THE BRIDAL OF CARRIGVARAH.
Being a Sixth Extract from the Legacy of the late Francis Purcell, P. P.of Drumcoolagh.
In a sequestered district of the county of Limerick, there stood myearly life, some forty years ago, one of those strong stone buildings,half castle, half farm-house, which are not unfrequent in the South ofIreland, and whose solid masonry and massive construction seem to proveat once the insecurity and the caution of the Cromwellite settlers whoerected them. At the time of which I speak, this building was tenantedby an elderly man, whose starch and puritanic mien and manners mighthave become the morose preaching parliamentarian captain, who had raisedthe house and ruled the household more than a hundred years before;but this man, though Protestant by descent as by name, was not so inreligion; he was a strict, and in outward observances, an exemplaryCatholic; his father had returned in early youth to the true faith, anddied in the bosom of the church.
Martin Heathcote was, at the time of which I speak, a widower, but hishouse-keeping was not on that account altogether solitary, for he had adaughter, whose age was now sufficiently advanced to warrant her fatherin imposing upon her the grave duties of domestic superintendence.
This little establishment was perfectly isolated, and very littleintruded upon by acts of neighbourhood; for the rank of its occupantswas of that equivocal kind which precludes all familiar associationwith those of a decidedly inferior rank, while it is not sufficient toentitle its possessors to the society of established gentility, amongwhom the nearest residents were the O'Maras of Carrigvarah, whosemansion-house, constructed out of the ruins of an old abbey, whosetowers and cloisters had been levelled by the shot of Cromwell'sartillery, stood not half a mile lower upon the river banks.
Colonel O'Mara, the possessor of the estates, was then in a decliningstate of health, and absent with his lady from the country, leaving atthe castle, his son young O'Mara, and a kind of humble companion, namedEdward Dwyer, who, if report belied him not, had done in his early dayssome PECULIAR SERVICES for the Colonel, who had been a gay man--perhapsworse--but enough of recapitulation.
It was in the autumn of the year 17-- that the events which led to thecatastrophe which I have to detail occurred. I shall run through thesaid recital as briefly as clearness will permit, and leave you tomoralise, if such be your mood, upon the story of real life, which Ieven now trace at this distant period not without emotion.
It was upon a beautiful autumn evening, at that glad period of theseason when the harvest yields its abundance, that two figures were seensauntering along the banks of the winding river, which I described asbounding the farm occupied by Heathcote; they had been, as the rodsand landing-nets which they listlessly carried went to show, plying thegentle, but in this case not altogether solitary craft of the fisherman.One of those persons was a tall and singularly handsome young man, whosedark hair and complexion might almost have belonged to a Spaniard,as might also the proud but melancholy expression which gave to hiscountenance a character which contrasts sadly, but not uninterestingly,with extreme youth; his air, as he spoke with his companion, was markedby that careless familiarity which denotes a conscious superiority ofone kind or other, or which may be construed into a species of contempt;his comrade afforded to him in every respect a striking contrast. Hewas rather low in stature--a defect which was enhanced by a broad andsquare-built figure--his face was sallow, and his features hadthat prominence and sharpness which frequently accompany personaldeformity--a remarkably wide mouth, with teeth white as the fangs of awolf, and a pair of quick, dark eyes, whose effect was heightened by theshadow of a heavy black brow, gave to his face a power of expression,particularly when sarcastic or malignant emotions were to be exhibited,which features regularly handsome could scarcely have possessed.
'Well, sir,' said the latter personage, 'I have lived in hall and abbey,town and country, here and abroad for forty years and more, and shouldknow a thing or two, and as I am a living man, I swear I think the girlloves you.'
'You are a fool, Ned,' said the younger.
'I may be a fool,' replied the first speaker, 'in matters where my ownadvantage is staked, but my eye is keen enough to see through the flimsydisguise of a country damsel at a glance; and I tell you, as surely as Ihold this rod, the girl loves you.'
'Oh I this is downright headstrong folly,' replied the young fisherman.'Why, Ned, you try to persuade me against my reason, that the eventwhich is most to be deprecated has actually occurred. She is, no doubt,a pretty girl--a beautiful girl--but I have not lost my heart to her;and why should I wish her to be in love with me? Tush, man, the days ofromance are gone, and a young gentleman may talk, and walk, and laughwith a pretty country maiden, and never breathe aspirations, or vows,or sighs about the matter; unequal matches are much oftener read of thanmade, and the man who could, even in thought, conceive a wish againstthe honour of an unsuspecting, artless girl, is a villain, for whomhanging is too good.'
This concluding sentence was uttered with an animation and excitement,which the mere announcement of an abstract moral sentiment could hardlyaccount for.
'You are, then, indifferent, honestly and in sober earnest, indifferentto the girl?' inquired Dwyer.
'Altogether so,' was the reply.
'Then I have a request to make,' continued Dwyer, 'and I may as wellurge it now as at any other time. I have been for nearly twenty yearsthe faithful, and by no means useless, servant of your family; you knowthat I have rendered your father critical and important services----' hepaused, and added hastily: 'you are not in the mood--I tire you, sir.'
'Nay,' cried O'Mara, 'I listen patiently--proceed.'
'For all these services, and they were not, as I have said, few orvalueless, I have received little more reward than liberal promises;you have told me often that this should be mended--I'll make it easilydone--I'm not unreasonable--I should be contented to hold Heathcote'sground, along with this small farm on which we stand, as full quittanceof all obligations and promises between us.'
'But how the devil can I effect that for you; this farm, it is true, I,or my father, rather, may lease to you, but Heathcote's title we cannotimpugn; and even if we could, you would not expect us to ruin an honestman, in order to make way for YOU, Ned.'
'What I am,' replied Dwyer, with the calmness of one who is soaccustomed to contemptuous insinuations as to receive them with perfectindifference, 'is to be attributed to my devotedness to your honourablefamily--but that is neither here nor there. I do not ask you to displaceHeathcote, in order to made room for me. I know it is out of your powerto do so. Now hearken to me for a moment; Heathcote's property, thatwhich he has set out to tenants, is worth, say in rents, at most, onehundred pounds: half of this yearly amount is assigned to your father,until payment be made of a bond for a thousand pounds, with interest andsoforth. Hear me patiently for a moment and I have done. Now go you toHeathcote, and tell him your father will burn the bond, and cancel thedebt, upon one condition--that when I am in possession of this farm,which you can lease to me on what terms you think suitable, he willconvey over his property to me, reserving what life-interest may appearfair, I engaging at the same time to marry his daughter, and make suchsettlements upon her as shall be thought fitting--he is not a fool--theman will close with the offer.'
O'Mara turned shortly upon Dwyer, and gazed upon him for a moment withan expression of almost unmixed resentment.
'How,' said he at length, 'YOU contract to marry Ellen Heathcote? thepoor, innocent, confiding, light-hearted girl. No, no, Edward Dwyer, Iknow you too well for that--your services, be they what they will, mustnot, shall not go unrewarded--your avarice shall be appeased--but notwith a human sacrifice! Dwyer, I speak to you without disguise; youknow me to be acquainted with your history, and what's more, with yourcharacter. Now tell me frankly, were I to do as you desire me, in coolblood, should I not prove myself a more uncompromising and unfeelingvillain than humanity even in its most monstrous shapes has ever yetgiven birth to?'
Dwyer me
t this impetuous language with the unmoved and impenetrablecalmness which always marked him when excitement would have appearedin others; he even smiled as he replied: (and Dwyer's smile, for I haveseen it, was characteristically of that unfortunate kind which implies,as regards the emotions of others, not sympathy but derision).
'This eloquence goes to prove Ellen Heathcote something nearer to yourheart than your great indifference would have led me to suppose.'
There was something in the tone, perhaps in the truth of theinsinuation, which at once kindled the quick pride and the anger ofO'Mara, and he instantly replied:
'Be silent, sir, this is insolent folly.'
Whether it was that Dwyer was more keenly interested in the success ofhis suit, or more deeply disappointed at its failure than he cared toexpress, or that he was in a less complacent mood than was his wont, itis certain that his countenance expressed more emotion at this directinsult than it had ever exhibited before under similar circumstances;for his eyes gleamed for an instant with savage and undisguised ferocityupon the young man, and a dark glow crossed his brow, and for the momenthe looked about to spring at the throat of his insolent patron; but theimpulse whatever it might be, was quickly suppressed, and before O'Marahad time to detect the scowl, it had vanished.
'Nay, sir,' said Dwyer, 'I meant no offence, and I will take none, atyour hands at least. I will confess I care not, in love and soforth,a single bean for the girl; she was the mere channel through whichher father's wealth, if such a pittance deserves the name, was to haveflowed into my possession--'twas in respect of your family finances themost economical provision for myself which I could devise--a matter inwhich you, not I, are interested. As for women, they are all pretty muchalike to me. I am too old myself to make nice distinctions, and too uglyto succeed by Cupid's arts; and when a man despairs of success, he soonceases to care for it. So, if you know me, as you profess to do, restsatisfied "caeteris paribus;" the money part of the transaction beingequally advantageous, I should regret the loss of Ellen Heathcote justas little as I should the escape of a minnow from my landing-net.'
They walked on for a few minutes in silence, which was not broken tillDwyer, who had climbed a stile in order to pass a low stone wall whichlay in their way, exclaimed:
'By the rood, she's here--how like a philosopher you look.'
The conscious blood mounted to O'Mara's cheek; he crossed the stile,and, separated from him only by a slight fence and a gate, stood thesubject of their recent and somewhat angry discussion.
'God save you, Miss Heathcote,' cried Dwyer, approaching the gate.
The salutation was cheerfully returned, and before anything more couldpass, O'Mara had joined the party.
My friend, that you may understand the strength and depth of thoseimpetuous passions, that you may account for the fatal infatuation whichled to the catastrophe which I have to relate, I must tell you, thatthough I have seen the beauties of cities and of courts, with allthe splendour of studied ornament about them to enhance their graces,possessing charms which had made them known almost throughout the world,and worshipped with the incense of a thousand votaries, yet never,nowhere did I behold a being of such exquisite and touching beauty, asthat possessed by the creature of whom I have just spoken. At the momentof which I write, she was standing near the gate, close to which severalbrown-armed, rosy-cheeked damsels were engaged in milking the peacefulcows, who stood picturesquely grouped together. She had just thrownback the hood which is the graceful characteristic of the Irish girl'sattire, so that her small and classic head was quite uncovered, saveonly by the dark-brown hair, which with graceful simplicity was partedabove her forehead. There was nothing to shade the clearness of herbeautiful complexion; the delicately-formed features, so exquisite whentaken singly, so indescribable when combined, so purely artless, yet someet for all expression. She was a thing so very beautiful, you couldnot look on her without feeling your heart touched as by sweet music.Whose lightest action was a grace--whose lightest word a spell--nolimner's art, though ne'er so perfect, could shadow forth her beauty;and do I dare with feeble words try to make you see it?(1) Providenceis indeed no respecter of persons, its blessings and its inflictions areapportioned with an undistinguishing hand, and until the race is over,and life be done, none can know whether those perfections, which seemedits goodliest gifts, many not prove its most fatal; but enough of this.
(1) Father Purcell seems to have had an admiration for the beauties ofnature, particularly as developed in the fair sex; a habit of mind whichhas been rather improved upon than discontinued by his successors fromMaynooth.--ED.
Dwyer strolled carelessly onward by the banks of the stream, leaving hisyoung companion leaning over the gate in close and interesting parlancewith Ellen Heathcote; as he moved on, he half thought, half utteredwords to this effect:
'Insolent young spawn of ingratitude and guilt, how long must I submitto be trod upon thus; and yet why should I murmur--his day is even nowdeclining--and if I live a year, I shall see the darkness cover him andhis for ever. Scarce half his broad estates shall save him--but Imust wait--I am but a pauper now--a beggar's accusation is always alibel--they must reward me soon--and were I independent once, I'd makethem feel my power, and feel it SO, that I should die the richest or thebest avenged servant of a great man that has ever been heard of--yes,I must wait--I must make sure of something at least--I must be able tostand by myself--and then--and then--' He clutched his fingers together,as if in the act of strangling the object of his hatred. 'But one thingshall save him--but one thing only--he shall pay me my own price--and ifhe acts liberally, as no doubt he will do, upon compulsion, why he saveshis reputation--perhaps his neck--the insolent young whelp yonder wouldspeak in an humbler key if he but knew his father's jeopardy--but all ingood time.'
He now stood upon the long, steep, narrow bridge, which crossed theriver close to Carrigvarah, the family mansion of the O'Maras; he lookedback in the direction in which he had left his companion, and leaningupon the battlement, he ruminated long and moodily. At length he raisedhimself and said:
'He loves the girl, and WILL love her more--I have an opportunity ofwinning favour, of doing service, which shall bind him to me; yes, heshall have the girl, if I have art to compass the matter. I must thinkupon it.'
He entered the avenue and was soon lost in the distance.
Days and weeks passed on, and young O'Mara daily took his rod and net,and rambled up the river; and scarce twelve hours elapsed in which someof those accidents, which invariably bring lovers together, did notsecure him a meeting of longer or shorter duration, with the beautifulgirl whom he so fatally loved.
One evening, after a long interview with her, in which he had beenalmost irresistibly prompted to declare his love, and had all butyielded himself up to the passionate impulse, upon his arrival at homehe found a letter on the table awaiting his return; it was from hisfather to the following effect:
'To Richard O'Mara. 'September, 17--, L----m, England.
'MY DEAR SON,-- 'I have just had a severe attack ofmy old and almost forgotten enemy, the gout. This I regard as a goodsign; the doctors telling me that it is the safest development ofpeccant humours; and I think my chest is less tormenting and oppressedthan I have known it for some years. My chief reason for writing to younow, as I do it not without difficulty, is to let you know my pleasurein certain matters, in which I suspect some shameful, and, indeed,infatuated neglect on your part, "quem perdere vult deus priusdementat:" how comes it that you have neglected to write to Lady Emilyor any of that family? the understood relation subsisting between you isone of extreme delicacy, and which calls for marked and courteous, nay,devoted attention upon your side. Lord ---- is already offended; bewarewhat you do; for as you will find, if this match be lost by your faultor folly, by ---- I will cut you off with a shilling. I am not in thehabit of using threats when I do not mean to fulfil them, and that youwell know; however I do not think you have much real cause for alarm inthis case
. Lady Emily, who, by the way, looks if possible more charmingthan ever, is anything but hard-hearted, at least when YOU solicit; butdo as I desire, and lose no time in making what excuse you may, andlet me hear from you when you can fix a time to join me and your motherhere.
'Your sincere well-wisher and father,
'RICHARD O'MARA.'
In this letter was inclosed a smaller one, directed to Dwyer, andcontaining a cheque for twelve pounds, with the following words:
'Make use of the enclosed, and let me hear if Richard is upon any wildscheme at present: I am uneasy about him, and not without reason; reportto me speedily the result of your vigilance.
'R. O'MARA.'
Dwyer just glanced through this brief, but not unwelcome, epistle; anddeposited it and its contents in the secret recesses of his breechespocket, and then fixed his eyes upon the face of his companion, who satopposite, utterly absorbed in the perusal of his father's letter, whichhe read again and again, pausing and muttering between whiles, andapparently lost in no very pleasing reflections. At length he veryabruptly exclaimed:
'A delicate epistle, truly--and a politic--would that my tongue had beenburned through before I assented to that doubly-cursed contract. Why, Iam not pledged yet--I am not; there is neither writing, nor troth, norword of honour, passed between us. My father has no right to pledge me,even though I told him I liked the girl, and would wish the match. 'Tisnot enough that my father offers her my heart and hand; he has no rightto do it; a delicate woman would not accept professions made by proxy.Lady Emily! Lady Emily! with all the tawdry frippery, and finery ofdress and demeanour--compare HER with---- Pshaw! Ridiculous! How blind,how idiotic I have been.'
He relapsed into moody reflections, which Dwyer did not care to disturb,and some ten minutes might have passed before he spoke again. When hedid, it was in the calm tone of one who has irrevocably resolved uponsome decided and important act.
'Dwyer,' he said, rising and approaching that person, 'whatever god ordemon told you, even before my own heart knew it, that I loved EllenHeathcote, spoke truth. I love her madly--I never dreamed till nowhow fervently, how irrevocably, I am hers--how dead to me all otherinterests are. Dwyer, I know something of your disposition, and you nodoubt think it strange that I should tell to you, of all persons, SUCHa secret; but whatever be your faults, I think you are attached to ourfamily. I am satisfied you will not betray me. I know----'
'Pardon me,' said Dwyer, 'if I say that great professions of confidencetoo frequently mark distrust. I have no possible motive to induce me tobetray you; on the contrary, I would gladly assist and direct whateverplans you may have formed. Command me as you please; I have saidenough.'
'I will not doubt you, Dwyer,' said O'Mara; 'I have taken myresolution--I have, I think, firmness to act up to it. To marry EllenHeathcote, situated as I am, were madness; to propose anything elsewere worse, were villainy not to be named. I will leave the countryto-morrow, cost what pain it may, for England. I will at once break offthe proposed alliance with Lady Emily, and will wait until I am my ownmaster, to open my heart to Ellen. My father may say and do what helikes; but his passion will not last. He will forgive me; and even werehe to disinherit me, as he threatens, there is some property whichmust descend to me, which his will cannot affect. He cannot ruin myinterests; he SHALL NOT ruin my happiness. Dwyer, give me pen and ink; Iwill write this moment.'
This bold plan of proceeding for many reasons appeared inexpedientto Dwyer, and he determined not to consent to its adoption without astruggle.
'I commend your prudence,' said he, 'in determining to remove yourselffrom the fascinating influence which has so long bound you here; butbeware of offending your father. Colonel O'Mara is not a man to forgivean act of deliberate disobedience, and surely you are not mad enough toruin yourself with him by offering an outrageous insult to Lady Emilyand to her family in her person; therefore you must not break off theunderstood contract which subsists between you by any formal act--hearme out patiently. You must let Lady Emily perceive, as you easily may,without rudeness or even coldness of manner, that she is perfectlyindifferent to you; and when she understands this to be the case, itshe possesses either delicacy or spirit, she will herself break offthe engagement. Make what delay it is possible to effect; it is verypossible that your father, who cannot, in all probability, live manymonths, may not live as many days if harassed and excited by such scenesas your breaking off your engagement must produce.'
'Dwyer,' said O'Mara, 'I will hear you out--proceed.'
'Besides, sir, remember,' he continued, 'the understanding which we havetermed an engagement was entered into without any direct sanction uponyour part; your father has committed HIMSELF, not YOU, to Lord ----.Before a real contract can subsist, you must be an assenting partyto it. I know of no casuistry subtle enough to involve you in anyengagement whatever, without such an ingredient. Tush! you have an easycard to play.'
'Well,' said the young man, 'I will think on what you have said; in themeantime, I will write to my father to announce my immediate departure,in order to join him.'
'Excuse me,' said Dwyer, 'but I would suggest that by hastening yourdeparture you but bring your dangers nearer. While you are in thiscountry a letter now and then keeps everything quiet; but once acrossthe Channel and with the colonel, you must either quarrel with him toyour own destruction, or you must dance attendance upon Lady Emily withsuch assiduity as to commit yourself as completely as if you had beenthrice called with her in the parish church. No, no; keep to thisside of the Channel as long as you decently can. Besides, your suddendeparture must appear suspicious, and will probably excite inquiry.Every good end likely to be accomplished by your absence will beeffected as well by your departure for Dublin, where you may remain forthree weeks or a month without giving rise to curiosity or doubt ofan unpleasant kind; I would therefore advise you strongly to writeimmediately to the colonel, stating that business has occurred to deferyour departure for a month, and you can then leave this place, if youthink fit, immediately, that is, within a week or so.'
Young O'Mara was not hard to be persuaded. Perhaps it was that,unacknowledged by himself, any argument which recommended his staying,even for an hour longer than his first decision had announced, inthe neighbourhood of Ellen Heathcote, appeared peculiarly cogent andconvincing; however this may have been, it is certain that he followedthe counsel of his cool-headed follower, who retired that night to bedwith the pleasing conviction that he was likely soon to involvehis young patron in all the intricacies of disguise and intrigue--aconsummation which would leave him totally at the mercy of the favouredconfidant who should possess his secret.
Young O'Mara's reflections were more agitating and less satisfactorythan those of his companion. He resolved upon leaving the country beforetwo days had passed. He felt that he could not fairly seek to involveEllen Heathcote in his fate by pledge or promise, until he hadextricated himself from those trammels which constrained and embarrassedall his actions. His determination was so far prudent; but, alas! healso resolved that it was but right, but necessary, that he should seeher before his departure. His leaving the country without a look or aword of parting kindness interchanged, must to her appear an act of coldand heartless caprice; he could not bear the thought.
'No,' said he, 'I am not child enough to say more than prudence tellsme ought to say; this cowardly distrust of my firmness I should and willcontemn. Besides, why should I commit myself? It is possible the girlmay not care for me. No, no; I need not shrink from this interview.I have no reason to doubt my firmness--none--none. I must cease tobe governed by impulse. I am involved in rocks and quicksands; and acollected spirit, a quick eye, and a steady hand, alone can pilot methrough. God grant me a safe voyage!'
The next day came, and young O'Mara did not take his fishing-rod asusual, but wrote two letters; the one to his father, announcing hisintention of departing speedily for England; the other to Lady Emily,containing a cold but courteous apology for his apparent neglect. Boththese we
re despatched to the post-office that evening, and upon the nextmorning he was to leave the country.
Upon the night of the momentous day of which we have just spoken, EllenHeathcote glided silently and unperceived from among the busy crowdswho were engaged in the gay dissipation furnished by what is in Irelandcommonly called a dance (the expenses attendant upon which, music, etc.,are defrayed by a subscription of one halfpenny each), and havingdrawn her mantle closely about her, was proceeding with quick steps totraverse the small field which separated her from her father's abode.She had not walked many yards when she became aware that a solitaryfigure, muffled in a cloak, stood in the pathway. It approached; a lowvoice whispered:
'Ellen.'
'Is it you, Master Richard?' she replied.
He threw back the cloak which had concealed his features.
'It is I, Ellen, he said; 'I have been watching for you. I will notdelay you long.'
He took her hand, and she did not attempt to withdraw it; for she wastoo artless to think any evil, too confiding to dread it.
'Ellen,' he continued, even now unconsciously departing from the rigidcourse which prudence had marked out; 'Ellen, I am going to leave thecountry; going to-morrow. I have had letters from England. I must go;and the sea will soon be between us.'
He paused, and she was silent.
'There is one request, one entreaty I have to make,' he continued; 'Iwould, when I am far away, have something to look at which belongedto you. Will you give me--do not refuse it--one little lock of yourbeautiful hair?'
With artless alacrity, but with trembling hand, she took the scissors,which in simple fashion hung by her side, and detached one of the longand beautiful locks which parted over her forehead. She placed it in hishand.
Again he took her hand, and twice he attempted to speak in vain; atlength he said:
'Ellen, when I am gone--when I am away--will you sometimes remember,sometimes think of me?'
Ellen Heathcote had as much, perhaps more, of what is noble in pridethan the haughtiest beauty that ever trod a court; but the effort wasuseless; the honest struggle was in vain; and she burst into floods oftears, bitterer than she had ever shed before.
I cannot tell how passions rise and fall; I cannot describe theimpetuous words of the young lover, as pressing again and again to hislips the cold, passive hand, which had been resigned to him, prudence,caution, doubts, resolutions, all vanished from his view, and meltedinto nothing. 'Tis for me to tell the simple fact, that from that briefinterview they both departed promised and pledged to each other forever.
Through the rest of this story events follow one another rapidly.
A few nights after that which I have just mentioned, Ellen Heathcotedisappeared; but her father was not left long in suspense as to herfate, for Dwyer, accompanied by one of those mendicant friars whotraversed the country then even more commonly than they now do, calledupon Heathcote before he had had time to take any active measures forthe recovery of his child, and put him in possession of a documentwhich appeared to contain satisfactory evidence of the marriage of EllenHeathcote with Richard O'Mara, executed upon the evening previous, asthe date went to show; and signed by both parties, as well as by Dwyerand a servant of young O'Mara's, both these having acted as witnesses;and further supported by the signature of Peter Nicholls, a brother ofthe order of St. Francis, by whom the ceremony had been performed, andwhom Heathcote had no difficulty in recognising in the person of hisvisitant.
This document, and the prompt personal visit of the two men, and aboveall, the known identity of the Franciscan, satisfied Heathcote asfully as anything short of complete publicity could have done. And hisconviction was not a mistaken one.
Dwyer, before he took his leave, impressed upon Heathcote the necessityof keeping the affair so secret as to render it impossible that itshould reach Colonel O'Mara's ears, an event which would have beenattended with ruinous consequences to all parties. He refused, also,to permit Heathcote to see his daughter, and even to tell him where shewas, until circumstances rendered it safe for him to visit her.
Heathcote was a harsh and sullen man; and though his temper was anythingbut tractable, there was so much to please, almost to dazzle him, in theevent, that he accepted the terms which Dwyer imposed upon him withoutany further token of disapprobation than a shake of the head, and agruff wish that 'it might prove all for the best.'
Nearly two months had passed, and young O'Mara had not yet departedfor England. His letters had been strangely few and far between; and inshort, his conduct was such as to induce Colonel O'Mara to hasten hisreturn to Ireland, and at the same time to press an engagement, whichLord ----, his son Captain N----, and Lady Emily had made to spend someweeks with him at his residence in Dublin.
A letter arrived for young O'Mara, stating the arrangement, andrequiring his attendance in Dublin, which was accordingly immediatelyafforded.
He arrived, with Dwyer, in time to welcome his father and hisdistinguished guests. He resolved to break off his embarrassingconnection with Lady Emily, without, however, stating the real motive,which he felt would exasperate the resentment which his father and Lord---- would no doubt feel at his conduct.
He strongly felt how dishonourably he would act if, in obedience toDwyer's advice, he seemed tacitly to acquiesce in an engagement whichit was impossible for him to fulfil. He knew that Lady Emily was notcapable of anything like strong attachment; and that even if she were,he had no reason whatever to suppose that she cared at all for him.
He had not at any time desired the alliance; nor had he any reason tosuppose the young lady in any degree less indifferent. He regarded itnow, and not without some appearance of justice, as nothing more than akind of understood stipulation, entered into by their parents, and tobe considered rather as a matter of business and calculation than asinvolving anything of mutual inclination on the part of the parties mostnearly interested in the matter.
He anxiously, therefore, watched for an opportunity of making knownhis feelings to Lord ----, as he could not with propriety do so toLady Emily; but what at a distance appeared to be a matter of easyaccomplishment, now, upon a nearer approach, and when the immediateimpulse which had prompted the act had subsided, appeared so full ofdifficulty and almost inextricable embarrassments, that he involuntarilyshrunk from the task day after day.
Though it was a source of indescribable anxiety to him, he did notventure to write to Ellen, for he could not disguise from himself thedanger which the secrecy of his connection with her must incur byhis communicating with her, even through a public office, wheretheir letters might be permitted to lie longer than the gossipinginquisitiveness of a country town would warrant him in supposing safe.
It was about a fortnight after young O'Mara had arrived in Dublin, whereall things, and places, and amusements; and persons seemed thoroughlystale, flat, and unprofitable, when one day, tempted by the unusualfineness of the weather, Lady Emily proposed a walk in the College Park,a favourite promenade at that time. She therefore with young O'Mara,accompanied by Dwyer (who, by-the-by, when he pleased, could act thegentleman sufficiently well), proceeded to the place proposed, wherethey continued to walk for some time.
'Why, Richard,' said Lady Emily, after a tedious and unbroken pauseof some minutes, 'you are becoming worse and worse every day. You aregrowing absolutely intolerable; perfectly stupid! not one good thinghave I heard since I left the house.'
O'Mara smiled, and was seeking for a suitable reply, when his design wasinterrupted, and his attention suddenly and painfully arrested, by theappearance of two figures, who were slowly passing the broad walk onwhich he and his party moved; the one was that of Captain N----, theother was the form of--Martin Heathcote!
O'Mara felt confounded, almost stunned; the anticipation of someimpending mischief--of an immediate and violent collision with a youngman whom he had ever regarded as his friend, were apprehensions whichsuch a juxtaposition could not fail to produce.
'Is Heathcote mad?' thought he. 'What
devil can have brought him here?'
Dwyer having exchanged a significant glance with O'Mara, said slightlyto Lady Emily:
'Will your ladyship excuse me for a moment? I have a word to say toCaptain N----, and will, with your permission, immediately rejoin you.'
He bowed, and walking rapidly on, was in a few moments beside the objectof his and his patron's uneasiness.
Whatever Heathcote's object might be, he certainly had not yet declaredthe secret, whose safety O'Mara had so naturally desired, for CaptainN---- appeared in good spirits; and on coming up to his sister and hercompanion, he joined them for a moment, telling O'Mara, laughingly, thatan old quiz had come from the country for the express purpose oftelling tales, as it was to be supposed, of him (young O'Mara), in whoseneighbourhood he lived.
During this speech it required all the effort which it was possible toexert to prevent O'Mara's betraying the extreme agitation to which hissituation gave rise. Captain N----, however, suspected nothing, andpassed on without further delay.
Dinner was an early meal in those days, and Lady Emily was obliged toleave the Park in less than half an hour after the unpleasant meetingwhich we have just mentioned.
Young O'Mara and, at a sign from him, Dwyer having escorted the ladyto the door of Colonel O'Mara's house, pretended an engagement, anddeparted together.
Richard O'Mara instantly questioned his comrade upon the subject of hisanxiety; but Dwyer had nothing to communicate of a satisfactory nature.He had only time, while the captain had been engaged with Lady Emily andher companion, to say to Heathcote:
'Be secret, as you value your existence: everything will be right, ifyou be but secret.'
To this Heathcote had replied: 'Never fear me; I understand what I amabout.'
This was said in such an ambiguous manner that it was impossible toconjecture whether he intended or not to act upon Dwyer's exhortation.The conclusion which appeared most natural, was by no means an agreeableone.
It was much to be feared that Heathcote having heard some vague reportof O'Mara's engagement with Lady Emily, perhaps exaggerated, by therepetition, into a speedily approaching marriage, had become alarmed forhis daughter's interest, and had taken this decisive step in order toprevent, by a disclosure of the circumstances of his clandestine unionwith Ellen, the possibility of his completing a guilty alliance withCaptain N----'s sister. If he entertained the suspicions which theyattributed to him, he had certainly taken the most effectual means toprevent their being realised. Whatever his object might be, his presencein Dublin, in company with Captain N----, boded nothing good to O'Mara.
They entered ----'s tavern, in Dame Street, together; and there, over ahasty and by no means a comfortable meal, they talked over their plansand conjectures. Evening closed in, and found them still closetedtogether, with nothing to interrupt, and a large tankard of claret tosustain their desultory conversation.
Nothing had been determined upon, except that Dwyer and O'Mara shouldproceed under cover of the darkness to search the town for Heathcote,and by minute inquiries at the most frequented houses of entertainment,to ascertain his place of residence, in order to procuring a full andexplanatory interview with him. They had each filled their last glass,and were sipping it slowly, seated with their feet stretched towardsa bright cheerful fire; the small table which sustained the flagon ofwhich we have spoken, together with two pair of wax candles, placedbetween them, so as to afford a convenient resting-place for the longglasses out of which they drank.
'One good result, at all events, will be effected by Heathcote's visit,'said O'Mara. 'Before twenty-four hours I shall do that which I shouldhave done long ago. I shall, without reserve, state everything. I can nolonger endure this suspense--this dishonourable secrecy--this apparentdissimulation. Every moment I have passed since my departure fromthe country has been one of embarrassment, of pain, of humiliation.To-morrow I will brave the storm, whether successfully or not isdoubtful; but I had rather walk the high roads a beggar, than submita day longer to be made the degraded sport of every accident--themiserable dependent upon a successful system of deception. ThoughPASSIVE deception, it is still unmanly, unworthy, unjustifiabledeception. I cannot bear to think of it. I despise myself, but I willcease to be the despicable thing I have become. To-morrow sees me free,and this harassing subject for ever at rest.'
He was interrupted here by the sound of footsteps heavily but rapidlyascending the tavern staircase. The room door opened, and Captain N----,accompanied by a fashionably-attired young man, entered the room.
Young O'Mara had risen from his seat on the entrance of their unexpectedvisitants; and the moment Captain N---- recognised his person, anevident and ominous change passed over his countenance. He turnedhastily to withdraw, but, as it seemed, almost instantly changed hismind, for he turned again abruptly.
'This chamber is engaged, sir,' said the waiter.
'Leave the room, sir,' was his only reply.
'The room is engaged, sir,' repeated the waiter, probably believing thathis first suggestion had been unheard.
'Leave the room, or go to hell!' shouted Captain N----; at the same timeseizing the astounded waiter by the shoulder, he hurled him headlonginto the passage, and flung the door to with a crash that shook thewalls. 'Sir,' continued he, addressing himself to O'Mara, 'I did nothope to have met you until to-morrow. Fortune has been kind to me--draw,and defend yourself.'
At the same time he drew his sword, and placed himself in an attitude ofattack.
'I will not draw upon YOU,' said O'Mara. 'I have, indeed, wronged you.I have given you just cause for resentment; but against your life I willnever lift my hand.'
'You are a coward, sir,' replied Captain N----, with almost frightfulvehemence, 'as every trickster and swindler IS. You are a contemptibledastard--a despicable, damned villain! Draw your sword, sir, anddefend your life, or every post and pillar in this town shall tell yourinfamy.'
'Perhaps,' said his friend, with a sneer, 'the gentleman can do betterwithout his honour than without his wife.'
'Yes,' shouted the captain, 'his wife--a trull--a common----'
'Silence, sir!' cried O'Mara, all the fierceness of his nature rousedby this last insult--'your object is gained; your blood be upon your ownhead.' At the same time he sprang across a bench which stood in his way,and pushing aside the table which supported the lights, in an instanttheir swords crossed, and they were engaged in close and deadly strife.
Captain N---- was far the stronger of the two; but, on the other hand,O'Mara possessed far more skill in the use of the fatal weapon whichthey employed. But the narrowness of the room rendered this advantagehardly available.
Almost instantly O'Mara received a slight wound upon the forehead,which, though little more than a scratch, bled so fast as to obstructhis sight considerably.
Those who have used the foil can tell how slight a derangement of eyeor of hand is sufficient to determine a contest of this kind; and thisknowledge will prevent their being surprised when I say, that, spite ofO'Mara's superior skill and practice, his adversary's sword passed twicethrough and through his body, and he fell heavily and helplessly uponthe floor of the chamber.
Without saying a word, the successful combatant quitted the room alongwith his companion, leaving Dwyer to shift as best he might for hisfallen comrade.
With the assistance of some of the wondering menials of the place, Dwyersucceeded in conveying the wounded man into an adjoining room, where hewas laid upon a bed, in a state bordering upon insensibility--the bloodflowing, I might say WELLING, from the wounds so fast as to show thatunless the bleeding were speedily and effectually stopped, he could notlive for half an hour.
Medical aid was, of course, instantly procured, and Colonel O'Mara,though at the time seriously indisposed, was urgently requested toattend without loss of time. He did so; but human succour and supportwere all too late. The wound had been truly dealt--the tide of life hadebbed; and his father had not arrived five minutes when young O'Marawas a corps
e. His body rests in the vaults of Christ Church, in Dublin,without a stone to mark the spot.
The counsels of the wicked are always dark, and their motives oftenbeyond fathoming; and strange, unaccountable, incredible as it may seem,I do believe, and that upon evidence so clear as to amount almost todemonstration, that Heathcote's visit to Dublin--his betrayal of thesecret--and the final and terrible catastrophe which laid O'Mara in thegrave, were brought about by no other agent than Dwyer himself.
I have myself seen the letter which induced that visit. The handwritingis exactly what I have seen in other alleged specimens of Dwyer'spenmanship. It is written with an affectation of honest alarm atO'Mara's conduct, and expresses a conviction that if some of LadyEmily's family be not informed of O'Mara's real situation, nothing couldprevent his concluding with her an advantageous alliance, then uponthe tapis, and altogether throwing off his allegiance to Ellen--astep which, as the writer candidly asserted, would finally conduce asinevitably to his own disgrace as it immediately would to her ruin andmisery.
The production was formally signed with Dwyer's name, and the postscriptcontained a strict injunction of secrecy, asserting that if it wereascertained that such an epistle had been despatched from such aquarter, it would be attended with the total ruin of the writer.
It is true that Dwyer, many years after, when this letter came to light,alleged it to be a forgery, an assertion whose truth, even to his dyinghour, and long after he had apparently ceased to feel the lash of publicscorn, he continued obstinately to maintain. Indeed this matter is fullof mystery, for, revenge alone excepted, which I believe, in suchminds as Dwyer's, seldom overcomes the sense of interest, the onlyintelligible motive which could have prompted him to such an act was thehope that since he had, through young O'Mara's interest, procuredfrom the colonel a lease of a small farm upon the terms which he hadoriginally stipulated, he might prosecute his plan touching the propertyof Martin Heathcote, rendering his daughter's hand free by the removalof young O'Mara. This appears to me too complicated a plan of villanyto have entered the mind even of such a man as Dwyer. I must, therefore,suppose his motives to have originated out of circumstances connectedwith this story which may not have come to my ear, and perhaps neverwill.
Colonel O'Mara felt the death of his son more deeply than I should havethought possible; but that son had been the last being who had continuedto interest his cold heart. Perhaps the pride which he felt in his childhad in it more of selfishness than of any generous feeling. But, be thisas it may, the melancholy circumstances connected with Ellen Heathcotehad reached him, and his conduct towards her proved, more strongly thananything else could have done, that he felt keenly and justly, and, to acertain degree, with a softened heart, the fatal event of which she hadbeen, in some manner, alike the cause and the victim.
He evinced not towards her, as might have been expected, anyunreasonable resentment. On the contrary, he exhibited greatconsideration, even tenderness, for her situation; and havingascertained where his son had placed her, he issued strict orders thatshe should not be disturbed, and that the fatal tidings, which had notyet reached her, should be withheld until they might be communicated insuch a way as to soften as much as possible the inevitable shock.
These last directions were acted upon too scrupulously and too long;and, indeed, I am satisfied that had the event been communicated atonce, however terrible and overwhelming the shock might have been, muchof the bitterest anguish, of sickening doubts, of harassing suspense,would have been spared her, and the first tempestuous burst of sorrowhaving passed over, her chastened spirit might have recovered its tone,and her life have been spared. But the mistaken kindness which concealedfrom her the dreadful truth, instead of relieving her mind of a burdenwhich it could not support, laid upon it a weight of horrible fearsand doubts as to the affection of O'Mara, compared with which even thecertainty of his death would have been tolerable.
One evening I had just seated myself beside a cheerful turf fire, withthat true relish which a long cold ride through a bleak and shelterlesscountry affords, stretching my chilled limbs to meet the genialinfluence, and imbibing the warmth at every pore, when my comfortablemeditations were interrupted by a long and sonorous ringing at thedoor-bell evidently effected by no timid hand.
A messenger had arrived to request my attendance at the Lodge--such wasthe name which distinguished a small and somewhat antiquated building,occupying a peculiarly secluded position among the bleak and heathyhills which varied the surface of that not altogether uninterestingdistrict, and which had, I believe, been employed by the keen and hardyancestors of the O'Mara family as a convenient temporary residenceduring the sporting season.
Thither my attendance was required, in order to administer to a deeplydistressed lady such comforts as an afflicted mind can gather from thesublime hopes and consolations of Christianity.
I had long suspected that the occupant of this sequestered, I mightsay desolate, dwelling-house was the poor girl whose brief story we arefollowing; and feeling a keen interest in her fate--as who that had everseen her DID NOT?--I started from my comfortable seat with more eageralacrity than, I will confess it, I might have evinced had my dutycalled me in another direction.
In a few minutes I was trotting rapidly onward, preceded by my guide,who urged his horse with the remorseless rapidity of one who seeks bythe speed of his progress to escape observation. Over roads and throughbogs we splashed and clattered, until at length traversing the brow ofa wild and rocky hill, whose aspect seemed so barren and forbidding thatit might have been a lasting barrier alike to mortal sight and step, thelonely building became visible, lying in a kind of swampy flat, with abroad reedy pond or lake stretching away to its side, and backed by afarther range of monotonous sweeping hills, marked with irregularlines of grey rock, which, in the distance, bore a rude and colossalresemblance to the walls of a fortification.
Riding with undiminished speed along a kind of wild horse-track, weturned the corner of a high and somewhat ruinous wall of loose stones,and making a sudden wheel we found ourselves in a small quadrangle,surmounted on two sides by dilapidated stables and kennels, on anotherby a broken stone wall, and upon the fourth by the front of the lodgeitself.
The whole character of the place was that of dreary desertion anddecay, which would of itself have predisposed the mind for melancholyimpressions. My guide dismounted, and with respectful attention heldmy horse's bridle while I got down; and knocking at the door with thehandle of his whip, it was speedily opened by a neatly-dressed femaledomestic, and I was admitted to the interior of the house, and conductedinto a small room, where a fire in some degree dispelled the cheerlessair, which would otherwise have prevailed to a painful degree throughoutthe place.
I had been waiting but for a very few minutes when another femaleservant, somewhat older than the first, entered the room. She made someapology on the part of the person whom I had come to visit, for theslight delay which had already occurred, and requested me further towait for a few minutes longer, intimating that the lady's grief was soviolent, that without great effort she could not bring herself to speakcalmly at all. As if to beguile the time, the good dame went on in ahighly communicative strain to tell me, amongst much that could notinterest me, a little of what I had desired to hear. I discovered thatthe grief of her whom I had come to visit was excited by the suddendeath of a little boy, her only child, who was then lying dead in hismother's chamber.
'And the mother's name?' said I, inquiringly.
The woman looked at me for a moment, smiled, and shook her head withthe air of mingled mystery and importance which seems to say, 'I amunfathomable.' I did not care to press the question, though I suspectedthat much of her apparent reluctance was affected, knowing that mydoubts respecting the identity of the person whom I had come to visitmust soon be set at rest, and after a little pause the worthy Abigailwent on as fluently as ever. She told me that her young mistress hadbeen, for the time she had been with her--that was, for about a yearand
a half--in declining health and spirits, and that she had loved herlittle child to a degree beyond expression--so devotedly that she couldnot, in all probability, survive it long.
While she was running on in this way the bell rang, and signing me tofollow, she opened the room door, but stopped in the hall, and taking mea little aside, and speaking in a whisper, she told me, as I valued thelife of the poor lady, not to say one word of the death of young O'Mara.I nodded acquiescence, and ascending a narrow and ill-constructedstaircase, she stopped at a chamber door and knocked.
'Come in,' said a gentle voice from within, and, preceded by myconductress, I entered a moderately-sized, but rather gloomy chamber.
There was but one living form within it--it was the light and gracefulfigure of a young woman. She had risen as I entered the room; but owingto the obscurity of the apartment, and to the circumstance that herface, as she looked towards the door, was turned away from the light,which found its way in dimly through the narrow windows, I could notinstantly recognise the features.
'You do not remember me, sir?' said the same low, mournful voice. 'Iam--I WAS--Ellen Heathcote.'
'I do remember you, my poor child,' said I, taking her hand; 'I doremember you very well. Speak to me frankly--speak to me as a friend.Whatever I can do or say for you, is yours already; only speak.'
'You were always very kind, sir, to those--to those that WANTEDkindness.'
The tears were almost overflowing, but she checked them; and as ifan accession of fortitude had followed the momentary weakness,she continued, in a subdued but firm tone, to tell me briefly thecircumstances of her marriage with O'Mara. When she had concluded therecital, she paused for a moment; and I asked again:
'Can I aid you in any way--by advice or otherwise?'
'I wish, sir, to tell you all I have been thinking about,' shecontinued. 'I am sure, sir, that Master Richard loved me once--I am surehe did not think to deceive me; but there were bad, hard-hearted peopleabout him, and his family were all rich and high, and I am sure hewishes NOW that he had never, never seen me. Well, sir, it is not inmy heart to blame him. What was _I_ that I should look at him?--anignorant, poor, country girl--and he so high and great, and sobeautiful. The blame was all mine--it was all my fault; I could notthink or hope he would care for me more than a little time. Well, sir,I thought over and over again that since his love was gone from me forever, I should not stand in his way, and hinder whatever great thinghis family wished for him. So I thought often and often to write hima letter to get the marriage broken, and to send me home; but for onereason, I would have done it long ago: there was a little child, his andmine--the dearest, the loveliest.' She could not go on for a minute ortwo. 'The little child that is lying there, on that bed; but it is deadand gone, and there is no reason NOW why I should delay any more aboutit.'
She put her hand into her breast, and took out a letter, which sheopened. She put it into my hands. It ran thus:
'DEAR MASTER RICHARD, 'My little child is dead, and yourhappiness is all I care about now. Your marriage with me is displeasingto your family, and I would be a burden to you, and in your way in thefine places, and among the great friends where you must be. You ought,therefore, to break the marriage, and I will sign whatever YOU wish, oryour family. I will never try to blame you, Master Richard--do not thinkit--for I never deserved your love, and must not complain now that Ihave lost it; but I will always pray for you, and be thinking of youwhile I live.'
While I read this letter, I was satisfied that so far from adding to thepoor girl's grief, a full disclosure of what had happened would, on thecontrary, mitigate her sorrow, and deprive it of its sharpest sting.
'Ellen,' said I solemnly, 'Richard O'Mara was never unfaithful to you;he is now where human reproach can reach him no more.'
As I said this, the hectic flush upon her cheek gave place to a palenessso deadly, that I almost thought she would drop lifeless upon the spot.
'Is he--is he dead, then?' said she, wildly.
I took her hand in mine, and told her the sad story as best I could. Shelistened with a calmness which appeared almost unnatural, until Ihad finished the mournful narration. She then arose, and going to thebedside, she drew the curtain and gazed silently and fixedly on thequiet face of the child: but the feelings which swelled at her heartcould not be suppressed; the tears gushed forth, and sobbing as if herheart would break, she leant over the bed and took the dead child in herarms.
She wept and kissed it, and kissed it and wept again, in grief sopassionate, so heartrending, as to draw bitter tears from my eyes. Isaid what little I could to calm her--to have sought to do more wouldhave been a mockery; and observing that the darkness had closed in,I took my leave and departed, being favoured with the services of myformer guide.
I expected to have been soon called upon again to visit the poorgirl; but the Lodge lay beyond the boundary of my parish, and I felt areluctance to trespass upon the precincts of my brother minister, and acertain degree of hesitation in intruding upon one whose situation wasso very peculiar, and who would, I had no doubt, feel no scruple inrequesting my attendance if she desired it.
A month, however, passed away, and I did not hear anything of Ellen. Icalled at the Lodge, and to my inquiries they answered that she was verymuch worse in health, and that since the death of the child she had beensinking fast, and so weak that she had been chiefly confined to her bed.I sent frequently to inquire, and often called myself, and all that Iheard convinced me that she was rapidly sinking into the grave.
Late one night I was summoned from my rest, by a visit from the personwho had upon the former occasion acted as my guide; he had come tosummon me to the death-bed of her whom I had then attended. Withall celerity I made my preparations, and, not without considerabledifficulty and some danger, we made a rapid night-ride to the Lodge, adistance of five miles at least. We arrived safely, and in a very shorttime--but too late.
I stood by the bed upon which lay the once beautiful form of EllenHeathcote. The brief but sorrowful trial was past--the desolate mournerwas gone to that land where the pangs of grief, the tumults of passion,regrets and cold neglect, are felt no more. I leant over the lifelessface, and scanned the beautiful features which, living, had wrought suchmagic on all that looked upon them. They were, indeed, much wasted; butit was impossible for the fingers of death or of decay altogetherto obliterate the traces of that exquisite beauty which had sodistinguished her. As I gazed on this most sad and striking spectacle,remembrances thronged fast upon my mind, and tear after tear fell uponthe cold form that slept tranquilly and for ever.
A few days afterwards I was told that a funeral had left the Lodgeat the dead of night, and had been conducted with the most scrupuloussecrecy. It was, of course, to me no mystery.
Heathcote lived to a very advanced age, being of that hard mould whichis not easily impressionable. The selfish and the hard-hearted survivewhere nobler, more generous, and, above all, more sympathising natureswould have sunk for ever.
Dwyer certainly succeeded in extorting, I cannot say how, considerableand advantageous leases from Colonel O'Mara; but after his death hedisposed of his interest in these, and having for a time launched into asea of profligate extravagance, he became bankrupt, and for a long timeI totally lost sight of him.
The rebellion of '98, and the events which immediately followed, calledhim forth from his lurking-places, in the character of an informer; andI myself have seen the hoary-headed, paralytic perjurer, with a scowlof derision and defiance, brave the hootings and the execrations of theindignant multitude.