CHAPTER VI.

Nearly a week had passed since the arrival of Ensign Wiley in the

neighborhood of Fort Constitution, and he had as yet manifested no

disposition to return. The vessel from which he landed still lay

sleeping at anchor, just beyond the reach of the cannons of the fort;

and himself, mingling freely in society, was every where received as a

welcome addition to its limited numbers. Gansevoort, at this period,

received a letter from his sister, which she had found means to send to

Washington’s camp in New Jersey, and which had been forwarded from

there. It was of recent date, and fully detailed the unparalleled

persecution to which she had been subjected, and to a recurrence of

which she was so soon to be exposed. Utterly astounded by this

intelligence, and moved almost to madness by her earnest appeals for a

relief beyond his ability to bestow, his grief yielded only to the most

bitter and burning wrath against the infamous author of her sufferings.

Long and anxiously he revolved the subject in his mind, without being

able to decide upon any feasible plan of relief. The time appointed for

the compulsory nuptials was so close at hand, that no action but the

most speedy could be of the least avail. There was no possibility of his

quitting his post, without special leave of the commander-in-chief,

which could not be obtained within the requisite time; and to complete

the combination of untoward events, his friend and counsellor, the Count

De Zeng, was temporarily absent from the fort. His return was not

expected until the ensuing morning, and Gansevoort was compelled

patiently to await that event, with the very faint hope that some means

of rescue might be devised. In the mean time, hoping to meet Wiley, and

obtain from him some information that might be serviceable to his plans,

he made an evening visit at the house of Captain Wilton, where, for the

first time, he found himself alone with Arabella. Conversation, as was

not unusual, took a political turn, and the affairs of King and Congress

were discussed for some time in a semi-jocular vein.

“Colonel Gansevoort is now in the camp of the enemy,” Miss Wilton at

length remarked; “if I could expect him to speak the truth under such

circumstances, I should be disposed to trouble him with a very serious

question.”

“Colonel Gansevoort will speak the truth, if he speaks at all,” replied

the latter, smiling, “even in the enemy’s camp.”

“Tell me, then, Frank,” she rejoined, assuming a familiarity that their

acquaintance in early life may possibly have justified, “tell me if you

really desire to see the independence of these colonies established.”

For a moment Gansevoort was too much astonished at this question to

reply. While he hesitated, a light of startling intensity broke upon his

mind; but subduing every sign of emotion, he still remained silent.

“I know,” she continued, “that although Congress has declared

independence, there are many of its supporters who in reality desire

nothing more than an honorable peace with Great Britain, as her

subjects. Suppose, then,” she added, “that you had it in your power to

contribute to that end, and thus to promote the best interests of your

country, and spare the effusion of human blood—would you not do it?”

Still Gansevoort did not reply.

“Suppose, also,” she continued, “that in so doing an honorable,

praiseworthy action, you could secure to yourself affluence and

distinction, would you not do it?”

Her companion at length spoke. “Why should we waste time in these idle

hypotheses?” he said; “I know of no such opportunities.”

“But would you avail yourself of them if presented to you?”

“If Miss Wilton believes that I would not act in accordance with what

was at once just and honorable, best for my country, and most

advantageous to myself, she certainly gives me but little credit for

discretion.”

“You have spoken at last, sir oracle, and like a man of sense and

spirit. You seek the substantial good of your country. For this alone

you have taken up arms; and for this, when it can be best accomplished

by so doing, you are willing to lay them down. You are ready to take

part in that patriotic and spontaneous movement which is every where

making to promote a permanent peace. You are a prominent and influential

man, whose example will lead others to return to their duty; and as

such, his majesty is ready to testify his regard for you, in a

particular and most gratifying manner.”

“His majesty has long had the reputation of being a gentleman of

benevolence,” replied Gansevoort. “May I inquire in what manner he

proposes to display it toward so insignificant a personage as myself?”

“Francis Gansevoort,” said Miss Wilton, “it is not unknown to the

officers of the king, that your patriotism has brought upon you the

curse of a loyal father, and that you are a disinherited and penniless

man. You shall see that your sovereign is more easily propitiated than

your sire. The royal exchequer will furnish an ample substitute for a

forfeited patrimony. A free gift of ten thousand pounds will testify the

approbation of our most gracious sovereign for his friend and subject,

_Sir_ Francis Gansevoort.”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed Gansevoort; “Is it possible?” now carried

away by real surprise. “But,” he continued, after a pause, “is there

nothing expected from me in return for such munificence, besides renewed

allegiance?”

“Nothing,” replied Miss Wilton, “literally nothing. It is true, that

merely as a proof of your sincerity, you will be expected to give up

this useless air-castle of yours, which, now that the war is exclusively

in another quarter, is in reality of no value either to King or

Congress.”

“It is an air-castle, truly,” exclaimed Gansevoort, glancing momentarily

from the window at the flag which floated among the dark clouds of

night. “Have I not reason to suspect that your dazzling project is also

a castle in the air and of less substantial texture? Kings do not

usually employ such agents in their negotiations.”

“His majesty does not lack an agent far more worthy to represent him

than myself. When you are prepared to enter upon the negotiation, he

shall be forthcoming. Ensign Wiley—”

“Enough!” cried Gansevoort; “I do not treat with ensigns. My own rank,

and the importance of this transaction demand an envoy of far higher

station, and one whose word is capable of binding the British

government.”

“Be satisfied, then,” said Miss Wilton; “at this hour to-morrow, and at

this place, you shall meet with one, to whose name, and rank, and

authority, the utmost fastidiousness could not object.”

“Doubt not I will meet him,” was the reply. And thus they parted.

A few hours later in the evening now referred to, two individuals were

seated in the cabin of the British sloop-of-war Dragon, engaged in

earnest conversation. Both were in military undress. The one was young,

slight, and good looking, with an air, however, of recklessness and

audacity, that spoke the fitting agent of dark and hazardous deeds. The

other was a middle-aged man, of more dignified and gentlemanly

deportment. His demeanor was one that denoted station and influence, but

his countenance bore that sinister expression, which nature often stamps

upon the vile, and which no effort of assumed honesty can fully

eradicate or conceal. Like the mark of Cain, it is indelible; but,

unfortunately, unlike that sign, it is perceptible only to an eye

practiced in the study of the human visage. An animated discussion had

been followed by a prolonged silence, when the latter, after rising and

rapidly pacing the floor, turned suddenly to his companion, and said,

“If you have made sure of success in this matter, Wiley, we shall have

accomplished a work of the utmost magnitude, and your reward will be

proportionate.”

“I assure you there is no room for doubt,” was the reply. “I have felt

my way step by step. Our conversations have been frequent and prolonged.

He believes that his cause is declining; that the leaders are rapidly

giving in their adhesion to the crown; that all oppressive measures will

be abandoned, and thus the chief object of the war attained. What

wonder, then, that he should hasten to be among the earliest penitents,

and thus secure to himself so brilliant a reward. In truth, I begin to

regret that you bade so high.”

“It is too late to think of that,” said the other, musing. “And Miss

Wilton is his affianced bride. Well, well—we have played for a heavy

stake, and won. How will these tidings rejoice Sir William!” Thus

muttering to himself, he continued to pace his limited apartment, until

his companion reminded him of the lateness of the hour.

[_Conclusion in our next._

* * * * *

THE IRISH MATCH-MAKER.

A STORY OF CLARE.

BY J. GERAGHTY M‘TEAGUE.

Those of my readers, (and particularly of my fair readers,) who may

expect to hear a love story, will, I am afraid, be grievously

disappointed; for though my legend certainly treats of that which, in

most countries, is the _consequence_ of the contrivances of the cunning

little god, yet we will hazard our affirmation that the course of true

love, as it runs through the hearts of the lads and lasses of Columbia,

is widely different in its manner among those of the west of Ireland,

and of all places in Ireland, the county of Clare.

To those who are familiar with the truly glorious tales of William

Carleton, all this is unnecessary; for these, with wonderful humor and

pathos, faithfully portray the endless peculiarities of Irish character.

Who that has alternately roared with merriment which he could not

suppress, and sobbed with strong emotion at the history of the “Poor

Scholar,” can ever forget it?

Among all Carleton’s delineations of Irish character, that of the

Shanahus is the one which chiefly bears on our present subject. “And who

is the Shanahus?” you ask. Well, I will tell you a few of his

characteristics from my own personal knowledge and observations.

In most countries under the sun, the getting of a wife is no such

railroad-speed kind of affair; and, (dating from the _first_ eloquent

glance of a bright eye, or sly _squeeze_ of a lily hand, to the happy

day when a certain little ceremony is performed,) occupies some little

time, and, as many probably will be inclined to admit, no little

anxiety, interlaced with a thousand little disappointments, &c.; all

very well known, and very delightful in their way, no doubt, _when all

comes right at last_. But in the land we are treating of, unlike all

others, except in some particulars the Eastern nations, from whom many

of our customs are derived, affairs are carried on in another kind of

manner.

The week before Lent, or Shrove, is the great time in Clare. And, oh!

what a study is here for the plenipotentiary, the _attaché_, or the

financier. A young man, (suppose, for instance,) hears of the “great

fortune” of some young lady in the neighborhood, or, what generally

happens, he is waited on by one of his friends, (_quite by accident_)

when a conversation to the following purport occurs:—

“Well, Jimmy, who do you think I’ve in my eye for you?”

“Why, then, how do I know, Corny?”

“What do you think of Judy Tucker?”

“Oh, that would be _great_, Corny! I hear she has a good stockin’ full?”

“Is it her? Two hundred pounds—no less; she’s no great beauty, but—”

“Oh, never heed, Corny. Do you think you could manage it?”

“Oh, let me alone.”

Corny then mentions it to his wife, and she takes an early opportunity

to go over to Judy’s residence, where she (quite casually) mentions

Jimmy Melish.

“Oh, but that’s the nice boy, Judy, agrah!”

“Is it Jemmy Melish you mane, that lives beyond the old church of

Kilbricken?”

“Yes, agrah!” (softly.) “Oh, but it’s he would make you the dashin’

husband!”

“Oh, yeh! what’s that you say?”

“_A husband_, dear! And _sich_ a beautiful _farm_! Ten cows—no less,

and every one of them white with a black star on their foreheads. Did

you ever see him, Judy?”

“No, I never did.”

“Well, come wid me to mass on Sunday, an’ I’ll show him to you.”

And thus is the ice broken. But who is Corny, all this time? Why he is

the veritable _Shanahus_; and he it is who is the oracle for all the

matches in the neighborhood.

Every district has its “Corny,” and it is he who has been the projector

of half the matches that have been made for years in that part of the

country; and seldom does it happen, so good is his judgment, that any

bad selection takes place.

As soon as the ice _is_ thus broken, sundry meetings take place at the

houses of both the suitor and the sought. In former days, countless were

the gallons of whiskey swallowed on these occasions, and bitter the

disputes. I have known a match broken off altogether from a discussion

as to which party was to provide the spirits for the wedding banquet;

but they are frequently annulled, even now, by a dispute about a pig,

which one side insists on being added to the “fortune,” and the other

refuses.

And now you see, my fair readers, that love has but little to do with

_these_ matches. I can positively state, and many will bear out my

assertion, that the blooming bride, and the happy bridegroom, have

frequently never before set eyes on each other until they stand up to

the ceremony, and it is singular to see the lady nudge a neighbour on

the arm, and say “_which av ’em is it?_” Yet these things are; though

I’ve no doubt they will gradually wear out, become matters of history,

and Clare grow “_like the rest of the world_.”

It is but justice to my country people to say, that in all my life, I

have never heard of an unhappy match. _Unfortunate_ it may be, and the

dire cravings of hunger may be often felt; but though these strange

people may show but a faint trace of what we call love in these

matrimonial _speculations_, of which I have given you a slight outline,

that they possess the strongest affections for their partners, in their

joys and sorrows, cannot for one instant be questioned. In sickness,

health, joy, sorrow, fortunes, and reverses, we will, for constancy and

affection, defend the “choice of the Shanahus” against the whole world.

Will it, then, be considered amiss, if we pass away one of these

evenings, or wet days, as the case may be, by relating a few of the more

remarkable doings of a pretty good specimen of the _genus_, who existed,

or (as we may truly say) _flourished_, in the county of Clare, some

little time ago?

Mehicle O’Kelopauthrick, (or Michael Fitzpatrick) then, was eminently

fond of his jokes, and was accounted, by all, the most knowing fellow in

the parish of Ballinacally. He had, withal, a happy genius, and was

peculiarly famed as a mediator in matrimonial arrangements. On this

account, Mehicle’s advice and assistance were frequently solicited to

transact these little matters of business, and truly surprising was the

consummate tact he would display on such occasions. Were he engaged on

the part of the “boy,” who, perhaps with scanty means and expectations

of his own, wished to secure a rich heiress, his _forte_ consisted in

making him appear, in the eyes of the opposite party, as rich again as

he really was. Was he, on the other hand, on the side of _her_

friends—in that case, he had to exert all his abilities in putting the

very same “boy” off with the least possible amount of fortune.

Notwithstanding, Mehicle was a jolly fellow, and no one could enjoy more

than he a good-humored frolic, especially when coupled with an affair of

this kind, which was ever to his fancy.

Now, some particularly “cute” things, which Mehicle did at various

times, bid fair long to live in the remembrances of the good folks of

Ballinacally; and if a sample or so will be at all acceptable (that is,

amusing) to my readers, they shall have one, and “lead mille failte”

into the bargain.

Mehicle, then, had occasion one season, in conformity, alas! to a too

general custom, (which would plunge me too much into an Irish agrarian

political discussion were I to describe,) had occasion, I say, to sow

his “handful of pratees” on a farm some miles from his own house, and

might be seen, early and late, going to and returning from his work.

He had been for some time thus engaged in preparing his potato-field,

when he observed that every day a young man of his acquaintance

regularly passed through the end of the same field, on his way to and

from the house of a rich old farmer, who lived on the other side of the

hill.

Now, as Mehicle watched him night and morning, he could not help

guessing (and he guessed rightly for once, for he was a shrewd observer

in these matters) that this young man was hard at work making love to

the said rich farmer’s daughter.

It happened, that between the field in which Mehicle was sowing his

potatoes, and that which led to the rich farmer’s house, there was a

wide water-course; not exactly a drain, but a hollow, wet, rushy place,

that divided the lands. It was dry enough in summer, no doubt; but, in

its flooded state it was, though very wide, quite such a place as a

young, active fellow like Aidey Hartigan, who possessed a clean pair of

stockings, and brightly polished shoes, would rather risk a flying jump

across, than wet the one, or sully the lustre of the other, by splashing

through.

Not a little surprising was it to Mehicle to observe his friend Aidey,

every morning, after having come out of the farmer’s house, (where he

had spent the night,) walk straight through this nasty, wet, boggy

place, to the great detriment of the nice clothing of his nether man;

but what still more astonished him was, that just when he was about to

leave off work, he saw Aidey, as he was coming to the farmer’s hopping

and jumping as he neared the trench, and clearing it at a bound.

Mehicle, who as I have hinted, was ever inquisitive, could at last no

longer bear to see Aidey going on in this manner, and determined not

only to inquire the reason of this strange behavior, but also to try to

have his hand in the making of the match, if such was in view; and

accordingly, when Aidey appeared next morning, after having as usual

covered himself with bog-dirt and mud, in blundering through the trench,

he went forward to meet him, and they addressed each other with the

usual salutations. Let me detail their conversation, as Mehicle used to

relate it, and fond was that very same boy to tell over all the

adventures, schemes and diplomacies, in his life of _Shanahusy_.

“Good morrow, Mehicle! God bless your work.”[1]

“And you likewise, Aidey. How are you to-day?”

“Why, then, middlin’, only! but there’s no use in complainin’!”

“Indeed, faix, Aidey, you’re airly up! but an’ sure they say it’s the

airly thrushes get the airly worms. Whisper! what are you about above

here at big house?”

“What house? Is it Brian Mungavan’s you the mane?”

“Yes, to be sure!”

“Ah! _myself_ that knows that! Maybe, though, I might tell _you_, in the

course of time, and maybe yourself might assist me for a bit.”

“Oho! is that the way? Well _that_ it may thrive with you! _That’s_ a

business, at any rate, that serves all men, includin’ the priests!”

“And Shanahuses!” said Aidey, grinning, “and I ever knew you to be a

capital one!”

“Well, I’m glad you’re going to make a trial of me, and I say again,

_that_ it may thrive with you! But, aisy awhile, and answer me one

question. I’ve been noticing you, and I’ve seen you passing backward and

forward, these few days past, being, as you see, diggin’ the place of a

half acre of pratees for myself, and every morning, when you used to be

coming out of owld Brian Mungavan’s house, and over that wet place

beyant, you used to walk straight through it, and not mind the wet one

straw; but when you used to be going in to Brian’s when I was lavin’ off

work for the day, and when I was wairy and tired enough myself, it’s

then I used to see you give a hop and a jump, and clear the trench in

flyin’ colors. And faith it’s not such a bad jump aither, not at all;

and it’s no wonder (so it isn’t) that you’d like to carry a dry shoe in

to _herself_; but why shouldn’t you do the same when you’re comin’ out?”

“Why, then,” answered Aidey, mournfully, “I’ll tell you. Every word of

what you say is true; and I’m much afeard it’ll be the cause of my

giving up Brian Mungavan’s house; and what’s worse, Eileen herself; and

what’s worse again, her _fortune_—for the rale honest fact is, I _must_

do it; I can’t stand it any longer—for, indeed, when I come out of

Brian Mungavan’s house, Mehicle, I am not able to jump over the trench.”

“Why, man alive, why not? Wouldn’t one think now, that the good dinner

you’d get, and good supper, and good sleep, _and the sight of herself_,

would put you in the best of spirits, and that you’d clear the trench in

a jiffey? But, God help you! Sure you’re in love, I suppose. As Larry

Burk says in the song,—

“_Love, she_ is a _killin’ thing_!”

“Ah, let me alone! Faith, then, that’s not what’s killin’ _me_, I can

tell you. Little you know what a place that house above is. Little you

know what sort of a man is Mungavan. There! redden the pipe, and let’s

sit down behind the rock, and I’ll tell you all about it, and let you

know the hobble I’m in.”

“Very well, out with it,” said Mehicle, as he drew a puff of his pipe;

“and if I can serve you, you know _me_, and what _I_ am.”

“Oh, well I know who and what you are; and that the dickens a better

Shanahus than your four bones ever stood in shoe leather to undertake a

bargain of the kind; and so I’ll ask your opinion. And, first and

foremost, you must know that there’s not such a kinnadt[2] in the

province of Munster, than that same Brian Mungavan—and himself knows it

well; and it’s an unhappy life he lades his poor wife, and his nice girl

of a daughter, he’s such an owld crust himself; and, indeed, myself

believes he begrudges even the crusts to the poor dogs. In fact, I’d

have run off with Eileen long ago—for I could do it in a minute—only I

know if I did, I’d never finger a penny of her fortune, which is pretty

nice, too.”

“But,” said Mehicle, “what, in the name of goodness, has this to do with

jumping over the trench?”

“Every thing,” said Aidey, groaning—“wait a minute. When I go in, you

see, at night, I’m in tolerable good spirits; and then I think nothing

of the trench—so much for that. Well—that’s all very well. I go in,

and after a while, we all sit down to dinner; and, to be sure, to do the

man justice, it’s not a very bad dinner at all that he gives us. Well,

we begin; and all of us pelt, and cut, and tear, and ate away at the

dinner, as hard as ever as we can; but all wont do, Mehicle. Brian ates

twice faster nor any of us; and in less than five minutes he purtends to

be done, and—‘Here, now,’ says he, ‘take away,’ says he. ‘Remove those

dishes immediately,’ says he. ‘The Lord be praised, we’ve had enough!

and thousands of the poor starvin’ all over the country,’ says the big

rogue; and all the while, Mehicle, we haven’t half enough to ate, nor a

quarter; and then it’s a poor night’s rest a man gets on an empty belly,

Mehicle. So, then, for fear of bein’ starved intirely, I start off

before breakfast. I don’t go home at night, (because she and I can get a

great dale of talk before bed-time, and then it’s too late to be goin’

home so far.) I go, I say, before breakfast, for then I’m lost

altogether with the hunger, and I’m not able hardly to move, and I come

to the trench, and it bothers me entirely, and I’m _obligated_ to

_wade_. And, Mehicle, Eileen tells me it’s the same way at breakfast,

and he allows them but the two meals a-day; _but_, and listen to me,

now. She says he gets up in the night, and gets things that’s left from

the dinner, and ates them within in his bed, the dirty, unmannerly

brute! Now, did you ever hear of such a rascal? Oho! Muvrone! if I ever

get the fingerin’ of any of his cash, it’s I’ll show him how a good boy

can spend good money. But how can we manage it, Mehicle? Can you give me

any resate to cook the old scoundrel with?”

“Faix, I can _so_!” said Mehicle, handing him the pipe, “and a good way.

It’s easily known that you’ve not the laste sperrit, though, indeed,

you’re a fine, likely lad—but, to be sure, you’re in love? _You_ can’t

do a single ha’porth. No, if you really want to _cook_ that chap, you

must get an _owld trainer_ like me, and then, maybe, if both of you help

me right, we may get some good out of him; at any rate we’ll have

diversion, and, Aidey, my boy, take courage, and if you _do_ lose her,

_and_ her dirty fortune, I’ll be bound, by the pipe in your mouth, to

secure as good a one for you in the space of one month.”

“O, Mehicle, I don’t doubt that in the least; but my heart is for

Eileen, and you must try and get her _first_, any how.”

“Very well, Aidey, we’ll try. ‘Worse than lose we can’t,’ as Mike Gorman

said, when the doctor pulled out his tooth; do you stop diggin’ here

along with me to-day, it’s the least you can do. I have a famous dinner

here in the basket—we’ll ate that soon, and then we’ll have a

tremendious, grand, famous appetite by evening; and my hand and word to

you, we shall have enough and lavins at dinner to-day.”

“Do you think so, Mehicle? God bless you for sayin’ so! I always heard

you had a great head for these things.”

“Yes, maybe I have; but two heads are always better than one, even

supposin’ they were no better than a couple of boiled pigs’ heads.”

With this profound reflection, they set to work, and with the help of

the dinner which Mehicle had brought, and the tibbacky, managed to dig a

good piece of the stubbles; and when evening came on, they made their

way over the hill to Brian Mungavan’s house.

“And now,” said Mehicle, “do you introduce me just as your friend, but

say nothing whatever about the match; lave all that to my management.”

They went in accordingly, and were welcomed, civilly by Mrs. Mungavan,

coolly enough by Mr. Mungavan; but as for Miss Mungavan, it may not be

too great a presumption to suppose that the fault would not lie in

_that_ quarter, were the match not made.

Dinner, the much dreaded dinner, was announced; and, as faithful

historians, we must say, too, _what_ was for dinner. There were, then, a

couple of good sized fat fowls, a turkey, too, and some bacon, with a

proportionate supply of cabbage. Miss Mungavan, on being asked the dish

of her choice, preferred, for certain reasons of her own, the delicate

_breast_ of the turkey; Mehicle, before whom were placed the fowls, not

a little to the astonishment of all, who stared at so unusual a

proceeding, clapped one on Aidey’s plate, and kept the other himself,

observing that “it wasn’t worth while to be dividin’ them for birds.”

Mr. Brian Mungavan, from old custom, gobbled up his bacon and cabbage

with all celerity; but when he raised his eyes, and beheld the fierce

and determined attack on the good things, he evidently foresaw it was

useless to give the accustomed order to “take away;” for that if given,

it would remain perfectly unheeded.

A fowl a-piece, with the bacon and various other appurtenances, was not

a bit too much for men who possessed such keen appetites as Aidey and

Mehicle; Miss Mungavan, as she had some one to keep her in countenance,

also transgressed the rules, and doubtless enjoyed her share; the old

woman, her mother, had enough; in short, it was a great day for that

family. A dinner so completely discussed, was there, a rare occurrence.

Such a day had never before been seen; but it was but a trifling

forerunner of what was to come.

In fact they ate enough, and after they had eaten, they drank, all but

the old kinnadt; he seemed quite lost in amazement at the quantity

eaten, and bewildered at the assurance of Mehicle, who laughed, and

talked, and played all sorts of antics, and cracked lots of jokes, as he

always did, when engaged in an adventure just to his mind, as this was.

At length night came on, and bed-time was declared. All separated to

their respective rooms, with the exception of Mehicle, who was to remain

where he was, and to be content with occupying a “settle-bed” near the

kitchen fire—and a not uncomfortable berth it is. But not long had

Mehicle O’Kelopauthrick enjoyed his first sleep, when as he was, I

believe, chuckling inwardly, while he dreamt of the tricks he was

playing, a slight noise near the fire attracted his attention, and

rousing him from his slumbers, caused him to raise his head cautiously.

Peeping over the side of the settle-bed, he discovered Brian’s wife in

the act of kneading on the table a cake of wheaten flour.

“Oho!” thought Mehicle, “this must be the supper that Brian gets every

night, the scoundrel. He begrudges honest people the bite, and the sup,

and it would be only a proper good deed to chate him out of it himself.”

So Mehicle waited until he saw the old woman finish her cake, and cover

it carefully in the hot ashes that still remained red on the hearth; and

as soon as she had gone in to her room, he got up, slipped on his

clothes, took his seat at the fire, and in a short time, out came the

old woman, thinking the cake was now almost ready.

“O,” said Mehicle, “good morning, ma’am. I heard the cock crowing, and I

thought it was break-of-day, and then I got up and sat here; and after

that I considered it _couldn’t_ be day, or you’d be up; but _now_ I see

it is.”

“See _that_, now,” said Mrs. Mungavan, “you’re wrong all the while. Our

cock always crows at twelve o’clock, and it’s not one at present; but my

husband has a _great tooth-ache_, and he says he’d be the better for a

smoke, and I just came in for a red coal, and I’d advise you to go to

bed again.”

“So I will, ma’am, by and bye; but as I’m up at all, I’ll wait until

he’s done smokin’, and when I’ve got a puff of the pipe myself, I’ll go

to bed.”

“O, wisha, wisha!” thought she, “what’ll I do? I’ll be kilt both ways.

I’d be ashamed to take up the cake, and it’ll be burned entirely—and

what’ll _he_ say?”

“What are we to do?” said she, going in to her husband, “there’s that

man, bad manners to him, up, and sittin’ near the fire; and I don’t like

to let him see me take up the cake, but he says he’ll go to bed when he

smokes; he heard our old cock, bad luck to him, bawlin’ and he thought

it was day.”

“Well, here,” said Brian, “take him the pipe, and make haste and bring

me the cake; but don’t let him see you takin’ it up.”

“Here, sir,” said she, “here’s the pipe; his tooth-ache’s _greatly_

better. Well, now, to be sure, tibbacky is a fine thing. Myself takes a

sly puff now and again, to comfort me; can you tell me, sir, where it

grows? I heard it grew up in Ulster?”

“O, not at all ma’am, but in _Americky_, ma’am, where there’s plenty av

land idle, and wantin’ occypation; and, faix, indeed, ma’am, that’s not

the way here, when we’re a’most starved, and it’s so scarce, and

wonderful dear; sit down here, if you plaze, ma’am, and I’ll tell you

all about _my own_ land, and how I lost it, and the hobble I’m in. Will

we put down some turf, and make a good rousin’ fire?”

“O, yeh, no, sir!” getting frightened about the cake, “we’d never get to

bed if we’d a good fire.”

“Well, then, never mind, ma’am. You see, about my farm. I was tellin’

you, ma’am, my farm (puff) was just like _that_,” pointing to the ashes

smoothed down quite flat over the _cake_; “well, my farm was quite

smooth, and level, and flat, just like _that_; but if it was, ma’am, my

second brother, Pat, ma’am, (p-p-f-f-f)—here, ma’am, here’s the pipe

for you, and smoke for a bit.”

“Thank’e, sir. Well! well, what about your brother Pat?”

“O, I’ll tell you. My second brother, Pat, ma’am, went to a blackguard

’torney, and got _an advice_, and found out that he’d as good a right to

the farm as I had myself; and he went to law with me, and he bate me,

ma’am; and then it was all left to arbitration, ma’am, and,” said

Mehicle, taking a piece of broken scythe in his hand, as if to

illustrate his description, “the rascals were bribed, I’m sure; but,

however, they made me divide the land into two halves, just now as I

might divide _this_,” making a desperate cut across the ashes, and, of

course, through the centre of the cake.

“O, dear, sir! _that_ was _terrible_,” said she. “I _hope_ they didn’t

do _any more_ to your land?”

“O, yes; that was _nothing_, ma’am. The next brother, Terry, then,

ma’am, says, says he, ‘Why hasn’t myself as good a right as them two?’

says he. ‘I’ll go to law,’ says he; and so _he_ went to law, and we did

our best, but he bate us, and it was left to arbitration; and then we

had to divide our land somehow _so_,” cutting across again, “or, stop,

I’m wrong, there was more of a corner cut off than that—it was more

like _this_;” another sliver, “and there was a wall running across, as

it might be _so_;” and here followed another slice; by this time, too,

the cake was pretty well minced.

“O, dear, dear!” said she, “it must have been _spylte entirely_ for you,

then, sir;” said she, thinking of the cake.

“O, musha, then! indeed it was, ma’am, not worth one fraction. But that

wasn’t half of the misfortune; my youngest brother, Jack, ma’am, says,

says he, ‘Why,’ says he, ‘why isn’t it mine as much as theirs?’ says he.

‘_I’ll_ go to law,’ says he; and _he_ went to law, and it was left to

arbitration; and _they_ were bribed, and if they were, they made us

turn, and mix, and twist it all to and fro, higgeldy piggeldy, in and

out, this way and that way, just for all the world like _that_,” said

Mehicle, mixing ashes and cake all up together with the bit of scythe;

“and see, now, it’s all destroyed and ruined, and broken up, just like

_that_,” pointing down at the fire.

Mrs. Mungavan was, to be sure, grievously vexed, but said nothing till

she went in to her husband.

“O, Brian,” said she, “that’s a terrible man, that man at the fire. He

has cut up and spylte your eligant cake, tellin’ me a story;” and here

she told her husband how it happened.

“Well, Molly, accidents can’t be helped; but, indeed, faith, I’m very

hungry. What else is there in the house?”

“Nothing, agrah, nothing. Them lads eat every bit that we had at

dinner—howld on, there’s the cabbage that was boilt with the bacon, and

maybe some av the bacon itself.”

“O, that’s right. Is that man in bed?”

“O, I’m sure he is.”

“Well, where’s the bacon and cabbage?”

“In the skillet, near the settle-bed.”

It was rather dark in the room; however, he found the right skillet,

which Mehicle watched him putting down, determined, however, to cheat

him of it if he could. As soon as Mr. Mungavan had put down the cabbage,

he retired to bed, and Mehicle hopped up.

Seeing another skillet near him, he examined it, and, O, joy! it was

half full of tar.

In one minute the bacon and cabbage had vanished down his own throat,

and in another the tar was beginning to hiss slightly in the skillet on

the fire. Just then, said Brian to Molly, “Don’t you think, Molly,

agrah, but the cabbage is near bein’ warm enough?”

“I think it ought to be now, Brian,” said Molly, “will I get a spoon for

you?”

“O, no—wasn’t fingers made before forks.”

So out he came, and walking straight up to the fire, sat down on his

heels, and flopped down his hand into the now nearly boiling tar, but

quickly drew it up, all covered with the horrid stuff, and was hardly

able to bear the pain.

“O, the divil carry it away for a skillet! O, Monum un ustha, but my

fingers are all destroyed! Oh! oh!—I put down the wrong skillet! Well,

I’ll not bawl out, I’d waken this honest man, and all the people—and

they’d only laugh at me; O, voh! what’ll I do at all?”

In his agony, he bolted out into the garden, while Mehicle slipped out

of the window, shillelah in hand, and though it was dark, saw Mr.

Mungavan run to the cabbages, and begin stripping off the leaves, while

he rubbed them to his fingers, in his vain attempts to cool his hands,

and get the tar off.

“Hallo!—who’s this!” said Mehicle, running up with the stick, “who’s

this?”

“O, dear! _so you’ve caught me_,” said Brian, “who are you?”

“Ah, ha! I’ve caught you, have I? I’ll let you know who I am. Here, Mr.

Mungavan! Mr. Mungavan! quick! come out! jump up! here’s a man staylin’

your cabbages! Take that, you scoundrel; how dare you come here!” And

here Mehicle began whacking him as hard as he could.

“Don’t strike me!” said Brian, “don’t! _I’ll do any thing you like._ Oh!

Oh! don’t! Don’t you see it’s _me_ that’s here?”

“O, I see you well enough! Come out, Mr. Mungavan!” said Mehicle,

continuing to beat him.

“O, stop! and God reward you! stop! Sure _I’m Mr. Mungavan_!”

“O, thunder, and pratees, and buttermilk! Why didn’t you tell me so

before! Sure I wouldn’t do such a thing if I _didn’t_ know it was you.

Come in to the house. Poor man! are you _much_ hurt?”

And now, many were the explanations on both sides. When they came in,

Brian set to work, and called up all that were in the house, as it was

now daylight. “And,” said he, “here, in the name of all that’s good and

bad, let’s have breakfast, for I’m famished, not to spake of the

scaldin’ and batin’ I got; but sure it’s all accidents, and can’t be

helped.”

Breakfast was prepared and finished, and Brian got, gradually however,

into better humor. But when that was over, his wife called him aside,

and said,

“Now, Brian, all these accidents happened through your own fault; so, by

all the books in Connemara, you must take my advice to-day. Have a fine

dinner, and make them ate and drink enough; and if it’s Eileen that boy

wants, faith, he’s a smart young man, and we couldn’t do better. Say

you’ll give her a hundred pounds, or two, if one wont satisfy him; but,

for goodness sake, give that Mehicle enough to ate.”

What a truly sensible speech was this. Here was the proper view of the

question. Brian Mungavan overcame himself for once, and was generous.

And there was _such_ a dinner! Eileen took good care of _that_. Turkeys,

geese, and all manner of delicacies, graced the board. Take the words of

a contemporaneous poet:—

“Mutton, and good fat bacon

Was there, like turf in creels.”

Or rather in the language of the old song:—

“There was _lashins_ of beef there,

And _stammins_ of sheep there,

And whiskey came pourin’ _galore_.”

And then it was, when all, including Mr. Mungavan, were in that happy

state denominated _soft_, that Mehicle opened his unerring batteries,

never yet known to fail.

Let us merely now wish them a happy wedding; but we somehow cannot help

thinking there is in this tale a

MORAL.

Be _ever_ hospitable; but, if you invite a friend or two, _beware_, when

you say “Take away;” for you know not whether some time or another you

may not fall in with a Mehicle O’Kelopauthrick.

-----

[1] The invariable salutation, in the West of Ireland, on approaching

one who is at work.

[2] Old stingy fellow.

* * * * *

SONNET.

My wandering feet have trod those paths to-day,

Where I so late with thee in joyance went,

And gladly thitherward my steps I bent,

Turning me from the dust and din away,

And tracing with a quiet joy each spot

Hallowed by some remembrance dear to me,

A smile, a tone that cannot be forgot—

Places whose every charm was won from thee;

And therefore do I love that grassy way,

And every spot which thou hast wandered o’er,

And as a miser counts his secret store

When darkness has obscured the light of day,

So in thy absence, which is my heart’s night,

Thy treasured words and smiles tell I with deep delight.

* * * * *

THE STOLEN CHILD.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

“There’s a glory over the face of Youth—

And Age as fair a light displays,

When beautiful Love and spotless Truth

Have guided all her ways!

“But Sin is a hideous thing to see,

His eyes are dulled before his prime,

And each year leaveth the mark of three,

For he hurries the hand of Time!”

Thus spake the awaiting Angel Death,

By a way-side beggar-crone,

Who wrestled with the reluctant breath

On a pillow of broken stone!

’Twas a fearful sight to see her gasp,

And clutch the air in her sinewy palms

As if forcing from a miser’s grasp

The miserable alms!

But a sight to bring the tear-drops down

Was the little maiden pale and thin

Who stood by her side in a tattered gown

Which let the sharp air in!

Hatless and shoeless she stood in the rain,

And shivered like autumn’s leaf,

Trembling with very hunger and pain,

And weeping with fear, not grief!

“What ails you, mother?” the maiden cried,

“What makes you tremble and stare?

Why do you look so angry-eyed

As you strike the empty air?

“I fear you mother! Your angry brow!

Your wild and piercing eye!

Oh, do not, do not hurt me now,

There is no one to see me cry!

“Oh, mother, why do you beat me so?

And why do we walk all day,

And rest at night, if it rain or snow,

In cold, wet beds of hay?

“Oh, why do the village children play

And seem so very glad?

And why are they dressed so clean and gay

While I am so meanly clad?

“Do not their parents beat them too,

To make them moan and cry?

Or are their mothers weaker than you,

And the children stronger than I?

“I’ve seen the parents kiss and hold

Their little ones on the knee!

I, mother, am well nigh ten years old,

You never did so with me!

“Why am not I as pretty and good

As the little girls in the town?

Are mine the meaner flesh and blood

Because I am burnt so brown?

“And why do they go with happy looks

Up where the chapel stands,

Some with their little shining books

And flowers in their hands?

“Oh, mother, I wish you would take me there!

For often as we go by

Their voices come through the happy air

As if from the open sky!

“Oh, mother, I wish I could join the strain,

And learn their beautiful words;

I am sure they do not sing for pain

No more than the little birds!

“You know how once we followed them out

To the forest green and gay;

How they danced and sang a song about

The beautiful flowers of May!

“Oh, they seemed like a band of angels, free

From hunger, pain and strife;

As a lady once told me I should be

If I lived on honest life!

“Then I wondered if we were to die that night,

If we should be angels fair!

But, mother, what makes your cheeks so white,

Why, why do you shiver and stare?

“Oh, mother, mother! you have often said

You’d kill me yet in some lonely place

If I did not steal—and did not shed

More tear-streams down my face!

“And when in the prison cell we lay,

Because you took the purse,

I remember how I heard you say

A very dreadful curse!

“How then you threatened to take my life

Because I lied not more!

And I remember still the knife

You said you had used before!

“I fear you, mother! more and more!

You groan and give such fearful starts,

Ah, spare me now! and at every door

I’ll cry till I break all hearts!

“But, mother, see, arise, arise!

A carriage comes up the vale;

They cannot, I’m sure, refuse our cries,

Now that you look so pale!”

Thus spake the maid—and the carriage came,

And she stood as with hunger wild;

While suddenly burst from the coach a dame

Crying “_my child! my child!_”

The crone half rose from her dying place,

With her mouth and eyes all wide!

And she knew the injured mother’s face,

Then fell on her own and died!

PART II.

One day in the summer garden fair

The mother and daughter strayed;

With trembling tongue and timid air

Thus spake the little maid.

“Oh, must I call you mother, indeed?

And are you really so?

And may a useless way-side weed

In a beautiful garden grow?

“Yes, you have told me all the tale,

How I was stolen away,

And how you grew all thin and pale,

Grieving for many a day!

“Day after day my heart repeats

The story o’er and o’er!

And when you say you love me, it beats

As it never did before!

“Oh, what are all these flowers that load

The bushes with red and white?

There are many growing beside the road,

But none so large and bright!

“Along the fence the alder grows,

To shade the dusty way,

And by the brook the briar blows

Where the cat-bird sings all day!

“Down by the meadows long and wet,

The willow-walks are made;

And now and then a violet

Grows in the willow’s shade.

“The dandelion and mullin bloom

By the glossy buttercups’ bed;

And the thistle looks like a soldier’s plume

With its beautiful tip of red!

“The blackberries grow by the stony wall,

You may pick them as you pass;

The strawberries, too, but so scattered and small

You must hunt them in the grass!

“All these along the highway shine;

And as I see from here

The turnpike’s long and winding line,

My heart sends up a tear!

“For they were the only things to cheer

The long and weary mile!

The only things for many a year

That ever wore a smile!

“Oh, mother, in our idle hours

We’ll wander down the glen,

And I’ll show you some of the simple flowers

That smiled upon me then!

“Come, let us walk by the road and search,

There where the poplars stand;

That I may carry some flowers to church

To-morrow in my hand!

“Then, where the old woman is doomed to lie

In the mound so new and bare,

I’ll slip aside, as we go by,

And quietly lay them there.

“So that if she is up in Heaven,

Singing the angels’ psalms,

She may know that all has been forgiven

By these beautiful bright alms!

“The good man told us, the other day,

We must forgive our foes!

And I forgive her; though she, you say,

Was the mother of my woes!

“I love to hear the church organ blow

When the people rise from their places!

And the children stand in a shining row

And sing with happy faces!

“Their sweet hymns make my heart rejoice

Like a blue-bird in the spring;

But when I try to raise my voice

I weep; for I cannot sing!

“Their strain has a sweet and delicate tone;

But mine has none of such;

It seems more like the wind’s low moan

Of which I have heard so much!

“Then, since my voice will not join with theirs,

In my heart I try to pray,

And I whisper o’er those little prayers

You taught me how to say!

“Say, mother, why did the preacher place

His dripping hand on the little child?

And did you not mark its rosy face

How angel-like it smiled?

“When I was so very, very small,

Did you carry me up the aisle,

And when I felt the waters fall,

Say, did I weep or smile?

“And then again in the afternoon

They brought another there,

The while the organ’s solemn tune,

Hung heavy on the air.

“But this one in its coffin lay,

While its mother sobbed aloud;

And its little hands were cold as clay,

And its face was white as its shroud.

“Then they slowly lowered it into the ground,

While the pebbles down after it slid;

And, mother, I still can hear the sound

Of the gravel upon the lid!

“Asleep or awake I hear it fall,

And it’s grown to a pleasant noise;

It seems like a loving angel’s call—

And I must obey the voice!”

Thus spoke the child—And the Sabbath calm

Brought the loud organ’s sorrowful sound,

And the great bell tolled its solemn psalm

As they laid her in the ground!

* * * * *

MARGARET’S WELL:

A TALE OF THE GREAT CIVIL WAR.

BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF “THE ROMAN TRAITOR,” “MARMADUKE

WYVIL,” ETC.

Ay me! For aught that I did ever hear,

Did ever read in tale or history,

The course of true love never did run smooth.

It was toward the close of a lovely summer’s day, in the eventful year

of 1643, that a young cavalier might have been seen riding at a slow

pace, and in a somewhat sad and thoughtful mood, through a green and

winding lane in the pleasant county of Warwick, not far distant from the

pastoral banks of famous Avon.

But though the young man’s brow was now overcast and clouded, though his

fine gray eye was fixed abstractedly on the mane of his charger, and

though a heavy shadow, such as is believed by the superstitious to arise

from the prescience of coming fate, gloomed over all his features, it

was evident that such an expression was alien to the face, such a mood

unusual to the character of the man.

He was as handsome a youth as you might see in a twelvemonth, even in

that land, so justly famed for the manly beauty of its sons; tall and

well-made, and giving promise of uncommon strength and vigor, when

mature manhood should have swelled and hardened his slender form and yet

unfurnished muscles. His face was frank and open, with a fair broad

forehead, a well-opened, laughing, deep gray eye, and a mouth, the

dimpled angles of which could not be divested of their natural tendency

to smile, even by the heavy despondency which seemed now to weigh upon

his spirit, and alter his whole countenance, even as a sunny landscape

is altered by the intervention of a storm-cloud, blotting out all the

laughing rays, which gave it mirth and radiance.

He was well-mounted on a horse that seemed adapted, by its mingled blood

and bone, to bide the shock of armies, and caparisoned with demipique

and holsters, as became the war-steed of an officer. Nor did the rider’s

dress, though not what we should now call military, contradict the

inferences that would be drawn from the charger’s make and

accoutrements; for in his steeple-crowned slouched beaver he wore a

single long black feather, and across the left breast of his velvet

jerkin a baldrick of blue silk, sustaining a sword of heavier and more

war-like fabric than the court rapiers of the day—the baldrick and the

feather indicating a partisan of the king, as clearly as the sword and

war-horse showed that he was bound on some longer and more perilous

adventure than a ride through rich green meadows and among flowery

hedge-rows.

He rode quite alone, however, which was at that day something unusual;

for the custom of going forth accompanied by several armed servants or

retainers, even in times of profound peace, was still prevalent among

men of any pretension to gentle birth, and such, unless every indication

of natural appearance, gentle bearing, and free demeanor failed, was

evidently this young cavalier.

The sun was perhaps still an hour high, and the skies were filled with

rich yellow lustre, while all the face of the green country was

checkered with bright gleams and massive shadows, according as the level

rays streamed gayly over the open fields, or were intercepted by the

undulations of the ground, the frequent clumps of trees and patches of

dark woodland, or the thick hawthorn hedges which diversified that

pleasant landscape, when the lane which the young man followed began to

rise rapidly over the eastern slope of a steep hill or down, the summit

of which, a bare wild sheep-pasture, cut clear and solid against the

rich gleam of the sunset heavens.

Here, for the first time, the youth raised his eyes, and after casting a

rapid glance over the evening skies, as if to read the hour in the

fading hues of day, checked his horse with the curb, and touching him at

the same time lightly with the spur, cantered up the ascent with more

animation in his air than he had hitherto displayed, and with a slight

gesture of impatience, as if at the unexpected lateness of the hour.

A few minutes rapid riding brought him to the edge of the bare down,

which was in fact a mere ridge, with but a few level yards at the

summit, beyond these, sinking down almost precipitately into a singular

lap or basin of land, nearly circular in form, and about two miles in

diameter, walled in as it were from the external world, on every side,

by tall, bare, grassy downs, treeless and bleak, without a sign of human

habitation or of human culture, and limiting the range of the eye to

that narrow and cheerless horizon.

Looking downward into the hollow, the scene was, however, entirely

different; for all the bottom of the basin, and all the lower slopes of

the hills were covered with dark shadowy woods, the gigantic trees and

massive foliage of which bore witness alike to their great antiquity,

and to the mild and favorable situation, sheltered from every wind of

heaven, which had induced their unusual growth. The hills at this hour

intercepted all the light of the setting sun, and the whole space within

the valley was filled with a misty purple shadow; through which, from

out the glades and skirts of the black woods, the silvery gleam of many

clear, still ponds met the eye; and beyond these, nearly in the centre

of the landscape, the tall gables and twisted chimneys of an old

dark-red Hall, with a solitary column of blue smoke soaring up straight

into the cloudless sky, arose the only indication in that wild scene of

the vicinity of any human being.

But although we have paused a moment on the bare brow of Clavering Edge,

to point the reader’s eye to this sequestered spot, the youth in whose

company we have journeyed hither made no such pause; but, too familiar

with the scenery, perhaps too impatient to reach the end of his ride,

turned his horse’s head short to the left, and trotted, as rapidly as

the nature of the ground would permit, along a faintly marked foot-path

which traversed the hill-side in a diagonal line, the steepness of the

declivity forbidding any more direct progress to the bottom, leading to

a narrow gorge which ran half way up the ascent, feathered with rich

dark timber.

As soon as he reached the covert of the woodland he dismounted, and

leading his horse a little way aside from the path, fastened him by the

chain of his cavalry head-stall to a tall ash-tree in the centre of a

thick coppice. Then, with a rapid step, he hurried down the path, which

became every moment more clearly defined, as it followed a clear, rapid

brook of slender volume along the gorge, which gradually widened into a

beautiful wooded valley. Within ten minutes he came to a tall park

paling of solid oaken plank, at least ten feet in height, all overrun

with the giant ivy which flourishes so verdantly in such moist

situations, affording access to the park within only by a low wooden

portal, closed by an antique iron lock of large dimensions.

This formidable barrier was, however, easily passed by the cavalier; the

lock giving way readily, and notwithstanding its rusty guise smoothly

enough, to a key which he drew from the bosom of his jerkin. Before

opening it altogether he paused, however, for a moment, and gazed

anxiously through the chink, to see, as it would seem, if there was any

one observing him. Then, satisfied that all was safe, he passed in

quickly, closing the door with a noiseless hand behind him, but taking

especial care not to lock it against his own egress.

Within, the scenery was very beautiful, though still impressed with the

same character of loneliness, and almost weighing on the spirits by its

unnatural and almost awful silence and repose. The glen expanded

rapidly, sloping from the park palings downward toward the mansion, but

so thick were the woods on either slope and in the bottom, that nothing

could be distinguished in the foreground but the huge trunks of the

giant oaks and beeches, with the tall lady fern growing in rank

luxuriance under them, nor any thing in the distance but the twilight

foliage of their heads, as they descended rank below rank in the great

amphitheatre. Even at this early hour, indeed, that deeply wooded dell

would have already been as dark as midnight, save that adown its centre

there ran a chain of long, narrow, shallow fish-ponds, each raised by a

dam above that next below it, until they reached the level

bottom-ground; all overarched, it is true, with shadowy branches, but

all reflecting the last western gleam which stole in through the arch of

leaves, dark as the portal of some gothic aisle, through which the eye

caught a glimpse of a smooth grassy lawn, glimmering in the dewy

twilight.

Between the young man and the head of this chain of ponds there lay a

belt of thick alders, with here and there a stunted willow, fringing the

margin of the brook which fed them, and separating it from the path

which gave access to them from above, and to the lawn below, and thence

to the gardens and the Hall.

Along this path he now bounded with a fleet and impatient step, as if

anxious to discover something which might be hidden from his eye by its

leafy barrier; a few paces brought him to the termination of the brake,

and to a large clear tank, immediately beyond it, fed by the brook, and

itself the feeder of the calm pools below. It was perhaps three yards in

length, by two in breadth, walled on all sides with solid masonry, and

partly covered at the head over the inlet of the stream by a groined

arch of stone-work; on every side the ground sloped down to it, covered

with deep rank grass; and above it six or seven enormous elm trees

shadowed it with a constant gloom. The water within was as transparent

as glass, showing the sandy bottom in all parts, though of extraordinary

depth, with the pure cold springs boiling up from a dozen little

whirlpools, and sending their trains of sparkling bubbles, like the

tails of so many comets, through the limpid darkness of the pool.

And here, once more, the young man paused, and gazed anxiously about

him, and down the walk toward the quiet lawn. Then seeing that he was

alone, and that there was no person in sight, even at a distance, he

cast himself down on the turf at the foot of one of the great elms,

where the shadows would conceal him from any casual observer’s glance;

crossed his arms on his breast with a sort of impatient resignation, and

muttered to himself half angrily—

“It is past the hour, and yet she is not here. Oh! if she knew, if she

but knew what a hell it enkindles in my heart to be kept waiting, to be

set doubting, to be tormented thus. But no!” he added in a moment, as if

reproving his own vehemence. “No, no! something has fallen

wrong—something has hindered or delayed her. And yet what should it be?

Can we have been betrayed, discovered? God!” he exclaimed, springing

again to his feet, “Great God, forgive me! as I cannot endure this any

longer. Away with my word, when hers is broken thus! away! I will go

seek her even in—”

But as he made the first motion to take the path leading toward the

house, his impetuosity was arrested, and his rash speech cut off, by the

apparition of a figure entering the verdant arch from the lawn, and

advancing with a slow and hesitating step, as if timid or reluctant,

toward the tank and the upper glen.

The young man’s heart beat rapidly and high, as that form,

distinguishable only in the increasing duskiness of evening by its

relief against the twilight sky, entered the green arcade; and it was a

minute or two before he could discern with any certainty the sex, much

less the identity of the person approaching him.

There is, however, in the senses of a lover something intuitive, that

can for the most part discern unerringly the presence of the beloved

object, by sounds, by signs, perhaps even by perfumes, so slight as to

be imperceptible to any one, whose every nerve were not supernaturally

sharpened by the influence of passion. Something it must have been of

this amorous prescience, which rendered the cavalier almost certain,

long ere the eye could inform him, that the figure approaching was no

other than the person to meet whom he had ridden hither, and whose delay

had caused him so much anxiety.

Nor was he deceived; for ere long the fluttering of female habiliments,

might be distinguished clearly, and in another moment the well-known

sounds of the light gentle footstep, and the silvery tones of the soft

low voice assured him.

He bounded from his covert to meet her, and she too quickened her step,

as she saw and recognized her lover.

She was as beautiful a girl, of some eighteen or nineteen years, as ever

gladdened the eye of man. Considerably taller than the ordinary height

of women, her figure, although very delicate and slender, with feet and

ankles of the smallest and most fairy model, was yet so exquisitely

rounded, so perfect in the rise and fall of every graceful and

voluptuous outline, that it was not until you stood beside her, and

compared her stature with your own, that you perceived how far she

overtopped her fellow fair ones in height as in beauty. Her face was of

perfect Grecian outline, with large soft gentle eyes, like violets

surcharged with dew, and a mouth the most beautiful that ever adorned a

female face, both for shape, color and expression; an expression so soft

and so wooing that it would almost have been thought sensual, but for

the candid artless innocence, not all unblended with a touch of pensive

melancholy, which breathed from every other feature of that most lovely

and love-inspiring countenance.

Her hair, profuse even to redundance, of the richest and sunniest brown,

with a golden tinge running through it where it met the light, fell down

in soft and silky masses on either side of the pale oval face and the

swan-like neck, and waved in floods of heavy ringlets over the splendid

arch of her falling shoulders, and the dazzling fairness of her bust, so

far as it was shown by the square cut bodice of her dark velvet dress.

“Margaret,” said the young man, as he sprang forward joyously to meet

her, “my own sweet Margaret, is it at length thou? Oh! I have so long

tarried, and so—”

“Sorely tormented thyself, Lionel,” interrupted the fair girl, “is it

not so? tormented thyself with fears of I know not what, and doubts of

poor Margaret, that thou wert even half mad, between jealousy and

apprehension! Now out upon thee for a self-tormentor, and most

discourteous knight, to misdoubt thus thy true lady’s word! For did I

not promise thee, Lionel?” she added, laying aside the playful air in

which she had at first addressed him, and speaking now in the gentle but

earnest tones of pure calm affection, “did I not promise that I would

meet you here this evening, and when did I ever fail in my promise? Oh!

Lionel,” she continued, laying her hand fondly on his arm, and looking

full into his eyes with those large dark orbs of hers swimming in

mournful languor, “how, when I see you thus fiercely moved, thus

rendered doubtful and suspicious and unhappy by things of so slight

moment, how can I hope that you will bear the real crosses and

afflictions, the genuine woes and trials, of which so great a portion of

life is composed, with that serene and manly dignity, that resolute and

noble patience which alone in the end can make yourself or those who

love you happy? Oh! cast this temper, Lionel, nay but subdue it

altogether; and do not, do not, my beloved, make me too doubt and

tremble for my future.”

“Beautiful counsellor,” he answered, “I listen to your eloquent words,

your womanly and graceful counsels, and while I listen, I would swear to

guard them as my soul’s best guides; would swear to abide by them

forever; but when once your lovely face has vanished from before my

eyes, when once your sweet voice sounds in my ears no longer, when I am

once again alone, and all around me is left void and cheerless, then my

heart burns apace, and my imagination darkens, and of my very craving

and insatiate desire for your dear presence grows fear of every thing on

earth, and almost doubt of every thing in heaven. But be once mine, let

the dark dread of losing you forever be effaced from my mind, and you

shall see me calm and patient as—as thyself, my own Margaret.”

“Ah you are selfish, Lionel,” she answered. “Your very love makes you

selfish, and in the warmth of your own passions, in the anxiety of your

own impatience, you forget that I too have my trials to endure, that I

too wax at times impatient under the cold constraints, the small

punctualities that fetter me, that I too—” and she paused in beauteous

hesitation for a moment, until she marked the pleading glance, which he

cast to her eyes—“that I too love, and dare not disclose that love,

Lionel.”

“Ay, that is it,” he replied moodily. “All my requests are ever met with

‘I dare not;’ all my affections cast back coldly on my heart with ‘my

duty.’ I know not how these things should be; I am a poor casuist,

Margaret, but I can _feel_; and I _do_ feel that to genuine, honest,

deep-souled true love, there is nothing that may not be dared—that to

the plighted there can be no higher duty—”

“Peace, Lionel,” returned the fair girl, gravely, almost severely; “for

if you _will_ speak thus to me, I must not, and I will not hear you. You

know that, from the first, when I owned that my heart was yours, and

promised that my hand should be so likewise, I told you plainly that

although nor force, nor flattery, nor fraud, should ever make me the

wife of another, yet never would I swerve from a daughter’s obedience,

though my heart-strings should burst asunder in the strife between my

love and my duty. You know all this of old, dear Lionel; then wherefore

torture yourself thus, and afflict me, by these wild and unprofitable

outbreaks. You are assured that I love you, with all the truth and

strength of a young maid’s first affection; you have my promise to be

yours, or to die a heart-widowed maiden; you know, that the obstacles

between us are no wise insurmountable; that my good father, although

somewhat over tenacious, and self willed on points which he deems

essential, is kind and gracious; that he loved you well—”

“Loved me!” exclaimed the young man, impetuously, “loved me! ay! fondled

me when I was a curled stripling, as one would fondle an ape or a

popinjay! loved me, forsooth! until he found that I aspired to his fair

daughter’s hand, and then—spurned me—spurned me from his door like a

nameless cur! Loved me! Great God! I marvel at you, Margaret!”

“And I both marvel at you, and grieve for you, Lionel,” cried the fair

girl, indignantly. “You are unkind, unreasonable, and ungenerous. I

thought you had come hither to say farewell, before riding forth to win

honor in the field of loyalty; I thought you had come hither to speak

kindly with the woman you pretend to love, the woman whom you may not

see again for months, for years, perhaps forever. I thought you had come

hither as a man, to console a fond girl’s sorrows, to point a sad girl’s

hopes, to strengthen a frail girl’s weakness. I thought you had come

hither, nobly and manfully, and generously, as it should beseem the

king’s cavalier, to give and to derive strength for the endurance of

long separation, the struggling against hard trial—and how do I find

you, captious, unreasonable, jealous-spirited, unkind—seeking to

afflict, not to console; to take away, not to give hope; to unnerve, not

to strengthen. Now, out upon you, Lionel, I say—out upon you, and for

shame! Is this the frame of mind wherein a gentleman should part from

the lady of his love? Is this the high prophetic spirit which pointed

you erewhile to fields of honor, and to deeds of glory, which should

perforce win the consent—the reluctant consent, if you will—of my

father, and compel him to be proud of his daughter’s chosen husband,

even as he was fond of his daughter’s youthful playmate? Out upon you, I

say, Lionel. It almost shames me to confess that I have loved, to

confess that I still love one so high and spirited to aim at great

things afar off, so faint-souled when it comes to the touch to win

them.”

She spoke fervently, indignantly; and as she spoke her tall form seemed

to dilate to a grander and more majestic height, and her soft blue eye

flashed, and her pale cheek kindled with the glow of proud and generous

emotion.

Lionel gazed at her half in admiration, half in wonder; for though he

had seen her in many moods, and admired her loveliness in many guises,

never had he seen so much of animation, so much of high-born, haughty

fire in her air, as at this moment; yet, though his mind was moved by

her eloquent words, and his heart touched by the justice of her tender,

although spirited remonstrance, he answered again ungenerously,

resisting the promptings of his better nature, which would have led him

to cast himself down at her feet, and confess his injustice and

ill-temper; but no, man to the last, unjust to woman, he kicked against

the pricks of conscience, and said harshly,

“Proud! proud!—you are proud, too, Margaret. There spoke the temper of

Sir Hugh! There spoke the haughty heart of the proud Claverings.”

“And God forbid,” she replied, meeting his gaze with a firm yet

melancholy eye, “that in my tongue should not speak the temper of my

noble father—for it is a temper all of loyalty, and nobleness, and

honor. God forbid that in my breast there should not beat the haughty

heart of the Claverings, for in their haughtiness to the high they ever

have borne themselves humbly to the low; and in their pride toward the

proud and great, they ever have protected the poor and the forlorn. God

forbid, I say, Lionel Thornhill, God forbid that I should not be

proud—for I am proud only of gentle blood, and gentle deeds, and

honorable bearing. And you, too, sir, should rejoice in that pride of

mine; for had I not been proud, too proud to value wealth, or rank, or

title, apart from that nobility of soul which alone gives them value,

proud enough to esteem the man of my choice, honored by his own virtues

only, and his innate and natural grandeur, far above loftier suitors,

then had I never said to thee, ‘I _do_ love, Lionel,’ never had brought

my pride to be humbled thus, by reproach whence I should have met

gratitude; by insult, whence I should have looked for support. But it

matters not. If I have erred, I can retrace my steps; and I have erred,

sir, erred fearfully, if not fatally. I fancied you all that was high

and great, all that was generous and gentle, all that was true and

tender, all that was chivalrous and courteous. I worshiped you almost as

a god; my eyes are opened, and I find you—a mere man!—and a man of no

manly mould. We have both been mistaken, Lionel. You never have known me

in my strength, nor I you in your weakness. But I will neither upbraid

nor explain. Better to part now forever, with warm hearts, and no

unkindly feelings, than to be linked irretrievably together, and find,

too late, that we are uncongenial souls, and wear out years of bickering

and growing coldness, and hate, perhaps, before we die—”

“Hate!” exclaimed Lionel, now alarmed by her earnestness, despite his

wayward mood, and fearful, at length, that he had gone too far—“and

could _you_ hate? could you hate _me_, Margaret?”

“I could do more,” she replied, “I told you that you know me not. I

could despise, if I found you worthless.”

“But I am not—I am not worthless, Margaret. Great God! I worthless! I

who would lay down life to win honor, honor itself to win you—”

“To lay down honor were the way to lose, not win me.”

“_You_ are unjust now, Margaret. You go about to put constructions on my

words, to warp my phrases from their meaning, to torture my thoughts

into evil. _You_ are unjust and ungenerous, and unkind. I will waste

neither words nor affection on you any longer—hate me you may, despise

me if you can, proud girl; but you shall not wring my heart thus. I cast

you from me in your pride—I renounce you. Go, go, unkind and haughty

creature, go to your gothic halls, and gaze upon your long descended

portraits, cherish your little pride with the details of bygone

greatness; go, and confess to your overbearing father that you have been

but a degenerate daughter, to stoop even in thought so low as to a

beggarly Thornhill; go, and console his wounded pride by your

repentance; go, and profess your willingness to be the bride of titled

imbecility and noble baseness, in _his_ chosen suitor. Go, I say, go,

Margaret Clavering. Go, and forget that Lionel Thornhill, whom you once

swore to love forever—that Lionel Thornhill, who now gives you back

your oath. Go, Margaret Clavering, go; and farewell for ever.”

“Farewell, Lionel Thornhill.”

And with a calm demeanor and firm step, but with a heart so full that

she fancied it would burst at every step she made to leave him, the fair

girl turned away. It was a mighty, mighty effort, and her brain reeled

dizzily, and a mist darkened her eyes. “My God,” she moaned within her

heart, “My God, how have I loved this man, that he should thus deal with

me; but it is better, it is better so to part, and God will give me

strength to bear it.” And without looking once behind her, she walked in

bitterness of spirit down that dim walk, which she had not an hour

before ascended full of glad thoughts and joyous aspirations; convinced

in her own mind that this was, indeed, a final rupture between herself

and her impetuous and reckless lover, and thoroughly determined that she

would neither return nor relent, unless on the exhibition of an altered

and amended spirit on the part of him whom she indeed loved with all the

sincere and earnest depth of a mind as powerful as it was pure, but of

whose many faults of character and temper she was already but too

painfully aware.

Nor was this resolve on her part in any degree the result of any idle

coquetry, or weak and unworthy desire to try her lover’s patience, or

exert her influence over him. It was rather the consequence of a

perception which had been long gaining upon her, that the spirit of

Lionel, although high-toned and ambitious of good and high ends, and

full of noble aspirations, was yet altogether deficient in stability and

self-reliance; that his character was marred by a sort of jealous

irritability and impatience, and that he was in no small danger of

becoming in the end that most unhappy and unamiable of beings, a

self-doubter, and a doubter of all around him.

It had been well, perhaps, for her, had nothing occurred to break her

resolution, but so it was not, not so was it like to be; for the

quarrels of lovers are proverbially of brief duration, and the temper of

Lionel was as placable as it was easily excited.

Margaret Clavering had not, therefore, gone twenty paces on her homeward

path, ere a fleet foot sounded behind her, an arm was thrown about her

slender waist, and her repentant lover was at her feet.

Five minutes more and all was forgiven and forgotten; and, arm-in-arm,

the young and beautiful pair sauntered back to the edge of the deep

tank, and there seated beneath the shade of the gigantic elms, sat till

the evening had closed in dark around them, weaving a tissue of gay

prospects for the future, exchanging protestations of eternal faith, and

consoling and confirming each the other with promises of perfect

confidence, and resolute endurance of whatever should befall them.

Before they parted, neither of the two entertained a doubt that Lionel’s

career under the banner of his lawful monarch, displayed, alas! in civil

war against his own rebellious subjects, and the glories which he would

achieve with his good sword, would reconcile Sir Hugh, in due season, to

the comparatively obscure birth and lowly fortunes of his daughter’s

suitor; and that time alone and constancy were needed to insure to both

ultimate and eternal happiness. Rings were exchanged, and locks of dark

and golden hair; and it was understood between them, that in case of any

sudden need, or perilous emergency, at sight of his ring returned to him

by a trusty messenger, Lionel Thornhill should return hither with all

speed of horse and man, and look to meet his faithful mistress—faithful

through life and unto death, by that same tank, on whose green edge they

parted. They parted, with many a tear, and many a fond embrace. They

parted! When shall they meet again, and how?

* * * * *

A year had passed since Margaret and her lover parted; a year of

incessant strife and warfare throughout England; a year of suffering and

sorrow and trial to the fair young girl, such as she never had endured

before, since the day of her joyous childhood. The war, which had raged

at first so fiercely in the western counties, had now, by the partial

success of the royal arms, swept inland; and the royal host lay at

Oxford where the court was assembled, and where the loyal parliament,

for there were now two parliaments in the distracted kingdom, held their

sittings. Tidings were, it is true, in those days carried to and fro

with difficulty; split up as the whole country was by borough towns and

hamlets, by the castles of the great, and the cottages of the poor,

between the two contending factions; still, in spite of this, those who

were interested in the fortunes of the contending armies, or in the fate

of friends or relatives engaged on either side, contrived to ascertain

which way the tide of events was setting, and of which host on every

stricken field, the more and nobler victims had gone down before the

merciless surge of civil fury.

On the latter point, unhappily, the tale, for the most part, ran one

way; for while the parliamentarians, even in their most galling and

disastrous routs, lost only a few low-born fanatics, pimple-nosed

serving-men, as Oliver himself has set down the bulk of the rebel

forces, small shop-keepers, or broken farmers; the king’s army, even in

its most glorious victories, had to deplore the fall of the good, the

great, the far-descended, and the noble; so that for one man of quality

and parts, and education, who had gone down on the rebel side, twenty of

higher rank, and equal merit, probity, and valor, had been lost to the

king’s supporters.

It may be easily imagined, therefore, what must have been the constant

agony of Margaret, as day after day brought tidings of some desperate

skirmish or well-fought pitched battle, or some fierce onslaught, or

slow famished leaguer; while weeks, perhaps, nay, months, elapsed before

the names of those who had fallen were clearly ascertained, to relieve

the breasts of the happy from anguish for a while, and to plunge their

hapless neighbors in that only sorrow for which there is no earthly

medicine.

Thus far, that last stroke had been spared to Margaret; nay, hitherto

from all that she had learned of her lover’s career in arms, she had

derived unmixed satisfaction, and had been led at first to form sanguine

hopes of the accomplishment of all her wishes.

From his first action to the last of which the tidings had arrived at

Clavering-in-the-Hollow, he had distinguished himself by his spirit, his

coolness and judgment in the council-chamber, and his fiery, impetuous

ardor on the battle-field. From a captain in Colonel Bagot’s regiment of

horse he had risen so rapidly, as to be given the command of that

regiment, on the appointment of the gallant officer who raised it to be

governor of Litchfield.

For a while, as Sir Hugh Clavering noted the encomiums passed on the

conduct of the young man, whom he had, indeed, loved until he discovered

what he considered his presumption, in aspiring to his daughter’s hand,

he had expressed some pleasure; for he was of a generous and noble

temper, although stern, unyielding, and exacting, and had even, on the

occasion of his promotion, declared at the supper-table, when the news

reached him, not without something of self-gratulation at his own

prescient sagacity, that he had always foreseen that Lionel Thornhill

would do great things, and rise to honor, should opportunity be

vouchsafed, and fortune favor him.

Unfortunately, however, poor Margaret, delighted at hearing her lover’s

praises flowing from that unaccustomed tongue, had displayed her emotion

and her joy so visibly in her flushed cheeks, clasped hands, and

sparkling eyes, that the stern old baronet at once perceived his

error—an error into which he would not have fallen, had he not been

well assured, from the unconscious manner and absolute tranquillity of

his sweet child, that absence, and time, joined to the knowledge of his

determination, had eradicated all the traces of her misplaced and, as he

hoped, transient passion from the maiden’s breast.

Once satisfied that such was not the case, with the decisive, energetic

obstinacy, which was his principal characteristic, he had resolved to

compel her at once to an union which he had long desired to bring about,

but which was so repugnant to his daughter, whom, in spite of his

severity, he loved more dearly than any thing else on earth, that

although he had often given her to understand that it must be at some

future time, he had yet so continually delayed, and so entirely forborne

to press it, that she had begun to regard it rather in the light of an

old story adhered to from pertinacity, but in truth signifying nothing,

than as a real peril, immediate, and threatening her happiness.

Now, however, changing his plans on the instant, he constantly invited

the suitor of his choice to Clavering, though still without speaking on

the subject at all to Margaret; encouraged him to persist in his

attentions, in spite of the coldness, and sometimes of the aggressive

impertinence of the overwrought maiden, and directed the servants to

treat Sir Andrew Acton in all respects as the future husband of his

daughter, and as their future master.

Margaret was not slow to perceive the meaning of these machinations, yet

she hoped still, although they wrought upon her spirit fearfully,

wrought even on her health, and dimmed the resplendence of her dazzling

beauty, that by patience and self-control, and the calm endurance of a

noble mind, she should be enabled to protract matters at least until

something should fall out which might give her an advantage over her

persecutors, in the deep and wily game they were playing against her.

Thus time wore onward, until the latter days of autumn, the autumn of

1644, were fast approaching. The dark woods of Clavering-in-the-Hollow

had changed their deep garniture of summer greenery for the sere and

melancholy russet; the dead leaves came whirling slowly down through the

still and misty atmosphere, and lay in thick decaying masses, red and

rank, over the steamy grass. The solitary fish-ponds were veiled by the

white vapors which hung over them even at noonday; and a faint

mouldering, earthy odor, reminding those who perceived it of the scent

of a burial-vault, dwelt heavily among the deep, moist woodlands, and

rendered those wild wood-paths, which were so cool and attractive in the

budding days of early spring-time, and the fierce heats of summer,

loathsome and almost insalubrious.

Even in the open lawns and trim terraced gardens which surrounded the

old hall, the faint and sickly sunshine fell but for a few hours at

mid-day, and then with a melancholy and as it would seem reluctant

lustre.

A gloomy place, and solitary at the best, in such a season, was

Clavering-in-the-Hollow; but now it was doubly so, from the total

absence of all animation, all sound, or show of human life within its

precincts. Old age, and fast growing infirmities had long since debarred

Sir Hugh from his once loved field-sports; sons he had none, nor

nephews, nor kindred, except his one fair daughter; and thence it was,

that no baying of the merry fox-hound was ever heard in those deep

glades and tangled dingles; no ringing report of the birding-piece or

carbine awoke the echoes of the bare downs above; no merry cavalcades of

gorgeous cavaliers and merry ladies, with falcon on fist, and spaniel at

heel, were ever seen sweeping over those solitary lawns, and filling

those lonely places with sounds and sights of beauty.

Sir Hugh mused ever by the hearth, or pondered over some huge tome of

heraldry, or told old legends of his youth, sternly and briefly, and

with none of the garrulity of complacent old age, to the dull ears of

Sir Andrew, who, now almost a constant inmate of the Hall, listened

unmoved and stolid to tales intended for the most part to urge him on to

something of action or exertion; too indolent and listless for field

sports, too dull and unintellectual to take delight in books or

paintings, he would lounge away half the morning playing at

shovel-board, his right hand against his left; or setting the terriers

and mastiffs by the ears, or quaffing mighty tankards of toast and ale,

until the dinner hour should subject poor Margaret to the petty

persecution of his unmeaning speeches, his simpering smiles, and his

impertinent assumptions, which she affected not to perceive, and treated

with indifference, unless absolutely thrust upon her, and then with cool

contempt.

Meanwhile it was observed by the old servants, who worshiped the very

ground on which she trod, that, although in the presence of her father

and of that hated suitor she bore up with a brave front against those

small, and mean, and irritating persecutions, which act on a high and

noble spirit as the incessant drip of water on the intrenchant granite,

that although she was calm and self-possessed, and dignified, nay, at

times quick and high-spirited, and prompt at eloquent and cutting

repartee, she was, when left alone, another creature.

She, whose whole nature, in old days, was gentleness and woman

mirthfulness, who never could walk across a room, or athwart a grassy

lawn, but her gay soul would send her bounding like a happy fawn in some

unpremeditated dance-steps; she, whose lips poured forth, not from the

lack of thought, but from the very superfluity of fancy, one constant

stream of blithe imaginative song, would now sit brooding for whole

mornings in dark silence, with her hands folded in her lap, and her

eyes, hard and tearless, and abstracted, riveted on those thin, wan,

burning fingers; hearing no sounds from without, and if forced to lend

her attention, starting with a wild stare from her revery, and gazing

around her like one awakened suddenly from a deep sleep, and answering

sullenly, querulously, and at times even harshly to addresses of the

kindest meaning.

Evening after evening, when she could escape, favored by the deep

musings of her father, and the deeper potations of Sir Andrew, she would

wander away into the deep, moist woods, heedless of the chill dews and

loathsome mists, roaming the desolate paths like an unquiet ghost, and

terminating still her melancholy walks at the margin of that deep,

transparent tank, beside which she had parted from her lover.

The old forester at first, who had known and loved her mother when she

was as young and as fair, and almost as wretched as her miserable child,

was wont to follow her steps at a distance, so deeply was he impressed

with the idea that all was not right with her gentle spirit; and he had

whispered once into the ear of a fellow-servitor, as old and as faithful

as himself, that he had seen her make strange gestures with her hands,

and noticed that her lips moved constantly without giving utterance to a

sound.

But it was not long before she discovered that she was watched; and the

moment she discovered it, assuming instantly her usual calm and graceful

dignity, she turned about, left the path which she was following, and

walked directly up to the old man, where he stood half concealed by the

boll of a huge oak, and alarmed now at the consequence of his own

precaution.

Fixing her soft eyes mournfully, and with half reproachful glance, on

those of the old servant, she laid her hand lightly on his arm, and

said, with an attempt to be playful, as of old, which was in truth most

melancholy, “Ah, I have found you out for all your hiding, Jeremy. So

you were watching me in these wild woods;” and then altering her tone in

an instant, as if she had become aware that the effort was in vain, “but

no,” she added, “no, no—you are mistaken; I am not mad, indeed I am not

mad, only most miserable; though God knows, and he only, how soon they

may make me mad also. Now listen to me, Jeremy, you must promise me

here, and now, that you will do from this time forth whatever I may ask

of you. I know that in old times you were good to my mother, and now,

God help me, unless it be you alone, there is no one left to be good to

her daughter. Say, will you promise me, old Jeremy?”

“I will—I will, Mistress Margaret,” replied the old man, moved even to

tears by the earnest incoherency of her address. “I will, if they kill

me for it! I will do what you bid me, though it be to lose my own life,

or—” and he bent his brows darkly, and clenched his hand and repeated

in a deep whisper, “or—or to take that of others!”

For one moment she gazed at him so wistfully and so wildly, that he

imagined that he had hit upon her meaning, and that she only lacked the

nerve to speak out her desire openly. He fixed his eye, therefore,

firmly and confidently on hers, and tapping the butt of the heavy

cross-bow, which lay in the hollow of his left arm, with the fore-finger

of his right, “There is no doubt,” he said, “nor any danger. I can send

a broad arrow through his heart, as he rides home some night in his

cups, I warrant me, and none the wiser.”

“Hush! hush!” replied the girl severely. “_You_ must not speak of such

things, nor _I_ think of them. You misunderstand me, and offend me.” But

it was remarkable that her cheek did not pale, nor her lip quiver, nor

her soft eye blanch, nor any start of disgust or horror shake her frame,

at that dark and bloody proposition. A little month before, and she had

recoiled in awe and loathing, had fled in utter scorn and hatred from

any one who should have dared to impute such meaning to her words. But

now she listened calmly, and though she refused and rebuked the offer,

she did so with an unmoved and deliberate demeanor, as if she were

herself familiar with thoughts of blood and death; as if she had

accustomed herself to envisage such ideas calmly, perchance herself to

look at man’s worst enemy or best friend, as it may be, no longer

through a glass darkly, but steadily, and face to face.

It must have been, indeed, strange misery, awful despair, which had

changed a being so merry and innocent, so delicate and womanly, and

gentle, into one so resolved and stern, and so calm in her resolution,

whether for good or evil.

“No, no,” she continued, “you must promise me, in the first place, never

to follow or watch my steps any more, but, on the contrary, to observe

others, lest they do so; and if you see or suspect any one attempting

it, frustrate or intercept him. Do you promise me this?”

“I swear it.”

“It is well. Now tell me, how long shall it take, with the utmost speed

of man and horse, taking relays wherever they may be had, to reach

Oxford.”

“I will be bound to do it, Mistress Margaret, between sunrise to-morrow

and noon the third day hence; a younger man might do it quicker by well

nigh a day; but I am near to fourscore years old now, and my limbs grow

stiff, and my breath fails, but my will is good, lady, and my heart is

as stout as ever.”

“I doubt it not, Jeremy; and that will do right well. Now mark me. I may

have need to send ere long to Oxford a messenger whom I can trust, and

may have no occasion to speak with you. See, here is gold, thirty broad

pieces. Now observe this ring which I wear; if I send it to you at any

hour of night or day, or give it you myself, or drop it in your path

that you find it, tarry not for one moment, but take horse and ride—and

ride for life, for life, and—” here she dropped her voice, and caught

the old man by his hand, and whispered in his ear—“bear it to Lionel

Thornhill, and with your own hand place it in his hand. Do you mark?—Do

you comprehend? Will you do my bidding?”

“If life and limb hold out, I will.”

“Enough! I ask no more. God’s blessing on your head, and a lone orphan’s

prayers for your spirit’s rest, if you be true—the curse of Judas on

your soul if you betray me. Farewell, and remember.”

She wrung his hard hand, and turned away abruptly, and rushed homeward

with a heart perhaps a little lighter that it had unbosomed thus to a

true ear something of its sorrows. In the meantime events were drawing

on rapidly, and the crisis was at hand yet more nearly and more suddenly

than she imagined.

When the supper-bell rang, which it did within ten minutes after her

return, and she descended into the great hall, she found her father,

instead of sitting, as usual, in his large arm-chair by the fireside

half dozing, was striding to and fro across the oaken floor, speaking

with great animation, and holding in his hand a news-letter, as the rare

and incomplete gazettes of the time were called, while Acton, listless

as usual, and without one spark of animation apparent in his inert but

handsome features, sat toying with a terrier dog, and provoking it to

bite at his fingers, and then beating it for doing so.

“Have you news from the host, father,” cried she, as she saw how he was

employed, “is it well for the good cause?”

“Great news, and gallant doings, daughter,” replied the old man quickly.

“Basing-House has been gloriously relieved by valiant Colonel Gage, and

a small band of partisans, who have slain thrice their number of the

Roundheads; and the king’s army has gone into winter-quarters with

higher hopes than it has yet had cause to entertain of bringing this war

to a close in the next campaign.”

“Great news, indeed, and happy. Let me see the news-letter, father.”

“Not now, not now, darling,” replied the old man; “let us to table now,

the goose-pie is growing cold, and your lover here has been looking

angrily at the baron of beef these ten minutes.”

“My lover!” she exclaimed, in tones of ineffable disdain, and gazed on

him with wide eyes of cold astonishment.

“A very true, if a very humble one, fair Mistress Margaret,” replied the

indolent baronet, sauntering up to her, and offering his hand to lead

her to the table.

“No one can be a lover of mine, Sir Andrew,” she replied, very shortly,

“who is not a lover of honor also. In times like these, no lady should

smile on any suitor but him who dares the furthest, and does the most

for the king’s cause;” and refusing his offered hand, she walked by

herself to her place, and did the honors of the coming meal, which

passed in gloomy and unsocial silence.

When it was ended, however, and they had all retired into the

withdrawing-room where the lamps were lighted, and a wood-fire sparkling

cheerfully, Margaret possessed herself of the forgotten news-letter,

while her father returned to his heraldic musings, and the baronet

applied himself to seek consolation for his late rebuff, in the ample

spiced posset, which was set, with wine and comfits and manchet-bread,

on the board before him.

Suddenly, springing to her feet in great excitement, and letting the

news-letter, which she yet held in her hand, fall by her side at arm’s

length, Margaret cried out in shrill tones,

“Why, father, dearest father, why, I beseech you, did you not tell me

this, for this is, indeed, great news”—and she burst into a flood of

passionate tears; but they were tears of joy. Alas! alas! poor Margaret,

the last tears of joy that she should thenceforth shed forever.

“What, what!” cried the old man, startled by her vehemence, and by her

sudden fit of weeping, “what tidings? I did tell you, surely.”

“Not,” she returned, forgetting every thing in the joy of the moment,

“not that our friend and neighbor, Colonel Thornhill, has been stricken

a banneret by the king’s own hand, for his glorious deeds in the relief

of Basing-House; not that he has been ennobled, and created a

baronet—Thornhill of Thornhill-Royal. Oh, happy, happy day!”—and again

she burst into tears, and clasped her hands to her heart, as if she were

fearful that it would burst from the excess of happiness.

“And, I beseech you, what may it concern Mistress Margaret Clavering,”

asked silly Andrew Acton, “that a beggerly gentleman, scarcely a

gentleman, indeed, at all, should be rapped over the costard with the

flat of an old rapier, under a rag of painted bunting?”