--Description of a Summer Evening--A Jealous Vision--Letter from Squire
Beaker to Lord Cumber--Lord Cumber's Reply.
The season was now about the close of May, that delightful month
which presents, the heart and all our purer sensations with a twofold
enjoyment; for in that sweet period have we not all the tenderness and
delicacy of spring, combined with the fuller and more expanded charms
of the leafy summer--like that portion of female life, in which the
eye feels it difficult to determine whether the delicate beauty of
the blushing girl, or the riper loveliness of the full grown maid,
predominates in the person. The time was evening, about half an hour
before that soft repose of twilight, in which may be perceived the
subsiding stir of busy life as it murmurs itself into slumber, after the
active pursuits of day. On a green upland lawn, that was a sheep walk,
some portions of which were studded over with the blooming and fragrant
furze, stood an old ecclesiastical ruin, grey from time, and breathing
with that spirit of vague but dreamy reverie, which it caught from the
loveliness of the season, the calmness and the golden light of the hour,
accessories, that, by their influence, gave a solemn beauty to its very
desolation. It reminded one somewhat of the light which coming death
throws upon the cheek of youth when he treacherously treads in the soft
and noiseless steps of decline--or rather of that still purer light,
which, when the aged Christian arrives at the close of a well spent
life, accompanied by peace, and hope, and calmness, falls like a glory
on his bed of death. The ruin was but small, a remnant of one of those
humble, but rude temples, in which God was worshipped in simplicity and
peace, far from the noisy tumults and sanguinary conflicts of ambitious
man.
Through this sweet upland, and close to the ruin, ran a footpath that
led to a mountain village of considerable extent. Immediately behind the
ruin stood a few large hawthorn trees, now white with blossoms, whose
fragrance made the very air a luxury, and from whose branches came forth
those gushes of evening melody that shed tenderness and tranquility into
the troubled heart. The country in the distance lay charmed, as it were,
by the calm spirit of peace which seemed to have diffused itself
over the whole landscape--western windows were turned into fire--the
motionless lakes shone like mirrors wherever they caught the beams of
the evening light, as did several bends of the broad river which barely
moved within its winding banks through the meadows below. The sun at
length became half concealed behind the summit of the western hills, so
that his rich and gorgeous beams fell only upon the surrounding uplands,
now lit into purple, leaving the valleys and lower parts of the country
to repose in that beautiful shadow which can be looked upon from the
higher parts, only through the crimson glory of the departing light.
And now the sun has disappeared--is gone--but still how beautiful is
the fading splendor that sleeps for a little on the mountain tops, then
becomes dimmer and dimmer--then a faint streak which gradually melts
away until it is finally lost in the soft shadows of that thoughtful
hour. And even thus passeth away all human glory! The ruin which we have
mentioned stood about half way between the residence of Brian M'Loughlin
and the mountain village to which we have alluded. Proceeding homewards
from the latter place, having performed an errand of mercy and charity,
was a very beautiful girl, exquisitely formed, but somewhat below the
middle size. She was Brian M'Loughlin's only daughter--a creature that
breathed of goodness, grace, and all those delightful qualities that make
woman a ministering angel amidst the cares, and miseries, and sorrows
of life. Her figure, symmetry itself, was so light, and graceful, and
elegant, that a new charm was displayed by every motion, as a new beauty
was discovered by every change of her expressive countenance; her hair
was like the raven's wing, and her black eye, instead of being sharp and
piercing, was more in accordance with the benignity of her character,
soft, sweet, and mellow. Her bust and arm were perfection, and the small
white hand and taper fingers would have told a connoisseur or sculptor,
that her foot, in lightness and elegance of formation, might have
excited, the envy of Iris or Camilla.
Having reached the ruin, she was surprised to see the figure of a thin
woman, dressed in black, issue out of it, and approach her with somewhat
of caution in her manner. Mary M'Loughlin was a girl of strong mind and
firm character, and not likely to feel alarmed by any groundless cause
of apprehension. She immediately recognized the woman, who was no other
than our old friend Poll Doolin, and in the phrases peculiar to the
country, made the usual kind inquiry after her health and welfare.
“It's a very unusual thing, Poll,” she proceeded, “to see you in this
part of the neighborhood!”
“It is,” returned Poll, “I wasn't so near the mountains this many a day;
an' I wouldn't be here now, only on your account. Miss M'Loughlin.”
Now, Mary was by no means ignorant of the enmity which this woman
entertained against her father and family, in consequence of having
prosecuted and transported her profligate son. Without the slightest
apprehension on that account, she felt, however, a good deal puzzled
as to the meaning which could be attached to Poll's words. “How, on my
account, Poll? I don't understand you.”
“Neither you nor yours desarve it at my hands; but for all that, I am
here to do you a good tarn.”
“I hope I never deserved any evil at your! hands, Poll.”
“No, but you're your father's daughter for all that, an' it's not usual
to hate the tree and spare the branches.”
“I suppose you allude to the transportation of your son; but remember,
Poll, that I was only a child then; and don't forget that had your son
been honest, he might I still be a comfort and a credit to you, instead
of a shame and a sorrow. I don't I mean, nor do I wish to hurt your
feelings, Poll; but I am anxious that you should not indulge in such
bitterness of heart against my father, who only did what he could not
avoid.”
“Well,” said Poll, “never mind that--although it isn't aisy for a mother
to forget her child wid all his faults; I am here, as I said, on your
'account--I am here to tell you, that there is danger about you and
before you, and to put you on your guard against it. I am here, Miss
Mary M'Loughlin, and if I'm not your friend--I'm not sayin' that I am
not--still I'm the friend of one that is your friend, and that will
protect you if he can.”
“That is very strange, Poll, for I know not how I can have an enemy.
What danger could a simple inoffensive girl like me feel? I who have
never knowingly offended anybody.”
“I have said the truth,” replied Poll, “and did my duty--you're now
warned, so be on your guard and take care of yourself.”
“But how, Poll? You mention danger, yet have not told me what it is,
where it's to come from, nor how I am to guard myself against it.”
“I'm not at liberty,” said Poll, “but this I can tell you, it's
threatening you, and it comes from a quarther where you'd never look for
it.”
Mary, who was neither timid nor surprised, smiled with the confidence of
innocence, and replied, after a short pause of thought--
“Well, Poll, I have been thinking over my friends, and cannot find one
that is likely to be my enemy; at all events I am deeply obliged to you,
still if you could mention what the danger is, I would certainly
feel the obligation to be greater. As it is, I thank you again. Good
evening!”
“Stay, Miss Mary,” replied Poll, walking eagerly a step or two after
her, “stay a minute; I have run a risk in doin' this--only promise me,
to keep what I said to you a saicret for a while--as well as that you
ever had any private talk wid me. Promise this.”
“I shall certainly not promise any such thing, Poll; so far from that,
I will mention every word of your conversation to my father and family,
the moment I reach home. If, as you say, there is danger before or
around me, there are none whose protection I should so naturally seek.”
“But this,” said Poll, with an appearance of deep anxiety, “this is a
matther of mere indifference to you: it's to me the danger is, if you
spake of it--to me, I say--not to you.”
“But I can have no secrets from my family.”
“Well, but is it ginerous in you to put me--ay', my very life in
danger--when all you have to do is merely to say nothing? However, since
I must speak out--you'll put more than me in danger--them that you love
betther, an' that you'd never carry a light heart if anything happened
them.”
Mary started--and a light seemed suddenly to break upon her.
“How,” said she, “my engagement to Francis Harman is no secret; our
marriage at no distant day being sanctioned by both our families. Is he
involved in danger connected with your hints?”
“Deep and deadly, both to him and me. You don't know it, Miss Mary. If
you love him, as you do--as is well known you do--if you would keep him
and my poor worthless self out of danger, may be out of bloodshed--don't
mention a syllable of this meetin' to any one; but of all persons livin'
to himself, until I give you lave, until I can tell you it will be safe
to do so. See, I kneel down with hands clasped, I beg it of you for his
sake and safety!”
It was pretty well known through the parish, especially by the
initiated, that this same Poll Doolin, had in truth most of its secrets
in keeping; and that she had frequently conducted with success those
rustic intrigues which are to be found in humble, as well as in high
life. The former part of Poll's character, however, was all that had
ever reached the youthful ears of poor innocent Mary, whilst of her
address as a diplomatist in the plots and pursuits of love, she was
utterly ignorant. Naturally unsuspicious, as we have already said,
she looked upon the woman's knowing character rather as a circumstance
calculated to corroborate the truth of the mystery which she, must have
discovered: and was so much moved by the unquestionable sincerity of her
manner, and the safety of her own lover, that she assured her she would
keep the secret, until permitted to divulge it; which she begged might
be at as early a period as possible. Poll thanked her eagerly and
gratefully, and in a few minutes, having made a circuit behind the ruin,
sought the lower and richer country by a different path.
Mary unconsciously stood for some time after Poll had left her,
meditating over the strange and almost unaccountable scene which had
just taken place, when a rich voice, with which she was well acquainted,
addressed her. She started, and on turning about, found Francis Harman
before her. Twilight had now nearly passed away, and the dusk of evening
was deepening into the darkness of a summer night.
“What on earth are you thinking of alone in this place, my dear Mary,
and who was that woman who just left you?”
Mary, though firm of character, was also tender and warm of heart, and
felt deeply for those she loved. The interview with Poll, therefore, had
excited apprehensions concerning Harman's safety, which disturbed her
far more than any she felt for herself. He gave her his right arm as he
spoke, and they went on towards her father's house.
“Good God,” he exclaimed, before she had time to answer him, “what
has disturbed or alarmed you, my sweet Mary? I feel your heart beating
against my arm, in a most extraordinary manner. How is this?”
The consciousness of the injunction so solemnly and recently imposed,
distressed her exceedingly. Her love of truth was like her love of life
or of heaven, a sacred and instinctive principle which she must now
not only violate, but be forced to run into the hateful practice of
dissimulation. All this passed through her mind in a moment.
“My dear Francis, I will freely admit that the beatings of my heart are
not altogether without cause; I have been somewhat disturbed, but it
will not signify; I shall be quite well in a moment--but where did you
come from?”
“They told me you had gone up to poor Widow Carrick's--and I took the
short way, thinking to find you there. But what has disturbed you, my
dear Mary? Something has, and greatly too.”
She looked up with an affectionate smile into his face, although there
trembled a tear upon her eyelids, as she spoke--
“Do not ask me, my dear Frank; nor don't think the circumstance of
much importance. It is a little secret of mine, which I cannot for the
present disclose.”
“Well, my love, I only ask to know if the woman that left you was Poll
Doolin.”
“I cannot answer even that, Frank; but such as the secret is, I trust
you shall soon know it.”
“That is enough, my darling. I am satisfied that you would conceal
nothing from either your family or me, which might be detrimental either
to yourself or us--or which we ought to know.”
“That is true,” said she, “I feel that it is true.”
“But then on the other hand,” said he, playfully, “suppose our little
darling were in possession of a secret which we ought not to know--what
character should we bestow on the secret?”
This, though said in love and jest, distressed her so much that she
was forced to tell him so--“my dear Francis,” she replied, with as
much composure as she could assume, “do not press me on the subject;--I
cannot speak upon it now, and I consequently must throw myself on your
love and generosity only for a short time, I hope.”
“Not a syllable, my darling, on the subject until you resume it
yourself--how are Widow Carrick's sick children?”
“Somewhat better,” she replied, “the two eldest are recovering, and want
nourishment, which, with the exception of my poor contributions, they
cannot get.”
“God love and guard your kind and charitable heart, my sweet Mary,” said
he, looking down tenderly into her beautiful face, and pressing her arm
lovingly against his side.
“What a hard-hearted man that under agent, M'Clutchy, is,” she
exclaimed, her beautiful eye brightening with indignation--“do you know
that while her children were ill, his bailiff, Darby O'Drive, by his
orders or authority, or some claim or other, took away her goose and
the only half-dozen of eggs she had for them--indeed, Frank, he's a sad
curse to the property.”
“He is what an old Vandal was once called for his cruelty and
oppression--the Scourge of God,” replied Harman, “such certainly the
unhappy tenantry of the Topertoe family find him. Harsh and heartless
as he is, however, what would he be were it not for the vigilance and
humanity of Mr. Hickman? But are you aware, Mary, that his graceful son
Phil was a suitor of yours?”
“Of mine---ha, ha, ha!--oh, that's too comical, Frank--but I am not--Had
I really ever that honor?”
“Most certainly; his amiable father had the modesty to propose a
matrimonial union between your family and his!”
“I never heard of it,” replied Mary, “never;--but that is easily
accounted for--my father, I know, would not insult me by the very
mention of it.”
“It's a fact though, that the illegitimate son of the blasphemous old
squire, and of the virtuous and celebrated Kate Clank, hoped to have
united the M'Loughlin blood with his!”
“Hush!” exclaimed Mary, shuddering, “the very thought is sickening,
revolting.”
“It's not a pleasant subject, certainly,” said Harman, “and the less
that is said about it the more disgust we shall avoid, at any rate.”
Her lover having safely conducted Mary home, remained with her family
only a few minutes, as the evening was advanced, and he had still to go
as far as Castle Cumber, upon business connected with the manufactory,
which M'Loughlin and his father had placed wholly under his
superintendence.
Upon what slight circumstances does the happiness of individuals,
nay, even of states and kingdoms, too frequently depend! Harman most
assuredly was incapable of altogether dismissing the circumstance of
the evening--involved in mystery as they unquestionably were--out of his
mind; not that he entertained the slightest possible suspicion of Mary's
prudence or affection; but he felt a kind of surprise at the novelty
of the position in which he saw she was placed, and no little pain in
consequence of the disagreeable necessity for silence which she admitted
had been imposed on her. His confidence in her, however, was boundless;
and from this perfect reliance on her discretion and truth, he derived
an assurance that she was acting with strict propriety under the
circumstances, whatever might be their character or tendency.
It may be necessary to mention here that a right of passage ran from
Beleeven, the name of the village in which M'Loughlin resided, to the
Castle Cumber high road, which it joined a little beyond Constitution
Cottage, passing immediately through an angle of the clump of beeches
already mentioned as growing behind the house. By this path, which
shortened the way very much, Harman, and indeed every pedestrian
acquainted with it, was in the habit of passing, and on the night in
question he was proceeding along it at a pretty quick pace, when, having
reached the beeches just alluded to, he perceived two figures, a male
and female, apparently engaged in close and earnest conversation. The
distance at first was too great to enable him to form any opinion as to
who they were, nor would he have even asked himself the question, were
it not that the way necessarily brought him pretty near them. The reader
may form some conception then of his surprise, his perplexity, and,
disguise it as he might, his pain, on ascertaining that the female was
no other than Poll Doolin, and her companion, graceful Phil himself--the
gallant and accomplished owner of Handsome Harry.
It appeared quite evident that the subject matter of their conversation
was designed for no other ears than their own, or why speak as they did
in low and guarded tones, that implied great secrecy and caution. Nay,
what proved still a plainer corroboration of this--no sooner was the
noise of his footsteps heard, than Poll squatted herself down behind
the small hedge which separated the pathway from the space on which they
stood, and this clearly with a hope of concealing her person from
his observation. Phil also turned away his face with a purpose of
concealment, but the impression left by his lank and scraggy outline,
as it stood twisted before Harman, was such as could not be mistaken.
Poll's identity not only on this occasion, but also during her hasty
separation from Mary, was now established beyond the possibility of a
doubt; a fact which lent to both her interviews a degree of mystery that
confounded Harman. On thinking over the matter coolly, he could scarcely
help believing that Her appearance here was in some way connected with
the, circumstances which had occasioned Mary so much agitation and
alarm. This suspicion, however, soon gave way to a more generous
estimate of her character, and he could not permit himself for a moment
to imagine the existence of anything that was prejudicial to her truth
and affection. At the same time he felt it impossible to prevent himself
from experiencing a strong sense of anxiety, or perhaps we should say, a
feeling of involuntary pain, which lay like a dead weight upon his heart
and spirits. In truth, do what he might and reason as he would, he could
not expel from his mind the new and painful principle which disturbed
it. And thus he went on, sometimes triumphantly defending Mary from all
ungenerous suspicion, and again writhing under the vague and shapeless
surmises which the singular events of the evening sent crowding to
his imagination. His dreams on retiring to seek repose were
frightful--several times in the night he saw graceful Phil squinting
at him with a nondescript leer of vengeance and derision in his yellow
goggle eyes, and bearing Mary off, like some misshapen ogre of old,
mounted upon Handsome Harry, who appeared to be gifted with the speed
of Hark-away or flying Childers, whilst he himself could do nothing but
stand helplessly by, and contemplate the triumph of his hated rival.
In the mean time the respected father and grandfather of that worthy
young gentleman were laboring as assiduously for his advancement in
life as if he had been gifted with a catalogue of all human virtues.
Old Deaker, true to his word, addressed the very next day the following
characteristic epistle--
“To the Right Hon. Lord Cumber.
“My Lord--It is unnecessary to tell you that I was, during my life,
a plain blunt fellow in all my transactions. When I was honest, I was
honest like a man; and when I did the roguery, I did it like a open,
fearless knave, that defied the world and scorned hypocrisy. I am,
therefore, the same consistent old scoundrel as ever; or the same bluff,
good-humored rascal which your old father--who sold his country--and
yourself--who would sell it too, if you had one to sell--ever found me.
To make short work, then, I want you to dismiss that poor, scurvy devil,
Hickman, from your agency, and put that misbegotten spawn of mine in
his place. I mean Val M'Clutchy, or Val the Vulture, as they have very
properly christened him. Hickman's not the thing, in any sense. He can't
manage the people, and they impose upon him--then you suffer, of course.
Bedsides, he's an anti-ascendancy man, of late, and will go against you
at the forthcoming Election. The fellow pretends to have a conscience,
and be cursed to him--prates about the Union--preaches against
corruption--and talks about the people, as if they were fit to be
anything else than what they are. This is a pretty fellow for you to
have as an agent to your property. Now, I'll tell you what, my Lord--you
know old Deaker well. His motto is--'Let us eat, drink, and be merry,
for to-morrow we die--' I'll tell you what, I say; I have a mortgage on
your property for fourteen thousand pounds. Now, put in Val or I'll be
speaking to my lawyer about it. Put in Val, or you will never warm your
posteriors in a seat for this county, so long as I carry the key of it.
In doing so, make no wry faces about it--you will only serve yourself
and your property, and serve Val into the bargain. Val, to be sure,
is as confounded a scoundrel as any of us, but then he is a staunch
Protestant; and you ought not to be told at this time of day, that the
greater the scoundrel the better the agent. Would you have a fellow,
for instance, whose conscience, indeed, must stand between you and your
interest? Would you have some honest blockhead, who, when you are to be
served by a piece of friendly rascality, will plead scruples. If so, you
are a greater fool than I ever took you to be. Make Val your agent, and
it is not you that will suffer by him, but the people--whom, of course,
no one cares a curse about. I ought to have some claim on you, I think.
Many a lift I have given your precious old father, Tom Topertoe, when I
did not think of pleading scruples. To tell you the truth, many a dirty
trick I played for him, and never brought my conscience to account for
it. Make the most of this rascally world, and of the rascals that are in
it, for we are all alike in the grave. Put in Val, then, and don't made
an enemy of
“Your old friend,
“Randal Deaker.
“P.S.--As to Val, he knows nothing of this transaction--I told him I
would say so, and I keep my word. I forgot to say that if you write this
beggarly devil, Hickman, a sharp letter for money, he may probably
save you the trouble of turning him out. I know him well--he is a thin
skinned fool, and will be apt to bolt, if you follow my advice.
“Yours as you deserve it,
“R D.”
Now, it is necessary to say here, that amidst all this pretence of open
villainy, there ran an undercurrent of cunning that might escape the
observation of most men. In truth, old Deaker was not only a knave, but
a most unscrupulous oppressor at heart, especially when he happened to
get a man in his power from whom he wished to extort a favor, or on
whom he wished to inflict an injury. In the present instance he felt
perfectly conscious of his power over the heartless profligate, to whom
he wrote such a characteristic letter, and the result shows that he
neither miscalculated the feeble principles of his correspondent, nor
the consequences of his own influence over him. By due return of post he
received a reply, of which the following is a copy:--
“Old Deaker--You have me fast, and you know it--so I suppose must is
the word; now I'll tell you what I want, you old villain; I want two
thousand pounds, and if M'Clutchy is to get the agency, I must have
the money--so there is my must as well as yours. In the meantime I have
written to Hickman on the same subject, want of money, I mean--what the
consequences may be, I know not, but I fancy I can guess them.
“Yours,
“Cumber.”