THE LAST HEIR OF CASTLE CONNOR.
Being a third Extract from the legacy of the late Francis Purcell, P. P.of Drumcoolagh.
There is something in the decay of ancient grandeur to interest even themost unconcerned spectator--the evidences of greatness, of power, and ofpride that survive the wreck of time, proving, in mournful contrast withpresent desolation and decay, what WAS in other days, appeal, with aresistless power, to the sympathies of our nature. And when, as we gazeon the scion of some ruined family, the first impulse of nature thatbids us regard his fate with interest and respect is justified by therecollection of great exertions and self-devotion and sacrifices inthe cause of a lost country and of a despised religion--sacrifices andefforts made with all the motives of faithfulness and of honour, andterminating in ruin--in such a case respect becomes veneration, and theinterest we feel amounts almost to a passion.
It is this feeling which has thrown the magic veil of romance over everyroofless castle and ruined turret throughout our country; it is thisfeeling that, so long as a tower remains above the level of the soil, solong as one scion of a prostrate and impoverished family survives,will never suffer Ireland to yield to the stranger more than the 'mouthhonour' which fear compels.(3) I who have conversed viva voce et propriapersona with those whose recollections could run back so far as thetimes previous to the confiscations which followed the Revolution of1688--whose memory could repeople halls long roofless and desolate, andpoint out the places where greatness once had been, may feel all thismore strongly, and with a more vivid interest, than can those whosesympathies are awakened by the feebler influence of what may be calledthe PICTURESQUE effects of ruin and decay.
(3) This passage serves (mirabile dictu) to corroborate a statement of Mr. O'Connell's, which occurs in his evidence given before the House of Commons, wherein he affirms that the principles of the Irish priesthood 'ARE democratic, and were those of Jacobinism.'--See digest of the evidence upon the state of Ireland, given before the House of Commons.
There do, indeed, still exist some fragments of the ancient Catholicfamilies of Ireland; but, alas! what VERY fragments! They linger likethe remnants of her aboriginal forests, reft indeed of their strengthand greatness, but proud even in decay. Every winter thins their ranks,and strews the ground with the wreck of their loftiest branches; theyare at best but tolerated in the land which gave them birth--objects ofcuriosity, perhaps of pity, to one class, but of veneration to another.
The O'Connors, of Castle Connor, were an ancient Irish family. The namerecurs frequently in our history, and is generally to be found in aprominent place whenever periods of tumult or of peril called forththe courage and the enterprise of this country. After the accession ofWilliam III., the storm of confiscation which swept over the landmade woeful havoc in their broad domains. Some fragments of property,however, did remain to them, and with it the building which had for agesformed the family residence.
About the year 17--, my uncle, a Catholic priest, became acquainted withthe inmates of Castle Connor, and after a time introduced me, then a ladof about fifteen, full of spirits, and little dreaming that a professionso grave as his should ever become mine.
The family at that time consisted of but two members, a widow lady andher only son, a young man aged about eighteen. In our early days theprogress from acquaintance to intimacy, and from intimacy to friendshipis proverbially rapid; and young O'Connor and I became, in less than amonth, close and confidential companions--an intercourse which ripenedgradually into an attachment ardent, deep, and devoted--such as Ibelieve young hearts only are capable of forming.
He had been left early fatherless, and the representative and heir ofhis family. His mother's affection for him was intense in proportion asthere existed no other object to divide it--indeed--such love as thatshe bore him I have never seen elsewhere. Her love was better bestowedthan that of mothers generally is, for young O'Connor, not without someof the faults, had certainly many of the most engaging qualities ofyouth. He had all the frankness and gaiety which attract, and thegenerosity of heart which confirms friendship; indeed, I never saw aperson so universally popular; his very faults seemed to recommendhim; he was wild, extravagant, thoughtless, and fearlesslyadventurous--defects of character which, among the peasantry of Ireland,are honoured as virtues. The combination of these qualities, and theposition which O'Connor occupied as representative of an ancient IrishCatholic family--a peculiarly interesting one to me, one of the oldfaith--endeared him to me so much that I have never felt the pangs ofparting more keenly than when it became necessary, for the finishing ofhis education, that he should go abroad.
Three years had passed away before I saw him again. During the interval,however, I had frequently heard from him, so that absence had not abatedthe warmth of our attachment. Who could tell of the rejoicings thatmarked the evening of his return? The horses were removed from thechaise at the distance of a mile from the castle, while it and itscontents were borne rapidly onward almost by the pressure of themultitude, like a log upon a torrent. Bonfires blared far andnear--bagpipes roared and fiddles squeaked; and, amid the thunderingshouts of thousands, the carriage drew up before the castle.
In an instant young O'Connor was upon the ground, crying, 'Thank you,boys--thank you, boys;' while a thousand hands were stretched out fromall sides to grasp even a finger of his. Still, amid shouts of 'Godbless your honour--long may you reign!' and 'Make room there, boys!clear the road for the masther!' he reached the threshold of the castle,where stood his mother weeping for joy.
Oh! who could describe that embrace, or the enthusiasm with which it waswitnessed? 'God bless him to you, my lady--glory to ye both!' and 'Oh,but he is a fine young gentleman, God bless him!' resounded on allsides, while hats flew up in volleys that darkened the moon; and when atlength, amid the broad delighted grins of the thronging domestics, whosesense of decorum precluded any more boisterous evidence of joy, theyreached the parlour, then giving way to the fulness of her joy thewidowed mother kissed and blessed him and wept in turn. Well mightany parent be proud to claim as son the handsome stripling who nowrepresented the Castle Connor family; but to her his beauty had apeculiar charm, for it bore a striking resemblance to that of herhusband, the last O'Connor.
I know not whether partiality blinded me, or that I did no more thanjustice to my friend in believing that I had never seen so handsome ayoung man. I am inclined to think the latter. He was rather tall,very slightly and elegantly made; his face was oval, and his featuresdecidedly Spanish in cast and complexion, but with far more vivacityof expression than generally belongs to the beauty of that nation.The extreme delicacy of his features and the varied animation of hiscountenance made him appear even younger than his years--an illusionwhich the total absence of everything studied in his manners seemedto confirm. Time had wrought no small change in me, alike in mind andspirits; but in the case of O'Connor it seemed to have lost its power toalter. His gaiety was undamped, his generosity unchilled; and thoughthe space which had intervened between our parting and reunion wasbut brief, yet at the period of life at which we were, even a shorterinterval than that of three years has frequently served to form orDEform a character.
Weeks had passed away since the return of O'Connor, and scarce a day hadelapsed without my seeing him, when the neighbourhood was thrown intoan unusual state of excitement by the announcement of a race-ball to becelebrated at the assembly-room of the town of T----, distant scarcelytwo miles from Castle Connor.
Young O'Connor, as I had expected, determined at once to attend it; andhaving directed in vain all the powers of his rhetoric to persuade hismother to accompany him, he turned the whole battery of his logic uponme, who, at that time, felt a reluctance stronger than that of mereapathy to mixing in any of these scenes of noisy pleasure for which formany reasons I felt myself unfitted. He was so urgent and persevering,however, that I could not refuse; and I found myself reluctantlyobliged to make up my mind to attend him upon the important nigh
t to thespacious but ill-finished building, which the fashion and beauty of thecounty were pleased to term an assembly-room.
When we entered the apartment, we found a select few, surrounded by acrowd of spectators, busily performing a minuet, with all the congeesand flourishes which belonged to that courtly dance; and my companion,infected by the contagion of example, was soon, as I had anticipated,waving his chapeau bras, and gracefully bowing before one of theprettiest girls in the room. I had neither skill nor spirits to qualifyme to follow his example; and as the fulness of the room rendered iteasy to do so without its appearing singular, I determined to be merelya spectator of the scene which surrounded me, without taking an activepart in its amusements.
The room was indeed very much crowded, so that its various groups,formed as design or accident had thrown the parties together, affordedno small fund of entertainment to the contemplative observer. There werethe dancers, all gaiety and good-humour; a little further off were thetables at which sat the card-players, some plying their vocation withdeep and silent anxiety--for in those days gaming often ran very high insuch places--and others disputing with all the vociferous pertinacityof undisguised ill-temper. There, again, were the sallow, blue-nosed,grey-eyed dealers in whispered scandal; and, in short, there is scarcelya group or combination to be met with in the court of kings which mightnot have found a humble parallel in the assembly-room of T----.
I was allowed to indulge in undisturbed contemplation, for I suppose Iwas not known to more than five or six in the room. I thus had leisurenot only to observe the different classes into which the company haddivided itself, but to amuse myself by speculating as to the rank andcharacter of many of the individual actors in the drama.
Among many who have long since passed from my memory, one person forsome time engaged my attention, and that person, for many reasons, Ishall not soon forget. He was a tall, square-shouldered man, who stoodin a careless attitude, leaning with his back to the wall; he seemed tohave secluded himself from the busy multitudes which moved noisily andgaily around him, and nobody seemed to observe or to converse with him.He was fashionably dressed, but perhaps rather extravagantly; his facewas full and heavy, expressive of sullenness and stupidity, and markedwith the lines of strong vulgarity; his age might be somewhere betweenforty and fifty. Such as I have endeavoured to describe him, he remainedmotionless, his arms doggedly folded across his broad chest, and turninghis sullen eyes from corner to corner of the room, as if eager to detectsome object on which to vent his ill-humour.
It is strange, and yet it is true, that one sometimes finds even in themost commonplace countenance an undefinable something, which fascinatesthe attention, and forces it to recur again and again, while it isimpossible to tell whether the peculiarity which thus attracts us liesin feature or in expression, or in both combined, and why it is that ourobservation should be engrossed by an object which, when analysed, seemsto possess no claim to interest or even to notice. This unaccountablefeeling I have often experienced, and I believe I am not singular.but never in so remarkable a degree as upon this occasion. My friendO'Connor, having disposed of his fair partner, was crossing the roomfor the purpose of joining me, in doing which I was surprised to see himexchange a familiar, almost a cordial, greeting with the object ofmy curiosity. I say I was surprised, for independent of his veryquestionable appearance, it struck me as strange that though soconstantly associated with O'Connor, and, as I thought, personallyacquainted with all his intimates, I had never before even seen thisindividual. I did not fail immediately to ask him who this gentlemanwas. I thought he seemed slightly embarrassed, but after a moment'spause he laughingly said that his friend over the way was too mysteriousa personage to have his name announced in so giddy a scene as thepresent; but that on the morrow he would furnish me with all theinformation which I could desire. There was, I thought, in his affectedjocularity a real awkwardness which appeared to me unaccountable, andconsequently increased my curiosity; its gratification, however, I wasobliged to defer. At length, wearied with witnessing amusements in whichI could not sympathise, I left the room, and did not see O'Connor untillate in the next day.
I had ridden down towards the castle for the purpose of visiting theO'Connors, and had nearly reached the avenue leading to the mansion,when I met my friend. He was also mounted; and having answered myinquiries respecting his mother, he easily persuaded me to accompanyhim in his ramble. We had chatted as usual for some time, when, after apause, O'Connor said:
'By the way, Purcell, you expressed some curiosity respecting the tall,handsome fellow to whom I spoke last night.'
'I certainly did question you about a TALL gentleman, but was not awareof his claims to beauty,' replied I.
'Well, that is as it may be,' said he; 'the ladies think him handsome,and their opinion upon that score is more valuable than yours or mine.Do you know,' he continued, 'I sometimes feel half sorry that I evermade the fellow's acquaintance: he is quite a marked man here, and theytell stories of him that are anything but reputable, though I am surewithout foundation. I think I know enough about him to warrant me insaying so.'
'May I ask his name?' inquired I.
'Oh! did not I tell you his name?' rejoined he. 'You should have heardthat first; he and his name are equally well known. You will recognisethe individual at once when I tell you that his name is--Fitzgerald.'
'Fitzgerald!' I repeated. 'Fitzgerald!--can it be Fitzgerald theduellist?'
'Upon my word you have hit it,' replied he, laughing; 'but you haveaccompanied the discovery with a look of horror more tragic thanappropriate. He is not the monster you take him for--he has a good dealof old Irish pride; his temper is hasty, and he has been unfortunatelythrown in the way of men who have not made allowance for these things.I am convinced that in every case in which Fitzgerald has fought, if thetruth could be discovered, he would be found to have acted throughoutupon the defensive. No man is mad enough to risk his own life, exceptwhen the doing so is an alternative to submitting tamely to what heconsiders an insult. I am certain that no man ever engaged in a duelunder the consciousness that he had acted an intentionally aggressivepart.'
'When did you make his acquaintance?' said I.
'About two years ago,' he replied. 'I met him in France, and you knowwhen one is abroad it is an ungracious task to reject the advancesof one's countryman, otherwise I think I should have avoidedhis society--less upon my own account than because I am sure theacquaintance would be a source of continual though groundless uneasinessto my mother. I know, therefore, that you will not unnecessarily mentionits existence to her.'
I gave him the desired assurance, and added:
'May I ask you. O'Connor, if, indeed, it be a fair question, whetherthis Fitzgerald at any time attempted to engage you in anything likegaming?'
This question was suggested by my having frequently heard Fitzgeraldmentioned as a noted gambler, and sometimes even as a blackleg. O'Connorseemed, I thought, slightly embarrassed. He answered:
'No, no--I cannot say that he ever attempted anything of the kind. Icertainly have played with him, but never lost to any serious amount;nor can I recollect that he ever solicited me--indeed he knows that Ihave a strong objection to deep play. YOU must be aware that my financescould not bear much pruning down. I never lost more to him at a sittingthan about five pounds, which you know is nothing. No, you wrong him ifyou imagine that he attached himself to me merely for the sake of suchcontemptible winnings as those which a broken-down Irish gentleman couldafford him. Come, Purcell, you are too hard upon him--you judge only byreport; you must see him, and decide for yourself.--Suppose we call uponhim now; he is at the inn, in the High Street, not a mile off.'
I declined the proposal drily.
'Your caution is too easily alarmed,' said he. 'I do not wish you tomake this man your bosom friend: I merely desire that you should see andspeak to him, and if you form any acquaintance with him, it must be ofthat slight nature which can be dropped or continued at pleasure.'
From the time that O'Connor had announced the fact that his friendwas no other than the notorious Fitzgerald, a foreboding of somethingcalamitous had come upon me, and it now occurred to me that if anyunpleasantness were to be feared as likely to result to O'Connorfrom their connection, I might find my attempts to extricate him muchfacilitated by my being acquainted, however slightly, with Fitzgerald. Iknow not whether the idea was reasonable--it was certainly natural; andI told O'Connor that upon second thoughts I would ride down with him tothe town, and wait upon Mr. Fitzgerald.
We found him at home; and chatted with him for a considerable time. Tomy surprise his manners were perfectly those of a gentleman, and hisconversation, if not peculiarly engaging, was certainly amusing. Thepoliteness of his demeanour, and the easy fluency with which he told hisstories and his anecdotes, many of them curious, and all more or lessentertaining, accounted to my mind at once for the facility with whichhe had improved his acquaintance with O'Connor; and when he pressedupon us an invitation to sup with him that night, I had almost joinedO'Connor in accepting it. I determined, however, against doing so, forI had no wish to be on terms of familiarity with Mr. Fitzgerald; andI knew that one evening spent together as he proposed would go furthertowards establishing an intimacy between us than fifty morning visitscould do. When I arose to depart, it was with feelings almost favourableto Fitzgerald; indeed I was more than half ashamed to acknowledge to mycompanion how complete a revolution in my opinion respecting hisfriend half an hour's conversation with him had wrought. His appearancecertainly WAS against him; but then, under the influence of his manner,one lost sight of much of its ungainliness, and of nearly all itsvulgarity; and, on the whole, I felt convinced that report had donehim grievous wrong, inasmuch as anybody, by an observance of the commoncourtesies of society, might easily avoid coming into personal collisionwith a gentleman so studiously polite as Fitzgerald. At parting,O'Connor requested me to call upon him the next day, as he intended tomake trial of the merits of a pair of greyhounds, which he had thoughtsof purchasing; adding, that if he could escape in anything liketolerable time from Fitzgerald's supper-party, he would take the fieldsoon after ten on the next morning. At the appointed hour, or perhaps alittle later, I dismounted at Castle Connor; and, on entering thehall, I observed a gentleman issuing from O'Connor's private room. Irecognised him, as he approached, as a Mr. M'Donough, and, being butslightly acquainted with him, was about to pass him with a bow, when hestopped me. There was something in his manner which struck me as odd;he seemed a good deal flurried if not agitated, and said, in a hurriedtone:
'This is a very foolish business, Mr. Purcell. You have some influencewith my friend O'Connor; I hope you can induce him to adopt some moremoderate line of conduct than that he has decided upon. If you willallow me, I will return for a moment with you, and talk over the matteragain with O'Connor.'
As M'Donough uttered these words, I felt that sudden sinking of theheart which accompanies the immediate anticipation of something dreadedand dreadful. I was instantly convinced that O'Connor had quarrelledwith Fitzgerald, and I knew that if such were the case, nothing shortof a miracle could extricate him from the consequences. I signed toM'Donough to lead the way, and we entered the little study together.O'Connor was standing with his back to the fire; on the table lay thebreakfast-things in the disorder in which a hurried meal had left them;and on another smaller table, placed near the hearth, lay pen, ink,and paper. As soon as O'Connor saw me, he came forward and shook mecordially by the hand.
'My dear Purcell,' said he, 'you are the very man I wanted. I have gotinto an ugly scrape, and I trust to my friends to get me out of it.'
'You have had no dispute with that man--that Fitzgerald, I hope,' saidI, giving utterance to the conjecture whose truth I most dreaded.
'Faith, I cannot say exactly what passed between us,' said he, 'inasmuchas I was at the time nearly half seas over; but of this much I amcertain, that we exchanged angry words last night. I lost my temper mostconfoundedly; but, as well as I can recollect, he appeared perfectlycool and collected. What he said was, therefore, deliberately said, andon that account must be resented.'
'My dear O'Connor, are you mad?' I exclaimed. 'Why will you seek todrive to a deadly issue a few hasty words, uttered under the influenceof wine, and forgotten almost as soon as uttered? A quarrel withFitzgerald it is twenty chances to one would terminate fatally to you.'
'It is exactly because Fitzgerald IS such an accomplished shot,'said he, 'that I become liable to the most injurious and intolerablesuspicions if I submit to anything from him which could be construedinto an affront; and for that reason Fitzgerald is the very last man towhom I would concede an inch in a case of honour.'
'I do not require you to make any, the slightest sacrifice of whatyou term your honour,' I replied; 'but if you have actually written achallenge to Fitzgerald, as I suspect you have done, I conjure you toreconsider the matter before you despatch it. From all that I have heardyou say, Fitzgerald has more to complain of in the altercation which hastaken place than you. You owe it to your only surviving parent not tothrust yourself thus wantonly upon--I will say it, the most appallingdanger. Nobody, my dear O'Connor, can have a doubt of your courage; andif at any time, which God forbid, you shall be called upon thus to riskyour life, you should have it in your power to enter the field under theconsciousness that you have acted throughout temperately and like a man,and not, as I fear you now would do, having rashly and most causelesslyendangered your own life and that of your friend.'
'I believe, Purcell, your are right,' said he. 'I believe I HAVE viewedthe matter in too decided a light; my note, I think, scarcely allowshim an honourable alternative, and that is certainly going a step toofar--further than I intended. Mr. M'Donough, I'll thank you to hand methe note.'
He broke the seal, and, casting his eye hastily over it, he continued:
'It is, indeed, a monument of folly. I am very glad, Purcell, youhappened to come in, otherwise it would have reached its destination bythis time.'
He threw it into the fire; and, after a moment's pause, resumed:
'You must not mistake me, however. I am perfectly satisfied as to thepropriety, nay, the necessity, of communicating with Fitzgerald. Thedifficulty is in what tone I should address him. I cannot say that theman directly affronted me--I cannot recollect any one expression whichI could lay hold upon as offensive--but his language was ambiguous, andadmitted frequently of the most insulting construction, and his mannerthroughout was insupportably domineering. I know it impressed me withthe idea that he presumed upon his reputation as a DEAD SHOT, and thatwould be utterly unendurable.'
'I would now recommend, as I have already done,' said M'Donough, 'thatif you write to Fitzgerald, it should be in such a strain as to leavehim at perfect liberty, without a compromise of honour, in a friendlyway, to satisfy your doubts as to his conduct.'
I seconded the proposal warmly, and O'Connor, in a few minutes, finisheda note, which he desired us to read. It was to this effect:
'O'Connor, of Castle Connor, feeling that some expressions employed byMr. Fitzgerald upon last night, admitted of a construction offensiveto him, and injurious to his character, requests to know whether Mr.Fitzgerald intended to convey such a meaning.
'Castle Connor, Thursday morning.'
This note was consigned to the care of Mr. M'Donough, who forthwithdeparted to execute his mission. The sound of his horse's hoofs, ashe rode rapidly away, struck heavily at my heart; but I found somesatisfaction in the reflection that M'Donough appeared as averse fromextreme measures as I was myself, for I well knew, with respect to thefinal result of the affair, that as much depended upon the tone adoptedby the SECOND, as upon the nature of the written communication.
I have seldom passed a more anxious hour than that which intervenedbetween the departure and the return of that gentleman. Every instant Iimagined I heard the tramp of a horse approaching, and every time thata door opened I fancied it was to give entrance to the eagerly expectedcou
rier. At length I did hear the hollow and rapid tread of a horse'shoof upon the avenue. It approached--it stopped--a hurried steptraversed the hall--the room door opened, and M'Donough entered.
'You have made great haste,' said O'Connor; 'did you find him at home?'
'I did,' replied M'Donough, 'and made the greater haste as Fitzgeralddid not let me know the contents of his reply.'
At the same time he handed a note to O'Connor, who instantly broke theseal. The words were as follow:
'Mr. Fitzgerald regrets that anything which has fallen from him shouldhave appeared to Mr. O'Connor to be intended to convey a reflection uponhis honour (none such having been meant), and begs leave to disavow anywish to quarrel unnecessarily with Mr. O'Connor.
'T---- Inn, Thursday morning.'
I cannot describe how much I felt relieved on reading the abovecommunication. I took O'Connor's hand and pressed it warmly, but myemotions were deeper and stronger than I cared to show, for I wasconvinced that he had escaped a most imminent danger. Nobody whosenotions upon the subject are derived from the duelling of modern times,in which matters are conducted without any very sanguinary determinationupon either side, and with equal want of skill and coolness by bothparties, can form a just estimate of the danger incurred by one whoventured to encounter a duellist of the old school. Perfect coolnessin the field, and a steadiness and accuracy (which to the unpractisedappeared almost miraculous) in the use of the pistol, formed thecharacteristics of this class; and in addition to this there generallyexisted a kind of professional pride, which prompted the duellist, indefault of any more malignant feeling, from motives of mere vanity,to seek the life of his antagonist. Fitzgerald's career had been aremarkably successful one, and I knew that out of thirteen duels whichhe had fought in Ireland, in nine cases he had KILLED his man. Inthose days one never heard of the parties leaving the field, as notunfrequently now occurs, without blood having been spilt; and theodds were, of course, in all cases tremendously against a young andunpractised man, when matched with an experienced antagonist. Myimpression respecting the magnitude of the danger which my friend hadincurred was therefore by no means unwarranted.
I now questioned O'Connor more accurately respecting the circumstancesof his quarrel with Fitzgerald. It arose from some dispute respectingthe application of a rule of piquet, at which game they had beenplaying, each interpreting it favourably to himself, and O'Connor,having lost considerably, was in no mood to conduct an argument withtemper--an altercation ensued, and that of rather a pungent nature,and the result was that he left Fitzgerald's room rather abruptly,determined to demand an explanation in the most peremptory tone. Forthis purpose he had sent for M'Donough, and had commissioned him todeliver the note, which my arrival had fortunately intercepted.
As it was now past noon, O'Connor made me promise to remain with himto dinner; and we sat down a party of three, all in high spirits atthe termination of our anxieties. It is necessary to mention, for thepurpose of accounting for what follows, that Mrs. O'Connor, or, as shewas more euphoniously styled, the lady of Castle Connor, was precludedby ill-health from taking her place at the dinner-table, and, indeed,seldom left her room before four o'clock.(4) We were sitting afterdinner sipping our claret, and talking, and laughing, and enjoyingourselves exceedingly, when a servant, stepping into the room, informedhis master that a gentleman wanted to speak with him.
(4) It is scarcely necessary to remind the reader, that at the period spoken of, the important hour of dinner occurred very nearly at noon.
'Request him, with my compliments, to walk in,' said O'Connor; and in afew moments a gentleman entered the room.
His appearance was anything but prepossessing. He was a little above themiddle size, spare, and raw-boned; his face very red, his features sharpand bluish, and his age might be about sixty. His attire savoured a gooddeal of the SHABBY-GENTEEL; his clothes, which had much of tarnishedand faded pretension about them, did not fit him, and had not improbablyfluttered in the stalls of Plunket Street. We had risen on his entrance,and O'Connor had twice requested of him to take a chair at the table,without his hearing, or at least noticing, the invitation; while witha slow pace, and with an air of mingled importance and effrontery, headvanced into the centre of the apartment, and regarding our small partywith a supercilious air, he said:
'I take the liberty of introducing myself--I am Captain M'Creagh,formerly of the--infantry. My business here is with a Mr. O'Connor, andthe sooner it is despatched the better.'
'I am the gentleman you name,' said O'Connor; 'and as you appearimpatient, we had better proceed to your commission without delay.'
'Then, Mr. O'Connor, you will please to read that note,' said thecaptain, placing a sealed paper in his hand.
O'Connor read it through, and then observed:
'This is very extraordinary indeed. This note appears to me perfectlyunaccountable.'
'You are very young, Mr. O'Connor,' said the captain, with vulgarfamiliarity; 'but, without much experience in these matters, I thinkyou might have anticipated something like this. You know the old saying,"Second thoughts are best;" and so they are like to prove, by G--!'
'You will have no objection, Captain M'Creagh, on the part of yourfriend, to my reading this note to these gentlemen; they are bothconfidential friends of mine, and one of them has already acted for mein this business.'
'I can have no objection,' replied the captain, 'to your doing what youplease with your own. I have nothing more to do with that note once Iput it safe into your hand; and when that is once done, it is all one tome, if you read it to half the world--that's YOUR concern, and no affairof mine.'
O'Connor then read the following:
'Mr. Fitzgerald begs leave to state, that upon re-perusing Mr.O'Connor's communication of this morning carefully, with an experiencedfriend, he is forced to consider himself as challenged. His friend,Captain M'Creagh, has been empowered by him to make all the necessaryarrangements.
'T---- Inn, Thursday.'
I can hardly describe the astonishment with which I heard this note. Iturned to the captain, and said:
'Surely, sir, there is some mistake in all this?'
'Not the slightest, I'll assure you, sir.' said he, coolly; 'the case isa very clear one, and I think my friend has pretty well made up his mindupon it. May I request your answer?' he continued, turning to O'Connor;'time is precious, you know.'
O'Connor expressed his willingness to comply with the suggestion, and ina few minutes had folded and directed the following rejoinder:
'Mr. O'Connor having received a satisfactory explanation from Mr.Fitzgerald, of the language used by that gentleman, feels that there nolonger exists any grounds for misunderstanding, and wishes further tostate, that the note of which Mr. Fitzgerald speaks was not intended asa challenge.'
With this note the captain departed; and as we did not doubt that themessage which he had delivered had been suggested by some unintentionalmisconstruction of O'Connor's first billet, we felt assured that theconclusion of his last note would set the matter at rest. In thisbelief, however, we were mistaken; before we had left the table, and inan incredibly short time, the captain returned. He entered the roomwith a countenance evidently tasked to avoid expressing the satisfactionwhich a consciousness of the nature of his mission had conferred; butin spite of all his efforts to look gravely unconcerned, there was atwinkle in the small grey eye, and an almost imperceptible motion in thecorner of the mouth, which sufficiently betrayed his internal glee, ashe placed a note in the hand of O'Connor. As the young man cast his eyeover it, he coloured deeply, and turning to M'Donough, he said:
'You will have the goodness to make all the necessary arrangements fora meeting. Something has occurred to render one between me and Mr.Fitzgerald inevitable. Understand me literally, when I say that it isnow totally impossible that this affair should be amicably arranged.You will have the goodness, M'Donough, to let me know as soon as allthe particulars are arranged. Purcell,' he continued, 'will yo
u havethe kindness to accompany me?' and having bowed to M'Creagh, we left theroom.
As I closed the door after me, I heard the captain laugh, and thought Icould distinguish the words--'By ---- I knew Fitzgerald would bring himto his way of thinking before he stopped.'
I followed O'Connor into his study, and on entering, the door beingclosed, he showed me the communication which had determined him uponhostilities. Its language was grossly impertinent, and it concluded byactually threatening to 'POST' him, in case he further attempted 'tobe OFF.' I cannot describe the agony of indignation in which O'Connorwrithed under this insult. He said repeatedly that 'he was a degradedand dishohoured man,' that 'he was dragged into the field,' that 'therewas ignominy in the very thought that such a letter should havebeen directed to him.' It was in vain that I reasoned against thisimpression; the conviction that he had been disgraced had takenpossession of his mind. He said again and again that nothing but hisDEATH could remove the stain which his indecision had cast upon thename of his family. I hurried to the hall, on hearing M'Donough and thecaptain passing, and reached the door just in time to hear the lattersay, as he mounted his horse:
'All the rest can be arranged on the spot; and so farewell, Mr.M'Donough--we'll meet at Philippi, you know;' and with this classicalallusion, which was accompanied with a grin and a bow, and probablyserved many such occasions, the captain took his departure.
M'Donough briefly stated the few particulars which had been arranged.The parties were to meet at the stand-house, in the race-ground, whichlay at about an equal distance between Castle Connor and the town ofT----. The hour appointed was half-past five on the next morning, atwhich time the twilight would be sufficiently advanced to afford adistinct view; and the weapons to be employed were PISTOLS--M'Creaghhaving claimed, on the part of his friend, all the advantages of theCHALLENGED party, and having, consequently, insisted upon the choice of'TOOLS,' as he expressed himself; and it was further stipulated that theutmost secrecy should be observed, as Fitzgerald would incur great riskfrom the violence of the peasantry, in case the affair took wind. Theseconditions were, of course, agreed upon by O'Connor, and M'Donough leftthe castle, having appointed four o'clock upon the next morning as thehour of his return, by which time it would be his business to provideeverything necessary for the meeting. On his departure, O'Connorrequested me to remain with him upon that evening, saying that 'hecould not bear to be alone with his mother.' It was to me a most painfulrequest, but at the same time one which I could not think of refusing.I felt, however, that the difficulty at least of the task which I hadto perform would be in some measure mitigated by the arrival of tworelations of O'Connor upon that evening.
'It is very fortunate,' said O'Connor, whose thoughts had been runningupon the same subject, 'that the O'Gradys will be with us to-night;their gaiety and good-humour will relieve us from a heavy task. I trustthat nothing may occur to prevent their coming.' Fervently concurring inthe same wish, I accompanied O'Connor into the parlour, there to awaitthe arrival of his mother.
God grant that I may never spend such another evening! The O'Gradys DIDcome, but their high and noisy spirits, so far from relieving me, didbut give additional gloom to the despondency, I might say the despair,which filled my heart with misery--the terrible forebodings which Icould not for an instant silence, turned their laughter into discord,and seemed to mock the smiles and jests of the unconscious party. WhenI turned my eyes upon the mother, I thought I never had seen her look soproudly and so lovingly upon her son before--it cut me to the heart--oh,how cruelly I was deceiving her! I was a hundred times on the very pointof starting up, and, at all hazards, declaring to her how matterswere; but other feelings subdued my better emotions. Oh, what monstersare we made of by the fashions of the world! how are our kindlier andnobler feelings warped or destroyed by their baleful influences! I feltthat it would not be HONOURABLE, that it would not be ETIQUETTE, tobetray O'Connor's secret. I sacrificed a higher and a nobler duty than Ihave since been called upon to perform, to the dastardly fear of bearingthe unmerited censure of a world from which I was about to retire. OFashion! thou gaudy idol, whose feet are red with the blood of humansacrifice, would I had always felt towards thee as I now do!
O'Connor was not dejected; on the contrary, he joined with loud andlively alacrity in the hilarity of the little party; but I could see inthe flush of his cheek, and in the unusual brightness of his eye, allthe excitement of fever--he was making an effort almost beyond hisstrength, but he succeeded--and when his mother rose to leave theroom, it was with the impression that her son was the gayest and mostlight-hearted of the company. Twice or thrice she had risen with theintention of retiring, but O'Connor, with an eagerness which I alonecould understand, had persuaded her to remain until the usual hour ofher departure had long passed; and when at length she arose, declaringthat she could not possibly stay longer, I alone could comprehend thedesolate change which passed over his manner; and when I saw them part,it was with the sickening conviction that those two beings, so dear toone another, so loved, so cherished, should meet no more.
O'Connor briefly informed his cousins of the position in which he wasplaced, requesting them at the same time to accompany him to the field,and this having been settled, we separated, each to his own apartment.I had wished to sit up with O'Connor, who had matters to arrangesufficient to employ him until the hour appointed for M'Donough's visit;but he would not hear of it, and I was forced, though sorely againstmy will, to leave him without a companion. I went to my room, and, ina state of excitement which I cannot describe, I paced for hours up anddown its narrow precincts. I could not--who could?--analyse the strange,contradictory, torturing feelings which, while I recoiled in shrinkinghorror from the scene which the morning was to bring, yet forced me towish the intervening time annihilated; each hour that the clock toldseemed to vibrate and tinkle through every nerve; my agitation wasdreadful; fancy conjured up the forms of those who filled my thoughtswith more than the vividness of reality; things seemed to glide throughthe dusky shadows of the room. I saw the dreaded form of Fitzgerald--Iheard the hated laugh of the captain--and again the features of O'Connorwould appear before me, with ghastly distinctness, pale and writhed indeath, the gouts of gore clotted in the mouth, and the eye-ballsglared and staring. Scared with the visions which seemed to throng withunceasing rapidity and vividness, I threw open the window and looked outupon the quiet scene around. I turned my eyes in the direction of thetown; a heavy cloud was lowering darkly about it, and I, in impiousfrenzy, prayed to God that it might burst in avenging fires upon themurderous wretch who lay beneath. At length, sick and giddy with excessof excitement, I threw myself upon the bed without removing my clothes,and endeavoured to compose myself so far as to remain quiet until thehour for our assembling should arrive.
A few minutes before four o'clock I stole noiselessly downstairs, andmade my way to the small study already mentioned. A candle was burningwithin; and, when I opened the door, O'Connor was reading a book, which,on seeing me, he hastily closed, colouring slightly as he did so. Weexchanged a cordial but mournful greeting; and after a slight pause hesaid, laying his hand upon the volume which he had shut a moment before:
'Purcell, I feel perfectly calm, though I cannot say that I have muchhope as to the issue of this morning's rencounter. I shall avoid halfthe danger. If I must fall, I am determined I shall not go down tothe grave with his blood upon my hands. I have resolved not to fire atFitzgerald--that is, to fire in such a direction as to assure myselfagainst hitting him. Do not say a word of this to the O'Gradys. Yourdoing so would only produce fruitless altercation; they could notunderstand my motives. I feel convinced that I shall not leave thefield alive. If I must die to-day, I shall avoid an awful aggravationof wretchedness. Purcell,' he continued, after a little space, 'I was soweak as to feel almost ashamed of the manner in which I was occupied asyou entered the room. Yes, _I--I_ who will be, before this evening,a cold and lifeless clod, was ashamed to have spent my last moment ofreflection in pr
ayer. God pardon me! God pardon me!' he repeated.
I took his hand and pressed it, but I could not speak. I sought forwords of comfort, but they would not come. To have uttered one cheeringsentence I must have contradicted every impression of my own mind. Ifelt too much awed to attempt it. Shortly afterwards, M'Donough arrived.No wretched patient ever underwent a more thrilling revulsion at thefirst sight of the case of surgical instruments under which he had tosuffer, than did I upon beholding a certain oblong flat mahogany box,bound with brass, and of about two feet in length, laid upon the tablein the hall. O'Connor, thanking him for his punctuality, requestedhim to come into his study for a moment, when, with a melancholycollectedness, he proceeded to make arrangements for our witnessinghis will. The document was a brief one, and the whole matter was justarranged, when the two O'Gradys crept softly into the room.
'So! last will and testament,' said the elder. 'Why, you have a veryBLUE notion of these matters. I tell you, you need not be uneasy.I remember very well, when young Ryan of Ballykealey met M'Neil theduellist, bets ran twenty to one against him. I stole away from school,and had a peep at the fun as well as the best of them. They firedtogether. Ryan received the ball through the collar of his coat, andM'Neil in the temple; he spun like a top: it was a most unexpectedthing, and disappointed his friends damnably. It was admitted, however,to have been very pretty shooting upon both sides. To be sure,' hecontinued, pointing to the will, 'you are in the right to keep upon thesafe side of fortune; but then, there is no occasion to be altogether sodevilish down in the mouth as you appear to be.'
'You will allow,' said O'Connor, 'that the chances are heavily againstme.'
'Why, let me see,' he replied, 'not so hollow a thin, either. Let mesee, we'll say about four to one against you; you may chance to throwdoublets like him I told you of, and then what becomes of the odds I'dlike to know? But let things go as they will, I'll give and take four toone, in pounds and tens of pounds. There, M'Donough, there's a GETfor you; b--t me, if it is not. Poh! the fellow is stolen away,' hecontinued, observing that the object of his proposal had left the room;'but d---- it, Purcell, you are fond of a SOFT THING, too, in a quietway--I'm sure you are--so curse me if I do not make you the sameoffer-is it a go?'
I was too much disgusted to make any reply, but I believe my looksexpressed my feelings sufficiently, for in a moment he said:
'Well, I see there is nothing to be done, so we may as well be stirring.M'Donough, myself, and my brother will saddle the horses in a jiffy,while you and Purcell settle anything which remains to be arranged.'
So saying, he left the room with as much alacrity as if it were toprepare for a foxhunt. Selfish, heartless fool! I have often since heardhim spoken of as A CURSED GOOD-NATURED DOG and a D---- GOOD FELLOW; butsuch eulogies as these are not calculated to mitigate the abhorrencewith which his conduct upon that morning inspired me.
The chill mists of night were still hovering on the landscape as ourparty left the castle. It was a raw, comfortless morning--a kind ofdrizzling fog hung heavily over the scene, dimming the light of thesun, which had now risen, into a pale and even a grey glimmer. As theappointed hour was fast approaching, it was proposed that we shouldenter the race-ground at a point close to the stand-house--a measurewhich would save us a ride of nearly two miles, over a broken road; atwhich distance there was an open entrance into the race-ground. Here,accordingly, we dismounted, and leaving our horses in the care ofa country fellow who happened to be stirring at that early hour, weproceeded up a narrow lane, over a side wall of which we were to climbinto the open ground where stood the now deserted building, under whichthe meeting was to take place. Our progress was intercepted by theunexpected appearance of an old woman, who, in the scarlet cloak whichis the picturesque characteristic of the female peasantry of the south,was moving slowly down the avenue to meet us, uttering that peculiarlywild and piteous lamentation well known by the name of 'the Irish cry,'accompanied throughout by all the customary gesticulation ofpassionate grief. This rencounter was more awkward than we had at firstanticipated; for, upon a nearer approach, the person proved to be noother than an old attached dependent of the family, and who had herselfnursed O'Connor. She quickened her pace as we advanced almost to a run;and, throwing her arms round O'Connor's neck, she poured forth such atorrent of lamentation, reproach, and endearment, as showed that she wasaware of the nature of our purpose, whence and by what means I knew not.It was in vain that he sought to satisfy her by evasion, and gentlyto extricate himself from her embrace. She knelt upon the ground, andclasped her arms round his legs, uttering all the while such touchingsupplications, such cutting and passionate expressions of woe, as wentto my very heart.
At length, with much difficulty, we passed this most painfulinterruption; and, crossing the boundary wall, were placed beyond herreach. The O'Gradys damned her for a troublesome hag, and passed onwith O'Connor, but I remained behind for a moment. The poor woman lookedhopelessly at the high wall which separated her from him she had lovedfrom infancy, and to be with whom at that minute she would have givenworlds, she took her seat upon a solitary stone under the opposite wall,and there, in a low, subdued key, she continued to utter her sorrow inwords so desolate, yet expressing such a tenderness of devotion as wrungmy heart.
'My poor woman,' I said, laying my hand gently upon her shoulder, 'youwill make yourself ill; the morning is very cold, and your cloak is buta thin defence against the damp and chill. Pray return home and takethis; it may be useful to you.'
So saying, I dropped a purse, with what money I had about me, into herlap, but it lay there unheeded; she did not hear me.
'Oh I my child, my child, my darlin',' she sobbed, 'are you gone fromme? are you gone from me? Ah, mavourneen, mavourneen, you'll never comeback alive to me again. The crathur that slept on my bosom--the lovin'crathur that I was so proud of--they'll kill him, they'll kill him. Oh,voh! voh!'
The affecting tone, the feeling, the abandonment with which all this wasuttered, none can conceive who have not heard the lamentations of theIrish peasantry. It brought tears to my eyes. I saw that no consolationof mine could soothe her grief, so I turned and departed; but as Irapidly traversed the level sward which separated me from my companions,now considerably in advance, I could still hear the wailings of thesolitary mourner.
As we approached the stand-house, it was evident that our antagonistshad already arrived. Our path lay by the side of a high fenceconstructed of loose stones, and on turning a sharp angle at itsextremity, we found ourselves close to the appointed spot, and withina few yards of a crowd of persons, some mounted and some on foot,evidently awaiting our arrival. The affair had unaccountably taken wind,as the number of the expectants clearly showed; but for this there wasnow no remedy.
As our little party advanced we were met and saluted by severalacquaintances, whom curiosity, if no deeper feeling, had brought to theplace. Fitzgerald and the Captain had arrived, and having dismounted,were standing upon the sod. The former, as we approached, bowed slightlyand sullenly--while the latter, evidently in high good humour, made hismost courteous obeisance. No time was to be lost; and the two secondsimmediately withdrew to a slight distance, for the purpose of completingthe last minute arrangements. It was a brief but horrible interval--eachreturned to his principal to communicate the result, which was sooncaught up and repeated from mouth to mouth throughout the crowd. Ifelt a strange and insurmountable reluctance to hear the sickeningparticulars detailed; and as I stood irresolute at some distance fromthe principal parties, a top-booted squireen, with a hunting whip in hishand, bustling up to a companion of his, exclaimed:
'Not fire together!--did you ever hear the like? If Fitzgerald gets thefirst shot all is over. M'Donough sold the pass, by----, and that is thelong and the short of it.'
The parties now moved down a little to a small level space, suited tothe purpose; and the captain, addressing M'Donough, said:
'Mr. M'Donough, you'll now have the goodness to toss for choice ofground; as the lig
ht comes from the east the line must of course runnorth and south. Will you be so obliging as to toss up a crown-piece,while I call?'
A coin was instantly chucked into the air. The captain cried, 'Harp.'The HEAD was uppermost, and M'Donough immediately made choice of thesouthern point at which to place his friend--a position which it willbe easily seen had the advantage of turning his back upon the light--notrifling superiority of location. The captain turned with a kind oflaugh, and said:
'By ----, sir, you are as cunning as a dead pig; but you forgot onething. My friend is a left-handed gunner, though never a bit the worsefor that; so you see there is no odds as far as the choice of lightgoes.'
He then proceeded to measure nine paces in a direction running north andsouth, and the principals took their ground.
'I must be troublesome to you once again, Mr. M'Donough. One toss more,and everything is complete. We must settle who is to have the FIRSTSLAP.'
A piece of money was again thrown into the air; again the captain lostthe toss and M'Donough proceeded to load the pistols. I happened tostand near Fitzgerald, and I overheard the captain, with a chuckle, saysomething to him in which the word 'cravat' was repeated. It instantlyoccurred to me that the captain's attention was directed to abright-coloured muffler which O'Connor wore round his neck, and whichwould afford his antagonist a distinct and favourable mark. I instantlyurged him to remove it, and at length, with difficulty, succeeded.He seemed perfectly careless as to any precaution. Everything was nowready; the pistol was placed in O'Connor's hand, and he only awaited theword from the captain.
M'Creagh then said:
'Mr. M'Donough, is your principal ready?'
M'Donough replied in the affirmative; and, after a slight pause, thecaptain, as had been arranged, uttered the words:
'Ready--fire.'
O'Connor fired, but so wide of the mark that some one in the crowdexclaimed:
'Fired in the air.'
'Who says he fired in the air?' thundered Fitzgerald. 'By ---- he lies,whoever he is.' There was a silence. 'But even if he was fool enough tofire in the air, it is not in HIS power to put an end to the quarrel byTHAT. D---- my soul, if I am come here to be played with like a child,and by the Almighty ---- you shall hear more of this, each and everyoneof you, before I'm satisfied.'
A kind of low murmur, or rather groan, was now raised, and a slightmotion was observable in the crowd, as if to intercept Fitzgerald'spassage to his horse. M'Creagh, drawing the horse close to the spotwhere Fitzgerald stood, threatened, with the most awful imprecations,'to blow the brains out of the first man who should dare to press onthem.'
O'Connor now interfered, requesting the crowd to forbear, and somedegree of order was restored. He then said, 'that in firing as hedid, he had no intention whatever of waiving his right of firing uponFitzgerald, and of depriving that gentleman of his right of prosecutingthe affair to the utmost--that if any person present imagined that heintended to fire in the air, he begged to set him right; since, so farfrom seeking to exort an unwilling reconciliation, he was determinedthat no power on earth should induce him to concede one inch of groundto Mr. Fitzgerald.'
This announcement was received with a shout by the crowd, who nowresumed their places at either side of the plot of ground which hadbeen measured. The principals took their places once more, and M'Creaghproceeded, with the nicest and most anxious care, to load the pistols;and this task being accomplished, Fitzgerald whispered something in theCaptain's ear, who instantly drew his friend's horse so as to placehim within a step of his rider, and then tightened the girths. Thisaccomplished, Fitzgerald proceeded deliberately to remove his coat,which he threw across his horse in front of the saddle; and then,with the assistance of M'Creagh, he rolled the shirt sleeve up to theshoulder, so as to leave the whole of his muscular arm perfectly naked.A cry of 'Coward, coward! butcher, butcher!' arose from the crowd.Fitzgerald paused.
'Do you object, Mr. M'Donough? and upon what grounds, if you please?'said he.
'Certainly he does not,' replied O'Connor; and, turning to M'Donough, headded, 'pray let there be no unnecessary delay.'
'There is no objection, then,' said Fitzgerald.
'_I_ object,' said the younger of the O'Gradys, 'if nobody else will.'
' And who the devil are you, that DARES to object?' shouted Fitzgerald;'and what d--d presumption prompts you to DARE to wag your tongue here?'
'I am Mr. O'Grady, of Castle Blake,' replied the young man, now muchenraged; 'and by ----, you shall answer for your language to me.'
'Shall I, by ----? Shall I?' cried he, with a laugh of brutal scorn;'the more the merrier, d--n the doubt of it--so now hold your tongue,for I promise you you shall have business enough of your own to thinkabout, and that before long.'
There was an appalling ferocity in his tone and manner which nowords could convey. He seemed transformed; he was actually like a manpossessed. Was it possible, I thought, that I beheld the courteousgentleman, the gay, good-humoured retailer of amusing anecdote withwhom, scarce two days ago, I had laughed and chatted, in the blasphemousand murderous ruffian who glared and stormed before me!
O'Connor interposed, and requested that time should not be unnecessarilylost.
'You have not got a second coat on?' inquired the Captain. 'I begpardon, but my duty to my friend requires that I should ascertain thepoint.'
O'Connor replied in the negative. The Captain expressed himself assatisfied, adding, in what he meant to be a complimentary strain, 'thathe knew Mr. O'Connor would scorn to employ padding or any unfair mode ofprotection.'
There was now a breathless silence. O'Connor stood perfectly motionless;and, excepting the death-like paleness of his features, he exhibitedno sign of agitation. His eye was steady--his lip did not tremble--hisattitude was calm. The Captain, having re-examined the priming ofthe pistols, placed one of them in the hand of Fitzgerald.--M'Donoughinquired whether the parties were prepared, and having been answeredin the affirmative, he proceeded to give the word, 'Ready.' Fitzgeraldraised his hand, but almost instantly lowered it again. The crowd hadpressed too much forward as it appeared, and his eye had been unsteadiedby the flapping of the skirt of a frieze riding-coat worn by one of thespectators.
'In the name of my principal,' said the Captain, 'I must and do insistupon these gentlemen moving back a little. We ask but little; fair play,and no favour.'
The crowd moved as requested. M'Donough repeated his former question,and was answered as before. There was a breathless silence. Fitzgeraldfixed his eye upon O'Connor. The appointed signal, 'Ready, fire!' wasgiven. There was a pause while one might slowly reckon three--Fitzgeraldfired--and O'Connor fell helplessly upon the ground.
'There is no time to be lost,' said M'Creagrh; 'for, by ----, you havedone for him.'
So saying, he threw himself upon his horse, and was instantly followedat a hard gallop by Fitzgerald.
'Cold-blooded murder, if ever murder was committed,' said O'Grady. 'Heshall hang for it; d--n me, but he shall.'
A hopeless attempt was made to overtake the fugitives; but they werebetter mounted than any of their pursuers, and escaped with ease.Curses and actual yells of execration followed their course; and as,in crossing the brow of a neighbouring hill, they turned round inthe saddle to observe if they were pursued, every gesture which couldexpress fury and defiance was exhausted by the enraged and defeatedmultitude.
'Clear the way, boys,' said young O'Grady, who with me was kneelingbeside O'Connor, while we supported him in our arms; 'do not press soclose, and be d--d; can't you let the fresh air to him; don't you seehe's dying?'
On opening his waistcoat we easily detected the wound: it was a littlebelow the chest--a small blue mark, from which oozed a single heavy dropof blood.
'He is bleeding but little--that is a comfort at all events,' said oneof the gentlemen who surrounded the wounded man.
Another suggested the expediency of his being removed homeward with aslittle delay as possible, and recommended, for this purpose
, that adoor should be removed from its hinges, and the patient, laid upon this,should be conveyed from the field. Upon this rude bier my poor friendwas carried from that fatal ground towards Castle Connor. I walked closeby his side, and observed every motion of his. He seldom opened hiseyes, and was perfectly still, excepting a nervous WORKING of thefingers, and a slight, almost imperceptible twitching of the features,which took place, however, only at intervals. The first word he utteredwas spoken as we approached the entrance of the castle itself, whenhe said; repeatedly, 'The back way, the back way.' He feared lest hismother should meet him abruptly and without preparation; but althoughthis fear was groundless, since she never left her room until latein the day, yet it was thought advisable, and, indeed, necessary, tocaution all the servants most strongly against breathing a hint to theirmistress of the events which had befallen.
Two or three gentlemen had ridden from the field one after another,promising that they should overtake our party before it reached thecastle, bringing with them medical aid from one quarter or another;and we determined that Mrs. O'Connor should not know anything of theoccurrence until the opinion of some professional man should havedetermined the extent of the injury which her son had sustained--acourse of conduct which would at least have the effect of relieving herfrom the horrors of suspense. When O'Connor found himself in his ownroom, and laid upon his own bed, he appeared much revived--so much so,that I could not help admitting a strong hope that all might yet bewell.
'After all, Purcell,' said he, with a melancholy smile, and speakingwith evident difficulty, 'I believe I have got off with a triflingwound. I am sure it cannot be fatal I feel so little pain--almost none.'
I cautioned him against fatiguing himself by endeavouring to speak; andhe remained quiet for a little time. At length he said:
'Purcell, I trust this lesson shall not have been given in vain. God hasbeen very merciful to me; I feel--I have an internal confidence that Iam not wounded mortally. Had I been fatally wounded--had I been killedupon the spot, only think on it'--and he closed his eyes as if the verythought made him dizzy--'struck down into the grave, unprepared as Iam, in the very blossom of my sins, without a moment of repentance or ofreflection; I must have been lost--lost for ever and ever.'
I prevailed upon him, with some difficulty, to abstain from suchagitating reflections, and at length induced him to court such repose ashis condition admitted of, by remaining perfectly silent, and as much aspossible without motion.
O'Connor and I only were in the room; he had lain for some time intolerable quiet, when I thought I distinguished the bustle attendantupon the arrival of some one at the castle, and went eagerly to thewindow, believing, or at least hoping, that the sounds might announcethe approach of the medical man, whom we all longed most impatiently tosee.
My conjecture was right; I had the satisfaction of seeing him dismountand prepare to enter the castle, when my observations were interrupted,and my attention was attracted by a smothered, gurgling sound proceedingfrom the bed in which lay the wounded man. I instantly turned round, andin doing so the spectacle which met my eyes was sufficiently shocking.
I had left O'Connor lying in the bed, supported by pillows, perfectlycalm, and with his eyes closed: he was now lying nearly in the sameposition, his eyes open and almost starting from their sockets, withevery feature pale and distorted as death, and vomiting blood inquantities that were frightful. I rushed to the door and called forassistance; the paroxysm, though violent, was brief, and O'Connor sankinto a swoon so deep and death-like, that I feared he should waken nomore.
The surgeon, a little, fussy man, but I believe with some skill tojustify his pretensions, now entered the room, carrying his case ofinstruments, and followed by servants bearing basins and water andbandages of linen. He relieved our doubts by instantly assuring usthat 'the patient' was still living; and at the same time professed hisdetermination to take advantage of the muscular relaxation which thefaint had induced to examine the wound--adding that a patient was moreeasily 'handled' when in a swoon than under other circumstances.
After examining the wound in front where the ball had entered, he passedhis hand round beneath the shoulder, and after a little pause he shookhis head, observing that he feared very much that one of the vertebraewas fatally injured, but that he could not say decidedly until hispatient should revive a little. 'Though his language was very technical,and consequently to me nearly unintelligible, I could perceive plainlyby his manner that he considered the case as almost hopeless.
O'Connor gradually gave some signs of returning animation, and at lengthwas so far restored as to be enabled to speak. After some few generalquestions as to how he felt affected, etc., etc., the surgeon, placinghis hand upon his leg and pressing it slightly, asked him if he felt anypressure upon the limb? O'Connor answered in the negative--he pressedharder, and repeated the question; still the answer was the same, tillat length, by repeated experiments, he ascertained that all that partof the body which lay behind the wound was paralysed, proving that thespine must have received some fatal injury.
'Well, doctor,' said O'Connor, after the examination of the wound wasover; 'well, I shall do, shan't I?'
The physician was silent for a moment, and then, as if with an effort,he replied:
'Indeed, my dear sir, it would not be honest to flatter you with muchhope.'
'Eh?' said O'Connor with more alacrity than I had seen him exhibitsince the morning; 'surely I did not hear you aright; I spoke of myrecovery--surely there is no doubt; there can be none--speak frankly,doctor, for God's sake--am I dying?'
The surgeon was evidently no stoic, and his manner had extinguished inme every hope, even before he had uttered a word in reply.
'You are--you are indeed dying. There is no hope; I should but deceiveyou if I held out any.'
As the surgeon uttered these terrible words, the hands which O'Connorhad stretched towards him while awaiting his reply fell powerless byhis side; his head sank forward; it seemed as if horror and despairhad unstrung every nerve and sinew; he appeared to collapse and shrinktogether as a plant might under the influence of a withering spell.
It has often been my fate, since then, to visit the chambers of deathand of suffering; I have witnessed fearful agonies of body and ofsoul; the mysterious shudderings of the departing spirit, and theheart-rending desolation of the survivors; the severing of the tenderestties, the piteous yearnings of unavailing love--of all these thingsthe sad duties of my profession have made me a witness. But, generallyspeaking, I have observed in such scenes some thing to mitigate, if notthe sorrows, at least the terrors, of death; the dying man seldomseems to feel the reality of his situation; a dull consciousness ofapproaching dissolution, a dim anticipation of unconsciousness andinsensibility, are the feelings which most nearly border upon anappreciation of his state; the film of death seems to have overspreadthe mind's eye, objects lose their distinctness, and float cloudilybefore it, and the apathy and apparent indifference with which menrecognise the sure advances of immediate death, rob that awful hourof much of its terrors, and the death-bed of its otherwise inevitableagonies.
This is a merciful dispensation; but the rule has its exceptions--itsterrible exceptions. When a man is brought in an instant, by some suddenaccident, to the very verge of the fathomless pit of death, with allhis recollections awake, and his perceptions keenly and vividly alive,without previous illness to subdue the tone of the mind as to dull itsapprehensions--then, and then only, the death-bed is truly terrible.
Oh, what a contrast did O'Connor afford as he lay in all the abjecthelplessness of undisguised terror upon his death-bed, to the proudcomposure with which he had taken the field that morning. I had alwaysbefore thought of death as of a quiet sleep stealing gradually uponexhausted nature, made welcome by suffering, or, at least, softened byresignation; I had never before stood by the side of one upon whom thehand of death had been thus suddenly laid; I had never seen the tyrantarrayed in his terror till then. Never before or since have
I seenhorror so intensely depicted. It seemed actually as if O'Connor's mindhad been unsettled by the shock; the few words he uttered were markedwith all the incoherence of distraction; but it was not words thatmarked his despair most strongly, the appalling and heart-sickeninggroans that came from the terror-stricken and dying man must haunt mewhile I live; the expression, too, of hopeless, imploring agony withwhich he turned his eyes from object to object, I can never forget. Atlength, appearing suddenly to recollect himself, he said, with startlingalertness, but in a voice so altered that I scarce could recognise thetones:
'Purcell, Purcell, go and tell my poor mother; she must know all, andthen, quick, quick, quick, call your uncle, bring him here; I must havea chance.' He made a violent but fruitless effort to rise, and aftera slight pause continued, with deep and urgent solemnity: 'Doctor, howlong shall I live? Don't flatter me. Compliments at a death-bed are outof place; doctor, for God's sake, as you would not have my soul perishwith my body, do not mock a dying man; have I an hour to live?'
'Certainly,' replied the surgeon; 'if you will but endeavour to keepyourself tranquil; otherwise I cannot answer for a moment.'
'Well, doctor,' said the patient, 'I will obey you; now, Purcell, myfirst and dearest friend, will you inform my poor mother of--of what yousee, and return with your uncle; I know you will.'
I took the dear fellow's hand and kissed it, it was the only answerI could give, and left the room. I asked the first female servant Ichanced to meet, if her mistress were yet up, and was answered in theaffirmative. Without giving myself time to hesitate, I requested herto lead me to her lady's room, which she accordingly did; she enteredfirst, I supposed to announce my name, and I followed closely; the poormother said something, and held out her hands to welcome me; I strovefor words; I could not speak, but nature found expression; I threwmyself at her feet and covered her hands with kisses and tears. Mymanner was enough; with a quickness almost preternatural she understoodit all; she simply said the words: 'O'Connor is killed;' she uttered nomore.
How I left the room I know not; I rode madly to my uncle's residence,and brought him back with me--all the rest is a blank. I rememberstanding by O'Connor's bedside, and kissing the cold pallid foreheadagain and again; I remember the pale serenity of the beautiful features;I remember that I looked upon the dead face of my friend, and I rememberno more.
For many months I lay writhing and raving in the frenzy of brain fever;a hundred times I stood tottering at the brink of death, and longafter my restoration to bodily health was assured, it appeared doubtfulwhether I should ever be restored to reason. But God dealt verymercifully with me; His mighty hand rescued me from death and frommadness when one or other appeared inevitable. As soon as I waspermitted pen and ink, I wrote to the bereaved mother in a tonebordering upon frenzy. I accused myself of having made her childless; Icalled myself a murderer; I believed myself accursed; I could not findterms strong enough to express my abhorrence of my own conduct. But,oh! what an answer I received, so mild, so sweet, from thedesolate, childless mother! its words spoke all that is beautiful inChristianity--it was forgiveness--it was resignation. I am convincedthat to that letter, operating as it did upon a mind alreadypredisposed, is owing my final determination to devote myself to thatprofession in which, for more than half a century, I have been a humbleminister.
Years roll away, and we count them not as they pass, but their influenceis not the less certain that it is silent; the deepest wounds aregradually healed, the keenest griefs are mitigated, and we, incharacter, feelings, tastes, and pursuits, become such altered beings,that but for some few indelible marks which past events must leavebehind them, which time may soften, but can never efface; our veryidentity would be dubious. Who has not felt all this at one time orother? Who has not mournfully felt it? This trite, but natural train ofreflection filled my mind as I approached the domain of Castle Connorsome ten years after the occurrence of the events above narrated.Everything looked the same as when I had left it; the old trees stoodas graceful and as grand as ever; no plough had violated the soft greensward; no utilitarian hand had constrained the wanderings of the clearand sportive stream, or disturbed the lichen-covered rocks throughwhich it gushed, or the wild coppice that over-shadowed its sequesterednooks--but the eye that looked upon these things was altered, and memorywas busy with other days, shrouding in sadness every beauty that met mysight.
As I approached the castle my emotions became so acutely painful thatI had almost returned the way I came, without accomplishing the purposefor which I had gone thus far; and nothing but the conviction that myhaving been in the neighbourhood of Castle Connor without visiting itsdesolate mistress would render me justly liable to the severest censure,could overcome my reluctance to encountering the heavy task which wasbefore me. I recognised the old servant who opened the door, but he didnot know me. I was completely changed; suffering of body and mind hadaltered me in feature and in bearing, as much as in character. I askedthe man whether his mistress ever saw visitors. He answered:
'But seldom; perhaps, however, if she knew that an old friend wished tosee her for a few minutes, she would gratify him so far.'
At the same time I placed my card in his hand, and requested him todeliver it to his mistress. He returned in a few moments, saying thathis lady would be happy to see me in the parlour, and I accordinglyfollowed him to the door, which he opened. I entered the room, and wasin a moment at the side of my early friend and benefactress. I was toomuch agitated to speak; I could only hold the hands which she gave me,while, spite of every effort, the tears flowed fast and bitterly.
'It was kind, very, very kind of you to come to see me,' she said,with far more composure than I could have commanded; 'I see it is verypainful to you.'
I endeavoured to compose myself, and for a little time we remainedsilent; she was the first to speak:
'You will be surprised, Mr. Purcell, when you observe the calmness withwhich I can speak of him who was dearest to me, who is gone; but mythoughts are always with him, and the recollections of his love'--hervoice faltered a little--'and the hope of meeting him hereafter enablesme to bear existence.'
I said I know not what; something about resignation, I believe.
'I hope I am resigned; God made me more: so,' she said. 'Oh, Mr.Purcell, I have often thought I loved my lost child TOO well. It wasnatural--he was my only child--he was----' She could not proceed for afew moments: 'It was very natural that I should love him as I did; butit may have been sinful; I have often thought so. I doated upon him--Iidolised him--I thought too little of other holier affections; and Godmay have taken him from me, only to teach me, by this severe lesson,that I owed to heaven a larger share of my heart than to anythingearthly. I cannot think of him now without more solemn feelings than ifhe were with me. There is something holy in our thoughts of the dead; Ifeel it so.' After a pause, she continued--'Mr. Purcell, do you rememberhis features well? they were very beautiful.' I assured her that I did.'Then you can tell me if you think this a faithful likeness.' She tookfrom a drawer a case in which lay a miniature. I took it reverently fromher hands; it was indeed very like--touchingly like. I told her so; andshe seemed gratified.
As the evening was wearing fast, and I had far to go, I hastened toterminate my visit, as I had intended, by placing in her hand a letterfrom her son to me, written during his sojourn upon the Continent. Irequested her to keep it; it was one in which he spoke much of her, andin terms of the tenderest affection. As she read its contents the heavytears gathered in her eyes, and fell, one by one, upon the page; shewiped them away, but they still flowed fast and silently. It was invain that she tried to read it; her eyes were filled with tears: so shefolded the letter, and placed it in her bosom. I rose to depart, and shealso rose.
'I will not ask you to delay your departure,' said she; 'your visit heremust have been a painful one to you. I cannot find words to thank youfor the letter as I would wish, or for all your kindness. It has givenme a pleasure greater than I thought could have f
allen to the lot of acreature so very desolate as I am; may God bless you for it!' And thuswe parted; I never saw Castle Connor or its solitary inmate more.