THE LAST LOOK.
Time had flowed on smoothly in the quiet old place, with an even
current unbroken and unmarred, except by one event. Sir Henry
Ashwoode's danger was known to old French and Mr. Audley; but with
anxious and effectual care they kept all knowledge of his peril and
disgrace from poor Mary: this pang was spared her. The months that
passed had wrought in her a change so great and so melancholy, that
none could look upon her without sorrowful forebodings, without
misgivings against which they vainly strove. Sore grief had done its
worst: the light and graceful step grew languid and feeble--the young
face wan and wasted--the beautiful eyes grew dim; and now in her sad
and early decline, as in other times, when her smile was sunshine, and
her very step light music, was still with her the same warm and gentle
spirit; and even amid the waste and desolation of decay, still
prevailed the ineffaceable lines of that matchless and touching beauty,
which in other times had wrought such magic.
It was upon that day, the night of which saw O'Connor's long-deferred
arrival at Ardgillagh, that Flora Guy, vainly striving to restrain her
tears, knocked at Mr. Audley's chamber door. The old gentleman quickly
answered the summons.
"Ah, sir," said the girl, "she's very bad, sir, if you wish to see her,
come at once."
"I _do_, indeed, wish to see her, the dear child," said he, while the
tears started to his eyes; "bring me to the room."
He followed the kind girl to the door, and she first went in, and in a
low voice told her that Mr. Audley wished much to see her, and she,
with her own sweet, sad smile, bade her bring him to her bedside.
Twice the old man essayed to enter, and twice he stayed to weep
bitterly as a child. At length he commanded composure enough to enter,
and stood by the bedside, and silently and reverently held the hand of
her that was dying.
"My dear child! my darling!" said he, vainly striving to suppress his
sobs, while the tears fell fast upon the thin small hand he held in
his--"I have sought this interview, to tell you what I would fain have
told you often before now but knew not how to speak of it, I want to
speak to you of one who loved you, and loves you still, as mortal has
seldom loved; of--of my good young friend O'Connor."
As he said this, he saw, or was it fancy, the faintest flush imaginable
for one moment tinge her pale cheek. He had touched a chord to which
the pulses of her heart, until they had ceased to beat, must tremble;
and silently and slow the tears gathered upon her long dark lashes, and
followed one another down her wan face, unheeded. Thus she listened
while he related how truly O'Connor had loved her, and when the tale
was ended she wept on long and silently.
"Flora," she said at length, "cut off a lock of my hair."
The girl did as she was desired, and in her thin and feeble hand her
young mistress took it.
"Whenever you see him, sir," said she, "will you give him this, and say
that I sent it for a token that to the last I loved him, and to help
him to remember me when I am gone: this is my last message--and poor
Flora, won't you take care of her?"
"Won't I, won't I!" sobbed the old man, vehemently. "While I have a
shilling in the world she shall never know want--faithful creature"--and
he grasped the honest girl's hand, and shook it, and sobbed and wept
like a child.
He took the long dark ringlet, which he had promised to give to
O'Connor; and seeing that his presence agitated her, he took a long
last look at the young face he was never more to see in life, and
kissing the small hand again and again, he turned and went out, crying
bitterly.
Soon after this she grew much fainter, and twice or thrice she spoke as
though her mind was busy with other scenes.
"Let us go down to the well side," she said, "the primroses and
cowslips are always there the earliest;" and then she said again, "He's
coming, Flora; he'll be here very soon, so come and dress my hair; he
likes to see my hair dressed with flowers--wild flowers."
Shortly after this she sank into a soft and gentle sleep, and while she
lay thus calmly, there came over her pale face a smile of such a pure
and heavenly light, that angelic hope, and peace, and glory, shone in
its beauty. The smile changed not; but she was dead! The sorrowful
struggle was over--the weary bosom was at rest--the true and gentle
heart was cold for ever--the brief but sorrowful trial was over--the
desolate mourner was gone to the land where the pangs of grief, the
tumults of passion, regrets, and cold neglect are felt no more.
Her favourite bird, with gay wings, flutters to the casement; the
flowers she planted are sweet upon the evening air; and by their
hearths the poor still talk of her and bless her; but the silvery voice
that spoke, and the gentle hand that tended, and the beautiful smile
that gave an angelic grace to the offices of charity, where are they?
The tapers are lighted in the silent chamber, and Flora Guy has laid
early spring flowers on the still cold form that sleeps there in its
serene sad beauty tranquilly and for ever; when in the court-yard are
heard the tramp and clatter of a horse's hoofs--it is he--O'Connor,--he
comes for her--the long lost--the dearly loved--the true-hearted--the
found again.
'Twere vain to tell of frantic grief--words cannot tell, nor
imagination conceive, the depth--the wildness--the desolation of that
woe.
CONCLUSION.
Some fifteen years ago there was still to be seen in the little ruined
church which occupies a corner in what yet remains of the once
magnificent domain of Ardgillagh, side by side among the tangled weeds,
two gravestones; one recording the death of Mary Ashwoode, at the early
age of twenty-two, in the year of grace 1710; the other, that of Edmond
O'Connor, who fell at Denain, in the year of our Lord 1712. Thus they
were, who in life were separated, laid side by side in death. It is a
still and sequestered spot, and the little ruin clothed in rich ivy,
and sheltered by the great old trees with its solemn and holy quiet, in
such a resting-place as most mortals would fain repose in when their
race is done.
For the rest our task is quickly done. Mr. Audley and Oliver French had
so much gotten into one another's way of going on, that the former
gentleman from week to week, and from month to month, continued to
prolong his visit, until after a residence of eight years, he died at
length in the mansion of Ardgillagh, at a very advanced age, and
without more than two days' illness, having never experienced before,
in all his life, one hour's sickness of any kind. Honest Oliver French
outlived his boon companion by the space of two years, having just
eaten an omelette and actually called for some woodcock-pie; he
departed suddenly while the servant was raising the crust. Old Audley
left Flora Guy well provided for at his death, but somehow or other
considerably before that event Larry Toole succeeded in prevailing on
the honest handmaiden to marry him, and although, questionless, there
was some disparity in point of years, yet tradition says, and we
believe it, that there never lived a fonder or a happier couple, and it
is a genealogical fact, that half the Tooles who are now to be found in
that quarter of the country, derive their descent from the very
alliance in question.
Of Major O'Leary we have only to say that the rumour which hinted at
his having united his fortunes with those of the house of Rumble, were
but too well founded. He retired with his buxom bride to a small
property, remote from the dissipation of the capital, and except in the
matter of an occasional cock-fight, whenever it happened to be within
reach, or a tough encounter with the squire, when a new pipe of claret
was to be tasted, one or two occasional indiscretions, he became, as he
himself declared, in all respects an ornament to society.
Lady Stukely, within a few months after the explosion with young
Ashwoode, vented her indignation by actually marrying young
Pigwiggynne. It was said, indeed, that they were not happy; of this,
however, we cannot be sure; but it is undoubtedly certain that they
used to beat, scratch, and pinch each other in private--whether in play
merely, or with the serious intention of correcting one another's
infirmities of temper, we know not. Several weeks before Lady Stukely's
marriage, Emily Copland succeeded in her long-cherished schemes against
the celibacy of poor Lord Aspenly. His lordship, however, lived on with
a perseverance perfectly spiteful, and his lady, alas and alack-a-day,
tired out, at length committed a _faux pas_--the trial is on record,
and eventuated, it is sufficient to say, in a verdict for the
plaintiff.
Of Chancey, we have only to say that his fate was as miserable as his
life had been abject and guilty. When he arose after the tremendous
fall which he had received at the hands of his employer, Nicholas
Blarden, upon the memorable night which defeated all their schemes, for
he _did_ arise with life--intellect and remembrance were alike
quenched--he was thenceforward a drivelling idiot. Though none cared to
inquire into the cause and circumstances of his miserable privation,
long was he well known and pointed out in the streets of Dublin, where
he subsisted upon the scanty alms of superstitious charity, until at
length, during the great frost in the year 1739, he was found dead one
morning, in a corner under St. Audoen's Arch, stark and cold, cowering
in his accustomed attitude.
Nicholas Blarden died upon his feather bed, and if every luxury which
imagination can devise, or prodigal wealth procure, can avail to soothe
the racking torments of the body, and the terrors of the appalled
spirit, he died happy.
Of the other actors in this drama--with the exception of M'Quirk, who
was publicly whipped for stealing four pounds of sausages from an eating
house in Bride Street, and the Italian, who, we believe, was seen as
groom-porter in Mr. Blarden's hell, for many years after--tradition is
silent.
[Illustration: The End.]
GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LD., ST. JOHN'S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Cock and Anchor, by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu