too frequently mark distrust. I have no possible motive to induce me to
betray you; on the contrary, I would gladly assist and direct whatever
plans you may have formed. Command me as you please; I have said
enough.'
'I will not doubt you, Dwyer,' said O'Mara; 'I have taken my
resolution--I have, I think, firmness to act up to it. To marry Ellen
Heathcote, situated as I am, were madness; to propose anything else
were worse, were villainy not to be named. I will leave the country
to-morrow, cost what pain it may, for England. I will at once break off
the proposed alliance with Lady Emily, and will wait until I am my own
master, to open my heart to Ellen. My father may say and do what he
likes; but his passion will not last. He will forgive me; and even were
he to disinherit me, as he threatens, there is some property which
must descend to me, which his will cannot affect. He cannot ruin my
interests; he SHALL NOT ruin my happiness. Dwyer, give me pen and ink; I
will write this moment.'
This bold plan of proceeding for many reasons appeared inexpedient
to Dwyer, and he determined not to consent to its adoption without a
struggle.
'I commend your prudence,' said he, 'in determining to remove yourself
from the fascinating influence which has so long bound you here; but
beware of offending your father. Colonel O'Mara is not a man to forgive
an act of deliberate disobedience, and surely you are not mad enough to
ruin yourself with him by offering an outrageous insult to Lady Emily
and to her family in her person; therefore you must not break off the
understood contract which subsists between you by any formal act--hear
me out patiently. You must let Lady Emily perceive, as you easily may,
without rudeness or even coldness of manner, that she is perfectly
indifferent to you; and when she understands this to be the case, it
she possesses either delicacy or spirit, she will herself break off
the engagement. Make what delay it is possible to effect; it is very
possible that your father, who cannot, in all probability, live many
months, may not live as many days if harassed and excited by such scenes
as your breaking off your engagement must produce.'
'Dwyer,' said O'Mara, 'I will hear you out--proceed.'
'Besides, sir, remember,' he continued, 'the understanding which we have
termed an engagement was entered into without any direct sanction upon
your part; your father has committed HIMSELF, not YOU, to Lord ----.
Before a real contract can subsist, you must be an assenting party
to it. I know of no casuistry subtle enough to involve you in any
engagement whatever, without such an ingredient. Tush! you have an easy
card to play.'
'Well,' said the young man, 'I will think on what you have said; in the
meantime, I will write to my father to announce my immediate departure,
in order to join him.'
'Excuse me,' said Dwyer, 'but I would suggest that by hastening your
departure you but bring your dangers nearer. While you are in this
country a letter now and then keeps everything quiet; but once across
the Channel and with the colonel, you must either quarrel with him to
your own destruction, or you must dance attendance upon Lady Emily with
such assiduity as to commit yourself as completely as if you had been
thrice called with her in the parish church. No, no; keep to this
side of the Channel as long as you decently can. Besides, your sudden
departure must appear suspicious, and will probably excite inquiry.
Every good end likely to be accomplished by your absence will be
effected as well by your departure for Dublin, where you may remain for
three weeks or a month without giving rise to curiosity or doubt of
an unpleasant kind; I would therefore advise you strongly to write
immediately to the colonel, stating that business has occurred to defer
your departure for a month, and you can then leave this place, if you
think fit, immediately, that is, within a week or so.'
Young O'Mara was not hard to be persuaded. Perhaps it was that,
unacknowledged by himself, any argument which recommended his staying,
even for an hour longer than his first decision had announced, in
the neighbourhood of Ellen Heathcote, appeared peculiarly cogent and
convincing; however this may have been, it is certain that he followed
the counsel of his cool-headed follower, who retired that night to bed
with the pleasing conviction that he was likely soon to involve
his young patron in all the intricacies of disguise and intrigue--a
consummation which would leave him totally at the mercy of the favoured
confidant who should possess his secret.
Young O'Mara's reflections were more agitating and less satisfactory
than those of his companion. He resolved upon leaving the country before
two days had passed. He felt that he could not fairly seek to involve
Ellen Heathcote in his fate by pledge or promise, until he had
extricated himself from those trammels which constrained and embarrassed
all his actions. His determination was so far prudent; but, alas! he
also resolved that it was but right, but necessary, that he should see
her before his departure. His leaving the country without a look or a
word of parting kindness interchanged, must to her appear an act of cold
and heartless caprice; he could not bear the thought.
'No,' said he, 'I am not child enough to say more than prudence tells
me ought to say; this cowardly distrust of my firmness I should and will
contemn. Besides, why should I commit myself? It is possible the girl
may not care for me. No, no; I need not shrink from this interview.
I have no reason to doubt my firmness--none--none. I must cease to
be governed by impulse. I am involved in rocks and quicksands; and a
collected spirit, a quick eye, and a steady hand, alone can pilot me
through. God grant me a safe voyage!'
The next day came, and young O'Mara did not take his fishing-rod as
usual, but wrote two letters; the one to his father, announcing his
intention of departing speedily for England; the other to Lady Emily,
containing a cold but courteous apology for his apparent neglect. Both
these were despatched to the post-office that evening, and upon the next
morning he was to leave the country.
Upon the night of the momentous day of which we have just spoken, Ellen
Heathcote glided silently and unperceived from among the busy crowds
who were engaged in the gay dissipation furnished by what is in Ireland
commonly called a dance (the expenses attendant upon which, music, etc.,
are defrayed by a subscription of one halfpenny each), and having
drawn her mantle closely about her, was proceeding with quick steps to
traverse the small field which separated her from her father's abode.
She had not walked many yards when she became aware that a solitary
figure, muffled in a cloak, stood in the pathway. It approached; a low
voice whispered:
'Ellen.'
'Is it you, Master Richard?' she replied.
He threw back the cloak which had concealed his features.
'It is I, Ellen, he said; 'I have been watching for you. I will not
delay you long.'
He took her hand, and she did not attempt to withdraw it; for she was
too artless to think any evil, too confiding to dread it.
'Ellen,' he continued, even now unconsciously departing from the rigid
course which prudence had marked out; 'Ellen, I am going to leave the
country; going to-morrow. I have had letters from England. I must go;
and the sea will soon be between us.'
He paused, and she was silent.
'There is one request, one entreaty I have to make,' he continued; 'I
would, when I am far away, have something to look at which belonged
to you. Will you give me--do not refuse it--one little lock of your
beautiful hair?'
With artless alacrity, but with trembling hand, she took the scissors,
which in simple fashion hung by her side, and detached one of the long
and beautiful locks which parted over her forehead. She placed it in his
hand.
Again he took her hand, and twice he attempted to speak in vain; at
length he said:
'Ellen, when I am gone--when I am away--will you sometimes remember,
sometimes think of me?'
Ellen Heathcote had as much, perhaps more, of what is noble in pride
than the haughtiest beauty that ever trod a court; but the effort was
useless; the honest struggle was in vain; and she burst into floods of
tears, bitterer than she had ever shed before.
I cannot tell how passions rise and fall; I cannot describe the
impetuous words of the young lover, as pressing again and again to his
lips the cold, passive hand, which had been resigned to him, prudence,
caution, doubts, resolutions, all vanished from his view, and melted
into nothing. 'Tis for me to tell the simple fact, that from that brief
interview they both departed promised and pledged to each other for
ever.
Through the rest of this story events follow one another rapidly.
A few nights after that which I have just mentioned, Ellen Heathcote
disappeared; but her father was not left long in suspense as to her
fate, for Dwyer, accompanied by one of those mendicant friars who
traversed the country then even more commonly than they now do, called
upon Heathcote before he had had time to take any active measures for
the recovery of his child, and put him in possession of a document
which appeared to contain satisfactory evidence of the marriage of Ellen
Heathcote with Richard O'Mara, executed upon the evening previous, as
the date went to show; and signed by both parties, as well as by Dwyer
and a servant of young O'Mara's, both these having acted as witnesses;
and further supported by the signature of Peter Nicholls, a brother of
the order of St. Francis, by whom the ceremony had been performed, and
whom Heathcote had no difficulty in recognising in the person of his
visitant.
This document, and the prompt personal visit of the two men, and above
all, the known identity of the Franciscan, satisfied Heathcote as
fully as anything short of complete publicity could have done. And his
conviction was not a mistaken one.
Dwyer, before he took his leave, impressed upon Heathcote the necessity
of keeping the affair so secret as to render it impossible that it
should reach Colonel O'Mara's ears, an event which would have been
attended with ruinous consequences to all parties. He refused, also,
to permit Heathcote to see his daughter, and even to tell him where she
was, until circumstances rendered it safe for him to visit her.
Heathcote was a harsh and sullen man; and though his temper was anything
but tractable, there was so much to please, almost to dazzle him, in the
event, that he accepted the terms which Dwyer imposed upon him without
any further token of disapprobation than a shake of the head, and a
gruff wish that 'it might prove all for the best.'
Nearly two months had passed, and young O'Mara had not yet departed
for England. His letters had been strangely few and far between; and in
short, his conduct was such as to induce Colonel O'Mara to hasten his
return to Ireland, and at the same time to press an engagement, which
Lord ----, his son Captain N----, and Lady Emily had made to spend some
weeks with him at his residence in Dublin.
A letter arrived for young O'Mara, stating the arrangement, and
requiring his attendance in Dublin, which was accordingly immediately
afforded.
He arrived, with Dwyer, in time to welcome his father and his
distinguished guests. He resolved to break off his embarrassing
connection with Lady Emily, without, however, stating the real motive,
which he felt would exasperate the resentment which his father and Lord
---- would no doubt feel at his conduct.
He strongly felt how dishonourably he would act if, in obedience to
Dwyer's advice, he seemed tacitly to acquiesce in an engagement which
it was impossible for him to fulfil. He knew that Lady Emily was not
capable of anything like strong attachment; and that even if she were,
he had no reason whatever to suppose that she cared at all for him.
He had not at any time desired the alliance; nor had he any reason to
suppose the young lady in any degree less indifferent. He regarded it
now, and not without some appearance of justice, as nothing more than a
kind of understood stipulation, entered into by their parents, and to
be considered rather as a matter of business and calculation than as
involving anything of mutual inclination on the part of the parties most
nearly interested in the matter.
He anxiously, therefore, watched for an opportunity of making known
his feelings to Lord ----, as he could not with propriety do so to
Lady Emily; but what at a distance appeared to be a matter of easy
accomplishment, now, upon a nearer approach, and when the immediate
impulse which had prompted the act had subsided, appeared so full of
difficulty and almost inextricable embarrassments, that he involuntarily
shrunk from the task day after day.
Though it was a source of indescribable anxiety to him, he did not
venture to write to Ellen, for he could not disguise from himself the
danger which the secrecy of his connection with her must incur by
his communicating with her, even through a public office, where
their letters might be permitted to lie longer than the gossiping
inquisitiveness of a country town would warrant him in supposing safe.
It was about a fortnight after young O'Mara had arrived in Dublin, where
all things, and places, and amusements; and persons seemed thoroughly
stale, flat, and unprofitable, when one day, tempted by the unusual
fineness of the weather, Lady Emily proposed a walk in the College Park,
a favourite promenade at that time. She therefore with young O'Mara,
accompanied by Dwyer (who, by-the-by, when he pleased, could act the
gentleman sufficiently well), proceeded to the place proposed, where
they continued to walk for some time.
'Why, Richard,' said Lady Emily, after a tedious and unbroken pause
of some minutes, 'you are becoming worse and worse every day. You are
growing absolutely intolerable; perfectly stupid! not one good thing
have I heard since I left the house.'
O'Mara smiled, and was seeking for a suitable reply, when his design was
interrupted, and his attention suddenly and painfully arrested, by the
appearance of two figures, who were slowly passing the broad walk on
which he and his party moved; the one was that of Captain N----, the
other was the form of--Martin Heathcote!
O'Mara felt confounded, almost stunned; the anticipation of some
impending mischief--of an immediate and violent collision with a young
man whom he had ever regarded as his friend, were apprehensions which
such a juxtaposition could not fail to produce.
'Is Heathcote mad?' thought he. 'What devil can have brought him here?'
Dwyer having exchanged a significant glance with O'Mara, said slightly
to Lady Emily:
'Will your ladyship excuse me for a moment? I have a word to say to
Captain N----, and will, with your permission, immediately rejoin you.'
He bowed, and walking rapidly on, was in a few moments beside the object
of his and his patron's uneasiness.
Whatever Heathcote's object might be, he certainly had not yet declared
the secret, whose safety O'Mara had so naturally desired, for Captain
N---- appeared in good spirits; and on coming up to his sister and her
companion, he joined them for a moment, telling O'Mara, laughingly, that
an old quiz had come from the country for the express purpose of
telling tales, as it was to be supposed, of him (young O'Mara), in whose
neighbourhood he lived.
During this speech it required all the effort which it was possible to
exert to prevent O'Mara's betraying the extreme agitation to which his
situation gave rise. Captain N----, however, suspected nothing, and
passed on without further delay.
Dinner was an early meal in those days, and Lady Emily was obliged to
leave the Park in less than half an hour after the unpleasant meeting
which we have just mentioned.
Young O'Mara and, at a sign from him, Dwyer having escorted the lady
to the door of Colonel O'Mara's house, pretended an engagement, and
departed together.
Richard O'Mara instantly questioned his comrade upon the subject of his
anxiety; but Dwyer had nothing to communicate of a satisfactory nature.
He had only time, while the captain had been engaged with Lady Emily and
her companion, to say to Heathcote:
'Be secret, as you value your existence: everything will be right, if
you be but secret.'
To this Heathcote had replied: 'Never fear me; I understand what I am
about.'
This was said in such an ambiguous manner that it was impossible to
conjecture whether he intended or not to act upon Dwyer's exhortation.
The conclusion which appeared most natural, was by no means an agreeable
one.
It was much to be feared that Heathcote having heard some vague report
of O'Mara's engagement with Lady Emily, perhaps exaggerated, by the
repetition, into a speedily approaching marriage, had become alarmed for
his daughter's interest, and had taken this decisive step in order to
prevent, by a disclosure of the circumstances of his clandestine union
with Ellen, the possibility of his completing a guilty alliance with
Captain N----'s sister. If he entertained the suspicions which they
attributed to him, he had certainly taken the most effectual means to
prevent their being realised. Whatever his object might be, his presence
in Dublin, in company with Captain N----, boded nothing good to O'Mara.
They entered ----'s tavern, in Dame Street, together; and there, over a
hasty and by no means a comfortable meal, they talked over their plans
and conjectures. Evening closed in, and found them still closeted
together, with nothing to interrupt, and a large tankard of claret to
sustain their desultory conversation.
Nothing had been determined upon, except that Dwyer and O'Mara should
proceed under cover of the darkness to search the town for Heathcote,
and by minute inquiries at the most frequented houses of entertainment,
to ascertain his place of residence, in order to procuring a full and
explanatory interview with him. They had each filled their last glass,
and were sipping it slowly, seated with their feet stretched towards
a bright cheerful fire; the small table which sustained the flagon of
which we have spoken, together with two pair of wax candles, placed
between them, so as to afford a convenient resting-place for the long
glasses out of which they drank.
'One good result, at all events, will be effected by Heathcote's visit,'
said O'Mara. 'Before twenty-four hours I shall do that which I should
have done long ago. I shall, without reserve, state everything. I can no
longer endure this suspense--this dishonourable secrecy--this apparent
dissimulation. Every moment I have passed since my departure from
the country has been one of embarrassment, of pain, of humiliation.
To-morrow I will brave the storm, whether successfully or not is
doubtful; but I had rather walk the high roads a beggar, than submit
a day longer to be made the degraded sport of every accident--the
miserable dependent upon a successful system of deception. Though
PASSIVE deception, it is still unmanly, unworthy, unjustifiable
deception. I cannot bear to think of it. I despise myself, but I will
cease to be the despicable thing I have become. To-morrow sees me free,
and this harassing subject for ever at rest.'
He was interrupted here by the sound of footsteps heavily but rapidly
ascending the tavern staircase. The room door opened, and Captain N----,
accompanied by a fashionably-attired young man, entered the room.
Young O'Mara had risen from his seat on the entrance of their unexpected
visitants; and the moment Captain N---- recognised his person, an
evident and ominous change passed over his countenance. He turned
hastily to withdraw, but, as it seemed, almost instantly changed his
mind, for he turned again abruptly.
'This chamber is engaged, sir,' said the waiter.
'Leave the room, sir,' was his only reply.
'The room is engaged, sir,' repeated the waiter, probably believing that
his first suggestion had been unheard.
'Leave the room, or go to hell!' shouted Captain N----; at the same time
seizing the astounded waiter by the shoulder, he hurled him headlong
into the passage, and flung the door to with a crash that shook the
walls. 'Sir,' continued he, addressing himself to O'Mara, 'I did not
hope to have met you until to-morrow. Fortune has been kind to me--draw,
and defend yourself.'
At the same time he drew his sword, and placed himself in an attitude of
attack.
'I will not draw upon YOU,' said O'Mara. 'I have, indeed, wronged you.
I have given you just cause for resentment; but against your life I will
never lift my hand.'
'You are a coward, sir,' replied Captain N----, with almost frightful
vehemence, 'as every trickster and swindler IS. You are a contemptible
dastard--a despicable, damned villain! Draw your sword, sir, and
defend your life, or every post and pillar in this town shall tell your
infamy.'
'Perhaps,' said his friend, with a sneer, 'the gentleman can do better
without his honour than without his wife.'
'Yes,' shouted the captain, 'his wife--a trull--a common----'
'Silence, sir!' cried O'Mara, all the fierceness of his nature roused
by this last insult--'your object is gained; your blood be upon your own
head.' At the same time he sprang across a bench which stood in his way,
and pushing aside the table which supported the lights, in an instant
their swords crossed, and they were engaged in close and deadly strife.
Captain N---- was far the stronger of the two; but, on the other hand,
O'Mara possessed far more skill in the use of the fatal weapon which
they employed. But the narrowness of the room rendered this advantage
hardly available.
Almost instantly O'Mara received a slight wound upon the forehead,
which, though little more than a scratch, bled so fast as to obstruct
his sight considerably.
Those who have used the foil can tell how slight a derangement of eye
or of hand is sufficient to determine a contest of this kind; and this
knowledge will prevent their being surprised when I say, that, spite of
O'Mara's superior skill and practice, his adversary's sword passed twice
through and through his body, and he fell heavily and helplessly upon
the floor of the chamber.
Without saying a word, the successful combatant quitted the room along
with his companion, leaving Dwyer to shift as best he might for his
fallen comrade.
With the assistance of some of the wondering menials of the place, Dwyer
succeeded in conveying the wounded man into an adjoining room, where he
was laid upon a bed, in a state bordering upon insensibility--the blood
flowing, I might say WELLING, from the wounds so fast as to show that
unless the bleeding were speedily and effectually stopped, he could not
live for half an hour.
Medical aid was, of course, instantly procured, and Colonel O'Mara,
though at the time seriously indisposed, was urgently requested to
attend without loss of time. He did so; but human succour and support
were all too late. The wound had been truly dealt--the tide of life had
ebbed; and his father had not arrived five minutes when young O'Mara
was a corpse. His body rests in the vaults of Christ Church, in Dublin,
without a stone to mark the spot.
The counsels of the wicked are always dark, and their motives often
beyond fathoming; and strange, unaccountable, incredible as it may seem,
I do believe, and that upon evidence so clear as to amount almost to
demonstration, that Heathcote's visit to Dublin--his betrayal of the
secret--and the final and terrible catastrophe which laid O'Mara in the
grave, were brought about by no other agent than Dwyer himself.
I have myself seen the letter which induced that visit. The handwriting
is exactly what I have seen in other alleged specimens of Dwyer's
penmanship. It is written with an affectation of honest alarm at
O'Mara's conduct, and expresses a conviction that if some of Lady
Emily's family be not informed of O'Mara's real situation, nothing could
prevent his concluding with her an advantageous alliance, then upon
the tapis, and altogether throwing off his allegiance to Ellen--a
step which, as the writer candidly asserted, would finally conduce as
inevitably to his own disgrace as it immediately would to her ruin and
misery.