We must now leave our hero on his way to the Hall, while we acquaint our
readers with the movements of other parties connected with our history.
A correspondence had been kept up between O'Donahue and McShane.
O'Donahue had succeeded in obtaining the pardon of the emperor, and
employment in the Russian army, in which he had rapidly risen to the
rank of general. Five or six years had elapsed since he had married,
and both O'Donahue and his wife were anxious to visit England; a letter
at last came, announcing that he had obtained leave of absence from the
emperor, and would in all probability arrive in the ensuing spring.
During this period McShane had continued at his old quarters, Mrs
McShane still carrying on the business, which every year became more
lucrative; so much so, indeed, that her husband had for some time
thought very seriously of retiring altogether, as they had already
amassed a large sum, when McShane received the letter from O'Donahue,
announcing that in a few months he would arrive in England. Major
McShane, who was very far from being satisfied with his negative
position in society, pressed the matter more earnestly to his wife, who,
although she was perfectly content with her own position, did not oppose
his entreaties. McShane found that after disposing of the goodwill of
the business, and of the house, they would have a clear 30,000 pounds,
which he considered more than enough for their wants, uncumbered as they
were with children.
Let it not be supposed that McShane had ceased in his inquiries after
our hero; on the contrary, he had resorted to all that his invention
could suggest to trace him out, but, as the reader must be aware,
without success. Both McShane and his wife mourned his loss, as if they
had been bereaved of their own child; they still indulged the idea that
some day he would reappear, but when, they could not surmise. McShane
had not only searched for our hero, but had traced his father with as
little success, and he had now made up his mind that he should see no
more of Joey, if he ever did see him again, until after the death of his
father, when there would no longer be any occasion for secrecy. Our
hero and his fate were a continual source of conversation between
McShane and his wife; but latterly, after not having heard of him for
more than five years, the subject had not been so often renewed. As
soon as McShane had wound up his affairs, and taken his leave of the
eating-house, he looked out for an estate in the country, resolving to
lay out two-thirds of his money in land, and leave the remainder in the
funds. After about three months' search he found a property which
suited him, and, as it so happened, about six miles from the domains
held by Mr Austin. He had taken possession and furnished it. As a
retired officer in the army he was well received; and if Mrs McShane
was sometimes laughed at for her housekeeper-like appearance, still her
sweetness of temper and unassuming behaviour soon won her friends, and
McShane found himself in a very short time comfortable and happy. The
O'Donahues were expected to arrive very shortly, and McShane had now a
domicile fit for the reception of his old friend, who had promised to
pay him a visit as soon as he arrived.
Of the Austins little more can be said that has not been said already.
Austin was a miserable, unhappy man; his cup of bliss--for he had every
means of procuring all that this world considers as bliss, being in
possession of station, wealth, and respect--was poisoned by the one
heavy crime which passion had urged him to commit, and which was now a
source of hourly and unavailing repentance. His son, who should have
inherited his wealth, was lost to him, and he dared not mention that he
was in existence. Every day Austin became more nervous and irritable,
more exclusive and averse to society; he trembled at shadows, and his
strong constitution was rapidly giving way to the heavy weight on his
conscience. He could not sleep without opiates, and he dreaded to sleep
lest he should reveal everything of the past in his slumbers. Each year
added to the irascibility of his temper, and the harshness with which he
treated his servants and his unhappy wife. His chief amusement was
hunting, and he rode in so reckless a manner that people often thought
that he was anxious to break his neck. Perhaps he was. Mrs Austin was
much to be pitied; she knew how much her husband suffered; how the worm
gnawed within; and, having that knowledge, she submitted to all his
harshness, pitying him instead of condemning him; but her life was still
more embittered by the loss of her child, and many were the bitter tears
which she would shed when alone, for she dared not in her husband's
presence, as he would have taken them as a reproof to himself. Her
whole soul yearned after our hero, and that one feeling rendered her
indifferent, not only to all the worldly advantages by which she was
surrounded, but to the unkindness and hard-heartedness of her husband.
Mary, who had entered her service as kitchen-maid, was very soon a
favourite, and had been advanced to the situation of Mrs Austin's own
attendant Mrs Austin considered her a treasure, and she daily became
more partial to and more confidential with her. Such was the state of
affairs, when one morning, as Austin was riding to cover, a gentleman of
the neighbourhood said to him, in the course of conversation--
"By-the-bye, Austin, have you heard that you have a new neighbour?"
"What!--on the Frampton estate, I suppose; I heard that it had been
sold."
"Yes; I have seen him. He is one of your profession--a lively, amusing
sort of Irish major; gentlemanlike, nevertheless. The wife not very
high-bred, but very fat, and very good-humoured, and amusing from her
downright simpleness of heart. You will call upon them, I presume?"
"Oh, of course," replied Austin. "What is his name did you say?"
"Major McShane, formerly of the 53rd Regiment, I believe."
Had a bullet passed through the heart of Austin, he could not have
received a more sudden shock, and the start which he made from his
saddle attracted the notice of his companion.
"What's the matter, Austin, you look pale; you are not well."
"No," replied Austin, recollecting himself; "I am not; one of those
twinges from an old wound in the breast came on. I shall be better
directly."
Austin stopped his horse, and put his hand to his heart. His companion
rode up, and remained near him.
"It is worse than usual; I thought it was coming on last night; I fear
that I must go home."
"Shall I go with you?"
"O, no; I must not spoil your sport. I am better now a great deal; it
is going off fast. Come, let us proceed, or we shall be too late at
cover."
Austin had resolved to conquer his feelings. His friend had no
suspicion, it is true; but when we are guilty we imagine that everybody
suspects us. They rode a few minutes in silence.
"Well I am glad that you did not go home," observed his friend; "for you
will meet your new neighbour; he has subscribed to the pack, and they
say he is well mounted; we shall see how he rides."
Austin made no reply; but, after riding on a few yards farther, he
pulled up, saying that the pain was coming on again, and that he could
not proceed. His companion expressed his sorrow at Austin's
indisposition, and they separated.
Austin immediately returned home, dismounted his horse, and hastened to
his private sitting-room. Mrs Austin, who had seen him return, and
could not imagine the cause, went in to her husband.
"What is the matter, my dear?" said Mrs Austin.
"Matter!" replied Austin, bitterly, pacing up and down the room; "heaven
and hell conspire against us!"
"Dear Austin, don't talk in that way. What has happened?"
"Something which will compel me, I expect, to remain a prisoner in my
own house, or lead to something unpleasant. We must not stay here."
Austin then threw himself down on the sofa, and was silent. At last the
persuasions and endearments of his wife overcame his humour. He told
her that McShane was the major of his regiment when he was a private;
that he would inevitably recognise him; and that, if nothing else
occurred from McShane's knowledge of his former name, at all events, the
general supposition of his having been an officer in the army would be
contradicted, and it would lower him in the estimation of the county
gentlemen.
"It is indeed a very annoying circumstance, my dear Austin; but are you
sure that he would, after so long a period, recognise the private
soldier in the gentleman of fortune?"
"As sure as I sit here," replied Austin, gloomily; "I wish I were dead."
"Don't say so, dear Austin, it makes me miserable."
"I never am otherwise," replied Austin, clasping his hands. "God
forgive me! I have sinned, but have I not been punished?"
"You have, indeed; and as repentance is availing, my dear husband, you
will receive God's mercy."
"The greatest boon, the greatest mercy, would be death," replied the
unhappy man; "I envy the pedlar." Mrs Austin wept. Her husband,
irritated at tears which, to him, seemed to imply reproach, sternly
ordered her to leave the room.
That Austin repented bitterly of the crime which he had committed is not
to be doubted; but it was not with the subdued soul of a Christian. His
pride was continually struggling within him, and was not yet conquered;
this it was that made him alternately self-condemning and irascible, and
it was the continual warfare in his soul which was undermining his
constitution.
Austin sent for medical advice for his supposed complaint. The country
practitioner, who could discover nothing, pronounced it to be an
affection of the heart. He was not far wrong; and Mr Austin's illness
was generally promulgated. Cards and calls were the consequence, and
Austin kept himself a close but impatient prisoner in his own house.
His hunters remained in the stables, his dogs in the kennel, and every
one intimated that Mr Austin was labouring under a disease from which
he would not recover. At first this was extremely irksome to Austin,
and he was very impatient; but gradually he became reconciled, and even
preferred his sedentary and solitary existence. Books were his chief
amusement, but nothing could minister to a mind diseased, or drive out
the rooted memory of the brain. Austin became more morose and
misanthropic every day, and at last would permit no one to come near him
but his valet and his wife.
Such was the position of his parents, when Joey was proceeding to their
abode.