room?’ said my uncle.
‘No,’ was the brief reply.
‘Secure the jewels, Ned; the French
harpy must not lay her claws upon them. You’re a steady hand, by G—-! not
much blood–eh?’
‘Not twenty drops,’ replied his son,
‘and those on the quilt.’
‘I’m glad it’s over,’ whispered my uncle again. ‘We must lift the–the THING
through the window, and lay the rubbish over it.’
They then turned to the bedside, and, winding the bed-clothes round the body,
carried it between them slowly to the window, and, exchanging a few brief words with some one below, they shoved it over the window-sill, and I heard it fall heavily on the ground underneath.
‘I’ll take the jewels,’ said my uncle; ‘there are two caskets in the lower
drawer.’
He proceeded, with an accuracy which, had I been more at ease, would have
furnished me with matter of astonishment, to lay his hand upon the very spot where my jewels lay; and having possessed himself of them, he called to his son:
‘Is the rope made fast above?’
‘I’m not a fool–to be sure it is,’
replied he.
They then lowered themselves from the window. I now rose lightly and cautiously, scarcely daring to breathe, from my place of concealment, and was creeping towards the door, when I heard my cousin’s voice, in a sharp whisper, exclaim: ‘Scramble up again! G–d d—-n you, you’ve forgot to lock the room-door!’ and I perceived, by the straining of the rope which hung from above, that the mandate was instantly
obeyed.
Not a second was to be lost. I passed through the door, which was only closed, and moved as rapidly as I could, consistently with stillness, along the lobby.
Before I had gone many yards, I heard the door through which I had just passed double-locked on the inside. I glided
down the stairs in terror, lest, at every corner, I should meet the murderer or one of his accomplices.
I reached the hall, and listened for a moment to ascertain whether all was silent around; no sound was audible. The parlour windows opened on the park, and through
one of them I might, I thought, easily effect my escape. Accordingly, I hastily entered; but, to my consternation, a
candle was burning in the room, and by its light I saw a figure seated at the
dinner-table, upon which lay glasses, bottles, and the other accompaniments of a drinking-party. Two or three chairs
were placed about the table irregularly, as if hastily abandoned by their occupants.
A single glance satisfied me that the figure was that of my French attendant.
She was fast asleep, having probably drank deeply. There was something
malignant and ghastly in the calmness of this bad woman’s features, dimly illuminated as they were by the flickering blaze
of the candle. A knife lay upon the table, and the terrible thought struck me–
‘Should I kill this sleeping accomplice in the guilt of the murderer, and thus secure my retreat?’
Nothing could be easier–it was but to draw the blade across her throat–the
work of a second. An instant’s pause, however, corrected me. ‘No,’ thought I,
‘the God who has conducted me thus far through the valley of the shadow of death, will not abandon me now. I will fall into their hands, or I will escape hence, but it shall be free from the stain of blood. His will be done.’
I felt a confidence arising from this reflection, an assurance of protection which I cannot describe. There was no other
means of escape, so I advanced, with a firm step and collected mind, to the
window. I noiselessly withdrew the bars and unclosed the shutters–I pushed open the casement, and, without waiting to look behind me, I ran with my utmost speed,
scarcely feeling the ground under me, down the avenue, taking care to keep upon the grass which bordered it.
I did not for a moment slack my speed, and I had now gained the centre point
between the park-gate and the mansion- house. Here the avenue made a wider
circuit, and in order to avoid delay, I directed my way across the smooth sward
round which the pathway wound, intending, at the opposite side of the flat, at a
point which I distinguished by a group of old birch-trees, to enter again upon the beaten track, which was from thence
tolerably direct to the gate.
I had, with my utmost speed, got about half way across this broad flat, when the rapid treading of a horse’s hoofs struck upon my ear. My heart swelled in my
bosom as though I would smother. The clattering of galloping hoofs approached– I was pursued–they were now upon the
sward on which I was running–there was not a bush or a bramble to shelter me–
and, as if to render escape altogether desperate, the moon, which had hitherto
been obscured, at this moment shone forth with a broad clear light, which made every object distinctly visible.
The sounds were now close behind me.
I felt my knees bending under me, with the sensation which torments one in
dreams. I reeled–I stumbled–I fell– and at the same instant the cause of my
alarm wheeled past me at full gallop. It was one of the young fillies which
pastured loose about the park, whose frolics had thus all but maddened me
with terror. I scrambled to my feet, and rushed on with weak but rapid steps, my
sportive companion still galloping round and round me with many a frisk and fling, until, at length, more dead than alive, I reached the avenue-gate and crossed the
stile, I scarce knew how.
I ran through the village, in which all was silent as the grave, until my progress was arrested by the hoarse voice of a sentinel, who cried: ‘Who goes there?’ I felt that I was now safe. I turned in the direction of the voice, and fell fainting at the
soldier’s feet. When I came to myself; I was sitting in a miserable hovel,
surrounded by strange faces, all bespeaking curiosity and compassion.
Many soldiers were in it also: indeed, as I afterwards found, it was employed as a guard-room by a detachment of troops
quartered for that night in the town. In a few words I informed their officer of the circumstances which had occurred, describing also the appearance of the persons
engaged in the murder; and he, without loss of time, proceeded to the mansion-
house of Carrickleigh, taking with him a party of his men. But the villains had
discovered their mistake, and had effected their escape before the arrival of the
military.
The Frenchwoman was, however,
arrested in the neighbourhood upon the next day. She was tried and condemned upon
the ensuing assizes; and previous to her execution, confessed that ‘SHE HAD A
HAND IN MAKING HUGH TISDAL’S BED.’ She had been a housekeeper in the castle at
the time, and a kind of chere amie of my uncle’s. She was, in reality, able to speak English like a native, but had exclusively used the French language, I suppose to
facilitate her disguise. She died the same hardened wretch which she had lived,
confessing her crimes only, as she alleged, that her doing so might involve Sir Arthur
T—-n, the great author of her guilt and misery, and whom she now regarded with
unmitigated detestation.
With the particulars of Sir Arthur’s and his son’s escape, as far as they are known, you are acquainted. You are also in
possession of their after fate–the terrible, the tremendous retribution which, after long delays of many years, finally overtook and crushed them. Wonderful and inscrutable
are the dealings of God with His creatures.
Deep and fervent as must always be my gratitude to heaven for my deliverance,
effected by a chain of providential occurrences, the failing of a single link of which must have ensured my destruction, I was
long before I could look back upon it with other feelings than those of bitterness, almost of agony.
The only being that had ever really
loved me, my nearest and dearest friend, ever ready to sympathise, to counsel, and to assist–the gayest, the gentlest, the warmest heart–the only creature on
earth that cared for me–HER life had been the price of my deliverance; and I then
uttered the wish, which no event of my long and sorrowful life has taught me to recall, that she had been spared, and that, in her stead, _I_ were mouldering in the grave, forgotten and at rest.
THE BRIDAL OF CARRIGVARAH.
Being a Sixth Extract from the Legacy of the late Francis Purcell, P. P. of Drumcoolagh.
In a sequestered district of the
county of Limerick, there stood
my early life, some forty
years ago, one of those strong stone buildings, half castle, half farm-house, which are not unfrequent in the South of Ireland, and whose solid masonry and
massive construction seem to prove at once the insecurity and the caution of the Cromwellite settlers who erected them.
At the time of which I speak, this
building was tenanted by an elderly man, whose starch and puritanic mien and
manners might have become the morose preaching parliamentarian captain, who
had raised the house and ruled the
household more than a hundred years before; but this man, though Protestant
by descent as by name, was not so in religion; he was a strict, and in outward observances, an exemplary Catholic; his
father had returned in early youth to the true faith, and died in the bosom of the church.
Martin Heathcote was, at the time of
which I speak, a widower, but his house- keeping was not on that account altogether solitary, for he had a daughter, whose age was now sufficiently advanced to warrant her father in imposing upon her the
grave duties of domestic superintendence.
This little establishment was perfectly isolated, and very little intruded upon by acts of neighbourhood; for the rank of
its occupants was of that equivocal kind which precludes all familiar association with those of a decidedly inferior rank, while it is not sufficient to entitle its possessors to the society of established gentility, among whom the nearest
residents were the O’Maras of Carrigvarah, whose mansion-house, constructed
out of the ruins of an old abbey, whose towers and cloisters had been levelled by the shot of Cromwell’s artillery, stood
not half a mile lower upon the river banks.
Colonel O’Mara, the possessor of the
estates, was then in a declining state of health, and absent with his lady from the country, leaving at the castle, his son
young O’Mara, and a kind of humble
companion, named Edward Dwyer, who, if report belied him not, had done in his early days some PECULIAR SERVICES for the Colonel, who had been a gay man–
perhaps worse–but enough of recapitulation.
It was in the autumn of the year 17– that the events which led to the catastrophe which I have to detail occurred.
I shall run through the said recital as briefly as clearness will permit, and leave you to moralise, if such be your mood,
upon the story of real life, which I even now trace at this distant period not without emotion.
It was upon a beautiful autumn evening, at that glad period of the season when
the harvest yields its abundance, that two figures were seen sauntering along
the banks of the winding river, which I described as bounding the farm occupied
by Heathcote; they had been, as the rods and landing-nets which they listlessly
carried went to show, plying the gentle, but in this case not altogether solitary craft of the fisherman. One of those
persons was a tall and singularly handsome young man, whose dark hair and
complexion might almost have belonged to a Spaniard, as might also the proud but melancholy expression which gave to his
countenance a character which contrasts sadly, but not uninterestingly, with
extreme youth; his air, as he spoke with his companion, was marked by that careless familiarity which denotes a conscious
superiority of one kind or other, or which may be construed into a species of
contempt; his comrade afforded to him in every respect a striking contrast. He
was rather low in stature–a defect which was enhanced by a broad and square-built figure–his face was sallow, and his
features had that prominence and sharpness which frequently accompany personal
deformity–a remarkably wide mouth, with teeth white as the fangs of a wolf, and a pair of quick, dark eyes, whose
effect was heightened by the shadow of a heavy black brow, gave to his face a
power of expression, particularly when sarcastic or malignant emotions were to
be exhibited, which features regularly handsome could scarcely have possessed.
‘Well, sir,’ said the latter personage, ‘I have lived in hall and abbey, town
and country, here and abroad for forty years and more, and should know a thing
or two, and as I am a living man, I swear I think the girl loves you.’
‘You are a fool, Ned,’ said the
younger.
‘I may be a fool,’ replied the first
speaker, ‘in matters where my own
advantage is staked, but my eye is keen enough to see through the flimsy disguise of a country damsel at a glance; and I
tell you, as surely as I hold this rod, the girl loves you.’
‘Oh I this is downright headstrong
folly,’ replied the young fisherman. ‘Why, Ned, you try to persuade me
against my reason, that the event which is most to be deprecated has actually
occurred. She is, no doubt, a pretty girl–a beautiful girl–but I have not
lost my heart to her; and why should I wish her to be in love with me? Tush,
man, the days of romance are gone, and a young gentleman may talk, and walk,
and laugh with a pretty country maiden, and never breathe aspirations, or vows, or sighs about the matter; unequal matches
are much oftener read of than made, and the man who could, even in thought,
conceive a wish against the honour of an unsuspecting, artless girl, is a villain, for whom hanging is too good.’
This concluding sentence was uttered
with an animation and excitement, which the mere announcement of an abstract
moral sentiment could hardly account for.
‘You are, then, indifferent, honestly and in sober earnest, indifferent to the girl?’ inquired Dwyer.
‘Altogether so,’ was the reply.
‘Then I have a request to make,’
continued Dwyer, ‘and I may as well urge it now as at any other time. I have
been for nearly twenty years the faithful, and by no means useless, servant of your family; you know that I have rendered
your father critical and important
services—-‘ he paused, and added hastily: ‘you are not in the mood–I tire you,
sir.’
‘Nay,’ cried O’Mara, ‘I listen patiently –proceed.’
‘For all these services, and they were not, as I have said, few or valueless, I have received little more reward than
liberal promises; you have told me often that this should be mended–I’ll make it easily done–I’m not unreasonable–I
should be contented to hold Heathcote’s ground, along with this small farm on
which we stand, as full quittance of all obligations and promises between us.’
‘But how the devil can I effect that
for you; this farm, it is true, I, or my father, rather, may lease to you, but
Heathcote’s title we cannot impugn; and even if we could, you would not expect
us to ruin an honest man, in order to make way for YOU, Ned.’
‘What I am,’ replied Dwyer, with the
calmness of one who is so accustomed to contemptuous insinuations as to receive
them with perfect indifference, ‘is to be attributed to my devotedness to your
honourable family–but that is neither here nor there. I do not ask you to
displace Heathcote, in order to made room for me. I know it is out of your
power to do so. Now hearken to me for a moment; Heathcote’s property, that
which he has set out to tenants, is worth, say in rents, at most, one hundred
pounds: half of this yearly amount is assigned to your father, until payment be made of a bond for a thousand pounds,
with interest and soforth. Hear me
patiently for a moment and I have done. Now go you to Heathcote, and tell him
your father will burn the bond, and cancel the debt, upon one condition–that when
I am in possession of this farm, which you can lease to me on what terms you think
suitable, he will convey over his property to me, reserving what life-interest may
appear fair, I engaging at the same time to marry his daughter, and make such
settlements upon her as shall be thought fitting–he is not a fool–the man will
close with the offer.’
O’Mara turned shortly upon Dwyer,
and gazed upon him for a moment with an expression of almost unmixed resentment.
‘How,’ said he at length, ‘YOU contract to marry Ellen Heathcote? the poor,
innocent, confiding, light-hearted girl. No, no, Edward Dwyer, I know you too
well for that–your services, be they what they will, must not, shall not go unrewarded– your avarice shall be appeased–
but not with a human sacrifice! Dwyer, I speak to you without disguise; you
know me to be acquainted with your
history, and what’s more, with your character. Now tell me frankly, were I
to do as you desire me, in cool blood, should I not prove myself a more
uncompromising and unfeeling villain than humanity even in its most monstrous
shapes has ever yet given birth
to?’
Dwyer met this impetuous language
with the unmoved and impenetrable calmness which always marked him when
excitement would have appeared in
others; he even smiled as he replied: (and Dwyer’s smile, for I have seen it,
was characteristically of that unfortunate kind which implies, as regards the
emotions of others, not sympathy but derision).
‘This eloquence goes to prove Ellen
Heathcote something nearer to your heart than your great indifference would have
led me to suppose.’
There was something in the tone,
perhaps in the truth of the insinuation, which at once kindled the quick pride and the
anger of O’Mara, and he instantly replied:
‘Be silent, sir, this is insolent
folly.’
Whether it was that Dwyer was more
keenly interested in the success of his suit, or more deeply disappointed at its failure than he cared to express, or that he was in a less complacent mood than was his wont, it is certain that his countenance expressed more emotion at this direct insult than it had ever exhibited before under similar
circumstances; for his eyes gleamed for an instant with savage and undisguised ferocity upon the young man, and a dark glow
crossed his brow, and for the moment he looked about to spring at the throat of his insolent patron; but the impulse whatever it might be, was quickly suppressed, and before O’Mara had time to detect the
scowl, it had vanished.
‘Nay, sir,’ said Dwyer, ‘I meant no
offence, and I will take none, at your hands at least. I will confess I care not, in love and soforth, a single bean for the girl; she was the mere channel through
which her father’s wealth, if such a pittance deserves the name, was to have flowed into my possession–’twas in respect of your
family finances the most economical provision for myself which I could devise–a matter in which you, not I, are interested. As for women, they are all pretty much
alike to me. I am too old myself to make nice distinctions, and too ugly to succeed by Cupid’s arts; and when a man despairs of success, he soon ceases to care for it. So, if you know me, as you profess to do, rest satisfied “caeteris paribus;” the money part of the transaction being equally advantageous, I should regret the loss of Ellen
Heathcote just as little as I should the escape of a minnow from my landing-net.’
They walked on for a few minutes in
silence, which was not broken till Dwyer, who had climbed a stile in order to pass a low stone wall which lay in their way,
exclaimed:
‘By the rood, she’s here–how like a
philosopher you look.”
The conscious blood mounted to O’Mara’s cheek; he crossed the stile, and, separated from him only by a slight fence and a gate, stood the subject of their recent and somewhat angry discussion.
‘God save you, Miss Heathcote,’ cried Dwyer, approaching the gate.
The salutation was cheerfully returned, and before anything more could pass,
O’Mara had joined the party.
My friend, that you may understand the strength and depth of those impetuous
passions, that you may account for the fatal infatuation which led to the catastrophe which I have to relate, I must tell
you, that though I have seen the beauties of cities and of courts, with all the splendour of studied ornament about them to
enhance their graces, possessing charms which had made them known almost
throughout the world, and worshipped with the incense of a thousand votaries, yet
never, nowhere did I behold a being of such exquisite and touching beauty, as
that possessed by the creature of whom I have just spoken. At the moment of
which I write, she was standing near the gate, close to which several brown-armed, rosy-cheeked damsels were engaged in
milking the peaceful cows, who stood picturesquely grouped together. She had
just thrown back the hood which is the graceful characteristic of the Irish girl’s attire, so that her small and classic head was quite uncovered, save only by the dark-
brown hair, which with graceful simplicity was parted above her forehead. There
was nothing to shade the clearness of her beautiful complexion; the delicately-formed features, so exquisite when taken singly, so indescribable when combined, so purely
artless, yet so meet for all expression. She was a thing so very beautiful, you could not look on her without feeling your heart touched as by sweet music. Whose
lightest action was a grace–whose lightest word a spell–no limner’s art, though ne’er so perfect, could shadow forth her beauty; and do I dare with feeble words try to
make you see it?[1] Providence is indeed no respecter of persons, its blessings and its inflictions are apportioned with an
undistinguishing hand, and until the race is over, and life be done, none can know
whether those perfections, which seemed its goodliest gifts, many not prove its most fatal; but enough of this.
[1] Father Purcell seems to have had an admiration for the beauties of nature, particularly as developed in the fair sex; a habit of mind which has been rather improved upon than discontinued by his successors from Maynooth.–ED,
Dwyer strolled carelessly onward by
the banks of the stream, leaving his young companion leaning over the gate
in close and interesting parlance with Ellen Heathcote; as he moved on, he
half thought, half uttered words to this effect:
‘Insolent young spawn of ingratitude
and guilt, how long must I submit to be trod upon thus; and yet why should I
murmur–his day is even now declining– and if I live a year, I shall see the
darkness cover him and his for ever. Scarce half his broad estates shall save him–but I must wait–I am but a pauper now–a
beggar’s accusation is always a libel–they must reward me soon–and were I
independent once, I’d make them feel my power, and feel it SO, that I should die the richest or the best avenged servant of a great man that has ever been heard of–
yes, I must wait–I must make sure of something at least–I must be able to
stand by myself–and then–and then–‘ He clutched his fingers together, as if in the act of strangling the object of his
hatred. ‘But one thing shall save him– but one thing only–he shall pay me my
own price–and if he acts liberally, as no doubt he will do, upon compulsion, why
he saves his reputation–perhaps his neck –the insolent young whelp yonder would
speak in an humbler key if he but knew his father’s jeopardy–but all in good
time.’
He now stood upon the long, steep,
narrow bridge, which crossed the river close to Carrigvarah, the family mansion of the O’Maras; he looked back in the
direction in which he had left his
companion, and leaning upon the battlement, he ruminated long and moodily. At
length he raised himself and said:
‘He loves the girl, and WILL love her more–I have an opportunity of winning
favour, of doing service, which shall bind him to me; yes, he shall have the girl, if I have art to compass the matter. I must think upon it.’
He entered the avenue and was soon
lost in the distance.
Days and weeks passed on, and young
O’Mara daily took his rod and net, and rambled up the river; and scarce twelve
hours elapsed in which some of those accidents, which invariably bring lovers together, did not secure him a meeting of longer or shorter duration, with the
beautiful girl whom he so fatally
loved.
One evening, after a long interview with her, in which he had been almost irresistibly prompted to declare his love, and
had all but yielded himself up to the passionate impulse, upon his arrival at
home he found a letter on the table awaiting his return; it was from his
father to the following effect:
‘To Richard O’Mara.
‘September, 17–, L—-m, England.
‘MY DEAR SON,–
‘I have just had a severe attack of my old and almost forgotten enemy, the
gout. This I regard as a good sign; the doctors telling me that it is the safest development of peccant humours; and I
think my chest is less tormenting and oppressed than I have known it for some
years. My chief reason for writing to you now, as I do it not without difficulty, is to let you know my pleasure in certain matters, in which I suspect some shameful, and, indeed, infatuated neglect on your
part, “quem perdere vult deus prius dementat:” how comes it that you have
neglected to write to Lady Emily or any of that family? the understood relation
subsisting between you is one of extreme delicacy, and which calls for marked and courteous, nay, devoted attention upon
your side. Lord —- is already offended; beware what you do; for as you will find, if this match be lost by your fault or folly, by —- I will cut you off with a shilling. I am not in the habit of using threats
when I do not mean to fulfil them, and that you well know; however I do not
think you have much real cause for alarm in this case. Lady Emily, who, by the
way, looks if possible more charming than ever, is anything but hard-hearted, at
least when YOU solicit; but do as I desire, and lose no time in making what excuse
you may, and let me hear from you when you can fix a time to join me and your
mother here.
‘Your sincere well-wisher and father, ‘RICHARD O’MARA.’
In this letter was inclosed a smaller one, directed to Dwyer, and containing a
cheque for twelve pounds, with the following words:
‘Make use of the enclosed, and let me hear if Richard is upon any wild scheme
at present: I am uneasy about him, and not without reason; report to me speedily the result of your vigilance.
‘R. O’MARA.’
Dwyer just glanced through this brief, but not unwelcome, epistle; and deposited it and its contents in the secret recesses of his breeches pocket, and then fixed his
eyes upon the face of his companion, who sat opposite, utterly absorbed in the perusal of his father’s letter, which he read again and again, pausing and muttering between whiles, and apparently lost in no very
pleasing reflections. At length he very abruptly exclaimed:
‘A delicate epistle, truly–and a politic –would that my tongue had been burned
through before I assented to that doubly- cursed contract. Why, I am not pledged
yet–I am not; there is neither writing, nor troth, nor word of honour, passed
between us. My father has no right to pledge me, even though I told him I liked the girl, and would wish the match. ‘Tis not enough that my father offers her my
heart and hand; he has no right to do it; a delicate woman would not accept professions made by proxy. Lady Emily! Lady
Emily! with all the tawdry frippery, and finery of dress and demeanour–compare
HER with—- Pshaw! Ridiculous! How blind, how idiotic I have been.’
He relapsed into moody reflections,
which Dwyer did not care to disturb, and some ten minutes might have passed before he spoke again. When he did, it was in
the calm tone of one who has irrevocably resolved upon some decided and important act.
‘Dwyer,’ he said, rising and approaching that person, ‘whatever god or demon told you, even before my own heart knew it,
that I loved Ellen Heathcote, spoke truth. I love her madly–I never dreamed till
now how fervently, how irrevocably, I am hers–how dead to me all other interests are. Dwyer, I know something of your
disposition, and you no doubt think it strange that I should tell to you, of all persons, SUCH a secret; but whatever be
your faults, I think you are attached to our family. I am satisfied you will not
betray me. I know—-‘
‘Pardon me,’ said Dwyer, ‘if I say that great professions of confidence too
frequently mark distrust. I have no possible motive to induce me to betray you; on the contrary, I would gladly assist and direct whatever plans you may have formed.
Command me as you please; I have said enough.’
‘I will not doubt you, Dwyer,’ said
O’Mara; ‘ I have taken my resolution–I have, I think, firmness to act up to it. To marry Ellen Heathcote, situated as I am, were madness; to propose anything else
were worse, were villainy not to be named. I will leave the country to-morrow, cost what pain it may, for England. I will at once break off the proposed alliance with Lady Emily, and will wait until I am my
own master, to open my heart to Ellen. My father may say and do what he likes;
but his passion will not last. He will forgive me; and even were he to disinherit me, as he threatens, there is some property which must descend to me, which his will cannot affect. He cannot ruin my
interests; he SHALL NOT ruin my happiness. Dwyer, give me pen and ink; I will write this moment.’
This bold plan of proceeding for many reasons appeared inexpedient to Dwyer,
and he determined not to consent to its adoption without a struggle.
‘I commend your prudence,’ said he, ‘in determining to remove yourself from the
fascinating influence which has so long bound you here; but beware of offending
your father. Colonel O’Mara is not a man to forgive an act of deliberate disobedience, and surely you are not mad enough to
ruin yourself with him by offering an out- rageous insult to Lady Emily and to her
family in her person; therefore you must not break off the understood contract which subsists between you by any formal act– hear me out patiently. You must let Lady Emily perceive, as you easily may, without rudeness or even coldness of manner, that she is perfectly indifferent to you; and when she understands this to be the case, it she possesses either delicacy or spirit, she will herself break off the engagement. Make what delay it is possible to effect; it is very possible that your father, who cannot, in all probability, live many
months, may not live as many days if harassed and excited by such scenes as
your breaking off your engagement must produce.’
‘Dwyer,’ said O’Mara, ‘I will hear you out–proceed.’
‘Besides, sir, remember,’ he continued, ‘the understanding which we have termed
an engagement was entered into without any direct sanction upon your part; your father has committed HIMSELF, not YOU, to Lord —-. Before a real contract can
subsist, you must be an assenting party to it. I know of no casuistry subtle enough to involve you in any engagement whatever, without such an ingredient. Tush!
you have an easy card to play.’
‘Well,’ said the young man, ‘I will
think on what you have said; in the meantime, I will write to my father to
announce my immediate departure, in order to join him.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Dwyer, ‘but I would suggest that by hastening your departure you but bring your dangers nearer. While you are in this country a letter now and then keeps everything quiet; but once
across the Channel and with the colonel, you must either quarrel with him to your own destruction, or you must dance attendance upon Lady Emily with such assiduity
as to commit yourself as completely as if you had been thrice called with her in the parish church. No, no; keep to this side of the Channel as long as you decently
can. Besides, your sudden departure must appear suspicious, and will probably excite inquiry. Every good end likely to be
accomplished by your absence will be effected as well by your departure for
Dublin, where you may remain for three weeks or a month without giving rise to
curiosity or doubt of an unpleasant kind; I would therefore advise you strongly to write immediately to the colonel, stating that business has occurred to defer your departure for a month, and you can then
leave this place, if you think fit, immediately, that is, within a week or so.’
Young O’Mara was not hard to be persuaded. Perhaps it was that, unacknowledged
by himself, any argument which
recommended his staying, even for an hour longer than his first decision had
announced, in the neighbourhood of Ellen Heathcote, appeared peculiarly cogent and convincing; however this may have been,
it is certain that he followed the counsel of his cool-headed follower, who retired that night to bed with the pleasing conviction that he was likely soon to involve his
young patron in all the intricacies of disguise and intrigue–a consummation which would leave him totally at the mercy of
the favoured confidant who should possess his secret.
Young O’Mara’s reflections were more
agitating and less satisfactory than those of his companion. He resolved upon
leaving the country before two days had passed. He felt that he could not fairly seek to involve Ellen Heathcote in his
fate by pledge or promise, until he had extricated himself from those trammels
which constrained and embarrassed all his actions. His determination was so far
prudent; but, alas! he also resolved that it was but right, but necessary, that he should see her before his departure. His leaving the country without a look or a
word of parting kindness interchanged, must to her appear an act of cold and
heartless caprice; he could not bear the thought.
‘No,’ said he, ‘I am not child enough to say more than prudence tells me
ought to say; this cowardly distrust of my firmness I should and will contemn.
Besides, why should I commit myself? It is possible the girl may not care for me. No, no; I need not shrink from this interview. I have no reason to doubt my firmness–
none–none. I must cease to be governed by impulse. I am involved in rocks
and quicksands; and a collected spirit, a quick eye, and a steady hand, alone can pilot me through. God grant me a safe
voyage!’
The next day came, and young O’Mara
did not take his fishing-rod as usual, but wrote two letters; the one to his father, announcing his intention of departing
speedily for England; the other to Lady Emily, containing a cold but courteous
apology for his apparent neglect. Both these were despatched to the post-office that evening, and upon the next morning
he was to leave the country.
Upon the night of the momentous day
of which we have just spoken, Ellen Heathcote glided silently and unperceived from
among the busy crowds who were engaged in the gay dissipation furnished by what is in Ireland commonly called a dance
(the expenses attendant upon which, music, etc., are defrayed by a subscription of one halfpenny each), and having drawn her
mantle closely about her, was proceeding with quick steps to traverse the small
field which separated her from her father’s abode. She had not walked many yards
when she became aware that a solitary figure, muffled in a cloak, stood in the pathway. It approached; a low voice
whispered:
‘Ellen.’
‘Is it you, Master Richard?’ she replied.
He threw back the cloak which had
concealed his features.
‘It is I, Ellen, he said; ‘I have been watching for you. I will not delay you
long.’
He took her hand, and she did not
attempt to withdraw it; for she was too artless to think any evil, too confiding to dread it.
‘Ellen,’ he continued, even now unconsciously departing from the rigid course
which prudence had marked out; ‘Ellen, I am going to leave the country; going
to-morrow. I have had letters from
England. I must go; and the sea will soon be between us.’
He paused, and she was silent.
‘There is one request, one entreaty I have to make,’ he continued; ‘I would,
when I am far away, have something to look at which belonged to you. Will you
give me–do not refuse it–one little lock of your beautiful hair?’
With artless alacrity, but with trembling hand, she took the scissors, which in simple fashion hung by her side, and detached one of the long and beautiful locks which
parted over her forehead. She placed it in his hand.
Again he took her hand, and twice he
attempted to speak in vain; at length he said:
‘Ellen, when I am gone–when I am
away–will you sometimes remember,
sometimes think of me?’
Ellen Heathcote had as much, perhaps
more, of what is noble in pride than the haughtiest beauty that ever trod a court; but the effort was useless; the honest
struggle was in vain; and she burst into floods of tears, bitterer than she had ever shed before.
I cannot tell how passions rise and fall; I cannot describe the impetuous words of the young lover, as pressing again and
again to his lips the cold, passive hand, which had been resigned to him, prudence, caution, doubts, resolutions, all vanished from his view, and melted into nothing.
‘Tis for me to tell the simple fact, that from that brief interview they both
departed promised and pledged to each other for ever.
Through the rest of this story events follow one another rapidly.
A few nights after that which I have
just mentioned, Ellen Heathcote disappeared; but her father was not left long
in suspense as to her fate, for Dwyer, accompanied by one of those mendicant
friars who traversed the country then even more commonly than they now do, called
upon Heathcote before he had had time to take any active measures for the recovery of his child, and put him in possession of a document which appeared to contain
satisfactory evidence of the marriage of Ellen Heathcote with Richard O’Mara,
executed upon the evening previous, as the date went to show; and signed by both
parties, as well as by Dwyer and a servant of young O’Mara’s, both these having acted as witnesses; and further supported by
the signature of Peter Nicholls, a brother of the order of St. Francis, by whom the ceremony had been performed, and whom
Heathcote had no difficulty in recognising in the person of his visitant.
This document, and the prompt personal visit of the two men, and above all, the known identity of the Franciscan, satisfied Heathcote as fully as anything short
of complete publicity could have done. And his conviction was not a mistaken
one.
Dwyer, before he took his leave,
impressed upon Heathcote the necessity of keeping the affair so secret as to render it impossible that it should reach Colonel
O’Mara’s ears, an event which would have been attended with ruinous consequences to all parties. He refused, also, to permit Heathcote to see his daughter, and even
to tell him where she was, until circumstances rendered it safe for him to visit
her.
Heathcote was a harsh and sullen man; and though his temper was anything but
tractable, there was so much to please, almost to dazzle him, in the event, that he accepted the terms which Dwyer imposed
upon him without any further token of disapprobation than a shake of the head, and a gruff wish that ‘it might prove all for the best.’
Nearly two months had passed, and
young O’Mara had not yet departed for England. His letters had been strangely
few and far between; and in short, his conduct was such as to induce Colonel
O’Mara to hasten his return to Ireland, and at the same time to press an engagement, which Lord —-, his son Captain
N—-, and Lady Emily had made to
spend some weeks with him at his
residence in Dublin.
A letter arrived for young O’Mara,
stating the arrangement, and requiring his attendance in Dublin, which was accordingly immediately afforded.
He arrived, with Dwyer, in time to
welcome his father and his distinguished guests. He resolved to break off his
embarrassing connection with Lady Emily, without, however, stating the real motive, which he felt would exasperate the resentment which his father and Lord —-
would no doubt feel at his conduct.
He strongly felt how dishonourably he would act if, in obedience to Dwyer’s
advice, he seemed tacitly to acquiesce in an engagement which it was impossible for him to fulfil. He knew that Lady Emily
was not capable of anything like strong attachment; and that even if she were,
he had no reason whatever to suppose that she cared at all for him.
He had not at any time desired the
alliance; nor had he any reason to suppose the young lady in any degree less
indifferent. He regarded it now, and not without some appearance of justice, as
nothing more than a kind of understood stipulation, entered into by their parents, and to be considered rather as a matter of business and calculation than as involving anything of mutual inclination on the part of the parties most nearly interested in the matter.
He anxiously, therefore, watched for an opportunity of making known his feelings to Lord —-, as he could not with propriety do so to Lady Emily; but what at
a distance appeared to be a matter of easy accomplishment, now, upon a nearer
approach, and when the immediate impulse which had prompted the act had subsided, appeared so full of difficulty and almost inextricable embarrassments, that he
involuntarily shrunk from the task day after day.
Though it was a source of indescribable anxiety to him, he did not venture to write to Ellen, for he could not disguise from himself the danger which the secrecy of
his connection with her must incur by his communicating with her, even through a
public office, where their letters might be permitted to lie longer than the gossiping inquisitiveness of a country town would
warrant him in supposing safe.
It was about a fortnight after young
O’Mara had arrived in Dublin, where all things, and places, and amusements; and
persons seemed thoroughly stale, flat, and unprofitable, when one day, tempted by
the unusual fineness of the weather, Lady Emily proposed a walk in the College
Park, a favourite promenade at that time. She therefore with young O’Mara, accompanied by Dwyer (who, by-the-by, when
he pleased, could act the gentleman sufficiently well), proceeded to the place proposed, where they continued to walk for some time.
‘Why, Richard,’ said Lady Emily, after a tedious and unbroken pause of some
minutes, ‘you are becoming worse and worse every day. You are growing absolutely intolerable; perfectly stupid! not
one good thing have I heard since I left the house.’
O’Mara smiled, and was seeking for a
suitable reply, when his design was interrupted, and his attention suddenly and painfully arrested, by the appearance of two figures, who were slowly passing the broad walk on which he and his party
moved; the one was that of Captain
N—-, the other was the form of–Martin Heathcote!
O’Mara felt confounded, almost stunned; the anticipation of some impending
mischief–of an immediate and violent collision with a young man whom he had ever regarded as his friend, were apprehensions which such a juxtaposition could not fail to produce.
‘Is Heathcote mad?’ thought he.
‘What devil can have brought him
here?’
Dwyer having exchanged a significant
glance with O’Mara, said slightly to Lady Emily:
‘Will your ladyship excuse me for a
moment? I have a word to say to Captain N—-, and will, with your permission,
immediately rejoin you.’
He bowed, and walking rapidly on, was in a few moments beside the object of his and his patron’s uneasiness.
Whatever Heathcote’s object might be, he certainly had not yet declared the secret, whose safety O’Mara had so naturally
desired, for Captain N—- appeared in good spirits; and on coming up to his
sister and her companion, he joined them for a moment, telling O’Mara, laughingly, that an old quiz had come from the country for the express purpose of telling tales, as it was to be supposed, of him (young
O’Mara), in whose neighbourhood he
lived.
During this speech it required all the effort which it was possible to exert to prevent O’Mara’s betraying the extreme
agitation to which his situation gave rise. Captain N—-, however, suspected no-
thing, and passed on without further delay.
Dinner was an early meal in those days, and Lady Emily was obliged to leave the
Park in less than half an hour after the unpleasant meeting which we have just
mentioned.
Young O’Mara and, at a sign from
him, Dwyer having escorted the lady to the door of Colonel O’Mara’s house,
pretended an engagement, and departed together.
Richard O’Mara instantly questioned
his comrade upon the subject of his anxiety; but Dwyer had nothing to
communicate of a satisfactory nature. He had only time, while the captain had been engaged with Lady Emily and her
companion, to say to Heathcote:
‘Be secret, as you value your existence: everything will be right, if you be but
secret.’
To this Heathcote had replied: ‘Never fear me; I understand what I am
about.’
This was said in such an ambiguous
manner that it was impossible to conjecture whether he intended or not to act upon
Dwyer’s exhortation. The conclusion which appeared most natural, was by no
means an agreeable one.
It was much to be feared that Heathcote having heard some vague report of
O’Mara’s engagement with Lady Emily, perhaps exaggerated, by the repetition,
into a speedily approaching marriage, had become alarmed for his daughter’s interest, and had taken this decisive step in order to prevent, by a disclosure of the circumstances of his clandestine union with Ellen,
the possibility of his completing a guilty alliance with Captain N—-‘s sister. If he entertained the suspicions which they attributed to him, he had certainly taken the most effectual means to prevent their being realised. Whatever his object might be, his presence in Dublin, in company
with Captain N—-, boded nothing good to O’Mara.
They entered —-‘s tavern, in Dame
Street, together; and there, over a hasty and by no means a comfortable meal, they talked over their plans and conjectures. Evening closed in, and found them still
closeted together, with nothing to interrupt, and a large tankard of claret to sustain their desultory conversation.
Nothing had been determined upon,
except that Dwyer and O’Mara should proceed under cover of the darkness to
search the town for Heathcote, and by minute inquiries at the most frequented
houses of entertainment, to ascertain his place of residence, in order to procuring a full and explanatory interview with him. They had each filled their last glass, and were sipping it slowly, seated with their feet stretched towards a bright cheerful fire; the small table which sustained the flagon of which we have spoken, together with two pair of wax candles, placed
between them, so as to afford a convenient resting-place for the long glasses out of which they drank.
‘One good result, at all events, will be effected by Heathcote’s visit,’ said O’Mara. ‘Before twenty-four hours I shall do that which I should have done long ago. I
shall, without reserve, state everything. I can no longer endure this suspense–this dishonourable secrecy–this apparent
dissimulation. Every moment I have passed since my departure from the country has
been one of embarrassment, of pain, of humiliation. To-morrow I will brave
the storm, whether successfully or not is doubtful; but I had rather walk the high roads a beggar, than submit a day longer to be made the degraded sport of every
accident–the miserable dependent upon a successful system of deception. Though
PASSIVE deception, it is still unmanly, unworthy, unjustifiable deception. I
cannot bear to think of it. I despise myself, but I will cease to be the despicable thing I have become. To-morrow sees me free,
and this harassing subject for ever at rest.’
He was interrupted here by the sound
of footsteps heavily but rapidly ascending the tavern staircase. The room door
opened, and Captain N—-, accompanied by a fashionably-attired young man,
entered the room.
Young O’Mara had risen from his seat
on the entrance of their unexpected visitants; and the moment Captain N—-
recognised his person, an evident and ominous change passed over his countenance. He turned hastily to withdraw, but,
as it seemed, almost instantly changed his mind, for he turned again abruptly.
‘This chamber is engaged, sir,’ said the waiter.
‘Leave the room, sir,’ was his only
reply.
‘The room is engaged, sir,’ repeated the waiter, probably believing that his first suggestion had been unheard.
‘Leave the room, or go to hell!’ shouted Captain N—-; at the same time seizing
the astounded waiter by the shoulder, he hurled him headlong into the passage,
and flung the door to with a crash that shook the walls. ‘Sir,’ continued he,
addressing himself to O’Mara, ‘I did not hope to have met you until to-morrow.
Fortune has been kind to me–draw, and defend yourself.’
At the same time he drew his sword,
and placed himself in an attitude of attack.
‘I will not draw upon YOU,’ said O’Mara. ‘I have, indeed, wronged you. I have
given you just cause for resentment; but against your life I will never lift my
hand.’
‘You are a coward, sir,’ replied Captain N—-, with almost frightful vehemence,
‘as every trickster and swindler IS. You are a contemptible dastard–a despicable, damned villain! Draw your sword, sir,
and defend your life, or every post and pillar in this town shall tell your
infamy.’
‘Perhaps,’ said his friend, with a sneer, ‘the gentleman can do better without his honour than without his wife.’
‘Yes,’ shouted the captain, ‘his wife– a trull–a common—-‘
‘Silence, sir!’ cried O’Mara, all the fierceness of his nature roused by this last insult–‘your object is gained; your blood be upon your own head.’ At the same
time he sprang across a bench which stood in his way, and pushing aside the table
which supported the lights, in an instant their swords crossed, and they were
engaged in close and deadly strife.
Captain N—- was far the stronger of the two; but, on the other hand, O’Mara
possessed far more skill in the use of the fatal weapon which they employed. But
the narrowness of the room rendered this advantage hardly available.
Almost instantly O’Mara received a
slight wound upon the forehead, which, though little more than a scratch, bled so fast as to obstruct his sight considerably.
Those who have used the foil can tell how slight a derangement of eye or of
hand is sufficient to determine a contest of this kind; and this knowledge will prevent their being surprised when I say, that,
spite of O’Mara’s superior skill and practice, his adversary’s sword passed
twice through and through his body, and he fell heavily and helplessly upon the
floor of the chamber.
Without saying a word, the successful combatant quitted the room along with
his companion, leaving Dwyer to shift as best he might for his fallen comrade.
With the assistance of some of the
wondering menials of the place, Dwyer succeeded in conveying the wounded man
into an adjoining room, where he was laid upon a bed, in a state bordering upon
insensibility–the blood flowing, I might say WELLING, from the wounds so fast as
to show that unless the bleeding were speedily and effectually stopped, he could not live for half an hour.
Medical aid was, of course, instantly procured, and Colonel O’Mara, though at
the time seriously indisposed, was urgently requested to attend without loss of time. He did so; but human succour and
support were all too late. The wound had been truly dealt–the tide of life had ebbed; and his father had not arrived five minutes when young O’Mara was a corpse. His
body rests in the vaults of Christ Church, in Dublin, without a stone to mark the spot.
The counsels of the wicked are always dark, and their motives often beyond
fathoming; and strange, unaccountable, incredible as it may seem, I do believe, and that upon evidence so clear as to
amount almost to demonstration, that Heathcote’s visit to Dublin–his betrayal of the secret–and the final and terrible catastrophe which laid O’Mara in the
grave, were brought about by no other agent than Dwyer himself.
I have myself seen the letter which
induced that visit. The handwriting is exactly what I have seen in other alleged specimens of Dwyer’s penmanship. It is
written with an affectation of honest alarm at O’Mara’s conduct, and expresses a
conviction that if some of Lady Emily’s family be not informed of O’Mara’s real
situation, nothing could prevent his concluding with her an advantageous alliance, then upon the tapis, and altogether throwing off his allegiance to Ellen–a step
which, as the writer candidly asserted, would finally conduce as inevitably to his own disgrace as it immediately would to
her ruin and misery.
The production was formally signed
with Dwyer’s name, and the postscript contained a strict injunction of secrecy, asserting that if it were ascertained that such an epistle had been despatched from such a quarter, it would be attended with the total ruin of the writer.
It is true that Dwyer, many years after, when this letter came to light, alleged it to be a forgery, an assertion whose truth,
even to his dying hour, and long after he had apparently ceased to feel the lash of public scorn, he continued obstinately to maintain. Indeed this matter is full of
mystery, for, revenge alone excepted, which I believe, in such minds as Dwyer’s, seldom overcomes the sense of interest,
the only intelligible motive which could have prompted him to such an act was the hope that since he had, through young
O’Mara’s interest, procured from the colonel a lease of a small farm upon the terms which he had originally stipulated, he might prosecute his plan touching the property of Martin Heathcote, rendering
his daughter’s hand free by the removal of young O’Mara. This appears to me too
complicated a plan of villany to have entered the mind even of such a man as
Dwyer. I must, therefore, suppose his motives to have originated out of
circumstances connected with this story which may not have come to my ear, and perhaps never will.
Colonel O’Mara felt the death of his
son more deeply than I should have
thought possible; but that son had been the last being who had continued to
interest his cold heart. Perhaps the pride which he felt in his child had in it more of selfishness than of any generous feeling. But, be this as it may, the melancholy
circumstances connected with Ellen
Heathcote had reached him, and his
conduct towards her proved, more strongly than anything else could have done, that he felt keenly and justly, and, to a certain degree, with a softened heart, the fatal event of which she had been, in some
manner, alike the cause and the victim.
He evinced not towards her, as might
have been expected, any unreasonable resentment. On the contrary, he exhibited great consideration, even tenderness, for her situation; and having ascertained
where his son had placed her, he issued strict orders that she should not be
disturbed, and that the fatal tidings, which had not yet reached her, should be withheld until they might be communicated in
such a way as to soften as much as
possible the inevitable shock.
These last directions were acted upon too scrupulously and too long; and,
indeed, I am satisfied that had the event been communicated at once, however
terrible and overwhelming the shock might have been, much of the bitterest
anguish, of sickening doubts, of harassing suspense, would have been spared her,
and the first tempestuous burst of sorrow having passed over, her chastened spirit might have recovered its tone, and her life have been spared. But the mistaken
kindness which concealed from her the dreadful truth, instead of relieving her mind of a burden which it could not support, laid upon it a weight of horrible
fears and doubts as to the affection of O’Mara, compared with which even the
certainty of his death would have been tolerable.
One evening I had just seated myself
beside a cheerful turf fire, with that true relish which a long cold ride through a
bleak and shelterless country affords, stretching my chilled limbs to meet the
genial influence, and imbibing the warmth at every pore, when my comfortable
meditations were interrupted by a long and sonorous ringing at the door-bell
evidently effected by no timid hand.
A messenger had arrived to request my attendance at the Lodge–such was the
name which distinguished a small and somewhat antiquated building, occupying
a peculiarly secluded position among the bleak and heathy hills which varied the
surface of that not altogether uninteresting district, and which had, I believe, been employed by the keen and hardy ancestors of the O’Mara family as a convenient
temporary residence during the sporting season.
Thither my attendance was required, in order to administer to a deeply distressed lady such comforts as an afflicted mind can gather from the sublime hopes and consolations of Christianity.
I had long suspected that the occupant of this sequestered, I might say desolate, dwelling-house was the poor girl whose
brief story we are following; and feeling a keen interest in her fate–as who that had ever seen her DID NOT?–I started from my comfortable seat with more eager alacrity than, I will confess it, I might have
evinced had my duty called me in another direction.
In a few minutes I was trotting rapidly onward, preceded by my guide, who urged
his horse with the remorseless rapidity of one who seeks by the speed of his progress to escape observation. Over roads and
through bogs we splashed and clattered, until at length traversing the brow of a wild and rocky hill, whose aspect seemed so barren and forbidding that it might
have been a lasting barrier alike to mortal sight and step, the lonely building became visible, lying in a kind of swampy flat, with a broad reedy pond or lake stretching away to its side, and backed by a farther range of monotonous sweeping hills,
marked with irregular lines of grey rock, which, in the distance, bore a rude and
colossal resemblance to the walls of a fortification.
Riding with undiminished speed along
a kind of wild horse-track, we turned the corner of a high and somewhat ruinous
wall of loose stones, and making a sudden wheel we found ourselves in a small
quadrangle, surmounted on two sides by dilapidated stables and kennels, on
another by a broken stone wall, and upon the fourth by the front of the lodge itself.
The whole character of the place was that of dreary desertion and decay, which
would of itself have predisposed the mind for melancholy impressions. My guide
dismounted, and with respectful attention held my horse’s bridle while I got down; and knocking at the door with the handle of his whip, it was speedily opened by a neatly-dressed female domestic, and I was admitted to the interior of the house, and conducted into a small room, where a fire in some degree dispelled the cheerless air, which would otherwise have prevailed
to a painful degree throughout the
place.
I had been waiting but for a very few minutes when another female servant,
somewhat older than the first, entered the room. She made some apology on the
part of the person whom I had come to visit, for the slight delay which had already occurred, and requested me further to wait for a few minutes longer, intimating that the lady’s grief was so violent, that without great effort she could not bring herself to speak calmly at all. As if to beguile the time, the good dame went on in a
highly communicative strain to tell me, amongst much that could not interest me, a little of what I had desired to hear. I discovered that the grief of her whom I
had come to visit was excited by the sudden death of a little boy, her only
child, who was then lying dead in his mother’s chamber.
‘And the mother’s name?’ said I, inquiringly.
The woman looked at me for a moment,
smiled, and shook her head with the air of mingled mystery and importance which
seems to say, ‘I am unfathomable.’ I did not care to press the question, though I suspected that much of her apparent
reluctance was affected, knowing that my doubts respecting the identity of the person whom I had come to visit must soon
be set at rest, and after a little pause the worthy Abigail went on as fluently as
ever. She told me that her young
mistress had been, for the time she had been with her–that was, for about a year and a half–in declining health and spirits, and that she had loved her little child to a degree beyond expression–so devotedly
that she could not, in all probability, survive it long.
While she was running on in this way
the bell rang, and signing me to follow, she opened the room door, but stopped in the hall, and taking me a little aside, and speaking in a whisper, she told me, as I valued the life of the poor lady, not to say one word of the death of young O’Mara.
I nodded acquiescence, and ascending a narrow and ill-constructed staircase, she stopped at a chamber door and knocked.
‘Come in,’ said a gentle voice from
within, and, preceded by my conductress, I entered a moderately-sized, but rather gloomy chamber.
There was but one living form within it –it was the light and graceful figure of a young woman. She had risen as I
entered the room; but owing to the
obscurity of the apartment, and to the circumstance that her face, as she looked towards the door, was turned away from
the light, which found its way in dimly through the narrow windows, I could not
instantly recognise the features.
‘You do not remember me, sir?’ said the same low, mournful voice. ‘I am–I WAS
–Ellen Heathcote.’
‘I do remember you, my poor child,’
said I, taking her hand; ‘I do remember you very well. Speak to me frankly–
speak to me as a friend. Whatever I can do or say for you, is yours already; only speak.’
‘You were always very kind, sir, to
those–to those that WANTED kindness.’
The tears were almost overflowing, but she checked them; and as if an accession of fortitude had followed the momentary
weakness, she continued, in a subdued but firm tone, to tell me briefly the
circumstances of her marriage with O’Mara. When she had concluded the recital,
she paused for a moment; and I asked again:
‘Can I aid you in any way–by advice
or otherwise?’
‘I wish, sir, to tell you all I have been thinking about,’ she continued. ‘I am
sure, sir, that Master Richard loved me once–I am sure he did not think to
deceive me; but there were bad, hard- hearted people about him, and his family were all rich and high, and I am sure he wishes NOW that he had never, never seen me. Well, sir, it is not in my heart to blame him. What was _I_ that I should look at
him?–an ignorant, poor, country girl– and he so high and great, and so beautiful. The blame was all mine–it was all my
fault; I could not think or hope he would care for me more than a little time. Well, sir, I thought over and over again that
since his love was gone from me for ever, I should not stand in his way, and hinder whatever great thing his family wished for him. So I thought often and often to write him a letter to get the marriage broken, and to send me home; but for one reason, I would have done it long ago: there was a little child, his and mine–the dearest, the loveliest.’ She could not go on for a minute or two. ‘The little child that is lying there, on that bed; but it is dead and gone, and there is no reason NOW why I should delay any more about it.’
She put her hand into her breast, and took out a letter, which she opened. She put it into my hands. It ran thus:
‘DEAR MASTER RICHARD,
‘My little child is dead, and your happiness is all I care about now. Your
marriage with me is displeasing to your family, and I would be a burden to you,
and in your way in the fine places, and among the great friends where you must
be. You ought, therefore, to break the marriage, and I will sign whatever YOU
wish, or your family. I will never try to blame you, Master Richard–do not
think it–for I never deserved your love, and must not complain now that
I have lost it; but I will always pray for you, and be thinking of you while
I live.’
While I read this letter, I was satisfied that so far from adding to the poor
girl’s grief, a full disclosure of what had happened would, on the contrary, mitigate her sorrow, and deprive it of its sharpest sting.
‘Ellen,’ said I solemnly, ‘Richard
O’Mara was never unfaithful to you; he is now where human reproach can reach
him no more.’
As I said this, the hectic flush upon her cheek gave place to a paleness so deadly, that I almost thought she would drop lifeless upon the spot.
‘Is he–is he dead, then?’ said she,
wildly.
I took her hand in mine, and told her the sad story as best I could. She listened with a calmness which appeared almost
unnatural, until I had finished the mournful narration. She then arose, and going to
the bedside, she drew the curtain and gazed silently and fixedly on the quiet face of the child: but the feelings which swelled at her heart could not be suppressed; the
tears gushed forth, and sobbing as if her heart would break, she leant over the bed and took the dead child in her arms.
She wept and kissed it, and kissed it and wept again, in grief so passionate, so
heartrending, as to draw bitter tears from my eyes. I said what little I could to
calm her–to have sought to do more would have been a mockery; and observing that the darkness had closed in, I
took my leave and departed, being
favoured with the services of my former guide.
I expected to have been soon called
upon again to visit the poor girl; but the Lodge lay beyond the boundary of my
parish, and I felt a reluctance to trespass upon the precincts of my brother minister, and a certain degree of hesitation in intruding upon one whose situation was so
very peculiar, and who would, I had no doubt, feel no scruple in requesting my
attendance if she desired it.
A month, however, passed away, and I
did not hear anything of Ellen. I called at the Lodge, and to my inquiries they
answered that she was very much worse in health, and that since the death of the child she had been sinking fast, and so
weak that she had been chiefly confined to her bed. I sent frequently to inquire, and often called myself, and all that I
heard convinced me that she was rapidly sinking into the grave.
Late one night I was summoned from
my rest, by a visit from the person who had upon the former occasion acted as
my guide; he had come to summon me to the death-bed of her whom I had then
attended. With all celerity I made my preparations, and, not without considerable difficulty and some danger, we made a
rapid night-ride to the Lodge, a distance of five miles at least. We arrived safely, and in a very short time–but too late.
I stood by the bed upon which lay the once beautiful form of Ellen Heathcote.
The brief but sorrowful trial was past– the desolate mourner was gone to that
land where the pangs of grief, the tumults of passion, regrets and cold neglect, are felt no more. I leant over the lifeless face, and scanned the beautiful features which, living, had wrought such magic on all that looked upon them. They were, indeed,
much wasted; but it was impossible for the fingers of death or of decay altogether to obliterate the traces of that exquisite beauty which had so distinguished her.
As I gazed on this most sad and striking spectacle, remembrances thronged fast upon my mind, and tear after tear fell upon the cold form that slept tranquilly and for ever.
A few days afterwards I was told that a funeral had left the Lodge at the dead of night, and had been conducted with the
most scrupulous secrecy. It was, of course, to me no mystery.
Heathcote lived to a very advanced age, being of that hard mould which is not
easily impressionable. The selfish and the hard-hearted survive where nobler, more
generous, and, above all, more sympathising natures would have sunk for ever.
Dwyer certainly succeeded in extorting, I cannot say how, considerable and advantageous leases from Colonel O’Mara; but
after his death he disposed of his interest in these, and having for a time launched into a sea of profligate extravagance, he became bankrupt, and for a long time I
totally lost sight of him.
The rebellion of ’98, and the events
which immediately followed, called him forth from his lurking-places, in the
character of an informer; and I myself have seen the hoary-headed, paralytic perjurer, with a scowl of derision and defiance, brave the hootings and the execrations of the
indignant multitude.