THE PHOENIX PARK.
What a glorious thing it is when our first waking thoughts not only dispel
some dark, depressing dream, but arouse us to the consciousness of a new
and bright career suddenly opening before us, buoyant in hope, rich in
promise for the future! Life has nothing better than this. The bold spring
by which the mind clears the depth that separates misery from happiness is
ecstasy itself; and then what a world of bright visions come teeming before
us,--what plans we form; what promises we make to ourselves in our own
hearts; how prolific is the dullest imagination; how excursive the tamest
fancy, at such a moment! In a few short and fleeting seconds, the events of
a whole life are planned and pictured before us. Dreams of happiness
and visions of bliss, of which all our after-years are insufficient to
eradicate the _prestige_, come in myriads about us; and from that narrow
aperture through which this new hope pierces into our heart, a flood of
light is poured that illumines our path to the very verge of the grave. How
many a success in after-days is reckoned but as one step in that ladder of
ambition some boyish review has framed, perhaps, after all, destined to be
the first and only one! With what triumph we hail some goal attained, some
object of our wishes gained, less for its present benefit, than as the
accomplishment of some youthful prophecy, when picturing to our hearts all
that we would have in life, we whispered within us the flattery of success.
Who is there who has not had some such moment; and who would exchange
it, with all the delusive and deceptive influences by which it comes
surrounded, for the greatest actual happiness he has partaken of? Alas,
alas, it is only in the boundless expanse of such imaginations, unreal and
fictitious as they are, that we are truly blessed! Our choicest blessings
in life come even so associated with some sources of care that the cup of
enjoyment is not pure but dregged in bitterness.
To such a world of bright anticipation did I awake on the morning after the
events I have detailed in the last chapter. The first thing my eyes fell
upon was an official letter from the Horse Guards:--
“The commander of the forces desires that Mr. O’Malley will report
himself, immediately on the receipt of this letter, at the headquarters
of the regiment to which he is gazetted.”
Few and simple as the lines were, how brimful of pleasure they sounded to
my ears. The regiment to which I was gazetted! And so I was a soldier at
last! The first wish of my boyhood was then really accomplished. And my
uncle, what will he say; what will he think?
“A letter, sir, by the post,” said Mike, at the moment.
I seized it eagerly; it came from home, but was in Considine’s handwriting.
How my heart failed me as I turned to look at the seal. “Thank God!” said
I, aloud, on perceiving that it was a red one. I now tore it open and
read:--
My Dear Charley,--Godfrey, being laid up with the gout, has
desired me to write to you by this day’s post. Your appointment to
the 14th, notwithstanding all his prejudices about the army, has
given him sincere pleasure. I believe, between ourselves, that your
college career, of which he has heard something, convinced him that
your forte did not lie in the classics; you know I said so always, but
nobody minded me. Your new prospects are all that your best friends
could wish for you: you begin early; your corps is a crack one; you
are ordered for service. What could you have more?
Your uncle hopes, if you can get a few days’ leave, that you will
come down here before you join, and I hope so too; for he is unusually
low-spirited, and talks about his never seeing you again, and
all that sort of thing.
I have written to Merivale, your colonel, on this subject, as well
as generally on your behalf. We were cornets together forty years
ago. A strict fellow you’ll find him, but a trump on service. If
you can’t manage the leave, write a long letter home at all events.
And so, God bless you, and all success!
Yours sincerely,
W. Considine.
I had thought of writing you a long letter of advice for your new
career; and, indeed, half accomplished one. After all, however, I
can tell you little that your own good sense will not teach you as you
go on; and experience is ever better than precept. I know of but
one rule in life which admits of scarcely any exception, and having
followed it upwards of sixty years, approve of it only the more:
Never quarrel when you can help it; but meet any man,--your
tailor, your hairdresser,--if he wishes to have you out.
W. C.
I had scarcely come to the end of this very characteristic epistle, when
two more letters were placed upon my table. One was from Sir George
Dashwood, inviting me to dinner to meet some of my “brother officers.”
How my heart beat at the expression. The other was a short note, marked
“Private,” from my late tutor, Dr. Mooney, saying, “that if I made a
suitable apology to the bursar for the late affair at my room, he might
probably be induced to abandon any further step; otherwise--” then followed
innumerable threats about fine, penalties, expulsion, etc., that fell most
harmlessly upon my ears. I accepted the invitation; declined the apology;
and having ordered my horse, cantered off to the barracks to consult my
friend Power as to all the minor details of my career.
As the dinner hour grew near, my thoughts became again fixed upon Miss
Dashwood; and a thousand misgivings crossed my mind as to whether I should
have nerve enough to meet her, without disclosing in my manner the altered
state of my feelings; a possibility which I now dreaded fully as much as I
had longed some days before to avow my affection for her, however slight
its prospect of return. All my valiant resolves and well-contrived plans
for appearing unmoved and indifferent in her presence, with which I stored
my mind while dressing and when on the way to dinner, were, however,
needless, for it was a party exclusively of men; and as the coffee was
served in the dining-room, no move was made to the drawing-room by any of
the company. “Quite as well as it is!” was my muttered opinion, as I got
into my cab at the door. “All is at an end as regards me in her esteem, and
I must not spend my days sighing for a young lady that cares for another.”
Very reasonable, very proper resolutions these; but, alas! I went home to
bed, only to think half the night long of the fair Lucy, and dream of her
the remainder of it.
When morning dawned my first thought was, Shall I see her once more? Shall
I leave her forever thus abruptly? Or, rather, shall I not unburden my
bosom of its secret, confess my love, and say farewell? I felt such a
course much more in unison with my wishes than the day before; and as Power
had told me that before a week we should present ourselves at Fermoy, I
knew that no time was to be lost.
My determination was taken. I ordered my horse, and early as it was, rode
out to the Royal Hospital. My heart beat so strongly as I rode up to the
door that I half resolved to return. I rang the bell. Sir George was in
town. Miss Dashwood had just gone, five minutes before, to spend some days
at Carton. “It is fate!” thought I as I turned from the spot and walked
slowly beside my horse towards Dublin.
In the few days that intervened before my leaving town, my time was
occupied from morning to night; the various details of my uniform, outfit,
etc., were undertaken for me by Power. My horses were sent for to Galway;
and I myself, with innumerable persons to see, and a mass of business to
transact, contrived at least three times a day to ride out to the Royal
Hospital, always to make some trifling inquiry for Sir George, and always
to hear repeated that Miss Dashwood had not returned.
Thus passed five of my last six days in Dublin; and as the morning of
the last opened, it was with a sorrowing spirit that I felt my hour of
departure approach without one only opportunity of seeing Lucy, even to
say good-by. While Mike was packing in one corner, and I in another was
concluding a long letter to my poor uncle, my door opened and Webber
entered.
“Eh, O’Malley, I’m only in time to say adieu, it seems. To my surprise this
morning I found you had cut the ‘Silent Sister.’ I feared I should be too
late to catch one glimpse of you ere you started for the wars.”
“You are quite right, Master Frank, and I scarcely expected to have seen
you. Your last brilliant achievement at Sir George’s very nearly involved
me in a serious scrape.”
“A mere trifle. How confoundedly silly Power must have looked, eh? Should
like so much to have seen his face. He booked up next day,--very proper
fellow. By-the-bye, O’Malley, I rather like the little girl; she is
decidedly pretty, and her foot,--did you remark her foot?--capital.”
“Yes, she’s very good-looking,” said I, carelessly.
“I’m thinking of cultivating her a little,” said Webber, pulling up his
cravat and adjusting his hair at the glass. “She’s spoiled by all the
tinsel vaporing of her hussar and aide-de-camp acquaintances; but something
may be done for her, eh?”
“With your most able assistance and kind intentions.”
“That’s what I mean exactly. Sorry you’re going,--devilish sorry. You
served out Stone gloriously: perhaps it’s as well, though,--you know they’d
have expelled you; but still something might turn up. Soldiering is a
bad style of thing, eh? How the old general did take his sister-in-law’s
presence to heart! But he must forgive and forget, for I am going to be
very great friends with him and Lucy. Where are you going now?”
“I am about to try a new horse before troops,” said I. “He’s stanch enough
with the cry of the fox-pack in his ears; but I don’t know how he’ll stand
a peal of artillery.”
“Well, come along,” said Webber; “I’ll ride with you.” So saying, we
mounted and set off to the Park, where two regiments of cavalry and some
horse artillery were ordered for inspection.
The review was over when we reached the exercising ground, and we slowly
walked our horses towards the end of the Park, intending to return to
Dublin by the road. We had not proceeded far, when, some hundred yards in
advance, we perceived an officer riding with a lady, followed by an orderly
dragoon.
“There he goes,” said Webber; “I wonder if he’d ask me to dinner, if I were
to throw myself in his way?”
“Who do you mean?” said I.
“Sir George Dashwood, to be sure, and, _la voilà_, Miss Lucy. The little
darling rides well, too; how squarely she sits her horse. O’Malley, I’ve a
weakness there; upon my soul I have.”
“Very possible,” said I; “I am aware of another friend of mine
participating in the sentiment.”
“One Charles O’Malley, of his Majesty’s--”
“Nonsense, man; no, no. I mean a very different person, and, for all I can
see, with some reason to hope for success.”
“Oh, as to that, we flatter ourselves the thing does not present any very
considerable difficulties.”
“As how, pray?”
“Why, of course, like all such matters, a very decisive determination to
be, to do, and to suffer, as Lindley Murray says, carries the day. Tell her
she’s an angel every day for three weeks. She may laugh a little at first,
but she’ll believe it in the end. Tell her that you have not the slightest
prospect of obtaining her affections, but still persist in loving her.
That, finally, you must die from the effects of despair, etc., but rather
like the notion of it than otherwise. That you know she has no fortune;
that you haven’t a sixpence; and who should marry, if people whose position
in the world was similar did not?”
“But halt; pray, how are you to get time and place for all such interesting
conversations?”
“Time and place! Good Heavens, what a question! Is not every hour of the
twenty-four the fittest? Is not every place the most suitable? A sudden
pause in the organ of St. Patrick’s did, it is true, catch me once in a
declaration of love, but the choir came in to my aid and drowned the lady’s
answer. My dear O’Malley, what could prevent you this instant, if you are
so disposed, from doing the amiable to the darling Lucy there?”
“With the father for an umpire in case we disagreed,” said I.
“Not at all. I should soon get rid of him.”
“Impossible, my dear friend.”
“Come now, just for the sake of convincing your obstinacy. If you like
to say good-by to the little girl without a witness, I’ll take off the
he-dragon.”
“You don’t mean--”
“I do, man; I do mean it.” So saying, he drew a crimson silk handkerchief
from his pocket, and fastened it round his waist like an officer’s sash.
This done, and telling me to keep in their wake for some minutes, he turned
from me, and was soon concealed by a copse of white-thorn near us.
I had not gone above a hundred yards farther when I heard Sir George’s
voice calling for the orderly. I looked and saw Webber at a considerable
distance in front, curvetting and playing all species of antics. The
distance between the general and myself was now so short that I overheard
the following dialogue with his sentry:--
“He’s not in uniform, then?”
“No, sir; he has a round hat.”
“A round hat!”
“His sash--”
“A sword and sash. This is too bad. I’m determined to find him out.”
“How d’ye do, General?” cried Webber, as he rode towards the trees.
“Stop, sir!” shouted Sir George.
“Good-day, Sir George,” replied Webber, retiring.
“Stay where you are, Lucy,” said the general as, dashing spurs into his
horse, he sprang forward at a gallop, incensed beyond endurance that his
most strict orders should be so openly and insultingly transgressed.
Webber led on to a deep hollow, where the road passed between two smooth
slopes, covered with furze-trees, and from which it emerged afterwards in
the thickest and most intricate part of the Park. Sir George dashed boldly
after, and in less than half a minute both were lost to my view, leaving me
in breathless amazement at Master Frank’s ingenuity, and some puzzle as to
my own future movements.
“Now then, or never!” said I, as I pushed boldly forward, and in an instant
was alongside of Miss Dashwood. Her astonishment at seeing me so suddenly
increased the confusion from which I felt myself suffering, and for some
minutes I could scarcely speak. At last I plucked up courage a little, and
said:--
“Miss Dashwood, I have looked most anxiously, for the last four days, for
the moment which chance has now given me. I wished, before I parted forever
with those to whom I owe already so much, that I should at least speak my
gratitude ere I said good-by.”
“But when do you think of going?”
“To-morrow. Captain Power, under whose command I am, has received orders to
embark immediately for Portugal.”
I thought--perhaps it was but a thought--that her cheek grew somewhat paler
as I spoke; but she remained silent; and I, scarcely knowing what I had
said, or whether I had finished, spoke not either.
“Papa, I’m sure, is not aware,” said she, after a long pause, “of your
intention of leaving so soon, for only last night he spoke of some letters
he meant to give you to some friends in the Peninsula; besides, I know,”
here she smiled faintly,--“that he destined some excellent advice for your
ears, as to your new path in life, for he has an immense opinion of the
value of such to a young officer.”
“I am, indeed, most grateful to Sir George, and truly never did any one
stand more in need of counsel than I do.” This was said half musingly, and
not intended to be heard.
“Then, pray, consult papa,” said she, eagerly; “he is much attached to you,
and will, I am certain, do all in his power--”
“Alas! I fear not, Miss Dashwood.”
“Why, what can you mean. Has anything so serious occurred?”
“No, no; I’m but misleading you, and exciting your sympathy with false
pretences. Should I tell you all the truth, you would not pardon, perhaps
not hear me.”
“You have, indeed, puzzled me; but if there is anything in which my
father--”
“Less him than his daughter,” said I, fixing my eyes full upon her as I
spoke. “Yes, Lucy, I feel I must confess it, cost what it may; I love you.
Stay, hear me out; I know the fruitlessness, the utter despair, that awaits
such a sentiment. My own heart tells me that I am not, cannot be, loved in
return; yet would I rather cherish in its core my affection, slighted and
unblessed, such as it is, than own another heart. I ask for nothing, I hope
for nothing; I merely entreat that, for my truth, I may meet belief, and
for my heart’s worship of her whom alone I can love, compassion. I see that
you at least pity me. Nay, one word more; I have one favor more to ask,--it
is my last, my only one. Do not, when time and distance may have separated
us, perhaps forever, think that the expressions I now use are prompted by
a mere sudden ebullition of boyish feeling; do not attribute to the
circumstance of my youth alone the warmth of the attachment I profess,--for
I swear to you, by every hope that I have, that in my heart of hearts my
love to you is the source and spring of every action in my life, of every
aspiration in my heart; and when I cease to love you, I shall cease to
feel.”
“And now, farewell,--farewell forever!” I pressed her hand to my lips, gave
one long, last look, turned my horse rapidly away, and ere a minute was far
out of sight of where I had left her.