Years passed away. My sixteenth summer came. My father still remained a

widower: and no home from which its chief comfort had been taken, could

be happier than our cottage was. Time had softened the sorrow which my

mother’s death had caused; and while the old soldier often alluded to

his loss, he blessed Heaven that my brother and myself had been spared

to be the stay and comfort of life’s winter. Alas! he little dreamed

that by both he would be deserted; and tinder circumstances whieh would

render his bereavement additionally distressing.

It was late in October. The few visitors who, during the bathing season,

made the village a temporary abode, had taken their departure. The

hamlet was left to its retirement--and our quiet course of life was

unvaried, except by incidents of the humblest character. The

soldier’s kind and charitable disposition had long endeared him to the

neighbourhood; and where he went, the prayer of the poor man followed.

With the lawyer, avarice and years kept pace--“none cried, God bless

him;” for on a simple community a more detested individual never was

inflicted, than my evil relative, Josiah Rawlings.

I grew apace; men called me handsome--and young as I was, more than one

suitor had told his tale of humble love. But my heart had never yet been

touched; my breast was free from care; and with me, as yet, sorrow was

only known by name.

My brother had just completed his eighteenth year; and a finer lad

was never the pride and envy of a village. He was tall, handsome, and

athletic. Among the prettiest girls, William was the object of rustic

rivalry; and in every manly exercise, the men admitted him to be their

superior. And then he was so good-natured and so fearless!--at one

moment fondling some playful infant in his arms; at another, when the

elements were in their wildest uproar, and the sea broke in thunder on

the beach, he would be seen launching the life-boat through a boiling

surf, to save some drowning mariner, although to all but the daring

spirits who accompanied him, the effort seemed to be equally perilous

and unavailing.

Few days passed over without some acquaintance calling at the cottage;

and all were weleome but one--our uncle. The lawyer’s visits were

unfrequent. He never eame excepting when he was the bearer of some evil

news, or the retailer of some country scandal. If an honest villager was

struck with poverty, Josiah Rawlings narrated the misfortune, and always

imputed what had occurred to some misconduct of the sufferer. If calumny

breathed upon a woman’s fame, the lawyer painted her offending in its

blackest colours, and perverted facts to give the rumour confirmation.

Whenever Josiah entered, the peace and quiet of our happy home were

broken. On no one point could my father and my uncle agree. While they

were together, the time was passed in captious argument; and their

parting was frequently in anger.

One autumn evening the noise of a passing vehicle brought me to the

window, and I saw a carriage pull up at the Rose and Crown. My unele had

been about to inflict one of his unwelcome visits on his brother; but he

stopped in the street, peering after the post-chaise, until he saw the

passenger alight and enter the inn. The commonest occurrences never

failed to excite his curiosity; and in a village where a stranger was

rarely seen, the arrival of one who travelled post, was indeed an event

that caused a general sensation.

“I wonder who that chap is who put up at Jobson’s. All I could make out

was that he was wrapped up in a blue cloak, and wore a cap with a gold

band and tassel. I wish I knew his name, and what his business is,” and

the lawyer having settled himself upon a chair, took hold of the Geneva

bottle, and proceeded to compound his punch. “You heard,” he continued,

“that the Hotham bank failed yesterday? Smith, the grocer, round the

corner, had a hundred in their notes. He’s ruined!--serve him right.

What business had he to take them?”

“May Heaven comfort him, poor fellow!” ejaculated the quartermaster.

“More is the pity that misfortune should light upon an honest and

industrious man, with a young family to support, and his wife dying of

consumption. From the bottom of my heart I pity him.”

“That’s a nice business of Patty Meadows’s, too. I always foretold what

would happen.”

“It’s a villanous fabrication!” exclaimed my father, passionately; “I

don’t believe a syllable of the story.”

“All true,” returned the lawyer, “all true. Last Saturday evening,

George Gripe, my clerk, heard the squire’s voiee as he passed the

garden; so he clapped his ear close to the fence, and--”

“I wish to Heaven it had been nailed against the paling,” said the

soldier; “the sneaking eaves-dropping scoundrel! Were I to catch him

skulking about my house, I would break every rib in his carcase.”

“Ay, and render yourself liable to an action. Gripp would get sweeping

damages.”

“Curse your damages!” returned the quarter-master. “Every body wonders

that you employ a ruffian who swears black or white as bidden, and

swallows oaths as he would bolt poached eggs.”

“I keep him,” said the lawyer, coolly, “because he’s useful. What

capital stuff that Hollands is? Does Bill run it?”

“Run it! What--smuggle?”

“Ay, to be sure,” returned my worthy uncle. “I hear he’s the boldest

boatman on the coast; and they tell me that he saved the shipwrecked

Dutchman, when all had given him up as lost.”

“It is one thing,” replied the soldier, proudly, “to rescue a drowning

man;--to rob the revenue, another. My son is no smuggler, Josh; nor ever

will be one.”

“More fool he, then; there’s money to be made that way, and nothing to

be got by the other, but bruised bones and a drenched jacket.”

“Nothing gotten!” exclaimed the honest quarter-master. “Is the grateful

outbreaking of the heart of her to whom my boy’s gallantry has restored

a husband--or the prayer of lisping childhood for him who saved a

father,--are these nothing? What is money acquired by dishonesty, to

these?”

The lawyer grinned sarcastically. “Tears and gratitude!” he repeated.

“Will tears and gratitude pay rent?--will tears and gratitude pay taxes?

You’re a fool, Dick. I would rather have a five-pound note than the

united prayers of the parish.”

“I believe you,” replied the soldier.

“And so you may,” returned the miser. “But for your own folly you might

have made a fortune, and be now as wealthy as myself.”

“Heaven forbid I were, Josh! if by the same means.”

“And wherefore?” inquired the lawyer, with a bitter smile. “Why,” said

the soldier, coolly, “just because when Death tapped at the door, I

should feel rather uncomfortable at the visit.”

“Don’t talk of Death; I hate to hear him mentioned.”

“And I speak only of an old acquaintance. Like friends, we have often

looked each other in the face. He passed me by; and when he calls in

form--”

“Pshaw!” said the lawyer, “have done; I hate prosing over an unpleasant

subject. What has your daring done for you? For one guinea you can show,

I can count down a score.”

“Yes,” said the quarter-master, proudly, “mine are few in number, but

they are worth yours, twice told.”

“I should like to hear the reason,” said my uncle.

“‘Tis simple,” returned my father. “On every coin I’m owner of, I can

look full-front and say, ‘Have I not earned you honestly?’ But yours,

Josh; if widows’ sighs and orphans’ tears alloyed the metal,

d----n me,”--the quarter-master swore as they formerly swore in

Flanders,--“nineteen out of every twenty you possess would be declared

regular raps, and nailed to the counter.”

“Pish!” said the lawyer, testily. “You have lived a fool, and will die a

fool.”

“I have lived,” said the quarter-master, calmly, “an honest man; and

I’ll die a stout one, too. When the order comes, it shall be willingly

obeyed. Mine, Josh, shall not be a felon’s hardihood, but the humble

dependency of one who believes that mercy is great, and faults will be

forgiven. Now, Josh, were old bare-bones at your elbow”--“Confound such

nonsense!” cried the lawyer, pushing his unfinished glass away, and

catching up his hat hastily. As he crossed the threshold, his murmurings

were any thing but prayers; and when the door closed, peace seemed to

return again, and all of us felt that “something wicked” had departed.

Next morning, my father went out according to his custom, and he was

absent longer than usual. When he returned, it was announced that lie

had formed an acquaintance with the stranger, whose advent had not only

roused my uncle’s curiosity, but created a general sensation throughout

the hamlet. My father informed us, that his young friend was a

lieutenant in a light dragoon regiment; his name, Seymour;

his connexions, noble; and, more important still, that he, the

quarter-master, had asked him to dinner, and that the invitation was

freely accepted.

At the appointed hour the stranger came. His appearance was very

prepossessing,--his manners those of a man who had moved in good

society;--and there was, besides, an easiness in his address that

dispelled my timidity, and placed us on terms of intimacy at once. That

evening, the foundation of an ill-omened attachment was laid. Seymour

had established himself in the good opinions of my father and myself;

and no one was better able to turn a favourable impression to advantage.

Breakfast had scarcely ended on the morrow, when my uncle dropped in. He

was dying to be informed of every particular we had learned concerning

the stranger; and, unluckily, our scanty stock of information was

anything but satisfactory.

“Why, hang it!” said Josiah Rawlings, “have you given that chap dinner

and drink, and made out nothing in return for the outlay, but that he

calls himself Seymour, and says that he’s a dragoon? I don’t believe

either story.”

“You don’t?”

“Not one syllable,” said the lawyer.

“And why?” returned my father.

“Because,” responded Josiah, “it’s very easy to tell a lie; and

sometimes, also, very convenient.”

“Pshaw! nonsense,” said the quarter-master.

“And wherefore,” pursued the lawyer, “do you believe the fellow’s what

he says he is?”

“First, because his language and manners are those of a gentleman; and

secondly, because he has the air and carriage of a soldier.”

“I could come nearer to the mark,” returned Josiah, with a grin.

“Could you? Well, then, what do _you_ suppose the stranger is?” The

lawyer looked suspiciously around him; and then, in a lowered voice,

slowly replied, “A highwayman.”

My father burst into a roar of laughter.

“Ay, you may laugh,” observed Josiah, “but I am not far astray, for all

that. Bless you! trust nothing to appearances. I have known a footpad

pass current for a lord; and, for two reasons, I know I’m right about

that chap at the Rose and Crown.”

“And what may these reasons be?” asked the quarter-master.

“First,” replied the lawyer, “he has plenty of money; and second, he has

no marks upon his linen. It’s stolen, you may depend upon it, and the

initials carefully picked out.”

“And how the devil can you know any thing regarding either the contents

of his purse or his baggage?”

“Ha, ha! leave me to scent out things. I made George Gripp bribe the

chambermaid. It cost me two pints of ale and a shilling; but she let the

eat out of the bag. They’ll try his portmanteau tomorrow morning, when

he goes to the Cliffs. George thinks he has a key at home that will fit

the lock exactly.”

My father sprang from his chair.

“Josh,” he exclaimed, “I have always despised, but never hated you till

now. Is there no blush upon your cheek? Look, man, mine is burning! By

Heaven! I’ll mar your villany. The stranger shall know all; and if that

caitiff ventures--”

When the lawyer noticed the unusual warmth of my father, he grew pale.

“Softly, softly,” he said, “you are so weak, Dick. You overdose one

with that silliness which you call honesty. I was but half jesting. Why

should I bother myself about the fellow? But--look to that young lady

there!” and with a malignant side-glance at my father and myself, he

shuffled through the door-way, muttering and cursing, as was his wont.

Whatever the stranger’s secret might have been, it remained at that time

undiscovered. In person, he received his letters at the postoffice; and

as the patent lock with which his portmanteau was secured resisted all

attempts to open it, at the end of a fortnight, the chambermaid might

have been a sadder but not a wiser woman.

Another year came round; I ripened into womanhood, and early promises of

beauty were confirmed. The stranger appeared again, but his coming now

was not so startling in effect as formerly. For six months after his

departure, Josiah Rawlings had carefully perused the “Hue and Cry,”

but found that no highwayman answered the description. Now, mercifully

abandoning his charge of felony, the lawyer opined that the stranger had

merely bolted from his creditors. He might have also passed the interval

in jail; if so, a change of air would be both useful and agreeable.

And thus, Josiah accounted as he thought satisfactorily for Seymour’s

re-appearance.

Our intimacy was renewed. The flattering praises bestowed upon me as

a girl, were changed into declarations of passionate attachment; and I

returned his love.

It was the eventful period of my life--my brother was absent, and

the quarter-master occupied generally with friends at home, or in the

arrangement of some village differences. Hence the intimacy of Seymour

and myself was unrestricted; and in a short time he obtained over my

young affections a complete ascendancy. And yet our course of love,

even from the beginning, did not run smooth. Our relative positions in

society were far removed: I, the daughter of an humble soldier--he, the

younger son of a family old* as the Conquest, and high and haughty even

beyond what their ancient lineage would warrant. Could it be expected

by me that they would approve of their kinsman’s choice, and receive a

relative with neither birth nor fortune to recommend her, and whose

sole possession was a blameless reputation and an honest name? Seymour

himself, undesignedly, betrayed a similar uneasiness, hinting that

it might be advisable to break the matter by degrees, and cautiously

prepare his family for the disclosure. To effect this important object,

a secret marriage would be necessary. His interests must be dear to me

as to himself. It was a proof of my confidence in him that circumstances

demanded,--and one, if given, that would bind him to me for ever.

“What will not woman when she loves?” Would not a village girl,

influenced by a first passion, listen favourably to a suitor’s pleading,

and consult the heart rather than the judgment? For me Seymour had

forsaken rank and wealth, and perilled the displeasure of his family;

and should I not, in return, sacrifice largely where his interests were

involved? Love’s sophistry was unanswerable. I gave a timid consent,--we

were united in another parish; and so well had arrangements been made

to ensure concealment, that, with the exception of one chosen friend, to

all besides our marriage remained a secret.

Of this occurrence my father had not the most remote suspicion; and

William’s absence from home gave us facilities for frequent meetings

that could not otherwise have happened. For a fortnight, Seymour

continued a nominal lodger at the Rose and Crown,--but most of his time

was passed in my society. At my father’s table he had a constant place,

while the honest quarter-master little dreamed that in his high-born

guest he might have claimed a son-in-law.

The hour of sorrow was at hand. Letters,--most unwelcome ones,--were

received. My husband seemed heavily depressed; and when urged to

tell the cause of his uneasiness, mentioned that he had been suddenly

recalled to join his regiment, and apprised me that the term of his

absence was dependent upon some military movements; and consequently,

that his return must be uncertain. This unexpected separation caused

me the first real sorrow I had yet endured; and, alas! harbingered

too faithfully, the misery and misfortunes which followed in quick

succession.

Upon the head of my ill-starred parent, it was fated that the phial of

wrath should be poured; and, sadder still, the first blow that smote

him, came from the hand of one who would have laid down life to avert an

hour of suffering from a father he loved so tenderly.

My brother returned; the quarter-master had shaken him by the hand,--I,

pressed him to my heart,--and our cottage once more looked what it

had ever been--the abiding place of peace and joy. As evening closed,

William strolled to his favourite haunt, the cliffs; my father pulled in

his easy chair, lighted his pipe, and settled himself in humble luxury

beside a well-trimmed fire.

I retired to my own room. Mine were indeed melancholy musing.

I recalled to memory how brief the period of my wedded happiness had

been, and sighed to think that in the story of a human life, bliss and

misery should be so intimately blended. But I was young, and “gay hope

by fancy fed” whispered that there was happiness in store. I rallied my

spirits,--wiped every trace of sorrow from my cheek,--and, in another

hour, was seated opposite my dear father, and plying my needle as

demurely as if I had never listened to a light dragoon, nor given my

hand and heart irrevocably away, and sealed that imprudence by a secret

ceremony.

A footstep approached the cottage,--the latch was lifted,--and the

slender figure of the lawyer filled the door-way.

“You are not busy, Dick?” croaked my uncle Josiah.

“Only with my pipe,” replied my father.

“Then I’ll sit down a little, and take a drop of your Geneva.”

I rose,--handed my uncle a chair,--Josiah took off’ his hat, and seated

himself The lawyer having mixed his grog, I resumed my needle-work.

Since Seymour had left, never had my heart felt lighter than it did

that evening; but from the moment my dreaded uncle announced himself,

a weight seemed pressing on my bosom; for every time he spoke, like a

serpent’s breath, Josiah’s words seemed to wither the happiness of all

who heard them.

“I wonder,” said he, “where that fellow you were so fond of went to?”

“What fellow?” replied the quarter-master, drily.

“Why, Seymour, as he called himself.”

“I can make you happy on that head. Lieutenant Seymour has gone to

------. Give me another light, Julia. Pipes now-a-days, are not what

they used to be.”

“But, where did Seymour go to?”

“Go to?” and the quarter-master gave a puff. “His regiment, I suppose.”

“Whatever news his last letters brought, egad!” said Josiah, “it

regularly upset him. Mrs. Manby told me privately, that he turned pale

when he read them; and he must have been confoundedly astonished, for he

left the change out of half-a-crown upon the counter. I wonder what it

will turn out to be? I think it will be debt; but George Gripp sticks to

Ills first opinion, and says he’s sure it will prove felony.”

I could not calmly listen while such infamous imputations were thrown

out against the man I loved, but rose and left the room, and, retiring

to my own apartment, I communed with my own sad thoughts, and asked

myself whether Seymour could be aught but what my fancy pictured him.

One moment’s reflection established him firmly in my estimation; and

every insinuation to his disadvantage faded from my memory.

I opened the easement, and looked pensively on the little flower garden

beneath the window. How often had I watched impatiently where I stood

now, until the trysting hour arrived, and my husband came stealing

through the shrubbery to whisper in my delighted ear assurances of

endless love! Suddenly a noise among the bushes startled me; a figure

approached and stopped below the window; it was my brother. In a

low voiee he told me to be silent, and next moment sprang into the

apartment.

I remarked that his manner was hurried, and his faee flushed, as if from

some violent exertion.

“What has happened, William? Speak; are you ill? Has there been an

accident?”

“I fear, Julia,” he replied, “that I have committed myself by

intermeddling in another’s quarrel. But who could look on while three

men were assailing one?”

“You alarm me, William; go on.”

“I was rambling homewards from the cliffs; I heard three or four shots

in the direction of the landing-place; and suspecting that smugglers

were at work, I hastened off in another direction, lest any suspicion

might attach itself to me. My anxiety to avoid it, however, brought on

an unfortunate collision. I heard a noise approaching loud and angry

voices, oaths, and blows, and the clashing of cutlasses succeeded--and

hastening on, at a turning of the path I ascertained the cause. The

fight was most unequal, for three persons were attacking a solitary man.

I joined the weak side, stretched two of our opponents on the ground,

the third ran off, and for the first time, I found that the man I

rescued was Frank Brown. He wrung my hand; muttered his hurried thanks;

and then bounded like a deer across the heath, and vanished in the

Miller’s coppice.”

I kissed my brother ardently. “Well, William, English blood is warm--and

who eould look on and not assist a brave man when assailed by numbers?

Would, however, that it had been some other; Red Frank is such a

desperado--a branded man--a felon.”

“Ay, girl, but was he not the first to jump into the life-boat after me,

when we saved the drowning Dutchman? I owed him, devil as he is, a good

turn for his gallantry. For rescuing him I care nothing; but I fear

that blood was spilled already upon the beach. The pistol shots, and the

desperate haste with which Red Frank escaped, lead me to dread that some

previous violence had occurred. Who is below, Julia?”

“My father, and my unele.”

“Hark! I hear hasty footsteps; slip down, Julia, and probably you

may hear if any accident has happened. I would not alarm my father

unnecessarily until we know whether the affray was serious.”

I obeyed my brother’s wishes, and returned to the parlour. We heard men

without; they seemed excited, spoke fast, and hurried rapidly along the

street. Presently a knock was heard; I opened the door,--it was Gripp,

my uncle’s clerk. He had come here to seek his master, and one glance at

the evil agent of the lawyer, told that he was the bearer of heavy news.

“Well, George,” said Josiah, eagerly, “what’s wrong?” The lawyer never

asked, “what’s right?”

“Nothing pertikler,” returned my uncle’s satellite; “only one man is

murdered, and half a dozen nearly killed.”

“When--where--how?” asked my uncle.

“Why, down at the Tinker’s Cove; a row between smugglers and revenue

men. Red Frank shot Nat Davis through the heart--and he was all but

taken, when a comrade floored two officers, and Frank gave leg-bail to

the other.”

“Ha! that makes the other fellow an accessory after the fact; he’ll

hang, that’s certain. Is he known?”

George Gripp answered with a wink; the wink was an affirmative

one. “What’s his name? Will he be able to fee counsel, and employ a

solicitor?” inquired the lawyer.

Gripp winked affirmatively.

“His name?”

“One very like your own.” was the reply.

My father started--“Speak, fellow, who was the murderer’s comrade?”

“Your son,” returned the bailiff, coldly.

“My son? William Rawlings? ’tis false, by Heaven!”

“You may depend upon it, Dick,” observed my precious uncle, “that George

Gripp is well-informed.”

My father drooped his head--I sprang from my chair and folded him in my

arms.

“‘Tis false! my father--believe _me_, the charge is false.”

“I wish it were,” replied Josiah, in a tone that showed his incredulity.

“Gracious Heaven!” murmured the poor quarter-master; “and is the son

I loved so dearly, branded as accomplice to a murderer? Did my William

consort with desperate men, and engage in lawless enterprise? I won’t--I

can’t believe it.”

“You may depend upon it,” returned the lawyer’s clerk; “I have it from

the best authority.”

Mv father turned wildly to my uncle--“Josh! speak, man! have heart, for

once, and say if what that scoundrel says may be credited. You shake

your head; well, if the misfortune has occurred, what will be its worst

consequences? Can you tell? even--”

“Tell?” returned the lawyer; “ay, and with as much certainty, as if the

foreman of the jury had delivered a verdict ‘for self and fellows.’”

“Out with the worst, man,” gasped my father.

“They’ll be hanged, that’s safe,” responded the lawyer, with a decision

that forbad all argument.

“Hanged! my William hanged! Hanged as a felon, and share an

outlaw’s fate, with one familiarized to crime, and grown grey in

iniquity--Impossible!”

“I did not say,” said Josiah coolly, “that their sentences would be the

same. Ned Frank will probably be gibbeted for example--but Bill may--”

The quarter-master buried his head within his hands, and murmured, “My

son! my son!”

“My father!” responded a voice, and my brother clasped the old man in

his arms.

A moment passed in silence.

“Is this foul story true, William’ said the quarter-master, and in tones

which seemed to dread an answer to the inquiry.

“False as hell!” was boldly responded, and again the son was locked more

closely in his father’s arms.

“The tale is short. Accident brought me to the cliffs; I witnessed an

unequal conflict--one man was assailed by three--and I joined him.”

“Right--by Heaven!” and for the first time my father lifted his head

proudly.

“I took the weaker side, and as it would appear, I undesignedly have

rescued a criminal.”

“If you can support that statement by evidence, I’ll undertake,” said

the lawyer, “to get you off with transportation.”

“Off with the Devil!” roared my father.

My brother smiled. “Well, uncle, you hold out a pleasant prospect, and

after I have travelled at the public expense, I shall feel myself bound

in gratitude to come back, improved in morals and manners, and tell you

what I have seen; but after all, there will be no necessity to undertake

the voyage. When the true history of this unfortunate affray is known,

it will not be difficult to prove that I am blameless, and that I was

neither engaged in unlawful enterprises, nor knew aught of the fatal

consequences that followed. For a time, however, I will leave home, not

from any fears upon my own account, but to avoid the painful duty of

being called upon to criminate the guilty.”

To all, my brother’s determination seemed right. My kind-hearted parent

approved the motives, and gave a ready consent. The lawyer observed,

that it would afford ample time, should it be found advisable, to buy

off the evidence; while George Gripp proved the value of a friend

in need, by volunteering to swear an alibi himself,--an offer which

elicited a warm eulogium from his virtuous patron.

In half-an-hour William came to my room to say farewell, he had made

up some necessaries in a bundle, which he threw from the window to a

friend, who was waiting for him in the garden.

“Julia,” he said, taking me in his arms, and kissing me with ardent

affection; “Julia, I must confide to you what would pain our dear

father, were it told to him--mine will not be a temporary absence. No

tears, Julia; be firm, and listen to a brother who loves you tenderly

as I do. The hand of destiny beckons me on; for months I have been

wretched; while every post bears tidings of some glorious deed, I, in

the pride of youth, am dreaming life away; my days passed idling on

the beach, or listening at some cottage fire-side to the gossip of the

humble villagers. This evening as I stood upon the cliffs, I saw a noble

frigate close in shore, with her head turned to the coast of France. The

wind fell, not a breath ruffled her canvas, and as she lay motionless on

the sea, I could almost look down upon her decks. Presently a boat was

lowered, and it pulled directly for the cove a league eastward from our

landing-place, to obtain fresh water at the spring. Before that boat

returns, I shall have time to board the frigate. Hold, Julia; nothing

can shake that resolution, and, therefore, listen to me attentively.

When I am gone, _you_ must be to our father all--for then you will be

his only stay, his only comfort. You must watch his declining years,

cheer him when he droops, smile with him when he’s happy in illness,

your task will be to smooth his pillow; in death, your hand must close

his eyes. Come, Julia, no weeping. If it be fated that I fall, except

you and the old man, few will weep for me. If I return, it will be ‘with

war’s red honours on my crest,’ to gladden my father’s age, and find

some one to whom I can safely entrust thy happiness, dear Julia--one,

who can estimate the value of a woman, whose thoughts are pure and

cloudless as the light of yonder blessed moon.”

My conscience smote me bitterly as William again pressed me to his

breast; I felt the burning blush of shame steal over my pale cheeks, as

my heart whispered how much I had deceived that brother, who believed

me incapable of artifice or concealment; and though the confession of my

offence must be humiliating, I determined that it should be made. From

him I might not only ask for pardon, but advice; and the words were

almost upon my lips, when suddenly a voice from below was heard in under

tones.

“William!” said the stranger, “the signal’s given. See, that rocket

bursting in the air! the boat’s returning to the frigate.”

“Then, there’s not a moment to be lost.”

“Stop! my brother,” I exclaimed; “stop, for pity’s sake. Oh! I have

much, very much to tell you.”

He caught me warmly to his bosom; kissed me again and again; whispered

in my ear: “Look to our father, Julia--and wed not till I return, or

till you hear I am no more.” lie said, sprang lightly from the window,

bounded across the garden hedge, and in another minute, the sounds of

receding footsteps died away, and all was night and silence.

From the hour when William departed, sorrow and misfortune seemed to

choose our cottage for an abiding place. Letters through a private hand

came from Seymour; but, alas! they brought no consolation with them.

The affected indifference of the style, and the inconsistency of the

statements, gave sad evidence that the writer was diseased in mind, or

body, or in both. The fatal affray which had unluckily compromised my

brother’s character for a time, and occasioned the necessity for his

concealment, was supposed to be sufficient cause for my being desponding

and depressed; and my poor father, ignorant of impending misery, and

unconscious of the trials that awaited him, vainly endeavoured to dispel

my melancholy, and remove all fears upon account of William. As he had

foretold himself, his innocence was completely established; and

those who were bitterly exasperated against the real offenders, bore

honourable testimony to the motives that had induced my brother to

commit himself; and while they regretted that through his intervention a

criminal had escaped, they admitted that his conduct had been that of a

man, who, under mistaken views, performs a brave and generous action.

No offence was imputed to him now, and wherefore should he stay away

longer? But, I knew too well that many a long month must elapse before

the wanderer would return.

It was a part of my evening’s occupation to read the newspaper to my

father; and a fortnight after William’s departure, I was engaged in

my customary duty. An event had occurred in London to which public

attention seemed to have been painfully directed, and the paper

contained a long statement, headed, “Farther particulars of the

forgeries and suicide committed by Captain Smith.” The details thus

given, stated that the unfortunate individual was the illegitimate

offspring of a noble lord, whose name was mentioned. That early in

life he had obtained a commission in the army,--had moved in the best

circles,--indulged in fashionable follies,--and dissipated large sums of

money, with which, from time to time, his father had supplied him. The

earl died suddenly, leaving his natural son totally unprovided for; and

he was thus thrown upon the world, with incurable habits of expense, and

not a guinea to support them. His fall was consequently rapid. He sold

his commission, spent its small produce in a short time, dropped step by

step from the high position he once held,--and in fast succession became

a gambler, a cheat, a forger, and a suicide! His delinquencies were

detected. The officers of justice were already at the door of a mean

lodging in which he had concealed himself, when the criminal contrived

to get out of a back window and effect a temporary escape. But it was

only to add crime to crime. His clothes, next morning, were found upon

the bank of the river near Wandsworth, and beside them lay an empty

phial, which it was ascertained had contained a deadly poison; and it

was conjectured that the unfortunate suicide had swallowed the contents

before he took the fatal plunge. It was, indeed, a melancholy story

of profligate life; for, it was added, that an imposing person and

fascinating address had been turned to a bad account; and that many a

family had reason to curse the day on which the accomplished _roué_, had

been introduced to their acquaintance.

I could not tell wherefore, but as I read this miserable narrative, my

blood chilled, my lips grew white, and I could scarcely reach its close.

And yet, why should it affect me? Was it not an every-day event? the

regular advance of crime--beginning with improvidence, and ending in

ignominy and death. But still the story of the suicide seemed to haunt

my memory; and sleeping or waking, the unknown criminal constantly was

present.

It was the third evening after. My father had accepted a neighbour’s

invitation; and I, preferring solitude to a scene of rustic festivity,

for which a heavy heart was badly suited, was left alone at home. As

usual, I was sitting in the window of my own chamber,--that window

from which I had watched a lover’s coming, and witnessed a brother’s

departure; and lost in painful reveries, allowed hours to slip

unnoticed. The moon had gone down; the night was unusually dark; and the

stillness was unbroken. I heard the dry leaves rustle; was it the

wind that moved them? I looked suspiciously abroad; a human figure was

standing underneath, and a voice so hoarse and hollow that I could not

recognise its tones, softly pronounced my name. I flung the casement

open, and demanded, “who was there?”

“I, Julia; your lover, your husband,” and Seymour in another minute held

me nearly fainting in his arms.

“And was my voice forgotten, Julia?” he murmured, half reproachfully.

“Well, I cannot wonder at it, for I have been ill, and am hoarse as a

raven. How cold the night is!”

“Cold! Why, Edward, your hand is burning. Stay, I will bring lights, and

get you some refreshment.”

“No, no,” he answered, hastily; “no lights, love; some curious eye might

observe them. But I am thirsty; I could drink, drink deeply. Bring

me some wine, Julia; no supper, love--I cannot eat, I am weary, very

weary.”

And was this Seymour? that hollow voice the same, to whose soft

pleadings I had yielded a young heart, and renounced the sacred

allegiance which a father claims and merits? That fevered hand,

too,--was it the ardent glow which warms the husband when he hastens

to the home of her he loves? Why this strange fancy for darkness

and concealment? The coming and the conduct of Seymour were equally

mysterious, and I dreaded to ask my husband the cause of this ominous

and unexpected return.

But I was not left long in suspense,--Seymour half drained the

flask;--and habits so temperate before, appeared to have undergone a

rapid change; for he drank like a man whose shattered nerves require

some powerful stimulus.

“Julia,” he said, “you did not expect this visit?”

“Indeed, I did not.”

“Nor when I left you did I anticipate that my return would be so sudden.

Circumstances, which for a time must remain unexplained, have rendered

it imperative that I should claim you, and our marriage no longer shall

be secret.”

“Heaven be praised!” I murmured.

“To-night, Julia, you shall go with me.”

“To-night! impossible! My father’s proud, he never would consent that

his daughter should steal from her home.”

“Your father? He shall know nothing of it. No, Julia, we must leave the

cottage privately; and, for a brief season, duty to the parent must give

place to the stronger claims of wedded love.”

“Am I dreaming? Seymour,--what would you have me do? Desert my father

heartlessly, and leave the good old man without humbling myself at his

feet, and begging the pardon I require,--the forgiveness he would grant?

Fly from this once happy home!--‘Twould break my father’s heart.--I’ll

never do it.”

“Then, Julia, we part for ever.”

“Part for ever! Seymour. Do I hear aright? Is this, indeed, your voice?

and do _you_ tell her who proved her love at the expense of filial

duty, that she must either fly from her home like a guilty woman, or be

deserted by the man who led her into error?”

Seymour perceived the threat of parting had produced a different effect

to what he had expected, and at once he changed his tone to that of

entreaty and persuasion; and, with admirable tact, appealed to my

feelings and my love. He pleaded that the separation from my father

would be but brief. I should return united to one whose position in

society was far above my own. My parent’s anger would be shortlived, and

his sorrow would be turned into joy. Where a woman’s heart is advocate,

her mind is easily convinced. I yielded a reluctant consent; and before

we parted, it was arranged that in two hours I should be ready to

accompany him, and quit a happy home to follow the fortunes of an

unknown lover. I packed some clothes, and addressed an exculpatory

letter to my father, breaking to him as gently as I could, the sad

tidings that his daughter had deserted him. Many a tear blistered the

paper while I wrote. He was in bed--possibly sleeping. I stole softly

down to place the billet on his table--but he heard the door unclose,

and inquired “if that were Julia!”

“Yes, my father; I come to say, Good night.”

The old man kissed me tenderly; and with unusual solemnity muttered as

I left the room, “Child of my heart; may God for ever bless thee!” They

were the last words I ever heard him speak.

What followed may be briefly told. At the appointed hour Seymour was

waiting, and unperceived, we quitted the village in a vehicle he had

procured. We travelled all night; and when morning was breaking, my

husband discharged the cart, and we entered an obscure inn to obtain

the rest and refreshment which to both were wanting. The morning light,

feeble at first, grew stronger; and I nearly fainted, when for the first

time I remarked the altered appearance of my husband. His light brown

hair, once so sedulously attended to, was clipped short, and the very

colour changed to raven blackness, and his skin was bronzed like that of

a gipsy. Formerly, he dressed with simple elegance; but now his clothes

were actually shabby, and put on with the marked indifference of a man

who is reckless of appearances. He had no luggage with him--the few

articles he possessed were tied up in a little bundle.

I felt assured that some terrible reverse had overtaken him; and in

this sad hour recollected the evil auguries of my uncle Josiah. But my

situation was hopeless. The last rash action was far beyond recall; and

mustering a desperate resolution, I determined to bow to my destiny, and

share the fate of my ill-starred husband. One thing I believed, that

the worst was known, and we had descended fortune’s ladder to the lowest

step. I was wrong: the extent of my debasement remained still to be

disclosed.

We appeared to wander over the country without any settled object;

and provided the route led from the metropolis, my husband seemed

indifferent whither our footsteps turned.

A fortnight passed, and we still continued to pursue what appeared to me

would prove a sad and endless pilgrimage. One evening, after a fatiguing

walk, we found ourselves settled in a road-side ale-house. Both required

some rest, and we looked forward to a comfortable night, for the house

was clean, and our reception had been civil. Alas! we had already

experienced how much an inn’s civility depends upon the appearance of

those who claim admittance! Our resources were reduced to a few pounds;

and my soiled dress and Seymour’s care-worn countenance proclaimed

our poverty at once, and by more than one landlord we had been

unceremoniously rejected.

While supper was being prepared, Seymour stretched himself upon a bench

beneath a spreading elm which stood before the door, and I remained at

a window of the room to which we had been introduced on our arrival. A

newspaper was lying on the table. I took it up, and for a few minutes

glanced carelessly across its columns. Suddenly, my attention was

fearfully awakened, my eyes were fascinated to one spot,--a scorching

lire shot through my brain,--I read the fatal paragraph a second

time,--fainted,--and dropped upon the floor.

When I recovered I found myself in bed; Seymour was beside me; I looked

wildly at him for a moment, and then, as if something horrible had

blasted my sight, I buried my head beneath the coverings; Seymour knelt

beside the bed, implored me to be calm, swore he would conceal nothing,

owned he was a scoundrel, a betrayer--his life was at my disposal--and

the sooner it was forfeited the better. After I had been carried to

my room he had searched the paper, and read there that fatal paragraph

which had disclosed to me the secret of his crime. Merciful Heaven!

Smith, the supposed suicide, and my husband, were the same!

It might have been supposed, that now fully conscious of his infamy,

I would have deserted him at once and left Seymour to his fate.

In seducing me into a private marriage, he had practised a cruel

imposition; and in persuading me, under false assurances, to quit my

father’s house and share his felon fortunes, his conduct had been base

and savage beyond all pardon. Yet, some secret yearning of my heart,

whispered that he should not be abandoned; and though Smith, the branded

criminal, was before me, I could not forget how ardently I had once

loved the gay and fascinating Seymour. I had sacrificed myself to him at

the altar; my vow of duty and obedience was recorded, and I desperately

resolved to share his fate--wretched as that fate must be.

The remainder of my sad history is but a detail of sorrow and

misfortune. I dare not dwell upon it--if I did, my brain would madden.

Before six months elapsed after my evasion from the village, news

reached England that the frigate into which William had entered a

volunteer, in the ardour of pursuit, had become embayed upon the coast

of France, and, attacked at fearful advantage, she had been fought

with desperate valour to the last, and had gone down with England’s

unconquered banner flying at her mast-head, and with the greater portion

of her gallant crew. In the return of the killed, my brother’s name was

found.

Need I tell you that his brave boy’s loss--his daughter’s base

desertion--were more than the old man could bear? They broke my father’s

heart; and a few months since--(she paused, gasped as if something

choked her utterance, and then in a hollow whisper, added)--he died!

_Who was his murderess?_

I must end these sickening disclosures. For a year, my outcast husband

and myself wandered over the country, under the assumed name of

Montague. We joined a company of strollers, and in our erratic course of

life we crossed the sea. No criminal, I sincerely believe, felt deeper

contrition for his manifold offendings than my felon husband. The sting

of remorse struck him to the heart; he pined away; and cold, and wet,

and hunger, completed what mental suffering had begun, he fell into a

rapid consumption--and it was quite evident to me that he was hurrying

to the only haven of repose reserved for him--the grave.

He died; but death to the outcast was a boon. Faithful to the last, I

remained until his parting sigh escaped. These hands closed his eyes;

and I saw him interred as a pauper in the most neglected corner of an

obscure churchyard. Had he no mourner? Yes; he had _one_. I forgot his

crimes, and all the misery he had wrought me; and the outcast’s deserted

grave was sprinkled with the tears of the woman he had betrayed.

The fosterer was deeply affected. He pressed the poor mourner’s hand,

and strove to cheer and comfort her.

“Julia!” he said, “What do you intend to do? Where do you purpose going?

May I protect you?”

She raised her eyes, and gave him a look of gratitude, but shook her

head.

“Are you returning home, Julia?”

“I am indeed about to seek a home,” she replied, with a long deep sigh.

“It must be sought beside my father’s grave; and that once found, I’ll

die there! Hush! footsteps are approaching; and now to resume a weary

journey, and--a last one!”

She rose, went to the little basin, and dipping her hands in the cooling

water, bathed her burning temples, and washed away the traces of her

tears. Marc Antony in silence lifted the bundle, and the youthful

travellers once more gained the high road, when two persons, wayfaring

like themselves, approached them.

CHAPTER II. A GENERAL DISCOVERY.

_“I was ta’en for him, and he for me,

And thereupon these errors are arose._”

Shakspere.

|While Mark Antony and his companion are on the road, we must leave

the man to take care of himself, and returning to the master, inquire

whether in the interim any particular “ups and downs” had occurred in

the fortunes of myself, Mr. Hector O’Halloran. I was left in bed--and

where could a safer place be found wherein to deposit a light-headed

young gentleman? But every body knows that general rules are not without

exceptions--and, the circumstances considered, by which I had obtained

possession of the quaker’s dormitory, I feel assured that the gentle

reader will wish me a safe deliverance from the same.

I will not enter into minute details of how the false positions of

myself and Samuel Pryme were finally detected; but in the parlance

of Tony Lumpkin’s respectable friend, who never danced a bear to

unfashionable music, will sum them up in “a concatenation accordingly,”

namely, the sleepy soliloquy of the chief butler of the worthy quaker.

Jack Costigan was one of those gifted individuals who sleep at pleasure.

He had a light conscience and a heavy head; and it there was one mortal

annoyance that he abominated above the rest, it was to have any portion

of “nature’s sweet restorative” abridged. Twice had his slumbers been

invaded. He had let in one master dead drunk, and admitted the other,

who had been belated. These were grievous visitations; but, like other

misfortunes, they were over; and determined to make up, if possible, for

broken sleep, Mr. Costigan once more sought his pillow, and for a season

had been buried in “dreamless slumberings.” Alas! this Elysian state of

sweet forgetfulness was presently dispelled. In successive vollies, sand

struck the casement sharply; and “every pause between,” _a sotto voice_

appeal fell sluggishly upon the sleeper’s ear, requiring admission to

the garrison.

Now this was more than flesh and blood could stand. To two masters, as

we said before, the butler had given admission, and both were disposed

of as Christian men should be; and, as the fact is clearly understood

in Ireland, and upon parliamentary authority too, that nothing can be in

two places at once--barring a bird--it was quite clear that neither of

the Prymes could be at one and the same time in bed and in the street.

Of course, the intruder must be a stranger: he was on the right side

to run away, namely, the wrong side of the hall-door--and there let

him remain. Having come to this discreet resolution, and consigned the

unknown to the especial care of that personage more genteelly known as

“the gentleman in black,” Mr. Costigan once more turned on his pillow,

determined to all further appeals to play deaf adder, and sleep like a

watchman during the little time now left him.

But the stranger would not be denied. A sharper volley rattled against

the windows, and a voice came down the area, and softly but distinctly

pronounced, “John Costigan, I pray thee to arise, and let me in--I am

thy friend.”

“Arrah, then, feaks,” observed the butler with a desperate yawn, “that’s

my own name, sure enough; but to the divil I pitch such friendship,

whoever ye are. I see that I’ll never stand the place; for of all the

dens I ever was in, for a racketty hole this quaker’s bates them

hollow. Wasn’t I for three months second waiter at the ‘Free and asy’ in

Roscrea; and when the Blazers would tatter the house once a fortnight,

why a man could get a little sleep, while the damage was repairin’; but

here, there’s nothing but batteration. In tumbles the young chap blind

drunk, and nearly breaks my back carryin’ him up stairs. Then in rowls

the ould sinner, just off the ran-tan, wid a cock-and-bull story in his

mouth about a broken coach, to blind that stiff-backed gentlewoman that

owns him. Death and ‘nages! what a chate he is!--if one didn’t know his

trick, he might think butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth--he’s so fair

spoken: the ould decaver!”

Here a shower of sand interrupted Mr. Costigan’s soliloquy.

“Asy, bad luck to ye! Do you mane to smash the glass, ye thief? Wait

till I git the breeches on, and maybe ye won’t git a fla in ye’r ear for

disturbin’ an honest tradesman like myself.”

Having slipped on his nether garment, the butler unlocked the area door,

as from that position he could hold safer converse, having the palisades

between him and the intruder.

Never did an unhappy quaker find greater difficulty to establish his

identity; for Mr. Costigan was not an impartial judge, he having already

fully determined to reject all evidence the claimant might adduce. But

one doubt presented itself to the worthy butler--could the person he had

carried up to bed have been a phantom? Oh, no; the burden was “too, too,

solid flesh,”--a fact his aching back attested.

“Of a truth, friend Costigan,” said the youth, “I am thy master’s son.”

“Arrah, _na boolish!_” returned the incredulous pantler.

“Open the wicket,” pursued the suppliant; “thy look is good-natured; and

wouldst thou expose me to my father’s anger?”

“Arrah, none of ye’r soft solder with me,” responded Mr. Costigan.

“Divil a toe you’ll put into the house, good nor bad. Be off wid ye;

give ye’r rags a gallop, or, be this book, I’ll charge ye on the watch.”

The loud tone in which the indignant butler repudiated the real

Simon Pure had reached his father’s ears, and brought the _tête-à-tête_

to a close. The window opened; and Mr. Pryme demanded, “What caused the

noise beneath?”

“Nothing,” returned Mr. Costigan; “only here’s a rambler on the street,

that, right or wrong, wants me to let him in, and swares he’s a son of

yours into the bargain.”

“Who art thou, friend? demanded the elder quaker.”

“Thy erring son,” returned a voice, choked with shame, and almost

inaudible.

“What do I hear?--Thou, my son?”

“Impossible!” exclaimed a female voice; and Mrs. Pryme’s nightcap came

popping through another window. “Our son Samuel is long since a-bed.”

Alas! one glance confirmed the identity of the applicant; and to Mr.

Pryme the discovery was most painful--while it passed the understanding

of Mr. Costigan altogether. Doubtingly, at the bidding of his master,

the butler unclosed the door, while the old man descended to the hall

to receive his erring child, and learn the particulars of an occurrence

with which so much mystery seemed to be involved.

To the heart of a fond father, how irresistibly come the pleadings of a

first offence! The word of pardon passed the old man’s lips--the young

offender was folded in his parent’s arms--and it would be doubtful to

determine, whether the happier of the twain was he who received, or he

who had extended forgiveness.

All this was as it should be; but what the devil was to become of me?

Indeed, my hour of retribution was at hand--for the reconciliation

was scarcely completed, before it was intimated to Mr. Pryme, that an

unknown guest had honoured the mansion with his company,--that he was at

present sound asleep--that his reception had been affectionate--but it

was not considered necessary to add, that he had received more decided

tokens of regard, and been kissed by half the female portion of the

establishment.

To ascertain who this mysterious visitor might be, Mr. Pryme proceeded

at once to my apartment, accompanied by his henchman, Jack Costigan,

who, to guard against danger or surprise, had provided himself with the

kitchen poker. No ally could have been better affected than the butler;

for, by future good service, he was anxious to redeem the error he had

committed in rejecting an heir-apparent from his father’s house, as

unceremoniously as if he had been the tax-gatherer.

I laboured under the stupid inertion which succeeds a drunken debauch,

and was buried in profound repose. Unheard and unchallenged, the quaker

approached my bed, while the butler unclosed the window-shutters. The

quaker touched my shoulder gently--and in a voice as calm as if he were

addressing an honoured guest, inquired, “Friend, art thou sleeping?”

Fancying that I was ‘wakened by my servant to attend morning drill, I

irreverently responded,--

“Curse all parades! Tell Sergeant Skelton to go to Bath, and let the

Adjutant go after him!”

“Swear not,” returned Mr. Pryme; “but say, how wilt thou excuse

thyself?”--

“Oh!” I replied, still dreaming of drill and duty, “I’ll leave that to

you: say I have a head-ache--a tooth-ache--or any ache you please. In

short, tell any lie that will answer best!”

“Friend, thou dost neither comprehend my meaning, nor I thine;” replied

the old gentleman.

At the moment, Mr. Costigan managed to unclose the shutters;--a flood

of sunshine streamed in, lightened the apartment suddenly, and at once

dispelled my slumberings. I started, like a guilty thing, bolt upright

in the bed, and encountered full front, the burly form of the honest

quaker; while Mr. Costigan, poker in hand, remained some paces in the

rear, ready to aid and support his master on the first indication of

hostilities.

“My name is Obadiah Pryme--Friend, what is thine?”

The question was a regular choker. I was called on to become my

own accuser, and stand before my father’s chosen representative, a

self-convicted _roué_. Of the _finale_ of my career, what goodly promise

did its opening give! my first introduction to my guardian--a rascally

invasion of his premises,--and, were I pressed to extenuate the offence,

I could not, with Jack Falstaff, even plead that I had not “kissed the

keeper’s daughter.”

Trifles hurry on great events,--and a recommendation from Mr. Costigan,

that I should be sent direct to Newgate, roused my latent pride, and

re-established courage, that was oozing fast from my finger-ends.

“Peace, John!” returned the quaker; “Thy name, friend?”

“Is one, Sir, not unknown to you!”

“Indeed!” said the old man, with some surprise.

“I am called Hector O’Halloran!”

“Protect us!” exclaimed Mr. Pryme, with hands and eyes upturned; “Wert

thou then the companion of my erring boy, and partook in last night’s

godless revelry?”

“He was not _my companion_,” I answered boldly; “but _I_ his tempter.

I led him to commit the folly that he did--and the blame of all should

rest with me.”

The quaker gave me a benignant look, took my hand, and pressed it

warmly--and next moment my pardon was pronounced.

“Hector O’Halloran,” he said, “thy candour redeems thy crime. He who

so freely owns a fault will probably henceforward eschew the ways of

foolishness. Sleep; the morning yet is young. I am thankful that the

son of my ancient friend was fortunately brought to a home where he was

placed in safety. Thou shalt be called ere breakfast-hour arrives.”

Once more the shutters were closed. The quaker departed, and I was left

to marvel at the luck by which I had undeservedly escaped the pains and

penalties of this my first delinquency.

I slumbered away two hours, dreaming of Charleys’ lanterns, poles,

and stolen kisses, until my “man tapped at the door” with a carpetbag

containing a full equipment. Indeed, it was fortunate for me that Mr.

Pryme had sent for my servant and a refit; for the formal habiliments in

which I had masqueraded on the preceding evening now cut a sorry figure,

as John examined them one by one. The coat was changed into a spencer;

for, in the _melée_, body and skirts had parted company,--while that

garment, politely termed unmentionable, exhibited so many compound

fractures, that the tailor would have been a daring artist who would

have undertaken the repairs. Having completed my toilet, my valet took

his departure, just as the quaker’s butler announced that the ladies

were waiting for me in the parlour.

[Illustration: 0128]

When the summons to the breakfast-table was delivered, I felt it a first

draft upon the assurance of a bashful Irishman, and I would have freely

sacrificed a month’s pay, to have been permitted to slip off without any

flourish of trumpets. It was bad enough to face my worthy mentor,--him,

to whom especially both my morality and expenditure had been consigned.

But it was the quaker’s womankind whom I had most cause to dread--ladies

swindled out of a kiss under false pretences,--how the deuce was I

to encounter the chaste indignation, which the recollection of that

felonious _accolade_ would assuredly call forth? My foot stuck to the

last step of the staircase, as if it had been glued there; and there

I stood, in the comfortable position of a person who is ashamed to

retreat, and afraid to go forward. The chief butler, however, brought

matters to a crisis. Emerging from the lower regions by a back stair,

he entered the breakfast-room, and I had the satisfaction to hear him

announce, in a voice intended only to be audible to those within,

that “the drunken gentleman was in the hall,” accompanied with

a-running-commentary of, “What impudence some people have!”

The remark, under existing circumstances, was not an encouraging one;

and it would have afforded me unspeakable delight to have seen Mr.

Costigan under the bastinado. Yet nothing, indeed, but that quality

which it was insinuated I possessed extensively, would bear me through;

and, after invoking the powers of impudence, in I desperately ventured.

But to my offendings mercy had been extended. Had I been an expected

visitor, Mr. Pryme’s reception could not have been kinder,--and his

stiff helpmate inquired, “Had I rested well?” Rachael,--oh! _how_ that

plain peaked muslin, which vainly strove to hide a profusion of auburn

hair, became her! She, sweet girl, bade me a timid good-morrow, and

then, blushing to the very brows, dropped her dovelike eyes upon the

table-cloth. All this was passing strange--strange that the felonious

invasion of a quiet domicile at midnight should elicit no

objection--and, stranger still--the kiss of peace appeared to have

totally escaped the memories of all parties save myself, implicated in

the transaction!

Breakfast ended--the old lady withdrew--and Mr. Pryme asked me to walk

with him to his counting-house. Requesting leave of absence for ten

minutes to arrange some domestic matters before he should leave home,

the quaker retired from the parlour, and Rachael and I were left to

entertain each other as we best could.

For a short time our mutual position was embarrassing. I did not know

exactly what to say; and the fair puritan maintained a solemn silence,

with her sparkling eyes fixed steadily upon the carpet. It was quite

apparent that I was expected to lead off; and, after an awkward pause,

the ice at last was broken.

“Miss Pryme”--I commenced.

“Friend,” returned the young lady, “I am not thus termed; I am simply

called Rachael.”

“What a pretty name!” I replied, for want of something else to say.

“It was that of my grandmother,” returned the lady.

“Well--Rachael,” I continued, “I fear my late visit occasioned some

confusion. Certainly the mistakes of last night were singular and

ridiculous.”

“They were, indeed,” replied the pretty maiden, raising her eyes, which,

for the first time, now encountered mine; and, by a mutual impulse,

we both burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Egad, we were

thinking of the same thing; and the remembrance of that confounded kiss

of peace had thus demolished the gravity of both.

“Rachael,” I said, catching one of the prettiest hands imaginable in

mine, “I must confess my offence, and throw myself for pardon on your

clemency.”

“I have nothing to forgive,” replied the fair one, demurely.

“To its fullest extent I own my crime. The temptation, dear Rachael, was

too great to be withstood--but, as a proof of returning probity, I will

restore what was fraudulently obtained.”

“Hector,” returned the blushing girl, while an arch smile ‘play’d round

her lip and brighten’d her soft eye,’--“I admire thy honesty; but I have

heard my father say, that it is generally better to put up with a loss,

than seek restitution by doubtful means. Therefore, my friend, we had

better leave matters as they are.”

“Heaven forbid,” I replied, “that I should abuse such generosity.”

“Hector, I am ready for thee now,” exclaimed the deep voice of Mr.

Pryme.

“Farewell, dear Rachael; I have always heard that honesty was

politic--but faith, I never thought till now that it was half so

pleasant.”

“Friend Hector,” said the fair girl, with a look of rich _espièglerie_,

as she hurried from the room, towards which the creaking of her father’s

shoes announced that he was approaching,--“probity may be strained too

far. For the future, content thyself with returning what thou owest,

but add not interest to the debt that even a usurer would scruple to

receive. Farewell. May thy honesty continue; for sudden conversions are

always suspicious.”

She ran, laughing, from the apartment; and, in a few moments, Mr. Pryme

summoned me to accompany him.

At his counting-house I found a packet which had arrived from my father

by the morning’s post; and with surprise I found that it contained an

order for my starting for London without delay. He had been privately

apprised by a friend in the War-office, that an exchange might be

effected with a lieutenant who was about to quit the Peninsula, from ill

health. This would give me the full step; and I was directed to obtain a

leave between returns--repair to town at once--and deliver, personally,

letters my father had enclosed to certain functionaries at the Horse

Guards.

I promptly obeyed the order, the colonel granted my request, and Don

Juan like, I parted with Mr. Pryme--

“Bade my valet pack some things

According to direction, then received

A lecture and some money.

*****

A letter, too, he gave (I never read it)

Of good advice, and two or three of credit.”

Next morning I called at the quaker’s house to say _adieu_ in form,

and found the ladies at home. I sate for a long half-hour; but had I

remained till doomsday, I fancy Mrs. Pryme would have knitted on.

At last I took a ceremonious leave; and--confound all stiff-backed

gentlewomen who won’t leave young people to themselves--Rachael and I

parted without the kiss of peace.

CHAPTER XIII. MARK ANTONY IN LOVE FIRST, AND IN TROUBLE AFTERWARDS.

“Oh, Heaven! that such companions thou’dst unfold,

And put in every honest hand a whip,

To lash the rascal naked through the world.”

Shakspere

|Fate seemed determined that on the world’s stage mine should be a

hurried _entree_; and, when I had only caught a glimpse of passing life,

that my bark should be launched at once upon the current of existence,

to float or flounder as it could. Short as my career had been, it had

not passed unmarked by incident. To fortune I was already indebted for

more than one deliverance; and believing them to be an earnest of future

civilities on the lady’s part, I resolved to take the world as it came,

put my trust in the blind goddess of the wheel, and prove the proverbial

good luck which mostly follows in the footsteps ol an Irishman.

Willingly, therefore, I obeyed my father’s orders, and on the following

evening quitted the Emerald Isle, on the pleasant and profitable pursuit

of “the bubble reputation.”

It had surprised me that, hitherto, no communication had reached me

from Mark Antony O’Toole, touching the adventures which had befallen him

since his disappearance from Kilcullen. There, his evasion, as my father

mentioned in Iris letter, had occasioned a marvellous sensation. Miss

Kitty O’Dwyer, as a mere matter of course, having been expected to

commit suicide, or die broken-hearted within a fortnight. Neither event,

however, as the fancy say, “came off.” Kitty continued in rude health,

and the fosterer’s movements remained still wrapped in mystery. But,

as it turned out, Mark Antony’s career was singularly connected with

my own--the same star appeared to rule our destinies--both were

simultaneously leaving the land of the west, apparently at the beck

of fortune’s finger; and of the twain, which pursuit was the more

crotchetty would have been a question; the fosterer, levanting for love,

and I, for glory.

We left Mark Antony and his fair companion on the road, with the world

before them, and some wayfarers, like themselves, in the rear. Whoever

the travellers might prove to be who approached the dell where the

fosterer and his friend had refreshed themselves, it was quite evident

that the school where their philosophy had been acquired was of any

order but the crying one. One manly voice trolled a jovial drinking

song, to which two others occasionally bore a bui’den. As a sharp

turning in the road, skirted with thick copsewood, masked the stranger’s

advance, their merry laugh and reckless gaiety told that Father Care

was not of “the companie and their calling and character might have been

shrewdly guessed from passing conversation and snatches of song.

“I wonder, Pat,” said one of the wayfarers, “to see you in such spirits

after parting with Nelly Blake as if your heart was breaking. Neither

of ye cared a button at leaving me watching for a long hour at the other

side of the hedge like a poacher, for fear the old priest would come out

and catch you philandering with his housekeeper. Lord, how you swore,

and she--poor girl!--believed it; but when you strove to cry and keep

her company, oh!--that was all but the death of me.”

“Well, Tom,” returned the second, “if I broke down at the weeping, you

will admit that I did not disgrace my calling, but swore like a trooper.

You’ll hardly believe how much that girl has bothered me. Hand me the

cruiskeen. Remember, Tom, for love there’s but one remedy,--and the

beauty of it is, that for every symptom it proves a certain cure,--hear

what the song says--

“If you ere love a maid who your passion derides,

Drink enough, you’ll find charms in a dozen besides,

Drink more, and your victory then is complete,

For you’ll fancy you love every girl that you meet.”

“Hallo!--who have we here? Talking of love, they seem to be a couple of

Cupid’s own. Egad, a nice girl,--and if I could but list her companion!

Lord, what shoulders he has for a pair of wings!”

In another minute the travellers were alongside the fosterer and his

friend. A civil greeting passed; and with that easy confidence with

which natives of the Emerald Isle hold communication with each other,

it was speedily ascertained that the route of the united party was the

same, until it reached a road-side inn, where the strangers announced it

to be their intention of halting for the night.

The dress and personal appearance of the wayfarers was remarkable:

one wore the uniform of a militia-man; another the dark clothing of a

student; but from the costume of the third, it was impossible to form

any opinion of what his calling might be.

He was a tall and stout-made personage, apparently of middle age,

with sandy hair and whiskers, partially intersprinkled with grey. His

countenance was particularly good-humoured--and in his light blue eyes

there was an expression of drollery and acuteness. He wore a hare-skin

cap, a dark-coloured shooting-jacket, short tights, and leather gaiters.

He was provided with a goat-skin knapsack--two wiry terriors followed

closely at his heels, and a _dhudeene_ and oak-stick completed his

appointments. The style also by which his comrades addressed him added

to the mystery of his profession: the soldier addressing him as “_ta

Copteeine_,” * and the student merely calling him _Shemus Rhua_. **

* The Captain.

** Red James.

If in the captain’s _sobriquets_ and outer man there was anything

embarrassing, there was nothing about the soldier-like concealment. The

chevrons on his arm told his rank, and the pack upon his shoulder his

regiment. After announcing that he was on the route to embark with a

draught of volunteers for the Peninsula, he thus noticed his companions.

“This,” he said, pointing to the student, “is the making of a priest;

but if I can persuade him, he’ll not give them any trouble in Maynooth.

What a sin it would be to spoil a fellow cut out for a flanker; and on

a shoulder intended to carry a grenade, to hang a surplice. Leave

your breviary to your old uncle, and take _brown bess_ in place of it.

Spain’s the place, Tom. Egad, how the old priest will stare when he

finds out that I have whisked away his nephew.”

“Faith,” replied the student, “the only wonder is you did not whisk away

his niece.”

“No, no--Ellen and I must leave matters as they are until we return.

Then, I’ll marry your pretty cousin, Tom, and we’ll share Father

Dominick’s purse honestly between us. What say ye, captain?”

“Why that you must put the old man under the turf first. He would not

part with a dollar to make a colonel of ye.”

“Well, priests cannot live for ever. But whither are you bound, honest

Shemus? Are you on a medical excursion at present?”

“Is this gentleman a doctor?” inquired Mark Antony.

“He’s a man of many trades,” returned the sergeant, with a laugh. “With

Humbert he was a captain; a doctor afterwards; poaches a little now and

then; bleeds old women; ties flies; breaks dogs; cures children; kills

rats; and, in a word, is generally accomplished. His titles are numerous

as his tastes; and he still holds the same rank he had when he was out

with the French in ninety-eight.”

The captain smiled at the sergeant’s description; and the travellers

jested, laughed, and sang until they reached the public-house, where

they were to separate from the fosterer and his companion.

While the soldier, the student, and the rat-catcher settled themselves

in the kitchen, Mark Antony and the wandering girl retired to a private

room. Both were heavily cast down, for in a brief space they were to

part, and probably for ever.

“And is your resolution unchangeable, Julia?” said Mark Antony, as he

clasped her hand.

The girl burst into tears, and faintly answered in the affirmative.

“Hear me, Julia,” said the fosterer, “before you decide; and believe

that every word that passes my lips comes directly from the heart. You

say that you have no relations; no one to shelter and protect you; none

to love you. Julia, why then reject me? Why should we not unite our

fates and battle with the world as we can? Alas! I have nothing to

offer you but a warm heart and a stout arm. I’ll work for you--toil for

you--fight for you. Will you not then let me love you, Julia?”

God help the worthy fosterer! With all his soul he was ready to commit

matrimony on the moment; and without the slightest knowledge of the

means by which he might secure a living for himself, he would have

freely undertaken the maintenance of another still more helpless.

“Mark,” said the wanderer, for the first time calling him by that name,

“I value your kindness as I should; and think not, in declining to

accept your generous offers, that I am cold to your deserving. Far from

it. If any happiness were reserved for me, I feel that it would be

in uniting my wrecked and wretched fortunes to yours. Nay more; had I

enough for both, and that hereafter this blighted heart could ever love

again, I would press you to accept my wealth and my affections; for I

might safely conclude that with him who offered a husband’s protection

to my wretchedness, under altered circumstances, I could not fail in

being happy. But no; I will not swamp your young fortunes with mine. My

resolution is already formed--and we must part.”

Again the ardent Irishman pressed his suit upon the wanderer; but,

true to her determination, the fosterer’s overtures were gratefully but

firmly rejected.

“We have yet,” she said with a sigh? “three long long miles to travel.

Oh! how weary will they be!--for my heart grows heavier and heavier

still!--Ha! what mischief is abroad? Look--yonder stands that ruffian

Jew--and see, he points his finger to this window.”

“Who and what is the scoundrel?” inquired the fosterer.

“I cannot tell,” returned the girl, “he joined a strolling party, from

which I separated ere I met you. They are sought by outcasts like him

and me. Another vagabond who accompanied him, in a drunken quarrel,

taxed the Jew with being familiarized to every crime, and added, that

he was a returned convict. What his designs regarding me were I cannot

tell. When I left the wandering company, he followed--but, thank Heaven!

you came--and if he meant me harm, your protection saved me.”

In the mean time, the Jew had disappeared, and Mark Antony endeavoured

to persuade his companion that this second meeting was accidental.

The girl shook her head. Steps ascended the stairs, the door was

unceremoniously opened, and Mr. Montague entered the room, attended by

two men, who announced themselves to be officers of justice.

The girl turned pale as death; while the blood rushed to Mark Antony’s

brows, as he stepped boldly between his companion and the strangers.

“Fear nothing, love!” exclaimed the fosterer. “By heaven! I’ll murder

the scoundrel on the spot, if he attempts to touch you with a finger.”

“I told you,” remarked the Israelite, “what a desperate offender he was.

That’s the man that robbed me of my purse, and that’ere woman, a pal of

his, assisted.”

“Infamous liar!” exclaimed the accused female; while Mark Antony caught

up the poker, and prepared for rebutting the accusation with other

proofs than argument. The constables called for assistance; the Jew

retreated through the door; and the sergeant, the student, and the

rat-catcher rushed up-stairs, followed by the host of idlers who are

ever found loitering about the precincts of an Irish inn.

A scene of indescribable confusion succeeded. All asked questions, to

which none would vouchsafe a reply. The Jew solemnly protested he had

been robbed; the accused indignantly repelled the charge of felony;

while the constables insisted that all concerned should immediately

repair to the residence of a neighbouring magistrate, there to be dealt

with as appertained to justice. The whole party accordingly set forth

to undergo-the ordeal of the law’s inquiry. Mark Antony and his

fair friend, under the especial patronage of their quondam

road-companions--the sergeant, the student, and the rat-catcher; and the

Israelite aided, counselled, and consoled by the village Dogberries, to

whom, in the event of a conviction, the Jew had been, as Jews generally

are, most liberal--in promise.

On reaching the domicile of the Justice, the _posse comitatus_ halted in

front of the hall door; for, as Mr. Blundel had just fabricated a fourth

tumbler, and the water was of consistent heat, some time must elapse

before the mixture could be conveniently disposed of. At last, the

prisoners were summoned to the presence; and the accused, being duly

arraigned, the complainant was invited to detail the wrongs he had

received.

At his first interview with the fosterer, the Jew had endeavoured to

sink as much of his slang as he could effect; but now his own character

was to be supported, and his address to the seat of justice was in the

peculiar parlance of his people.

“Vy, ye see, yer vorchip, that my name is Reuben Levi. I’m a jeweller

by trade, and an honest man along of it. I comes to Hierland with some

goods; sells vot I had at a loss to get home agin; and with five pound

in paper, and three guineas and a half in goold, I was returnin

to Dublin. If the money’s mine, it’s in a green silk purse, and no

mistake.”

The Jew paused; and a reference to Mark Antony’s pocket confirmed the

statement of Mr. Montague.

“Vell, yer vorchip--ye sees I tells nothin but vots true--I was joggin

on by a lonely road, and who overtakes me but this young voman, and

that’ere chap in the welveteen fie-for-shames. I twigged them, yer

vorchip, at once; for he’s von of the swell mob, and she no better than

she ought to be. Vell, they fastens themselves upon me for a while,

until I sits down upon a ditch to rest myself, and ged rid on’em. Vell,

down she pops upon my knee and asks me for a trifle, while her pal

comes behind, and draws me clean as a whistle. I tries to grip my purse,

but--he’s a milling cove, yer vorchip--and in he pops his bunch of

fives, darkens this here bye, and laves me flat upon my back. Off they

goes like winky--and when I comes to myself, neither robber nor voman

was to be seen.”

The easy audacity with which the Hebrew impostor detailed the

particulars of the alleged robbery, actually paralyzed the accused.

The sergeant looked confounded; the student shook his head; and the

rat-catcher alone listened with incredulity, and preserved his faith

unshaken. As to the worthy justice, no doubt of the fosterer’s guilt

remained upon his mind; and all that puzzled him was, whether he could

safely convict the girl as an accomplice. The fatal order to issue the

mittimus was on his lips, when the Israelite addressed himself to “the

king’s poor esquire,” and, as it appeared, it was mercifully in arrest

of judgment.

“In speaking a few words to the worthy beak, I mean his vorchipful

honour, I hopes the veakness of my caracter will be excused, vich vos in

bein too tender-hearted from the werry eradel. I vould’nt jist wish to

have the girl clapped under the screw, nor even that’ere chap should be

lagged for life, though he’s fly to everything, from thimble-riggin to

wilful murder. So, as the blunt’s got, if yer honour will let the voman

off, and only shop the cove as stole the purse for the trifle of a

fortnight, I’ll not insist on prosecution.”

While the unblushing Jew was delivering his humane appeal, the fosterer

grew pale with rage, the girl red with indignation. There appeared

nothing but “warder and fetters for the Graeme” as the justice was in

the very act of affixing his sign-manual to the committal, when lo!

a change came over the scene--the sound was heard of wheels stopped

suddenly--and next moment, a young man, in a sailor’s dress, sprang

into the room, and exclaiming, “Julia, my lost one, have I found

thee!”--folded the wanderer in his arms, and pressed her ardently to

his heart. On the girl, the appearance of the stranger seemed to have

produced emotions of greater violence; she uttered a wild shriek,

fainted on the sailor’s breast, and was borne by her new protector in a

state of insensibility from the hall of justice.

At this unexpected dênoûment all present appeared to be astounded. The

fosterer was lost in astonishment, and the magistrate equally surprised

to see a person on whom he was about to deal according to law, summarily

removed from his jurisdiction, and by a novel proceeding, by no means so

formal and yet very like a _habeas corpus_.

While this grand _scena_ was being enacted, a quieter, but not less

interesting episode was in progress in the corner; but we must leave

the reader in temporary suspense, as, with this occurrence, we intend to

commence another chapter.

[Illustration: 0137]

CHAPTER XIV. THE TABLES TURNED--THE SAILOR’S STORY.

“As thou urgest justice, be assur’d

Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir’st.”

Shakspere.

|Proverbs may be musty matters; but take them generally, and how

admirably do they establish facts! “Between the cup and lip” slips are

frequent and, as events turned out, Mr. Montague, of comic celebrity,

was fated to point that moral.

Nothing could have been attended with more decisive success than

the villany of the Jew. His boundless audacity had imposed upon a

weak-headed country gentleman; and the information he had acquired at

the Cock and Punch-bowl by listening at the wanderer’s door, enabled him

to describe the property, alleged to have been stolen, with an accuracy

that induced the greater number of those who heard the charge, to

believe the story of the robbery confirmed. The hour of revenge was

come. The girl, deprived of her protector, and thrown loose upon

the world, would once more be at his mercy; and the Jew’s dark eyes

brightened with fiendish delight. The man who had crossed his schemes,

and treated him with contumely, would now be tenant of a prison; and the

woman who had turned from him with contempt, and rejected his overtures

with abhorrence, might soon be taught to feel that hatred often follows

fast upon the steps of love.

But what appeared to the Jew to be the hour of his triumph, proved

unexpectedly, that of retribution; for to mortal villany Providence

assigns a limit.

The sudden appearance of the sailor, and the confusion it had

occasioned, prevented the entrance of a second personage from being

generally observed. Indeed, he slided so quietly into the room, that

he seemed modestly endeavouring to avoid any particular attention.

The stranger was a stout well-proportioned man, of middle height, and

apparently of middle age; and from dress and appearance, it would have

been impossible to guess to what order of the body politic he especially

appertained. Except for a certain wide-awake expression of the face, he

might have passed current for a mail-coachman, a publican, or a drover.

Probably, to a horse-dealer he bore the closest affinity. He was dressed

in a blue coat with gilt buttons, and extensive skirts and pockets.

His vest was scarlet; his unmentionables drab kerseymere, to which

jockey-boots were added. Round his neck a spotted silk handkerchief was

knotted; and a white hat, with a remarkably broad brim, completed his

costume.

Every eye had been directed upon the sailor and the companion of Mark

Antony; but lie of the scarlet vest seemed unmoved by a scene that had

interested all besides. Indeed, he was a person on whom effect, such

as Napoleon would term “theatrical,” would have been absolutely thrown

away. His feelings were impervious even to a fainting fit; and he had no

more _sentiment_ about him than an oyster. Gliding behind the backs of

the spectators, he reached the spot whence Mr. Montague had delivered

his address to the man of worship, and stooping to the Jew’s ear,

whispered something which possessed the charm of a spell. To the very

lip, colour fled from the sallow countenance of the Israelite. He

appeared as motionless as if he had been mesmerized; while by a sort

of sleight-of-hand the red-vested operator united his wrists together,

quickly as if it had been done by magic, next moment it was discovered

that Mr. Montague was manacled. The stranger then handed a paper to

the gentleman upon the bench, with a request that he would “back that

warrant for the apprehension of the prisoner, Ikey Lazarus.”

Of all the descendants of “the Shallows” Mr. Blundell looked the

silliest. At last, however, he managed to comprehend that the Israelite

was a returned convict, and added his signature to the order for the

Jew’s arrest. The court, “in most admired disorder,” was broken up; the

runner retiring with his captive; the sergeant and his companions to

finish a compotation from which they had been unexpectedly disturbed;

and the fosterer to seek some tidings of his lost mistress, who, as he

was informed, had been removed by the sailor in a carriage to the inn.

“When consciousness returned, the poor wanderer found herself in the

same apartment from which, not an hour since, she had been removed on a

charge of felony. She unclosed her eyes. Was it an illusion? A look of

love was bent upon her pallid countenance--and a long lost brother held

her to his heart.

“William,” she murmured.

“Dear, dear, Julia,” returned the sailor, with a kiss.

“Am I waking?--are you _alive_, William?”

“Ay, girl,” replied the sailor, “and sound and hearty as English oak

itself.”

“‘Twas said you were dead--that you had been slain in battle. How came

you here? how have you escaped?”

“The story’s long, my sister. I’ll tell it to you presently. Enough; the

squall has now blown over; and, d----n it--we shall all be happy once

more.”

“No, no, no--I shall never know peace of mind. Would that I could be

forgiven!” and tears rolled in fast succession down the poor wanderer’s

cheeks.

“Forgiven!” exclaimed the sailor. “For what, Julia?--For being swindled

by the false story of a betrayer; and afterwards, with more than woman’s

love, clinging to the scoundrel who deceived you, until the grave closed

upon his crimes.”

“I have indeed,” said the girl, with a sigh, “suffered for my offending.

Oh, when I think of it, it almost maddens me! To have deserted my poor

father, broken the old man’s heart, and by my misconduct brought him to

the grave.” She paused, for sobs choked her utterance.

“You didn’t, God bless ye, break his heart,” exclaimed the sailor.

“Had you run off a dozen times, he wouldn’t have mattered it a stranded

rope-yarn. No, no, it was other disappointments that finished uncle

Josh.”

“_Finished uncle Josh?_” inquired the wanderer.

“Ay; he’s gone to Davy’s locker, and the village has been quiet ever

since. Three clients compromised their suits within one term; that

killed our uncle, and Josh never raised his head afterwards.”

“No, no, William--my father--my dear, dear, father--” she made a pause,

and then, in a suppressed voice, added, “Is _he_ not dead too?”

“Dead!” replied the sailor. “He must have died since morning. I left him

at a town ten miles off, while I came in pursuit of you, in company with

a Bow-street officer, who was on another track, but offered to assist in

your recovery.”

“Then,” exclaimed the girl, with breathless haste, “the death I read in

the newspaper--”

“Was that of our loving uncle. I suppose it was George Gripp that

inserted the old boy’s departure; for I believe the bailiff was the only

being who regretted him.”

“And shall I once more, William, see my dear, dear, father?” said the

actress.

“Ay, Julia, and before you sleep, the old man’s kiss shall welcome you,

and his blessing seal your pardon.”

To the hurried narrative of his sister, the warm-hearted sailor listened

with the deepest interest. The sufferings she had undergone; the death

of her betrayer; her deliverance from the Jew; the kindness of Mrs.

O’Leary, and the generous protection of the fosterer, all had their

excitement, and elicited from William Rawlings by turns an execration

or a burst of gratitude. No, wonder, therefore, that when Mark Antony

joined the wanderer and her new protector, his welcome was a warm one.

And yet how mingled in life’s history is pain and pleasure!--how soon is

unexpected happiness dashed with some latent regret! The prospect of an

immediate parting alloyed the triumph of success. Neither Mark Antony

nor the quarter-master’s daughter felt at ease; and a similar cause of

disquietude pressed heavily upon the breast of both. Under different

terms, the feeling was the same; the fosterer called it by the right

name--love; the lady by the wrong one--gratitude. Had the hearts of both

been analysed, the chymist would have had results perfectly the same.

“William,” said the sailor’s sister, “you have not yet told me by

what strange fortunes, one believed to be dead so long, has been again

restored to those who love him. Oh! how vividly does that fatal

evening return to memory, when you left your sister and your home. Alas!

William, had you but known how desperately I was circumstanced, you

would not have deprived me of my brother and my adviser.”

“That unregretted relative,” replied the sailor, “now in the grave,

occasioned the rash act I then committed. No shadow of blame could have

attached itself to me; for with the unfortunate homicide which occurred

that evening I was totally unconnected. My savage uncle, who should

have allayed my fears, alarmed me by hinting at the disgrace of

incarceration; and, with the full conviction of innocence, I was weak

enough to believe him. Hence, Julia, to evade an imaginary indignity, I

madly left my home--and that at a moment, too, when my presence was most

required. The adventures which befell me may interest you, my sister,

and I shall briefly narrate them.”

THE SAILOR’S STORY

I need not tell you, Julia, that, with whatever apparent firmness I

might have taken leave of you, to tear myself from a home, a parent, and

a sister that I loved so fondly, was a trial which taxed my fortitude to

its utmost extent. It is true, that I had been long weary of inaction,

and longing after those scenes of wild excitement which war every day

presents, and which to the ardent fancy of young minds are always so

engrossing. Yet I hesitated to take the step; for, in my pursuit of that

phantom, glory, how many objects of affection must be abandoned! The

accidental embarrassment arising from the smuggling outrage of the

evening confirmed me in a course already half resolved upon. I obeyed

the impulse; parted from you, love; and at midnight found myself on

board that gallant “thing of life,”--a British frigate.

Of her own noble class of vessels, the Harpy was among the finest;

and she had a picked crew, and dashing commander. Cæsar O’Brien was an

Irishman of humble family, and yet at the early age of twenty-four,

he found himself a post-captain. But to no underhand interest was

he indebted for his rapid preferment. His career had been gloriously

distinguished; he could look back upon it with honest pride, and

claim every step he got on the score of professional deserving. Justly

considered one of the ablest officers in the service, it was strange

that upon his merits his own crew held a divided opinion. The younger

portion declared him a man without a fault; the older, however,

discovered a failing in his character.--“The captain,” they complained,

“_had too much fight in him_. It was true, he had an Irishman’s good

luck; but, in the long run, it would bring him into trouble.”

To you, Julia, the details of sea-life would have little interest. We

were stationed off the coast of France; and from our captain’s daring

character, he had been intrusted with a sort of roving commission, and

allowed to employ the frigate almost as he pleased. During a six-months’

cruise, nothing, for brilliancy or effect, could exceed the services

he _had_ rendered to his country. In every French harbour the Harpy’s

exploits were known and her captain’s name associated with those of

England’s most daring and fortunate commanders.

From the moment I entered the frigate as a volunteer, I had been

fortunate enough to become a favourite with Captain O’Brien. In a

successful night-attack upon a battery and privateer, in which we

dismantled the one, and Cut out the other, my conduct was honourably

mentioned by the first lieutenant, and the captain’s clerk having been

killed on the occasion, I was promoted to fill the vacancy. In this

confidential situation I acquitted myself with credit--and to the hour

of his death, was treated by the warm-hearted Irishman more like an

equal than an inferior.

The period of our cruise had expired, and an order came for the frigate

to return to England and refit. At sunset, the vessel sent to relieve

us was seen in the distance; and before dark, she had exchanged numbers

with the Harpy. In all our gallant crew not one heavy heart could have

been discovered. After a daring and successful cruise, next morning the

frigate’s head would be turned to the white-cliffed island from which,

for nine months, we had been estranged; and all, from “the noblest

captain in the British fleet” to the smallest ship-boy, felt the charm

which attends a return to fatherland, and slept to dream of “England,

home, and beauty.”

Three hundred men rested that night in full security--and how-few were

fated to see another sunset! Morning dawned--the breeze was light; the

ocean mists rose rapidly; gradually the sea view enlarged; and every eye

turned in that direction where the ship, arrived from England, might

be expected to present herself. At last, a sail was announced from the

mast-head, and the Harpy’s course was altered towards the stranger’s.

In half-an-hour, the ship in sight was proclaimed by the look-out men

“a heavy frigate.” The private signal was made--some minutes passed--the

signal was unanswered--and every glass and eye were directed towards a

ship now ascertained to be an enemy.

In a moment orders were given to crowd canvass on the frigate. The drum

beat to quarters; the sails were accurately trimmed; and, as if she had

determined to sustain her well-earned reputation to the last, the Harpy

dashed through the water gallantly--and for every two knots the chase

sailed, we went three.

When the frigate was under a cloud of sail, Captain O’Brien retired to

his cabin to dress, leaving orders that the progress of the chase, from

time to time, should be reported. As he passed me, he touched my arm and

whispered me to follow him. I did so. The captain desired his servant to

retire, put on his uniform, affixed a foreign order to his breast, and,

having unlocked a drawer, he took from it a sealed packet, and thus

addressed me.

“Rawlings,” he said, “from the hour you entered this frigate, I have

remarked your character and conduct. From the high opinion I formed of

both, I selected you to fill a place of trust, and I am now about to

give you what may be a last proof of confidence.

“I am the founder of my own fortune. My father was an humble curate, not

‘passing rich on forty pounds a year,’ but poor as a church-mouse, and

my mother the daughter of a farmer. I was born in one of the remotest

villages on the western coast of Ireland; and, except the advantages of

education--the only boon my poor father could bestow--I had nothing to

distinguish me in boyhood from the sons of the fishermen who inhabited

our secluded hamlet. Like them, the sea was the element I loved; and,

but for an accident, like them also, I should have lived and died upon

that element unknown.

“One evening, when I was about twelve years old, a message came from the

only publie-house the village boasted, to say that a sick stranger had

arrived and was most anxious to see a clergyman. The summons was

obeyed; and my father was introduced to an elderly man, who seemed to

be dangerously ill, and greatly exhausted by his journey. He announced

himself a lieutenant of a man-of-war; he had been for several years on

the West-India station; was now on leave of absence for bad health; and

was endeavouring to reach a town at a considerable distance from our

hamlet, to try whether native air might not yet effect a cure. The

exertion, however, had been too much for him; and on arriving at the

public-house, he found himself unable to proceed farther.

“The parson was a kind-hearted being, and as hospitable as he was poor.

The ale-house was noisy and uncomfortable, and he therefore pressed the

stranger to take up his residence at our cottage, where, with quiet

and care, it was probable that he might speedily come round again. My

father’s invitation was accepted; and in a few days the invalid was so

far restored as to be enabled to resume his journey. He took his leave

accordingly, gratefully acknowledging the kindness and attention of my

parents, to which he attributed his recovery.

“A year passed--the stranger was forgotten; and our lonely villagers had

no events to excite them beyond every-day occupations. They were removed

from the cares and anxieties of busier life; but, as events proved, they

were not secure from its common calamities.

“Typhus fever broke out in a neighbouring sea-port; the crew of a

fishing-boat caught the infection, and introduced the terrible disease

into our crowded hamlet. Numbers became its victims; and in the same

week both my parents died, and I was left upon the world without any

natural protector.

“On the evening of my father’s funeral I was sent for to the

public-house, and there, to my surprise, I found the stranger who had

been my father’s guest a year before. The sick lieutenant had been

restored to health, and was about to resume his professional duties. He

had been appointed to a ship; but before he left the kingdom, he made

our village his line of route, that he might have an opportunity of

thanking my parents once more for past kindnesses. He found those who

succoured him in the grave,--their only child an orphan, and without a

relative who could afford him protection or a home.

“A tear trickled down the cheek of the rough old sailor, as he listened

to the story of my destitution.

“‘And has he no friends, poor boy?’ inquired the lieutenant.

“‘None,’ said the landlord, in reply. ‘I believe he has not one relative

who could give him a second meal, nor a friend who--”

“‘False, by Heaven!’ exclaimed the tar. ‘He has a friend who will divide

his last guinea with him; and from this hour, I am the orphan’s father!’

“I must be brief. Lieutenant Oakley stopped that evening in the village,

and when he left it next morning I was his companion. He was a

rough, but warm-hearted sailor of the old school; and, after a

year’s probation, he succeeded in having me rated on the books of a

line-of-battle ship as midshipman. A few months afterwards, my protector

was killed in a boat affair upon the coast of Spain--once more I was

left upon the world--and at fifteen years of age I had to fight with

fortune as I could.

“Rawlings, you know now the story of my early life. Without a being to

guide my boyhood, I was flung on the wide ocean of existence. The sword

has been my talisman, and I have hewn my own road to fame. My very

destitution placed me in fortune’s track. I had no gentle ties to bind

me to the world: if I died, none would shed a tear: what, then, was life

to me?--A nothing! I staked it with a gambler’s recklessness, and I have

earned for myself the name that birth denied me.”

A noise on deck was heard. “Stay here,” he said; “I will return

immediately.” After a few minutes, Captain O’Brien re-entered the

cabin, his face beaming with delight, and its expression betokening the

confidence of anticipated victory.

“The Harpy goes nobly through it!” he exclaimed. “Blow, sweet breeze!

blow for another hour steadily--bring me alongside that splendid

frigate--and then, Dame Fortune! thy spoiled child shall tax thee no

further.”

He paused; took two or three turns across the cabin, and then resumed

the strain of former conversation.

“Time presses--and now, Rawlings, for another disclosure. Three years

ago I returned to England,--‘The happy deed that gilds my humble name

was done--I obtained promotion for the service--and wherever I appeared,

flattering tokens of popular approbation were heaped on me with

unmeasured liberality. Men cheered me as I passed, and--prouder

honour--woman smiled upon the daring sailor. To the highest circles

the curate’s son was introduced: my passport, _à coup de sabre_, which

finished a French captain, and enabled me to lay hands on the halliards

of a frigate’s ensign, before those of fifty stout boarders as myself.

I met a woman: she was older than myself a year or two; noble by

birth; and for beauty, if you sought England over--and that is beauty’s

home--you could not find her peer. She was followed and worshipped: the

proudest claimed her smiles, and the noblest coronet was offered for

her acceptance. Chance introduced me to her father; and I was a casual

visitor at his house, with men distinguished for both high birth and

unbounded wealth. Would it be credited that I was preferred by that

proud lady to all who sought her hand? I--the ocean child--before a

crowd of nobles--the humble sailor loved by the _fiancée_ of a duke! ’Tis

over;--she is another’s now: and with the heart that fate forbade being

united to mine, the mutual secret rests.

“You know enough to understand the service I require. If in the

approaching conflict my brief career shall close, the story of my love

must perish with me. In this sealed packet there are memorials, that,

living, I could not part with, and, in death, must be destroyed. It is

leaded--and should I fall, consign it to the same element where I shall

find a grave. Farewell! I feel a strange assurance, that with this day’s

events, whatever they may prove, my history is doomed to terminate. No

matter! Where could it close more gloriously?”

He said, and quitted the cabin for the deck; and when I had secured the

sealed packet in my breast, I followed him.

The chase had now assumed an interest almost impossible to be imagined.

Both frigates, in the parlance of the sea, were “staggering under a

press of canvass;” and the goal for which each vessel strained was a

small harbour, with a narrow entrance through the centre of a reef

of rocks. There, the Frenchman expected to find his safety--and we

endeavoured to cut him off from this his haven of inglorious refuge. We

were still two gun-shots astern--the harbour not a league off--the wind

began to fail--and as the Harpy sailed best with a stiff breeze, we

lost the advantage we had formerly possessed in speed. Indeed, the

Frenchman’s escape seemed almost certain. He must gain the anchorage

before we could bring him to close action; and, daring as our captain

was, surely he would not venture into a roadstead on every side

surrounded with heavy batteries, and approachable through a narrow

opening in a reef of rocks?

Alas! Fortune may be tried too frequently--and even her chosen

favourites will prove her at times capricious. Again, the breeze

freshened, and the Harpy drew fast a-head. The vessels were now within

cannon range--the chase-guns of both had opened--and at the third

discharge from ours, the main-top-mast of the Frenchman came down. It is

probable that fatal success induced our captain to take the step he did.

Instead of bringing his frigate to the wind, he held his course, and

desperately ran into a hostile harbour from which it was decreed we

never should return.

The result of this rash act was brilliant as it proved disastrous. After

a close engagement of forty minutes, the enemy’s frigate was totally

dismasted, and driven--a wreck--upon the rocks; and Captain O’Brien

having completed her destruction, endeavoured to work the Harpy out.

For a time we suffered but trifling injury from the cross-fire of the

batteries, and it was almost certain that we should weather the tail

of the reef, and clear the entrance of the harbour. The frigate was

in stays. “She’ll do it easily,” exclaimed the master; while Captain

O’Brien, with a smile of exultation, whispered in my ear, “What

think you, Rawlings, of the fortunes of the curate’s son? Hold on the

packet--my star has saved us!” Alas! his exultation was but short-lived.

A thirty-two-pound shot struck us as he spoke: the foretop-mast went

over the side--we missed stays, fell off to leeward, and settled on the

reef, within musket-range of the heaviest battery.

The seas struck the vessel so fast and heavily that it was quite

apparent she would speedily go to pieces. The captain fell mortally

wounded. He turned a dying look to me: I understood its silent order;

and the packet which contained the memorials of his secret love was

committed to the deep.

In a few minutes afterwards the fate of all on board the Harpy was

decided. A lofty swell came rolling in--the disabled frigate was lifted

off the reef--she fell over into deep water, settled, and went down;

and in her shattered hull, the dead, the dying, and the living found

a common grave; for, with the exception of myself and six others,

not another soul of that gallant crew escaped. ‘We saved ourselves on

floating portions of the wreck, to be picked up the same evening, and

made prisoners.

What calamitous events had one brief day produced! On the preceding

evening, how happily had I sought my hammock, home in my fancy, and

you, Julia, in my dreams! How was all changed! frigate and crew

buried together in the ocean deeps, and in the very moment of their

triumph!--and the poor handful that survived, consigned to a captivity

so hopeless, that to its duration no limit could be assigned!

We were marched into the interior, and secured in an old fortress,

already over-crowded with squalid creatures, half-clad, half-starved,

and to whom, generally, death would have been a deliverance--the only

one, indeed, that they, poor wretches, could look to with any thing like

certainty. At first, I thought I should have sunk into despair; but it

is strange how soon men will accommodate themselves to misery. Gradually

the cup of suffering lost a portion of its bitterness; and in the laugh,

at first torturous to my ears, at last _I_ could also join. “Let none

despond, let none despair”--there is no mortal evil without its remedy.

Before a month passed, the elasticity of my spirit returned--another

current of thought occupied my mind--my very dreams were engrossed with

projects of escape--and every bird that flitted across the prison walls

seemed to invite me to become as free as it was.

The governor was a soldier of the republic, wounded and worn out, and

for past services entrusted with the custody of the prisoners of war

collected in the fortress. He was a strict disciplinarian; stern in

enforcing obedience to the regulations of the place, but kind at

heart, and easily conciliated. After my first despondency had abated, I

endeavoured to resign myself to my fate; and by conforming to the rules

which Captain St. Simon had laid down for due maintenance of order, I

became rather a favourite with the commandant.

No one could question the bravery of Captain St. Simon; for, among

other daring acts he had performed, he had married a woman thirty years

younger than himself. The lady was very pretty, very gay, loved fêtes

and dancing, and detested the dulness of the fortress. One child had

blessed the marriage-bed of the commandant: she was a sweet girl of

three years; and in her the affections of both parents seemed to centre.

Indeed, they idolized the child; and none could know little Claudine and

not love her.

To children I have been ever partial; and with the governor’s I

soon became a favourite. I never passed Claudine without a kiss. My

attentions gratified the parents. Madame rewarded them with a smile, and

the old republican, with long narratives of all that he had done at Lodi

and Marengo.

Upon the unfortunates within the place, the effects of captivity were

variously exhibited. Some bore confinement with apparent indifference,

while others evinced a sullen despondency. One man struck me as

being more miserable than any in the fortress besides; and the fixed

melancholy visible in his air and countenance induced me to inquire who

he was, and ask the cause of his being more wretched than the rest.

His name was Aylmer, and he was a captain of dragoons. In returning from

the Peninsula, the merchantman in which he came home a passenger

had been taken by a privateer; and, to render that accident the more

distressing, the errand that brought him to England was to marry a

beautiful girl, to whom for years he had been passionately attached.

Hitherto, pecuniary considerations forbade the union; but by the death

of a wealthy relative that obstacle was removed. What must have been

his disappointment, when, almost in sight of the home of her he loved so

ardently, fate marred his promised happiness, and dashed from the very

lip the cup of bliss!

No wonder, then, that Aylmer bore this visitation with impatience.

Months wore away; interest had been used to accomplish an exchange; and

now a hope was held out that this much desired event would be speedily

effected. Once more the captive smiled; the colour returned to his faded

cheek, and his brow was no longer contracted. Alas for woman’s faith!

News came from England, that she whom he all but idolized had forgotten

the being who loved so truly,--and--that she was married to another!

From that moment Aylmer never smiled. His heart was seared; his hopes of

happiness were withered. He became a gloomy misanthrope; prowled through

the dark passages of the prison by himself; rejected every overture at

intimacy; and that which had once been a gentle heart, seemed to lose

all sympathy with the human race, and become to all its species wolfish

and immitigable.

There stood at one angle of the fortress an ancient tower of immense

height, which, for many miles, overlooked the surrounding country. By a

winding staircase the top of the building could be gained; the roof was

fiat, and encircled by a parapet not quite breast-high; and, as the

view from the summit was varied and extensive, prisoners, who would go

through the labour of ascending seven flights of granite stairs, amused

a portion of monotonous captivity by gazing in listless idleness on

scenes of busy life, which, to their state of thrall, presented a sad

and sickening contrast. This tower was a favourite retreat of Captain

Aylmer--and over the parapet of the roof he would lean alone for

hours, muttering gloomily to himself, or communing with sad thoughts in

silence.

Often, when Claudine was in my arms, I observed, that in passing us, the

expression of Aylmer’s eyes was absolutely malignant; and I marvelled

that a face so innocently beautiful as that of the child of the

commandant, did not, like David’s harp, exert a gentle influence, and

speak peace to the dark spirit of the captive. It was strange also,

that, by some curious impulse, Claudine involuntarily recoiled from this

melancholy man, and that while he continued in sight, she would cling

closely to my bosom as if there she was seeking for protection.

It was the evening of a sultry day, and the hour was come when, by

prison regulations, the _détenus_ were expected to repair to their

respective wards, and there be locked up for the night. On my way to

the gallery where I slept, I had to cross an esplanade in front of the

governor’s house. Claudine noticed me from the window, and ran out

to say “good night.” I carried her a few paces in my arms, kissed the

pretty child, set her down, and received from the fond mother a

gracious nod of approbation. The drum ruffled, it was the signal for

the prisoners to fall in for roll-call, and I hurried on. Suddenly

a piercing shriek arrested me. I turned round; Madame St. Simon had

uttered it, and one movement of her arm told the cause. Aylmer was

running madly across the esplanade in the direction of the old tower,

with Claudine struggling in his embrace.

I dashed after him at headlong speed. He sprang into the building and

bounded up the stairs--Claudine’s wild screams continued--and I heard

her calling “William!” Although Aylmer had cleared one flight of steps

before I entered, I overtook him as he jumped with his intended victim

on the roof; seized him with one arm, and twisting my hand into his

collar, half strangled him, and forced him to drop the child. Upon me

the full fury of his rage was turned, and a deadly struggle commenced.

In height and weight we were equally matched; but his maniac strength

was superhuman. After a desperate conflict of a minute, both came

heavily to the ground locked in each other’s arms, the madman uppermost.

In turn, he attempted to choke me, and I as desperately resisted.

Apparently, the phrenzy of his rage rendered him insensible to pain;

for though I caught his hand within my teeth until they met, the maniac

would not let go his murderous hold. My strength failed, I found myself

fainting, another minute and his triumph would have been complete, but

fortunately, an alarm had been given that brought assistance, and three

of the gendarmes who formed the prison guard, rushed on the tower roof

with drawn swords, tore Aylmer away, and endeavoured to secure him.

With a marvellous effort the madman shook his assailants off, and

answered their order to surrender with a laugh of wild derision--“Ha!

ha! ha!” he shouted, “you fancy that Aylmer will be a prisoner. Tell

your commander, that if that sailor fellow had not marred my scheme of

vengeance, his fair girl would have been what in another moment I shall

be--a shattered mass of lifeless flesh--and now for the leap of liberty!

Ha, ha!” he roared out convulsively, and, with a demon’s laugh, before

any could lay hands upon him, the maniac vaulted across the platform of

the tower, and we heard, some twenty seconds afterwards, the dull sound

his lifeless body made as it fell on the paved court below.

I had received some severe bruises in the deadly struggle with, the

unfortunate madman; and my throat and neck were blackened by the

pressure of his knuckles. The gendarmes supported me to the governor’s

house, wine was given me, and the surgeons of the fortress were called

in. From Madame, I received abundantly the ardent tokens of a woman’s

gratitude in tears and kisses, while the old republican, her husband,

held my hand in his, and, with the speechless eloquence of the eye,

thanked me in the silence of a heart too full to give utterance to its

feelings, for saving the treasure of his soul.

No wonder then, that with me the rigour of imprisonment was abated, and

that I was now a captive but in name. At the governor’s table a cover

was laid for me, the old man treating me as he would have done a son;

and Nina, as his wife was named, regarding me as a brother. Of course I

felt the kindness evinced by both; and I might have been supposed to

be the happiest captive in the fortress. Yet the yearning after

home continued; and many a sigh told Nina and her husband, that

notwithstanding their efforts to remove it, “a sickening void was aching

in the breast.”

“William,” said the old republican, as he passed the wine-flask over,

“Why have you been so dispirited of late? Is it within my power to make

you happier? Have you any thing to ask for?”

I kept silence.

Nina’s eyes filled--“Speak, William! speak without reserve.”

A blackbird was hanging in his cage beside the open casement.

“What would that captive ask for,” I replied, “could he but make known

his wishes?”

“I understand you,” said the governor; “and what you sigh after is almost

the only boon beyond my power of granting. For liberty, the appeal must

be made to the highest individual in the empire, and let me at once

apprise you, that _there_ you would find the ear of mercy closed. You

seem astonished--listen, and wonder then will cease.

“Our prison regulations are framed, in some degree, according to the

system of our general police; and the character and career of those

committed to my charge are carefully recorded. To the safe custody of

those who have been daring and successful, my attention is especially

directed; and while with a nameless man an exchange is effected without

much difficulty, he, who if free, might prove a troublesome enemy, is

rarely restored to liberty. Your frigate was the terror of our coast.

Your captain bore a reputation second to none among the most daring and

dangerous of your naval adventurers. You are noted in our prison record

as having won your leader’s favour, by assisting in some bold exploit

that I do not recollect at present. Believe me, my dear boy, it would be

hopeless to expect that you, and spirits like yourself, would be allowed

an opportunity of harassing the coast of France a second time. I go

to make my prison returns to-morrow. Would that I might venture the

experiment of getting your name included in the next cartel with

any prospect of success! Oh! no, no, it were idle--it were hopeless

altogether.”

That night when I retired to my cot, I felt the sad conviction that

nothing but escape could ever effect my deliverance from the gloomy

fortress, in which, it would appear that for life I was fated to remain

immured.

The next morning passed in the dull monotony of confinement. I supped

with Nina and her child. The commander was to be absent for two days,

and when Claudine retired to bed, Madame St. Simon and I were left

together. Latterly I had observed a change in Nina’s manner. There was

not the same freedom that formerly had marked our intercourse, and

while kinder than ever, I fancied that her gaiety was assumed, and

her spirits forced and unnatural. Since the evening of poor Aylmer’s

suicide, I had been transferred to a small chamber attached to the

governor’s dwelling, was exempted from attending roll-call, and left

consequently with unrestrained liberty, to wander through the prison

where I pleased. It struck eleven, the fortress was quiet, the guard

set, and I rose, to leave Nina, and repair to my own chamber.

“Good night,” I said, “my sister;” for by that name I had been permitted

to address the lady of the governor.

“Stop--William,” she replied, in evident embarrassment, “I wish to talk

with you alone.”

I sate down again beside her.

“I have remarked how ardently you are longing after freedom. St. Simon

cannot honourably effect it; and a soldier’s honour, William,

should be dearer far to him than life.”

“I know you feel the sentiment, and I am convinced that it guides your

acts, my brother.”

“I hope so, Nina.”

“And surely it should guide _mine_--a soldier’s wife--a soldier’s

orphan. I never told you my short history, William.”

“No, dear Nina.”

“I am the daughter of a sous-lieutenant, who was killed in the Low

Countries while I was yet a baby. Dying, he committed me to a comrade’s

care; and faithfully that comrade discharged what he considered a sacred

duty. I was tenderly nursed when young, and when I was old enough,

placed as a boarder in a convent. At fifteen, my benefactor’s sister,

with whom I had resided for the two preceding years, died suddenly. I

was thus left, to a certain extent, without protection; and Captain St.

Simon offered me the only one a man can give--the sacred one of husband.

In our marriage, love could not have had aught to do. He was fifty; I,

fifteen. He, for honourable motives had offered to make me his, and I,

through gratitude, consented. Five years have passed. All the happiness

which could be expected from a union so unequal in point of years,

has been mine. If I said I were happy as a wife, I should say what was

untrue. But am I not the consort of a brave old man, the mother of a

child, in whom all my love is centered?”

“And with these objects of affection, Nina, you must be happy.”

“I was,” she answered, with a sigh.

“_Was?_ Nina. Nay, nay, _you are_.”

“No, William; strong in gratitude to my husband. I feel a woman’s

weakness in the heart, and love and duty by turns obtain its mastery.

William, neither you nor I have yet seen two-and-twenty summers; and

at that age, friendship is too close akin to love to be encouraged.

My husband dare not assist you to escape--_I dare, and will_. Prudence

tells us to separate; and the act that would sully the honest reputation

of the old soldier, is not dishonourable in his wife. Yes--it shall be

done. I have already devised means for your deliverance, and when my

plan is fully matured, you shall know all. Farewell. Let us not meet

in future but in my husband’s presence.” She stooped her cheek to me, I

kissed it, next moment she quitted the supper-room, and I returned to

my chamber, to marvel how much strength and weakness, principle and

passion, can be united in a woman’s heart!