I affront an Irish gentleman, and make a handsome apology, which is accepted.
Before I had gained my own room, I informed Mr Cophagus, who had just returned from a visit to his maiden aunt's house, of what had passed.
"Can't see anything in it, Japhet—wild goose chase?—who told you?—oh! Pleggit's men—sad liars—De Benyon not name, depend upon it—all stuff, and so on."
And when I reflected, I could but acknowledge that the worthy apothecary might be right, and, that I was running after shadows; but this was only in my occasional fits of despondency. I soon rallied, and was as sanguine as ever. Undecided how to proceed, and annoyed by what Cophagus had said, I quitted the hotel, to walk out, in no very good humour. As I went out, I perceived the agent M'Dermott speaking to the people in the bar, and the sight of him reminded me of what, for a moment, I had forgotten, which was, to ascertain whether Melchior and Sir Henry de Clare were one and the same person. As I passed a crossing, a man in tattered habiliments, who was sweeping it, asked for alms, but being in no very charitable humour, I walked on. He followed me, pestering me so much, that I gave him a tap with the cane in my hand, saying to him, "Be off, you scoundrel."
"Oh! very well. Be off, is it you mane? By the blood of the O'Rourkes but you'll answer for that same, anyhow."
I passed on, and having perambulated the city of Dublin for some time, returned to the hotel. A few minutes afterwards, I was told by the waiter that a Mr O'Donaghan wished to speak to me. "I have not the honour of his acquaintance," replied I, "but you may show him up."
Mr O'Donaghan entered, a tall, thick-whiskered personage, in a shabby—genteel dress, evidently not made for him, a pair of white cotton gloves, and a small stick. "I believe that I have the honour of spaking to the gentleman who crossed over the street about two hours ago?"
"Upon my word, sir," replied I, "that is so uncertain a definition, that I can hardly pretend to say whether I am the person you mean; indeed, from not having the pleasure of any one's acquaintance in Dublin, I rather think there must be some mistake."
"The devil a bit of a mistake, at all at all; for there's the little bit of cane with which you paid my friend, Mr O'Rourke, the compliment over his shoulders."
"I really am quite mystified, sir, and do not understand you; will you favour me with an explanation?"
"With all the pleasure in life, for then we shall come to a right understanding. You were crossing the street, and a gentleman, a particular friend of mine, with a broom which he carries for his own amusement, did himself the honour to address you, whereupon of that same little stick of yours, you did him the honour to give him a slight taste."
"What do you mean? do you refer to the sweeper, who was so importunate when I crossed over the road?"
"Then, by the powers, you've just hit it, as you did him. That's my particular friend, Thaddeus O'Rourke, gentleman."
"Gentleman!" exclaimed I.
"And with as good and as true Milesian blood as any in Ireland. If you think, sir, that because my friend, just for his own amusement, thinks proper to put on the worst of his clothes and carry a broom, just by way of exercise, to prevent his becoming too lusty, he is therefore to be struck like a hound, it's a slight mistake, that's all; and here, sir, is his card, and you will oblige me by mentioning any friend of yours with whom I may settle all the little points necessary before the meeting of two gentlemen."
I could hardly refrain from laughing at this Irish gentleman and his friend, but I thought it advisable to retain my countenance. "My dear sir," replied I, "it grieves me to the heart that I should have committed such an error, in not perceiving the gentility of your friend; had I not been so careless, I certainly should have requested him to do me the honour to accept a shilling, instead of having offered him the insult. I hope it is not now too late?"
"By the powers, I'm not one of those harum-scarum sort, who would make up a fight when there's no occasion for it, and as your 'haviour is that of a gentleman, I think it will perhaps be better to shake hands upon it, and forget it altogether. Suppose, now, we'll consider that it was all a mistake? You give the shilling, as you intended to do, I'll swear, only you were in so great a hurry—and then, perhaps, you'll not object to throw in another shilling for that same tap with the cane, just to wipe off the insult as it were, as we do our sins, when we fork out the money, and receive absolution from the padre; and then, perhaps, you will not think it too much if I charge another shilling for my time and trouble, for carrying a message between two gentlemen."
"On the contrary, Mr O'Donaghan, I think all your demands are reasonable. Here is the money."
Mr O'Donaghan took the three shillings. "Then, sir, and many thanks to you, I'll wish you a good evening, and Mr O'Rourke shall know from me that you have absolution for the whole, and that you have offered every satisfaction which one gentleman could expect from another." So saying, Mr O'Donaghan put his hat on with a firm cock, pulled on his gloves, manoeuvred his stick, and, with a flourishing bow, took his departure.
I had hardly dismissed this gentleman, and was laughing to myself at the ridiculous occurrence, when Mr Cophagus returned, first putting his cane up to his nose with an arch look, and then laying it down on the table and rubbing his hands. "Good—warm old lady. No—dead and cold? but left some thousands—only one legacy—old Tom cat—physic him to-morrow—soon die, and so on."
On a more full explanation, I found that the old lady had left about nine thousand pounds in the funds and bank securities, all of which, with the exception of twenty pounds per annum to a favourite cat, was left to Mr Cophagus. I congratulated him upon this accession of fortune. He stated that the lease of the house and the furniture were still to be disposed of, and that afterwards he should have nothing more to do; but he wished me very much to assist him in rummaging over the various cabinets belonging to the old lady, and which were full of secret drawers; that in one cabinet alone he had found upwards of fifty pounds in various gold coins, and that if not well examined, they would probably be sold with many articles of consequence remaining in them.
As my only object in Ireland was to find out Sir Henry de Clare, and identify him (but, really, why I could not have said, as it would have proved nothing after all), I willingly consented to devote a day to assist Mr Cophagus in his examination. The next morning after breakfast, we went together to the house of the old lady, whose name had been Maitland, as Mr Cophagus informed me. Her furniture was of the most ancient description, and in every room in the house there was an ormolu, or Japan cabinet; some of them were very handsome, decorated with pillars, and silver ornaments. I can hardly recount the variety of articles, which in all probability had been amassed during the whole of the old lady's life, commencing with her years of childhood, and ending with the day of her death. There were antique ornaments, some of considerable value, miniatures, fans, etuis, notes, of which the ink, from time, had turned to a light red, packages of letters of her various correspondents in her days of hope and anticipation, down to those of solitude and age. We looked over some of them, but they appeared to both of us to be sacred, and they were, after a slight examination, committed to the flames.
After we had examined all the apparent receptacles in these cabinets, we took them up between us, and shook them, and in most cases found out that there were secret drawers containing other treasures. There was one packet of letters which caught my eye, it was from a Miss De Benyon. I seized it immediately, and showed the inscription to Mr Cophagus. "Pooh—nothing at all—her mother was a De Benyon."
"Have you any objection to my looking at these letters?"
"No—read—nothing in them."
I laid them on one side, and we proceeded in our search, when Mr Cophagus took up a sealed packet. "Heh! what's this—De Benyon again? Japhet, look here."
I took the packet; it was sealed, and tied with red tape. "Papers belonging to Lieutenant William De Benyon, to be returned to him at my decease." "Alice Maitland, with great care," was written at the bottom of the envelope.
"This is it, my dear sir," cried I, jumping up and embracing Mr Cophagus "these are the papers which I require. May I keep them?"
"Mad—quite mad—go to Bedlam—strait waistcoat—head shaved, and so on."
I am not content with minding my own business, but must have a hand in that of others, by which means I put my foot in it.
He then, after his own fashion, told me, that as executor, he must retain those papers; pointed out to me the little probability there was of their containing any information relative to my birth, even allowing that a person of the name of De Benyon did call at the Foundling to ask for me, which was only a supposition; and, finally, overthrew all the hopes which had been, for so many days, buoying me up. When he had finished, I threw myself upon the sofa in despair, and wished, at the moment, that I had never been born. Still hope again rose uppermost, and I would have given all I possessed to have been able to break open the seals of that packet, and have read the contents. At one moment I was so frantic, that I was debating whether I should not take them from Mr Cophagus by force, and run off with them. At last I rose, and commenced reading the letters which I had put aside, but there was nothing in them but the trifling communications of two young women, who mentioned what was amusing to them, but uninteresting to those who were not acquainted with the parties.
When we had finished, Mr Cophagus collected all together, and putting them into a box, we returned in a coach to the hotel. The next day Mr Cophagus had completed all his arrangements, and the day following had determined to return to England. I walked with him down to the vessel, and watched it for an hour after it had sailed, for it bore away a packet of papers, which I could not help imagining were to discover the secret which I was so eager in pursuit of. A night's sleep made me more rational, and I now resolved to ascertain where Sir Henry de Clare, or Melchior, as I felt certain he must be, was to be found. I sent for the waiter, and asked him if he could inform me. He immediately replied in the affirmative, and gave his address, Mount Castle, Connemara, asking me when I intended to set out. It did not strike me till afterwards, that it was singular that he should be so well acquainted with the address, and that he should have produced a card with it written upon it; or, moreover, that he should know that it was my intention to go there. I took the address, and desired that I might have horses ready very early the next morning. I then sat down and wrote a letter to Harcourt, informing him of my proceedings, also one to Mr Masterton much more explicit, lastly to Timothy, to the care of Harcourt, requesting him to let me know what had occurred between him and the gipsies. After dinner, I packed up ready for my journey, and having settled my bill, I was not sorry to retire to my bed.
At daylight I was, as I requested, called by the waiter, and taking with me only a very small portmanteau, having left the rest of my effects in the charge of the people who kept the hotel, I set off in a post-chaise on my expedition. I was soon clear of the city, and on a fine smooth road, and, as I threw myself back in the corner of the chaise, I could not help asking myself the question—what was the purport of my journey? As the reader will perceive, I was wholly governed by impulses, and never allowed reason or common sense to stand in the way of my feelings. "What have I to do?" replied I to myself; "to find out if Melchior and Sir Henry de Clare be not one and the same person. And what then?" What then?—why then I may find out something relative to Fleta's parentage. Nay, but is that likely—if, as you suppose, Melchior is Sir Henry de Clare—if, as you suppose, it is he who is now trying to find out and carry off Fleta—is it probable that you will gain any information from him? I have an idea that Fleta is the little girl said to have died, who was the child of his elder brother. Why so? What interest could Melchior have in stealing his own niece? That I cannot tell. Why did Nattée give me the necklace? I cannot tell; she would hardly betray her husband. At all events, there is a mystery, and it can only be unravelled by being pulled at; and I may learn something by meeting Melchior, whereas, I shall learn nothing by remaining quiet. This last idea satisfied me, and for many hours I remained in a train of deep thought, only checked by paying for the horses at the end of every stage.
It was now past twelve o'clock, when I found that it was necessary to change the chaise at every post. The country also, as well as the roads, had changed much for the worse. Cultivation was not so great, the roads were mountainous, and civilisation generally disappeared. It was nearly dark when I arrived at the last post, from whence I was to take horses to Mount Castle. As usual, the chaise also was to be changed; and I could not help observing that each change was from bad to worse. Rope harness was used, and the vehicles themselves were of the most crazy condition. Still I had travelled very fairly, for an Irish postillion knows how to make an Irish horse go a very fair pace. I descended from the chaise, and ordered another out immediately. To this there was no reply, except, "Wait, your honour; step in a moment, and rest from your fatigue a little." Presuming this was merely to give them time to get ready, I walked into the room of the inn, which indeed was very little better than a hovel, and sat down by the turf fire in company with some others, whom I could hardly distinguish for smoke. I paid the chaise and postillion, and soon afterwards heard it drive off, on its way back. After a few minutes I inquired if the chaise was getting ready.
"Is it the chaise your honour means?" said the landlady.
"Yes," replied I, "a chaise on to Mount Castle."
"Then I am sorry that your honour must wait a little; for our chaise, and the only one which we have, is gone to the castle, and won't be back till long after the moon is up. What will your honour please to take?"
"Not back till moonlight," replied I; "why did you not say so? and I would have gone on with the other."
"Is it with the other you mane, your honour? Then if Teddy Driscoll could make his horses go one step farther than our door, may I never have a soul to be saved. Will your honour please to sit in the little room Kathleen shall light a fire."
Vexed as I was with the idea of passing the night in this horrid place, there was no help for it: so I took up my portmanteau and followed the landlady to a small room, if it deserved the appellation, which had been built after the cottage, and a door broken through the wall into it. Ceiling there was none, it had only lean-to rafters, with tiles over head. I took a seat on the only stool that was in the room, and leant my elbow on the table in no very pleasant humour, when I heard the girl say, "And why don't you let him go on to the castle? Sure the chaise is in the yard, and the horses are in the stable."
"There's orders 'gainst it, Kathleen," replied the landlady. "Mr M'Dermott was here this blessed day, and who can deny him?"
"Who is he then?" replied the girl.
"An attorney with a warrant against Sir Henry; and, moreover, they say that he's coming to'strain upon the cattle of Jerry O'Toole for the tithes."
"He's a bould young chap, at all events," replied the girl, "to come here all by himself."
"Oh! but it's not till to-morrow morning, and then we'll have the troops here to assist him."
"And does Jerry O'Toole know of this?"
"Sure enough he does; and I hope there'll be no murder committed in my house this blessed night. But what can a poor widow do when M'Dermott holds up his finger? Now, go light the fire, Kathleen, and see if the poor young man wants anything; it's a burning pity that he shouldn't have something to comfort him before his misfortunes fall upon him."
Kathleen made no reply. The horror that I felt at this discourse may easily be imagined. That it was intended that I should meet with foul play was certain, and I knew very well that, in such a desolate part of the country, the murder of an individual, totally unknown, would hardly be noticed. That I had been held up to the resentment of the inhabitants as a tithe collector and an attorney with a warrant, was quite sufficient, I felt conscious, to induce them to make away with me. How to undeceive them was the difficulty.
No hopes of rising next morning alive, as a last chance—I get into bed.
Kathleen came in with fuel to light the fire, and looking rather hard at me, passed by, and was soon, busy blowing up the turf. She was a very handsome dark-eyed girl, about nineteen years of age, stout and well made. "What is your name?" said I.
"Kathleen, at your service, sir."
"Listen to me, Kathleen," said I, in a low voice. "You are a woman, and all women are kind-hearted. I have overheard all that passed between your mistress and you, and that M'Dermott has stated that I am a tithe collector and an attorney, with a warrant. I am no such thing. I am a gentleman who wishes to speak to Sir Henry de Clare on a business which he does not like to be spoken to about; and to show you what I say is the truth, it is about the daughter of his elder brother, who was killed when hunting, and who is supposed to be dead. I am the only evidence to the contrary; and, therefore, he and M'Dermott have spread this report that I may come to harm."
"Is she alive, then?" replied Kathleen, looking up to me with wonder.
"Yes; and I will not tell Sir Henry where she is, and that is the reason of their enmity."
"But I saw her body," replied the girl in a low voice, standing up, and coming close to me.
"It was not hers, depend upon it," replied I, hardly knowing what to answer to this assertion.
"At all events, it was dressed in her clothes; but it was so long before it was discovered, that we could make nothing of the features. Well, I knew the poor little thing, for my mother nursed her. I was myself brought up at the castle, and lived there till after Sir William was killed; then we were all sent away."
"Kathleen! Kathleen!" cried the landlady.
"Call for everything you can think of one after another," whispered Kathleen, leaving the room.
"I cannot make the peat burn," said she to the landlady, after she had quitted the little room; "and the gentleman wants some whisky."
"Go out then, and get some from the middle of the stack, Kathleen, and be quick; we have others to attend besides the tithe proctor. There's the O'Tooles all come in, and your own Corny is with them."
"My Corny, indeed!" replied Kathleen; "he's not quite so sure of that."
In a short time Kathleen returned, and brought some dry peat and a measure of whisky. "If what you say is true," said Kathleen, "and sure enough you're no Irish, and very young for a tithe proctor, who must grow old before he can be such a villain, you are in no very pleasant way. The O'Tooles are here, and I've an idea they mean no good; for they sit with all their heads together, whispering to each other, and all their shillelaghs by their sides."
"Tell me, Kathleen, was the daughter of Sir William a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl?"
"To be sure she was," replied Kathleen, "and like a little mountain fairy."
"Now, Kathleen, tell me if you recollect if the little girl or her mother ever wore a necklace of red beads mixed with gold."
"Yes, that my lady did; and it was on the child's neck when it was lost, and when the body was found, it was not with it. Well I recollect that, for my mother said the child must have been drowned or murdered for the sake of the gold beads."
"Then you have proved all I wished, Kathleen; and now I tell you that this little girl is alive, and that I can produce the necklace which was lost with her; and more, that she was taken away by Sir Henry himself."
"Merciful Jesus!" replied Kathleen; "the dear little child that we cried over so much."
"But now, Kathleen, I have told you this, to prove to you that I am not what M'Dermott has asserted, no doubt, with the intention that my brains shall be knocked out this night."
"And so they will, sure enough," replied Kathleen, "if you do not escape."
"But how am I to escape? and will you assist me?" And I laid down on the table ten guineas from my purse, "Take that, Kathleen, and it will help you and Corny. Now will you assist me?"
"It's Corny that will be the first to knock your brains out," replied Kathleen, "unless I can stop him. I must go now, and I'll see what can be done."
Kathleen would have departed without touching the gold; but I caught her by the wrist, collected it, and put it into her hand. "That's not like a tithe proctor, at all events," replied Kathleen; "but my heart aches, and my head swims, and what's to be done I know not." So saying, Kathleen quitted the room.
"Well," thought I, after she had left the room, "at all events, I have not been on a wrong scent this time. Kathleen has proved to me that Fleta is the daughter of the late Sir William; and if I escape this snare, Melchior shall do her justice." Pleased with my having so identified Melchior and Fleta, I fell into a train of thought, and for the first time forgot my perilous situation; but I was roused from my meditations by an exclamation from Kathleen. "No, no, Corny, nor any of ye—not now—and mother and me to witness it—it shall not be. Corny, hear me, as sure as blood's drawn, and we up to see it, so sure does Corny O'Toole never touch this hand of mine." A pause, and whispering followed, and again all appeared to be quiet. I unstrapped my portmanteau, took out my pistols, which were loaded, re-primed them, and remained quiet, determined to sell my life as dearly as possible.
It was more than half an hour before Kathleen returned; she looked pale and agitated. "Keep quiet, and do not think of resistance," said she, "it is useless. I have told my mother all, and she believes you, and will risk her life to save him who has watched over the little girl whom she nursed; but keep quiet, we shall soon have them all out of the house. Corny dare not disobey me, and he will persuade the others."
She then went out again, and did not return for nearly an hour, when she was accompanied by her mother.
"Kathleen has told me all, young sir," said she, "and do what we can, we will; but we hardly know what to do. To go to the castle would be madness."
"Yes," replied I; "but cannot you give me one of your horses to return the way I came?"
"That was our intention; but I find that the O'Tooles have taken them all out of the stable to prevent me; and the house is watched. They will come at midnight and attack us, that I fully expect, and how to conceal you puzzles my poor head."
"If they come, we can but persuade them that he has escaped," replied Kathleen; "they will no longer watch the house, and he will then have some chance."
"There is but one chance," replied the mother, who took Kathleen aside, and whispered to her. Kathleen coloured to the forehead, and made no reply.
"If your mother bids you, Kathleen, there can be no harm."
"Yes; but if Corny was—"
"He dare not," replied the mother; "and now put this light out, and do you get into bed, sir, with your clothes on." They led me to a small bedroom, a miserable affair; but in that part of the country considered respectable. "Lie down there," said the mother, "and wait till we call you." They took the light away, and left me to myself and my own reflections, which were anything but pleasant. I lay awake, it might be for two hours, when I heard the sound of feet, and then a whispering under the window, and shortly afterwards a loud knocking at the door, which they were attempting to burst open. Every moment I expected that it would yield to the violence which was made use of, when the mother came down half-dressed, with a light in her hand, hastened to me, and desired me to follow her. I did so, and before she left my room, she threw the window wide open. She led me up a sort of half-stairs, half-ladder, to a small room, where I found Kathleen sitting up in her bed, and half-dressed. "O mother! mother!" cried Kathleen.
"I bid ye do it, child," replied the mother, desiring me to creep into her daughter's bed, and cover myself up on the side next the wall.
"Let me put on more clothes, mother."
"No, no, if you do, they will suspect, and will not hesitate to search. Your mother bids you."
The poor girl was burning with shame and confusion.
"Nay," replied I, "if Kathleen does not wish it, I will not buy my safety at the expense of her feelings."
"Yes, yes," replied Kathleen, "I don't mind now; those words of yours are sufficient. Come in, quick."
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 downstairs, 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 bedroom, 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 M'Shane," 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 M'Shane'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 M'Shane'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 M'Shane 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 M'Shane.
"Yes, Corny," replied Mrs M'Shane, "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 M'Shane 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 M'Shane.
"Sure enough I was satisfied before I came in, that Kathleen would not have any one in her bedroom," replied Corny.
"Then good-night, Corny, and it's to-morrow that I'll talk with ye," replied Kathleen.
Mrs M'Shane 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 M'Shane 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 M'Shane, "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 M'Shane, 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 M'Dermott 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 M'Shane, I must leave you in charge of my portmanteau, which you may forward by-and-bye, 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 M'Shane 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.
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 M'Dermott 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 M'Dermott, 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, and 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 alve 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.
A friend in need is a friend in deed—The tables are turned and so is the key—The issue in 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 any one 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 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, M'Dermott, 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!" 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 villany, 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 villanous 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 some one 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 at his feet.