“No--no--no;” exclaimed the Voltigeur. “The plan of operations is only

changed--”

“And the Emperor’s lieutenant has postponed the birth-day entertainment;

and, in place of resting on the Zodorra, he will be over the Bidassao in

a day or two. Well, I can feel for you. But custom reconciles people to

contingencies; and latterly you have been so regularly beaten that it is

a novelty no longer.”

The Voltigeur smiled, shrugged his shoulders, pleaded duty in excuse

for a brief visit, and hurried away--I suspect to avoid my _badinage_,

which, at the time, was anything but agreeable.

Indeed, judging from the scanty information I received, the deductions

I had drawn of ulterior consequences proved correct. As yet the French

Marshal had only witnessed the complete miscarriage of all he had

designed and hoped for: but now, the penalty of the failure was about to

be exacted.

In pursuance of his altered plans, on entering the valley of Ulzema,

where he overtook D’Erlon, who had already reached it at the head of

five divisions, and with a sixth (Martinier’s) in his rear, the French.

Marshal instantly determined to crush the corps under Sir Rowland Hill

posted on the ridge of Buenza. All was in his favour--the allies

were scarcely half his strength, and the left of their position was

vulnerable. The attack was fiercely made, as fiercely repulsed, and

every effort against the allied flanks was unsuccessful. Finally,

numbers enabled the French marshal to turn the position: but Hill

steadily retired on Equaros, and there, joined by Campbell’s Portuguese

brigade and Morillo’s Spaniards, he again boldly stood his ground and

offered battle. But Soult declined an action--and, contented with

having gained the Isurzun road, he determined to force his way to San

Sebastian; but it was decreed that, like Pampeluna, the fortress on the

Urumea should be abandoned to its fate.

Wellington had penetrated the designs of his able opponent, and, with

characteristic decision, prepared to meet them with a counterstroke.

With him, to decide and execute were synonymous; and in the second

conflict at Sauroren, the intended blow was hewily delivered. It will

be enough to say that, in the conflicts which ensued, the French were

completely beaten. On the allied side the loss of men was heavy in

killed and wounded, amounting to eighteen hundred. On the French it

was enormous--two divisions--those of Maucune and Couroux were almost

destroyed--the general disorganization was complete--Foy cut off from

the main body altogether--three-thousand men were prisoners--and nearly

as many more rendered _hors de combat_. It was not the severe losses he

had sustained which alone embarrassed the French commander. The allies

everywhere were gathering around him in strength--his troops were

overmarched and dispirited--his position untenable--all idea of

advancing on San Sebastian abandoned--and the only door open for retreat

was to gain the pass of Dona Maria, and by forced marches fall back on

San Estevan. Accordingly, at midnight, his troops were put in motion to

reach this dangerous defile, and thence, by ascending or descending the

Bidassao, regain the French frontier. How painful this retrogressive

movement must have been, may well be fancied. Now “the leader of a

broken host,” and smarting the more keenly from defeat, because he had

too presumptuously affirmed a certainty of success, and assured his

troops of victory.

Nothing could be more critical than Soult’s position; and while

Wellington supposed that he intended entering the Bastan by the pass of

Villate, the French marshal was too close to Buenza to hazard a retreat

by the valley of the Lanz. Indeed, his situation was so dangerous, that

a less determined commander might have despaired. His only means of

egress from these mountains was by a long and perilous defile leading

to an Alpine bridge, and both were overlooked by towering precipices;

while, from holding a shorter and easier line of march, the chances were

considerable that Wellington would anticipate his movements, and reach

Elizondo--Graham seize Yanzi before he could arrive there--Hill fall

on his flanks and rear, if obliged, as he should be in these events, to

take the route of Zagaramundi--and, in the end, even if he fought his

way to Urdax, he might find that position preoccupied, and his retreat

finally intercepted. Fortune averted the great calamity; but still

safety was to be purchased at a heavy sacrifice.

As he had dreaded, Soult’s rear-guard was overtaken near Lizasso--was

attacked--defeated--and saved only by a fog which opportunely covered a

hurried retreat. At Elizondo a large convoy with its guard was captured;

but the crowning misfortune was impending, when, ignorant of Lord

Wellington’s proximity, Soult halted in the valley of San Estevan.

Behind the ridges which overlook the town four allied divisions were

halted--the seventh held the mountain of Dona Maria--the light, with a

Spanish division, were in hasty march to seize the passes at Vera and

Echallar.--Byng had reached Maya, and Hill was moving on Almandon. Every

arrangement to enclose the retreating army was complete, and never, in

military calculations, was the destruction of an enemy more certain,

than that which awaited Soult. Unconscious of his danger, the French

marshal gave no indications of alarm. With him, there was no appearances

to excite suspicion,--no watch-fire indicated the presence of an

enemy--no scouting-party was seen upon the heights. Two hours more, and

the fate of the Emperor’s lieutenant would have been sealed, when one

of those trifling incidents occurred, which in war will render the most

studied and scientific efforts unwailing, and extricate from perilous

results, those who have dared too much, but to whom despair is happily

a stranger. Possibly, in the varied fortunes of a life “crowded with

events,” never did accident tax the Great Captain’s philosophy more

severely.

Unseen himself, Wellington with an eagle’s glance watched from a height

the progress of his combinations. The quarry in the valley rested

in false security, even when the falcon on the rock was pluming

his feathers and preparing for a fatal stoop. A few French horsemen

carelessly patroled the hollow, and although a hundred eyes were turned

upon them, they saw nothing which could betray the presence of an enemy

or excite alarm. At that moment three plunderers crossed their path.

They were seized, carried off; presently the alarm was beaten, and in a

few minutes the French columns were under arms and in full retreat: and

“Thus,” to quote Napier’s words, “the disobedience of these plundering

knaves, unworthy of the name of soldiers, deprived our consummate

commander of the most splendid success, and saved another from the most

terrible disaster.”

Although its total _déroute_ was narrowly werted, no army suffered for

a time more severely than the retiring columns of the French. Cumbered

with baggage, embarrassed with the transport of the wounded, confined

to a strait and difficult mountain-road, no wonder that the whole mass

of fighting and disabled men were occasionally in terrible confusion.

The light troops of the fourth division appeared upon their right flank,

and, moving by a parallel line, maintained a teasing fusilade. The

bridge leading to that of Yanzi was strongly occupied by a battalion of

Spanish sharp-shooters. D’Erlon, profiting by the inaction of Longa and

Bareenas, forced the pass; but Reille was not so fortunate. The

light division, by an unequalled exertion, crossed forty miles of

mountain-country by one incessant march; and they had already crowned

the summit of the precipice which overhangs the pass to Yanzi at the

perilous moment when Reille’s exhausted column was struggling through

the “deep defile.” Never was a worn-out enemy placed in a more terrible

position. On one side, a deep river with rugged banks; on the other, an

inaccessible precipice, topped by an enemy secure from everything

but the uncertain effect of vertical fire. The scene which ensued was

frightful. Disabled men were thrown down, deserted, and ridden over. The

feeble return to the British musquetry produced no reaction. The bridge

of Yanzi could not be forced; and night came opportunely, permitting the

harassed column to escape by the road of Echallar, leaving, however, the

wounded and the baggage to the victors.

The last struggle was at hand. Soult, with an indomitable courage which

even in defeat established his military superiority, by powerful and

personal exertions, rallied his broken troops, and once more formed in

order of battle on the Puerto of Echallar, with Clausel’s diminished

corps in advance on a contiguous height. But that stand gave but

a breathing-time. Two British divisions were already pushed on to

re-occupy Roncesvalles and Alduides--Byng was at Fadax, Hill on the Col

de Maya--and the light, fourth, and seventh divisions in hand, and ready

to fall on.

The affairs which followed were very singular, and mark the moral effect

which success and disaster exercise upon the best soldiers in their

turn. The light division was pointed on Santa Barbara to turn the

right of the enemy, the fourth were desired to make a front attack by

Echallar, and the seventh moved from Sumbilla to operate against Soult’s

left. Outmarching the supporting columns, Harness brigade, boldly

assailed the strong ridges occupied by Clausel’s division: and, with a

daring courage worthy of the good fortune which crowned it,

actually drove from its mountain-position a corps of four-fold

numbers to his own. It is true that Clausel’s troops had been beaten,

overmarched, and dispirited. Already they had been thrice bloodily

defeated; but that six thousand tried and gallant soldiers should be

forced from a rugged height by a brigade not exceeding sixteen hundred

bayonets, is an anomaly in war which seems difficult to resolve to

common causes.

The last affair was that of Ivantelly. On that strong mountain the

French rear-guard had taken its stand, and although evening had set in,

the soldiers fasted two days, and a mist obscured the heights, the light

troops mounted the rugged front and drove the enemy from that, the last

ridge, which, in the course of nine days’ operations, had been assailed

or defended.

In the course of those sanguinary and continued combats, known by the

general designation of the Battles of the Pyrenees, the Allies lost

seven thousand _hors de combat_. The French casualties were infinitely

greater; and a moderate estimate, framed from the most impartial

statements, raises it to the fatal amount of fifteen thousand men.

It was with feelings of unqualified delight I listened to Cammaran’s

doleful admission that Soult was over the Bidassao, and the battering

guns, which, under an alarm, had been embarked at Passages, had been

again re-landed, and the siege was to commence again. Sufficient

proof of this intention was quickly manifested, for the trenches

were repaired, San Bartolomeo armed anew, and the convent of Antigua

furnished with heavy guns to sweep the beach and bay, if necessary.

Whatever might have been the feelings of the governor and his garrison

when the tidings of Soult’s failure were confirmed, still, like

gallant soldiers, they showed no lack of confidence in themselves, but

redoubled, their exertions to increase all the means within their power

of defence, and repel the second assault as effectually as they had

repulsed the former one. On the anniversary of the Emperor’s birth, the

inhabitants of the city and the troops who invested it, were apprised

of the event by frequent salvos of artillery; and when night came, the

castle exhibited a splendid illumination, surmounted by a brilliant

legend, “_Vive Napoleon le grand!_” visible distinctly at the distance

of a league.

On the 19th, the long-expected siege-train arrived from England, and on

the 22nd, fifteen heavy guns were placed in battery. On the 23rd another

train was landed. On the 25th all the batteries were armed and reported

ready to commence their fire; and on the 26th fifty-seven pieces opened

with a thundering crash, and in one unabated roar played on the devoted

city, until darkness rendered the practice uncertain and ended this

deafening cannonade.

The result of the siege was what might have been anticipated, when

Wellington, with adequate means, had issued his order that the place

should fall. On the morning of the 31st the assault was delivered, and

after a long, bloody, and doubtful struggle, the fortress was carried.

Would that with the fall of that well-defended city the sad detail

of “siege and slaughter” closed! “At Ciudad Rodrigo intoxication and

plunder had been the principal object; at Badajoz, lust and murder were

joined to rapine and drunkenness; but at San Sebastian the direst, the

most revolting cruelty was added to the catalogue of crimes.” *

Thank God! from witnessing that horrid scene, the fosterer and I were

exempted. In accordance with Mark Antony’s advice, I had determined to

give General Key “leg-bail” and on the night of the 27th, Dame Fortune

behaving towards us like a real gentlewoman, we contrived to get clear

of San Sebastian before our friends the besiegers could manage to get

in.

* Napier.

But that event, in this my hurried but “eventful history,” requires

another chapter.

CHAPTER XLII. A NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE, AND PREPARATIONS FOR ESCAPE.

“_Arthur_. Mercy on me!

Methinks, nobody should be sad but I; .

* * * By my Christendom,

So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,

I would be as merry as the day is long.”

King John.

|Nearly a month had passed--a month of dreary captivity. It is true

there was not a prisoner within the walls of San Sebastian who had less

reason to complain, but still I felt myself a prisoner. Cammaran.

as far as means allowed, anticipated every want. I was under no

_surveillance_--the city was open to me--I wandered where I pleased--and

every sentry I passed saluted me. The voltigeur was a general

favourite,--the story of his deliverance had been told in the garrison,

and even with more romance than had attended it; and every French

soldier we passed pointed out the fosterer and myself as the preservers

of a gallant comrade. If we met a group of officers, the moniteur, the

cigar-case, or the snuff-box were hospitably presented to me; and could

Mark Antony have drank “pottle deep,” he had only to turn into a French

guard-house, and every flask it contained would have been placed at his

disposal.

Such were my relations with the enemy; but the bearing of my host was

sometimes hard to understand. It was professedly kind; but the manner

was forced, and repulsive. His habits were retired--no overture to

intimacy had been made--beyond the detached portion of his mansion where

I had been located at the first, the rest of his domicile was to me

a _terra incognita_. Of his establishment I had never seen but two--a

particularly dark-visaged youth, with a cutthroat cast of countenance,

and a woman of seventy who was deaf, or pretended to be deaf. Still, our

wants wire carefully attended to, and at times Senhor Francisco asked

after my health in a tone of voice that would lead a person to imagine

the man was sincere in the inquiry.

“Upon my conscience,” observed the fosterer, as he presented himself one

morning at my bed-side, “I have a fancy this house isn’t over good. If

banshees played upon the fiddle, I would swear that I heard one these

three last nights in the garden that we see behind the window of my

room. Arrah--do you think the place was formerly a madhouse? Except

Newgate--and, blessed be God, I can only spake of it from description,

the devil a such a place for locks and bolts I was ever in before. Has

the ould gentleman, do ye think, much money? Every window barred up like

a watchhouse--but they would require, for all that, to be looked over,

for I have managed to remove two of mine,--and if I live till to-night,

I’ll have a walk in the garden.”

“No--no--Mark; that will never do. We must not intrude upon Don

Francisco. He may have some secret to conceal.”

“Troth! and ye’r right,” returned the fosterer. “May be he has a

private still at work, or does a little in the coining. But, faith, no

matter--I’ll have a peep to-night. But if he’s forging notes, or making

bad dollars, what can he want with the music?”

“Music!” I repeated.

“Yes; I hear a guitar every night, and two nights ago saw something very

like a ghost--”

“Or rather very like your grandmother”--and I burst into a loud laugh.

“Oh--I knew you would make fun of me. Well--no matter. She was the

height of Serjeant Antony, and he’s six-feet-six without his shoes--and

as white as your own shirt--not, in truth, that that’s anything

remarkable, for worse washerwomen than we meet with here you could

hardly find if you were on the look-out for a fortnight. But there’s no

use in talking. There’s a tall white woman parades the garden; and if I

live till the old Don is fast asleep, I’ll be through the window, if I

break my neck.”

I confess, that although I could not listen without a smile, to Mark

Antony’s description of the lady-like spectre that honoured the garden

with her presence, and then and there discoursed “most eloquent

music;” I felt, notwithstanding, a more than common curiosity on the

subject,--and while I reprobated the fosterer’s removal of the bars

which obstructed his communication with the spot she haunted, as an act

but slightly removed from burglary itself, still my scruples were easily

overcome when he proposed that I should keep watch with him that night.

The retreat was beaten in the fortress--supper-hour came--the host, as

usual, presented himself, to make inquiry whether aught was wanted that

had not been already provided--and then, after wishing us “Good night,”

we saw him secure his gate, and retire to that portion of his premises,

from which, with all the jealous reserve observed in an Eastern harem,

we had been, as we were pleased to call it, inhospitably excluded.

“Well,” said Mark Antony, “I suppose the man intends to be civil, but

he has the quarest way of showing it. Although it’s his own wine we’re

drinking, the divil a drop he would ever take in company.

Give me that Empecinado, after all! God forgive me! I did’nt value him

at the time, as I should have done. What, though he had an offhand way

of shooting Frenchmen and hanging justices of the peace, the moment the

job was over he was as pleasant a gentleman as ever stretched a boot

under mahogany, But as to this dark-looking divil--why, we’re here well

on to a month, and he was never the person to say, ‘Mister O’Toole, have

ye a mouth upon ye?’”

An hour passed--we finished a second flask of the surly Spaniard’s

montilano--and the fosterer proposed, that while we apparently retired

for the night we should extinguish the lamps, and then commence our

vigil.

It was accordingly done--and, gliding into Mark Antony’s dormitory, we

began our “watch and ward.”

An unbroken stillness permitted the slightest sound to be heard

distinctly; and we therefore conversed in whispers. The contrast that

night in San Sebastian presented to the day, was singularly imposing.

The deafening roar of the allied batteries had ceased, and the city was

wrapt in a calm but ominous tranquillity. Too distant from the breaches,

we did not hear the working-parties, who sedulously employed the hours

of darkness in erecting new defences, and restoring others which the

daily fire of the besiegers had destroyed. Another hour passed--no

guitar was heard--no sprite “wicked or charitable,’’ flitted past the

casement. We heard the reliefs go round--the sentries changed--and all

again was silent.

“All--Mark!--Mark!” I whispered in the fosterer’s ear--“The senhor’s

montilano has been uppermost in your brain, I fancy, on these same

night* when this musical apparition was afoot. Are you sure that your

imaginary guitar was anything but wind whistling through the window?”

“By all the crosses in a highlandman’s kilt, the music I heard,”

returned the fosterer; “but whether it was a guitar or a fiddle I’ll not

take on me to swear. Stop--hush!--Holy Mary! If that’s not music, the

divil an ear has Mark Antony!”

The fosterer was right. It was the distant tinkle of a stringed

instrument--and at times I fancied that I heard voices talking in

suppressed tones, and in the direction of that part of the building

which senhor La Pablos had reserved so exclusively to himself.

“Now, Hector,” said the fosterer, “maybe you’ll call me drunk after

this? What’s to be done? ‘Pon my conscience, I think Mister Pablos is

anything but neighbourly, with his tea-party every evening, and not say

to people who have done him the honour to take up their quarters in his

house, Mr. O’Halloran, will you, and that young gentleman along with

you, meaning myself, step over, in the family way, and take share of

what we have?”

“Why, then, upon my soul, I think it is, Mark!” was my reply.

“Then I may as well take the loose bars out?” said the fosterer, suiting

the action to the word--and before I could put in a feeble remonstrance,

he established an aperture in the casement, through which any one of

slighter dimensions than a common-councilman could easily slip out.

“Hush!--the guitar again!”

“Ay--and by Saint Patrick! some company to listen to it!--Oh! the divil

a one of me will remain longer without hwing a peep at the party, if I

can.”--And as he spoke, the fosterer popped through the casement, and--I

lament to make the confession--next moment I was after him.

We found ourselves in a small garden thickly planted with shrubs and

fruit-trees, and encompassed by a lofty wall; several narrow walks

intersected it, and the termination of one was bounded by a wing of the

Spaniard’s domicile. Through a chink in the shutters, a stream of light

escaped; and thither the fosterer moved silently, I bringing up the

rear.

There was no doubt that from this apartment the voices and the music

had proceeded which we heard in the fosterer’s dormitory. I peeped in. A

party was grouped about a table covered with game, fruit, and wine--and

a lamp, suspended from the centre of the ceiling, enabled us to examine

the company.

Five men were seated round the board, which was also graced by the

presence of two personages of the softer sex. I never saw a party

collected at a supper table whose appearances and pursuits were

evidently so opposite. A burly monk sat directly in front of the

treacherous fissure in the window-shutter. He was of no ascetic order;

but a Christian man, on whom good fare was not thrown away; and, even

if the lamp went out by accident, one on whose honour you could place

reliance, and drink with in the dark. Two others of the party wore the

costume, and had the general air, of Spanish traders. The fourth was a

man of wild and formidable exterior; his arms, his dress, his bearing,

all betrayed that his was no peaceable profession--and Mark Antony

hinted, in a whisper, “that if the Empecinado had a brother in the world

the dark gentleman with the pistols was the person, and no mistake.”

The fifth was an English seaman--at least his costume and carriage would

infer it. He seemed a fine athletic man, and, though his back was turned

to the casement, the fosterer observed in an under-tone, that the sailor

would thrash the company collectively.

In years and appearance the females were still more dissimilar than the

men. One well advanced in life was tall, slight, deeply pockmarked,

and generally forbidding. The other--she sate beside the priest--had

scarcely numbered twenty summers, and on a lovelier face, a finer form,

the eyes of two interloping Irishmen never peeped through a split in

a window-shutter. “Och! murder!” ejaculated Mark Antony, _sotto

voce_--“That’s the Ghost--and is’nt she a darling?”

One seat was unoccupied. To whom did it appertain? Our host, no doubt,

and wherefore was he absent?

“What an ould troublesome thief he is!” whispered Mark Antony, pointing

to the vacant chair. “Where the divil do ye think he’s scouting to? when

every body’s asleep or better employed, as they are within. I only wish

that we were of the company--Isn’t it a comfort to see his reverence

set such an elegant example? How beautifully he raises his elbow--that’s

what I call honour bright! No skylights, and he fills to the top every

time the bottle passes him.”

“Hush! I thought I heard something move behind us.”’

“Well, upon my soul, I fancied, myself, that I heard a rustle in the

bushes,” returned the fosterer--“If old surly is on the ramble, and drop

upon us unawares, what a pretty figure we should cut!”

“Come, Mark, let us return to our old quarters; we risk the unpleasant

consequences attendant on discovery, without any object to be found--”

“See--the sailor rises!--and the sooner we’re off the better. May God

bless that pretty face of her’s--if I could not stop here all night to

look at it; but, come along.”

We retired as quietly as we had advanced--the fosterer leading the

retreat. No sound occasioned alarm--no ghost of Patagonian proportions

crossed our path. We reached the lattice through which we had invaded

Don Francisco’s garden. Mark Antony pepped his head and shoulders

through the aperture; but never did a man withdraw both more rapidly.

A dark-visaged Spaniard pointed a pistol from within, while, without, a

person immediately at our elbow, in a low, but peremptory voice, ordered

us “to stand.” The tones were perfectly familiar; indeed, there was no

doubt touching the identity of the speaker, for Senhor La Pablos stepped

from behind one of the thick shrubs.

[Illustration: 0440]

“So, gentlemen,” he commenced, while every word came hissing ironically

from between his teeth--“Methought it was only Englishmen who were

forced upon my unwilling hospitality. I was mistaken, it would seem, and

appearances favoured the deception. I believed my house; was occupied by

men of honour; but I have harboured French spies, it would appear.”

“Oh--stop--Mister Pablos, if you plase,” exclaimed the fosterer, “divil

a bigger mistake ye ever made in yer life. Arrah--what puts that into

yer head?”

“I judge men not by their assertions, but their acts,” returned the

Spaniard coldly--

“Senhor,” I said, addressing the angry host, “you certainly have reason

to question the motives of our midnight intrusion; but I declare, upon

the honour of a British officer, it was entirely a silly trespass--one

that I cannot justify, but one from which, towards you, no mischief

was designed. Let it be overlooked, and I promise, that while we remain

beneath your roof, we will confine ourselves to whatever portion of your

premises it may be your pleasure to restrain us.”

“Captain O’llalloran,” returned the Spaniard, coldly, “whatever

your intentions may have been, your conduct warrants me to draw very

different conclusions than the motives you have been pleased to assign.

The safety of myself---my family--those who are connected with me--all

require me to guard against treachery. True, it has rarely come

concealed beneath an English uniform--and, I am half persuaded, you

harboured no evil against me and mine; but you came here under a

suspicious introduction. I am a devoted man, and now completely in your

power. You have seen too much--and yet too little. In one brief sentence

I speak your doom--a stern necessity compels me to be severe--cruel--if

it please ye better. One course alone remains to be pursued; I must

secure myself, my friends, my wife.”

“That’s her I took for the ghost,” said the fosterer, apart--“and the

divil a foot I would have put into the garden but for the same lady.”

“Hush! Proceed, sir,” I answered.

“Nothing can make us safe, but death or deportation. Walk with me,

sirs. ‘Twere idle to remonstrate here, or to refuse obedience to my

order”--and, with the perfect confidence that he had made no statement

which he could not effectually support, the Spaniard stalked on, and the

fosterer and I followed.

“Well--Mr. O’Toole,” I said, as, like two convicted culprits, we

sullenly retraced our steps. “A pretty kettle of fish you have made of

it!”

“Oh!”--groaned the fosterer--“the game’s up. The curse of Cromwell light

upon the country! Is’nt it hard that a man can’t slip out of a window to

take a little air without having his throat cut?”

As he spoke we reached the extremity of the garden. La Pablos unclosed a

door. We entered the same chamber where, two or three minutes since, we

had witnessed a scene of social comfort. There the remnant of the supper

stood--but the company were gone, and their places had been filled by

personages of a very different, and a very dangerous exterior.

It was hard to define their appearance. Their garb was that of

mariners; in all besides, they looked banditti. My impression was not

singular,--for the fosterer, in a whisper, declared that, “compared

with these villains, the guerillas were regular gentlemen.” All were

armed--and I should say, there was not a member of this respectable

community, who, like Friar Tuck, would hesitate on resorting to the

“carnal weapon,” were it needed.

Our trial was shorter, even, than a drum-head court martial. Senhor

Francisco stated the offence, and then simply inquired what the safety

of the commonwealth demanded. The twelve judges were never so unanimous.

In the multitude of counsellors there was but one opinion--and that,

though differently expressed, resolved itself into one pithy adage,

namely--that “dead men tell no tales.”

From the apparent character of those around me, I certainly considered

that I should be defunct to a moral before morning; but Mark Antony

boldly demurred to the sentence: and put forward the reasons why death

and execution should be stayed; but as the fosterer’s plea involved a

confused story about ghosts and music, I question whether it would

have carried an overwhelming conviction of our innocence to the dread

tribunal before whom we stood. As it turned out, however, we were not

on the verge of death, but, happily, on the eve of deliverance--and in a

brief space, the colour of our fortunes changed.

While the senhor was listening, and with marked incredulity, to the

fosterer’s defence, a noise was heard without, and the personage who

bore the appearance of an English seaman, but who, from his position

at the table had eluded our former _espionage_, burst suddenly into the

apartment.

“What the devil is all this I hear about spies, and land-loupers?” he

exclaimed. “Are these the chaps?--Egad--this here one,” and he pointed

to me, “looks too honest to play traitor. But, what!--Do my eyes deceive

me?--why, dash my buttons--it can’t be possible--but it is--an old

messmate by heaven! What, Mark--am I so changed, that William Rawlings

is forgotten?”

It was indeed the brother of the fosterer’s mistress; and the next

moment, like Homer’s heroes, their hands were locked together, and the

pleasure of an unexpected meeting, was expressed in sea parlance on the

one part, and an eloquent admixture of English and Irish on the other,

which must have been perfectly unintelligible to the auditory, as I

could but partially comprehend it.

With the host, a brief conversation put matters in excellent train. As

regarded felonious designs, we received an honourable acquittal; and

better far, the welcome assurance was made, that before two suns rose,

if luck were on our side, we should be clear of the fortress and free as

the ocean-bird itself.

We returned to our own apartments, accompanied by William Rawlings. The

senhor was full of mystery and business; and, I presume, the gentlemen

of the spado school were equally engaged; and, consequently, from

the sailor we learned the particulars not only of our host’s domestic

relations, but, what was of more importance, the means and the

probability of effecting an immediate escape.

Senhor La Pablos, it appeared, was a contrabandista, and did business

on a most extensive scale. His principles were neither considered

particularly nice, nor was he a patriot of the purest water; albeit, he

hated the French with an intensity which Dr. Johnson himself would

have admired. The senhor’s antipathy to the invaders, arose rather from

private than from public considerations. He had acquired much wealth as

honestly as smugglers generally do, and, year after year, the invading

commanders laid him under heavy contributions, and obliged him to

disgorge extensively. Senhor La Pablos had also been blessed with a

very young and a very pretty help-mate; and on a short excursion to

the frontier in the course of business, on his return he received the

unwelcome intelligence that the lady of his love had levanted the

second day after he had bidden her a tender, but as he, “good easy man,”

believed, only a temporary adieu. He had replaced her loss as speedily

as it could be effected--and as the successor of the lost one was

equally fair, and might prove, “alas! for womankind” equally frail, he

secluded her as much as possible from common gaze; and, certainly, he

had never intended that we, during our brief sojourn in his hospitable

mansion, should have been introduced to the family circle. “But now for

more important matters,” said the sailor; “it would waste time to tell

you by what course of events I got connected with these contrabandistas,

and shut up for the last month in this confounded fortress. I think

escape tolerably secure--but could we but command one hundred dollars,

it were certain. These Spanish smugglers are cold, calculating

scoundrels--every movement is made for a mercenary object--but if they

receive the consideration for their services, they are proverbially

faithful, even to death itself, in a punctual performance of what they

have undertaken.”

“How unfortunate!” I exclaimed. “Thrice the sum required is lying with

my baggage outside, and all I am at present master of is this valueless

ring, and a holy keepsake from my lady mother. Would your friends,

Rawlings, deal in relics of marvellous value? for I doubt not that this

I bear upon me is such.”

The sailor smiled.

“They are true Catholics, I have no doubt; but I fancy they would prefer

plain silver after all.”

“Blessed Mary!” said the fosterer, “I wonder where the old lady got

this charm,” for I had drawn my mother’s amulet from my bosom. “She told

you,” he continued, “never to open it.”

“Oh, no, Mark, I was directed when necessity pressed me, to use a free

discretion.”

“Why, then,” returned the fosterer, “we will never be in a greater mess,

Mark. Open it, Hector, dear! Not that I believe in charms, although I

remember an old man at home that would cure cows when they were fairly

given over by the smith.”

“Well, Mark, your curiosity shall be gratified.” I opened the silken

envelope, unfolded a sealed paper--no relic was there--but, what

answered our present necessities far better--an English bank note for

fifty pounds.

“Ah--long life to her ladyship!--wasn’t she considerate?” exclaimed Mark

Antony. “Talk of relics--isn’t that a beautiful one!”

“But will it answer our purposes, Rawlings?” I inquired.

“Senhor La Pablos would tell you not; but you will see how soon he will

discover more dollars than we require, and take his chance. But no

time must be lost--‘tis past midnight;--and within three hours we must

succeed or fail. Get ready. When the time comes for the trial, minutes

may crown or mar it,” he said--left us to ourselves:--and while the

fosterer made up a change of linen, I sate down, and conveyed, my

parting adieus to my friend the voltigeur.

Rawlings was not long away. He returned, having completed every

arrangement, as he said,--and the following night was named as that on

which we should make the attempt that would ensure our liberty, or rivet

our fetters if we failed. The fosterer and I retired, but not to sleep;

and we were early afoot, and waiting for some more intelligence from the

honest sailor regarding our nocturnal enterprise, when the captain of

voltigeurs, as was his custom, dropped in to make his morning inquiries.

“Am I to congratulate or condole?” said Captain Cammaran, when he made

his morning call. “You are pronounced fit for service by the surgeon; my

_parole_ consequently has expired--and no doubt you will be required in

a day or two to interchange it for your own.”

“I won’t give it,” I returned.

‘“You are wrong, my friend,” replied the voltigeur: “nothing can result

from your refusal but personal annoyance. You will be sent into La Mota,

and, I regret to say, there the prisoners are miserably inconvenienced.

Think of it well, O’Halloran; escape from the fortress is nearly

hopeless; why, then, add to the _desaremens_ of captivity? Courage!--an

application has already been made in your fwour: why not, at least, wait

patiently until an answer is returned by the minister of war?”

“My dear Cammaran,” I replied, “the reasons why I should not be patient

are manifold. In the first place. I am in love, and wish to return

home; in the second place, I am sick of San Sebastian, and very weary of

contemplating the surly features of my host Senhor La Pablos, agreeably

diversified, it is true, with an occasional visit from an old Leonora,

deaf as a door-post, and the attentions of an interesting male

attendant, who, if he be not hanged within a twelvemonth, why I’ll

forswear physiognomy for ever.”

“Oh! indeed, and you’ll have no occasion,” observed Mark Antony: “the

gallows is written in his face, and, as they say in Connaught,--Master

Pedro is sure ‘to spoil a market.’”

“Bah! my good friend, I have a remedy for all,” returned Cammaran; “one

poison neutralizes another--you must find another mistress: and if you

are tired of your quarters, why we can look out for others which may

prove more agreeable.”

I shook my head.

“Well--well--don’t refuse rashly. Tell them you will consider it for a

day or two--and trust to the soldier’s best dependence,--you call it,

happily, in English,--‘the chapter of accidents.’ Farewell!--I will call

early to-morrow.”

“And the birds will be flown,” added the fosterer, as Cammaran closed

the door and bade us, as we then believed, “a last good morrow.”

I never felt so impatiently as on that last day when I remained a

prisoner in San Sebastian. The sun went gloomily to the ocean, the

sea began to rise and break upon the beach, and with the evening as it

closed, the weather became worse, and a very skyey appearance heralded

a coming storm. Darkness came--the lamps were lighted--the ill-favoured

attendant laid supper on the table, uncorked a flask of wine, and, as he

always did, vanished without making a remark.

“I never will have anything but a poor opinion of that Senhor Pablos,”

observed the fosterer; “he’s an inhospitable divil, or on the last night

he had the honour of entertaining two gentlemen, he would have had the

common manners to have introduced them to his wife, and taken a _dock

an durris_ with them afterwards. No matter--here’s luck!--and who knows

where we’ll drink the same toast to-morrow evening?”

“It were, indeed, difficult to say, Mark. But, hark!--footsteps are in

the court-yard.’Tis unusual. But, see!--the door opens. Is it possible?

Why, Cammaran! This is a late hour for a visit.”

“It is,” said the voltigeur; “but I have a presentiment that you and I

are about to part.”

I felt the blood mount to my cheeks. Were then our plans known, and our

intended escape discovered?

“What mean ye, my friend?” I returned, assuming an air of indifference.

“No, no,” I continued evasively. “Warmly as, through your kindness, I

may have been recommended to the War-Minister’s consideration, I must

not hope the application will prove successful.”

“You mistake me. It is another chance that probably may end our

acquaintance. I am on duty to-night.”

“And so are we,” observed the fosterer, in Irish.

“The fact is, we are going to try a sortie. The general has most

handsomely put the detachment under my command. If I succeed, I

shall gain promotion--and if Fortune favour me, I’ll sweep your works

extensively before I re-enter the fortress. Well, these things are not

effected without broken heads--and I have come to have a parting glass

with two friends I estimate so dearly.”

The occasion of the visit relieved me from desperate alarm. The

Frenchman sate for an hour and then took his leave, to make the

necessary arrangements for the intended sortie, which was ordered to

commence at two o’clock.

Before the voltigeur had cleared the court-yard, Rawlings, attended by

La Pablos, presented themselves by a private door which communicated

with the garden. The sailor’s looks told that affairs went prosperously.

“All is ready for our attempt. The French sally before daybreak--and in

the noise and confusion on the land-side, we shall be enabled to

lower ourselves from the curtain, and gain the beach. All depends upon

ourselves--and for the fidelity of our associates, Senhor La Pablos

holds himself responsible. You must shift your rigging, however--and

here come your traps.”

The ill-visaged attendant brought me two suits of clothes of such

anomalous cut and composition, as left it impossible to say for which

element they had been especially intended. The host and sailor drank to

the success of the expedition--the bell from the tower of San Sebastian

beat twelve--the fosterer told each stroke--and then put up a pious

supplication to Heaven, that this might be the last time he would ever

count the same!

CHAPTER XLIII. ESCAPE FROM SAN SEBASTIAN, AND RETURN TO ENGLAND.

“A sad miscalculation about distance

Made all their naval matters incorrect.”

Don Juan.

“She look’d as if she sate at Eden’s door.

And griev’d for those who could return no more.”

Ibid.

|The fosterer and I lost no time in making a hasty toilet--and in five

minutes our outer men had assumed as ruffianly an appearance as that of

any _contrabandista_ in Biscay. The tower clock of the cathedral struck

two; and I remembered that Cammaran had mentioned that this would be the

hour on which the garrison would sally. Excepting the hollow moaning of

the wind, and the occasional drifting of the rain against the casements,

all around was still; and, dark as the night was, I remained gazing at

the court-yard expecting the appearance of Rawlings and his associates,

with all the intensity of hope and fear which a man will feel, when on

the eve of an attempt that will achieve his liberty at once, or

rivet his chains more closely than before. All was quiet--no ghost

appeared--no tinkle of “the light guitar” was audible--when, suddenly,

a dull discharge was heard from La Mota, and a shell, bursting over the

bay, “gave signal dread of dire debate,” and announced that the sortie

was being made.

Within ten minutes the din of war “disturbed the night’s propriety.”

The guns of San Sebastian opened, the Chefre batteries thundered their

reply, while a hewy fusilade on the isthmus, pointed to the place where

the besieged and the besiegers were fiercely fighting; and where, for

a doubtful result, death or distinction, Cammaran played the desperate

game a soldier ventures. The fire went rolling forward, therefore, the

French gained ground, and so far the surprise had been successful. At

the moment a hand touched my shoulder--a voice whispered that “all was

ready;” I turned--the speaker was William Rawlings.

Had I stood upon ceremony, and wished to bid Senhor La Pablo, and that

comely dame, his lady, “a fair good night,” neither of the parties

allowed the opportunity; consequently, I descended at once to the

courtyard, and there found two ill-favoured gentlemen in attendance,

and, under their guidance, wc proceeded to effect--or at least

attempt--our deliverance.

The effort was admirably timed. The sally of the besiegers had been

checked, repelled, repulsed; and the spattering fire which had hitherto

rolled steadily forward across the suburb of San Roman, now rapidly

receded, while, from the trenches, the fusilade became every moment more

heavy and more sustained.

On quitting the court-yard of La Pablos, we made a sudden turning,

entered a dark lane, and found two men in waiting. A few short sentences

were interchanged in low whispers, and we proceeded under the guidance

of one who seemed to have undertaken to pioneer the party. The firing

every moment became more violent; and, as the scene of strife was on the

land-side, the attention of the sentries stationed on the defences next

the bay was misdirected. We gained the centre of a curtain connecting

two bastions, unperceived; and, by means prepared already for effecting

a descent, glided down the wall unchallenged, and reached the beach in

safety.

So far the work went bravely on but the most hazardous part of the feat

was yet to be performed. Although my poor mother’s secret treasure had

been required by the _contrabandistas_--according to their story to pay

for the hire of a _chasse-marée_, as Jack Falstaff kept “his charge of

foot” in light marching order, properly considering that linen was to

be found on every hedge, so, our naval contractors prudently declined

“taking up a vessel” especially for our transport, when one might

as easily be borrowed without troubling the proprietor to become

a consenting party to the loan. This arrangement was made known to

Rawlings and myself, for the first time, when we had actually

reached the water: but the Biscayan assured us that “nearly a dozen

_chasse-marées_ were anchored at a stone’s cast from the shore, and

beside us there was a small fishing-boat, ready for the launching; we

had only to row quietly out, slip into the first vessel we could find,

take a peaceable possession, if allowed, and if not, forcibly eject the

owners for want of civility; “cut our lucky” and their cable by the same

operation, and then stand boldly out to sea.

“Why, honest José,” observed the sailor to the leader of the smugglers,

“it appears that we are to pay for our deliverance first, and fight for

it afterwards.”

The person addressed returned an evasive answer.

“Well, no matter--it seems the business must be done,” continued

Rawlings, “and the sooner we go about it the better. Lend a hand,

lads--Softly with the launch! we may be nearer our intended prize than

we imagine. How fast the wind rises! Upon my soul, on a darker night or

more unpromising weather, men never went on a cutting-out party.”

In another minute the fisher’s boat was in the water, and we embarked.

It was one of those small skiffs in which women are frequently seen

fishing on the eastern coast, and hence, we were crowded so closely

as to render the least movement dangerous, the water reaching to the

wash-streak of the boat. As the wind was dead off the beach we had no

occasion to use our oars for any purpose but to direct our course, and

out we went, drifting in the dark, and upon what the fosterer termed

“the devil’s expedition.”

“What,” he remarked, “was swimming the Sedana to this? Everybody knew

that a river had a bank; but here, the first land we would touch on

might be Achil Head or Gibraltar--and he, Mark Antony, would be glad to

know what was provided in the eating-and-drinking line for this voyage

of discovery?”

But these speculations as to our final destination were speedily

interrupted, for William Rawlings’ practised eye had caught the dim

outline of two or three small craft riding at anchor. Silence was

rigidly enjoined, and the Englishman steered the skiff upon the centre

_chasse-marée_, and desired us, in a whisper, to board the moment the

boat’s gunnel scraped the vessel’s side.

It was quite evident that we were not to be so fortunate as to effect a

capture by surprise. The heavy firing of the cannonade and musquetry,

attendant on the sortie, had roused the crews, whom we heard distinctly

conversing from deck to deck, as our boat neared their anchorage.

Fortunately, from the extreme darkness, and the diminutive dimensions of

the skiff, we were within an oar’s length of the _chasse-marées_ before

we were discovered. To a hasty challenge, a contrabandista replied that

we were friends--an assertion on his part, which subsequent experience

proved much at variance with our proceedings.

The lowness of her deck allowed us to board the coaster without trouble,

and a short, scuffling fight ensued which was over in a minute.

Although more numerous by half, the surprise of this nightly visitation

distracted the Frenchmen, and they made but a feeble stand. One was

flung overboard by a smuggler, an example promptly imitated by

the fosterer, who took the same liberty with the person of the

skipper--while three or four took the water of their own accord.

Rawlings cut the cable--the jib was instantly run up--the vessel canted

with her head to sea--the fore lug was set next minute--and, before,

the astonished crews could persuade themselves that their consort was

regularly carried off, we were beyond the reach of the few muskets which

they managed to get hold of in the confusion.

A brief consultation followed our success; and it was agreed that we

should stand right out to sea, to avoid meeting with any of the French

privateers who were creeping along the coast occasionally, and also

afford us a fair chance of falling in with one of our own cruisers.

When morning broke, we had gained an offing of nearly twenty miles.

The fire of the Chofre batteries had recommenced with daylight; but a

smoke-wreath, now and then, from the Castle and island of Santa Clara,

with a grumbling sound, like that of distant thunder, and only when a

squall came off the land, were all that told us that, with the sun’s

appearance, the deadly struggle had commenced anew. Other cares were now

presented. Had the _chasse marée_ aught on board that a prudent soldier

like Major Dalgetty, would declare by every war regulation absolutely

necessary? The inquiry produced a painful disclosure. On board this

ark of liberty, there were salt fish and fresh water for a day’s

consumption! I thought Mark Antony would have fainted when the heavy

tidings were gently broke by the chief contrabandista, who should, per

agreement, have been ship-agent and commissary together. The truth was,

my poor mother having been inhibited from imposing penance and fast on

me in right of certain marital engagements, had laid upon the unhappy

fosterer an additional quantity of both--and if there were two things on

earth to which Mark Antony had an invincible antipathy, cold water was

the one, and salt cod-fish was the other.

“Oh! we’re regularly murdered now;” ejaculated my foster brother.

“Blessed Virgin! What the divil do ye call that dark gentleman who got

the fifty-pound note? I would just like to ask him a civil question, if

he intends sleeping quietly in his bed after nearly drowning us first,

and starving us, as it appears he intends to do, afterwards. If we ever

reach Ireland, by my oath, I’ll take an action against him, and”--

“Hist! You’ll have no occasion,” if my sight be accurate replied the

sailor. “The cloud is over her again. Keep the craft away--and ease the

sheets a trifle. Right--by everything that’s lucky!--a man-o-war brig!

No mistake about that; a man can read it in the cut of her topsails.”

The vessel which Rawlings had espied, in a short time was clearly

visible. Under single-reefed topsails, jib, and spanker, she was

close-hauled as her course required, while we flew down direct before

the breeze. Santa Clara disappeared, “the wide, wide sea” was round us,

the cruiser and ourselves the only occupants of ocean--and in an hour,

we were safely deposited on board Her Majesty’s eighteen-gun brig,

“the Growler.” The _chasse-marée_ was turned adrift as worthless--and

a promise made on the part of Captain Hardweather, that we should be

accommodated with a passage home--the Growler being on her return to

England--while our companions, captive, and contrabandista, Tyrian and

Trojan, should be put on board the first coaster we fell in with--none

of the parties having the slightest inclination to visit the island home

of liberty, and take up their abode in a prison-ship.

Had Cupid exchanged with Rolus “for the nonce,” he could not have

afforded to his votaries more favourable winds. The Growler liked a

stiff breeze, and during the run home she had no reason to complain. The

fourth evening we were reported to be in the chops of the channel,

and on the sixth, were snug at anchor in Spithead. No difficulty was

occasioned in the debarcation of our personal effects; and, if all

military adventurers returned in the same condition from the field of

glory, I suspect the trade of war would not be considered as affording

a safe investment for the capital of a younger son. During the passage

home, a change of linen was effected by a friendly loan, and every

outward habiliment, from shoe to schako, when we landed, was borrowed

property. By the kindness of the brig’s commander, I was introduced to

a banker, through whose agency I raised the necessary supplies; and one

brief day wrought on all a marvellous change for the better. The second

evening, on looking in the pier glass of the hotel, I had some doubts

touching my own identity--Mark Antony was of opinion that he should be

scarcely recognized by his own dog--and William Rawlings had actually

set two barmaids by the ears, and left an impression on the too tender

hearts of both, which required a full fortnight to obliterate.

Our journey to town was common-place. The “whips” kept sober, and hence

we had not the exciting incident of “a spill.”--

Robbery being obsolete and utterly unfashionable even in the novels of

these Boetian days, though we crossed “a blasted heath,” none called

“Stand and deliver!”--and the passengers, one and all, seemed so

apathetic regarding life and property, that one would have thought

such heroic personages as Dick Turpin and Jerry Aberhaw had either not

existed or that they were utterly forgotten.

Nearly three months had passed since letters reached me from England.

The immediate advance of the army, the quick and constant series

of events which followed it, my detention at Vittoria first, and my

captivity afterwards, rendered it almost impossible that communications,

addressed as they would be to the head-quarters of the fourth division,

to which I had attached myself, should reach me during this short and

adventurous passage in a life of “marvellous uncertainty” while it

lasted. Brief as the season was that intervened since I had heard aught

from those I was most interested about, how many “changes and chances”

in that small circle might not have occurred? I envied the philosophy

of the fosterer and his brother-in-law elect. Neither harboured a doubt

that all “at home were well.” At home!--What does not that simple phrase

embody? For a time I took courage from the example; but, when we reached

the White Horse Cellar, whence the fosterer, “with lover’s haste,” set

out to claim a bride, and the sailor to embrace a parent and sister, to

whom he seemed ardently attached--then, left alone, I felt all the dark

forebodings of one who dreams of nought but happiness and yet tremble

lest fortune, in some capricious humour, may have already dashed the

untasted cup away. Thanks to the gods! these sombre doubts were nothing

but “idle phantasies.”

If ever the director of “a leathern conveniency”--cabs, gentle reader,

were then unknown--was put regularly to the pin of his collar to keep

time with an impatient gentleman, the unhappy wight who drove me was

that person. At last we readied the street--I jumped out--paid honest

jarvey double--inasmuch as he averred that his “near-side un,” a roarer

before, was ruined for life by desperate driving--and “the outsider”

would not be worth a bean for a fortnight. I knocked _piano_ at the

door--an old woman opened it--“Was Mr. Hartley at home?” She could

not answer the question, for Mr. Hartley had not lived there these

two months. Saints and angels! what misery! It was brief. A young

lady-looking personage unclosed a parlour-door, and acquainted me that

the arrival of some Irish relations had rendered it necessary for Mr.

Hartley to take a larger house; that, for the benefit of country air, he

had selected one some ten miles distant from the city,--adding, that

the family were well, as a servant had called that morning with some

message, from the ladies. She gave me my uncle’s address, and in

half-an-hour 1 was speeding to Bromley Park, as fast as a light

post-chaise would carry me.

Some seven miles from town, the last village was passed, and the

remainder of the drive ran partly through shaded lanes, and partly over

open commons. At a roadside hostelrie, within a gunshot of my uncle’s

dwelling, I discharged my carriage, committed the light portmanteau

which contained my wardrobe to the safe keeping of the landlady, and

set out, under proper directions, to find the place where love and duty

alike urged me to proceed.

I easily discovered the abode of “my fair ladie.” The exterior bore

all the appearance of respectability; and, though the light was but

indifferent, the entrance-lodge, palings, and close-clipped hedges,

announced it to be a gentleman’s retreat. The mansion stood upon a lawn

not far removed from the highway; lights flared from the lower windows,

probably those of the apartment where the family were collected, and, by

a singular impulse, I determined to escalade the enclosure, and have a

sly peep, _incog._ at those within.

I turned from the high road into a grassy lane which skirted the palings

of a shrubbery--and tried them once or twice, but they were confoundedly

high, and in excellent preservation. I pushed on--not a practicable

breach to be discovered--and my uncle’s mansion seemed as difficult

of _entrée_ as San Sebastian itself. Should I proceed, or abandon the

attempt as hopeless? “Turn back!” said Common Sense,--“Go on!” and

Adventure, jogged my elbow. I hesitated--a circumstance kicked the

doubtful balance.

Within an open gateway to a field, I perceived a horse placed in the

keeping of some low-sized personage evidently seeking concealment under

the deep shelter of the hedge. I spoke; none answered. Why was this

horse in waiting? It looked suspicious. Some felony was intended;

burglary, or, more probably, exhumation. I strolled on a few yards

farther--three or four railings had been recently sawn through,

affording sufficient room to creep in by, and, without a second’s

consideration, in I went.

I crossed the soft green turf, and proceeded in a straight direction

towards the mansion, guided by the lights which had first attracted my

attention on the road. A clump of evergreens suddenly shut them from my

view, and I paused to determine whether I should turn to the right or

to the left. While still uncertain, I thought something moved within

the trees--I listened--whispers fell upon my ear, and next moment two

figures glided from the clump, and crossed into what appeared in the

darkness to be a belt of young plantations, stretching along the lawn

and reaching to the lane from which I had effected my entrance. Who

might these men be? Poachers, in pursuit of game, or keepers, on

the look-out to prevent their preserves from being spoliated. When I

recollected the horse I had detected concealed beneath the hedge, I came

to the first conclusion--the men, no doubt, were poachers; and the

animal had been left in charge of some confederate, to enable them to

carry up to town the produce of their night’s marauding. In this belief,

I proceeded cautiously to the hall, determined to apprise mine honoured

uncle that knaves had “broke his park,” and possibly, might “beat his

keepers.” But another scene, and one to me of deeper interest, drove

hares, pheasants, and poachers from memory altogether.

When I cleared the clump of evergreens I found myself directly in front

of the mansion, and as the windows reached nearly to the level of the

lawn, the interior of the apartment was seen from without distinctly.

All within bore the appearance of luxury and elegance.

The furniture, the plate, the paintings, the lights, were in perfect

keeping with each other. In the panorama of life many such a scene may

be discovered. It was evidently the dwelling-place of wealth--but not

the abode of happiness.

Four persons occupied the chamber, and formed a striking group. The

_partie carrée_ consisted of two persons of either sex. On a sofa, a man

past the meridian of life seemed in earnest conversation with a lady,

who was still in the pride of matronly beauty; the expression of her

face was that of settled melancholy; and it appeared that he who sate

beside her was offering consolation--but in vain. The lady was my

mother--the gentleman, her brother, and mine honoured uncle.

At the opposite side of the apartment the other twain were seated, and

thither, after one hurried look at those upon the sofa, my gaze

was turned and there remained. My father, with Isidora on his knee,

encircled her waist with his solitary arm, while her head was resting

on his bosom, and her hands clasped wildly round his neck.--Oh! what a

change a few brief months had made! The sweet bud of promise I had first

seen in its mountain solitude, had flowered into loveliness--and the

woman, not the girl, was before me. Her face was turned towards the

window, and as the lights fell upon it, every feature was distinct as if

I stood beside her. Her’s was not the calm sorrow of my mother--it was

the wilder outbreak of the youthful heart, which vents its sufferings in

sobs and tears; and while my uncle and his sister conversed in whispers,

the voices of my father and my mistress were audible outside the window.

I could have easily suspected the cause of all this grief, had I but

looked upon the table and the floor. On the former lay an open post-bag,

and several letters with broken and unbroken seals: on the latter, a

newspaper was spread out at my father’s foot, and, no doubt, the

evil tidings it had contained occasioned the anguish and distress I

witnessed.

“Oh! tell me not to hope,” exclaimed the fair girl, “I cannot dare not.”

It was painful to listen to the reply. The voice endeavoured to assume a

steadiness which its broken tones belied; and the feelings of the father

and the soldier conflicted sadly, as the tongue held out false and

feeble hopes, which the speaker’s heart secretly believed to be

illusory.

“Grieve not, my sweet girl,” said the veteran, “He is only returned

‘missing.’ No doubt Hector has been made prisoner, carried into the

place, probably wounded--”

“Wounded!” exclaimed the listener, “No--no--no--Dead dead and I am for

ever wretched”--and again the head of the fair sufferer sank on the

bosom which had supported it before.

I cannot describe my feelings; my heart was bursting to announce my

safety, and I only hesitated to know how it could be most safely done--a

moment ended the doubt.

“Do not despair, Isidora--my _own, own_ daughter.” The words came

choakingly from his lips--the word _daughter_ was too trying the chances

were that he was now childless--and he hastily turned his head away. I

saw a tear stealing down his cheek--and when the soldier’s eye is moist,

the heart, indeed, is full.

“Cheer up, my dearest Isidora, all may yet be well--Hector may live--”

I could not control the impulse--

“_He does live!_” burst from my lips involuntarily.

[Illustration: 0455]

“Saints and angels!” exclaimed Mr. Clifford, springing from his chair,

and flinging the casement open--“True! by every thing providential!

Himself! Hector--and in safety!”

As he spoke, I jumped through the window. My lady-mother uttered an

exclamation of joy, and sank back upon the cushions of the sofa. My

mistress sprang from my father’s knee, and fainted in my arms.

“And, of course, you re-deposited the young lady upon the place from

whence she came, and flew dutifully to the assistance of your mamma, Mr.

Hector O’Halloran?”

Mr. Reader, I never reply to impertinent questions; but, _entre nous_,

I rather imagine that the resuscitation of the elder gentlewoman, was

entirely committed to her husband and Mr. Clifford.

CHAPTER XLIV. THE CRISIS APPROACHES.

_North_.----“Every minute now

Should be the father of a stratagem

Yea, this man’s brow, like to a title-leaf,

Foretells the nature of a tragick volume.”

2d Part of Hen. IV.

|A letter I had received on my return to the head-quarters of the fourth

division, after my _séjour_ with the Empecinado, had apprized me that

events in which my future fortunes were involved, hurried rapidly to

a crisis. My communications with England had then ceased; and, on

my unexpected return home, I found I had opportunely arrived when my

presence was most desirable, and the _dénouement_ of the drama was at

hand.

Without wearying the reader with the details of my uncle’s proceedings,

we will bring their results before him, up to the evening when at

Bromley Hall I popped so unexpectedly through a window, and frightened

two amiable ladies into fainting-fits.

It was the evening of a sultry day, the harvest had commenced, and, over

a rich and picturesque expanse of country, far as the eye could range,

the sickle was busily employed. On an elevation, in a domain of noble

extent, a gentleman far advanced in years, was seated on a rustic bench,

under the expansive shadow of an oak the growth of centuries. At times

he looked at the busy and interesting scene which the landscape all

around presented--and then resumed the perusal of a newspaper. The

domain was Clifford Park--the old English gentleman was my grandfather.

At the side of a copse, not many yards distant from the bench where the

owner of the park was seated, another and a very different personage

might have been discovered. She was a gipsy-woman of middle age, and

seemed busily employed in gathering sticks wherewith to cook her supper.

The old gentleman looked at her with some attention. For the last three

evenings he had remarked her at the same hour and on the same spot. The

regularity of her appearance had therefore excited some curiosity--and,

beckoning her to come forward, he took his purse from his pocket, and

presented her with some silver.

On receiving this munificent present, the gipsy curtseyed reverently to

the ground--the old gentleman resumed his newspaper, and waved his hand

as a signal she should retire; but she made a step closer to the bench,

directed a speaking look at Mr. Clifford for a moment, then threw

a suspicious glance around, and, in a low voice said, with some

hesitation, “We are alone, sir,--Dare I speak to you?”

The old gentleman for a moment regarded the speaker with marked

astonishment. The manner, rather than the words, was startling; but he

nodded a mute assent.

“For many a week I have sought this opportunity; but you are so closely

watched, that, hitherto, I dared not venture near you--I have tidings--”

“None, woman, that can interest me,” said the old man, with a melancholy

sigh. “There is nothing in this life to give me pleasure, and little

connected with it that could cause me pain. No tie binds me to the

world--”

“And yet you have a double one--the dearest to ordinary hearts, have you

not a daughter and a grandchild?”

“Stop, woman,--who are you?”

“The humble instrument of Heaven, destined, I hope, to restore to

the parent’s arms, a child alienated far too long--Ah! here comes yon

meddling priest! Would you even yet have the remnant of your days made

happy, be here to-morrow evening--and, for your own sake, be silent.”

“I will,” said the old man impressively. The gipsy assumed her former

attitude of deep humility, curtseyed to the ground again, resumed the

bundle of sticks she had collected; and, as if she had not perceived

him coming, turned into the direct path by which the confessor hastily

advanced.

They met; the gipsy made her humble obeisance, which the priest returned

by a searching glance. In the handsome features of the wanderer there

was nothing to excite suspicion, and he simply asked “what was her

business with Mr. Clifford?”

With a face beaming with delight at having received a large and

unexpected gratuity, the gipsy unclosed her hand.

“See, reverend sir, what his noble honour has bestowed upon the poor

wanderer!” and she pointed to the silver Mr. Clifford had just given.

“It is many a long day since I was mistress of so much.

Reverend sir, you are not angry at my gleaning a few sticks? Believe

me, poor Mary will do no injury to the trees. You look a kind-hearted

gentleman. Heaven grant you long and happy days!”

What will not the mystic influence of beauty effect? The cold churchman

looked at the supplicant for a moment--a soft black eye was eloquently

turned on his, as, “with lips apart,” disclosing teeth of pearly

whiteness, the gipsy timidly awaited his reply.

“How lovely she must have been in woman’s noon-day!” the confessor

involuntarily muttered. “You have the permission, you ask. Take care

it be not abused.” Again the gipsy curtseyed, and the churchman passed

on--giving her, in return for an outbreak of ardent thanks, unbeliever

as she was, his parting benedicite!

*****

Days passed--the weather continued beautiful, and the lord of Clifford

Hall might have been seen on his fwourite seat beneath the old oak tree

every afternoon--generally, the confessor close at hand, and the gipsy

gathering sticks in some of the copses at no great distance. Twice she

contrived to convey a sealed packet to the old man unperceived; and,

on the following evening, after he had perused their contents, she saw,

with unspeakable delight, that what he had read was not displeasing. The

letters were from his long lost son, cautiously worded to sound the old

man’s secret feeling, lay the ground-work of a disclosure, and prepare

him for coming events.

It was on the third evening before I had so very unexpectedly presented

myself at Bromley Hall, that, just as the light was failing, a man,

evidently in an excited mood, paced slowly back and forwards in front

of the ancient oak in Clifford Park, which we have already described as

being a fwourite spot with the owner of the domain. Besides the extended

view over the surrounding country which this rising ground commanded

from its crest, the front and back entrances to the park were

visible--and towards both, the lonely visitor turned frequently an

anxious look. At last, as if wearied with his solitary vigil, the

confessor--for it was he--broke into a rambling soliloquy.

“It is strange, what has delayed him--two long hours beyond the time he

told me he should return! I can scarce believe that I am waking. He

who for years has been the creature of my will--who thought as I

dictated--who acted as I pointed out--who in my hands was but a mere

automaton, whom I wound and directed as I pleased--that he should thus

miraculously assume an independence, and break through the thrall that

bound him.--By mine order, ‘tis marvellous--‘tis scarcely credible! That

cursed interview with his grandson laid the foundation of the whole--and

yet I fancied that I had remedied the mischief, and extinguished the

yearnings of natural affection which the youth’s sudden appearance

rekindled in the old man’s breast. But the last fortnight has crowned

the mystery. Three long years--the old man never penned a letter. Were

private communications to be made, I was summoned to indite them. Was

business to be transacted, the steward was always the amanuensis. But

now, he sits for hours alone--and writes, and transmits letters daily,

and by the hand of one who hates my creed, and with whom I dare not

tamper. What can be done? Never was a game more critical--one false

move, and all is lost. The tidings ot the evening too, are ominous. His

lawyer to be here to-morrow his errand, strictly secret too. What augurs

that but mischief? By every saint, I know not how to act. True, I have

not let the harvest pass without gleaning plentifully--and, better

still, I have secured the reward of many an anxious scheme. But to

see the grand object of my ten years of toil and artifice slip from

my grasp--even at the moment when the course of nature should have

consummated the triumph of sound conceptions, ably and patiently carried

out--Ha!--a horseman--‘Tis he--I’ll reach the hall before him.”

While the steward rode hastily to the stables, the priest had

reached the mansion and retired to his private apartments. There, he

impatiently waited the return of his confederate--and, in a lew minutes,

the steward presented himself. If the confessor fancied that himself had

startling tidings to communicate, one glance at the steward’s agitated

countenance, assured him that heavier news had yet to be unfolded.

“How now!” he muttered. “You seem disturbed. Has ought occurred to cause

us more disquietude?”

“We stand upon the brink of ruin,” was the reply.

“Go on--whence comes the threatened danger?” inquired the churchman.

“From the grave!” returned the steward.

“The grave?”

“Ay, holy father--well may you betray astonishment. One believed dead

for five-and-twenty years not only lives, but actually resides within a

few miles of where we stand.”

“Whom mean ye?” said the priest.

“Edward Clifford!”

“Impossible!” exclaimed the churchman. “He died in misery and exile.’Tis

some impostor.”

“It is the true man, by Heaven!”--“Think ye that one who hated him as

I did--who was robbed of the object of his love who swore eternal

vengeance, kept the vow faithfully, and wrought the secret ruin of him

who wronged him--think you, holy sir, that he could ever forget one, at

the same time, the offender and the victim. No--no--ordinary injuries

pass from the memory in time but insulted love lewes a burning

recollection in the heart, which death alone obliterates.”

“By the holy saints!” exclaimed the confessor, “your tidings are

astonishing.”

“You have not heard the worst,” continued the steward. “Give me some

wine--for faith, my nerves are sorely shaken by the occurrences of this

afternoon. Fill your glass, father, and listen to a tale, singular and

wonderful as any which, even in the confessional, may have reached your

ears.”

“You know that the object of my ride to-day was to trace, if possible,

the person with whom the old man holds his dangerous correspondence.

Every inquiry failed--and I was returning a sadder, but not a wiser man

than when I left you, considering what channel I should next try to seek

the information we require, when simple accident discovered the perilous

position in which we stand--one that, in danger, infinitely surpasses

any thing which our gloomiest apprehensions could have fancied.

“A short time since, a stranger, named Hartley, took Bromley Hall for a

few months; and there he immediately removed his establishment. It was

on a small scale, ‘twas said, but in every respect that befitting a

gentleman; and as Mr. Hartley was retired in his habits, and visited

with no one in the neighbourhood, his arrival made no sensation in the

country; he was scarcely known beyond his own domain, nor did any one

inquire who he was, or whence he came.

“On my return this evening, after an unsuccessful mission, close to ‘the

George’--a road-side house contiguous to Bromley Hall--my horse cast a

shoe, and I stopped to have it replaced. While the smith was doing it, I

strolled from the forge and sauntered down a shaded lane; within an open

gate a fallen tree was lying, and as the evening was close, I turned in

and sate down to rest myself upon its stem. Presently, at the other side

of the paling, I heard footsteps move cautiously along. An opening in

the fence enabled me to ascertain who the person was--and you may easily

fancy my astonishment, when I recognised the gipsy woman, who, for the

last three weeks, has been every day in Clifford Park under the

pretence of gathering fire-wood. Although surprised for a moment at her

appearance, I remembered that the wandering habits of her people throw

them across one’s path in every direction where business calls; I rose

to return to the forge and resume my ride, when suddenly the gipsy

stopped, looked suspiciously around to see that no one had observed

her, then drawing a key from her bosom she applied it to a wicket in

the paling, and the next moment entered the grounds of Bromley Hall, and

disappeared.

“Strange and mysterious fancies crossed my mind--I determined to watch

her movements, but how was I to follow? I continued my researches along

the park palings, and at last discovered an opening occasioned by the

removal of several slabs, for what purpose I cannot pretend to guess.

“I found myself in a thick plantation, left all to chance, and blindly

wandered on. Imagine my surprise when, not forty yards off, I suddenly

perceived the gipsy in deep conversation with a stranger. They spoke

in whispers, hence I could not overhear a word that passed; but I saw

distinctly a letter pass from her hand to his, and the action of both

during their brief conversation was marked and energetic. At last the

interview was over, and both returned towards the wicket in the paling

through which the gipsy had entered Bromley Park.

“The path wound through the plantation, and at not a yard’s distance

from the spot where I had concealed myself, but fortunately a thick

holly hid me effectually, and yet permitted me to observe the faces of

the persons who approached. Almost within arm’s length the man paused

suddenly--

“‘And is he so far prepared for the extraordinary revelations which are

about to be made?’ he inquired in a low voice that thrilled through my

very soul.

“‘He is’--returned this infernal agent. ‘He knows that his grandson is

recalled--that Hector’s father is already in England--that his daughter

is ready to fly to the bosom from which she has been so long estranged.

Nay, more--I have darkly insinuated that many a wild youth, after years

of wandering, has returned; and plainly hinted that a son lost to him so

long might live--nay, _did live!_’

“Could I believe the evidences of my senses, holy father? Was it a

dream? Oh! no, no--all was fatal reality.

“‘Mary,’ returned a voice, whose tones were unchanged as when I last

heard them in this very room--‘Mary, your services have made me for

life your debtor, and to his humble but faithful ally, I trust, in a few

days, Edward Clifford will prove his gratitude.’”

“Clifford--the exiled, the discarded, the dead! What! he

returned--received--restored to life! Impossible!” exclaimed the

confessor springing from his seat, and shivering to pieces on the table

the wine glass which he had held untasted in his hand, while Morley

recounted his strange adventure.

“True, by every thing sacred!” returned the steward.--“On they passed--I

caught a glimpse of his well-remembered features,--years and climate had

laid their hewy imprint on them, but in outline, they were those of

my former play-fellow. The light and springy figure of the boy were

gone--and a stout and compact form now stood before me, and just such as

I remember Mr. Clifford’s was some thirty years ago. Holy father, Edward

Clifford is alive, and not seven miles from where we sit.”

“I do not put faith in witchcraft,” muttered the priest--“but this

strange tale of yours would almost make me a believer. Well--we both,

it would appear, are on the eve of ruin. I, in expectations which I

conceived to be sure as certainty itself--and your acquisitions, my good

friend, methinks are sadly jeopardized.”

“Mine jeopardized!” exclaimed the steward--“More than that, reverend

sir--I shall be ruined, beggared, and undone. It is not the blow itself,

heavy as it is, but the suddenness of the stroke that annihilates me.

Could I but have had the warning of a month--in that brief interval, I

might have so arranged, that when I bent to the storm--as bend I must--I

might have sought another country, possessor of ten thousand pounds;

ay, and carried with me too the rents payable a fortnight hence. If

ever calamity fell heavily on man, it has fallen upon me--and by such

agency--the only beings upon earth whom I, at the same time, hated and

injured most.”

“Yes,” observed the churchman, half in soliloquy and half addressing

himself to his companion--“the mystery is cleared--and the old man’s

altered bearing is now sufficiently accounted for. Worse yet--the

mischief is beyond all remedy. One duped so long and so completely, when

once the mind is disabused, becomes ten-fold more suspicious than they

who have never been deceived. Mr. Clifford is exactly that sort of

character. His thoughts and acts are now as clearly revealed to me, as

if I had listened to every communication made by that artful woman, and

read the secret letters he has written and received. For how long, did

this returned prodigal mention to his female confederate, that these

intended disclosures were to be delayed?”

“The phrase was vague,” replied the steward. “In a few days’--ay, that

was the term he used.”

“A limited time, indeed, for action--but brief as it is, I will avail

myself of the lull, and not await the bursting of the storm,” observed

the confessor.

“And will you leave _me_ alone to face the coming tempest?” inquired the

steward, with evident alarm and surprise. “Holy father--have I not ever

been to you a faithful friend? have I not acted as you directed? have

not my own interests been frequently sacrificed to yours? Has not your

word with me been law--your advice implicitly followed--your plans

zealously carried out? I was ever your ready and your willing agent--and

now, in the hour of need and danger, will _you_ desert me?”

A pause of a minute ensued.

“Morley,” returned the confessor slowly--“I cannot see how my remaining

here could serve you. You wish to delay events--to avert them would now

be idle as to war against the elements. But how can breathing-time be

gained? Mine own interests would make a short interval before discovery

shall take place, as desirable as is respite to the criminal; but, by

mine order--I cannot devise any plan that could promise even probable

success. We stand upon a loaded mine--and who can say the moment when

the engineer will fire the train?”

“Still, reverend sir,” continued the steward, “have we not days to

count upon--and what might not hours, were they but well-employed,

accomplish?”

“Yes,” returned the priest--“days certainly may be reckoned on--and,

under ordinary circumstances, much might be effected in the mean-while.

But in this case--one so hopeless and so desperate--when the very grave

would seem to have given up its dead--and when--”

“The grave must receive the living in return. Ay, father, there is but

one chance left,--Clifford dies--no alternative remains but death for

him--or disgrace, and poverty, and banishment for me.”

“No more of that,” exclaimed the cautious churchman. “Pause ere you

act--and weigh well the consequences. England, for such experiments, is

a dangerous country. Remember your former attempt on young O’Halloran.

What a disastrous failure! Four lives were sacrificed--while he, the

destined victim, passed through the trial unharmed! ‘Twere better,

possibly, my friend, to yield to circumstances, and--”

“See myself impoverished and insulted. I am no favourite with the

country,--they view me as an upstart--and often has that cutting truth

been told me to my face. The tenants on these estates secretly dislike

me. As matters stand, their bad feelings are not exhibited--but let the

change come that we anticipate--then, like a cry of hounds, every voice

will be united against me, and I must either skulk cowardly away, or be

hunted to the death, while the man I hate, have hated, and will while

life remains detest, he will be received with acclamation, and trample

on a fallen enemy whose neck is already in the very dust. No--no--though

life be lost in the attempt, near as he fancies himself to this, his

long estreated inheritance--he never shall be nearer. Father, I start

instantly for London. We must act--ay, and act immediately.”

“Of these things I remain in ignorance,” returned the confessor. “But

if you risk this perilous attempt--safety and success in every mortal

venture, depend upon two simple qualities--prudence and promptness.

These two, in human actions, are worth every cardinal virtue beside.

Farewell--I too have cares which, for hours to come, will keep me

watching.”

The confederates separated--each to carry out his own particular

object. The confessor had only the future to regret--the past he had

secured--and consequently, he had neither a necessity or a wish to

join in Morley’s dangerous experiments. With the steward, matters were

altogether different. In rash confidence, all that he had cared for

hitherto, was to accumulate--and hence, his ill-acquired wealth had been

so clumsily invested, that time was absolutely necessary to enable him

to regain possession of his property. That time could only be obtained

by a fearful and perilous attempt. But no course besides remained--and

Morley started that night for London.

*****

The evening was wild and blustering--doors creaked--windows were

unusually noisy for that season of the year--and those who had a

fire-side, were too happy to find themselves at home. “The George” was

entirely deserted; for the stragglers who had dropped in after sunset,

alarmed at the threatening appearance of the weather, took a hurried

refreshment, and pushed forward to gain their abiding places before

the fury of the night should break. Three trwellers, however, still

remained. They had required and obtained an apartment for their especial

use--and a fire hwing been lighted in the parlour of the hostlerie, the

wayfarers there bestowed themselves.

One, who seemed to play the host, was a man of respectable appearance,

and beyond the middle age. He might be a farmer, a lawyer, a trader--but

it was clear he was not, in common parlance, a gentleman. The others

were of a caste immeasurably inferior. One was tall, burly, and

dark-visaged--the other, short, slightly-framed, and sandy-haired. The

countenances of both were particularly repulsive--and a stranger would

have found it hard to determine whether they were knaves, or ruffians,

or both.

He who appeared “lord of the revel” seemed ill at ease. He rose from

his chair--looked for a moment from the window--muttered something about

“foul weather out of doors--” returned, sounded a hand-bell which had

been placed beside him--ordered supper to be hastened, and brandy and

water to be brought in, to fill the tedious interval.

The order was obeyed--“the maid of the inn” departed--the door was

closed--and each of the company, by an involuntary impulse, looked over

his shoulder to ascertain that no eaves-dropper was near. He who played

the host seemed in no mood for revelry, and merely sipped the glass

before him--the lesser of the strangers also drank sparingly--but the

tall ruffian turned down the tumbler considerably below its centre,

pushed its diminished contents further on the board, and then leaning

a pair of overgrown hands upon his knees, and bending forward until his

head, by slow progression, had made a Turkish obeisance to the superior

of the company, in slow and pointed terms he begged respectfully to

inquire, “what business had brought himself and--” he merely pointed to

his companion--“on such short notice to the country?”

“Business--and that, too, of consequence,” was the brief reply.

“All right,” returned the stouter ruffian. “Business is very well in its

way--but I’d like to understand the nature of the job before I undertook

it. Light work is well enough, but when it comes, Mr. Thingembob--for I

don’t know y’er name--to what we calls _heavy_, wot means, ye know, hemp

or transportation--why then men must look about them, and ax a question

or two before they takes on.”

[Illustration: 0465]

To this judicious remark the smaller of the two assented by a gracious

inclination of the head--while the question, so homely put, appeared to

have disconcerted their respectable patron, for he did not answer for

a minute, and then the reply was evasive. After passing a flattering

encomium on the character of the late Mr. Sloman--whose irreparable loss

was deeply to be regretted--he hinted that, in his line of business,

there was now a blank. His unhappy death, and the equally unhappy

consequences which followed, had left a dreary void. It was impossible

to find a professional gentleman equally talented and trustworthy.

Undoubtedly, men of high honour and strong nerve could be found--and

therefore, rather than run risks, he, Mr. Jones, as he was pleased to

call himself, would prefer doing business with principals, and having no

humbug among friends.

What a strange epitome of life the scenes enacted at an inn would

furnish! How dissimilar in rank, in object, in vocation, are those

whom every apartment of this human halting-place receives in turn! The

care-worn and the careless--the miser and the spendthrift. Opulence,

with unassuming carriage--penury, vainly attempting to brazen out its

wretchedness. A noble, in title old as the conquest, rests in this

chamber to-day--to-morrow it will be tenanted by a bagman, who never

heard that such a being as his grandfather had existence. This evening a

bridal party occupy the inn. They dream of naught but happiness--theirs

is a fancy world--their road of life is carpeted with roses--they leave

next morning. Who, next in succession, fill the same apartment on the

morrow?--a coroner’s inquest, to ascertain what caused the suicide of a

village beauty, “who loved not wisely, but too well.”

While Mr. Jones and his friends were thus engaged in the large, parlour

upstairs, in a small back room behind the bar of “the George,” two other

personages were comfortably located. One was the jolly hostess, whom

nothing but “rum and true religion” could have upholden, seeing that,

in the brief space of ten years, she had been thrice a mourner. Finding,

however, that in marital luck there is no faith “in odd numbers,” she

had judiciously concluded on risking the fortune of an even one; and,

at the moment when Mr. Morley was bargaining with his amiable companions

above stairs, the widow of “the George” was endeavouring to ascertain

whether a matrimonial arrangement was likely to “come off” below.

“A mighty cold place these cross roads must be in the winter; and I

don’t wonder, Mrs. Tomkins, that you’re uncommon lonely--and especially

in the long nights. How short the days are gettin’!”

“Ah, Mister Magavarel--”

“Macgreal, if you please, Mrs. Tomkins.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the lady; “but, as I was saying, I’ll never

get over Christmas as I am. Though I look stout and hearty, I am but a

timidious sort of woman after all;--a fight in the kitchen knocks me of

a heap, and noises after night put me totally from sleeping afterwards.”

“All! then I pity ye, Mrs. Tomkins,” returned the suitor; “after sodding

three dacent husbands, no wonder that a fourth would be in ye’r way, now

that the could weather’s comin’ on. It was only yesterday I was sayin’

to Mister Dominik, the black gentleman at the park, “Dominik,” says I.

“What?” says he. “If ever,” says I, “I’d venture to go before the priest

in company wid a woman, it’s Mistress Tomkins, of the George, would be

my choice.”

“And isn’t it strange, Mister Macgreal, that you never took a wife?”

“‘I was over bashful when a boy, and feaks! my modesty never quitted me

afterwards,” returned Shemas Rhua, looking as innocently in the smiling

face of the landlady of the George, as if he had never crooked a knee

before Father Peter Fogarty at the altar of hymen.

Shame on ye for a deceiver! If the honest woman who owns you in

Connemara were but at your elbow, and overheard your insidious attempts

upon the too-tender hearted Widow Tomkins, I would not be in your coat,

Shemas Rhua, for all the rats and rabbits you’ll kill this side of

Christmas!

To what lengths Captain Macgreal might have urged his treacherous

suit, it would be difficult to fancy, but the sudden entrance of

Mrs. Tomkins’s attendant, fortunately for her lady’s peace of mind,

interrupted the further oratory of the false ratcatcher. She delivered

some trifling message.

“If ever,” continued the maid of the inn, “murder was written in a

mortal countenance, you may see it in the faces of two of the fellows

above stairs. Lord! if they stop here to-night, I shall never close an

eye!”

“Who are they?” inquired the ratcatcher.

“Heaven only knows,” was the reply. “They came into the house about an

hour ago, and from the appearance of their shoes, I should say they had

walked some distance. They inquired for a Mr. Jones; and on being told

there was no person here of the name, they called for some ale, and said

they would sit down and wait for their friend’s arrival. Presently the

man they asked for arrived on horseback, dismounted, spoke to the others

for some minutes, requested to have the use of a private room, and they

retired together.”

“You may depend upon it, the errand that brought them here is not an

honest one. Could you but see the suspicious looks they throw round them

when I enter or lewe the room!”

“We’ll soon know more of both themselves and the business that brought

them here,” returned the buxom widow. “You must know, Mister Macgreal,

that a dark closet I keep for my private use, is divided from the large

sitting room up stairs by a boarded partition, and there are cracks in

the paper through which you can see what passes in the other room,

and hear every word that’s said. Many a stolen kiss I’ve witnessed

there--and many a tale of love I’ve listened to. Follow me softly. But,

Lord! what was I going to do? Venture myself in the dark, and with an

Irish gentleman! Oh! I won’t move a step, unless Susan comes along with

us.”

“Honour bright!” exclaimed the ratcatcher.

“And you know there must be somebody left to mind the bar,” added the

spider-brusher.

These observations were conclusive, and after an assurance of great

discretion on the Captain’s part, the lady agreed to venture herself

alone, and even in the dark, with the bashful Irishman.

Without occasioning the slightest alarm to the guests, who occupied the

“great chamber” of the George, the ratcatcher and his fair companion

ensconced themselves in the closet, and as it would appear, too, at a

moment when the negotiation had assumed a business-looking character,

and matters were drawing to a close.

“We understand one another perfectly,” said Mr. Jones.

“I must allow it,” replied the larger of the ruffians, “that you have

come straight-for’ed to the scratch, Mr. Jones; and I hopes you vo’nt

take it amiss, that we axed that part of the coal should be posted

before we undertakes the job. Ye see, it’s what we calls heavy

work,--nothing like greasing a man’s fist before he commences, it makes

him go at the bisniss slap, because he knows that the rowdy will be

stumped up when all’s right afterwards. It’s now late enough, so if

you’ll show us the way into the park, and point the right-un out, we’ll

make matters sure to-morrow night, and no mistake.”

“I am satisfied you will acquit yourselves like men of spirit,” was

the reply. “Proceed down the lane that turns to the right, and when I

discharge the reckoning, I’ll mount my horse and follow. At the second

gate--you will find it open--wait for me.”

“The ruffians twain” rose and left the room, their employer called a

bill, ordered his horse to the door, and quitted the hostlerie. The

Captain prepared to follow him, and having kissed the landlady, a

liberty for which he received a severe reproof, accompanied, however, by

a general invitation to drop in as often as he could, “the George” in

a few minutes was totally deserted, and Mrs. Tomkins issued orders that

her premises should be closed for the night, with a passing remark to

her attendant, of “what a nice man Mr. Hartley’s keeper was.”

CHAPTER XLV.

_Gloster_.--“I was a pack-horse in his great affairs.”

King Richard III

“Thou art in London--in that pleasant place

Where ev’ry kind of mischief’s daily brewing.”

Don’ Juan.

|A quarter of an hour elapsed before the confusion my sudden entrance

into the drawing-room of Bromley Park occasioned the inmates, had

entirely subsided. I ran briefly over the narrative of my capture and

escape--accounted for the non-appearance of the fosterer--was assured,

notwithstanding wounds and “durance vile,” that I looked particularly

healthy--and in due course returned, as in duty bound, a shower of

compliment. The Colonel was particularly anxious to know why a lodgment

was attempted on the breach, without battering down the defences; and in

support of his opinion, made some extensive quotations from Vauban

and Carnot. He also wished to inquire, why the false alarm upon the

land-side, when the globe of compression was fired with such success,

had not been turned, like the feint of the third division at Badajoz,

into a real attack? Mr. Clifford asked the exact date to which my last

advices from England had reached me, that he should take up his details

therefrom. My mother was solicitous in ascertaining how often Mark

Antony had attended mass; and was rather anxious to find out whether the

fosterer had fasted upon Fridays, and figured frequently at confession.

Poor Isadora’s were whispered queries, and more readily and willingly

replied to:--“Had I really thought of her?” and “Were the ladies of the

Peninsula so handsome as they had been represented?” The answer to the

first was an ardent affirmation, and to the second I gave a faithful

assent--for the finest features of Isadora’s beauty were decidedly

Spanish.

The entrance of two former acquaintances, Dominique and my loving

countryman, the ratcatcher, induced the ladies to withdraw, and retire

to their respective apartments. From the faithful negro I received an

ardent welcome; and the Captain was graciously pleased to express his

satisfaction at my return. Indeed, the outer man of the latter was so

changed for the better, that I might have passed him on the road and

not recognised my former ally. The eccentric habiliments in which he had

migrated from “the far-west,” had given place to the smart costume of

an English game-keeper; and as the Captain was a stout, careless-looking

fellow, no wonder he had found fwour in the widow’s sight, and had been

pronounced by that experienced lady, “a nice man.”

After Dominique’s congratulations, and Shemas Rhua’s “ceade fealtagh”

had been duly delivered, the latter, in sentences equally compounded of

English and Irish, the ratcatcher announced himself to my uncle, as the

bearer of important intelligence. He had been taking a turn round the

park, he said, after night-fall, with the gun under his arm, on the

look-out for poachers, and in the course of his rambles had dropped into

“the George:” What occurred there he briefly detailed, with the omission

of all love-passages between himself and the fair widow, and then he

thus proceeded with his narrative:--

“I followed the sound of the horse’s feet. When the rider reached the

second gate in the lane, he dismounted, joined the other villains, and

all three walked forward towards the broken palings, while I slipped

quietly through the wicket, and, knowing my path well, was at the

opening in the fence before they reached it. Only two of them came in,

for the little fellow remained outside with the horse. They went along,

trampling on broken boughs as they groped their road, while I kept the

grass under my foot, and dodged them without being overheard. They

made directly for the house--and when they turned by the clump of

ever-greens, I ran round by the other side and hid behind a holly. I

saw them steal to the window of this room, and look in for at least five

minutes. They then fell back close to the bush that sheltered me.

“‘You’re certain you know the man?’ says the dacent dressed fellow to

the other thief.

“‘To be sure I do,’ was the answer--‘he has a pair of arms, and the

other cove but one.’

“‘You see how easily it can be done. You can shoot him from the outside,

and be safe on the high road before any body could give an alarm.’

“‘The job’s plain enough,’ said the other.

“‘And the moment it’s done, mind that you be off at once to London--and

for your lives don’t stop to drink on the way. Attend to this--avoid

public houses--and all trace of you is lost.’

“‘And you’ll be sure to meet us the day after?’

“‘Sure as the sun will rise.’

“‘And what time should we do the trick?’

“‘As soon after dusk as you can manage it. Earlier would not be safe.

Can you conceal your arms?’

“‘Easily--I’ll borrow a poacher’s gun from an old pal of mine. It comes

in pieces; the barrel unscrews in the middle, and you can carry it in

the hare-pocket of a shooting jacket.’

“‘Come.--You know the man and the place. Let us be off. I’m too late

from home.’

“They returned through the plantation. As they approached the paling--I

still hanging on their heels--I was sorely tempted to give them a barrel

a piece before we parted; but I thought, as I had found out all they

were after, that it was better to let them pass this time--and inform

your honour of what was in the wind.”

“You acted, gallant Captain,” replied Mr. Clifford, “with excellent

tact and judgment. I see clearly through the business. My existence and

return are discovered--and the wretch, who caused my exile, would

now consummate his villany by murder. It will only expedite the

_denouement_--and with the failure of to-morrow night, Morley’s

career will close. Come, Hector, we must not forget that you require

refreshment--and while you sup, I will acquaint you with events which

have occurred during your absence from the country.”

While my uncle was detailing the progress of his secret operations, I

was giving him ocular proof that my appetite had not deteriorated by

campaigning. But even supper and a long story has an end. The clock had

struck the first hour of morning--we parted for the night--the Colonel,

by no means satisfied that the assault on San Sebastian should have

failed--Mr. Clifford, to mature his plans, and avail himself of the

ratcatcher’s information--and I, to seek my pillow with that blessed

and heart-cheering assurance, that all I loved dearest on earth were

slumbering beneath the same roof-tree.

From Bromley Park we will carry the reader for a brief interval away,

and follow the fosterer and his companion to the native village of the

latter. It was sunset on the succeeding evening, before the stage coach

on whose roof the pair were seated, stopped at the cross roads at a

mile’s distance from Rawlings’s home, and there deposited the trwellers.

Never did a couple of wayfarers cross a pathway more expeditiously. They

had light kits and light purses--but they had what was better than any

thing wealth could produce, lighter hearts--for from a fellow-passenger,

William, to the inquiry, “Doth my father still live?” had received an

assurance that the old man was well, and happy, and without a care, save

what arose from anxiety regarding the safety of his absent son. Nor was

the fosterer less gratified by the further tidings of the stranger. His

mistress was looking better than she had ever done--at least, such was

the village, report--and but a week ago, it was whispered that she had

declined the hand of the wealthiest farmer in the neighbourhood. The

colour mounted to the lover’s cheek. To hear that his mistress was

fairer than before, was flattering to his pride--but to find her

constancy unchangeable, was incense to the heart.

The lights were sparkling in the village casements before the trwellers

reached the termination of the pathway--and Rawlings with his companion

passed through the garden by a private wicket, and unobserved, reached

the rear of his father’s cottage. The security and confidence ever felt

in dwellings “far from town,” were here apparent--for the window of the

little parlour was neither protected by shutter or curtain from theft or

curiosity; and while the retired soldier luxuriated with his pipe, his

pretty daughter was engaged in plying her needle busily, in perfect

unconsciousness that the eyes of a lover were gazing fondly on her from

without.

“Heaven bless ye both!” ejaculated the warm-hearted sailor, “We must

not appear too suddenly; come, we’ll step over to the Lion, and send

the landlady across to tell father and sister that the wanderers are

returned.”

William Rawlings was the pride of the village; every rustic coquette was

flattered by his preference; and it was said that it was rather out of

pique than love, that the miller’s pretty daughter had listened to

the suit of the jolly landlord of “the Lion.” Certain it is, that her

reception of the handsome sailor was much more ardent, than wliat he of

the spigot would have approved, had he been a witness to the unexpected

meeting.

“Why, William, art thee alive, man?”

“Alive, girl; ay, and likely to live. I need not ask thee for Julia and

the old man--I had a peep at both through the parlour window. Step over,

dear Betsey, and let them quietly know that here I am, sound as British

oak, and an old comrade along with me.”

“Lord! they will be so overjoyed,” exclaimed the hostess, as she skipped

across the street, and knocked at the old quarter-master’s hall-door.

“Ah! Betsey, is it thou?” said the veteran, as he knocked the ashes

from his pipe, and held his hand out to the visitor. “What news, my

girl?--girl--no, no--I must call thee dame now.”

“Look in my face,” returned the pretty hostess, “const thou not read

good tidings there?”

“What mean ye, Betsey?” inquired the old man’s daughter.

“Mean?--nothing but what I say; I am the bearer of the best news you

have listened to for the last six months.”

“Is it aught concerning my boy?” exclaimed the excited quartermaster.

“Yes--William is alive and well; and of that an old friend of his,

who stopped just now at the Lion, will give you presently, a full

assurance.”

“Heaven, I thank thee!” said the old man, as he reverently raised

his eyes, and poured the brief offering of gratitude warmly from a

surcharged heart.

“Don’t be surprised at--”

“His return!” exclaimed the other female. “Is he come home? Betsey--dear

Betsey--end this suspense, and make us too, too happy.”

“Certainly,” said the fair hostess, “the sailor aeross the street is

very like your brother.”

“Oh! I will fly to him,” exclaimed the old man’s daughter, as she

rushed towards the door--but in the passage her farther progress was

arrested--a man clasped her in his lusty embrace, and covered her lips

with kisses.

“William, dear William--”

“Julia--my darling sister.”

“Said I not truly,” observed the pretty hostess, “that I brought you

joyous news?”

Next moment the wanderer was kneeling at his father’s feet; and that

night, had Britain been searched through, a happier family could not

have been discovered.

“And now that I have a chance of getting a civil answer, may I ask who

that handsome young soldier is? I hope he is going to stop at the Lion

for awhile. It would be a pleasure to serve a good-looking fellow

like your friend, after being plagued waiting on frumpy farmer?, and

answering beer-drinking boors.”

“Why, Mistress Betsey, that same well-featured youth is a trusty comrade

of my own, and a sworn friend of a wild Irishman my sister is slightly

acquainted with,--a gentleman called Mark Antony O’Toole.”

The name seemed to have a magical effect. Julia’s cheeks, in a moment,

were dyed with blushes--a heavy sigh involuntarily escaped--a tear

trembled in her eye--and a looker-on would have been dull indeed, who

could not have read the secret of her love.

“All!” said the landlady archly, “no wonder Frank Robinson was rejected.

So, Mistress Julia, and you would not confide in your old schoolfellow,

and tell her you were over head and ears in love.”

“He is to be our guest for a few days--longer, probably, if you will

make yourself agreeable. Julia, are you not obliged to me, my fair

sister, not only for bringing myself safely back, but also for coming

home provided with a brother-in-law, if you will only let me recommend

a husband to you.--Hay, dear Julia, no tears--I but jest, you know,

and would not wound thy feelings for the world. I will go over for my

friend--” He said, and left the room, accompanied by the pretty hostess.

The old man resumed his pipe; and poor Julia ascended to her own

apartment, to bless Heaven for the restoration of a brother--and weep,

were the truth known, for the absence of one even still dearer to her

heart.

Five minutes passed--the hall door opened--she heard the well-known

voice of the wanderer inquire for her, and presently footsteps were

heard upon the stairs.

“Julia--what moping here, and not down to offer a welcome to my friend!

Well, I must fetch thee, girl!” and William Rawlings unclosed the door.

She started--the stranger was beside him--and she turned a look of

displeasure and surprise on the thoughtless mariner.

“Hay, don’t look marlin-spikes at me, Julia. Here is the real offender.”

One glance, and the secret was disclosed. With a face beaming with

delight, and eyes more brilliant now, “For having lost their light

awhile,” she sprang into the fosterer’s arms. The vows of simple but

ardent love were mutually interchanged anew--and that night the happiest

family in Sussex would have been found circling the quartermaster’s

parlour fire.

*****

The clock was striking two, when the steward, after leaving his horse in

the stables of Clifford Park, walked hastily to the hall, and admitted

himself by means of a private key, to the wing of the building occupied

by the confessor and himself. On looking towards the chamber of the

priest, as Morley approached the mansion, a thin stream of light escaped

from an opening in the shutters, and told that the holy occupant had not

yet retired to his pillow. The steward tapped gently at the churchman’s

door, which was opened by the occupant himself. ‘Within, the room was

in manifest confusion--several trunks and boxes were being packed--the

grate was filled with the remains of burnt papers--and it was quite

evident that the confessor was making such preparations as foreboded an

immediate departure.

“How now, Morley,--What news? Has aught occurred since noon?” inquired

the churchman.

“I have determined to run the risk, and nothing now can change this

resolution. The arrangements are completed. To-morrow night--”

“Nay,” said the confessor--“I neither wish, nor will know any thing

of what is to happen to-morrow. It is enough for me to know what has

occurred this afternoon.”

“Has any thing important taken place?” asked the steward.

“Yes--two persons arrived this evening. They sleep to-night in the

house. One I know to be Mr. Clifford’s legal adviser. The other I fancy

is to be the successor to yourself.”

“To me?” exclaimed Morley in astonishment. “No, no! holy father! That

will not be so hastily decided as you imagine.”

“Well--a short time will settle the question. After the strangers had

been closeted with the old man for an hour, I framed an excuse, and

requested to speak to Mr. Clifford for a minute. An answer was returned

that he was engaged particularly, and orders issued that none should

intrude upon him. There is a change indeed. _I_, refused admittance, who

for years was constant at his side even as a shadow. _I_, who hitherto

dictated who should be received and who rejected! Saints and angels! I

can scarcely believe the thing myself.”

The steward had listened with an expression of countenance, which

evinced a sort of stupid incredulity. “Father, are we both awake?” he

inquired with a sickly smile, that betrayed the inward workings of a

bosom racked with disappointment and despair.

“Mine, Morley,” returned the confessor coldly, “are the acts of a man

fully awake to coming events. No papers shall rise in judgment against

me;” and he pointed to the fire-place--“and, as you may perceive, I am

preparing for a long journey on sudden notice. Have you been in your

room since your return? I fancy you will find there a document laid upon

your table.”

The steward instantly retired--his absence was short, and he entered the

priest’s apartment with an open letter in his hand.

“Even so”--and his white lips quivered as he spoke--“‘Tis from the old

man--brief, but to the purpose--I am rudely discharged, and--”

“Directed to give an account of your stewardship,” continued the priest;

“which may not exactly be convenient. What do you purpose doing?”

“Avenge myself, holy father--leave Clifford Hall ‘a house of mourning’

and, through the son, strike the cold dotard to the heart. Yes, if

ruin impends on me, I shall involve others in the vortex. This time

to-morrow, the stern old man who turns me as contemptuously away as I

would spurn a beggar from the gate, shall be, what through life, and by

my agency, he has been--childless.--Farewell!”

He said, and left the apartment.

* * * * *

It is asserted that excessive joy, like agonizing sorrow, equally drives

sleep away. When I retired to my conch, happiness and hope reigned in

my bosom--and yet my dreams were light, my slumbers sound. I was early

astir--but others were earlier still--and when I entered the parlour, I

found the family party already collected.

Like all other breakfasts, ours ended in due course; the ladies retired;

and Mr. Clifford, the Colonel, and myself, adjourned to the lawn, and

there held a walking consultation. In fact, with his customary decision,

my uncle had already made his dispositions. The intended bravos were

denounced to the police; and at the very moment we were talking matters

over on the lawn, Mr. Morley’s agents were in close custody in London.

It was necessary that another day should pass, before Mr. Clifford

deemed it expedient to throw off his incognito. It wore away. At Bromley

Park the inmates were variously employed:--my uncle, in carrying out

his successful arrangements; my father, in ascertaining whether a false

attack on the sea-face of San Sebastian might not have operated as

an effective diversion; my mother, I suspect, in offering additional

prayers to Heaven for my safe return; and Isidora and myself--but,

pshaw! the communings of young hearts were never intended for

revealment.--

*****

Again the scene must change. At Clifford Hall the presence of two

strangers was unusual; and, in that dull and sleepy establishment, that

trifling event had occasioned some sensation. When morning advanced,

the surprise of the household was considerably increased. The confessor

had disappeared, having removed all his baggage, none knew where or how.

The steward was also missing, but his apartments were in their customary

state; and as he frequently left the hall for days together in course of

duty, his absence occasioned no particular surprise. The churchman had

departed for the continent two hours before the steward quitted Clifford

Park, and, as it was fated, neither re-entered the domain gates after

they had passed them.

It would appear, that when he found his former friend and counsellor had

left him to his resources, all Morley’s self-possession vanished, and

his future actions seemed rather the results of sudden impulse than of

deliberate forethought. Without any fixed object, he took the road to

London; and that, too, by circuitous routes, which rendered the journey

unnecessarily tedious. Although his general habits were temperate,

he made frequent halts at road-side houses, and drank freely where he

stopped. It was late when he reached the metropolis--and on his arrival

in the Borough, he put up his horse at an obscure inn, took some

refreshment, ordered a bed he never occupied; for, as it afterwards

appeared, he spent the night rambling through the streets, or drinking

in low houses only frequented by the vicious and the destitute. God

knows what the wretched man’s feelings were! He then believed that a

foul act was doing, or had been done; and it is hard to say, whether

remorse for having caused the deed, or a savage exultation at its

fancied accomplishment, had fevered his guilty soul, and, like another

Cain, “murdered sleep,” and when innocence reposes, made him a wretched

wanderer.

Morning came, and at the appointed hour named to meet his myrmidons,

the steward repaired to the place of rendezvous. He hastened on, as he

believed, to learn the death of his victim; but it was only to hurry his

own guilty career to its close. The wretched man, in thieves’ parlance,

was “regularly planted.” The moment they found themselves in custody,

the ruffians (both returned convicts) admitted their intended crime, and

gave ample information by which their employer should be detected. It

was arranged by the officers that Morley should be received by one

of the ruffians, at the public-house where the meeting had been

appointed--and, apparently blind to danger, the steward entered the tap

and passed through into a back room, which had been notified to him as

the place where his sanguinary associates would be found in waiting.

The room was squalid in appearance, ill-lighted, and in every respect

a fitting place for villains to frequent. At a dark corner he perceived

the larger ruffian at a table--and, what rather startled him at first,

a stranger seated at his side. A brief conversation, however, explained

the matter. “The other cove had shyed when it came to the point, and

he had to call on a trusty pal, the gentleman wot sate beside him.”

Thoroughly deceived, Morley fell into the trap laid for him, without

harbouring a suspicion--listened with manifest satisfaction to a

fabricated detail of the imaginary assassination--handed to the

murderer the price of blood--and was about to leave the room, when the

confederate ruffian struck a hewy blow upon the table with a pewter

measure--announced that he was a Bow-street runner, and Morley his

prisoner. Then turning to the door, he repeated the signal a second

time. It was answered--three officers came in.

Although astounded at the occurrence, the steward came to a sudden and

desperate determination. The ruffian, hardened as he was, turned his

eyes away in another direction from his victim--and, taking advantage

of the momentary absence of the officer at the door, when summoning

his fellows from below, Morley unperceived, took a small phial from

his pocket, and swallowed the contents. He was instantly secured and

searched--a large sum in money taken from his person--the handcuffs

were being put on, which were to bind him for a time to the returned

convict--the wretch who had betrayed him,--when suddenly, his look

became fixed and glassy--his face livid--he reeled into the arms of an

officer, and next moment, sank on the floor a corpse.

CONCLUSION.

“All tragedies are finish’d by a death,

All comedies are ended by a marriage”

Don Juan.

|The second week of October was beautiful. The woods were tinted with

the varied hues which autumn interposes between “summer green,” and

“snow clad winter.” The sun shone brightly--the birds sang--the bells

rang out a merry peal--and a bridal, in long array, swept through the

long avenue of Clifford Park, and approached the village church. The road

was crowded with all the rustic population of the neighbourhood--and,

while the men hurrahed, the girls spread flowers along the churchyard

path, when the young and beautiful bride left the carriage at the gate,

and advanced to the portal of the sacred edifice. She reached the altar

leaning on her lover’s arm--and there, encouraged by the approving

smiles of happy relatives and surrounded by a gaily dressed _cortège_ of

bridal attendants, interchanged her vows of constancy, and bestowed her

plighted hand upon the youth who knelt beside her. The surpliced priest

pronounced his benison, and closed the book--the holy ceremony was

over--but an interesting scene remained. An aged man, on whose head the

snows of eighty winters rested, had sate beside the altar in a chair,

while the sacred rite was celebrated. When the churchman’s blessing died

away in the echo of the distant aisle, the old man signalled the young

couple to approach him; they knelt at the feet of their venerable

relation, who laid a hand upon either head, and with eyes devoutly

up-turned, invoked Heaven’s protection upon his darling children. The

blesser was Mr. Clifford--the blessed ones, Isidora and myself.

*****

A second time the sun had circled the earth, and the same season had

returned. Again the village bells were rung, and the park of Clifford

Hall was crowded with tenants and villagers--that day it was the scene

of rejoicing and festivity--an heir was born to the ancient name--and

the baptismal ceremony was being performed within the hall, in presence

of a goodly assemblage. From the font, the infant was carried in the

arms of his young and happy mother to an easy chair, where a venerable

man was seated. She knelt and invoked his blessing; and, upon the heads

of two generations the old man’s hands were laid, while his lips poured

forth an ardent benediction.

*****

Again the year came round. It was later in the season, for withered

leaves were spread thickly on the ground, a mute but striking type of

life’s decay. Slow and hewily the village bell was tolling--death was in

Clifford Hall, and its owner was about to be carried to the tomb, where

his forefathers were sleeping. Ripe for the grave--surrounded by those

he loved--cheered by the consolations of religion, Mr. Clifford had

calmly slumbered life away--his head pillowed on a daughter’s

bosom--his hand pressed gently within the grasp of a son, from whom for

five-and-thirty years he had been alienated.

*****

The stranger who passes through the domain of Clifford Hall, will

occasionally encounter a hale, stout, white-headed-man, in leathers

and gambroon, with a gun under his arm, and two Scotch terriers at his

heels. That personage was once intituled Shemus Rhua--but years have

spoiled the _sobriquet_. At the back gate there is a picturesque

cottage, with a flower-garden attached, and filled with bee-hives. There

a handsome old woman will present herself, attended by a village girl.

She bears the appearance of a faithful servant, who has retired with

every comfort. That old woman was once Ellen--or the gipsy, as you

please.

In the immediate front of the Hall, two elderly personages may be

daily noticed. One--stout, stooped, very gray, and very

intelligent-looking--that is mine uncle. Another--spare, slight,

and with a head erect as if he intended to throw Father Time off his

shoulders, should he presume to invade them--his empty sleeve perfects

the identity. Need I name my father?

One more group remains. A middle-aged gentleman, and a lady, rich in the

beauty of middle life--a throng of children, that would throw Harriet

Martineau into hysterics, gambol round them, while a handsome old

gentlewoman, whom they term “grandmama,” superintends their movements.

If you cannot guess who they are--why go up to the steward’s house upon

the hill--and Mr. O’Toole, or his pretty wife, will inform you.

THE END.