point between the park-gate and the mansion-house. Here the avenue made
a wider circuit, and in order to avoid delay, I directed my way across
the smooth sward round which the pathway wound, intending, at the
opposite side of the flat, at a point which I distinguished by a group
of old birch-trees, to enter again upon the beaten track, which was from
thence tolerably direct to the gate.
I had, with my utmost speed, got about half way across this broad flat,
when the rapid treading of a horse's hoofs struck upon my ear. My
heart swelled in my bosom as though I would smother. The clattering of
galloping hoofs approached--I was pursued--they were now upon the sward
on which I was running--there was not a bush or a bramble to shelter
me--and, as if to render escape altogether desperate, the moon, which
had hitherto been obscured, at this moment shone forth with a broad
clear light, which made every object distinctly visible.
The sounds were now close behind me. I felt my knees bending under me,
with the sensation which torments one in dreams. I reeled--I stumbled--I
fell--and at the same instant the cause of my alarm wheeled past me at
full gallop. It was one of the young fillies which pastured loose about
the park, whose frolics had thus all but maddened me with terror.
I scrambled to my feet, and rushed on with weak but rapid steps, my
sportive companion still galloping round and round me with many a
frisk and fling, until, at length, more dead than alive, I reached the
avenue-gate and crossed the stile, I scarce knew how.
I ran through the village, in which all was silent as the grave, until
my progress was arrested by the hoarse voice of a sentinel, who cried:
'Who goes there?' I felt that I was now safe. I turned in the direction
of the voice, and fell fainting at the soldier's feet. When I came to
myself; I was sitting in a miserable hovel, surrounded by strange faces,
all bespeaking curiosity and compassion.
Many soldiers were in it also: indeed, as I afterwards found, it was
employed as a guard-room by a detachment of troops quartered for that
night in the town. In a few words I informed their officer of the
circumstances which had occurred, describing also the appearance of the
persons engaged in the murder; and he, without loss of time, proceeded
to the mansion-house of Carrickleigh, taking with him a party of his
men. But the villains had discovered their mistake, and had effected
their escape before the arrival of the military.
The Frenchwoman was, however, arrested in the neighbourhood upon the
next day. She was tried and condemned upon the ensuing assizes; and
previous to her execution, confessed that 'SHE HAD A HAND IN MAKING HUGH
TISDAL'S BED.' She had been a housekeeper in the castle at the time, and
a kind of chere amie of my uncle's. She was, in reality, able to speak
English like a native, but had exclusively used the French language, I
suppose to facilitate her disguise. She died the same hardened wretch
which she had lived, confessing her crimes only, as she alleged, that
her doing so might involve Sir Arthur T----n, the great author of
her guilt and misery, and whom she now regarded with unmitigated
detestation.
With the particulars of Sir Arthur's and his son's escape, as far as
they are known, you are acquainted. You are also in possession of their
after fate--the terrible, the tremendous retribution which, after long
delays of many years, finally overtook and crushed them. Wonderful and
inscrutable are the dealings of God with His creatures.
Deep and fervent as must always be my gratitude to heaven for my
deliverance, effected by a chain of providential occurrences, the
failing of a single link of which must have ensured my destruction, I
was long before I could look back upon it with other feelings than those
of bitterness, almost of agony.
The only being that had ever really loved me, my nearest and dearest
friend, ever ready to sympathise, to counsel, and to assist--the gayest,
the gentlest, the warmest heart--the only creature on earth that cared
for me--HER life had been the price of my deliverance; and I then
uttered the wish, which no event of my long and sorrowful life has
taught me to recall, that she had been spared, and that, in her stead,
_I_ were mouldering in the grave, forgotten and at rest.
THE BRIDAL OF CARRIGVARAH.
Being a Sixth Extract from the Legacy of the late Francis Purcell, P. P.
of Drumcoolagh.
In a sequestered district of the county of Limerick, there stood my
early life, some forty years ago, one of those strong stone buildings,
half castle, half farm-house, which are not unfrequent in the South of
Ireland, and whose solid masonry and massive construction seem to prove
at once the insecurity and the caution of the Cromwellite settlers who
erected them. At the time of which I speak, this building was tenanted
by an elderly man, whose starch and puritanic mien and manners might
have become the morose preaching parliamentarian captain, who had raised
the house and ruled the household more than a hundred years before;
but this man, though Protestant by descent as by name, was not so in
religion; he was a strict, and in outward observances, an exemplary
Catholic; his father had returned in early youth to the true faith, and
died in the bosom of the church.
Martin Heathcote was, at the time of which I speak, a widower, but his
house-keeping was not on that account altogether solitary, for he had a
daughter, whose age was now sufficiently advanced to warrant her father
in imposing upon her the grave duties of domestic superintendence.
This little establishment was perfectly isolated, and very little
intruded upon by acts of neighbourhood; for the rank of its occupants
was of that equivocal kind which precludes all familiar association
with those of a decidedly inferior rank, while it is not sufficient to
entitle its possessors to the society of established gentility, among
whom the nearest residents were the O'Maras of Carrigvarah, whose
mansion-house, constructed out of the ruins of an old abbey, whose
towers and cloisters had been levelled by the shot of Cromwell's
artillery, stood not half a mile lower upon the river banks.
Colonel O'Mara, the possessor of the estates, was then in a declining
state of health, and absent with his lady from the country, leaving at
the castle, his son young O'Mara, and a kind of humble companion, named
Edward Dwyer, who, if report belied him not, had done in his early days
some PECULIAR SERVICES for the Colonel, who had been a gay man--perhaps
worse--but enough of recapitulation.
It was in the autumn of the year 17-- that the events which led to the
catastrophe which I have to detail occurred. I shall run through the
said recital as briefly as clearness will permit, and leave you to
moralise, if such be your mood, upon the story of real life, which I
even now trace at this distant period not without emotion.
It was upon a beautiful autumn evening, at that glad period of the
season when the harvest yields its abundance, that two figures were seen
sauntering along the banks of the winding river, which I described as
bounding the farm occupied by Heathcote; they had been, as the rods
and landing-nets which they listlessly carried went to show, plying the
gentle, but in this case not altogether solitary craft of the fisherman.
One of those persons was a tall and singularly handsome young man, whose
dark hair and complexion might almost have belonged to a Spaniard,
as might also the proud but melancholy expression which gave to his
countenance a character which contrasts sadly, but not uninterestingly,
with extreme youth; his air, as he spoke with his companion, was marked
by that careless familiarity which denotes a conscious superiority of
one kind or other, or which may be construed into a species of contempt;
his comrade afforded to him in every respect a striking contrast. He
was rather low in stature--a defect which was enhanced by a broad and
square-built figure--his face was sallow, and his features had
that prominence and sharpness which frequently accompany personal
deformity--a remarkably wide mouth, with teeth white as the fangs of a
wolf, and a pair of quick, dark eyes, whose effect was heightened by the
shadow of a heavy black brow, gave to his face a power of expression,
particularly when sarcastic or malignant emotions were to be exhibited,
which features regularly handsome could scarcely have possessed.
'Well, sir,' said the latter personage, 'I have lived in hall and abbey,
town and country, here and abroad for forty years and more, and should
know a thing or two, and as I am a living man, I swear I think the girl
loves you.'
'You are a fool, Ned,' said the younger.
'I may be a fool,' replied the first speaker, 'in matters where my own
advantage is staked, but my eye is keen enough to see through the flimsy
disguise of a country damsel at a glance; and I tell you, as surely as I
hold this rod, the girl loves you.'
'Oh I this is downright headstrong folly,' replied the young fisherman.
'Why, Ned, you try to persuade me against my reason, that the event
which is most to be deprecated has actually occurred. She is, no doubt,
a pretty girl--a beautiful girl--but I have not lost my heart to her;
and why should I wish her to be in love with me? Tush, man, the days of
romance are gone, and a young gentleman may talk, and walk, and laugh
with a pretty country maiden, and never breathe aspirations, or vows,
or sighs about the matter; unequal matches are much oftener read of than
made, and the man who could, even in thought, conceive a wish against
the honour of an unsuspecting, artless girl, is a villain, for whom
hanging is too good.'
This concluding sentence was uttered with an animation and excitement,
which the mere announcement of an abstract moral sentiment could hardly
account for.
'You are, then, indifferent, honestly and in sober earnest, indifferent
to the girl?' inquired Dwyer.
'Altogether so,' was the reply.
'Then I have a request to make,' continued Dwyer, 'and I may as well
urge it now as at any other time. I have been for nearly twenty years
the faithful, and by no means useless, servant of your family; you know
that I have rendered your father critical and important services----' he
paused, and added hastily: 'you are not in the mood--I tire you, sir.'
'Nay,' cried O'Mara, 'I listen patiently--proceed.'
'For all these services, and they were not, as I have said, few or
valueless, I have received little more reward than liberal promises;
you have told me often that this should be mended--I'll make it easily
done--I'm not unreasonable--I should be contented to hold Heathcote's
ground, along with this small farm on which we stand, as full quittance
of all obligations and promises between us.'
'But how the devil can I effect that for you; this farm, it is true, I,
or my father, rather, may lease to you, but Heathcote's title we cannot
impugn; and even if we could, you would not expect us to ruin an honest
man, in order to make way for YOU, Ned.'
'What I am,' replied Dwyer, with the calmness of one who is so
accustomed to contemptuous insinuations as to receive them with perfect
indifference, 'is to be attributed to my devotedness to your honourable
family--but that is neither here nor there. I do not ask you to displace
Heathcote, in order to made room for me. I know it is out of your power
to do so. Now hearken to me for a moment; Heathcote's property, that
which he has set out to tenants, is worth, say in rents, at most, one
hundred pounds: half of this yearly amount is assigned to your father,
until payment be made of a bond for a thousand pounds, with interest and
soforth. Hear me patiently for a moment and I have done. Now go you to
Heathcote, and tell him your father will burn the bond, and cancel the
debt, upon one condition--that when I am in possession of this farm,
which you can lease to me on what terms you think suitable, he will
convey over his property to me, reserving what life-interest may appear
fair, I engaging at the same time to marry his daughter, and make such
settlements upon her as shall be thought fitting--he is not a fool--the
man will close with the offer.'
O'Mara turned shortly upon Dwyer, and gazed upon him for a moment with
an expression of almost unmixed resentment.
'How,' said he at length, 'YOU contract to marry Ellen Heathcote? the
poor, innocent, confiding, light-hearted girl. No, no, Edward Dwyer, I
know you too well for that--your services, be they what they will, must
not, shall not go unrewarded--your avarice shall be appeased--but not
with a human sacrifice! Dwyer, I speak to you without disguise; you
know me to be acquainted with your history, and what's more, with your
character. Now tell me frankly, were I to do as you desire me, in cool
blood, should I not prove myself a more uncompromising and unfeeling
villain than humanity even in its most monstrous shapes has ever yet
given birth to?'
Dwyer met this impetuous language with the unmoved and impenetrable
calmness which always marked him when excitement would have appeared
in others; he even smiled as he replied: (and Dwyer's smile, for I have
seen it, was characteristically of that unfortunate kind which implies,
as regards the emotions of others, not sympathy but derision).
'This eloquence goes to prove Ellen Heathcote something nearer to your
heart than your great indifference would have led me to suppose.'
There was something in the tone, perhaps in the truth of the
insinuation, which at once kindled the quick pride and the anger of
O'Mara, and he instantly replied:
'Be silent, sir, this is insolent folly.'
Whether it was that Dwyer was more keenly interested in the success of
his suit, or more deeply disappointed at its failure than he cared to
express, or that he was in a less complacent mood than was his wont, it
is certain that his countenance expressed more emotion at this direct
insult than it had ever exhibited before under similar circumstances;
for his eyes gleamed for an instant with savage and undisguised ferocity
upon the young man, and a dark glow crossed his brow, and for the moment
he looked about to spring at the throat of his insolent patron; but the
impulse whatever it might be, was quickly suppressed, and before O'Mara
had time to detect the scowl, it had vanished.
'Nay, sir,' said Dwyer, 'I meant no offence, and I will take none, at
your hands at least. I will confess I care not, in love and soforth,
a single bean for the girl; she was the mere channel through which
her father's wealth, if such a pittance deserves the name, was to have
flowed into my possession--'twas in respect of your family finances the
most economical provision for myself which I could devise--a matter in
which you, not I, are interested. As for women, they are all pretty much
alike to me. I am too old myself to make nice distinctions, and too ugly
to succeed by Cupid's arts; and when a man despairs of success, he soon
ceases to care for it. So, if you know me, as you profess to do, rest
satisfied "caeteris paribus;" the money part of the transaction being
equally advantageous, I should regret the loss of Ellen Heathcote just
as little as I should the escape of a minnow from my landing-net.'
They walked on for a few minutes in silence, which was not broken till
Dwyer, who had climbed a stile in order to pass a low stone wall which
lay in their way, exclaimed:
'By the rood, she's here--how like a philosopher you look.'
The conscious blood mounted to O'Mara's cheek; he crossed the stile,
and, separated from him only by a slight fence and a gate, stood the
subject of their recent and somewhat angry discussion.
'God save you, Miss Heathcote,' cried Dwyer, approaching the gate.
The salutation was cheerfully returned, and before anything more could
pass, O'Mara had joined the party.
My friend, that you may understand the strength and depth of those
impetuous passions, that you may account for the fatal infatuation which
led to the catastrophe which I have to relate, I must tell you, that
though I have seen the beauties of cities and of courts, with all
the splendour of studied ornament about them to enhance their graces,
possessing charms which had made them known almost throughout the world,
and worshipped with the incense of a thousand votaries, yet never,
nowhere did I behold a being of such exquisite and touching beauty, as
that possessed by the creature of whom I have just spoken. At the moment
of which I write, she was standing near the gate, close to which several
brown-armed, rosy-cheeked damsels were engaged in milking the peaceful
cows, who stood picturesquely grouped together. She had just thrown
back the hood which is the graceful characteristic of the Irish girl's
attire, so that her small and classic head was quite uncovered, save
only by the dark-brown hair, which with graceful simplicity was parted
above her forehead. There was nothing to shade the clearness of her
beautiful complexion; the delicately-formed features, so exquisite when
taken singly, so indescribable when combined, so purely artless, yet so
meet for all expression. She was a thing so very beautiful, you could
not look on her without feeling your heart touched as by sweet music.
Whose lightest action was a grace--whose lightest word a spell--no
limner's art, though ne'er so perfect, could shadow forth her beauty;
and do I dare with feeble words try to make you see it?(1) Providence
is indeed no respecter of persons, its blessings and its inflictions are
apportioned with an undistinguishing hand, and until the race is over,
and life be done, none can know whether those perfections, which seemed
its goodliest gifts, many not prove its most fatal; but enough of this.
(1) Father Purcell seems to have had an admiration for the beauties of
nature, particularly as developed in the fair sex; a habit of mind which
has been rather improved upon than discontinued by his successors from
Maynooth.--ED.
Dwyer strolled carelessly onward by the banks of the stream, leaving his
young companion leaning over the gate in close and interesting parlance
with Ellen Heathcote; as he moved on, he half thought, half uttered
words to this effect:
'Insolent young spawn of ingratitude and guilt, how long must I submit
to be trod upon thus; and yet why should I murmur--his day is even now
declining--and if I live a year, I shall see the darkness cover him and
his for ever. Scarce half his broad estates shall save him--but I
must wait--I am but a pauper now--a beggar's accusation is always a
libel--they must reward me soon--and were I independent once, I'd make
them feel my power, and feel it SO, that I should die the richest or the
best avenged servant of a great man that has ever been heard of--yes,
I must wait--I must make sure of something at least--I must be able to
stand by myself--and then--and then--' He clutched his fingers together,
as if in the act of strangling the object of his hatred. 'But one thing
shall save him--but one thing only--he shall pay me my own price--and if
he acts liberally, as no doubt he will do, upon compulsion, why he saves
his reputation--perhaps his neck--the insolent young whelp yonder would
speak in an humbler key if he but knew his father's jeopardy--but all in
good time.'
He now stood upon the long, steep, narrow bridge, which crossed the
river close to Carrigvarah, the family mansion of the O'Maras; he looked
back in the direction in which he had left his companion, and leaning
upon the battlement, he ruminated long and moodily. At length he raised
himself and said:
'He loves the girl, and WILL love her more--I have an opportunity of
winning favour, of doing service, which shall bind him to me; yes, he
shall have the girl, if I have art to compass the matter. I must think
upon it.'
He entered the avenue and was soon lost in the distance.
Days and weeks passed on, and young O'Mara daily took his rod and net,
and rambled up the river; and scarce twelve hours elapsed in which some
of those accidents, which invariably bring lovers together, did not
secure him a meeting of longer or shorter duration, with the beautiful
girl whom he so fatally loved.
One evening, after a long interview with her, in which he had been
almost irresistibly prompted to declare his love, and had all but
yielded himself up to the passionate impulse, upon his arrival at home
he found a letter on the table awaiting his return; it was from his
father to the following effect:
'To Richard O'Mara.
'September, 17--, L----m, England.
'MY DEAR SON,--
'I have just had a severe attack of
my old and almost forgotten enemy, the gout. This I regard as a good
sign; the doctors telling me that it is the safest development of
peccant humours; and I think my chest is less tormenting and oppressed
than I have known it for some years. My chief reason for writing to you
now, as I do it not without difficulty, is to let you know my pleasure
in certain matters, in which I suspect some shameful, and, indeed,
infatuated neglect on your part, "quem perdere vult deus prius
dementat:" how comes it that you have neglected to write to Lady Emily
or any of that family? the understood relation subsisting between you is
one of extreme delicacy, and which calls for marked and courteous, nay,
devoted attention upon your side. Lord ---- is already offended; beware
what you do; for as you will find, if this match be lost by your fault
or folly, by ---- I will cut you off with a shilling. I am not in the
habit of using threats when I do not mean to fulfil them, and that you
well know; however I do not think you have much real cause for alarm in
this case. Lady Emily, who, by the way, looks if possible more charming
than ever, is anything but hard-hearted, at least when YOU solicit; but
do as I desire, and lose no time in making what excuse you may, and
let me hear from you when you can fix a time to join me and your mother
here.
'Your sincere well-wisher and father,
'RICHARD O'MARA.'
In this letter was inclosed a smaller one, directed to Dwyer, and
containing a cheque for twelve pounds, with the following words:
'Make use of the enclosed, and let me hear if Richard is upon any wild
scheme at present: I am uneasy about him, and not without reason; report
to me speedily the result of your vigilance.
'R. O'MARA.'
Dwyer just glanced through this brief, but not unwelcome, epistle; and
deposited it and its contents in the secret recesses of his breeches
pocket, and then fixed his eyes upon the face of his companion, who sat
opposite, utterly absorbed in the perusal of his father's letter, which
he read again and again, pausing and muttering between whiles, and
apparently lost in no very pleasing reflections. At length he very
abruptly exclaimed:
'A delicate epistle, truly--and a politic--would that my tongue had been
burned through before I assented to that doubly-cursed contract. Why, I
am not pledged yet--I am not; there is neither writing, nor troth, nor
word of honour, passed between us. My father has no right to pledge me,
even though I told him I liked the girl, and would wish the match. 'Tis
not enough that my father offers her my heart and hand; he has no right
to do it; a delicate woman would not accept professions made by proxy.
Lady Emily! Lady Emily! with all the tawdry frippery, and finery of
dress and demeanour--compare HER with---- Pshaw! Ridiculous! How blind,
how idiotic I have been.'
He relapsed into moody reflections, which Dwyer did not care to disturb,
and some ten minutes might have passed before he spoke again. When he
did, it was in the calm tone of one who has irrevocably resolved upon
some decided and important act.
'Dwyer,' he said, rising and approaching that person, 'whatever god or
demon told you, even before my own heart knew it, that I loved Ellen
Heathcote, spoke truth. I love her madly--I never dreamed till now
how fervently, how irrevocably, I am hers--how dead to me all other
interests are. Dwyer, I know something of your disposition, and you no
doubt think it strange that I should tell to you, of all persons, SUCH
a secret; but whatever be your faults, I think you are attached to our
family. I am satisfied you will not betray me. I know----'