Part 2—Chapter XXI.
Petticoat Interest prevails, and I escape; but I put my Head into the Lion’s Den.
There was no time for apology, and stepping over Kathleen, I buried myself under the clothes by her side. The mother then hastened down stairs, and arrived at the door just as they had succeeded in forcing it open, when in pounced a dozen men armed, with their faces blackened.
“Holy Jesus! what is it that you want?” screamed the landlady.
“The blood of the tithe proctor, and that’s what we’ll have,” replied the O’Tooles.
“Not in my house—not in my house!” cried she. “Take him away, at all events; promise me to take him away.”
“So we will, honey darlint; we’ll take him out of your sight, and out of your hearing, too, only show us where he may be.”
“He’s sleeping,” replied the mother, pointing to the door of the bed-room, where I had been lying down.
The party took the light from her hand, and went into the room, where they perceived the bed empty and the window open. “Devil a bit of a proctor here anyhow,” cried one of them, “and the window open. He’s off—hurrah! my lads, he can’t be far.”
“By the powers! it’s just my opinion, Mrs McShane,” replied the elder O’Toole, “that he’s not quite so far off; so with your lave, or by your lave, or without your lave, we’ll just have a look over the premises.”
“O! and welcome, Mister Jerry O’Toole: if you think I’m the woman to hide a proctor, look everywhere just as you please.”
The party, headed by Jerry O’Toole, who had taken the light out of Mrs McShane’s hand, now ascended the ladder to the upper storey, and as I lay by Kathleen, I felt that she trembled with fear. After examining every nook and cranny they could think of, they came to Mrs McShane’s room—“O! go in—go in and look, Mr O’Toole; it’s a very likely thing to insinuate that I should have a tithe proctor in my bed. Search, pray,” and Mrs McShane led the way into her own room.
Every part had been examined, except the small sleeping room of Kathleen; and the party paused before the door. “We must search,” observed O’Toole, doggedly.
“Search my daughter’s! very well, search if you please; it’s a fine story you’ll have to tell, how six great men pulled a poor girl out of her bed to look for a tithe proctor. It will be a credit to you anyhow; and you, Corny O’Toole, you’ll stand well in her good graces, when you come to talk about the wedding-day; and your wife that is to be, pulled out of her bed by a dozen men. What will ye say to Kathleen, when you affront her by supposing that a maiden girl has a tithe proctor in bed with her? D’ye think that ye’ll ever have the mother’s consent or blessing?”
“No one goes into Kathleen’s room,” cried Corny O’Toole, roused by the sarcasms of Mrs McShane.
“Yes, Corny,” replied Mrs McShane, “it’s not for a woman like me to be suspected, at all events; so you, and you only, shall go into the room, if that will content ye, Mr Jerry O’Toole.”
“Yes!” replied the party, and Mrs McShane opened the door.
Kathleen rose up on her elbow, holding the bed-clothes up to her throat, and looking at them, as they entered, said, “O Corny! Corny! this to me?”
Corny never thought of looking for anybody, his eyes were rivetted upon his sweetheart. “Murder, Kathleen, is it my fault? Jerry will have it.”
“Are you satisfied, Corny?” said Mrs McShane.
“Sure enough I was satisfied before I came in, that Kathleen would not have anyone in her bed-room,” replied Corny.
“Then good night, Corny, and it’s to-morrow that I’ll talk with ye,” replied Kathleen.
Mrs McShane then walked out of the room, expecting Corny to follow; but he could not restrain himself, and he came to the bedside. Fearful that if he put his arms round her, he would feel me, Kathleen raised herself, and allowed him to embrace her. Fortunately the light was not in the room, or I should have been discovered, as in so doing she threw the clothes off my head and shoulders. She then pushed back Corny from her, and he left the room, shutting the door after him. The party descended the ladder, and as soon as Kathleen perceived that they were all down, she sprang out of bed and ran into her mother’s room. Soon after I heard them depart. Mrs McShane made fast the door, and came up stairs. She first went to her own room, where poor Kathleen was crying bitterly from shame and excitement. I had got up when she came into Kathleen’s room for her clothes, and, in about five minutes, they returned together. I was sitting on the side of the bed when they came in: the poor girl coloured up when our eyes met. “Kathleen,” said I, “you have, in all probability, saved my life, and I cannot express my thanks. I am only sorry that your modesty has been put to so severe a trial.”
“If Corny was to find it out,” replied Kathleen, sobbing again. “How could I do such a thing?”
“Your mother bid you,” replied Mrs McShane, “and that is sufficient.”
“But what must you think of me, sir?” continued Kathleen.
“I think that you have behaved most nobly. You have saved an innocent man at the risk of your reputation, and the loss of your lover. It is not now that I can prove my gratitude.”
“Yes, yes, promise me by all that’s sacred, that you’ll never mention it. Surely you would not ruin one who has tried to serve you.”
“I promise you that, and I hope to perform a great deal more,” replied I. “But now, Mrs McShane, what is to be done? Remain here I cannot.”
“No, you must leave, and that very soon. Wait about ten minutes more, and then they will give up their search and go home. The road to E—” (the post I had lately come from) “is the best you can take; and you must travel as fast as you can, for there is no safety for you here.”
“I am convinced that rascal McDermott will not leave me till he has rid himself of me.” I then took out my purse, in which I still had nearly twenty guineas. I took ten of them. “Mrs McShane, I must leave you in charge of my portmanteau, which you may forward by-and-by, when you hear of my safety. If I should not be so fortunate, the money is better in your hands than in the hands of those who will murder me. Kathleen, God bless you! you are a good girl, and Corny O’Toole will be a happy man if he knows your value.”
I then wished Kathleen good-bye, and she allowed me to kiss her without any resistance; but the tears were coursing down her cheeks as I left the room with her mother. Mrs McShane looked carefully out of the windows, holding the light to ascertain if there was anybody near, and, satisfied with her scrutiny, she then opened the door, and calling down the saints to protect me, shook hands with me, and I quitted the house. It was a dark cloudy night, and when I first went out, I was obliged to grope, for I could distinguish nothing. I walked along with a pistol loaded in each hand, and gained, as I thought, the high road to E—, but I made a sad mistake: and puzzled by the utter darkness and turnings, I took, on the contrary, the road to Mount Castle. As soon as I was clear of the houses and the enclosure, there was more light, and I could distinguish the road. I had proceeded about four or five miles, when I heard the sound of horses’ hoofs, and shortly afterwards two men rode by me. I inquired if that was the way to E—. A pause ensued, and a whisper.
“All’s right!” replied a deep voice. I continued my way, glad to find that I had not mistaken it, and cogitating as to what must be the purpose of two men being out at such an hour. About ten minutes afterwards I thought I again heard the sound of horses’ feet, and it then occurred to me that they must be highwaymen, who had returned to rob me. I cocked my pistols, determined to sell my life as dearly as I could, and awaited their coming up with anxiety; but they appeared to keep at the same distance, as the sound did not increase. After half an hour I came to two roads, and was undecided which to take. I stopped and listened—the steps of the horses were no longer to be heard. I looked round me to ascertain if I could recognise any object so as to decide me, but I could not. I took the road to the left, and proceeded, until I arrived at a brook which crossed the road. There was no bridge, and it was too dark to perceive the stepping stones. I had just waded about half way across, when I received a blow on the head from behind, which staggered me. I turned round, but before I could see my assailant, a second blow laid me senseless in the water.
Part 2—Chapter XXII.
Under Ground, but not yet dead and buried—The Prospect anything but pleasant.
When my recollection returned I found myself in the dark, but where, I knew not. My head ached, and my brain reeled. I sat up for a moment to collect my senses, but the effort was too painful—I fell back, and remained in a state of half-stupor. Gradually I recovered, and again sat up. I perceived that I had been lying on a bed of straw, composed of two or three trusses apparently. I felt with my extended arms on each side of me, but touched nothing. I opened my eyes, which I had closed again, and tried to pierce through the obscurity, but in vain—all was dark as Erebus. I then rose on my feet, and extending my hands before me, walked five or six steps on one side, till I was clear of the straw, and came to a wall. I followed the wall about twenty feet, and then touched wood; groping about, I found it was a door. I then made the circuit of the walls, and discovered that the other side was built with bins for wine, which were empty, and I then found myself again at the straw upon which I had been laid. It was in a cellar no longer used—but where? Again I lay down upon the straw, and, as it may be imagined, my reflections were anything but pleasing. “Was I in the power of McDermott or Melchior?” I felt convinced that I was; but my head was too painful for long thought, and after half an hour’s reflection, I gave way to a sullen state of half-dreaming, half-stupor, in which the forms of McDermott, Kathleen, Melchior, and Fleta, passed in succession before me. How long I remained in this second species of trance I cannot say, but I was roused by the light of a candle, which flashed in my eyes. I started up, and beheld Melchior in his gipsy’s dress, just as when I had taken leave of him.
“It is to you, then, that I am indebted for this treatment?” replied I.
“No, not to me,” replied Melchior. “I do not command here; but I knew you when they brought you in insensible, and being employed in the castle, I have taken upon myself the office of your gaoler, that I might, if possible, serve you.”
I felt, I knew, this to be false, but a moment’s reflection told me that it was better at present to temporise.
“Who then does the castle belong to, Melchior?”
“To Sir Henry de Clare.”
“And what can be his object in treating me thus?”
“That I can tell you, because I am a party concerned. You remember the little girl, Fleta, who left the gipsy camp with you—she is now somewhere under your care?”
“Well, I grant it; but I was answerable only to you about her.”
“Very true, but I was answerable to Sir Henry; and when I could only say that she was well, he was not satisfied, for family reasons now make him very anxious that she should return to him; and, indeed, it will be for her advantage, as she will in all probability be his heir, for he has satisfactorily proved that she is a near relative.”
“Grant all that, Melchior; but why did not Sir Henry de Clare write to me on the subject, and state his wishes, and his right to demand his relative? and why does he treat me in this way? Another question—how is it that he has recognised me to be the party who has charge of the little girl? Answer me those questions, Melchior, and then I may talk over the matter.”
“I will answer the last question first. He knew your name from me, and it so happened, that a friend of his met you in the coach as you were coming to Ireland: the same person also saw you at the post-house, and gave information. Sir Henry, who is a violent man, and here has almost regal sway, determined to detain you till you surrendered up the child. You recollect, that you refused to tell his agent, the person whose address I gave you, where she was to be found, and, vexed at this, he has taken the law into his own hands.”
“For which he shall smart, one of these days,” replied I, “if there is law in this country.”
“There is a law in England, but very little, and none that will harm Sir Henry in this part of the country. No officer would venture within five miles of the castle, I can assure you; for he knows very well that it would cost him his life; and Sir Henry never quits it from one year’s end to the other. You are in his power, and all that he requires is information where the child may be found, and an order for her being delivered to him. You cannot object to this, as he is her nearest relative. If you comply, I do not doubt but Sir Henry will make you full amends for this harsh treatment, and prove a sincere friend ever afterwards.”
“It requires consideration,” replied I; “at present, I am too much hurt to talk.”
“I was afraid so,” replied Melchior; “that was one reason why I obtained leave to speak to you. Wait a moment.”
Melchior then put the candle down on the ground, went out, and turned the key. I found, on looking round, that I was right in my conjectures. I was in a cellar, which, apparently, had long been in disuse. Melchior soon returned, followed by an old crone, who carried a basket and a can of water. She washed the blood off my head, put some salve upon the wounds, and bound them up. She then went away, leaving the basket.
“There is something to eat and drink in that basket,” observed Melchior; “but I think, Japhet, you will agree with me, that it will be better to yield to the wishes of Sir Henry, and not remain in this horrid hole.”
“Very true, Melchior,” replied I; “but allow me to ask you a question or two. How came you here? where is Nattée, and how is it, that, after leaving the camp, I find you so reduced in circumstances, as to be serving such a man as Sir Henry de Clare?”
“A few words will explain that,” replied he. “In my early days I was wild, and I am, to tell you the truth, in the power of this man; nay, I will tell you honestly, my life is in his power; he ordered me to come, and I dare not disobey him—and he retains me here.”
“And Nattée?”
“Is quite well, and with me, but not very happy in her present situation; but he is a dangerous, violent, implacable man, and I dare not disobey him. I advise you as a friend, to consent to his wishes.”
“That requires some deliberation,” replied I, “and I am not one of those who are to be driven. My feelings towards Sir Henry, after this treatment, are not the most amicable; besides, how am I to know that Fleta is his relative?”
“Well, I can say no more, Japhet. I wish you well out of his hands.”
“You have the power to help me, if that is the case,” said I.
“I dare not.”
“Then you are not the Melchior that you used to be,” replied I.
“We must submit to fate. I must not stay longer; you will find all that you want in the basket, and more candles, if you do not like being in the dark. I do not think I shall be permitted to come again, till to-morrow.”
Melchior then went out, locked the door after him, and I was left to my meditations.
Part 2—Chapter XXIII.
A friend in Need is a Friend in Deed—The Tables are turned, and so is the Key—The Issue is deep Tragedy.
Was it possible that which Melchior said was true? A little reflection told me that it was all false, and that he was himself Sir Henry de Clare. I was in his power, and what might be the result? He might detain me, but he dare not murder me. Dare not! My heart sank when I considered where I was, and how easy would it be for him to despatch me, if so inclined, without anyone ever being aware of my fate. I lighted a whole candle, that I might not find myself in the dark when I rose, and, exhausted in body and mind, was soon fast asleep. I must have slept many hours, for when I awoke I was in darkness—the candle had burnt out. I groped for the basket, and examined the contents with my hands, and found a tinder-box. I struck a light, and then feeling hungry and weak, refreshed myself with the eatables it contained, which were excellent, as well as the wine. I had replaced the remainder, when the key again turned in the door, and Melchior made his appearance.
“How do you feel, Japhet, to-day?”
“To-day!” replied I; “day and night are the same to me.”
“That is your own fault,” replied he. “Have you considered what I proposed to you yesterday?”
“Yes,” replied I; “and I will agree to this. Let Sir Henry give me my liberty, come over to England, prove his relationship to Fleta, and I will give her up. What can he ask for more?”
“He will hardly consent to that,” replied Melchior; “for, once in England, you will take a warrant out against him.”
“No; on my honour I will not, Melchior.”
“He will not trust to that.”
“Then he must judge of others by himself,” replied I.
“Have you no other terms to propose?” replied Melchior.
“None.”
“Then I will carry your message, and give you his answer to-morrow.”
Melchior then brought in another basket, and took away the former, and did not make his appearance till the next day. I now had recovered my strength, and determined to take some decided measures, but how to act I knew not. I reflected all night, and the next morning (that is, according to my supposition) I attacked the basket. Whether it was that ennui or weakness occasioned it, I cannot tell, but either way, I drank too much wine, and was ready for any daring deed, when Melchior again opened the door.
“Sir Henry will not accept of your terms. I thought not,” said Melchior: “I am sorry—very sorry.”
“Melchior,” replied I, starting up, “let us have no more of this duplicity. I am not quite so ignorant as you suppose. I know who Fleta is, and who you are.”
“Indeed,” replied Melchior; “perhaps you will explain?”
“I will. You, Melchior, are Sir Henry de Clare; you succeeded to your estates by the death of your elder brother, from a fall when hunting.”
Melchior appeared astonished.
“Indeed!” replied he; “pray go on. You have made a gentleman of me.”
“No; rather a scoundrel.”
“As you please; now will you make a lady of Fleta?”
“Yes, I will. She is your niece.” Melchior started back. “Your agent, McDermott, who was sent over to find out Fleta’s abode, met me in the coach, and he has tracked me here, and risked my life, by telling the people that I was a tithe proctor.”
“Your information is very important,” replied Melchior. “You will find some difficulty to prove all you say.”
“Not the least,” replied I, flushed with anger and with wine, “I have proof positive. I have seen her mother, and I can identify the child by the necklace which was on her neck when you stole her necklace!”
“Necklace!” cried Melchior.
“Yes, the necklace put into my hands by your own wife when we parted.”
“Damn her!” replied Melchior.
“Do not damn her; damn yourself for your villainy, and its being brought to light. Have I said enough, or shall I tell you more?”
“Pray tell me more.”
“No, I will not, for I must commit others, and that will not do,” replied I; for I felt I had already said too much.
“You have committed yourself, at all events,” replied Melchior; “and now I tell you, that until—never mind,” and Melchior hastened away.
The door was again locked, and I was once more alone.
I had time to reflect upon my imprudence. The countenance of Melchior, when he left me, was that of a demon. Something told me to prepare for death; and I was not wrong. The next day Melchior came not, nor the next: my provisions were all gone. I had nothing but a little wine and water left. The idea struck me, that I was to die of starvation. Was there no means of escape? None; I had no weapon, no tool, not even a knife. I had expended all my candles. At last, it occurred to me, that, although I was in a cellar, my voice might be heard, and I resolved as a last effort, to attempt it. I went to the door of the cellar, and shouted at the top of my lungs, “Murder—murder!” I shouted again and again as loud as I could, until I was exhausted. As it afterwards appeared, this plan did prevent my being starved to death, for such was Melchior’s villainous intention. About an hour afterwards, I repeated my cries of “Murder—murder!” and they were heard by the household, who stated to Melchior, that there was someone shouting murder in the vaults below. That night, and all the next day, I repeated my cries occasionally. I was now quite exhausted; I had been nearly two days without food, and my wine and water had all been drunk. I sat down with a parched mouth and heated brain, waiting till I could sufficiently recover my voice to repeat my cries, when I heard footsteps approaching. The key was again turned in the door, and a light appeared, carried by one of two men armed with large sledge hammers.
“It is then all over with me,” cried I; “and I never shall find out who is my father. Come on, murderers, and do your work. Do it quickly.”
The two men advanced without speaking a word; the foremost, who carried the lantern, laid it down at his feet, and raised his hammer with both hands, when the other behind him raised his weapon—and the foremost fell dead his feet.
Part 2—Chapter XXIV.
Is full of perilous Adventures, and in which, the Reader may be assured, there is much more than meets the Eye.
“Silence,” said a voice that I well knew, although his face was completely disguised. It was Timothy! “Silence, Japhet,” again whispered Timothy; “there is yet much danger, but I will save you or die. Take the hammer. Melchior is waiting outside.” Timothy put the lantern in the bin, so as to render it more dark, and led me towards the door, whispering, “When he comes in, we will secure him.”
Melchior soon made his appearance; and as he entered the cellar, “Is it all right?” said he, going up to Timothy and passing me.
With one blow I felled him to the ground, and he lay insensible. “That will do,” replied Timothy; “now we must be off.”
“Not till he takes my place,” replied I, as I shut the door and locked it. “Now he may learn what it is to starve to death.”
I then followed Timothy, by a passage which led outside of the castle, through which he and his companion had been admitted. “Our horses are close by,” said Timothy; “for we stipulated upon leaving the country after it was done.”
It was just dark when we were safe out of the castle. We mounted our horses, and set off with all speed. We followed the high road to the post town to which I had been conveyed, and I determined to pull up at Mrs McShane’s, for I was so exhausted that I could go no further. This was a measure which required precaution; and as there was moonlight, I turned off the road before I entered the town, or village, as it ought to have been called, so that we dismounted at the back of Mrs McShane’s house. I went to the window of the bed-room where I had lain down, and tapped gently, again and again, and no answer. At last, Kathleen made her appearance.
“Can I come in, Kathleen?” said I; “I am almost dead with fatigue and exhaustion.”
“Yes,” replied she, “I will open the back-door; there is no one here to-night—it is too early for them.”
I entered, followed by Timothy, and, as I stepped over the threshold, I fainted. As soon as I recovered, Mrs McShane led me up stairs into her room for security, and I was soon able to take the refreshment I so much required. I stated what had passed to Mrs McShane and Kathleen, who were much shocked at the account.
“You had better wait till it is late, before you go on,” said Mrs McShane, “it will be more safe; it is now nine o’clock, and the people will all be moving till eleven. I will give your horses some corn, and when you are five miles from here, you may consider yourselves as safe. Holy saints! what an escape!”
The advice was too good not to be followed; and I was so exhausted, that I was glad that prudence was on the side of repose. I lay down on Mrs McShane’s bed, while Timothy watched over me. I had a short slumber, and then was awakened by the good landlady, who told me that it was time for us to quit. Kathleen then came up to me, and said, “I would ask a favour of you, sir, and I hope you will not refuse it.”
“Kathleen, you may ask anything of me, and depend upon it, I will not refuse it, if I can grant it.”
“Then, sir,” replied the good girl, “you know how I overcame my feelings to serve you, will you overcome yours for me? I cannot bear the idea that anyone, bad as he may be, of the family who have reared me, should perish in so miserable a manner; and I cannot bear that any man, bad as he is, even if I did not feel obliged to to him, should die so full of guilt, and without absolution. Will you let me have the key, that Sir Henry de Clare may be released after you are safe and away? I know he does not deserve any kindness from you; but it is a horrid death, and a horrid thing to die so loaded with crime.”
“Kathleen,” replied I, “I will keep my word with you. Here is the key; take it up to-morrow morning and give it to Lady de Clare; tell her Japhet Newland sent it.”
“I will, and God bless you, sir.”
“Good-bye, sir,” said Mrs McShane: “you have no time to lose.”
“God bless you, sir,” said Kathleen, who now put her arms round me, and kissed me. We mounted our horses and set off.
We pressed our horses, or rather ponies, for they were very small, till we had gained about six miles, when we considered that we were, comparatively speaking, safe, and then drew up, to allow them to recover their wind. I was very much exhausted myself, and hardly spoke one word until we arrived at the next post town, when we found everybody in bed. We contrived, however, to knock them up; and Timothy having seen that our horses were put into the stable, we lay down till the next morning upon a bed which happened to be unoccupied. Sorry as were the accommodations, I never slept so soundly, and woke quite refreshed. The next morning I stated my intention of posting to Dublin, and asked Tim what we should do with the horses.
“They belong to the castle,” replied he.
“Then in God’s name, let the castle have them, for I wish for nothing from that horrid place.”
We stated to the landlord that the horses were to be sent back, and that the man who took them would be paid for his trouble; and then it occurred to me, that it would be a good opportunity of writing to Melchior, alias Sir Henry. I do not know why, but certainly my animosity against him had subsided, and I did not think of taking legal measures against him. I thought it, however, right to frighten him. I wrote, therefore, as follows:—
“Sir Henry,—I send you back your horses with thanks, as they have enabled Timothy and me to escape from your clutches. Your reputation and your life now are in my power, and I will have ample revenge. The fact of your intending murder, will be fully proved by my friend Timothy, who was employed by you in disguise, and accompanied your gipsy. You cannot escape the sentence of the law. Prepare yourself, then, for the worst, as it is not my intention that you shall escape the disgraceful punishment due to your crimes.
“Yours, Japhet Newland.”
Having sealed this, and given it to the lad who was to return with the horses, we finished our breakfast, and took a post-chaise on for Dublin, where we arrived late in the evening. During our journey I requested Timothy to narrate what had passed, and by what fortunate chance he had been able to come so opportunely to my rescue.
“If you recollect, Japhet,” replied Timothy, “you had received one or two letters from me relative to the movements of the gipsy, and stating his intention to carry off the little girl from the boarding-school. My last letter, in which I had informed you that he had succeeded in gaining an entrance into the ladies’ school at Brentford, could not have reached you, as I found by your note that you had set off the same evening. The gipsy, whom I only knew by the name of Will, inquired of me the name by which the little girl was known, and my answer was, Smith; as I took it for granted that, in a large seminary, there must be one, if not more, of that name. Acting upon this, he made inquiries of the maid-servant to whom he paid his addresses, and made very handsome presents, if there was a Miss Smith in the school; she replied, that there were two, one a young lady of sixteen, and the other about twelve years old. Of course the one selected was the younger. Will had seen me in my livery, and his plan was to obtain a similar one, hire a chariot, and go down to Brentford, with a request that Miss Smith might be sent up with him immediately, as you were so ill that you were not expected to live; but previous to his taking this step, he wrote to Melchior, requesting his orders as to how he was to proceed when he had obtained the child. The answer from Melchior arrived. By this time, he had discovered that you were in Ireland, and intended to visit him; perhaps he had you in confinement, for I do not know how long you were there, but the answer desired Will to come over immediately, as there would be in all probability work for him, that would be well paid for. He had now become so intimate with me, that he disguised nothing: he showed me the letter, and I asked him what it meant; he replied that there was somebody to put out of the way, that was clear. It immediately struck me, that you must be the person, if such was the case, and I volunteered to go with him, to which, after some difficulty, he consented. We travelled outside the mail, and in four days we arrived at the castle. Will went up to Melchior, who told him what it was that he required. Will consented, and then stated he had another hand with him, which might be necessary, vouching for my doing anything that was required. Melchior sent for me, and I certainly was afraid that he would discover me, but my disguise was too good. I had prepared for it still further, by wearing a wig of light hair: he asked me some questions, and I replied in a surly, dogged tone, which satisfied him. The reward was two hundred pounds, to be shared between us; and, as it was considered advisable that we should not be seen after the affair was over, by the people about the place, we had the horses provided for us. The rest you well know. I was willing to make sure that it was you before I struck the scoundrel, and the first glimpse from the lantern, and your voice, convinced me. Thank God, Japhet, but I have been of some use to you, at all events.”
“My dear Tim, you have, indeed, and you know me too well, to think I shall ever forget it; but now I must first ascertain where the will of the late Sir William is to be found. We can read it for a shilling, and then I may discover what are the grounds of Melchior’s conduct, for, to me, it is still inexplicable.”
“Are wills made in Ireland registered here, or at Doctors’ Commons in London.”
“In Dublin, I should imagine.”
But on my arrival at Dublin I felt so ill, that I was obliged to retire to bed, and before morning I was in a violent fever. Medical assistance was sent for, and I was nursed by Timothy with the greatest care, but it was ten days before I could quit my bed. For the first time, I was sitting in an easy chair by the fire, when Timothy came in with the little portmanteau I had left in the care of Mrs McShane. “Open it, Timothy,” said I, “and see if there be anything in the way of a note from them.” Timothy opened the portmanteau, and produced one, which was lying on the top. It was from Kathleen, and as follows:—
“Dear Sir,—They say there is terrible work at the castle, and that Sir Henry has blown out his brains, or cut his throat, I don’t know which. Mr McDermott passed in a great hurry, but said nothing to anybody here. I will send you word of what has taken place as soon as I can. The morning after you went away, I walked up to the castle and gave the key to the lady, who appeared in a great fright at Sir Henry not having been seen for so long a while. They wished to detain me after they had found him in the cellar with the dead man, but after two hours I was desired to go away, and hold my tongue. It was after the horses went back that Sir Henry is said to have destroyed himself. I went up to the castle, but McDermott had given orders for no one to be let in on any account.
“Yours,
“Kathleen McShane.”
“This is news, indeed,” said I, handing the letter to Timothy. “It must have been my threatening letter which has driven him to this mad act.”
“Very likely,” replied Timothy; “but it was the best thing the scoundrel could do, after all.”
“The letter was not, however, written, with that intention. I wished to frighten him, and have justice done to little Fleta—poor child! how glad I shall be to see her!”
Part 2—Chapter XXV.
Another Investigation relative to a Child, which, in the same way as the former one, ends by the Lady going off in a Fit.
The next day the newspapers contained a paragraph, in which Sir Henry de Clare was stated to have committed suicide. No reason could be assigned for this rash act, was the winding up of the intelligence. I also received another letter from Kathleen McShane, confirming the previous accounts: her mother had been sent for to assist in laying out the body. There was now no further doubt, and as soon as I could venture out, I hastened to the proper office, where I read the will of the late Sir William. It was very short, merely disposing of his personal property to his wife, and a few legacies; for, as I discovered, only a small portion of the estates were entailed with the title, and the remainder was not only to the heirs male, but the eldest female, should there be no male heir, with the proviso, that should she marry, the husband was to take upon himself the name of De Clare. Here, then, was the mystery explained, and why Melchior had stolen away his brother’s child. Satisfied with my discovery, I determined to leave for England immediately, find out the Dowager Lady de Clare, and put the whole case into the hands of Mr Masterton. Fortunately, Timothy had money with him sufficient to pay all expenses, and take us to London, or I should have been obliged to wait for remittances, as mine was all expended before I arrived at Dublin. We arrived safe, and I immediately proceeded to my house, where I found Harcourt, who had been in great anxiety about me. The next morning I went to my old legal friend, to whom I communicated all that had happened.
“Well done, Newland,” replied he, after I had finished. “I’ll bet ten to one that you find out your father. Your life already would not make a bad novel. If you continue your hairbreadth adventures in this way, it will be quite interesting.”
Although satisfied in my own mind that I had discovered Fleta’s parentage, and anxious to impart the joyful intelligence, I resolved not to see her until everything should be satisfactorily arranged. The residence of the Dowager Lady de Clare was soon discovered by Mr Masterton: it was at Richmond, and thither he and I proceeded. We were ushered into the drawing-room, and, to my delight, upon her entrance, I perceived that it was the same beautiful person in whose ears I had seen the coral and gold ear-rings matching the necklace belonging to Fleta. I considered it better to allow Mr Masterton to break the subject.
“You are, madam, the widow of the late Sir William de Clare.” The lady bowed. “You will excuse me, madam, but I have most important reasons for asking you a few questions, which otherwise may appear to be intrusive. Are you aware of the death of his brother, Sir Henry de Clare?”
“Indeed I was not,” replied she, “I seldom look at a paper, and I have long ceased to correspond with anyone in Ireland. May I ask you what occasioned his death?”
“He fell by his own hands, madam.”
Lady de Clare covered up her face. “God forgive him!” said she, in a low voice.
“Lady de Clare, upon what terms were your husband and the late Sir Henry? It is important to know.”
“Not on the very best, sir. Indeed, latterly, for years, they never met or spoke: we did not know what had become of him.”
“Were there any grounds for ill-will?”
“Many, sir, on the part of the elder brother; but none on that of Sir Henry, who was treated with every kindness, until he—” Lady de Clare stopped—“until he behaved very ill to him.”
As we afterwards discovered, Henry de Clare had squandered away the small portion left him by his father and had ever after that been liberally supplied by his eldest brother, until he had attempted to seduce Lady de Clare, upon which he was dismissed for ever.
“And now, madam, I must revert to a painful subject. You had a daughter by your marriage?”
“Yes,” replied the lady, with a deep sigh.
“How did you lose her? Pray do not think I am creating this distress on your part without strong reasons.”
“She was playing in the garden, and the nurse, who thought it rather cold, ran in for a minute to get a handkerchief to tie round her neck. When the nurse returned, the child had disappeared.” Lady de Clare put her handkerchief up to her eyes.
“Where did you find her afterwards?”
“It was not until three weeks afterwards that her body was found in a pond about a quarter of a mile off.”
“Did the nurse not seek her when she discovered that she was not in the garden?”
“She did, and immediately ran in that direction. It is quite strange that the child could have got so far without the nurse perceiving her.”
“How long is it ago?”
“It is now nine years.”
“And the age of the child at the time?”
“About six years old.”
“I think, Newland, you may now speak to Lady de Clare.”
“Lady de Clare, have you not a pair of ear-rings of coral and gold of very remarkable workmanship?”
“I have, sir,” replied she, with surprise.
“Had you not a necklace of the same? and if so, will you do me the favour to examine this?” I presented the necklace.
“Merciful heaven!” cried Lady de Clare, “it is the very necklace!—it was on my poor Cecilia when she was drowned, and it was not found with the body. How came it into your possession, sir? At one time,” continued Lady de Clare, weeping, “I thought that it was possible that the temptation of the necklace, which has a great deal of gold in it, must, as it was not found on her corpse, have been an inducement for the gipsies, who were in the neighbourhood, to drown her; but Sir William would not believe it, rather supposing that in her struggles in the water she must have broken it, and that it had thus been detached from her neck. Is it to return this unfortunate necklace that you have come here?”
“No, madam, not altogether. Had you two white ponies at the time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was there a mulberry-tree in the garden?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the astonished lady.
“Will you do me the favour to describe the appearance of your child as she was, at the time that you lost her?”
“She was—but all mothers are partial, and perhaps I may also be so—a very fair, lovely little girl.”
“With light hair, I presume?”
“Yes, sir. But why these questions? Surely you cannot ask them for nothing,” continued she hurriedly. “Tell me, sir, why all these questions?”
Mr Masterton replied, “Because, madam, we have some hopes that you have been deceived, and that it is possible that your daughter was not drowned.”
Lady de Clare, breathless and her mouth open, fixed her eyes upon Mr Masterton, and exclaimed, “Not drowned! O my God! my head!” and then she fell back insensible.
“I have been too precipitate,” said Mr Masterton going to her assistance; “but joy does not kill. Ring for some water, Japhet.”
Part 2—Chapter XXVI.
In which, if the Reader does not sympathise with the Parties, he had better shut the Book.
In a few minutes Lady de Clare was sufficiently recovered to hear the outline of our history; and as soon as it was over, she insisted upon immediately going with us to the school where Fleta was domiciled, as she could ascertain, by several marks known but to a nurse or mother, if more evidence was required, whether Fleta was her child or not. To allow her to remain in such a state of anxiety was impossible, Mr Masterton agreed, and we posted to —, where we arrived in the evening. “Now, gentlemen, leave me but one minute with the child, and when I ring the bell, you may enter.” Lady de Clare was in so nervous and agitated a state, that she could not walk into the parlour without assistance. We led her to a chair, and in a minute Fleta was called down. Perceiving me in the passage, she ran to me. “Stop, my dear Fleta, there is a lady in the parlour, who wishes to see you.”
“A lady, Japhet?”
“Yes, my dear, go in.”
Fleta obeyed, and in a minute we heard a scream, and Fleta hastily opened the door, “Quick! quick! the lady has fallen down.”
We ran in and found Lady de Clare on the floor, and it was some time before she returned to her senses. As soon as she did, she fell down on her knees, holding up her hands as in prayer, and then stretched her arms out to Fleta. “My child! my long-lost child! it is—it is, indeed!” A flood of tears poured forth on Fleta’s neck relieved her, and we then left them together; old Masterton observing, as we took our seats in the back parlour, “By Gad, Japhet, you deserve to find your own father!”
In about an hour Lady de Clare requested to see us. Fleta rushed into my arms and sobbed, while her mother apologised to Mr Masterton for the delay and excusable neglect towards him.
“Mr Newland, madam, is the person to whom you are indebted for your present happiness. I will now, if you please, take my leave, and will call upon you to-morrow.”
“I will not detain you, Mr Masterton; but Mr Newland will, I trust, come home with Cecilia and me; I have much to ask of him.” I consented, and Mr Masterton went back to town; I went to the principal hotel to order a chaise and horses, while Fleta packed up her wardrobe.
In half an hour we set off, and it was midnight before we arrived at Richmond. During my journey I narrated to Lady de Clare every particular of our meeting with Fleta. We were all glad to go to bed; and the kind manner in which Lady de Clare wished me good night, with “God bless you, Mr Newland!” brought the tears into my eyes.
I breakfasted alone the next morning, Lady de Clare and her daughter remaining up stairs. It was nearly twelve o’clock when they made their appearance, both so apparently happy, that I could not help thinking, “When shall I have such pleasure—when shall I find out who is my father?” My brow was clouded as the thought entered my mind, when Lady de Clare requested that I would inform her who it was to whom she and her daughter were under such eternal obligations. I had then to relate my own eventful history, most of which was as new to Cecilia (as she now must be called) as it was to her mother. I had just terminated the escape from the castle, when Mr Masterton’s carriage drove up to the door. As soon as he had bowed to Lady de Clare, he said to me, “Japhet, here is a letter directed to you, to my care, from Ireland which I have brought for you.”
“It is from Kathleen McShane, sir,” replied I, and requesting leave, I broke the seal. It contained another. I read Kathleen’s, and then hastily opened the other. It was from Nattée, or Lady H. de Clare, and ran as follows—
“Japhet Newland,—Fleta is the daughter of Sir William
de Clare. Dearly has my husband paid for his act of folly and
wickedness, and to which you must know I never was a party.
“Yours,
“Nattée.”
The letter from Kathleen added more strange information. Lady de Clare, after the funeral of her husband had sent for the steward, made every necessary arrangement, discharged the servants, and then had herself disappeared, no one knew whither; but it was reported that somebody very much resembling her had been seen travelling south in company with a gang of gipsies. I handed both letters over to Lady de Clare and Mr Masterton.
“Poor Lady de Clare!” observed the mother.
“Nattée will never leave her tribe,” observed Cecilia quietly.
“You are right, my dear,” replied I. “She will be happier with her tribe where she commands as a queen, than ever she was at the castle.”
Mr Masterton then entered into a detail with Lady de Clare as to what steps ought immediately to be taken, as the heirs-at-law would otherwise give some trouble; and having obtained her acquiescence, it was time to withdraw. “Mr Newland, I trust you will consider us as your warmest friends. I am so much in your debt, that I never can repay you; but I am also in your debt in a pecuniary way—that, at least, you must permit me to refund.”
“When I require it, Lady de Clare, I will accept it. Do not, pray, vex me by the proposition. I have not much happiness as it is, although I am rejoiced at yours and that of your daughter.”
“Come, Lady de Clare, I must not allow you to tease my protégé, you do not know how sensitive he is. We will now take our leave.”
“You will come soon,” said Cecilia, looking anxiously at me.
“You have your mother, Cecilia,” replied I; “what can you wish for more? I am a—nobody—without a parent.”
Cecilia burst into tears: I embraced her, and Mr Masterton and I left the room.
Part 2—Chapter XXVII.
I return to the gay World, but am not well received; I am quite disgusted with it and Honesty, and everything else.
How strange, now that I had succeeded in the next dearest object of my wishes, after ascertaining my own parentage, that I should have felt so miserable; but it was the fact, and I cannot deny it. I could hardly answer Mr Masterton during our journey to town; and when I threw myself on the sofa in my own room, I felt as if I was desolate and deserted. I did not repine at Cecilia’s happiness; so far from it, I would have sacrificed my life for her; but she was a creature of my own—one of the objects in this world to which I was endeared—one that had been dependent on me and loved me. Now that she was restored to her parent, she rose above me, and I was left still more desolate. I do not know that I ever passed a week of such misery as the one which followed a dénouement productive of so much happiness to others, and which had been sought with so much eagerness, and at so much risk, by myself. It was no feeling of envy, God knows; but it appeared to me as if everyone in the world was to be made happy except myself. But I had more to bear up against.
When I had quitted for Ireland, it was still supposed that I was a young man of large fortune—the truth had not been told. I had acceded to Mr Masterton’s suggestions, that I was no longer to appear under false colours, and had requested Harcourt, to whom I made known my real condition, that he would everywhere state the truth. News like this flies like wildfire: there were too many whom, perhaps, when under the patronage of Major Carbonnell, and the universal rapture from my supposed wealth, I had treated with hauteur, glad to receive the intelligence, and spread it far and wide. My imposition, as they pleased to term it, was the theme of every party, and many were the indignant remarks of the dowagers who had so often indirectly proposed to me their daughters; and if there was anyone more virulent than the rest, I hardly need say that it was Lady Maelstrom, who nearly killed her job horses in driving about from one acquaintance to another, to represent my unheard-of atrocity in presuming to deceive my betters. Harcourt, who had agreed to live with me—Harcourt, who had praised my magnanimity in making the disclosure—even Harcourt fell off; and about a fortnight after I had arrived in town, told me that not finding the lodgings so convenient as his former abode, he intended to return to it. He took a friendly leave; but I perceived that if we happened to meet in the streets, he often contrived to be looking another way; and at last, a slight recognition was all that I received. Satisfied that it was intended, I no longer noticed him: he followed but the example of others. So great was the outcry raised by those who had hoped to have secured me as a good match, that any young man of fashion who was seen with me, had, by many, his name erased from their visiting lists. This decided my fate, and I was alone. For some time I bore up proudly; I returned a glance of defiance, but this could not last. The treatment of others received a slight check from the kindness of Lord Windermear, who repeatedly asked me to his table; but I perceived that even there, although suffered as a protégé of his lordship, anything more than common civility was studiously avoided, in order that no intimacy might result. Mr Masterton, upon whom I occasionally called, saw that I was unwell and unhappy. He encouraged me; but, alas! a man must be more than mortal, who, with fine feelings, can endure the scorn of the world. Timothy, poor fellow, who witnessed more of my unhappy state of mind than anybody else, offered in vain his consolation. “And this,” thought I, “is the reward of virtue and honesty. Truly, virtue is its own reward, for it obtains no other. As long as I was under false colours, allowing the world to deceive themselves, I was courted and flattered. Now that I have thrown off the mask, and put on the raiment of truth, I am a despised, miserable being. Yes; but is not this my own fault? Did I not, by my own deception, bring all this upon myself? Whether unmasked by others, or by myself, is it not equally true that I have been playing false, and am now punished for it? What do the world care for your having returned to truth? You have offended by deceiving them, and that is an offence which your repentance will not extenuate.” It was but too true, I had brought it all on myself, and this reflection increased my misery. For my dishonesty, I had been justly and severely punished: whether I was ever to be rewarded for my subsequent honesty still remained to be proved; but I knew very well that most people would have written off such a reward as a bad debt.
Once I consulted with Mr Masterton as to the chance of there being any information relative to my birth in the packet left in the charge of Mr Cophagus. “I have been thinking over it, my dear Newland,” said he, “and I wish I could give you any hopes, but I cannot. Having succeeded with regard to your little protégé, you are now so sanguine with respect to yourself, that a trifle light as air is magnified, as the poet says, ‘into confirmation strong as holy writ.’ Now, consider, somebody calls at the Foundling to ask after you—which I acknowledge to be a satisfactory point—his name is taken down by an illiterate brute, as Derbennon; but how you can decide upon the real name, and assume it is De Benyon, is really more than I can imagine, allowing every scope to fancy. It is in the first instance, therefore, you are at fault, as there are many other names which may have been given by the party who called; nay, more, is it at all certain that the party, in a case like this, would give his real name? Let us follow it up. Allowing the name to have been De Benyon, you discover that one brother is not married, and that there are some papers belonging to him in the possession of an old woman who dies; and upon these slight grounds what would you attempt to establish that because that person was known not to have married, therefore he was married (for you are stated to have been born in wedlock); and because there is a packet of papers belonging to him in the possession of another party, that this packet of papers must refer to you. Do you not perceive how you are led away by your excited feelings on the subject?”
I could not deny that Mr Masterton’s arguments had demolished the whole fabric which I had built up. “You are right, sir,” replied I mournfully. “I wish I were dead.”
“Never speak in that way, Mr Newland, before me,” replied the old lawyer in an angry tone, “without you wish to forfeit my good opinion.”
“I beg your pardon, sir; but I am most miserable. I am avoided by all who know me—thrown out of all society—I have not a parent or a relative. Isolated being as I am, what have I to live for?”
“My dear fellow, you are not twenty-three years of age,” replied Mr Masterton, “and you have made two sincere friends, both powerful in their own way. I mean Lord Windermear and myself: and you have had the pleasure of making others happy. Believe me, that is much to have accomplished at so early an age. You have much to live for—live to gain more friends—live to gain reputation—live to do good—to be grateful for the benefits you have received, and to be humble when chastened by Providence. You have yet to learn where, and only where, true happiness is to be found. Since you are so much out of spirits, go down to Lady de Clare’s, see her happiness, and that of her little girl; and then, when you reflect that it was your own work, you will hardly say that you have lived in vain.” I was too much overpowered to speak. After a pause, Mr Masterton continued, “When did you see them last?”
“I have never seen them, sir, since I was with you at their meeting.”
“What! have you not called—now nearly two months? Japhet, you are wrong: they will be hurt at your neglect and want of kindness. Have you written or heard from them?”
“I have received one or two pressing invitations, sir; but I have not been in a state of mind to avail myself of their politeness.”
“Politeness! you are wrong—all wrong, Japhet. Your mind is cankered, or you never would have used that term. I thought you were composed of better materials; but it appears, that although you can sail with a fair wind, you cannot buffet against an adverse gale. Because you are no longer fooled and flattered by the interested and the designing, like many others you have quarrelled with the world. Is it not so?”
“Perhaps you are right, sir.”
“I know that I am right, and that you are wrong. Now I shall be seriously displeased if you do not go down and see Lady de Clare and her daughter, as soon as you can.”
“I will obey your orders, sir.”
“My wishes, Japhet, not my orders. Let me see you when you return. You must no longer be idle. Consider, that you are about to recommence your career in life; that hitherto you have pursued the wrong path, from which you have nobly returned. You must prepare for exertions, and learn to trust to God and a good conscience. Lord Windermear and I had a long conversation relative to you yesterday evening; and when you come back, I will detail to you what are our views respecting your future advantage.”