Neither our space nor our inclination prompt us to dwell on Forester's
illness; enough when we say that his recovery, slow at first, made at
length good progress, and within a month after the commencement of the
attack, he was once more on the road, bent on reaching the North, and
presenting himself before Lady Eleanor and her daughter.
Miss Daly, who had been his kind and watchful nurse for many days and
nights ere his wandering faculties could recognize her, contributed more
than all else to his restoration. The impatient anxiety under which he
suffered was met by her mild but steady counsels; and although she never
ventured to bid him hope too sanguinely, she told him that his letter
had reached Helen's hand, and that he himself must plead the cause he
had opened.
“Your greatest difficulty,” said she, in parting with him in Dublin,
“will be in the very circumstance which, in ordinary cases, would be
the guarantee of your success. Your own rise in fortune has widened the
interval between you. This, to your mind, presents but the natural means
of overcoming the obstacles I allude to; but remember there are others
whose feelings are to be as intimately consulted,--nay, more so than
your own. Think of those who never yet made an alliance without feeling
that they were on a footing of perfect equality; and reflect that even
if Helen's affections were all your own, Maurice Darcy's daughter can
enter into no family, however high and proud it may be, save as the
desired and sought-for by its chief members. Build upon anything lower
than this, and you fail. More still,” added she, almost sternly, “your
failure will meet with no compassion from me. Think not, because I
have gone through life a lone, uncared-for thing, that I undervalue the
strength and power of deep affection, or that I could counsel you to
make it subservient to views of worldliness and advantage. You know
me little if you think so. But I would tell you this, that no love
deserving of the name ever existed without those high promptings of
the heart that made all difficulties easy to encounter,--ay, even those
worst of difficulties that spring from false pride and prejudice. It
is by no sudden outbreak of temper, no selfish threat of this or that
insensate folly, that your lady-mother's consent should be obtained.
It is by the manly dignity and consistency of a character that in the
highest interests of a higher station give a security for sound judgment
and honorable motives. Let it appear from your conduct that you are not
swayed by passion or caprice. You have already won men's admiration for
the gallantry of your daring. There is something better still than this,
the esteem and regard that are never withheld from a course of honorable
and independent action. With these on your side, rely upon it, a
mother's heart will not be the last in England to acknowledge and glory
in your fame. And now, good-bye; you have a better travelling-companion
than me,-you have hope with you.”
She returned the cordial pressure of his hand, and was turning away,
when, after what had seemed a kind of struggle with her feelings, she
added,--
“One word more, even at the hazard of wearying you. Above all and
everything, be honest, be candid; not only with others, but with
yourself! Examine well your heart, and let no sense of false shame, let
no hopes of some chance or accident deceive you, by which your innermost
feelings are to be guessed at, and not avowed. This is the blackest of
calamities; this can even embitter every hour of a long life.”
Her voice trembled at the last words; and as she concluded, she wrung
his hand once more affectionately, and moved hurriedly away. Forester
looked after her with a tender interest. For the first time in his life
he heard her sob. “Yes,” thought he, as he lay back and covered his eyes
with his hand, “she, too, has loved, and loved unhappily.”
There are few sympathies stronger, not even those of illness itself,
than connect those whose hearts have struggled under unrequited
affection; and so, for many an hour as he travelled, Forester's thoughts
recurred to Miss Daly, and the last troubled accents of her parting
speech. Perhaps he did not dwell the less on that theme because it
carried him away from his own immediate hopes and fears,--emotions that
rendered him almost irritable by their intensity.
While on the road, Forester travelled with all the speed he could
accomplish. His weakness did not permit of his being many hours in a
carriage, and he endeavored to compensate for this by rapid travelling
at the time. His impatience to get forward was, however, such that he
scarcely arrived at any halting-place without ordering horses to be at
once got ready, so that, when able, he resumed the road without losing a
moment.
In compliance with this custom, the carriage was standing all ready
with its four posters at the door of the inn of Castle Blayney; while
Forester, overcome by fatigue and exhaustion, had thrown himself on
the bed and fallen asleep. The rattling crash of a mail-coach and its
deep-toned horn suddenly awoke him: he started, and looked at his watch.
Was it possible? It was nearly midnight; he must have slept more than
three hours! Half gratified by the unaccustomed rest, half angry at
the lapse of time, he arose to depart. The night was the reverse of
inviting; a long-threatened storm had at last burst forth, and the rain
was falling in torrents, while the wind, in short and fitful gusts,
shook the house to its foundation, and scattered tiles and slates over
the dreary street.
So terrible was the hurricane, many doubts were entertained that the
mail could proceed further; and when it did at length set forth, gloomy
prognostics of danger--dark pictures of precipices, swollen torrents,
and broken bridges--were rife in the bar and the landlord's room. These
arguments, if they could be so called, were all renewed when Forester
called for his bill, as a preparation to depart, and all the perils that
ever happened by land or by water recapitulated to deter him.
“The middle arch of the Slaney bridge was tottering when the up-mail
passed three hours before. A horse and cart were just fished out of
Mooney's pond, but no driver as yet discovered. The forge at the cross
roads was blown down, and the rafters were lying across the highway.”
These, and a dozen other like calamities, were bandied about, and
pitched like shuttlecocks from side to side, as the impatient traveller
descended the stairs.
Had Forester cared for the amount of the reckoning, which he did not, he
might have entertained grave fears of its total, on the principle well
known to travellers, that the speed of its coming is always in the
inverse ratio of the sum, and that every second's delay is sure to swell
its proportions. Of this he never thought once; but he often reflected
on the tardiness of waiters, and the lingering tediousness of the
moments of parting.
“It's coming, sir; he 's just adding it up,” said the head waiter, for
the sixth time within three minutes, while he moved to and fro, with the
official alacrity that counterfeits despatch. “I 'm afraid you 'll have
a bad night, sir. I 'm sure the horses won't be able to face the storm
over Grange Connel.”
Forester made no reply, but walked up and down the hall in moody
silence.
“The gentleman that got off the mail thought so too,” added the waiter;
“and now he 's pleasanter at his supper, iu the coffee-room, than
sitting out there, next to the guard, wet to the skin, and shivering
with cold.”
Less to inspect the stranger thus alluded to than to escape the
impertinent loquacity of the waiter, Forester turned the handle of
the door, and entered the coffee-room. It was a large, dingy-looking
chamber, whose only bright spot seemed within the glow of a blazing
turf-fire, where at a little table a gentleman was seated at supper. His
back was turned to Forester; but even in the cursory glance the latter
gave, he could perceive that he was an elderly personage, and one who
had not abandoned the almost bygone custom of a queue.
The stranger, dividing his time between his meal and a newspaper,--which
he devoured more eagerly than the viands before him,--paid no attention
to Forester's entrance; nor did he once look round. As the waiter
approached, he asked hastily, “What chance there was of getting
forward?”
“Indeed, sir, to tell the truth,” drawled out the man, “the storm seems
getting worse, instead of better. Miles Finerty's new house, at the end
of the street, is just blown down.”
“Never mind Miles Finerty, my good friend, for the present,” rejoined
the old gentleman, mildly, “but just tell me, are horses to be had?”
“Faith! and to tell your honor no lie, I 'm afraid of it.” Here he
dropped to a whisper. “The sick-looking gentleman, yonder, has four
waiting for him, since nine o'clock; and we 've only a lame mare and a
pony in the stable.”
“Am I never to get this bill?” cried out Forester, in a tone that
illness had rendered peculiarly querulous. “I have asked, begged for it,
for above an hour, and here I am still.”
“He's bringing it now, sir,” cried the waiter, stepping hastily out of
the room, to avoid further questioning. Forester, whose impatience had
now been carried beyond endurance, paced the room with hurried strides,
muttering, between his teeth, every possible malediction on the whole
race of innkeepers, barmaids, waiters,--even down to Boots himself.
These imprecating expressions had gradually assumed a louder and
more vehement tone, of which he was by no means aware, till the old
gentleman, at the pause of a somewhat wordy denunciation, gravely
added,--
“Insert a clause upon postboys, sir, and I 'll second the measure.”
Forester wheeled abruptly round. He belonged to a class, a section of
society, whose cherished prestige is neither to address nor be addressed
by an unintroduced stranger; and had the speaker been younger, or of any
age more nearly his own, it is more than likely a very vague stare of
cool astonishment would have been his only acknowledgment of the speech.
The advanced age, and something in the very accent of the stranger,
were, however, guarantees against this conventional rudeness, and he
remarked, with a smile, “I have no objection to extend the provisions
of my bill in the way you propose, for perhaps half an hour's experience
may teach me how much they deserve it.”
“You are fortunate, however, to have secured horses. I perceive that the
stables are empty.”
“If you are pressed for time, sir,” said Forester, on whom the quiet,
well-bred manners of the stranger produced a strong impression, “it
would be a very churlish thing of me to travel with four horses while I
can spare a pair of them.”
“I am really very grateful,” said the old gentleman, rising, and bowing
courteously; “if this be not a great inconvenience--”
“By no means; and if it were,” rejoined Forester, “I have a debt to
acquit to my own heart on this subject. I remember once, when travelling
down to the west of Ireland, I reached a little miserable country town
at nightfall, and, just as here, save that then there was no storm--”
The entrance of the long-expected landlord, with his bill, here
interrupted Forester's story. As he took it, and thus afforded time for
the stranger to fix his eyes steadfastly upon him, unobserved, Forester
quickly resumed: “I was remarking that, just as here, there were only
four post-horses to be had, and that they had just been secured by
another traveller a few moments before my arrival. I forget the name of
the place--”
“Perhaps I can assist you,” said the other, calmly. “It was Kilbeggan.”
Had a miracle been performed before his eyes, Forester could not have
been more stunned; and stunned he really was, and unable to speak for
some seconds. At length, his surprise yielding to a vague glimmering of
belief, he called out, “Great heavens! it cannot be--it surely is not--”
“Maurice Darcy, you would say, sir,” said the Knight, advancing with an
offered hand. “As surely as I believe you to be my son Lionel's brother
officer and friend, Captain Forester.”
“Oh, Colonel Darcy! this is, indeed, happiness,” exclaimed the young
man, as he grasped the Knight's hand in both of his, and shook it
affectionately.
“What a strange rencontre,” said the Knight, laughing; “quite the
incident of a comedy! One would scarcely look for such meetings
twice,--so like in every respect. Our parts are changed, however; it is
your turn to be generous, if the generosity trench not too closely on
your convenience.”
Forester could but stammer out assurances of delight and pleasure, and
so on, for his heart was too full to speak calmly or collectedly.
“And Lionel, sir, how is he,-when have you heard from him?” said the
young man, anxious, by even the most remote path, to speak of the
Knight's family.
“In excellent health. The boy has had the good fortune to be employed
in a healthy station, and, from a letter which I found awaiting me at my
army agent's, is as happy as can be. But to recur to our theme: will you
forgive my selfishness if I say that you will add indescribably to the
favor if you permit me to take these horses at once? I have not seen my
family for some time back, and my impatience is too strong to yield to
ceremony.”
“Of course,--certainly; my carriage is, however, all ready, and at the
door. Take it as it is, you 'll travel faster and safer.”
“But you yourself,” said Darcy, laughing,--“you were about to move
forward when we met.”
“It's no matter; I was merely travelling for the sake of change,” said
Forester, confusedly.
“I could not think of such a thing,” said Darcy. “If our way led
together, and you would accept of me as a travelling companion, I
should be but too happy; but to take the long-boat, and leave you on
the desolate rock, is not to be thought of.” The Knight stopped; and
although he made an effort to continue, the words faltered on his lips,
and he was silent. At last, and with an exertion that brought a deep
blush to his cheek, he said: “I am really ashamed, Captain Forester, to
acknowledge a weakness which is as new to me as it is unmanly. The best
amends I can make for feeling is to confess it. Since we met that same
night, circumstances of fortune have considerably changed with me. I am
not, as you then knew me, the owner of a good house and a good estate.
Now, I really would wish to have been able to ask you to come and see
me; but, in good truth, I cannot tell where or how I should lodge you
if you said 'yes.' I believe my wife has a cabin on this northern shore,
but, however it may accommodate us, I need not say I could not ask a
friend to put up with it. There is my confession; and now that it is
told, I am only ashamed that I should hesitate about it.”
Forester once more endeavored, in broken, disjointed phrases, to express
his acknowledgment, and was in the very midst of a mass of contradictory
explanations, hopes, and wishes, when Linwood entered with, “The
carriage is ready, my Lord.”
The Knight heard the words with surprise, and as quickly remarked that
the young man was dressed in deep mourning. “I have been unwittingly
addressing you as Captain Forester,” said he, gravely; “I believe I
should have said--”
“Lord Wallincourt,” answered Forester, with a slight tremor in his
voice; “the death of my brother--” Here he hesitated, and at length was
silent.
The Knight, who read in his nervous manner and sickly appearance the
signs of broken health and spirits, resolved at once to sacrifice mere
personal feeling in a cause of kindness, and said: “I see, my Lord, you
are scarcely as strong as when I had the pleasure to meet you first, and
I doubt not that you require a little repose and quietness. Come along
with me then; and if even this cabin of ours be inhospitable enough not
to afford you a room, we 'll find something near us on the coast, and I
have no doubt we 'll set you on your legs again.”
“It is a favor I would have asked, if I dared,” said Forester, feebly.
He then added: “Indeed, sir, I will confess it, my journey had no
other object than to present myself to Lady Eleanor Darcy. Through the
kindness of my relative, Lord Castlereagh, I was enabled to send her
some tidings of yourself, of which my illness prevented my being the
bearer, and I was desirous of adding my own testimony, so far as it
could go.” Here again he faltered.
“Pray continue,” said the Knight, warmly; “I am never happier than when
grateful, and I see that I have reason for the feeling here.”
“I perceive, sir, you do not recognize me,” said the young man,
thoughtfully, while he fixed his deep, full eyes upon the Knight's
countenance.
Darcy stared at him in turn, and, passing his hand across his brow,
looked again. “There is some mystification here,” said he, quickly, “but
I cannot see through it.”
“Come, Colonel Darcy,” said Forester, with more animation than before.
“I see that you forget me-, but perhaps you remember this.” So saying,
he walked over to a table where a number of cloaks and travelling-gear
were lying, and taking up a pistol, placed it in Darcy's hand. “This you
certainly recognize?”
“It is my own!” exclaimed the Knight; “the fellow of it is yonder. I had
it with me the day we landed at Aboukir.”
“And gave it to me when a French dragoon had his sabre at my throat,”
continued Forester.
“And is it to your gallantry that I owe my life, my brave boy?” cried
the old man, as he threw his arm around him.
“Not one half so much as I owe my recovery to your kindness,” said
Forester. “Remember the wounded Volunteer you came to see on the march.
The surgeon you employed never left me till the very day I quitted the
camp; although I have had a struggle for life twice since then, I never
could have lived through the first attack but for his aid.”
“Is this all a dream,” said the Knight, as he leaned his head upon
his band, “or are these events real? Then you were the officer whose
exchange was managed, and of which I heard soon after the battle?”
“Yes, I was exchanged under a cartel, and sailed for England the day
after. And you, sir,--tell me of your fate.”
“A slight wound and a somewhat tiresome imprisonment tells the whole
story,--the latter a good deal enlivened by seeing that our troops were
beating the French day after day, and the calculation that my durance
could scarcely last till winter. I proved right, for last month came
the capitulation, and here I am. But all these are topics for long
evenings to chat over. Come with me; you can't refuse me any longer.
Lady Eleanor has the right to speak _her_ gratitude to you; I see you
won't listen to _mine_.”
The Knight seized the young man's arm, and led him along as he spoke.
“Nay,” said he, “there is another reason for it. If you suffered me to
go off alone, nothing would make me believe that what I have now heard
was not some strange trick of fancy. Here, with you beside me, feeling
your arm within my own, and hearing your voice, it is all that I can do
to believe it. Come, let me be convinced again. Where did you join us?”
Forester now went over the whole story of his late adventures, omitting
nothing from the moment he had joined the frigate at Portsmouth to the
last evening, when as a prisoner, he had sent for Darcy to speak to him
before he died. “I thought then,” said he, “I could scarcely have more
than an hour or two to live; but when you came and stood beside me, I
was not able to utter a word, I believe, at the time. It was rather a
relief to me than otherwise that you did not know me.”
“How strange is this all!” said the Knight, musing. “You have told me a
most singular story; only one point remains yet unelucidated. How came
you to volunteer,--you were in the Guards?”
“Yes,” said Forester, blushing and faltering; “I had quitted the Guards,
intending to leave the army, some short time previous; but--but--”
“The thought of active service brought you back again. Out with it,
and never be ashamed. I remember now having heard from an old friend of
mine, Miss Daly, how you had left the service; and, to say truth, I
was sorry for it,--sorry for _your_ sake, but sorrier because it always
grieves me when men of gentle blood are not to be found where hard
knocks are going. None ever distinguish themselves with more honor, and
it is a pity that they should lose the occasion to show the world that
birth and blood inherit higher privileges than stars and titles.”
While the miles rolled over, they thus conversed; and as each became
more intimately acquainted and more nearly interested in the other, they
drew towards the journey's end. It was late on the following night when
they reached Port Ballintray; and as the darkness threatened more than
once to mislead them, the postilion halted at the door of a little cabin
to procure a light for his lamps.
While the travellers sat patiently awaiting the necessary preparation, a
voice from within the cottage struck Darcy's ear; he threw open the
door as he heard it, and sprang out, and rushing forward, the moment
afterwards pressed his wife and daughter in his arms.
Forester, who in a moment comprehended the discovery, hastened to
withdraw from a scene where his presence could only prove a constraint,
and leaving a message to say that he had gone to the little inn and
would wait on the Knight next morning, he hurried from the spot, his
heart bursting with many a conflicting emotion.