--Something like an Elopement.
On the evening of the same day the stranger desired Paudeen Gair to
take a place for him in the “Fly,” which was to return to Dublin on that
night. He had been furnished with a letter from Father M'Mahon, to whom
he had, in Mr. Birney's, fully disclosed his name and objects. He felt
anxious, however, to engage some trustworthy servant or attendant, on
whose integrity he could fully rely, knowing, or at least apprehending,
that he might be placed in circumstances where he could not himself act
openly and freely without incurring suspicion or observation. Paudeen,
however, or, as we shall call him in future, Pat Sharpe, had promised
to procure a person of the strictest honesty, in whom every confidence
could be placed. This man's name, or rather his nickname, was Dandy
Dulcimer, an epithet bestowed upon him in consequence of the easy and
strolling life he led, supporting himself, as he passed from place to
place, by his performances upon that simple but pleasing instrument.
“Pat,” said the stranger in the course of the evening, “have you
succeeded in procuring me this cousin of yours?” for in that relation he
stood to Pat.
“I expect him here every minute, sir,” replied Pat; “and there's one
thing I'll lay down my life on--you may trust him as you would any one
of the twelve apostles--barring that blackguard Judas. Take St. Pettier,
or St. Paul, or any of the dacent apostles, and the divil a one of them
honester than Dandy. Not that he's a saint like them either, or much
overburdened with religion, poor fellow; as for honesty and truth--divil
a greater liar ever walked in the mane time; but, by truth, I mane truth
to you, and to any one that employs him--augh, by my soul, he's the
flower of a boy.”
“He won't bring his dulcimer with him, I hope.”
“Won't he, indeed? Be me sowl, sir, you might as well separate sowl and
body, as take Dandy from his dulcimer. Like the two sides of a scissors,
the one's of no use widout the other. They must go together, or Dandy
could never cut his way through the world by any chance. Hello! here he
is. I hear his voice in the hall below.”
“Bring him up, Pat,” said the stranger; “I must see and speak to him;
because if I feel that he won't suit me, I will have nothing to do with
him.”
Dandy immediately entered, with his dulcimer slung like a peddler's bos
at his side, and with a comic movement of respect, which no presence or
position could check, he made a bow to the stranger, that forced him to
smile in spite of himself.
“You seem a droll fellow,” said the stranger. “Are you fond of truth?”
“Hem! Why, yes, sir. I spare it as much as I can. I don't treat it as
an everyday concern. We had a neighbor once, a widow M'Cormick, who
was rather penurious, and whenever she saw her servants buttering their
bread too thickly, she used to whisper to them in a confidential
way, 'Ahagur, the thinner you spread it the further it will go.' Hem!
However, I must confess that once or twice a year I draw on it by way of
novelty, that is, on set days or bonfire nights; and I hope, sir, you'll
admit that that's treating it with respect.”
“How did you happen to turn musician?” asked the other.
“Why, sir, I was always fond of a jingle; but, to tell you the truth,
I would rather have the same jingle in my purse than in my instrument.
Divil such an unmusical purse ever a man was cursed with than I have
been doomed to carry during my whole life.”
“Then it was a natural love of music that sent you abroad as a
performer?”
“Partly only, sir; for there were three causes went to it. There is a
certain man named Dandy Dulcimer, that I had a very loving regard for,
and I thought it against his aise and comfort to ask him to strain his
poor bones by hard work. I accordingly substituted pure idleness for
it, which is a delightful thing in its way. There, sir, is two of the
causes--love of melody and a strong but virtuous disinclination to
work. The third--” but here he paused and his face darkened.
“Well,” inquired the stranger, “the third? What about the third?”
Dandy significantly pointed back with his thumb over his shoulder, in
the direction of Red Hall. “It was him,” he said; “the Black Baronet--or
rather the incarnate divil.”
“That's truth, at all events,” observed Pat corroborating the incomplete
assertion.
“It was he, sir,” continued Dandy, “that thrust us out of our
comfortable farm--he best knows why and wherefore--and like a true
friend of liberty, he set us at large from our comfortable place, to
enjoy it.”
“Well,” replied the stranger, “if that be true it was hard; but you know
every story has two sides; or, as the proverb goes, one story is well
until the other is told. Let us dismiss this. If I engage you to attend
me, can you be faithful, honest, and cautious?”
“To an honest man, sir, I can; but to no other. I grant I have acted
the knave very often, but it was always in self-defence, and toward far
greater knaves than myself. An honest man did once ax me to serve him in
an honest way; but as I was then in a roguish state of mind I tould him
I couldn't conscientiously do it.”
“If you were intrusted with a secret, for instance, could you undertake
to keep it?”
“I was several times in Dublin, sir, and I saw over the door of some
public office a big, brazen fellow, with the world on his back; and you
know that from what he seemed to suffer I thought he looked very like a
man that was keeping a secret. To tell God's truth, sir, I never like a
burden of any kind; and whenever I can get a man that will carry a share
of it, I--”
“Tut! your honor, never mind him,” said Pat. “What the deuce are you
at, Dandy? Do you want to prevent the gintleman from engagin' you? Never
mind him, sir; he's as honest as the sun.”
“It matters not, Pat,” said the stranger; “I like him. Are you willing
to take service with me for a short time, my good fellow?”
“If you could get any one to give you a caracther, sir, perhaps I
might,” replied Dandy.
“How, sirrah! what do you mean?” said the stranger.
“Why, sir, that we humble folks haven't all the dishonesty to ourselves.
I think our superiors come in now and then for the lion's share of it.
There, now, is the Black Baronet.”
“But you are not entering the service of the Black Baronet.”
“No; but the ould scoundrel struck his daughter to-day, because she
wouldn't consent to marry that young profligate, Lord Dunroe; and has
her locked up besides.”
The stranger had been standing with his back to the fire, when the Dandy
mentioned these revolting circumstances; for the truth was, that
Lucy's maid had taken upon her the office of that female virtue called
curiosity, and by the aid of her eye, her ear, and an open key-hole
was able to communicate to one or two of the other servants, in the
strictest confidence of course, all that had occurred during the
interview between father and daughter. Now it so happened, that Dandy,
who had been more than once, in the course of his visits, to the
kitchen, promised, as he said, to _metamurphy_ one of them into Mrs.
Dulcimer, _alias_ Murphy--that being his real name--was accidentally in
the kitchen while the dialogue lasted, and for some time afterwards; and
as the expectant Mrs. Dulcimer was one of the first to whom the secret
was solemnly confided, we need scarcely say that it was instantly
transferred to Dandy's keeping, who mentioned it more from honest
indignation than from any other motive.
It would be difficult to describe the combination of feelings that might
be read in the stranger's fine features--distress, anger, compassion,
love, and sorrow, all struggled for mastery. He sat down, and there was
an instant pause in the conversation; for both Dandy and his relative
felt that he was not sufficiently collected to proceed with it. They
consequently, after glancing with surprise at each other, remained
silent, until the stranger should resume it. At length, after a struggle
that was evidently a severe one, he said,
“Now, my good fellow, no more of this buffoonery. Will you take service
with me for three months, since I am willing to accept you? Ay or no?”
“As willing as the flowers of May, your honor; and I trust you will
never have cause to find fault with me, so far as truth, honesty, and
discretion goes. I can see a thing and not see it. I can hear a thing
and not hear it. I can do a thing and not do it--but it must be honest.
In short, sir, if you have no objection, I'm your man. I like your face,
sir; there's something honorable and manly in it.”
“Perhaps you would wish to name the amount of the wages you expect. If
so, speak.”
“Divil a wage or wages I'll name, sir; that's a matter I'll lave to your
own generosity.”
“Very well, then; I start by the 'Fly' tonight, and you, observe, are to
accompany me. The trunk which I shall bring with me is already packed,
so that you will have very little trouble.”
Dandy and his relative both left him, and he, with a view of allaying
the agitation which he felt, walked toward the residence of Father
M'Mahon, who had promised, if he could, to furnish him with further
instructions ere he should start for the metropolis.
After they had left the room, our friend Crackenfudge peeped out of the
back apartment, in order to satisfy himself that the coast was clear;
and after stretching his neck over the stairs to ascertain that there
was no one in the hall, he tripped down as if he were treading on
razors, and with a face brimful of importance made his escape from the
inn, for, in truth, the mode of his disappearing could be termed little
else.
Now, in the days of which we write, it so happened that there was a vast
portion of bitter rivalry between mail coaches and their proprietors.
At this time an opposition coach, called “the Flash of Lightning”--to
denominate, we presume, the speed at which it went--ran against the
“Fly,” to the manifest, and frequently to the actual, danger of the
then reigning monarch's liege and loyal subjects. To the office of this
coach, then, did Crackenfudge repair, with an honorable intention of
watching the motions of our friend the stranger, prompted thereto by
two motives--first, a curiosity that was naturally prurient and mean;
secondly, by an anxious wish to serve Sir Thomas Gourlay, and, if
possible, to involve himself in his affairs, thus rendering his interest
touching the great object of his ambition--the magistracy--a matter
not to be withheld. He instantly took his seat for Dublin--an inside
seat--in order to conceal himself as much as possible from observation.
Having arranged this affair, he rode home in high spirits, and made
preparations for starting, in due time, by “the Flash of Lightning.”
The stranger, on his way to Father M'Mahon's, called upon his friend
Birney, with whom he had a long confidential conversation. They had
already determined, if the unfortunate heir of Red Hall could be traced,
and if his disappearance could, be brought home to the baronet, to take
such public or rather legal proceedings as they might be advised to by
competent professional advice. Our readers may already guess, however,
that the stranger was influenced by motives sufficiently strong and
decisive to prevent him, above all men, from appearing, publicly or at
all, in any proceedings that might be taken against the baronet.
On arriving at Father M'Mahon's, he found that excellent man at home;
and it was upon this occasion that he observed with more attention than
before the extraordinary neatness of his dwelling-house and premises.
The cleanliness, the order, the whiteness, the striking taste displayed,
the variety of culinary utensils, not in themselves expensive, but
arranged with surprising regularity, constituting a little paradise of
convenience and comfort, were all perfectly delightful to contemplate.
The hall-door was open, and when the stranger entered, he found no one
in the kitchen, for it is necessary to say here that, in this neat but
unassuming abode of benevolence and goodness, that which we have termed
the hall-door led, in the first instance, to the beautiful little
kitchen we have just described. The stranger, having heard voices
in conversation with the priest, resolved to wait a little until his
visitors should leave him, as he felt reluctant to intrude upon him
while engaged with his parishioners. He could not prevent himself,
however, from overhearing the following portion of their I conversation.
“And it was yesterday he put in the distraint?”
“It was, your reverence.”
“Oh, the dirty Turk; not a landlord at all is half so hard to ourselves
as those of our own religion: they'll show some lenity to a Protestant,
and I don't blame them for that, but they trample those belonging to
their own creed under their inhuman hoofs.”
“How much is it, Nogher?”
“Only nine pounds, your reverence.”
“Well, then, bring me a stamp in the course of the day, and I'll pass my
bill to him for the amount.”
“Troth, sir, wid great respect, your reverence will do no such thing.
However I may get it settled, I won't lug you in by the head and
shoulders. You have done more of that kind of work than you could
afford. No, sir; but if you will send Father James up to my poor wife
and daughter that's so ill with this faver--that's all I want.”
“To be sure he'll go, or rather I'll go myself, for he won't be home
till after station. Did this middleman landlord of yours know that there
was fever in your family when he; sent in the bailiffs?”
“To do him justice, sir, he did not; but he knows it since the day
before yesterday, and yet he won't take them off unless he gets either
the rent or security.”
“Indeed, and the hard-hearted Turk will have the
security;--whisper,--call down tomorrow with a stamp, and I'll put my
name on it; and let these men, these keepers, go about their business.
My goodness! to think of having two strange fellows night and day in a
sick and troubled family! Oh, dear me! one half the world doesn't know
how the other lives. If many of the rich and wealthy, Michael, could
witness the scenes that I witness, the sight might probably soften their
hearts. Is this boy your son, Nogher?”
“He is, sir.”
“I hope you are giving him a good education; and I hope, besides, that
he is a good boy. Do you attend to your duty regularly, my good lad?”
“I do, plaise your reverence.”
“And obey your parents?”
“I hope so, sir.”
“Indeed,” said his father, “poor Mick doesn't lave us much to complain
of in that respect; he's a very good boy in general, your reverence.”
“God bless you, my child,” said the priest, solemnly, placing his hand
upon the boy's head, who was sitting, “and guide your feet in the paths
of religion and virtue!”
“Oh, sir,” exclaimed the poor affectionate lad, bursting into tears, “I
wish you would come to my mother! she is very ill, and so is my sister.”
“I will go, my child, in half-an-hour. I see you are a good youth, and
full of affection; I will go almost immediately. Here, Mat Ruly,”
he shouted, raising the parlor window, on seeing that neat boy
pass;--“here, you colossus--you gigantic prototype of grace and
beauty;--I say, go and saddle Freney the Robber immediately; I must
attend a sick call without delay. What do you stare and gape for? shut
that fathomless cleft in your face, and be off. Now, Nogher,” he said,
once more addressing the man, “slip down to-morrow with the stamp; or,
stay, why should these fellows be there two hours, and the house and the
family as they are? Sit down here for a few minutes, I'll go home with
you; we can get the stamp in Ballytrain, on our way,--ay, and draw up
the bill there too;--indeed we can and we will too; so not a syllable
against it. You know I must have my will, and that I'm a raging lion
when opposed.”
“God bless your reverence,” replied the man, moved almost to tears
by his goodness; “many an act of the kind your poor and struggling
parishioners has to thank you for.”
On looking into the kitchen, for the parlor door was open, he espied
the stranger, whom he approached with every mark of the most profound
respect, but still with perfect ease and independence.
After the first salutations were over--
“Well, sir,” said the priest, “do you hold to your purpose of going to
Dublin?”
“I go this night,” replied the other; “and, except through the old man
to whom you are so kind as to give me the letter, I must confess I have
but slight expectations of success. Unless we secure this unfortunate
young man, that is, always supposing that he is alive, and are able
clearly and without question to identify his person, all we may do must
be in vain, and the baronet is firm in both title and estates.”
“That is evident,” replied the priest. “Could you find the heir alive,
and identify his person, of course your battle is won. Well; if there
be anything like a thread to guide you through the difficulties of this
labyrinth, I have placed it in your hands.”
“I am sensible of your good wishes, sir, and I thank you very much
for the interest you have so kindly taken in the matter. By the way, I
engaged a servant to accompany me--one Dulcimer, Dandy Dulcimer; pray,
what kind of moral character does he bear?”
“Dandy Dulcimer!” exclaimed the priest; “why, the thief of the world! is
it possible you have engaged him?”
“Why? is he not honest?” asked the other, with surprise.
“Honest!” replied the priest; “the vagabond's as honest a vagabond as
ever lived. You may trust him in anything and everything. When I call
him a vagabond, I only mean it in a kind and familiar sense; and, by
the way, I must give you an explanation upon the subject of my pony. You
must have heard me call him 'Freney the Robber' a few minutes ago. Now,
not another sense did I give him that name in but in an ironical one,
just like _lucus a non lucendo_, or, in other words, because the poor
creature is strictly honest and well tempered. And, indeed, there are
some animals much more moral in their disposition than others. Some are
kind, affectionate, benevolent, and grateful; and some, on the other
hand, are thieving robbers and murderers. No, sir, I admit that I was
wrong, and, so to speak, I owe Freney an apology for having given him
a bad name; but then again I have made it up to him in other respects.
Now, you'll scarcely believe what I am going to tell you, although you
may, for not a word of lie in it. When Freney sometimes is turned out
into my fields, he never breaks bounds, nor covets, so to speak, his
neighbor's property, but confines himself strictly and honestly to
his own; and I can tell you it's not every horse would do that, or man
either. He knows my voice, too, and, what is more, my very foot, for he
will whinny when he hears it, and before he sees me at all.”
“Pray,” said the stranger, exceedingly amused at this narrative, “how
does your huge servant get on?”
“Is it Mat Ruly?--why, sir, the poor boy's as kind-hearted and
benevolent, and has as sharp an appetite as ever. He told me that he
cried yesterday when bringing a little assistance to a poor family in
the neighborhood. But, touching this matter on which you are engaged,
will you be good enough to write to me from time to time? for I shall
feel anxious to hear how you get on.”
The stranger promised to do so, and after having received two letters
from him they shook hands and separated.
We have stated before that Dandy Dulcimer had a sweetheart in the
service of Sir Thomas Gourlay. Soon after the interview between the
stranger and Dandy, and while the former had gone to get the letters
from Father M'Mahon, this same sweetheart, by name Alley Mahon, came to
have a word or two with Paudeen Gair, or Pat Sharpe. When Paudeen saw
her, he imputed the cause of her visit to something connected with
Dandy Dulcimer, his cousin; for, as the latter had disclosed to him the
revelation which Alley had made, he took it for granted that the Dandy
had communicated to her the fact of his being about to accept service
with the stranger at the inn, and to proceed with him to Dublin. And,
such, indeed, was the actual truth. Paudeen had, on behalf of Dandy, all
but arranged the matter with the stranger a couple of days before, Dandy
being a consenting party, so that nothing was wanting but an interview
between the latter and the stranger, in order to complete the
negotiation.
“Pat,” said Alley, after he had brought her up to a little back-room on
the second story, “I know that your family ever and always has been an
honest family, and that a stain of thraichery or disgrace was never upon
one of their name.”
“Thank God, and you, Alley; I am proud to know that what you say is
right and true.”
“Well, then,” she replied, “it is, and every one knows it. Now, then,
can you keep a secret, for the sake of truth and conscience, ay, and
religion; and if all will not do, for the sake of her that paid back to
your family, out of her own private purse, what her father robbed them
of?”
“By all that's lovely,” replied Pat, “if there's a livin' bein' I'd
sacrifice my life for, it's her.”
“Listen; I want you to secure two seats in the 'Fly,' for this night;
inside seats, or if you can't get insides, then outsides will do.”
“Stop where you are,” replied Pat, about to start downstairs; “the thing
will be done in five minutes.”
“Are you mad, Pat?” said she; “take the money with you before you go.”
“Begad,” said Pat, “my heart was in my mouth--here, let us have it. And
so the darling young lady is forced to fly from the tyrant?”
“Oh, Pat,” said Alice, solemnly, “for the sake of the living God, don't
breathe that you know anything about it; we're lost if you do.”
“If Dandy was here, Alley,” he replied, “I'd make him swear it upon your
lips; but, hand us the money, for there's little time to be lost; I hope
all the seats aren't taken.”
He was just in time, however; and in a few minutes returned, having
secured for two the only inside seats that were left untaken at the
moment, although there were many claimants for them in a few minutes
afterwards.
“Now, Alley,” said he, after he had returned from the coach-office,
which, by the way, was connected with the inn, “what does all this mane?
I think I could guess something about it. A runaway, eh?”
“What do you mean by a runaway?” she replied; “of course she is running
away from her brute of a father, and I am goin' with her.”
“But isn't she goin' wid somebody else?” he inquired.
“No,” replied Alley; “I know where she is goin'; but she is goin' wid
nobody but myself.”
“Ah, Alley,” replied Pat, shrewdly, “I see she has kept you in the dark;
but I don't blame her. Only, if you can keep a secret, so can I.”
“Pat,” said she, “desire the coachman to stop at the white gate, where
two faymales will be waitin' for it, and let the guard come down and
open the door for us; so that we won't have occasion to spake. It's aisy
to know one's voice, Pat.”
“I'll manage it all,” said Pat; “make your mind aisy--and what is more,
I'll not breathe a syllable to mortual man, woman, or child about it.
That would be an ungrateful return for her kindness to our family. May
God bless her, and grant her happiness, and that's the worst I wish
her.”
The baronet, in the course of that evening, was sitting in his
dining-room alone, a bottle of Madeira before him, for indeed it
is necessary to say, that although unsocial and inhospitable, he
nevertheless indulged pretty freely in wine. He appeared moody, and
gulped down the Madeira as a man who wished either to sustain his mind
against care, or absolutely to drown memory, and probably the force of
conscience. At length, with a flushed face, and a voice made more deep
and stern by his potations, and the reflections they excited, he rang
the bell, and in a moment the butler appeared.
“Is Gillespie in the house, Gibson?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Send him up.”
In a few minutes Gillespie entered; and indeed it would be difficult to
see a more ferocious-looking ruffian than this scoundrel who was groom
to the baronet. Fame, or scandal, or truth, as the case may be, had
settled the relations between Sir Thomas and him, not merely as those of
master and servant, but as those of father and son. Be this as it may,
however, the similarity of figure and feature was so extraordinary, that
the inference could be considered by no means surprising.
“Tom,” said the baronet, “I suppose there is a Bible in the house?”
“I can't say, sir,” replied the ruffian. “I never saw any one in use. O,
yes, Miss Gourlay has one.”
“Yes,” replied the other, with a gloomy reflection, “I forgot; she is,
in addition to her other accomplishments, a Bible reader. Well, stay
where you are; I shall get it myself.”
He accordingly rose and proceeded to Lucy's chamber, where, after having
been admitted, he found the book he sought, and such was the absence of
mind, occasioned by the apprehensions he felt, that he brought away the
book, and forgot to lock the door.
“Now, sir,” said the baronet, sternly, when he returned, “do you respect
this book? It is the Bible.”
“Why, yes, sir. I respect every book that has readin' in it--printed
readin'.”
“But this is the Bible, on which the Christian religion is founded.”
“Well, sir, I don't doubt that,” replied the enlightened master of
horse; “but I prefer the _Seven Champions of Christendom_, or the
_History of Valentine and Orson_, or _Fortunatus's Purse_.”
“You don't relish the Bible, then?”
“I don't know, sir; I never read a line of it--although I heard a great
deal about! it. Isn't that the book the parsons preach I from?”
“It is,” replied the baronet, in his deep voice. “This book is the
source and origin and history of the revelation of God's will to man;
this is the book on which oaths are taken, and when taken falsely,
the falsehood is perjury, and the individual so perjuring himself is
transported, either for life or a term of years, while living and when
dead, Gillespie--mark me well, sir--when dead, his soul goes to eternal
perdition in the flames of hell. Would you now, knowing this--that you
would be transported in this world, and damned in the next--would you, I
say, take an oath upon this book and break it?”
“No, sir, not after what you said.”
“Well, then, I am a magistrate, and I wish to administer an oath to
you.”
“Very well, sir, I'll swear whatever you like.”
“Then listen--take the book in your right hand--you shall swear the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God! You
swear to execute whatever duty I may happen to require at your hands,
and to keep the performance of that duty a secret from every living
mortal, and besides to keep secret the fact that I am in any way
connected with it--you swear this?”
“I do, sir,” replied the other, kissing the book.
The baronet paused a little.
“Very well,” he added, “consider yourself solemnly sworn, and pray
recollect that if you violate this oath--in other words, if you
commit perjury, I shall have you transported as sure as your name is
Gillespie.”
“But your honor has sworn me to secrecy, and yet I don't know the
secret.”
“Neither shall you--for twenty-four hours longer. I am not and shall not
be in a condition to mention it to you sooner, but I put you under the
obligation now, in order that you may have time to reflect upon its
importance. You may go.”
Gillespie felt exceedingly puzzled as to the nature of the services
about to be required at his hands, but as every attempt to solve this
difficulty was fruitless, he resolved to await the event in patience,
aware that the period between his anxiety on the subject and a knowledge
of it was but short.
We need not hesitate to assure our readers, that if Lucy Gourlay had
been apprised, or even dreamt for a moment, that the stranger and she
were on that night to be fellow-travellers in the same coach, she would
unquestionably have deferred her journey to tha metropolis, or, in other
words, her escape from the senseless tyranny of her ambitious father.
Fate, however, is fate, and it is precisely the occurrence of these
seemingly incidental coincidences that in fact, as well as in fiction,
constitutes the principal interest of those circumstances which give
romance to the events of human life and develop its character.
The “Fly” started from Ballytrain at the usual hour, with only two
inside passengers--to wit, our friend the stranger and a wealthy
stock-farmer from the same parish. He was a large, big-boned,
good-humored fellow, dressed in a strong frieze outside coat or jock,
buckskin breeches, top-boots, and a heavy loaded whip, his inseparable
companion wherever he went.
The coach, on arriving at the white gate, pulled up, and two females,
deeply and closely veiled, took their seats inside. Of course, the
natural politeness of the stranger prevented him from obtruding his
conversation upon ladies with whom he was not acquainted. The honest
farmer, however, felt no such scruples, nor, as it happened, did one at
least of the ladies in question.
“This is a nice affair,” he observed, “about the Black Baronet's
daughter.”
“What is a nice affair?” asked our friend Alley, for she it was, as the
reader of course is already aware--“What is a nice affair?”
“Why, that Miss Gourlay, they say, fell in love with a buttonmaker's
clerk from London, and is goin' to marry him in spite of all
opposition.”
“Who's your authority for that?” asked Alley; “but whoever is, is a
liar, and the truth is not in him--that's what I say.”
“Ay, but what do you know about it?” asked the grazier. “You're not in
Miss Gourlay's saicrets--and a devilish handsome, gentlemanly lookin'
fellow they say the button-maker is. Faith, I can tell you, I give
tooth-an-egg-credit. The fellow will get a darlin' at all events--and
he'll be very bad indeed, if he's not worth a ship-load of that
profligate Lord Dunroe.”
“Well,” replied Alley, “I agree with you there, at all events; for God
sees that the same Lord Dunroe will make the cream of a bad husband to
whatsoever poor woman will suffer by him. A bad bargain he will be at
best, and in that I agree with you.”
“So far, then,” replied the grazier, “we do agree; an', dang my buttons,
but I'll lave it to this gentleman if it wouldn't be betther for Miss
Gourlay to marry a daicent button-maker any day, than such a hurler as
Dunroe. What do you say, sir?”
“But who is this button-maker,” asked the stranger, “and where is he to
be found?”
Lucy, on recognizing his voice, could scarcely prevent her emotion from
becoming perceptible; but owing to the darkness of the night, and the
folds of her thick veil, her fellow-travellers observed nothing.
“Why,” replied the grazier, who had evidently, from a lapse of memory,
substituted one species of manufacture for another thing, “they tell me
he is stopping in the head inn in Ballytrain; an', dang my buttons, but
he must be a fellow of mettle, for sure didn't he kick that tyrannical
ould scoundrel, the Black Baronet, down-stairs, and out of the
hall-door, when he came to bullyrag over him about his daughter--the
darlin'?”
Lucy's distress was here incredible; and had not her self-command
and firmness of character been indeed unusual, she would have felt it
extremely difficult to keep her agitation within due bounds.
“You labor under a mistake there,” replied the stranger; “I happen to
know that nothing of the kind occurred. Some warm words passed between
them, but no blows. A young person named Fenton, whom I know, was
present.”
“Why,” observed the grazier, “that's the young fellow that goes mad
betimes, an' a quare chap he is, by all accounts. They say he went mad
for love.”
From this it was evident that rumor had, as usual, assigned several
causes for Fenton's insanity.
“Yes, I believe so,” replied the stranger.
Alley, who thought she had been overlooked in this partial dialogue,
determined to sustain her part in the conversation with a dignity
becoming her situation, now resolved to flourish in with something like
effect.
“They know nothing about it,” she said, “that calls Miss Gourlay's
sweetheart a button-maker. Miss Gourlay's not the stuff to fall in love
wid any button-maker, even if he made buttons of goold; an' sure they
say that the king an' queen, and the whole royal family wears golden
buttons.”
“I think, in spaiking of buttons,” observed the grazier, with a grin,
“that you might lave the queen out.”
“And why should I lave the queen out?” asked Alley, indignantly, and
with a towering resolution to defend the privileges of her sex. “Why
ought I lave the queen out, I say?”
“Why,” replied the grazier, with a still broader grin, “barring she
wears the breeches, I don't know what occasion she could have for
buttons.”
“That only shows your ignorance,” said Alley; “don't you know that all
ladies wear habit-shirts, and that habit-shirts must have buttons?”
“I never heard of a shirt havin' buttons anywhere but at the neck,”
replied the grazier, who drew the inference in question from his own,
which were made upon a very simple and primitive fashion.
“But you don't know either,” responded Alley, launching nobly into the
purest fiction, from an impression that the character of her mistress
required it for her defence, “you don't know that nobody is allowed to
make buttons for the queen but a knight o' the garther.”
“Garther!” exclaimed the grazier, with astonishment. “Why what the
dickens has garthers to do wid buttons?”
“More than you think,” replied the redoubtable Alley. “The queen wears
buttons to her garthers, and the knight o' the garther is always obliged
to try them on; but always, of course, afore company.”
The stranger was exceedingly amused at this bit of by-play between Alley
and the honest grazier, and the more so as it drew the conversation
from a point of the subject that was painful to him in the last degree,
inasmuch as it directly involved the character of Miss Gourlay.
“How do you know, then,” proceeded Alley, triumphantly, “but the
button-maker that Miss Gourlay has fallen in love with may be a knight
o' the garther?”
“Begad, there maybe a great dale in that, too,” replied the unsuspicious
grazier, who never dreamt that Alley's knowledge of court etiquette
might possibly be rather limited, and her accounts of it somewhat
apocryphal;--“begad, there may. Well,” he added, with an honest and
earnest tone of sincerity, “for my part, and from all ever I heard of
that darlin' of a beauty, she deserves a knight o' the shire, let alone
a knight o' the garther. They say the good she does among the poor and
destitute since they came home is un-tellable. God bless her! And that
she may live long and die happy is the worst that I or anybody that
knows her wishes her. It's well known that she had her goodness from her
angel of a mother at all events, for they say that such another woman
for charity and kindness to the poor never lived; and by all accounts
she led an unhappy and miserable life wid her Turk of a husband, who,
they say, broke her heart, and sent her to an early grave.”
Alley was about to bear fiery and vehement testimony to the truth of
all this; but Lucy, whose bosom heaved up strongly two or three times at
these affecting allusions to her beloved mother, and who almost sobbed
aloud, not merely from sorrow but distress, arising from the whole tenor
of the conversation, whispered a few words into her ear, and she was
instantly silent. The farmer seemed somewhat startled; for, in truth,
as we have said, he was naturally one of those men who wish to hear
themselves talk. In this instance, however, he found, after having made
three or four colloquial attacks upon the stranger, but without success,
that he must only have recourse either to soliloquy or silence. He
accordingly commenced to hum over several old Irish airs, to which
he ventured to join the words--at first in a very subdued undertone.
Whenever the coach stopped, however, to change horses, which it
generally did at some public house or inn, the stranger could observe
that the grazier always went out, and on his return appeared to
be affected with a still stronger relish for melody. By degrees he
proceeded from a tolerably distinct undertone to raise his voice into a
bolder key, when, at last, throwing aside all reserve, he commenced the
song of _Cruiskeen Lawn_, which he gave in admirable style and spirit,
and with a rich mellow voice, that was calculated to render every
justice to that fine old air. In this manner, he literally sang his way
until within a few miles of the metropolis. He was not, however, without
assistance, during, at least, a portion of the journey. Our friend
Dandy, who was on the outside, finding that the coach came to a level
space on the road, placed the dulcimer on his knees, and commenced an
accompaniment on that instrument, which produced an effect equally
comic and agreeable. And what added to the humor of this extraordinary
duet--if we can call it so--was the delight with which each intimated
his satisfaction at the performance of the other, as well as with the
terms in which it was expressed.
“Well done, Dandy! dang my buttons, but you shine upon the wires. Ah,
thin, it's you that is and ever was the wiry lad--and sure that was what
made you take to the dulcimer of course. Dandy, achora, will you give
us, 'Merrily kissed the Quaker?' and I ask it, Dandy, bekaise we are in
a religious way, and have a quakers' meetn' in the coach.”
“No,” replied Dandy; “but I'll give you the 'Bonny brown Girl,' that's
worth a thousand of it, you thief.”
“Bravo, Dandy, and so it is; and, as far as I can see in the dark, dang
my buttons, but I think we have one here, too.”
“I thank you for the compliment, sir,” said Alley, appropriating it
without ceremony to herself. “I feel much obliged to you, sir; but I'm
not worthy of it.”
“My darling,” replied the jolly farmer, “you had betther not take me up
till I fall. How do you know it was for you it was intended? You're not
the only lady in the coach, avourneen.”
“And you're not the only gintleman in the coach, Jemmy Doran,” replied
Alley, indignantly. “I know you well, man alive--and you picked up your
politeness from your cattle, I suppose.”
“A better chance of getting it from them than from you,” replied, the
hasty grazier. “But I tell you at once to take it aisy, achora; don't
get on fire, or you'll burn the coach--the compliment was not intended
for you, at all events. Come, Dandy, give us the 'Bonny brown Girl,' and
I'll help you, as well as I'm able.”
In a moment the dulcimer was at work on the top of the coach, and the
merry farmer, at the top of his lungs, lending his assistance inside.
When the performance had been concluded, Alley, who was brimful of
indignation at the slight which had been put upon her, said, “Many
thanks to you, Misther Doran, but if you plaise we'll dispense wid your
music for the rest of the journey. Remember you're not among your own
bullocks and swine--and that this roaring and grunting is and must be
very disagreeable to polite company.”
“Troth, whoever you are, you have the advantage of me,” replied the
good-natured farmer, “and besides I believe you're right--I'm afraid
I've given offince; and as we have gone so far--but no, dang my buttons,
I won't--I was going to try 'Kiss my Lady,' along wid Dandy, it goes
beautiful on the dulcimer--but--but--ah, not half so well as on a purty
pair of lips. Alley, darlin',” he proceeded now, evidently in a maudlin
state, “I never lave you, but I'm in a hurry home to you, for it's your
lips that's--”
“It's false, Mr. Doran,” exclaimed Alley; “how dare you, sir, bring my
name, or my lips either, into comparishment wid yourself? You want to
take away my character, Mr. Doran; but I have friends, and a strong
faction at my back, that will make you suffer for this.”
The farmer, however, who was elevated into the seventh heaven of
domestic affection, paid no earthly attention to her, but turning to the
stranger said:
“Sir, I've the best wife that ever faced the sun--”
“I,” exclaimed Alley, “am not to be insulted and calumnied, ay, an'
backbitten before my own face, Misther Doran, and take my word you'll
hear of this to your cost--I've a faction.”
“Sir--gintleman--miss, over the way there--for throth, for all so close
as you're veiled, you haven't a married look--but as I was sayin',
we fell in love wid one another by mistake--for there was an ould
matchmaker, by name Biddlety Girtha, a daughter of ould Jemmy
Trailcudgel's--God be good to him--father of the present strugglin' poor
man of that name--and as I had hard of a celebrated beauty that
lived about twelve or fifteen miles down the country that I wished to
coort--and she, on the other hand, having hard of a very fine, handsome
young fellow in my own neighborhood--what does the ould thief do but
brings us together, in the fair of Baltihorum, and palms her off on me
as the celebrated beauty, and palms myself on her as the fine, handsome
young fellow from the parish of Ballytrain, and, as I said, so we fell
in love wid one another by mistake, and didn't discover the imposthure
that the ould vagabond had put on us until afther the marriage. However,
I'm not sorry for it--she turned out a good wife to me, at all
events--for, besides bringin' me a stockin' of guineas, she has brought
me twelve of as fine childre' as you'd see in the kingdom of Ireland,
ay, or in the kingdom of heaven either. Barrin' that she's a little
hasty in the temper--and sometimes--do you persave?--has the use of
her--there's five of them on each hand at any rate--do you
undherstand--I say, barrin' that, and that she often amuses
herself--just when she has nothing else to do--and by way of keepin' her
hand in--I say, sir, and you, miss, over the way--she now and then
amuses herself by turnin' up the little finger of her right hand--but
what matter for all that--there's no one widout their little weeny
failin's. My own hair's a little sandy, or so--some people say it's red,
but I think myself it's only a little sandy--as I said, sir--so out of
love and affection for the best of wives, I'll give you her favorite,
the 'Red-haired man's wife.' Dandy, you thief, will you help me to do
the 'Red-haired man's wife?'”
“Wid pleasure, Misther Doran,” replied Dandy, adjusting his dulcimer.
“Come now, start, and I'm wid you.”
The performance was scarcely finished, when a sob or two was heard from
Alley, who, during this ebullition of the grazier's, had been nursing
her wrath to keep it warm, as Burns says.
“I'm not without friends and protectors, Mr. Doran--that won't see me
rantinized in a mail-coach, and mocked and made little of--whereof I
have a strong back, as you'll soon find, and a faction that will make you
sup sorrow yet.”
All this virtuous indignation was lost, however, on the honest grazier,
who had scarcely concluded the “Red-haired man's wife,” ere he fell fast
asleep, in which state he remained--having simply changed the style
and character of his melody, the execution of the latter being equally
masterly--until they reached the hotel at which the coach always stopped
in the metropolis.
The weather, for the fortnight preceding, had been genial, mild, and
beautiful. For some time before they reached the city, that gradual
withdrawing of darkness began to take place, which resembles the
disappearance of sorrow from a heavy heart, and harbinges to the world
the return of cheerfulness and light. The dim, spectral paleness of the
eastern sky by degrees received a clearer and healthier tinge, just as
the wan cheek of an invalid assumes slowly, but certainly, the glow of
returning health. Early as it was, an odd individual was visible here
and there, and it may, be observed, that at a very early hour every
person visible in the streets is characterized by a chilly and careworn
appearance, looking, with scarcely an exception, both solitary and sad,
just as if they had not a single friend on earth, but, on the contrary,
were striving to encounter; struggles and difficulties which they were
incompetent to meet.
As our travellers entered the city, that bygone class who, as guardians
of the night, were appointed to preserve the public peace, every one of
them a half felon and whole accomplice, were seen to pace slowly along,
their poles under their left arm, their hands mutually thrust into the
capacious cuffs of their watchcoats, and each with a frowzy woollen
nightcap under his hat. Here and there a staggering toper might be
seen on his way home from the tavern brawl or the midnight debauch,
advancing, or attempting to advance, as if he wanted to trace Hogarth's
line of beauty. From some quarters the wild and reckless shriek of
female profligacy might be heard, the tongue, though loaded with
blasphemies, nearly paralyzed by intoxication. Nor can we close here.
The fashionable carriage made its appearance filled with beauty shorn of
its charms by a more refined dissipation--beauty, no longer beautiful,
returning with pale cheeks, languid eyes, and exhausted frame--after
having breathed a thickened and suffocating atmosphere, calculated to
sap the physical health, if not to disturb the pure elements of moral
feeling, principle, and delicacy, without which woman becomes only an
object of contempt.
Up until the arrival of the “Fly” at the hotel, the gray dusk of
morning, together with the thick black veil to which we have alluded,
added to that natural politeness which prevents a gentleman from staring
at a lady who may wish to avoid observation--owing to these causes, we
say, the stranger had neither inclination nor opportunity to recognize
the features of Lucy Gourlay. When the coach drew up, however, with that
courtesy and attention that are always due to the sex, and, we may add,
that are very seldom omitted with a pretty travelling companion, the
stranger stepped quickly out of it in order to offer her assistance,
which was accepted silently, being acknowledged only by a graceful
inclination of the head. When, however, on leaving the darkness of the
vehicle he found her hand and arm tremble, and had sufficient light to
recognize her through the veil, he uttered an exclamation expressive at
once of delight, wonder, and curiosity.
“Good God, my dear Lucy,” said he in a low whisper, so as not to let
his words reach other ears, “how is this? In heaven's name, how does it
happen that you travel by a common night coach, and are here at such an
hour?”
She blushed deeply, and as she spoke he observed that her voice was
infirm and tremulous: “It is most unfortunate,” she replied, “that we
should both have travelled in the same conveyance. I request you will
instantly leave me.”
“What! leave you alone and unattended at this hour?”
“I am not unattended,” she replied; “that faithful creature, though
somewhat blunt and uncouth in her manners, is all truth and attachment,
so far as I at least am concerned. But I beg you will immediately
withdraw. If we are seen holding conversation, or for a moment in
each other's society, I cannot tell what the consequences may be to my
reputation.”
“But, my dear Lucy,” replied the stranger, “that risk may easily be
avoided. This meeting seems providential--I entreat you, let us accept
it as such and avail ourselves of it.”
“That is,” she replied, whilst her glorious dark eye kindled, and her
snowy temples got red as fire, “that is, that I should elope with you, I
presume? Sir,” she added, “you are the last man from whom I should have
expected an insult. You forget yourself, and you forget me.”
The high sense of honor that flashed from that glorious eye, and which
made itself felt through the indignant tones of her voice, rebuked him
at once.
“I have erred,” said he, “but I have erred from an excess of
affection--will you not pardon me?”
She felt the difficulty and singular distress of her position, and in
spite of her firmness and the unnatural harshness of her father, she
almost regretted the step she had taken. As it was, she made no reply
to the stranger, but seemed absorbed in thoughts of bitterness and
affliction.
“Let me press you,” said the stranger, “to come into the hotel; you
require both rest and refreshment--and I entreat and implore you, for
the sake both of my happiness and your own, to grant me a quarter of an
hour's conversation.”
“I have reconsidered our position,” she replied. “Alley will fetch
in our very slight luggage; she has money, too, to pay the guard and
driver--she says it is usual; and I feel that to give you a
short explanation now may possibly enable us to avoid much future
embarrassment and misunderstanding--Alley, however, must accompany
us, and be present in the room. But then,” she added, starting, “is
it proper?--is it delicate?--no, no, I cannot, I cannot; it might
compromise me with the world. Leave me, I entreat, I implore, I command
you. I ask it as a proof of your love. We will, I trust, have other
opportunities. Let us trust, too, to time--let us trust to God--but
I will do nothing wrong, and I feel that this would be unworthy of my
mother's daughter.”
“Well,” replied the stranger, “I shall obey you as a proof of my love
for you; but will you not allow me to write to you?--will you not give
me your address?”
“No,” she returned; “and I enjoin you, as you hope, that we shall ever
be happy, not to attempt to trace me. I ask this from you as a man
of honor. Of course it may or perhaps it will be discovered that we
travelled in the same coach. The accident may be misinterpreted. My
father may seek an explanation from you--he may ask if you know where I
am. Should I have placed the knowledge of my retreat in your possession,
you know that, as a man of honor, you could not tell him a falsehood.
Goodby,” she added, “we may meet in better times, but I much fear that
our destinies will be separated forever--Come, Alley.”
Her voice softened as she uttered the last words, and the stranger felt
the influence of her ascendency over him too strongly to hesitate in
manifesting this proof of his obedience to her wishes.