I made many ineffectual efforts to awake on the morning after my
adventure. Fatigue and exhaustion, which seem always heaviest when
incurred by danger, had completely worn me out, and scarcely had I
succeeded in opening my eyes and muttering some broken words, ere again
I dropped off to sleep, soundly, and without a dream. It was late in
the afternoon when at length I sat up in my bed and looked about me. A
gentle hand suddenly fell upon my shoulder, and a low voice, which I at
once recognised as Father Tom's, whispered--
'There now, my dear fellow, lie down again. You must not stir for a
couple of hours yet.'
I looked at him fixedly for a moment, and, as I clasped his hand in
mine, asked--
'How is she, father?'
Scarcely were these words spoken when I felt a burning blush upon my
cheek. It was the confidence of long months that found vent in one
second--the pent-up secret of my heart that burst from me unconsciously,
and I hid my face upon the pillow, and felt as though I had betrayed
her.
'Well--quite well,' said the old man, as he pressed my hand forcibly in
his own. 'But let us not speak now. You must take more rest, and then
have your arm looked to. I believe you have forgotten all about it.'
'My arm!' repeated I, in some surprise; while, turning down the clothes,
I perceived that my right arm was sorely bruised, and swollen to
an immense size. 'The rocks have done this,' muttered I. 'And she,
father--what of her, for heaven's sake?'
'Be calm, or I must leave you,' said the priest 'I said before that she
was well. Poor boy!'
There was something so touching in the tone of the last words that
without my knowing why, I felt a kind of creeping fear pass across me,
and a dread of some unknown evil steal over me.
'Father,' said I, springing up, and grasping him with both my hands,
while the pain of my wounded arm shot through my very heart, 'you are
an honest man, and you are a man of God: you would not tell me a lie. Is
she well?' The big drop fell from my brow as I spoke.
He clasped his hands fervently together as he replied, in a voice
tremulous with agitation, 'I have not told you a lie!' He turned away
as he spoke, and I lay down in my bed with a mind relieved, but not at
rest.
Alas, how hard it is to be happy! The casualties of this world come on
like waves, one succeeding the other. We may escape the heavy roll of
the mighty ocean, and be wrecked in the still, smooth waters of the
landlocked bay. We dread the storm and the hurricane, and we forget how
many have perished within sight of shore. But yet a secret fear is
ever present with us when danger hovers near; and this sense of some
impending evil it was which now darkened me, and whispered me to be
prepared.
I lay for some time sunk in my reflections, and when I looked up, the
priest was gone. A letter had fallen on the floor, as if by accident»
and I rose to place it on my table, when, to my surprise, I found it
addressed to myself. It was marked 'On His Majesty's service,' and ran
thus:--
'Dublin Castle.
'Sir,--I have received his Excellency's
orders to inform you that unless you, on receipt of the
present letter, at once return to your duty as a member of
the staff, your name will be erased from the list, and the
vacancy immediately filled up.--I have the honour to be,
etc.,
'Henry Horton.'
What could have caused the great alteration in his Excellency's feelings
that this order evinced I could not conceive, and I felt hurt and
indignant at the tone of a letter which came on me so completely by
surprise. I knew, however, how much my father looked to my strict
obedience to every call of duty, and resolved that, come what would, I
should at once resume my position on the duke's staff.
These were but momentary reflections. My thoughts recurred at once to
where my heart was dwelling---with her whose very image lived within
me. Try how I would, I could think of no pleasure in which she took not
part, imagine no scheme of life in which she was not concerned. Ambition
had lost its charm; the path of glory I had longed to tread, I felt now
as nothing beside that heather walk which led me towards her; and if
I were to have chosen between the most brilliant career high station,
influence, and fortune could bestow, and the lowly condition of a
dweller in these wild mountain solitudes, I felt that not a moment of
hesitation or doubt would mark my decision. There was a kind of
heroism in the relinquishing all the blandishments of fortune, all the
seductions of the brilliant world, for one whose peaceful and humble
life strayed not beyond the limits of these rugged mountains; and this
had its charm. There were times when I loved to ask myself whether
Louisa Bellew would not, even amid all the splendour and display of
London life, be as much admired and courted as the most acknowledged
of beauty's daughters: now I turned rather to the thought of how far
happier and better it was to know that a nature so unhackneyed, a heart
so rich in its own emotions, was never to be exposed to the callous
collision of society and all the hardened hypocrisy of the world. My
own lot, too, how many more chances of happiness did it not present as
I looked at the few weeks of the past, and thought of whole years thus
gliding away, loving and beloved!
A kind of stir, and the sound of voices beneath my window, broke my
musings, and I rose and looked out. It proceeded from the young girl
and the country lad who formed the priest's household. They were talking
together before the door, and pointing in the direction of the highroad,
where a cloud of dust had marked the passage of some carriage--an event
rare enough to attract attention in these wild districts.
'And did his reverence say that the Captain was to be kept in bed till
he came back?'
'Ah, then, sure, he knew well enough,' said Mary, 'that the young man
would be up and off to the castle the moment he was able to walk--ay,
and maybe before it too. Troth, Patsey, it's what I'm thinking--there's
nobody knows how to coort like a raal gentleman.'
'Och, botheration!' said Patsey, with an offended toss of his head, and
a look of half malice.
'Faix, you may look how you like, but it's truth I'm telling ye. They
know how to do it. It isn't winking at a body, nor putting their great
rough arms round their neck; but it's a quiet, mannerly, dacent way they
have, and soothering voice, and a look under their eyes, as much as to
say, “Maybe ye wouldn't, now?”'
'Troth, Mary,' said Patsey sharply, 'it strikes me that you know more of
their ways than is just convenient--eh, do you understand me now?'
'Well, and if I do,' replied Mary, 'there's no one can be evenin' it to
you, for I'm sure it wasn't you taught me!'
'Ye want to provoke me,' said the young man, rising, and evidently
more annoyed than he felt disposed to confess; 'but, faix, I'll keep my
temper. It's not after spaking to his reverence, and buying a cow and a
dresser, that I 'm going to break it off.'
'Heigh-ho!' said Mary, as she adjusted a curl that was most coquettishly
half falling across her eyes; 'sure there's many a slip betune the cup
and the lip, as the poor dear young gentleman will find out when he
wakes.'
A cold fear ran through me as I heard these words, and the presentiment
of some mishap, that for a few moments I had been forgetting, now came
back in double force. I set about dressing myself in all haste, and,
notwithstanding that my wounded arm interfered with me at each instant,
succeeded at last in my undertaking. I looked at my watch; it was
already six o'clock in the afternoon, and the large mountains were
throwing their great shadows over the yellow strand. Collecting from
what I had heard from the priest's servants that it was their intention
to detain me in the house, I locked my door on leaving the room, and
stole noiselessly down the stairs, crossed the little garden, and
passing through the beech hedge, soon found myself upon the mountain
path. My pace quickened as I breasted the hillside, my eyes firmly fixed
upon the tall towers of the old castle, as they stood proudly topping
the dense foliage of the oak-trees. Like some mariner who gazes on the
long-wished-f or beacon that tells of home and friends, so I bent my
steadfast looks to that one object, and conjured up many a picture to
myself of the scene that might be at that moment enacting there. Now I
imagined the old man seated, silent and motionless, beside the bed where
his daughter, overcome with weakness and exhaustion, still slept, her
pale face scarce coloured by a pinkish flush that marked the last trace
of feverish excitement; now I thought of her as if still seated in
her own drawing-room, at the little window that faced seaward, looking
perhaps upon the very spot that marked our last night's adventure, and,
mayhap, blushing at the memory.
As I came near the park I turned from the regular approach to a small
path, which, opening by a wicket, led to a little flower-garden beside
the drawing-room. I had not walked many paces when the sound of some one
sobbing caught my ear. I stopped to listen, and could distinctly hear
the low broken voice of grief quite near me. My mind was in that excited
state when every breeze that rustled, every leaf that stirred, thrilled
through my heart; the same dread of something, I knew not what, that
agitated me as I awoke came fresh upon me, and a cold tremor crept over
me. The next moment I sprang forward, and as I turned the angle of the
walk beheld--with what relief of heart!--that the cries proceeded from
a little child, who, seated in the grass, was weeping bitterly. It was
a boy of scarce five years old that Louisa used to employ about the
garden--rather to amuse the little fellow, to whom she had taken a
liking, than for the sake of services which at the best were scarcely
harmless.
'Well, Billy,' said I, 'what has happened to you, my boy? Have you
fallen and hurt yourself?'
'Na,' was the only reply; and sinking his head between his knees, he
sobbed more bitterly than ever.
'Has Miss Loo been angry with you, then?'
'Na, na,' was the only answer, as he poured forth a flood of tears.
'Come, come, my little man, what is it? Tell me, and perhaps we can set
it all to rights.'
'Gone! gone away for ever!' cried the child, as a burst of pent-up agony
broke from him; and he cried as though his very heart would break.
Again the terrible foreboding crossed my mind, and without waiting to
ask another question I rushed forward, cleared the little fence of the
flower-garden at a spring and stood within a few yards of the window.
It lay open as usual; the large china vase of moss-roses that she
had plucked the evening before stood on the little table beside it.
I stopped for an instant to breathe; the beating of my heart was so
painful that I pressed my hand upon my side. At that instant I had given
my life to have heard Louisa's voice; but for one single word I had
bartered my heart's blood. But all was as hushed and still as midnight.
I thought I did hear something like a sigh; yes, and now I could
distinctly hear the rustling sound of some one as if turning in a chair.
Sir Simon Bellew, for some cause, or other, I knew never came into that
room. I listened again: yes, and now too I could see the shadow of
a figure on the floor. I sprang forward to the window and cried out,
'Louisa!' The next instant I was in the room, and my eyes fell upon the
figure of--Ulick Burke! Seated in a deep arm-chair, his leg resting on a
low stool, he was reclining at half-length, his face pale as death, and
his very lips blanched; but there rested on the mouth the same curl of
insolent mockery that marked it when first we met.
'Disappointed, I fear, sir,' said he, in a tone which, however weakened
by sickness, had lost nothing of its sneering bitterness.
'I confess, sir,' said I confusedly, 'that this is a pleasure I had not
anticipated.'
'Nor I either, sir,' replied he, with a dark frown. 'Had I been able to
ring the bell before, the letter that lies there should have been sent
to you, and might have spared both of us this “pleasure,” as you are
good enough to call it.'
'A letter for me?' said I eagerly; then half ashamed at my own emotion,
and not indifferent to the sickly and apparently dying form before me, I
hesitated, and added, 'I trust that you are recovering from the effects
of your wound.'
[Illustration: 3-008]
'Damn the wound, sir; don't speak to me about it! You never came
here for that, I suppose? Take your letter, sir!' A purple flush here
coloured his features, as though some pang of agonising pain had shot
through him, and his livid lip quivered with passion. 'Take your letter,
sir!' and he threw it towards me as he spoke.
I stood amazed and thunderstruck at this sudden outbreak of anger, and
for a second or two could not recover myself to speak. 'You mistake me,'
said I.
'Mistake you? No, confound me! I don't mistake you; I know you well and
thoroughly! But you mistake me, ay, and damnably too, if you suppose
that because I 'm crippled here this insolence shall pass unpunished!
Who but a coward, sir, would come thus to taunt a man like me? Yes, sir,
a coward! I spoke it--I said it! Would you like to hear it over again?
Or if you don't like it, the remedy is near you--nearer than you think.
There are two pistols in that case, both loaded with ball; take your
choice, and your own distance; and here, where we are, let us finish
this quarrel! For, mark me!' and here his brow darkened, till the veins,
swelled and knotted in his forehead, looked like indigo--'mark me, the
account shall be closed one day or other!'
I saw at once that he had lashed his fury up to an ungovernable pitch,
and that to speak to him was only to increase his passion; so I stooped
down without saying a word, and took up the letter that lay at my feet.
'I am waiting your reply, sir,' said he, with a low voice, subdued by an
inward effort into a seeming quietness of tone.
'You cannot imagine,' said I mildly, 'that I could accept of such a
challenge as this, nor fight with a man who cannot leave his chair?'
'And who has made me so, sir? Who has made me a paralytic thing for
life? But if that be all, give me your arm, and help me through that
window; place me against that yew-tree, yonder. I can stand well enough.
You won't?--you refuse me this? Oh, coward! coward! You grow pale and
red again! Let your white lip mutter, and your nails eat into your hands
with passion! Your heart is craven, and you know it!'
Shall I dare to own it? For an instant or two my resolution tottered,
and involuntarily my eyes turned to the pistol-case upon the table
beside me. He caught the look, and in a tone of triumphant exultation
cried out--
'Bravo, bravo! What! you hesitate again? Oh, that this should not be
before the world--in some open and public place--that men should not
look on and see us here!'
'I leave you, sir,' said I sternly--'thankful, for _your_ sake at least,
that this is not before the world.'
'Stop, sir! stop!' cried he, hoarse with rage. 'Ring that bell!' I
hesitated, and he called out again, 'Ring that bell, sir!'
I approached the chimney, and did as he desired. The butler immediately
made his appearance.
'Nicholas,' cried the sick man, 'bring in the servants--bring them in
here; you hear me well. I want to show them something they have never
seen. Go!'
The man disappeared at once, and as I met the scowling look of hate that
fixed its glare upon me, once more I felt myself to waver. The struggle
was but momentary. I sprang to the window, and leaped into the garden.
A loud curse broke from Burke as I did so; a cry of disappointed wrath,
like the yell of a famished wolf, followed. The next moment I was beyond
the reach of his insolence and his invective.
The passionate excitement of the moment over, my first determination was
to gain the approach, and return to the house by the hall door; my next,
to break the seal of the letter which I held in my hand, and see if its
contents might not throw some light upon the events which somehow I
felt were thickening around me, but of whose nature and import I knew
nothing.
The address was written in a stiff, old-fashioned hand; but the large
seal bore the arms of the Bellew family, and left no doubt upon my
mind that it had come from Sir Simon. I opened it with a trembling and
throbbing heart, and read as follows:--
'My dear Sir,--The event of last night has called back upon a failing
and broken memory the darkest hour of a long and blighted life, and made
the old man, whose steadfast gaze looked onward to the tomb, turn once
backward to behold the deepest affliction of his days--misfortune,
crime, remorse. I cannot even now, while already the very shadow of
death is on me, recount the sad story I allude to; enough for the object
I have in view if I say, that, where I once owed the life of one I held
dearest in the world, the hand that saved lived to steal, and the voice
that blessed me was perjured and forsworn. Since that hour I have never
received a service of a fellow-mortal, until the hour when you rescued
my child. And oh! loving her as I do, wrapped up as my soul is in her
image, I could have borne better to see her cold and dripping corpse
laid down beside me than to behold her, as I have done, in your arms.
You must never meet more. The dreadful anticipation of long-suffering
years is creeping stronger and stronger upon me; and I feel in my inmost
heart that I am reserved for another and a last bereavement ere I die.
'We shall have left before this letter reaches you. You may perhaps
hear the place of our refuge, for such it is; but I trust that to your
feelings as a gentleman and a man of honour I can appeal, in the certain
confidence that you will not abuse my faith--you will not follow us.
'I know not what I have written, nor dare I read it again. Already my
tears have dimmed my eyes, and are falling on the paper; so let me bid
you farewell--an eternal fare well. My nephew has arrived here. I have
not seen him, nor shall I; but he will forward this letter to you after
our departure.--Yours, S. Bellew.'
The first stunning feeling past, I looked round me to see if it were not
some horrid dream, and the whole events but the frightful deception of a
sleeping fancy. But bit by bit the entire truth broke upon me; the
full tide of sorrow rushed in upon my heart. The letter I could not
comprehend further than that some deep affliction had been recalled
by my late adventure. But then, the words of the hag--the brief,
half-uttered intimations of the priest--came to my memory. 'Her mother,'
said I--'what of her mother?' I remembered Louisa had never mentioned
or even alluded to her; and now a thousand suspicions crossed my mind,
which all gave way before my own sense of bereavement and the desolation
and desertion I felt, in my own heart. I threw myself upon the ground
where she walked so often beside me, and burst into tears. But a few
brief hours, and how surrounded by visions of happiness and lovet Now,
bereft of everything, what charm had life for me! How valueless, how
worthless did all seem! The evening sun I loved to gaze on, the bright
flowers, the waving grass, the low murmur of the breaking surf that
stole like music over the happy sense, were now but gloomy things or
discordant sounds. The very high and holy thoughts that used to stir
within me were changed to fierce and wrathful passions or the low
drooping of despair. It was night, still and starry night, when I arose
and wended my way towards the priest's cottage.