
“the George:” What occurred there he briefly detailed, with the omission
of all love-passages between himself and the fair widow, and then he
thus proceeded with his narrative:--

“I followed the sound of the horse’s feet. When the rider reached the
second gate in the lane, he dismounted, joined the other villains, and
all three walked forward towards the broken palings, while I slipped
quietly through the wicket, and, knowing my path well, was at the
opening in the fence before they reached it. Only two of them came in,
for the little fellow remained outside with the horse. They went along,
trampling on broken boughs as they groped their road, while I kept the
grass under my foot, and dodged them without being overheard. They
made directly for the house--and when they turned by the clump of
ever-greens, I ran round by the other side and hid behind a holly. I
saw them steal to the window of this room, and look in for at least five
minutes. They then fell back close to the bush that sheltered me.

“‘You’re certain you know the man?’ says the dacent dressed fellow to
the other thief.

“‘To be sure I do,’ was the answer--‘he has a pair of arms, and the
other cove but one.’

“‘You see how easily it can be done. You can shoot him from the outside,
and be safe on the high road before any body could give an alarm.’

“‘The job’s plain enough,’ said the other.

“‘And the moment it’s done, mind that you be off at once to London--and
for your lives don’t stop to drink on the way. Attend to this--avoid
public houses--and all trace of you is lost.’

“‘And you’ll be sure to meet us the day after?’

“‘Sure as the sun will rise.’

“‘And what time should we do the trick?’

“‘As soon after dusk as you can manage it. Earlier would not be safe.
Can you conceal your arms?’

“‘Easily--I’ll borrow a poacher’s gun from an old pal of mine. It comes
in pieces; the barrel unscrews in the middle, and you can carry it in
the hare-pocket of a shooting jacket.’

“‘Come.--You know the man and the place. Let us be off. I’m too late
from home.’

“They returned through the plantation. As they approached the paling--I
still hanging on their heels--I was sorely tempted to give them a barrel
a piece before we parted; but I thought, as I had found out all they
were after, that it was better to let them pass this time--and inform
your honour of what was in the wind.”

“You acted, gallant Captain,” replied Mr. Clifford, “with excellent
tact and judgment. I see clearly through the business. My existence and
return are discovered--and the wretch, who caused my exile, would
now consummate his villany by murder. It will only expedite the
_denouement_--and with the failure of to-morrow night, Morley’s
career will close. Come, Hector, we must not forget that you require
refreshment--and while you sup, I will acquaint you with events which
have occurred during your absence from the country.”

While my uncle was detailing the progress of his secret operations, I
was giving him ocular proof that my appetite had not deteriorated by
campaigning. But even supper and a long story has an end. The clock had
struck the first hour of morning--we parted for the night--the Colonel,
by no means satisfied that the assault on San Sebastian should have
failed--Mr. Clifford, to mature his plans, and avail himself of the
ratcatcher’s information--and I, to seek my pillow with that blessed
and heart-cheering assurance, that all I loved dearest on earth were
slumbering beneath the same roof-tree.

From Bromley Park we will carry the reader for a brief interval away,
and follow the fosterer and his companion to the native village of the
latter. It was sunset on the succeeding evening, before the stage coach
on whose roof the pair were seated, stopped at the cross roads at a
mile’s distance from Rawlings’s home, and there deposited the trwellers.
Never did a couple of wayfarers cross a pathway more expeditiously. They
had light kits and light purses--but they had what was better than any
thing wealth could produce, lighter hearts--for from a fellow-passenger,
William, to the inquiry, “Doth my father still live?” had received an
assurance that the old man was well, and happy, and without a care, save
what arose from anxiety regarding the safety of his absent son. Nor was
the fosterer less gratified by the further tidings of the stranger. His
mistress was looking better than she had ever done--at least, such was
the village, report--and but a week ago, it was whispered that she had
declined the hand of the wealthiest farmer in the neighbourhood. The
colour mounted to the lover’s cheek. To hear that his mistress was
fairer than before, was flattering to his pride--but to find her
constancy unchangeable, was incense to the heart.

The lights were sparkling in the village casements before the trwellers
reached the termination of the pathway--and Rawlings with his companion
passed through the garden by a private wicket, and unobserved, reached
the rear of his father’s cottage. The security and confidence ever felt
in dwellings “far from town,” were here apparent--for the window of the
little parlour was neither protected by shutter or curtain from theft or
curiosity; and while the retired soldier luxuriated with his pipe, his
pretty daughter was engaged in plying her needle busily, in perfect
unconsciousness that the eyes of a lover were gazing fondly on her from
without.

“Heaven bless ye both!” ejaculated the warm-hearted sailor, “We must
not appear too suddenly; come, we’ll step over to the Lion, and send
the landlady across to tell father and sister that the wanderers are
returned.”

William Rawlings was the pride of the village; every rustic coquette was
flattered by his preference; and it was said that it was rather out of
pique than love, that the miller’s pretty daughter had listened to
the suit of the jolly landlord of “the Lion.” Certain it is, that her
reception of the handsome sailor was much more ardent, than wliat he of
the spigot would have approved, had he been a witness to the unexpected
meeting.

“Why, William, art thee alive, man?”

“Alive, girl; ay, and likely to live. I need not ask thee for Julia and
the old man--I had a peep at both through the parlour window. Step over,
dear Betsey, and let them quietly know that here I am, sound as British
oak, and an old comrade along with me.”

“Lord! they will be so overjoyed,” exclaimed the hostess, as she skipped
across the street, and knocked at the old quarter-master’s hall-door.

“Ah! Betsey, is it thou?” said the veteran, as he knocked the ashes
from his pipe, and held his hand out to the visitor. “What news, my
girl?--girl--no, no--I must call thee dame now.”

“Look in my face,” returned the pretty hostess, “const thou not read
good tidings there?”

“What mean ye, Betsey?” inquired the old man’s daughter.

“Mean?--nothing but what I say; I am the bearer of the best news you
have listened to for the last six months.”

“Is it aught concerning my boy?” exclaimed the excited quartermaster.

“Yes--William is alive and well; and of that an old friend of his,
who stopped just now at the Lion, will give you presently, a full
assurance.”

“Heaven, I thank thee!” said the old man, as he reverently raised
his eyes, and poured the brief offering of gratitude warmly from a
surcharged heart.

“Don’t be surprised at--”

“His return!” exclaimed the other female. “Is he come home? Betsey--dear
Betsey--end this suspense, and make us too, too happy.”

“Certainly,” said the fair hostess, “the sailor aeross the street is
very like your brother.”

“Oh! I will fly to him,” exclaimed the old man’s daughter, as she
rushed towards the door--but in the passage her farther progress was
arrested--a man clasped her in his lusty embrace, and covered her lips
with kisses.

“William, dear William--”

“Julia--my darling sister.”

“Said I not truly,” observed the pretty hostess, “that I brought you
joyous news?”

Next moment the wanderer was kneeling at his father’s feet; and that
night, had Britain been searched through, a happier family could not
have been discovered.

“And now that I have a chance of getting a civil answer, may I ask who
that handsome young soldier is? I hope he is going to stop at the Lion
for awhile. It would be a pleasure to serve a good-looking fellow
like your friend, after being plagued waiting on frumpy farmer?, and
answering beer-drinking boors.”

“Why, Mistress Betsey, that same well-featured youth is a trusty comrade
of my own, and a sworn friend of a wild Irishman my sister is slightly
acquainted with,--a gentleman called Mark Antony O’Toole.”

The name seemed to have a magical effect. Julia’s cheeks, in a moment,
were dyed with blushes--a heavy sigh involuntarily escaped--a tear
trembled in her eye--and a looker-on would have been dull indeed, who
could not have read the secret of her love.

“All!” said the landlady archly, “no wonder Frank Robinson was rejected.
So, Mistress Julia, and you would not confide in your old schoolfellow,
and tell her you were over head and ears in love.”

“He is to be our guest for a few days--longer, probably, if you will
make yourself agreeable. Julia, are you not obliged to me, my fair
sister, not only for bringing myself safely back, but also for coming
home provided with a brother-in-law, if you will only let me recommend
a husband to you.--Hay, dear Julia, no tears--I but jest, you know,
and would not wound thy feelings for the world. I will go over for my
friend--” He said, and left the room, accompanied by the pretty hostess.
The old man resumed his pipe; and poor Julia ascended to her own
apartment, to bless Heaven for the restoration of a brother--and weep,
were the truth known, for the absence of one even still dearer to her
heart.

Five minutes passed--the hall door opened--she heard the well-known
voice of the wanderer inquire for her, and presently footsteps were
heard upon the stairs.

“Julia--what moping here, and not down to offer a welcome to my friend!
Well, I must fetch thee, girl!” and William Rawlings unclosed the door.
She started--the stranger was beside him--and she turned a look of
displeasure and surprise on the thoughtless mariner.

“Hay, don’t look marlin-spikes at me, Julia. Here is the real offender.”

One glance, and the secret was disclosed. With a face beaming with
delight, and eyes more brilliant now, “For having lost their light
awhile,” she sprang into the fosterer’s arms. The vows of simple but
ardent love were mutually interchanged anew--and that night the happiest
family in Sussex would have been found circling the quartermaster’s
parlour fire.

*****

The clock was striking two, when the steward, after leaving his horse in
the stables of Clifford Park, walked hastily to the hall, and admitted
himself by means of a private key, to the wing of the building occupied
by the confessor and himself. On looking towards the chamber of the
priest, as Morley approached the mansion, a thin stream of light escaped
from an opening in the shutters, and told that the holy occupant had not
yet retired to his pillow. The steward tapped gently at the churchman’s
door, which was opened by the occupant himself. ‘Within, the room was
in manifest confusion--several trunks and boxes were being packed--the
grate was filled with the remains of burnt papers--and it was quite
evident that the confessor was making such preparations as foreboded an
immediate departure.

“How now, Morley,--What news? Has aught occurred since noon?” inquired
the churchman.

“I have determined to run the risk, and nothing now can change this
resolution. The arrangements are completed. To-morrow night--”

“Nay,” said the confessor--“I neither wish, nor will know any thing
of what is to happen to-morrow. It is enough for me to know what has
occurred this afternoon.”

“Has any thing important taken place?” asked the steward.

“Yes--two persons arrived this evening. They sleep to-night in the
house. One I know to be Mr. Clifford’s legal adviser. The other I fancy
is to be the successor to yourself.”

“To me?” exclaimed Morley in astonishment. “No, no! holy father! That
will not be so hastily decided as you imagine.”

“Well--a short time will settle the question. After the strangers had
been closeted with the old man for an hour, I framed an excuse, and
requested to speak to Mr. Clifford for a minute. An answer was returned
that he was engaged particularly, and orders issued that none should
intrude upon him. There is a change indeed. _I_, refused admittance, who
for years was constant at his side even as a shadow. _I_, who hitherto
dictated who should be received and who rejected! Saints and angels! I
can scarcely believe the thing myself.”

The steward had listened with an expression of countenance, which
evinced a sort of stupid incredulity. “Father, are we both awake?” he
inquired with a sickly smile, that betrayed the inward workings of a
bosom racked with disappointment and despair.

“Mine, Morley,” returned the confessor coldly, “are the acts of a man
fully awake to coming events. No papers shall rise in judgment against
me;” and he pointed to the fire-place--“and, as you may perceive, I am
preparing for a long journey on sudden notice. Have you been in your
room since your return? I fancy you will find there a document laid upon
your table.”

The steward instantly retired--his absence was short, and he entered the
priest’s apartment with an open letter in his hand.

“Even so”--and his white lips quivered as he spoke--“‘Tis from the old
man--brief, but to the purpose--I am rudely discharged, and--”

“Directed to give an account of your stewardship,” continued the priest;
“which may not exactly be convenient. What do you purpose doing?”

“Avenge myself, holy father--leave Clifford Hall ‘a house of mourning’
and, through the son, strike the cold dotard to the heart. Yes, if
ruin impends on me, I shall involve others in the vortex. This time
to-morrow, the stern old man who turns me as contemptuously away as I
would spurn a beggar from the gate, shall be, what through life, and by
my agency, he has been--childless.--Farewell!”

He said, and left the apartment.

* * * * *

It is asserted that excessive joy, like agonizing sorrow, equally drives
sleep away. When I retired to my conch, happiness and hope reigned in
my bosom--and yet my dreams were light, my slumbers sound. I was early
astir--but others were earlier still--and when I entered the parlour, I
found the family party already collected.

Like all other breakfasts, ours ended in due course; the ladies retired;
and Mr. Clifford, the Colonel, and myself, adjourned to the lawn, and
there held a walking consultation. In fact, with his customary decision,
my uncle had already made his dispositions. The intended bravos were
denounced to the police; and at the very moment we were talking matters
over on the lawn, Mr. Morley’s agents were in close custody in London.

It was necessary that another day should pass, before Mr. Clifford
deemed it expedient to throw off his incognito. It wore away. At Bromley
Park the inmates were variously employed:--my uncle, in carrying out
his successful arrangements; my father, in ascertaining whether a false
attack on the sea-face of San Sebastian might not have operated as
an effective diversion; my mother, I suspect, in offering additional
prayers to Heaven for my safe return; and Isidora and myself--but,
pshaw! the communings of young hearts were never intended for
revealment.--

*****

Again the scene must change. At Clifford Hall the presence of two
strangers was unusual; and, in that dull and sleepy establishment, that
trifling event had occasioned some sensation. When morning advanced,
the surprise of the household was considerably increased. The confessor
had disappeared, having removed all his baggage, none knew where or how.
The steward was also missing, but his apartments were in their customary
state; and as he frequently left the hall for days together in course of
duty, his absence occasioned no particular surprise. The churchman had
departed for the continent two hours before the steward quitted Clifford
Park, and, as it was fated, neither re-entered the domain gates after
they had passed them.

It would appear, that when he found his former friend and counsellor had
left him to his resources, all Morley’s self-possession vanished, and
his future actions seemed rather the results of sudden impulse than of
deliberate forethought. Without any fixed object, he took the road to
London; and that, too, by circuitous routes, which rendered the journey
unnecessarily tedious. Although his general habits were temperate,
he made frequent halts at road-side houses, and drank freely where he
stopped. It was late when he reached the metropolis--and on his arrival
in the Borough, he put up his horse at an obscure inn, took some
refreshment, ordered a bed he never occupied; for, as it afterwards
appeared, he spent the night rambling through the streets, or drinking
in low houses only frequented by the vicious and the destitute. God
knows what the wretched man’s feelings were! He then believed that a
foul act was doing, or had been done; and it is hard to say, whether
remorse for having caused the deed, or a savage exultation at its
fancied accomplishment, had fevered his guilty soul, and, like another
Cain, “murdered sleep,” and when innocence reposes, made him a wretched
wanderer.

Morning came, and at the appointed hour named to meet his myrmidons,
the steward repaired to the place of rendezvous. He hastened on, as he
believed, to learn the death of his victim; but it was only to hurry his
own guilty career to its close. The wretched man, in thieves’ parlance,
was “regularly planted.” The moment they found themselves in custody,
the ruffians (both returned convicts) admitted their intended crime, and
gave ample information by which their employer should be detected. It
was arranged by the officers that Morley should be received by one
of the ruffians, at the public-house where the meeting had been
appointed--and, apparently blind to danger, the steward entered the tap
and passed through into a back room, which had been notified to him as
the place where his sanguinary associates would be found in waiting.

The room was squalid in appearance, ill-lighted, and in every respect
a fitting place for villains to frequent. At a dark corner he perceived
the larger ruffian at a table--and, what rather startled him at first,
a stranger seated at his side. A brief conversation, however, explained
the matter. “The other cove had shyed when it came to the point, and
he had to call on a trusty pal, the gentleman wot sate beside him.”
 Thoroughly deceived, Morley fell into the trap laid for him, without
harbouring a suspicion--listened with manifest satisfaction to a
fabricated detail of the imaginary assassination--handed to the
murderer the price of blood--and was about to leave the room, when the
confederate ruffian struck a hewy blow upon the table with a pewter
measure--announced that he was a Bow-street runner, and Morley his
prisoner. Then turning to the door, he repeated the signal a second
time. It was answered--three officers came in.

Although astounded at the occurrence, the steward came to a sudden and
desperate determination. The ruffian, hardened as he was, turned his
eyes away in another direction from his victim--and, taking advantage
of the momentary absence of the officer at the door, when summoning
his fellows from below, Morley unperceived, took a small phial from
his pocket, and swallowed the contents. He was instantly secured and
searched--a large sum in money taken from his person--the handcuffs
were being put on, which were to bind him for a time to the returned
convict--the wretch who had betrayed him,--when suddenly, his look
became fixed and glassy--his face livid--he reeled into the arms of an
officer, and next moment, sank on the floor a corpse.



CONCLUSION.

               “All tragedies are finish’d by a death,

               All comedies are ended by a marriage”

                        Don Juan.

|The second week of October was beautiful. The woods were tinted with
the varied hues which autumn interposes between “summer green,” and
“snow clad winter.” The sun shone brightly--the birds sang--the bells
rang out a merry peal--and a bridal, in long array, swept through the
long avenue of Clifford Park, and approached the village church. The road
was crowded with all the rustic population of the neighbourhood--and,
while the men hurrahed, the girls spread flowers along the churchyard
path, when the young and beautiful bride left the carriage at the gate,
and advanced to the portal of the sacred edifice. She reached the altar
leaning on her lover’s arm--and there, encouraged by the approving
smiles of happy relatives and surrounded by a gaily dressed _cortège_ of
bridal attendants, interchanged her vows of constancy, and bestowed her
plighted hand upon the youth who knelt beside her. The surpliced priest
pronounced his benison, and closed the book--the holy ceremony was
over--but an interesting scene remained. An aged man, on whose head the
snows of eighty winters rested, had sate beside the altar in a chair,
while the sacred rite was celebrated. When the churchman’s blessing died
away in the echo of the distant aisle, the old man signalled the young
couple to approach him; they knelt at the feet of their venerable
relation, who laid a hand upon either head, and with eyes devoutly
up-turned, invoked Heaven’s protection upon his darling children. The
blesser was Mr. Clifford--the blessed ones, Isidora and myself.

*****

A second time the sun had circled the earth, and the same season had
returned. Again the village bells were rung, and the park of Clifford
Hall was crowded with tenants and villagers--that day it was the scene
of rejoicing and festivity--an heir was born to the ancient name--and
the baptismal ceremony was being performed within the hall, in presence
of a goodly assemblage. From the font, the infant was carried in the
arms of his young and happy mother to an easy chair, where a venerable
man was seated. She knelt and invoked his blessing; and, upon the heads
of two generations the old man’s hands were laid, while his lips poured
forth an ardent benediction.

*****

Again the year came round. It was later in the season, for withered
leaves were spread thickly on the ground, a mute but striking type of
life’s decay. Slow and hewily the village bell was tolling--death was in
Clifford Hall, and its owner was about to be carried to the tomb, where
his forefathers were sleeping. Ripe for the grave--surrounded by those
he loved--cheered by the consolations of religion, Mr. Clifford had
calmly slumbered life away--his head pillowed on a daughter’s
bosom--his hand pressed gently within the grasp of a son, from whom for
five-and-thirty years he had been alienated.

*****

The stranger who passes through the domain of Clifford Hall, will
occasionally encounter a hale, stout, white-headed-man, in leathers
and gambroon, with a gun under his arm, and two Scotch terriers at his
heels. That personage was once intituled Shemus Rhua--but years have
spoiled the _sobriquet_. At the back gate there is a picturesque
cottage, with a flower-garden attached, and filled with bee-hives. There
a handsome old woman will present herself, attended by a village girl.
She bears the appearance of a faithful servant, who has retired with
every comfort. That old woman was once Ellen--or the gipsy, as you
please.

In the immediate front of the Hall, two elderly personages may be
daily noticed. One--stout, stooped, very gray, and very
intelligent-looking--that is mine uncle. Another--spare, slight,
and with a head erect as if he intended to throw Father Time off his
shoulders, should he presume to invade them--his empty sleeve perfects
the identity. Need I name my father?

One more group remains. A middle-aged gentleman, and a lady, rich in the
beauty of middle life--a throng of children, that would throw Harriet
Martineau into hysterics, gambol round them, while a handsome old
gentlewoman, whom they term “grandmama,” superintends their movements.
If you cannot guess who they are--why go up to the steward’s house upon
the hill--and Mr. O’Toole, or his pretty wife, will inform you.

THE END.





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