indemnify himself for his public and
apparent servitude and self-denial, he in private exacted a degree of respectful
homage from his so-called master, totally inconsistent with the relation generally supposed to exist between them.
This man’s personal appearance was, to say the least of it, extremely odd; he was low in stature; and this defect was
enhanced by a distortion of the spine, so considerable as almost to amount to a hunch; his features, too, had all that sharpness and sickliness of hue which generally accompany deformity; he wore his hair, which
was black as soot, in heavy neglected ringlets about his shoulders, and always without
powder–a peculiarity in those days. There was something unpleasant, too, in the
circumstance that he never raised his eyes to meet those of another; this fact was often cited as a proof of his being
something not quite right, and said to result not from the timidity which is
supposed in most cases to induce this habit, but from a consciousness that his eye
possessed a power which, if exhibited, would betray a supernatural origin. Once, and
once only, had he violated this sinister observance: it was on the occasion of Sir Robert’s hopes having been most bitterly disappointed; his lady, after a severe and dangerous confinement, gave birth to a
dead child. Immediately after the intelligence had been made known, a servant,
having upon some business passed outside the gate of the castle-yard, was met by
Jacque, who, contrary to his wont, accosted him, observing, ‘So, after all the pother, the son and heir is still-born.’ This
remark was accompanied by a chuckling laugh, the only approach to merriment
which he was ever known to exhibit. The servant, who was really disappointed, having hoped for holiday times, feasting and debauchery with impunity during the
rejoicings which would have accompanied a christening, turned tartly upon the little valet, telling him that he should let Sir Robert know how he had received the
tidings which should have filled any faithful servant with sorrow; and having once
broken the ice, he was proceeding with increasing fluency, when his harangue was cut short and his temerity punished, by
the little man raising his head and treating him to a scowl so fearful, half-demoniac, half-insane, that it haunted his imagination in nightmares and nervous tremors
for months after.
To this man Lady Ardagh had, at first sight, conceived an antipathy amounting to horror, a mixture of loathing and dread so very powerful that she had made it a
particular and urgent request to Sir Robert, that he would dismiss him, offering herself, from that property which Sir Robert had
by the marriage settlements left at her own disposal, to provide handsomely for him, provided only she might be relieved from the continual anxiety and discomfort
which the fear of encountering him induced.
Sir Robert, however, would not hear of it; the request seemed at first to agitate and distress him; but when still urged in defiance of his peremptory refusal, he burst into a violent fit of fury; he spoke darkly of great sacrifices which he had made, and threatened that if the request were at any time renewed he would leave both her and the country for ever. This was, however, a solitary instance of violence; his general conduct towards Lady Ardagh, though at
no time uxorious, was certainly kind and respectful, and he was more than repaid
in the fervent attachment which she bore him in return.
Some short time after this strange
interview between Sir Robert and Lady Ardagh; one night after the family had
retired to bed, and when everything had been quiet for some time, the bell of Sir Robert’s dressing-room rang suddenly and violently; the ringing was repeated again and again at still shorter intervals, and with increasing violence, as if the person who pulled the bell was agitated by the
presence of some terrifying and imminent danger. A servant named Donovan was
the first to answer it; he threw on his clothes, and hurried to the room.
Sir Robert had selected for his private room an apartment remote from the bed-
chambers of the castle, most of which lay in the more modern parts of the mansion, and secured at its entrance by a double
door. As the servant opened the first of these, Sir Robert’s bell again sounded with a longer and louder peal; the inner door resisted his efforts to open it; but after a few violent struggles, not having been perfectly secured, or owing to the inadequacy of the bolt itself, it gave way, and
the servant rushed into the apartment, advancing several paces before he could
recover himself. As he entered, he heard Sir Robert’s voice exclaiming loudly–
‘Wait without, do not come in yet;’ but the prohibition came too late. Near
a low truckle-bed, upon which Sir Robert sometimes slept, for he was a whimsical
man, in a large armchair, sat, or rather lounged, the form of the valet Jacque, his arms folded, and his heels stretched
forward on the floor, so as fully to exhibit his misshapen legs, his head thrown back, and his eyes fixed upon his master with a look of indescribable defiance and derision, while, as if to add to the strange insolence of his attitude and expression, he had placed upon his head the black cloth cap which it was his habit to wear.
Sir Robert was standing before him, at the distance of several yards, in a posture expressive of despair, terror, and what
might be called an agony of humility. He waved his hand twice or thrice, as if to dismiss the servant, who, however,
remained fixed on the spot where he had first stood; and then, as if forgetting
everything but the agony within him, he pressed his clenched hands on his cold damp brow, and dashed away the heavy drops that
gathered chill and thickly there.
Jacque broke the silence.
‘Donovan,’ said he, ‘shake up that
drone and drunkard, Carlton; tell him that his master directs that the travelling carriage shall be at the door within half- an-hour.’
The servant paused, as if in doubt as to what he should do; but his scruples were resolved by Sir Robert’s saying hurriedly, ‘Go–go, do whatever he directs; his
commands are mine; tell Carlton the same.’
The servant hurried to obey, and in
about half-an-hour the carriage was at the door, and Jacque, having directed the
coachman to drive to B—-n, a small town at about the distance of twelve
miles–the nearest point, however, at which post-horses could be obtained–
stepped into the vehicle, which accordingly quitted the castle immediately.
Although it was a fine moonlight night, the carriage made its way but very slowly, and after the lapse of two hours the travellers had arrived at a point about eight miles from the castle, at which the road strikes through a desolate and heathy flat, sloping up distantly at either side into bleak
undulatory hills, in whose monotonous sweep the imagination beholds the heaving of
some dark sluggish sea, arrested in its first commotion by some preternatural
power. It is a gloomy and divested spot; there is neither tree nor habitation near it; its monotony is unbroken, except by here and there the grey front of a rock peering above the heath, and the effect is rendered yet more dreary and spectral by the
exaggerated and misty shadows which the moon casts along the sloping sides of the hills.
When they had gained about the
centre of this tract, Carlton, the coachman, was surprised to see a figure standing
at some distance in advance, immediately beside the road, and still more so when, on coming up, he observed that it was no other than Jacque whom he believed to
be at that moment quietly seated in the carriage; the coachman drew up, and
nodding to him, the little valet exclaimed:
‘Carlton, I have got the start of you; the roads are heavy, so I shall even take care of myself the rest of the way. Do
you make your way back as best you can, and I shall follow my own nose.’
So saying, he chucked a purse into the lap of the coachman, and turning off at a right angle with the road, he began to
move rapidly away in the direction of the dark ridge that lowered in the distance.
The servant watched him until he was
lost in the shadowy haze of night; and neither he nor any of the inmates of the castle saw Jacque again. His disappearance, as might have been expected, did not cause any regret among the servants and dependants at the castle; and Lady Ardagh
did not attempt to conceal her delight; but with Sir Robert matters were different, for two or three days subsequent to this event he confined himself to his room, and when he did return to his ordinary
occupations, it was with a gloomy indifference, which showed that he did so more from
habit than from any interest he felt in them. He appeared from that moment
unaccountably and strikingly changed, and thenceforward walked through life as a
thing from which he could derive neither profit nor pleasure. His temper, however, so far from growing wayward or
morose, became, though gloomy, very– almost unnaturally–placid and cold; but his spirits totally failed, and he grew silent and abstracted.
These sombre habits of mind, as might have been anticipated, very materially
affected the gay house-keeping of the castle; and the dark and melancholy
spirit of its master seemed to have communicated itself to the very domestics, almost to the very walls of the mansion.
Several years rolled on in this way, and the sounds of mirth and wassail had long been strangers to the castle, when Sir
Robert requested his lady, to her great astonishment, to invite some twenty or
thirty of their friends to spend the Christmas, which was fast approaching, at the
castle. Lady Ardagh gladly complied, and her sister Mary, who still continued unmarried, and Lady D—- were of
course included in the invitations. Lady Ardagh had requested her sisters to set
forward as early as possible, in order that she might enjoy a little of their society before the arrival of the other guests;
and in compliance with this request they left Dublin almost immediately upon
receiving the invitation, a little more than a week before the arrival of the festival which was to be the period at which the
whole party were to muster.
For expedition’s sake it was arranged that they should post, while Lady D—-‘s groom was to follow with her horses,
she taking with herself her own maid and one male servant. They left the city
when the day was considerably spent, and consequently made but three stages in
the first day; upon the second, at about eight in the evening, they had reached the town of K—-k, distant about fifteen
miles from Castle Ardagh. Here, owing to Miss F—-d’s great fatigue, she having been for a considerable time in a very
delicate state of health, it was determined to put up for the night. They, accord-
ingly, took possession of the best sitting- room which the inn commanded, and Lady
D—-remained in it to direct and urge the preparations for some refreshment,
which the fatigues of the day had rendered necessary, while her younger sister
retired to her bed-chamber to rest there for a little time, as the parlour commanded no such luxury as a sofa.
Miss F—-d was, as I have already
stated, at this time in very delicate health; and upon this occasion the exhaustion of fatigue, and the dreary badness of the
weather, combined to depress her spirits. Lady D—- had not been left long to
herself, when the door communicating with the passage was abruptly opened,
and her sister Mary entered in a state of great agitation; she sat down pale and
trembling upon one of the chairs, and it was not until a copious flood of tears had relieved her, that she became sufficiently calm to relate the cause of her excitement and distress. It was simply this. Almost immediately upon lying down upon the
bed she sank into a feverish and unrefreshing slumber; images of all grotesque
shapes and startling colours flitted before her sleeping fancy with all the rapidity and variety of the changes in a kaleidoscope. At length, as she described it, a mist
seemed to interpose itself between her sight and the ever-shifting scenery which sported before her imagination, and out
of this cloudy shadow gradually emerged a figure whose back seemed turned
towards the sleeper; it was that of a lady, who, in perfect silence, was expressing
as far as pantomimic gesture could, by wringing her hands, and throwing her
head from side to side, in the manner of one who is exhausted by the over indulgence, by the very sickness and impatience
of grief; the extremity of misery. For a long time she sought in vain to catch a
glimpse of the face of the apparition, who thus seemed to stir and live before her. But at length the figure seemed to move
with an air of authority, as if about to give directions to some inferior, and in doing so, it turned its head so as to
display, with a ghastly distinctness, the features of Lady Ardagh, pale as death,
with her dark hair all dishevelled, and her eyes dim and sunken with weeping.
The revulsion of feeling which Miss F—-d experienced at this disclosure–
for up to that point she had contemplated the appearance rather with a sense of
curiosity and of interest, than of anything deeper–was so horrible, that the shock
awoke her perfectly. She sat up in the bed, and looked fearfully around the
room, which was imperfectly lighted by a single candle burning dimly, as if she
almost expected to see the reality of her dreadful vision lurking in some corner of the chamber. Her fears were, however,
verified, though not in the way she expected; yet in a manner sufficiently
horrible–for she had hardly time to breathe and to collect her thoughts, when she heard, or thought she heard, the
voice of her sister, Lady Ardagh, sometimes sobbing violently, and sometimes
almost shrieking as if in terror, and calling upon her and Lady D—-, with the most imploring earnestness of despair, for God’s sake to lose no time in coming to
her. All this was so horribly distinct, that it seemed as if the mourner was
standing within a few yards of the spot where Miss F—-d lay. She sprang from
the bed, and leaving the candle in the room behind her, she made her way in the dark through the passage, the voice still following her, until as she arrived at the door of the sitting-room it seemed to die away in low sobbing.
As soon as Miss F—-d was tolerably
recovered, she declared her determination to proceed directly, and without further loss of time, to Castle Ardagh. It was
not without much difficulty that Lady D—- at length prevailed upon her to
consent to remain where they then were, until morning should arrive, when it was to be expected that the young lady would be much refreshed by at least remaining
quiet for the night, even though sleep were out of the question. Lady D—-
was convinced, from the nervous and feverish symptoms which her sister
exhibited, that she had already done too much, and was more than ever satisfied of the necessity of prosecuting the journey no further upon that day. After some
time she persuaded her sister to return to her room, where she remained with her
until she had gone to bed, and appeared comparatively composed. Lady D—-
then returned to the parlour, and not finding herself sleepy, she remained sitting by the fire. Her solitude was a second
time broken in upon, by the entrance of her sister, who now appeared, if possible, more agitated than before. She said that Lady D—- had not long left the room,
when she was roused by a repetition of the same wailing and lamentations, accom- panied by the wildest and most agonized
supplications that no time should be lost in coming to Castle Ardagh, and all in her sister’s voice, and uttered at the same
proximity as before. This time the voice had followed her to the very door of the sitting-room, and until she closed it,
seemed to pour forth its cries and sobs at the very threshold.
Miss F—-d now most positively
declared that nothing should prevent her proceeding instantly to the castle, adding that if Lady D—- would not accompany
her, she would go on by herself.
Superstitious feelings are at all times more or less contagious, and the last century
afforded a soil much more congenial to their growth than the present. Lady
D—- was so far affected by her sister’s terrors, that she became, at least, uneasy; and seeing that her sister was immovably determined upon setting forward immediately, she consented to accompany her
forthwith. After a slight delay, fresh horses were procured, and the two ladies and their attendants renewed their journey, with strong injunctions to the driver to quicken their rate of travelling as much as possible, and promises of reward in case of his doing so.
Roads were then in much worse condition throughout the south, even than
they now are; and the fifteen miles which modern posting would have passed in little more than an hour and a half, were not
completed even with every possible exertion in twice the time. Miss F—-d had
been nervously restless during the journey. Her head had been constantly out of
the carriage window; and as they ap- proached the entrance to the castle
demesne, which lay about a mile from the building, her anxiety began to communicate itself to her sister. The postillion
had just dismounted, and was endeavouring to open the gate–at that time a
necessary trouble; for in the middle of the last century porter’s lodges were not common in the south of Ireland, and locks and keys almost unknown. He had just
succeeded in rolling back the heavy oaken gate so as to admit the vehicle, when a
mounted servant rode rapidly down the avenue, and drawing up at the carriage,
asked of the postillion who the party were; and on hearing, he rode round to the
carriage window and handed in a note, which Lady D—- received. By the
assistance of one of the coach-lamps they succeeded in deciphering it. It was
scrawled in great agitation, and ran thus:
‘MY DEAR SISTER–MY DEAR SISTERS
BOTH,–In God’s name lose no time, I am frightened and miserable; I cannot explain all till you come. I am too much terrified to write coherently; but understand
me–hasten–do not waste a minute. I am afraid you will come too late.
‘E. A.’
The servant could tell nothing more
than that the castle was in great confusion, and that Lady Ardagh had been crying
bitterly all the night. Sir Robert was perfectly well. Altogether at a loss as to the cause of Lady Ardagh’s great distress, they urged their way up the steep and
broken avenue which wound through the crowding trees, whose wild and grotesque branches, now left stripped and naked by the blasts of winter, stretched drearily across the road. As the carriage drew up in the area before the door, the anxiety of the ladies almost amounted to agony; and
scarcely waiting for the assistance of their attendant, they sprang to the ground, and in an instant stood at the castle door.
From within were distinctly audible the sounds of lamentation and weeping, and
the suppressed hum of voices as if of those endeavouring to soothe the mourner.
The door was speedily opened, and when the ladies entered, the first object which met their view was their sister, Lady
Ardagh, sitting on a form in the hall, weeping and wringing her hands in deep
agony. Beside her stood two old, withered crones, who were each endeavouring in
their own way to administer consolation, without even knowing or caring what the
subject of her grief might be.
Immediately on Lady Ardagh’s seeing
her sisters, she started up, fell on their necks, and kissed them again and again
without speaking, and then taking them each by a hand, still weeping bitterly, she led them into a small room adjoining the hall, in which burned a light, and, having closed the door, she sat down between
them. After thanking them for the haste they had made, she proceeded to tell them, in words incoherent from agitation, that Sir Robert had in private, and in the most solemn manner, told her that he should die upon that night, and that he had occupied himself during the evening in giving minute directions respecting the arrangements of his funeral. Lady D—- here suggested
the possibility of his labouring under the hallucinations of a fever; but to this Lady Ardagh quickly replied:
‘Oh! no, no! Would to God I could
think it. Oh! no, no! Wait till you have seen him. There is a frightful calmness about all he says and does; and his
directions are all so clear, and his mind so perfectly collected, it is impossible, quite impossible.’ And she wept yet more
bitterly.
At that moment Sir Robert’s voice was heard in issuing some directions, as he
came downstairs; and Lady Ardagh
exclaimed, hurriedly:
‘Go now and see him yourself. He is
in the hall.’
Lady D—- accordingly went out into
the hall, where Sir Robert met her; and, saluting her with kind politeness, he said, after a pause:
‘You are come upon a melancholy mission– the house is in great confusion, and
some of its inmates in considerable grief.’ He took her hand, and looking fixedly in her face, continued: ‘I shall not live to see to-morrow’s sun shine.’
‘You are ill, sir, I have no doubt,’
replied she; ‘but I am very certain we shall see you much better to-morrow, and still better the day following.’
‘I am NOT ill, sister,’ replied he. ‘Feel my temples, they are cool; lay your finger to my pulse, its throb is slow and
temperate. I never was more perfectly in health, and yet do I know that ere three hours be past, I shall be no more.’
‘Sir, sir,’ said she, a good deal startled, but wishing to conceal the impression which the calm solemnity of his manner had, in her own despite, made upon her, ‘Sir, you should not jest; you should not even speak lightly upon such subjects. You trifle
with what is sacred–you are sporting with the best affections of your wife—-‘
‘Stay, my good lady,’ said he; ‘if when this clock shall strike the hour of three, I shall be anything but a helpless clod, then upbraid me. Pray return now to your
sister. Lady Ardagh is, indeed, much to be pitied; but what is past cannot now be helped. I have now a few papers to
arrange, and some to destroy. I shall see you and Lady Ardagh before my death;
try to compose her–her sufferings distress me much; but what is past cannot now be
mended.’
Thus saying, he went upstairs, and Lady D—- returned to the room where her
sisters were sitting.
‘Well,’ exclaimed Lady Ardagh, as she re-entered, ‘is it not so?–do you still doubt?–do you think there is any hope?”
Lady D—- was silent.
‘Oh! none, none, none,’ continued she; ‘I see, I see you are convinced.’ And she wrung her hands in bitter agony.
‘My dear sister,’ said Lady D—-,
‘there is, no doubt, something strange in all that has appeared in this matter; but still I cannot but hope that there may be something deceptive in all the apparent
calmness of Sir Robert. I still must believe that some latent fever has affected his mind, or that, owing to the state of nervous depression into which he has been sinking, some trivial occurrence has been converted, in his disordered imagination, into an augury foreboding his immediate
dissolution.’
In such suggestions, unsatisfactory even to those who originated them, and doubly so to her whom they were intended to
comfort, more than two hours passed; and Lady D—- was beginning to hope that
the fated term might elapse without the occurrence of any tragical event, when Sir Robert entered the room. On coming in,
he placed his finger with a warning gesture upon his lips, as if to enjoin silence; and then having successively pressed the hands of his two sisters-in-law, he stooped sadly over the fainting form of his lady, and
twice pressed her cold, pale forehead, with his lips, and then passed silently out of the room.
Lady D—-, starting up, followed to the door, and saw him take a candle in the hall, and walk deliberately up the stairs. Stimulated by a feeling of horrible curiosity, she
continued to follow him at a distance. She saw him enter his own private room, and
heard him close and lock the door after him. Continuing to follow him as far as she
could, she placed herself at the door of the chamber, as noiselessly as possible, where after a little time she was joined by her two sisters, Lady Ardagh and Miss F—-d. In breathless silence they listened to what should pass within. They distinctly heard Sir Robert pacing up and down the room
for some time; and then, after a pause, a sound as if some one had thrown himself
heavily upon the bed. At this moment Lady D—-, forgetting that the door had been secured within, turned the handle for the purpose of entering; when some one from the inside, close to the door, said, ‘Hush! hush!’ The same lady, now much alarmed,
knocked violently at the door; there was no answer. She knocked again more vio-
lently, with no further success. Lady Ardagh, now uttering a piercing shriek,
sank in a swoon upon the floor. Three or four servants, alarmed by the noise, now hurried upstairs, and Lady Ardagh was
carried apparently lifeless to her own chamber. They then, after having knocked long and loudly in vain, applied themselves to forcing an entrance into Sir Robert’s room. After resisting some violent efforts, the door at length gave way, and all
entered the room nearly together. There was a single candle burning upon a table at the far end of the apartment; and stretched upon the bed lay Sir Robert Ardagh. He
was a corpse–the eyes were open–no convulsion had passed over the features, or distorted the limbs–it seemed as if the soul had sped from the body without a
struggle to remain there. On touching the body it was found to be cold as clay– all lingering of the vital heat had left it. They closed the ghastly eyes of the corpse, and leaving it to the care of those who
seem to consider it a privilege of their age and sex to gloat over the revolting spectacle of death in all its stages, they
returned to Lady Ardagh, now a widow. The party assembled at the castle, but the atmosphere was tainted with death. Grief there was not much, but awe and panic
were expressed in every face. The guests talked in whispers, and the servants walked on tiptoe, as if afraid of the very noise of their own footsteps.
The funeral was conducted almost with splendour. The body, having been conveyed, in compliance with Sir Robert’s last
directions, to Dublin, was there laid within the ancient walls of St. Audoen’s Church –where I have read the epitaph, telling the age and titles of the departed dust. Neither painted escutcheon, nor marble
slab, have served to rescue from oblivion the story of the dead, whose very name
will ere long moulder from their tracery
‘Et sunt sua fata sepulchris.'[1]
[1] This prophecy has since been realised; for the aisle in which Sir Robert’s remains were laid has been suffered to fall completely to decay; and the tomb which marked his grave, and other monuments more curious, form now one indistinguishable mass of rubbish.
The events which I have recorded are
not imaginary. They are FACTS; and
there lives one whose authority none would venture to question, who could vindicate the accuracy of every statement which I
have set down, and that, too, with
all the circumstantiality of an eye- witness.[2]
[2] This paper, from a memorandum, I find to have been written in 1803. The lady to whom allusion is made, I believe to be Miss Mary F—-d. She never married, and survived both her sisters, living to a very advanced age.
THE LAST HEIR OF CASTLE CONNOR.
Being a third Extract from the legacy of the late Francis Purcell, P. P. of Drumcoolagh.
There is something in the decay
of ancient grandeur to interest
even the most unconcerned
spectator–the evidences of greatness, of power, and of pride that survive the wreck of time, proving, in mournful contrast with present desolation and decay, what WAS in other days, appeal, with a resistless power, to the sympathies of our nature. And
when, as we gaze on the scion of some ruined family, the first impulse of nature that bids us regard his fate with interest and respect is justified by the recollection of great exertions and self-devotion and sacrifices in the cause of a lost country and of a despised religion–sacrifices and
efforts made with all the motives of faithfulness and of honour, and terminating in
ruin–in such a case respect becomes veneration, and the interest we feel amounts almost to a passion.
It is this feeling which has thrown
the magic veil of romance over every roofless castle and ruined turret throughout our country; it is this feeling that,
so long as a tower remains above
the level of the soil, so long as one scion of a prostrate and impoverished family
survives, will never suffer Ireland to yield to the stranger more than the
‘mouth honour’ which fear compels.[3] I who have conversed viva voce et propria
persona with those whose recollections could run back so far as the times previous to the confiscations which followed the
Revolution of 1688–whose memory could repeople halls long roofless and desolate, and point out the places where greatness once had been, may feel all this more
strongly, and with a more vivid interest, than can those whose sympathies are
awakened by the feebler influence of what may be called the PICTURESQUE effects of ruin and decay.
[3] This passage serves (mirabile dictu) to corroborate a statement of Mr. O’Connell’s, which occurs in his evidence given before the House of Commons, wherein he affirms that the principles of the Irish priesthood ‘ARE democratic, and were those of Jacobinism.’–See digest of the evidence upon the state of Ireland, given before the House of Commons.
There do, indeed, still exist some
fragments of the ancient Catholic families of Ireland; but, alas! what VERY fragments! They linger like the remnants of her
aboriginal forests, reft indeed of their strength and greatness, but proud even in decay. Every winter thins their ranks,
and strews the ground with the wreck of their loftiest branches; they are at best but tolerated in the land which gave them birth–objects of curiosity, perhaps of
pity, to one class, but of veneration to another.
The O’Connors, of Castle Connor, were an ancient Irish family. The name recurs frequently in our history, and is generally to be found in a prominent place whenever periods of tumult or of peril called forth the courage and the enterprise of this
country. After the accession of William III., the storm of confiscation which
swept over the land made woeful havoc in their broad domains. Some fragments
of property, however, did remain to them, and with it the building which had for
ages formed the family residence.
About the year 17–, my uncle, a
Catholic priest, became acquainted with the inmates of Castle Connor, and after a time introduced me, then a lad of about fifteen, full of spirits, and little dreaming that a profession so grave as his should ever
become mine.
The family at that time consisted of but two members, a widow lady and her only
son, a young man aged about eighteen. In our early days the progress from acquaintance to intimacy, and from intimacy to
friendship is proverbially rapid; and young O’Connor and I became, in less than a
month, close and confidential companions– an intercourse which ripened gradually into an attachment ardent, deep, and devoted– such as I believe young hearts only are
capable of forming.
He had been left early fatherless, and the representative and heir of his family. His mother’s affection for him was intense in proportion as there existed no other
object to divide it–indeed–such love as that she bore him I have never seen
elsewhere. Her love was better bestowed than that of mothers generally is, for
young O’Connor, not without some of the faults, had certainly many of the most
engaging qualities of youth. He had all the frankness and gaiety which attract, and
the generosity of heart which confirms friendship; indeed, I never saw a person so universally popular; his very faults
seemed to recommend him; he was wild, extravagant, thoughtless, and fearlessly adventurous–defects of character which, among the peasantry of Ireland, are
honoured as virtues. The combination of these qualities, and the position which
O’Connor occupied as representative of an ancient Irish Catholic family–a peculiarly interesting one to me, one of the old faith– endeared him to me so much that I have
never felt the pangs of parting more keenly than when it became necessary, for the
finishing of his education, that he should go abroad.
Three years had passed away before I
saw him again. During the interval, however, I had frequently heard from him, so that absence had not abated the warmth of our attachment. Who could tell of the rejoicings that marked the evening of his return? The horses were removed from
the chaise at the distance of a mile from the castle, while it and its contents were borne rapidly onward almost by the pressure of the multitude, like a log upon a
torrent. Bonfires blared far and near– bagpipes roared and fiddles squeaked; and, amid the thundering shouts of thousands, the carriage drew up before the
castle.
In an instant young O’Connor was upon the ground, crying, ‘Thank you, boys–
thank you, boys;’ while a thousand hands were stretched out from all sides to grasp even a finger of his. Still, amid shouts of ‘God bless your honour–long may you
reign!’ and ‘Make room there, boys! clear the road for the masther!’ he reached the threshold of the castle, where stood his mother weeping for joy.
Oh! who could describe that embrace,
or the enthusiasm with which it was witnessed? ‘God bless him to you, my lady– glory to ye both!’ and ‘Oh, but he is a fine young gentleman, God bless him!’
resounded on all sides, while hats flew up in volleys that darkened the moon; and
when at length, amid the broad delighted grins of the thronging domestics, whose
sense of decorum precluded any more boisterous evidence of joy, they reached the parlour, then giving way to the fulness of her joy the widowed mother kissed and blessed him and wept in turn. Well
might any parent be proud to claim as son the handsome stripling who now represented the Castle Connor family; but to
her his beauty had a peculiar charm, for it bore a striking resemblance to that of her husband, the last O’Connor.
I know not whether partiality blinded me, or that I did no more than justice to my friend in believing that I had never
seen so handsome a young man. I am
inclined to think the latter. He was rather tall, very slightly and elegantly made; his face was oval, and his features decidedly Spanish in cast and complexion, but with far more vivacity of expression than
generally belongs to the beauty of that nation. The extreme delicacy of his features and the varied animation of his countenance
made him appear even younger than his years–an illusion which the total absence of everything studied in his manners
seemed to confirm. Time had wrought no small change in me, alike in mind and
spirits; but in the case of O’Connor it seemed to have lost its power to alter.
His gaiety was undamped, his generosity unchilled; and though the space which
had intervened between our parting and reunion was but brief, yet at the period of life at which we were, even a shorter
interval than that of three years has frequently served to form or DEform a
character.
Weeks had passed away since the return of O’Connor, and scarce a day had elapsed without my seeing him, when the
neighbourhood was thrown into an unusual state of excitement by the announcement of a
race-ball to be celebrated at the assembly- room of the town of T—-, distant scarcely two miles from Castle Connor.
Young O’Connor, as I had expected,
determined at once to attend it; and having directed in vain all the powers of his rhetoric to persuade his mother to
accompany him, he turned the whole
battery of his logic upon me, who, at that time, felt a reluctance stronger than that of mere apathy to mixing in any of these scenes of noisy pleasure for which for
many reasons I felt myself unfitted. He was so urgent and persevering, however,
that I could not refuse; and I found myself reluctantly obliged to make up my
mind to attend him upon the important night to the spacious but ill-finished building, which the fashion and beauty of the
county were pleased to term an assembly- room.
When we entered the apartment, we
found a select few, surrounded by a crowd of spectators, busily performing a minuet, with all the congees and flourishes which belonged to that courtly dance; and my
companion, infected by the contagion of example, was soon, as I had anticipated, waving his chapeau bras, and gracefully
bowing before one of the prettiest girls in the room. I had neither skill nor spirits to qualify me to follow his example; and as the fulness of the room rendered it easy to do so without its appearing singular, I
determined to be merely a spectator of the scene which surrounded me, without
taking an active part in its amusements.
The room was indeed very much
crowded, so that its various groups, formed as design or accident had thrown the
parties together, afforded no small fund of entertainment to the contemplative
observer. There were the dancers, all gaiety and good-humour; a little further off were the tables at which sat the card- players, some plying their vocation with deep and silent anxiety–for in those days gaming often ran very high in such places –and others disputing with all the
vociferous pertinacity of undisguised ill- temper. There, again, were the sallow,
blue-nosed, grey-eyed dealers in whispered scandal; and, in short, there is scarcely a group or combination to be met with in
the court of kings which might not have found a humble parallel in the assembly- room of T—-.
I was allowed to indulge in undisturbed contemplation, for I suppose I was not
known to more than five or six in the room. I thus had leisure not only to
observe the different classes into which the company had divided itself, but to amuse myself by speculating as to the rank and character of many of the individual actors in the drama.
Among many who have long since
passed from my memory, one person for some time engaged my attention, and that person, for many reasons, I shall not soon forget. He was a tall, square-shouldered man, who stood in a careless attitude,
leaning with his back to the wall; he seemed to have secluded himself from the busy multitudes which moved noisily and
gaily around him, and nobody seemed to observe or to converse with him. He was
fashionably dressed, but perhaps rather extravagantly; his face was full and
heavy, expressive of sullenness and stupidity, and marked with the lines of
strong vulgarity; his age might be somewhere between forty and fifty. Such as I
have endeavoured to describe him, he remained motionless, his arms doggedly
folded across his broad chest, and turning his sullen eyes from corner to corner of the room, as if eager to detect some object on which to vent his ill-humour.
It is strange, and yet it is true, that one sometimes finds even in the most commonplace countenance an undefinable something,
which fascinates the attention, and forces it to recur again and again, while it is impossible to tell whether the peculiarity which thus attracts us lies in feature or in expression. or in both combined, and
why it is that our observation should be engrossed by an object which, when
analysed, seems to possess no claim to interest or even to notice. This
unaccountable feeling I have often experienced, and I believe I am not singular. but never in so remarkable a degree as upon this
occasion. My friend O’Connor, having disposed of his fair partner, was crossing the room for the purpose of joining me, in doing which I was surprised to see him
exchange a familiar, almost a cordial, greeting with the object of my curiosity. I say I was surprised, for independent of his very questionable appearance, it struck me as strange that though so constantly
associated with O’Connor, and, as I thought, personally acquainted with all
his intimates, I had never before even seen this individual. I did not fail
immediately to ask him who this gentleman was. I thought he seemed slightly
embarrassed, but after a moment’s pause he laughingly said that his friend over the way was too mysterious a personage to
have his name announced in so giddy a scene as the present; but that on the
morrow he would furnish me with all the information which I could desire. There
was, I thought, in his affected jocularity a real awkwardness which appeared to me
unaccountable, and consequently increased my curiosity; its gratification, however, I was obliged to defer. At length, wearied with witnessing amusements in which I
could not sympathise, I left the room, and did not see O’Connor until late in the next day.
I had ridden down towards the castle
for the purpose of visiting the O’Connors, and had nearly reached the avenue leading to the mansion, when I met my friend.
He was also mounted; and having
answered my inquiries respecting his mother, he easily persuaded me to accompany him
in his ramble. We had chatted as usual for some time, when, after a pause,
O’Connor said:
‘By the way, Purcell, you expressed
some curiosity respecting the tall, handsome fellow to whom I spoke last
night.’
‘I certainly did question you about a TALL gentleman, but was not aware of his claims to beauty,’ replied I.
‘Well, that is as it may be,’ said he; ‘the ladies think him handsome, and their opinion upon that score is more valuable than yours or mine. Do you know,’ he
continued, ‘I sometimes feel half sorry that I ever made the fellow’s acquaintance: he is quite a marked man here, and they
tell stories of him that are anything but reputable, though I am sure without
foundation. I think I know enough about him to warrant me in saying so.’
‘May I ask his name?’ inquired I.
‘Oh! did not I tell you his name?’
rejoined he. ‘You should have heard that first; he and his name are equally
well known. You will recognise the
individual at once when I tell you that his name is–Fitzgerald.’
‘Fitzgerald!’ I repeated. ‘Fitzgerald! –can it be Fitzgerald the duellist?’
‘Upon my word you have hit it,’ replied he, laughing; ‘but you have accompanied
the discovery with a look of horror more tragic than appropriate. He is not the
monster you take him for–he has a good deal of old Irish pride; his temper is
hasty, and he has been unfortunately thrown in the way of men who have not
made allowance for these things. I am convinced that in every case in which
Fitzgerald has fought, if the truth could be discovered, he would be found to have acted throughout upon the defensive. No
man is mad enough to risk his own life, except when the doing so is an alternative to submitting tamely to what he considers an insult. I am certain that no man ever engaged in a duel under the consciousness that he had acted an intentionally aggressive part.’
‘When did you make his acquaintance?’ said I.
‘About two years ago,’ he replied. ‘I met him in France, and you know when
one is abroad it is an ungracious task to reject the advances of one’s countryman, otherwise I think I should have
avoided his society–less upon my own account than because I am sure the
acquaintance would be a source of
continual though groundless uneasiness to my mother. I know, therefore, that you
will not unnecessarily mention its existence to her.’
I gave him the desired assurance, and added:
‘May I ask you. O’Connor, if, indeed, it be a fair question, whether this Fitzgerald at any time attempted to engage you in
anything like gaming?’
This question was suggested by my
having frequently heard Fitzgerald
mentioned as a noted gambler, and sometimes even as a blackleg. O’Connor seemed, I
thought, slightly embarrassed. He answered:
‘No, no–I cannot say that he ever
attempted anything of the kind. I
certainly have played with him, but never lost to any serious amount; nor can I
recollect that he ever solicited me–indeed he knows that I have a strong objection to deep play. YOU must be aware that my
finances could not bear much pruning down. I never lost more to him at a
sitting than about five pounds, which you know is nothing. No, you wrong him if
you imagine that he attached himself to me merely for the sake of such contemptible winnings as those which a broken-down
Irish gentleman could afford him. Come, Purcell, you are too hard upon him–you
judge only by report; you must see
him, and decide for yourself.–Suppose we call upon him now; he is at the inn, in the High Street, not a mile off.’
I declined the proposal drily.
‘Your caution is too easily alarmed,’ said he. ‘I do not wish you to make this man your bosom friend: I merely desire
that you should see and speak to him, and if you form any acquaintance with him, it must be of that slight nature which can
be dropped or continued at pleasure.’
From the time that O’Connor had
announced the fact that his friend was no other than the notorious Fitzgerald, a
foreboding of something calamitous had come upon me, and it now occurred to me
that if any unpleasantness were to be feared as likely to result to O’Connor from their connection, I might find my attempts to extricate him much facilitated by my
being acquainted, however slightly, with Fitzgerald. I know not whether the idea
was reasonable–it was certainly natural; and I told O’Connor that upon second
thoughts I would ride down with him to the town, and wait upon Mr. Fitzgerald.
We found him at home; and chatted
with him for a considerable time. To my surprise his manners were perfectly those of a gentleman, and his conversation, if not peculiarly engaging, was certainly
amusing. The politeness of his demeanour, and the easy fluency with which he
told his stories and his anecdotes, many of them curious, and all more or less
entertaining, accounted to my mind at once for the facility with which he had improved
his acquaintance with O’Connor; and when he pressed upon us an invitation to sup with him that night, I had almost
joined O’Connor in accepting it. I determined, however, against doing so, for I
had no wish to be on terms of familiarity with Mr. Fitzgerald; and I knew that
one evening spent together as he proposed would go further towards establishing an intimacy between us than fifty morning
visits could do. When I arose to depart, it was with feelings almost favourable to Fitzgerald; indeed I was more than half
ashamed to acknowledge to my companion how complete a revolution in my opinion
respecting his friend half an hour’s conversation with him had wrought. His
appearance certainly WAS against him; but then, under the influence of his manner, one lost sight of much of its ungainliness, and of nearly all its vulgarity; and, on the whole, I felt convinced that report
had done him grievous wrong, inasmuch as anybody, by an observance of the
common courtesies of society, might easily avoid coming into personal collision with a gentleman so studiously polite as
Fitzgerald. At parting, O’Connor requested me to call upon him the next day, as he
intended to make trial of the merits of a pair of greyhounds, which he had thoughts of purchasing; adding, that if he could
escape in anything like tolerable time from Fitzgerald’s supper-party, he would take the field soon after ten on the next morning. At the appointed hour, or
perhaps a little later, I dismounted at Castle Connor; and, on entering the hall, I observed a gentleman issuing from
O’Connor’s private room. I recognised him, as he approached, as a Mr.
M’Donough, and, being but slightly
acquainted with him, was about to pass him with a bow, when he stopped me.
There was something in his manner which struck me as odd; he seemed a good
deal flurried if not agitated, and said, in a hurried tone:
‘This is a very foolish business, Mr. Purcell. You have some influence with
my friend O’Connor; I hope you can
induce him to adopt some more moderate line of conduct than that he has decided upon. If you will allow me, I will return for a moment with you, and talk over the matter again with O’Connor.’
As M’Donough uttered these words, I
felt that sudden sinking of the heart which accompanies the immediate anticipation of something dreaded and dreadful. I was
instantly convinced that O’Connor had quarrelled with Fitzgerald, and I knew
that if such were the case, nothing short of a miracle could extricate him from the consequences. I signed to M’Donough to
lead the way, and we entered the little study together. O’Connor was standing
with his back to the fire; on the table lay the breakfast-things in the disorder in
which a hurried meal had left them; and on another smaller table, placed near the hearth, lay pen, ink, and paper. As soon as O’Connor saw me, he came forward and
shook me cordially by the hand.
‘My dear Purcell,’ said he, ‘you are the very man I wanted. I have got into an
ugly scrape, and I trust to my friends to get me out of it.’
‘You have had no dispute with that
man–that Fitzgerald, I hope,’ said I, giving utterance to the conjecture whose truth I most dreaded.
‘Faith, I cannot say exactly what
passed between us,’ said he, ‘inasmuch as I was at the time nearly half seas
over; but of this much I am certain, that we exchanged angry words last night. I
lost my temper most confoundedly; but, as well as I can recollect, he appeared
perfectly cool and collected. What he said was, therefore, deliberately said, and on that account must be resented.’
‘My dear O’Connor, are you mad?’ I
exclaimed. ‘Why will you seek to drive to a deadly issue a few hasty words,
uttered under the influence of wine, and forgotten almost as soon as uttered? A
quarrel with Fitzgerald it is twenty chances to one would terminate fatally
to you.’
‘It is exactly because Fitzgerald IS such an accomplished shot,’ said he, ‘that I
become liable to the most injurious and intolerable suspicions if I submit to
anything from him which could be construed into an affront; and for that reason
Fitzgerald is the very last man to whom I would concede an inch in a case of
honour.’
‘I do not require you to make any, the slightest sacrifice of what you term your honour,’ I replied; ‘but if you have
actually written a challenge to Fitzgerald, as I suspect you have done, I conjure you to reconsider the matter before you
despatch it. From all that I have heard you say, Fitzgerald has more to complain of in the altercation which has taken place than you. You owe it to your only surviving parent not to thrust yourself thus
wantonly upon–I will say it, the most appalling danger. Nobody, my dear
O’Connor, can have a doubt of your
courage; and if at any time, which God forbid, you shall be called upon thus to risk your life, you should have it in your power to enter the field under the
consciousness that you have acted throughout temperately and like a man, and not, as I fear you now would do, having rashly and most causelessly endangered your own life and that of your friend.’
‘I believe, Purcell, your are right,’ said he. ‘I believe I HAVE viewed the matter
in too decided a light; my note, I think, scarcely allows him an honourable alternative, and that is certainly going a step
too far–further than I intended. Mr. M’Donough, I’ll thank you to hand me
the note.’
He broke the seal, and, casting his eye hastily over it, he continued:
‘It is, indeed, a monument of folly. I am very glad, Purcell, you happened to
come in, otherwise it would have reached its destination by this time.’
He threw it into the fire; and, after a moment’s pause, resumed:
‘You must not mistake me, however.
I am perfectly satisfied as to the propriety, nay, the necessity, of communicating with Fitzgerald. The difficulty is in what tone I should address him. I cannot say that
the man directly affronted me–I cannot recollect any one expression which I could lay hold upon as offensive–but his
language was ambiguous, and admitted frequently of the most insulting construction, and his manner throughout was
insupportably domineering. I know it impressed me with the idea that he presumed upon his reputation as a DEAD SHOT, and
that would be utterly unendurable’
‘I would now recommend, as I have
already done,’ said M’Donough, ‘that if you write to Fitzgerald, it should be in such a strain as to leave him at perfect liberty, without a compromise of honour, in a friendly way, to satisfy your doubts as to his conduct.’
I seconded the proposal warmly, and
O’Connor, in a few minutes, finished a note, which he desired us to read. It was to this effect:
‘O’Connor, of Castle Connor, feeling
that some expressions employed by Mr. Fitzgerald upon last night, admitted of a construction offensive to him, and injurious to his character, requests to know whether Mr. Fitzgerald intended to convey such a meaning.
‘Castle Connor, Thursday morning.’
This note was consigned to the care of Mr. M’Donough, who forthwith departed
to execute his mission. The sound of his horse’s hoofs, as he rode rapidly away,
struck heavily at my heart; but I found some satisfaction in the reflection that M’Donough appeared as averse from extreme measures as I was myself, for I
well knew, with respect to the final result of the affair, that as much depended upon the tone adopted by the SECOND, as upon
the nature of the written communication.
I have seldom passed a more anxious
hour than that which intervened between the departure and the return of that
gentleman. Every instant I imagined I heard the tramp of a horse approaching, and
every time that a door opened I fancied it was to give entrance to the eagerly
expected courier. At length I did hear the hollow and rapid tread of a horse’s hoof upon the avenue. It approached–it
stopped–a hurried step traversed the hall–the room door opened, and
M’Donough entered.
‘You have made great haste,’ said
O’Connor; ‘did you find him at home?’
‘I did,’ replied M’Donough, ‘and made the greater haste as Fitzgerald did not let me know the contents of his reply.’
At the same time he handed a note to
O’Connor, who instantly broke the seal. The words were as follow:
‘Mr. Fitzgerald regrets that anything which has fallen from him should have
appeared to Mr. O’Connor to be intended to convey a reflection upon his honour
(none such having been meant), and begs leave to disavow any wish to quarrel
unnecessarily with Mr. O’Connor.
‘T—- Inn, Thursday morning.’
I cannot describe how much I felt
relieved on reading the above communication. I took O’Connor’s hand and pressed
it warmly, but my emotions were deeper and stronger than I cared to show, for I was convinced that he had escaped a most imminent danger. Nobody whose notions
upon the subject are derived from the duelling of modern times, in which matters are conducted without any very sanguinary determination upon either side, and with equal want of skill and coolness by both parties, can form a just estimate of the danger incurred by one who ventured to
encounter a duellist of the old school. Perfect coolness in the field, and a steadiness and accuracy (which to the unpractised
appeared almost miraculous) in the
use of the pistol, formed the characteristics of this class; and in addition to this there generally existed a kind of professional pride, which prompted the duellist, in
default of any more malignant feeling, from motives of mere vanity, to seek the life of his antagonist. Fitzgerald’s career had been a remarkably successful one, and I knew that out of thirteen duels which
he had fought in Ireland, in nine cases he had KILLED his man. In those days one
never heard of the parties leaving the field, as not unfrequently now occurs, without
blood having been spilt; and the odds were, of course, in all cases tremendously against a young and unpractised
man, when matched with an experienced antagonist. My impression respecting the magnitude of the danger which my friend
had incurred was therefore by no means unwarranted.
I now questioned O’Connor more
accurately respecting the circumstances of his quarrel with Fitzgerald. It arose
from some dispute respecting the application of a rule of piquet, at which game
they had been playing, each interpreting it favourably to himself, and O’Connor,
having lost considerably, was in no mood to conduct an argument with temper–an
altercation ensued, and that of rather a pungent nature, and the result was that
he left Fitzgerald’s room rather abruptly, determined to demand an explanation in
the most peremptory tone. For this
purpose he had sent for M’Donough, and had commissioned him to deliver the note,
which my arrival had fortunately intercepted.
As it was now past noon, O’Connor
made me promise to remain with him to dinner; and we sat down a party of three, all in high spirits at the termination of our anxieties. It is necessary to mention, for the purpose of accounting for what
follows, that Mrs. O’Connor, or, as she was more euphoniously styled, the lady of
Castle Connor, was precluded by ill-health from taking her place at the dinner-table, and, indeed, seldom left her room before four o’clock.[4] We were sitting after
dinner sipping our claret, and talking, and laughing, and enjoying ourselves
exceedingly, when a servant, stepping into the room, informed his master that a
gentleman wanted to speak with him.
[4] It is scarcely necessary to remind the reader, that at the period spoken of, the important hour of dinner occurred very nearly at noon.
‘Request him, with my compliments, to walk in,’ said O’Connor; and in a few
moments a gentleman entered the room.
His appearance was anything but
prepossessing. He was a little above the middle size, spare, and raw-boned; his
face very red, his features sharp and bluish, and his age might be about sixty. His
attire savoured a good deal of the SHABBY- GENTEEL; his clothes, which had much of
tarnished and faded pretension about them, did not fit him, and had not
improbably fluttered in the stalls of Plunket Street. We had risen on his
entrance, and O’Connor had twice requested of him to take a chair at the table, without his hearing, or at least noticing, the
invitation; while with a slow pace, and with an air of mingled importance and
effrontery, he advanced into the centre of the apartment, and regarding our small
party with a supercilious air, he said:
‘I take the liberty of introducing
myself–I am Captain M’Creagh, formerly of the–infantry. My business here is
with a Mr. O’Connor, and the sooner it is despatched the better.’
‘I am the gentleman you name,’ said
O’Connor; ‘and as you appear impatient, we had better proceed to your commission without delay.’
‘Then, Mr. O’Connor, you will please
to read that note,’ said the captain, placing a sealed paper in his hand.
O’Connor read it through, and then
observed:
‘This is very extraordinary indeed.
This note appears to me perfectly unaccountable.’
‘You are very young, Mr. O’Connor,’
said the captain, with vulgar familiarity; ‘but, without much experience in these
matters, I think you might have anticipated something like this. You know
the old saying, “Second thoughts are best;” and so they are like to prove, by G–!’
‘You will have no objection, Captain
M’Creagh, on the part of your friend, to my reading this note to these gentlemen; they are both confidential friends of mine, and one of them has already acted for me in this business.’
‘I can have no objection,’ replied the captain, ‘to your doing what you please
with your own. I have nothing more to do with that note once I put it safe into your hand; and when that is once done, it is all one to me, if you read it to half the world–that’s YOUR concern, and no affair of mine.’
O’Connor then read the following:
‘Mr. Fitzgerald begs leave to state, that upon re-perusing Mr. O’Connor’s communication of this morning carefully, with
an experienced friend, he is forced to consider himself as challenged. His
friend, Captain M’Creagh, has been empowered by him to make all the necessary
arrangements.
‘T—- Inn, Thursday.’
I can hardly describe the astonishment with which I heard this note. I turned to the captain, and said:
‘Surely, sir, there is some mistake in all this?’
‘Not the slightest, I’ll assure you, sir.’ said he, coolly; ‘the case is a very clear one, and I think my friend has pretty well made up his mind upon it. May I
request your answer?’ he continued, turning to O’Connor; ‘time is precious, you
know.’
O’Connor expressed his willingness to comply with the suggestion, and in a few minutes had folded and directed the following rejoinder:
‘Mr. O’Connor having received a
satisfactory explanation from Mr.
Fitzgerald, of the language used by that gentleman, feels that there no longer exists any grounds for misunderstanding, and
wishes further to state, that the note of which Mr. Fitzgerald speaks was not
intended as a challenge.’
With this note the captain departed; and as we did not doubt that the message which he had delivered had been suggested by
some unintentional misconstruction of O’Connor’s first billet, we felt assured that the conclusion of his last note would set the matter at rest. In this belief, however, we were mistaken; before we had left the table, and in an incredibly short time, the captain returned. He entered the room
with a countenance evidently tasked to avoid expressing the satisfaction which a consciousness of the nature of his mission had conferred; but in spite of all his efforts to look gravely unconcerned, there was a twinkle in the small grey eye, and an
almost imperceptible motion in the corner of the mouth, which sufficiently betrayed his internal glee, as he placed a note in the hand of O’Connor. As the young
man cast his eye over it, he coloured deeply, and turning to M’Donough, he
said:
‘You will have the goodness to make
all the necessary arrangements for a meeting. Something has occurred to render
one between me and Mr. Fitzgerald
inevitable. Understand me literally, when I say that it is now totally impossible that this affair should be amicably arranged. You will have the goodness, M’Donough,
to let me know as soon as all the particulars are arranged. Purcell,’ he continued,
‘will you have the kindness to accompany me?’ and having bowed to M’Creagh, we
left the room.
As I closed the door after me, I heard the captain laugh, and thought I could
distinguish the words–‘By —- I knew Fitzgerald would bring him to his way of thinking before he stopped.’
I followed O’Connor into his study, and on entering, the door being closed, he
showed me the communication which had determined him upon hostilities. Its
language was grossly impertinent, and it concluded by actually threatening to ‘POST’ him, in case he further attempted ‘to be OFF.’ I cannot describe the agony of
indignation in which O’Connor writhed under this insult. He said repeatedly that ‘he was a degraded and dishohoured man,’
that ‘he was dragged into the field,’ that ‘there was ignominy in the very thought
that such a letter should have been directed to him.’ It was in vain that I reasoned
against this impression; the conviction that he had been disgraced had taken
possession of his mind. He said again and again that nothing but his DEATH could
remove the stain which his indecision had cast upon the name of his family. I
hurried to the hall, on hearing M’Donough and the captain passing, and reached the door just in time to hear the latter say, as he mounted his horse:
‘All the rest can be arranged on the
spot; and so farewell, Mr. M’Donough– we’ll meet at Philippi, you know;’ and
with this classical allusion, which was accompanied with a grin and a bow, and
probably served many such occasions, the captain took his departure.
M’Donough briefly stated the few
particulars which had been arranged. The parties were to meet at the stand-house, in the race-ground, which lay at about an equal distance between Castle Connor and the town of T—-. The hour appointed
was half-past five on the next morning, at which time the twilight would be
sufficiently advanced to afford a distinct view; and the weapons to be employed were
PISTOLS–M’Creagh having claimed, on the part of his friend, all the advantages of the CHALLENGED party, and having, consequently, insisted upon the choice of ‘TOOLS,’ as he expressed himself; and it was further
stipulated that the utmost secrecy should be observed, as Fitzgerald would incur
great risk from the violence of the peasantry, in case the affair took wind. These conditions were, of course, agreed upon by O’Connor, and M’Donough left
the castle, having appointed four o’clock upon the next morning as the hour of his return, by which time it would be his
business to provide everything necessary for the meeting. On his departure,
O’Connor requested me to remain with him upon that evening, saying that ‘he
could not bear to be alone with his mother.’ It was to me a most painful
request, but at the same time one which I could not think of refusing. I felt,
however, that the difficulty at least of the task which I had to perform would be in
some measure mitigated by the arrival of two relations of O’Connor upon that
evening.
‘It is very fortunate,’ said O’Connor, whose thoughts had been running upon
the same subject, ‘that the O’Gradys will be with us to-night; their gaiety and
good-humour will relieve us from a heavy task. I trust that nothing may occur to
prevent their coming.’ Fervently concurring in the same wish, I accompanied
O’Connor into the parlour, there to await the arrival of his mother.
God grant that I may never spend such another evening! The O’Gradys DID come,
but their high and noisy spirits, so far from relieving me, did but give additional gloom to the despondency, I might say the despair, which filled my heart with misery–
the terrible forebodings which I could not for an instant silence, turned their laughter into discord, and seemed to mock the smiles and jests of the unconscious party. When I turned my eyes upon the mother, I
thought I never had seen her look so proudly and so lovingly upon her son
before–it cut me to the heart–oh, how cruelly I was deceiving her! I was a
hundred times on the very point of start- ing up, and, at all hazards, declaring to her how matters were; but other feelings subdued my better emotions. Oh, what
monsters are we made of by the fashions of the world! how are our kindlier and nobler feelings warped or destroyed by their baleful influences! I felt that it would not be
HONOURABLE, that it would not be ETIQUETTE, to betray O’Connor’s secret. I sacrificed a higher and a nobler duty than I have since been called upon to perform, to the dastardly fear of bearing the unmerited censure
of a world from which I was about to retire. O Fashion! thou gaudy idol,
whose feet are red with the blood of human sacrifice, would I had always felt towards thee as I now do!
O’Connor was not dejected; on the
contrary, he joined with loud and lively alacrity in the hilarity of the little party; but I could see in the flush of his cheek, and in the unusual brightness of his eye, all the excitement of fever–he was making an effort almost beyond his strength, but he succeeded–and when his mother rose
to leave the room, it was with the impression that her son was the gayest and most
light-hearted of the company. Twice or thrice she had risen with the intention of retiring, but O’Connor, with an eagerness which I alone could understand, had
persuaded her to remain until the usual hour of her departure had long passed; and
when at length she arose, declaring that she could not possibly stay longer, I alone could comprehend the desolate change
which passed over his manner; and when I saw them part, it was with the sickening conviction that those two beings, so dear to one another, so loved, so cherished,
should meet no more.
O’Connor briefly informed his cousins of the position in which he was placed,
requesting them at the same time to accompany him to the field, and this having
been settled, we separated, each to his own apartment. I had wished to sit up with
O’Connor, who had matters to arrange sufficient to employ him until the hour
appointed for M’Donough’s visit; but he would not hear of it, and I was forced,
though sorely against my will, to leave him without a companion. I went to my room,
and, in a state of excitement which I cannot describe, I paced for hours up and
down its narrow precincts. I could not– who could?–analyse the strange, contradictory, torturing feelings which, while I
recoiled in shrinking horror from the scene which the morning was to bring, yet forced me to wish the intervening time annihilated; each hour that the clock told seemed
to vibrate and tinkle through every nerve; my agitation was dreadful; fancy conjured up the forms of those who filled my
thoughts with more than the vividness of reality; things seemed to glide through
the dusky shadows of the room. I saw the dreaded form of Fitzgerald–I heard
the hated laugh of the captain–and again the features of O’Connor would appear
before me, with ghastly distinctness, pale and writhed in death, the gouts of gore
clotted in the mouth, and the eye-balls glared and staring. Scared with the
visions which seemed to throng with unceasing rapidity and vividness, I threw open the window and looked out upon the
quiet scene around. I turned my eyes in the direction of the town; a heavy cloud was lowering darkly about it, and I, in
impious frenzy, prayed to God that it might burst in avenging fires upon the
murderous wretch who lay beneath. At length, sick and giddy with excess of
excitement, I threw myself upon the bed without removing my clothes, and endeavoured to compose myself so far as to
remain quiet until the hour for our assembling should arrive.
A few minutes before four o’clock I stole noiselessly downstairs, and made my way
to the small study already mentioned. A candle was burning within; and, when I
opened the door, O’Connor was reading a book, which, on seeing me, he hastily
closed, colouring slightly as he did so. We exchanged a cordial but mournful
greeting; and after a slight pause he said, laying his hand upon the volume which he had shut a moment before:
‘Purcell, I feel perfectly calm, though I cannot say that I have much hope as to
the issue of this morning’s rencounter. I shall avoid half the danger. If I must
fall, I am determined I shall not go down to the grave with his blood upon my
hands. I have resolved not to fire at Fitzgerald–that is, to fire in such a direction as to assure myself against hitting him. Do not say a word of this to the O’Gradys. Your doing so would only produce fruitless altercation; they could not understand my motives. I feel convinced that I shall not leave the field alive. If I must die to- day, I shall avoid an awful aggravation of wretchedness. Purcell,’ he continued, after a little space, ‘I was so weak as to feel almost ashamed of the manner in which I
was occupied as you entered the room. Yes, _I–I_ who will be, before this evening, a cold and lifeless clod, was ashamed to have spent my last moment of reflection in prayer. God pardon me! God pardon
me!’ he repeated.
I took his hand and pressed it, but I could not speak. I sought for words of
comfort, but they would not come. To have uttered one cheering sentence I must have contradicted every impression of my own mind. I felt too much awed to
attempt it. Shortly afterwards, M’Donough arrived. No wretched patient ever underwent a more thrilling revulsion at the first
sight of the case of surgical instruments under which he had to suffer, than did I upon beholding a certain oblong flat