In a turret chamber in Kilfinnan Castle sat two young ladies. It was
apparently their private boudoir. It had been elegantly furnished, but
the drapery had somewhat faded, and the air of freshness it had once
possessed had long since departed. The window out of which the ladies
were gazing looked forth over the wide Atlantic, and the eldest was
dressed in deep mourning, apparently her usual costume, while the air of
sadness in her countenance seemed to be habitual. The younger one was
full of life and animation, though occasionally, as she looked up at her
friend, she, too, became sad.
"That is a strange story, Sophy, you were reading just now from the
newspaper," said the youngest,--"I mean about Lord Eden; I cannot
understand how a man of his rank and position should condescend to marry
a girl of low degree, however virtuous or excellent she might be. These
_mesalliances_ can never answer. Too soon the one of more refined
habits and ideas discovers a degree of coarseness and vulgarity in the
other, which must ultimately cause separation. No; my only notion of a
happy union is, that where people are of the same rank and education,
and all their sympathies are in unison--"
"You know so little of life, dear Nora, that I do not think you are
capable of judging," answered her cousin Sophy. "I do not say, however,
that in the main you are not right, but there may be exceptions, in
which true happiness may be found. I do not say Lord Eden is right in
marrying this girl. At the same time, she may have more natural
refinement than could be expected. I have heard of such instances."
"I, on the contrary, Sophy, remember hearing my father speak of a very
different case, in which a country girl was taken out of her sphere, and
educated, and, I think, became the wife of one of our ministers. As
long as she was at rest, she appeared very elegant, but if she got at
all excited, or, as was sometimes the case, lost her temper, she then
exhibited her real condition; and if, as I consider, it is very bad for
a man to marry a person of inferior rank, surely it is much worse for a
lady to marry one who is her inferior."
Sophy smiled sadly.
"No; I shall hold to my own opinion," said Nora, "and I do not think
that anybody would induce me to marry a person, however elegant and
refined he might appear, unless I knew he was of gentle blood."
The conversation of the young ladies was interrupted by Sophy
exclaiming--
"Bring the glass, Nora; I see a vessel standing in for the bay. Her
canvas looks very white and shining. I believe she is a man-of-war."
The telescope, which stood on a stand, had been, for some purpose,
removed from the window, and it was now brought to its usual place by
Nora. They both looked through it, one after the other.
"Yes, there can be no doubt of the matter," said Nora; "her square
yards, her tall masts and white canvas show at once what she is. She
does not appear to me to be a frigate. I think she is a smaller
vessel--a corvette,--and very beautiful vessels they are."
While this conversation was going forward, the ship rapidly approached
the shore, under a wide spread of canvas. They had soon an opportunity
of ascertaining her character. At length she stood into the bay, and,
furling her sails, came to an anchor. The wind was at that time
sufficiently from the north to enable her to obtain perfect shelter, and
she floated calmly on the smooth waters. It was still early in the day.
They watched for a short time, but no boat could put off to approach
the Castle, though they fancied they saw one standing in for another
part of the bay.
At that time Ireland was suffering, as she had long been, from her usual
chronic disorder--discontent. Disturbances had occurred here and there
in the west and south among the Riband Men, or White Boys, or United
Irishmen, by which names the rebels were at different times and places
known. The Government, therefore, had considered it necessary to send
vessels of war to cruise up and down the coast, that their blue-jackets
and marines might render such assistance as might be required. This was
so generally the case at present, that the arrival of the corvette did
not cause any unusual sensation among the inhabitants of the coast who
lived near enough to the sea to observe her. Several men-of-war had in
the same way entered the bay of late, and, after remaining a few days,
had taken their departure. The young ladies had arranged that, later in
the day, they would take a ride over the downs, and, after calling on
Miss O'Reilly, at the Vicarage, look in upon some of the poor people
whom they were in the habit of visiting.
Meantime, we must go to the other end of the bay, where an old man might
be seen descending the narrow gorge which led down to the small cove
where the Widow O'Neil resided. It was Father O'Rourke. He proceeded
on in a somewhat meditative mood, until he reached the cottage. He
opened the door, and found the widow sitting on the usual stool,
employed in mending her nets.
"And what brings you here, Father O'Rourke?" she said, looking up at him
with a glance which showed that he was not a favourite of hers.
"Widow, I have come to speak about a matter of importance," he answered.
"I hear, in spite of all my warnings, and all the instruction I have
given you, by which you would be sure to find your way to heaven, that
you still go to that heretic minister, Mr Jamieson, as you used to do
when I before warned you. Now, I tell you, widow, if you love your
soul, you must go there no more. I am not going to be warning you for
ever. Do you hear my words? Do you intend to obey them?"
"Father O'Rourke," said the widow, looking calmly at him, "I have a
great respect for your office, and for the holy religion of which you
are a priest; there is nothing I have ever said against that. I am a
good Catholic, as I have always been, and you shall not be the person to
throw a stone at me; but if I go to the Vicarage, I go to hear the
gentle words of that poor blind lady, and the minister never speaks
anything to me but what is faithful and true. He is a good man, Father
O'Rourke, and I wish I was as sure of going to heaven as he is: that is
what I have got to tell you."
"Oh, Widow O'Neil, those are evil words you are speaking!" exclaimed the
priest; "you are just disobeying the holy mother Church; you are just
doing what will bring you down the road to destruction, and I tell you,
I believe it was your obstinacy, and your love for those heretics, that
was the cause of the loss of your son. He is gone, and I hope he is
gone to glory, for it is not for the want of me saying masses for his
soul, if he has not; for sure I am, that, if he had remained here, and
listened longer to the instruction of that false heretic, he would have
gone the way you are so anxious to go, Widow O'Neil."
The widow now stood up, throwing from her the nets, which had hitherto
been on her knees. She stepped back a pace or two, and stretched out
her hands.
"Father O'Rourke," she exclaimed, "it is not the truth you are speaking
to me! My boy never learned anything but what was good when he went to
the Vicarage: and more than that, though you say he has gone from this
world, there is something deep down in my heart which tells me he is
still alive. If he were dead, my heart would feel very different to
what it does now. I tell you, Father O'Rourke, I believe my son is
alive, and will come back some day to see me. I know he will. Do you
think I doubt his love? Do I doubt my love for him? No. Father
O'Rourke, you are a childless man yourself, and you do not know what the
love of a mother is for her child, and I do not think you know what the
love of a child is for its mother--a fond, loving mother, as I have
been,--not such a child as mine. The day will come when Dermot will
stand here, as you are standing here; but he will not be blaming his old
mother as you are blaming her. He will come to speak words of comfort
and consolation into my ear. Instead of that, Father O'Rourke, you have
brought nothing but cursing. You tell me I am in the downward road to
destruction. Is that the way you should speak to a lone widow, because
she loves her son, and likes those to speak who knew him, and who would
talk about him to her and praise him, and who tell her what a noble,
clever youth he was?"
"Widow O'Neil!" exclaimed Father O'Rourke, an angry frown gathering on
his brow, "year after year I have spoken to you as I am now speaking. I
have warned you before, I have warned your boy Dermot. I tell you, he
would not take the warning, and he would have suffered the consequences
of his disobedience, but I do care for your soul, and it is on account
of that soul that I want you to put faith in the holy mother Church. If
you do, all will be right, but if you go and listen to the words of that
Protestant minister, all will be wrong, and you, Widow O'Neil, will have
to go and live for ever with the accursed; ay, for ever and ever in fire
and torment." With such force and energy did the priest speak, and so
fierce did he look, that for the moment he made the poor old woman
tremble and turn pale with fear. She quickly, however, recovered
herself.
"You may go, Father O'Rourke," she exclaimed. "Once I was your slave,
but I am your slave no longer. I am a poor ignorant woman, but I have
had the truth told me, and that truth has made me free of you; say what
you will, I do not fear you."
The priest on hearing these words positively stamped on the ground, and
gnashed his teeth with anger. He was not one of the polished fathers of
the Church, who have been taught from their youth to conceal their
feelings. He was certainly not a trained disciple of Ignatius Loyola.
Again and again he stamped, and then uttering a fearful anathema on the
occupant of the hut, he turned round, and slamming the door, left her as
he had often before done, and hastened upwards towards the cliffs.
While this scene was enacting below, a young naval officer, who had
landed from a boat which had come from the corvette, lately brought up
in the bay, had climbed to the summit of the downs, and was taking his
way across them towards the gorge, up which the priest was hastening.
He had, however, not got very far, when he heard a voice singing a wild
and plaintive Irish air. He stopped to listen, and as he did so, a
figure, dressed in fantastic fashion, appeared from behind some broken
ground in the neighbourhood of the downs. She advanced towards him, and
then suddenly stopped, looking eagerly in his face.
"Who are you, stranger--who are you who come to these shores? It is not
good for you to be alone here; if you come, come with armed men, with
muskets on their shoulders and swords by their sides, for that slight
weapon that you carry would avail you nothing against the enemies you
are likely to meet here. Go back, I tell you, the way you came. I may
seem silly and mad, and mad and silly I am, but I can sing; few can sing
like me. Now listen stranger, listen to my song." She burst forth
again in the same wild strains which at first attracted the young
officer's attention.
"But what reason could you give me why I should follow your advice? I
like your song, however; can you not sing me another?"
"Yes," she answered, "mad Kathleen has many a song in her head, but it
does not always come when called for, it is only as the fit seizes her
that she can bring it forth. Never mind listening to my song, however,
but follow my advice. There is your boat even now out in the bay; go,
make a signal to it to come back to you, or evil will befall you."
"I can scarcely suppose that, provided I do not leave the shore,"
answered the officer. "I thank you, however, for your advice, but I do
not purpose wandering far from where I now am."
"Even here where you stand you are not safe; but I have warned you once,
and I cannot warn you more," exclaimed the mad woman, as with wild
gestures she retreated back to the spot from which she appeared to have
come. The young officer watched her till she disappeared. A shade of
melancholy came over his countenance.
"I might have asked her about some of the people hereabouts," he said to
himself. "Her warning perhaps is not to be despised; I will sit down
here, and wait till the boat returns."
The officer was approaching the edge of the cliff when Father O'Rourke
reached the downs; seeing the stranger, he advanced towards him. The
temper of the priest had not calmed down, so it seemed, since his
encounter with the poor widow. As he approached the young officer, he
looked at him earnestly.
"What brings you here?" he exclaimed. "What business have armed men to
come upon our coasts, let me ask you?"
"Really, sir," said the officer, drawing himself up, "I bear his
Majesty's commission as commander of yonder sloop of war, and in the
performance of my duty, I have landed on the shores of this bay; but I
do not understand why I should be thus roughly spoken to by one
especially, who, judging from his appearance, is a catholic priest."
"You judge rightly, young man," answered Father O'Rourke, "but I am not
to be deceived by appearances, and though you may call yourself what you
will, I suspect you to be either the commander of a privateer, if not
rather of a vile buccaneer. We have had visits before now from such
gentry, and I should advise you to leave our shores without delay."
"I cannot understand your meaning," exclaimed the officer; "I repeat, I
came here in the performance of my duty, and I little expected to be
treated thus by the first stranger I might meet."
The priest seemed to think that he had proceeded too far; whatever might
have been his motive in thus insulting one whom he must have known was a
naval officer, or for some reason, he thought fit suddenly to change his
tactics.
"Pardon me, sir," he said in a soothing voice, which he well knew how to
assume, "I see that I was mistaken in my first supposition, and to prove
my sincerity, I shall be happy if I can render to you any service in my
power."
"I willingly accept your apologies," answered the officer, regarding the
priest intently, as if to ascertain whether he was to be trusted. "On
my way along the shore, I intend visiting some of the little coves I see
to the northward of these downs, and now, sir, perhaps you can inform me
whether I am likely to find any people residing among them?"
"But few, if any," answered the priest, "they are nearly all dead or
gone away who once lived there; the curse of your country has been upon
them. The aged and the young, the married and the single, the widow and
her children, have all been swept away."
"Yes, I have heard that great changes have taken place in this
neighbourhood of late years," answered the young officer, a shade of
melancholy crossing his countenance. "And now, sir, in spite of the
somewhat rough way in which you first addressed me, I wish you good
morning, and thank you for your information."
Father O'Rourke had, all the time he was speaking, been examining the
countenance of the young officer.
"Ah, to be sure, I was somewhat irritated by a trifle just before I met
you, but your politeness has conquered me," he answered blandly, "and I
beg you, should you come near my humble abode, to believe that I shall
be happy to receive you. We poor, oppressed Catholics have little to
offer our guests, but to such as I possess you will be welcome. Our
business is to look after the souls of our parishioners. If we can but
show them the right way to heaven we should be content."
The young officer seemed somewhat inclined to smile at these remarks of
the priest.
"I will not fail to avail myself of your invitation," he answered, "but
at present I do not intend to extend my walk along the sea-shore."
"Well then, sir, as you have wished me good morning, I must wish you the
same, and a pleasant walk to you, only let me advise you to be cautious
where you go; it isn't just the safest part of the country for a king's
officer to be found wandering in by himself. However, sir, I have given
you a friendly warning, and now again farewell." The priest, somewhat
to the surprise of the officer, considering the father's previous
greeting, put out his hand, which he was too courteous not to take, then
quickly turning round, Father O'Rourke proceeded up the gorge into the
country.
Father O'Rourke was not accustomed to explain to others the object of
his proceedings. He had good reasons in his own estimation for
everything that he did. They were possibly conscientious; but then his
conscience might have been a very erring guide, and led him far wrong,
as is the case with many other people in the world.
"It cannot be helped," said the priest to himself, alluding to something
which was passing in his own mind, "but no harm may come of it to me
after all. The boys were to meet at O'Keef's last night, and there will
be plenty of them still about there; they will be glad enough of the
chance of getting hold of a king's officer, and if he shows fight and
some one gives him a knock on the head, or sends a pistol-bullet through
him, it will settle the business. He is certain to be down in the cove,
and if the boys are quick they will catch him there. I am pretty sure
that I am not mistaken, but at all events he will be a valuable prize if
he can be got hold of any way."
Such thoughts occupied the mind of the priest as turning off from the
beaten path he took his way across a mountainous region which still
remained in all its primitive wildness. After proceeding for some
distance at a speed which was surprising considering his age, he reached
some rude turf-covered huts, scarcely discernible from the rocks and
grass amid which they stood. The priest gave a peculiar call, which
soon brought out a number of shaggy-looking heads and eager faces with
grey frieze-coats beneath them. Father O'Rourke did not take long to
explain the object of his visit, which was quickly comprehended, nor did
he wrongly estimate the inclinations of his hearers, who gleefully
undertook to carry out the plan he proposed to them. All things being
arranged to his satisfaction, he returned to his own abode, saying to
himself, "I warned him of danger, so that if he is attacked and escapes,
he cannot accuse me of having had anything to do in the matter."
The officer was about to prosecute his intention of descending into the
cove, when he heard merry voices near him. The speakers seemed to be
climbing up the cliffs, and they soon made their appearance on its
summit. Touching their caps as they neared the officer--
"The boat has come for you, sir," said one of them.
"Very well," was the answer. "Go down and amuse yourselves on the beach
for a short time and I will join you. I am not ready to go off just
yet."
The young midshipmen receiving these orders managed to get down the
cliffs in a way few but midshipmen could have done without breaking
their necks.
"I wonder what our captain's about," said one of them. "I should have
thought that he would have gone to the Castle. Lord Kilfinnan lives
there, you know; and I remember hearing how constantly he used to be at
his house out in the West Indies. Did you ever see Lady Nora?"
"No," answered the other; "I do not remember having heard her spoken
of."
"Oh, she is the Earl's daughter, and a very beautiful girl she is, too,"
observed the first speaker. "There is Lady Sophy Danvers, her cousin,
too, who lives with her. She was engaged for a long time to that
Captain Falkner, you know, who commanded the _Cynthia_; but, I suppose
her relations did not like her to marry him because he wasn't a lord,
and intended her for a duke or a marquis perhaps."
"I do not see why they should have done that," answered the other
midshipman. "In my opinion, a naval officer is equal to any lord in the
land; at all events, a post-captain is. If I were a post-captain, I
know, I should not hesitate to pay my respects to any earl's daughter.
Why, just think, to have a fine frigate and three or four hundred men
under one's orders, and, by-and-by, a line-of-battle ship, and then a
post-captain becomes an admiral, remember; and many admirals have been
made lords themselves. Why, there is Lord Nelson; he was only a
midshipman to begin with; and Lord Collingwood, and Lord Saint Vincent,
and Lord Howe, and many others; they were all midshipmen, just as you
and I are. Now, just look at our captain for instance; if any one
deserves to be made a lord he does. What a gallant fellow he is. Why,
if it had not been for him, they say, the _Cynthia_ would have been
taken. It was he assisted in lashing the enemy's bowsprit to the
frigate's foremast, and then repelling the boarders who were swarming on
board; and then, there are no end of things he did in the West Indies,
and in other parts of the world. He has been in half-a-dozen
cutting-out expeditions, and, since he has been a commander, has taken
several prizes. Did you ever hear how, when the French frigate was
sinking, he refused to leave her, and stayed on board to assist the
captain in keeping her afloat at the risk of his own life. Now, that is
the sort of thing to be proud of. I often think more of a man who has
done those generous actions than one who has gained a hard-fought
battle. However, what do you say to having a race along the sands?
Here, we will get most of the fellows on shore, and I am ready to give a
prize to the best runner."
"I will give my pocket-knife," said the midshipman; "that will be an
encouragement to the men. They are good sort of fellows, and I like to
afford them amusement. It is little we or they get these days, kept at
sea month after month."
As it may be supposed, the young midshipmen were great favourites on
board the corvette, and for some time they kept their crew amused as
they had proposed. At length they began to wonder that the captain did
not appear, and they began to fear that some accident had befallen him.
At last they proposed climbing up the cliff again to look for him. They
reached the top at last, and looked round the downs on every side; no
one was to be seen. Then curiosity led them a short distance inland.
Suddenly, a figure which made them start rose up before them.
"Who are you looking for, young sirs?" exclaimed mad Kathleen. "I know
without your telling me. He is gone--gone away, and you must follow to
find him; but listen, boys, I have a message for him. Now, don't you
fail to give it. Tell him there are enemies watching for him, and that
if ever he comes on shore by himself he will be sure to be set upon, and
all his strength and courage will avail him nothing. He is a brave man,
your captain, and I wish him well."
"Why, how do you know anything about him?" asked one of the midshipmen.
"I did not know he had ever been here before."
"Mad Kathleen knows more things than you wot of," answered the mad
woman, with a loud laugh, whirling her hands as she spoke. "Now, go to
the Castle as I bid you, and give him my message. He would run more
risk by neglecting my warning than if he were to fight a dozen battles
for his king and country."
Though the midshipmen were little inclined to put much belief in the
message of the mad creature, they promised to deliver it as soon as they
met their captain. After consulting together, they agreed that their
proper course was to row along the bay towards the Castle, in the hopes
that he might have gone there.