BARRY ORANMORE.
----"Pray for the dead--
Why for the dead, who are at rest?
Pray for the living, in whose breast
The struggle between right and wrong
Is raging, terrible and strong."--LONGFELLOW.
It was a luxuriously furnished apartment. A thick, soft carpet, where
blue violets peeped from glowing green leaves so naturally that one
involuntarily stooped to cull them, covered the floor. Rare old
paintings adorned the wall, and the cornices were fretted with gold. The
heavy crimson curtains shut out the sound of the wintry wind, and a
glowing coal fire shed a living, radiant glow over everything around.
The air was redolent of intoxicating perfume, breathing of summer and
sunshine. On the marble-topped center-table stood bottles and glasses, a
cigar-case, a smoking-cap, and a pair of elegant, silver-mounted
pistols. It was evidently a gentleman's room, judging by the disorder. A
beautiful marble Flora stood in one corner, arrayed in a gaudy
dressing-gown, and opposite stood a dainty little Peri adorned with a
beaver hat. Jupiter himself was there, with a violin suspended
gracefully around his neck, and Cupid was leaning against the wall,
heels uppermost, with bent bow, evidently taking deliberate aim at the
flies on the ceiling.
Among the many exquisite paintings hanging on the wall, there was one of
surpassing beauty; it represented a bleak hill-side, with a flock of
sheep grazing on the scanty herbage, a lowering, troubled sky above; and
one could almost see the fitful gusts of wind sighing over the gray
hill-tops. Standing erect was a young girl--a mere child in years--her
long golden hair streaming wildly in the breeze, her straw hat swinging
in her hand, her fair, bright face and large blue eyes raised with
mingled shyness and sauciness to a horseman bending over her, as if
speaking. His fiery steed seemed pawing with impatience; but his rider
held him with a firm hand. He was a tall, slight youth, with raven black
hair and eyes, and a dark, handsome face. There was a wild look about
the dark horseman and darker steed, reminding one of the Black Horseman
of the Hartz Mountains. Underneath was written, in a dashing masculine
hand, "The first meeting." There was something strikingly, vividly
life-like in the whole scene; even the characters--the slender girl,
with her pretty, piquant face, and the handsome, graceful rider--were
more like living beings than creations of fancy.
And--yes, standing by the fire, his arm resting on the mantel, his eyes
fixed on the hearth, stood the original of the picture. The same tall,
superb form; the same clear olive complexion; the same curling locks of
jet, and black eyes of fire; the same firm, proud mouth, shaded by a
thick black mustache--there he stood, his eyes riveted on the glowing
coals, his brow knit as though in deep and painful thought. Now and then
the muscles of his face would twitch, and his white hands involuntarily
clench at some passing thought.
At intervals the noise of doors shutting and opening would reach his
ear, and he would start as though he had received a galvanic shock, and
listen for a moment intently. Nothing could be heard but the crackling
of the fire at such times, and again he would relapse into gloomy
musing.
"What a fool I have been!" he exclaimed, at length between his clenched
teeth, as he shook back with fierce impatience his glossy hair, "to
burden myself with this girl! Dolt, idiot that I was, to allow myself to
be bewitched by her blue eyes and yellow hair! What demon could have
possessed me to make her my wife? My wife! Just fancy me presenting that
little blushing, shrinking Galway girl as my wife to my lady mother, or
to that princess of coquettes, Lizzie Erliston! I wish to heaven I had
blown my brains out instead of putting my head into such a confounded
noose--making myself the laughing-stock of all my gallant friends and
lady acquaintances! No, by heaven! they shall never laugh at Barry
Oranmore. Eveleen shall be sent back to her friends. They will be glad
enough to get her on any terms; and she will soon forget me, and be
happy tending her sheep once more. And yet--and yet--poor Eveleen!" he
said, suddenly, pausing before the picture, while his dark eyes filled
with a softer light, and his voice assumed a gentler tone; "she loves me
so well yet--far more than I do her. I hardly like the thought of
sending her away; but it cannot be helped. My mother's purse is running
low, I fear; Erliston's coffers must replenish it. Yes, there is no help
for it; Eveleen must go, and I must marry little Lizzie. Poor child; she
left home, and friends, and all for me; and it _does_ seem a villainous
act in me to desert her for another. But go she must; there is no
alternative."
He was walking up and down in his intense excitement--sometimes pausing
suddenly for a few moments, and then walking on faster than before. Thus
half an hour passed, during which he seemed to have formed some
determination; for his mouth grew stern, and his clear eyes cold and
calm, as he once more leaned against the mantel, and fell into thought.
Presently the door opened and a woman entered. She was a stout,
corpulent person, with coarse, bloated face, and small, bleared eyes. As
she entered, she cast an affectionate glance toward the brandy bottle on
the table--a glance which said plainly she would have no objection to
trying its quality. She was arrayed for the street, with a large cloak
enveloping her ample person, and a warm quilted hood tied over her
substantial double chin.
"Well, sir, I'll be movin', I reckon," said the woman, adjusting her
cloak. "The young lady's doing very nicely, and the baby's sleeping like
an angel. So they'll get along very well to-night without me."
The young man started at the sound of her voice, and, looking up, said
carelessly:
"Oh, it's you, is it? Are you for leaving?"
"Yes, sir; it's time I was home and to bed. I ain't used to bein' up
late nights now--don't agree with my constitution; it's sorter delicate.
Shouldn't wonder if I was fallin' into a decline."
The quizzical dark eyes of the young man surveyed the rotund person
before him, and in spite of himself he burst out laughing.
"Well, now, if you was in a decline yourself, you'd laugh t'other side
of your mouth, I reckon," said the offended matron. "S'pose you think
it's very funny laughing at a poor, lone 'oman, without chick nor child.
But I can tell you----"
"Ten thousand pardons, madam, for my offense," he interrupted,
courteously, though there was still a wicked twinkle in his eye. "Pray
sit down for a moment; I have something to say to you."
"Well, now, it don't seem exactly right to sit here with you at this
hour of the night. Howsomever, I will, to oblige you," and the worthy
dame placed her ample frame in a cushioned elbow-chair.
"Perhaps this argument may aid in overcoming your scruples," said the
young man, filling her a glass of wine, and throwing himself on a
lounge; "and now to business. You are a widow?"
"Yes, sir. My blessed husband died a martyr to his country--died in the
discharge of his duty. He was a custom-house officer, and felt it his
duty always to examine liquors before destroying them. Well, one day he
took too much, caught the devil-rum tremendous, and left me a
disconsolate widder. The coroner of the jury set onto him, and----"
"There, there! never mind particulars. You have no children?"
"No," said the old woman stiffly, rather offended by his unceremonious
interruption.
"If you were well paid, you would have no objection to taking one and
bringing it up as your own?" said the young man, speaking quietly,
though there was a look of restless anxiety in his fine eyes.
"Well, no; I'd have no objection, if----" and here she slapped her
pocket expressively, by way of finishing the sentence.
"Money shall be no object; but remember, the world must think it is your
own--_I_ am never to be troubled about it more."
"All right--I understand," said the nurse, nodding her head sagely.
"S'pose it's the little one in there?"
"It is. Can you take it away now?"
"To-night?"
"Yes."
"But laws! ain't it too cold and stormy. Better wait till to-morrow."
"No," was the quick and peremptory answer. "To-night, now, within this
very hour, it must be removed; and I am never to hear of it more."
"And the poor young lady? Seems sorter hard, now don't it? she'll take
on wonderfully, I'm feared."
A spasm of pain passed over his handsome face, and for a moment he was
silent. Then, looking up, he said, with brief sternness:
"It cannot be helped. You must go without disturbing her, and I will
break the news to her myself. Here is my purse for the present. What is
your address?"
The woman gave it.
"Very well, you shall hear from me regularly; but should we ever meet
again, in the street or elsewhere, you are not to know me, and you must
forget all that has transpired to-night."
"Hum!" said the fat widow, doubtfully.
"And now you had better depart. The storm has almost ceased, and the
night is passing away. Is Ev--is my wife awake?"
"No; I left her sleeping."
"So much the better. You can take _it_ with you without disturbing her.
Go."
The buxom widow arose and quitted the room. Oranmore lay on a lounge,
rigidly motionless, his face hidden by his hand. A fierce storm was
raging in his breast--"the struggle between right and wrong." Pride and
ambition struggled with love and remorse, but the fear of the world
conquered: and when the old woman re-entered, bearing a sleeping infant
in her arms, he looked up as composedly as herself.
"Pretty little dear," said the widow, wrapping the child in a thick
woolen shawl, "how nicely she sleeps! Very image of her mother, and
she's the beautifulest girl I ever saw in my life. I gave her some
paregoric to make her sleep till I go home. Well, good-night, sir. Our
business is over."
"Yes, good-night. Remember the secret; forget what has transpired
to-night, and your fortune is made. You will care for _it_"--and he
pointed to the child--"as though it were your own."
"Be sure I will, dear little duck. Who could help liking such a sweet,
pretty darling? I s'pose you'll come to see it sometimes, sir?"
"No. You can send me word of its welfare now and then. Go, madam, go."
The widow turned to leave the room, and, unobserved by the young man,
who had once more thrown himself on his face on the sofa, she seized a
well-filled brandy-flask and concealed it beneath her shawl.
Quitting the house, she walked as rapidly as her bulksome proportions
would permit over the snowy ground. The road leading to her home lay in
the direction of the sea-shore; and, as she reached the beach, she was
thoroughly chilled by the cold, in spite of her warm wrappings.
"It's as cold as the Arctic Ocean, and I've heerd say that's the coldest
country in the world. A drop of comfort won't come amiss just now. Lucky
I thought on't. This little monkey's as sound as a top. It's my 'pinion
that young gent's no better than he ought to be, to treat such a lovely
young lady in this fashion. Well, it's no business of mine, so's I'm
well paid. Lor! I hope I hain't gin it too much paregoric; wouldn't for
anything 'twould die. S'pose I'd get no more tin then. That's prime,"
she added, placing the flask to her lips and draining a long draught.
As the powerful fumes of the brandy arose to her head, the worthy lady's
senses became rather confused; and, falling rather than sitting on the
bank, the child, muffled like a mummy in its plaid, rolled from her arms
into a snow-wreath. At the same moment the loud ringing of bells and
the cry of "Fire! fire!" fell upon her ear. It roused her; and, in the
excitement of the moment forgetting her little charge, she sprang up as
well as she could, and, by a strange fascination, was soon involuntarily
drawn away to mingle with the crowd, who were hurrying in the direction
of her abode.
Scarcely five minutes before, Dr. Wiseman had quitted that very spot:
and there, within a few yards of each other, the two unconscious infants
lay, little knowing how singularly their future lives were to be
united--little dreaming how fatal an influence _one_ of them was yet to
wield over _him_.
Some time after, when the flames were extinguished and the crowd had
quitted the streets for their beds--when the unbroken silence of coming
morning had fallen over the city--the widow returned to seek for her
child.
But she sought in vain; the rising tide had swept over the bank, and was
again retreating sullenly to the sea.
Sobered by terror and remorse, the wretched woman trod up and down the
dreary, deserted snowy beach until morning broke; but she sought and
searched in vain. The child was gone.