In the meantime it was certainly an unquestionable fact that Grace Davoren had disappeared, and not even a trace of her could be found. The unfortunate girl, alarmed at the tragic incident of that woful night, and impressed with a belief that Charles Lindsay had been murdered by Shawn-na-Middogue, had betaken herself to some place of concealment which no search on behalf of her friends could discover. In fact, her disappearance was involved in a mystery as deep as the alarm and distress it occasioned. But what astonished the public most was the fact that Charles, whose whole life had been untainted by a single act of impropriety, much less of profligacy, should have been discovered in such a heartless and unprincipled intrigue with the daughter of one of his father's tenants, an innocent girl, who, as such, was entitled to protection rather than injury at his hands.
Whilst this tumult was abroad, and the country was in an unusual state of alarm and agitation, Harry Woodward took, matters very quietly. That he seemed to feel deeply for the uncertain and dangerous state of his brother, who lay suspended, as it were, between life and death, was evident to every individual of his family. He frequently took Caterine Collins's place, attended him personally, with singular kindness and affection, gave him his drinks and decoctions with his own hand; and, when the surgeon came to make his daily visit, the anxiety he evinced in ascertaining whether there was any chance of his recovery was most affectionate and exemplary. Still, as usual, he was out at night; but the mystery of his whereabouts, while absent, could never be penetrated. On those occasions he always went armed—a fact which he never attempted to conceal. On one of these nights it so happened that Barney Casey was called upon to attend at the wake of a relation, and, as his master's family were apprised of this circumstance, they did not of course expect him home until a late hour. He left the wake, however, earlier than he had proposed to do, for he found it a rather dull affair, and was on his way home when, to his astonishment, or rather to his horror, he saw Harry Woodward—also on his way home—in close conversation with the supernatural being so well known by description as the Shan-dhinne-dhuv; or Black Spectre. Now, Barney was half cowardly and half brave—that is to say, had he lived in an enlightened age he would have felt little terror of supernatural appearances; but at the period of our story such was the predominance of a belief in ghosts, fairies, evil spirits, and witches, that he should have been either less or more than man could he have shaken off the prevailing superstitions, and the gross credulity of the times in which he lived. As it was, he knew not what to think. He remembered the character which had been whispered abroad about Harry Woodward, and of his intercourse with supernatural beings—he was known to possess the Evil Eye; and it was generally understood that those who happened to be endowed with that accursed gift were aided in the exercises of it by the powers of darkness and of evil. What, then, was he to do? There probably was an opportunity of solving the mystery which hung around the midnight motions of Woodward. If there was a spirit before him, there was also a human being, in living flesh and blood—an acquaintance, too—an individual whom he personally knew, ready to sustain him, and afford, if necessary, that protection which, under such peculiar circumstances, one fellow-creature has a right to expect from another. Now Barney's way home led him necessarily—and a painful necessity it was—near the Haunted House; and he observed that the place where they stood, for they had ceased walking, was about fifty yards above that much dreaded mansion. He resolved, however, to make the plunge and advance, but deemed it only good manners to give some intimation of his approach. He was now within about twenty yards from them, and made an attempt at a comic song, which, however, quivered off into as dismal and cowardly a ditty as ever proceeded from human lips. Harry and the Spectre, both startled by the voice, turned round to observe his approach, when, to his utter consternation, the Shan-dhinne-dhuv sank, as it were, into the earth and disappeared. The hair rose upon Barney's head, and when Woodward called out:
“Who comes there?”
He could scarcely summon voice enough to reply:
“It's me, sir,” said he; “Barney Casey.”
“Come on, Barney,” said Woodward, “come on quickly;” and he had scarcely spoken when Barney joined him.
“Barney,” said he, “I am in a state of great terror. I have felt ever since I passed that Haunted House as if there was an evil spirit in my company. The feeling was dreadful, and I am very weak in consequence of it. Give me you arm.”
“But did you see nothing, sir?” said Barney; “didn't it become visible to you?”
“No,” replied the other; “but I felt as if I was in the presence of a supernatural being, and an evil one, too.”
“God protect us, Mr. Harry! then, if you didn't see it I did.”
“You did!” replied the other, startled; “and pray what was it like?”
“Why, a black ould man, sir; and, by all accounts that ever I could hear of it, it was nothing else than the Shan-dhinne-dhuv. For God's sake let us come home, sir, for this, if all they say be true, is unholy and cursed ground we're standin' on.”
“And where did it disappear?” asked Woodward, leading him by a circuit from the spot where it had vanished.
“Just over there, sir,” replied Barney, pointing to the place. “But, in God's name, let us make for home as fast as we can. I'll think every minute an hour till we get safe undher our own roof.”
“Barney,” said Woodward, solemnly, “I have a request to make of you, and it is this—the common report is, that the spirit in question follows our family—I mean by my mother's side. Now I beg, as you expect my good will and countenance, that, for my sake, and out of respect for the family in general, you will never breathe a syllable of what you have seen this night. It could answer no earthly purpose, and would only send abroad idle and unpleasant rumors throughout the country. Will you promise this?”
“Of course I promise it,” replied Barney; “what object could I gain by repeatin' it?”
“None whatsoever. Well, then, be silent on the subject, and let us reach home as soon as we can.”
It would be difficult to describe honest Barney's feelings as they went along. He imagined that he felt Harry's arm tremble within his, and when he thought of the reports concerning the evil spirit, and its connection with Mrs. Lindsay's family, his sensations were anything but comfortable. He tossed and tumbled that night for hours in his bed before he was able to sleep, and when he did sleep the Shan-dhinne-dhuv rendered his dreams feverish and frightful.
Precisely at this period, before Mrs. Lindsay had recovered from her indisposition, and could pay her intended visit to the Goodwins, a circumstance occurred which suggested to Harry Woodward one of the most remorseless and Satanic schemes that ever was concocted in the heart of man. He was in the habit occasionally of going down to the kitchen to indulge in a smoke and a piece of banter with the servants. One evening, whilst thus amusing himself, the conversation turned upon the prevailing superstitions of the day. Ghosts, witches, wizards; astrologers, fairies, leprechauns, and all that could be termed supernatural, or even related to or aided by it, were discussed at considerable length, and with every variety of feeling. Amongst the rest the Banshee was mentioned—a spirit of whose peculiar office and character Woodward, in consequence of his long absence from the country, was completely ignorant.
“The Banshee!” he exclaimed; “what kind of a spirit is that? I have never heard of it.”
“Why, sir,” replied Barney, who was present, “the Banshee—the Lord prevent us from hearin' her—is always the forerunner of death. She attends only certain families—principally the ould Milesians, and mostly Catholics, too; although, I believe, it's well known that she sometimes attends Protestants whose families have been Catholics or Milesians, until the last of the name disappears. So that, afther all, it seems she's not over-scrupulous about religion.”
“But what do you mean by attending families?” asked Woodward; “what description of attendance or service does she render them?”
“Indeed, Mr. Harry,” replied Barney, “anything but an agreeable attendance. By goxty, I believe every family she follows would be very glad to dispense with her attendance if they could.”
“But that is not answering my question, Casey.”
“Why, sir,” proceeded Barney, “I'll answer it. Whenever the family that she follows is about to have a death in it, she comes a little time before the death tikes place, sits either undher the windy of the sick bed or somewhere near the house, and wails and cries there as if her very heart would break. They say she generally names the name of the party that is to die; but there is no case known of the sick person ever recoverin' afther she has given the warnin' of death.”
“It is a strange and wild superstition,” observed Woodward.
“But a very true one, sir,” replied the cook; “every one knows that a Banshee follows the Goodwin family.”
“What! the Goodwins of Beech Grove?” said Harry.
“Yes, sir,” returned the cook; “they lost six children, and not one of them ever died that she did not give the warnin'.”
“If poor Miss Alice heard it,” observed Barney, “and she in the state she's in, she wouldn't live twenty-four hours afther it.”
“According to what you say,” observed Woodward, “that is, if it follows the family, of course it will give the warning in her case also.”
“May God forbid,” ejaculated the cook, “for it's herself, the darlin' girl, that 'ud be the bitther loss to the poor and destitute.”
This kind ejaculation was fervently echoed by all her fellow-servants; and Harry, having finished his pipe, went to see how his brother's wound was progressing. He found him asleep, and Caterine Collins seated knitting a stocking at his bedside. He beckoned her to the lobby, where, in a low, guarded voice, the following conversation took place between them:
“Caterine, have you not a niece that sings well? Barney Casey mentioned her to me as possessing a fine voice.”
“As sweet a voice, sir, as ever came from a woman's lips; but the poor thing is delicate and sickly, and I'm afeard not long for this world.”
“Could she imitate a Banshee, do you think?”
“If ever woman could, she could. There's not her aquil at the keene, or Irish cry, livin'; she's the only one can bate myself at it.”
“Well, Caterine, if you get her to go to Mr. Goodwin's to-morrow night and imitate the cry of the Banshee, I will reward her and you liberally for it. You are already well aware of my generosity.”
“Indeed I am, Mr. Woodward; but if either you or I could insure her the wealth of Europe, we couldn't prevail on her to go by herself at night. Except by moonlight she wouldn't venture to cross the street of Rathfillan. As to her, you may put that out of the question. She's very handy, however, about a sick bed, and I might contrive, undher some excuse or other, to get her to take my place for a day or so. But here's your father. We will talk about it again.”
She then returned to the sick room, and Harry met Mr. Lindsay on the stairs going up to inquire after Charles.
“Don't go up, sir,” said he; “the poor fellow, thank God, is asleep, and the less noise about him the better.”
Both then returned to the parlor.
About eleven o'clock the next night Sarah Sullivan was sitting by the bedside of her mistress, who was then, fortunately for herself, enjoying, what was very rare with her, an undisturbed sleep after the terror and agitation of the day, when a low, but earnest and sorrowful wailing was heard, immediately, she thought, under the window. It rose and fell alternately, and at the close of every division of the cry it pronounced the name of Alice Goodwin in tones of the most pathetic lamentation and woe. The natural heat and warmth seemed to depart out of the poor girl's body; she felt like an icicle, and the cold perspiration ran in torrents from her face.
“My darling misthress,” thought she, “it's all over with you at last. There is the sign—the Banshee—and it is well for yourself that you don't hear it, because it would be the death of you at once. However, if I committed one mistake about Misther Charles's misfortune, I will not commit another. You shall never hear of this from me.”
The cry was then heard more distant and indistinct, but still loaded with the same mournful expression of death and sorrow; but in a little time it died away in the distance, and was then heard no more.
Sarah, though she had judiciously resolved to keep this awful intimation a secret from Miss Goodwin, considered it her duty to disclose it to her parents. We shall not dwell, however, upon the scene which occurred on the occasion. A belief in the existence and office of the Banshee was, at the period of which we write, almost universally held by the peasantry, and even about half a century ago it was one of the strongest dogmas of popular superstition. After the grief of the parents had somewhat subsided at this dreadful intelligence, Mr. Goodwin asked Sarah Sullivan if his daughter had heard the wail of this prophetic spirit of death; and on her answering in the negative, he enjoined, her never to breathe a syllable of the circumstance to her; but she told him she had come to that conclusion herself, as she felt certain, she said, that the knowledge of it would occasion her mistress's almost immediate death.
“At all events,” said her master; “by the doctor's advice we shall leave this place tomorrow morning; he says if she has any chance it will be in a change of air, of society, and of scenery. Everything here has associations and recollections that are painful, and even horrible to her. If she is capable of bearing an easy journey we shall set out for the Spa of Ballyspellan, in the county of Kilkenny. He thinks the waters of that famous spring may prove beneficial to her. If the Banshee, then, is anxious to fulfil its mission it must follow us. They say it always pays three visits, but as yet it has paid us only one.”
Mrs. Lindsay had now recovered from her slight indisposition, and resolved to pay the last formal visit to the Goodwins,—a visit which was to close all future intercourse between the families; and our readers are not ignorant of her motives for this, nor how completely and willingly she was the agent of her son Harry's designs. She went in all her pomp, dressed in satins and brocades, and attended by Barney Casey in full livery. Her own old family carriage had been swept of its dust and cobwebs, and put into requisition on this important occasion. At length they reached Beech Grove, and knocked at the door, which was opened by our old Mend, Tom Kennedy.
“My good man,” she asked, “are the family at home?”
“No, ma'am.”
“What! not at home, and Miss Goodwin so ill?—dying, I am told. Perhaps, in consequence of her health, they do not wish to see strangers. Go and say that Mrs. Lindsay, of Rathnllan House, is here.”
“Ma'am, they are not at home; they have left Beech Grove for some time.”
“Left Beech Grove!” she exclaimed; “and pray where are they gone to? I thought Miss Goodwin was not able to be removed.”
“It was do or die with her,” replied Tom. “The doctor said there was but one last chance—change of air, and absence from dangerous neighbors.”
“But you did not tell me where they are gone to.”
“I did not, ma'am, and for the best reason in life—because I don't know.”
“You don't know! Why, is it possible they made a secret of such a matter?”
“Quite possible, ma'am, and to the back o' that they swore every one of us upon the seven gospels never to tell any individual, man or woman, where they went to.”
“But did they not tell yourselves?”
“Devil a syllable, ma'am.”
“And why, then, did they swear you to secrecy?”
“Why, of course, ma'am, to make us keep the secret.”
“But why swear you, I ask again, to keep a secret which you did not know?”
“Why, ma'am, because they knew that in that case there was little danger of our committin' parjury; and because every saicret which one does not know is sure to be kept.”
She looked keenly at him, and added, “I'm inclined to think, sirrah, that you are impertinent.”
“Very likely, ma'am,” replied Tom, with great gravity. “I've a strong notion of that myself. My father before me was impertinent, and his last dying words to me were, 'Tom, I lay it as a last injunction upon you to keep up the principles of our family, and always to show nothing but impertinence to those who don't deserve respect.'”
With a face scarlet from indignation she immediately ordered her carriage home, but before it had arrived there the intelligence from another source had reached the family, together with the fact that the Banshee had been heard by Mr. Goodwin's servants under Miss Alice's window. Such, indeed, was the fact; and the report of the circumstance had spread through half the parish before the hour of noon next day.
The removal of Alice sank heavily upon the heart of Harry Woodward; it seemed to him as if she had gone out of his grasp, and from under the influence of his eye, for, by whatever means he might accomplish it, he was resolved to keep the deadly power of that eye upon her. He had calculated upon the voice and prophetic wail of the Banshee as being fatal in her then state of health; or was it this ominous and supernatural foreboding of her dissolution that caused them to fly from the place? He reasoned, as the reader may perceive, upon the principle of the Banshee being, according to the superstitious notions entertained of her, a real supernatural visitant, and not the unscrupulous and diabolical imitation of her by Catherine Collins. Still he thought it barely possible that the change of air and the waters of the celebrated spring might recover her, notwithstanding all his inhuman anticipations. His brother, also, according to the surgeon's last report, afforded hopes of convalescence. A kind of terror came over him that his plans might fail, because he felt almost certain that if Alice and his brother both recovered, Mr. Lindsay might, or rather would, mount his old hobby, and insist on having them married, in the teeth of all opposition on the part of either himself or his mother. This was a gloomy prospect for him, and one which he could not contemplate without falling back upon still darker schemes.
After the night on which Barney Casey had seen him and the Black Spectre together we need scarcely say that he watched Barney closely, nor that Barney watched him with as keen a vigilance. Whatever Woodward may have actually felt upon the subject of the apparition, Barney was certainly undecided as to its reality; or if there existed any bias at all, it was in favor of that reality. Why did Woodward's arm tremble, and why did the man, who was supposed ignorant of fear, exhibit so much terror and agitation on the occasion? Still, on the other hand, there appeared to be a conversation, as it were, between them, and a familiarity of manner considerably at variance with Woodward's version of the circumstances. Be this as it might, he felt it to be a subject on which he could, by no process of reasoning, come to anything like a definite conclusion.
Woodward now determined to consult his mother as to the plan of their future operations. The absence of Alice, and the possible chance of her recovery, rendered it necessary that some new series of projects should be adopted; but although several had occurred to him, he had not yet come to a definite resolution respecting the selection he would make. With this view he and his conscientious mother closeted themselves in her room, and discussed the state of affairs in the following dialogue:
“Mother,” said he, “this escape of Miss Curds-and-whey is an untoward business. What, after all, if she should recover?”
“Recover!” exclaimed the lady; “why, did you not assure me that such an event was impossible—that you were killing her, and that she must die?”
“So I still think; but so long as the notion of her recovery exists, even only as a dream, so certainly ought we to provide against such a calamity.”
“Ah! Harry,” she exclaimed, “you may well term it a calamity, for such indeed it would be to you.”
“Well, but what do you think ought to be done, my dear mother? I am anxious to have both your advice and opinion upon our future proceedings. Suppose change of air—the waters of that damned brimstone spring, and above all things, the confidence she will derive from the consciousness that she is removed from me and out of my reach—suppose, I say, that all these circumstances should produce a beneficial effect upon her, then how do I stand?”
“Why, with very little hope of the property,” she replied; “and then what tenacity of life she has! Why, there are very few girls who would not have been dead long ago, if they had gone through half what she has suffered. Well, you wish to ask me how I would advise you to act?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, then, you have heard the old proverb: It is good to have two strings to one's bow. We shall set all consideration of her aside for a time, and turn our attention to another object.”
“What or who is that, mother?”
“You remember I mentioned some time ago the names of a neighboring nobleman and his niece, who lives with him. The man I allude to as Lord Bilberry, but is now Earl of Cockletown. He was raised to this rank for some services he rendered the government against the tories, who had been devastating the country, and also against some turbulent papists who were supposed to have privately encouraged them in their outrages against Protestant life and property. He was a daring and intrepid man when in his prime of life, and appeared to seek danger for its own sake. He is now an old man, although a young peer, and was always considered eccentric, which he is to the present day. Some people look upon him as a fool, and others as a knave; but in balancing his claims to each, it has never yet been determined on which side the scale would sink. He is the proprietor of a little fishing village on the coast, and on this account he assumed the title of Cockletown; and when he built himself a mansion, as they term it, he would have it called by no other name than that of Cockle Hall. It is true he laughs at the thing himself, and considers it a good joke.”
“And so it is,” replied her son; “but what about the lady, his niece?”
“Why, she is a rather interesting person.”
“Ahem! person!”
“Yes, about thirty-four or so; but she will inherit his property.”
“And have you any notion of what that may amount to?” asked her calculating son.
“I could not exactly say,” she replied; “but I believe it is handsome. A great deal of it is mountain, but they say there are large portions of it capable of being reclaimed.”
“But how can the estate go to her?”
“Simply because there is no other heir,” replied his mother; “they are the last of the family. It is not entailed.”
“Thirty-four!” ruminated Woodward. “Well, I have seen very fine girls at thirty-four; but in personal appearance and manner what is she like?”
“Why, perhaps a critical eye might not call her handsome; but the general opinion on that point is in her favor. Her manners are agreeable, so are her features; but it is said that she is fastidious in her lovers, and has rejected many. It is true most of them were fortune-hunters, and deserved no better success.”
“But what do you call me, mother?”
“Surely not a fortune-hunter, Harry. Is not there your granduncle's large property who is a bachelor, and you are his favorite.”
“But don't you know, mother, that, as respects my granduncle, I have confided that secret to you already?”
“I know no such thing, you fool,” she replied, looking at him with an expression in her odious eyes which could not be described; “I am altogether ignorant of that fact; but is there not the twelve hundred per annum which reverts to you on the demise of that dying girl?”
“True, my dear mother, true; you are right, I am a fool. Of course I never told you the secret of my disinheritance by the old scoundrel.”
“Ah, Harry, I fear you played your cards badly there. You knew he was religious, and yet you should become a seducer; but why make free with his money?”
“Why? Why, because he kept me upon the tight curb; but, as these matters are known only to ourselves, I see you are right. I am still to be considered his favorite—his heir—and am here only on, a visit.”
“Well, but, Harry, he must have dealt liberally with you on your departure from him?”
“He! Don't you know I was obliged to fly?—to take French leave, I assure you. I reached Rathfillan House with not more than twenty pounds in my pocket.”
“But how does it happen that you always appear to have plenty of money?”
“My dear mother, there is a secret there; but it is one which even you shall not know,—or come, you shall know it. Did you ever hear of a certain supernatural being which follows your family, which supernatural being is known by the name of the Black Spectre, or some such denomination which I cannot remember?”
“I don't wish to hear it named,” replied his mother, deeply agitated. “It resembles the Banshee, and never appears to any one of our family except as a precursor of his death by violence.”
Woodward started for a moment, and could not avoid being struck at the coincidence of the same mission having been assigned to the two spirits, and he reflected, with an impression that was anything but agreeable, upon his damnable suggestion of having had recourse to the vile agency of Caterine Collins in enacting the said Banshee, for the purpose of giving the last fatal blow to the almost dying Alice Goodwin. He felt, and he had reason to feel, that there was a mystery about the Black Spectre, which, for the life of him, he could not fathom. He was, however, a firm and resolute man, and after a moment or two's thought he declined to make any further disclosure on the subject, but reverted to the general topic of their conversation.
“Well, mother,” said he, “after all, your speculation may not be a bad one; but pray, what is the lady's name?”
“Riddle—Miss Riddle. She is of the Clan-Riddle family, a close relation to the Nethersides of Middle town.”
“And a devilish enigmatical name it is,” replied her son, “as is that of all her connections.”
“Yes, but they were always close and prudent people, who kept their opinions to themselves, and wrought their way in the world with great success, and without giving offence to any party. If you marry her, Harry, I would advise you to enter public life, recommend yourself to the powers that be, and, my word for it, you stand a great chance of having the title of Cockletown revived in your person.”
“Well, although the title is a ridiculous one, I should have no objection to it, notwithstanding; but there will certainly arise some difficulty when we come to the marriage settlements. There will be sharp lawyers there, whom we cannot impose upon; and you know, mother, I am without any ostensible property.”
“Yes, but we can calculate upon the death of cunning Alice, who, by her undue and flagitious influence over your uncle, left you so.”
“Ay, but such a calculation would never do either with her uncle or the lawyers. I think we have nothing to fall back upon, mother, but your own property. If you settle that upon me everything will go right.”
“And leave myself depending upon Lindsay? No, no,” replied this selfish and penurious woman; “never, Harry—never, never; you must wait until I die for that. But I can tell you what we can do; let us enter upon the negotiation—let us say for the time being that you have twelve hundred a-year, and, while the business is proceeding, what is there to prevent you from going to recruit your health at Balleyspellan, and kill out Alice Goodwin there, as well as if she remained at home? By this plan, before the negotiations are closed, you will be able to meet Miss Riddle with twelve hundred a-year at your back. Alice Goodwin! O, how I hate and detest her—ay, as I do hell!”
“The plan,” replied her son, “is an excellent one. We will commence operations with Lord Cockletown and Miss Riddle, in the first place; and having opened negotiations, as you say, I shall become unwell, and go for a short time to try what efficacy the waters of Ballyspellan may have on my health—or rather on my fortunes.”
“We shall visit them to-morrow,” said the mother.
“So be it,” replied the son; and to this resolution they came, which closed the above interesting dialogue between them. We say interesting, for if it has not been such to the reader, it was so at least to themselves.
The deep sorrow and desolation of spirit introduced by the profligate destroyer into the humble abode of peace and innocence is an awful thing to contemplate. In our chapter headed “The Wake of a Murderer” we have attempted to give a picture of it. The age, indeed, was one of licentiousness and profligacy. The reigning monarch, Charles the Second, of infamous memory, had set the iniquitous example to his subjects, and surrounded his court by an aristocratic crew, who had scarcely anything to recommend them but their imitation of his vices, and this was always a passport to his favor, whilst virtue, morality, and honor were excluded with contempt and derision. In fact, the corrupt atmosphere of his court carried its contagion throughout the empire, until the seduction of female innocence became the fashion of the day, and no man could consider himself entitled to a becoming position in society who had not distinguished himself by half a dozen criminal intrigues either with the wives or daughters of his acquaintances. When we contemplate for a moment the contrast between the abandoned court of that royal profligate, and that under which we have the happiness to live—the one, a sty of infamy, licentiousness, and corruption; the other, a well, undented of purity, virtue, and honor, to whose clear mind unadulterated waters nothing equivocal, or even questionable, dares to approach, much less the base or the tainted—we say that, on instituting this comparison and contrast, the secret of that love and affectionate veneration which we bear to our pure and highminded Queen, and the pride which we feel in the noble example which she and her Royal Consort have set us, requires no illustration whatsoever. The affection and gratitude of her people are only the meed due to her virtues and to his. We need not apologize to our readers for this striking contrast. The period and the subject of our narrative, as well as the melancholy scene to which we are about to introduce the reader, rendered it an impossibility to avoid it.
We now proceed to the humble homestead of Torley Davoren; a homestead which we have already described as the humble abode of peace and happiness. Barney Casey, who felt anxious to know from the parents of Grace Davoren whether any trace or tidings of her had been heard of, went to pay the heart-broken family a visit for that purpose.
On entering, he found the father seated at his humble hearth, unshaven, and altogether a man careless and negligent of his appearance. He sat with his hands clasped before him, and his heavy eyes fixed on the embers of the peat fire which smouldered on the hearth. The mother was at her distaff, and so were the other two females—to wit, her grandmother and Grace's sister. But the mother! gracious heaven, what a spirit of distress and misery breathed from those hopeless and agonizing features! There was not only natural sorrow there, occasioned by the disappearance of her daughter, but the shame which resulted from her fall and her infamy; and though last not least, the terrible apprehension that the hapless girl had rushed by suicidal means into the presence of an offended God, “unanointed, unaneled,” with all her sins upon her head. Her clothes were hanging from the branches of a large burdock* against the wall, and from time to time the father cast his eyes upon them with a look in which might be read the hollow but terrible expression of despair.
Honest Barney felt his heart deeply moved by all this, and, sooth to say, his natural cheerfulness and lightness of spirit completely abandoned him at the contemplation of the awful anguish which pressed them down. There is nothing which makes such a coward of the heart as the influence of such a scene. He felt that he stood within a circle of misery, and that it was a solemn and serious task even to enter into conversation with them. But, as he had come to make friendly inquiries about the unfortunate girl, he forced himself to break this pitiable but terrible silence of despair.
“I know,” said he, with a diffident and melancholy spirit, “that it is painful to you all to make the inquiries that I wish to make; but still let me ask you if you have got any account of her?”
The mother's heart had been bursting-pent up as it were—and this allusion to her withdrew the floodgates of its sorrow; she spread out her arms, and fising up approached her husband, and throwing them about his neck, exclaimed, in tones of the most penetrating grief,—
“O, Torley, Torley, my husband, was she not our dearest and our best?”
The husband embraced her with a flood of tears.
“She was,” said he, “she was.” But immediately looking upon her sister Dora, he said, “Dora, come here—bring Dora to me,” and his wife went over and brought her to him.
“O, Dora dear,” said he, “I love you. But, darling, I never loved you as I loved her.”
“But was I ever jealous of that, father?” replied Dora, with tears. “Didn't we all love her? and did any one of you love her more than myself? Wasn't she the pride of the whole family? But I didn't care about her disgrace, father, if we had her back with us. She might repent; and if she did, every one would forgive their favorite—for sure she was every one's favorite; and above all, God would forgive her.”
“I loved her as the core of my heart,” said the grandmother; “but you spoiled her yourselves, and indulged her too much in dress and everything she wished for. Had you given her less of her own way, and kept her more from dances and merry-makings, it might be better for yourselves and her today; still, I grant you, it was hard to do it—for who, mavrone, could refuse her anything? O! God sees my heart how I pity you, her father, and you, too, her mother, above all. But, Torley, dear, if we only had her—if we only had her back again safe with us—then what darling Dora says might be true, and her repentance would wash away her shame—for every one loved her, so that they wouldn't judge her harshly.”
“I can bear witness to that,” said Barney; as it is, every one pities her, and but very few blame her. It is all set down to her innocence and want of experience, ay, and her youthful years. No; if you could only find her, the shame in regard of what I've said would not be laid heavily upon her by the people.”
“O,” exclaimed her father, starting up, “O, Granua, Granua, my heart's life! where are you from us? Was not your voice the music of our hearth? Did not your light laugh keep it cheerful and happy? But where are you now? O, will no one bring me back my daughter? Where is my child? she that was the light—the breakin' of the summer mornin' amongst us! But wait; they say the villain is recoverin' that destroyed her—well—he may recover from the blow of Shawn-na-Middogue, but he will get a blow from me that he won't recover from. I will imitate Morrissy—and will welcome his fate.”
“Aisy, Torley,” said Casey; “hould in a little. You are spakin' now of Masther Charles?”
“I am, the villain! warn't they found together?”
“I have one question to ask you,” proceeded Barney, “and it is this—when did you see or spake with Shawn-na-Middogue?”
“Not since that unfortunate night.”
“Well, all I can tell you is this—that Masther Charles had as much to do with the ruin of your daughter as the king of Jerusalem. Take my word for that. He is not the stuff that such a villain is made of, but I suspect who is.”
“And who do you suspect, Barney?”
“I say I only suspect; but, so long as it is only suspicion, I will mention no names. It wouldn't be right; and for that reason I will wait until I have betther information. But, after all,” he proceeded, “maybe nothing wrong has happened.”
The mother shook her head: “I know to the contrairy,” she replied, “and intended on that very night to bring her to an account about her appearance, but I never had the opportunity.”
The father here wrung his hands, and his groans were dreadful.
“Could you see Shawn-na-Middogue?” asked Barney.
“No,” replied Davoren; “he, too, has disappeared; and although he is hunted like a bag-fox, nobody can find either hilt or hair of him.”
“Might it not be possible that she is with him?” he asked again.
“No, Barney,” replied her mother, “we know Shawn too well for that. He knows how we loved her, and what we would suffer by her absence. Shawn, though driven to be an outlaw, has a kind heart, and would never allow us to suffer what we are sufferin' on her account. O, no! we know Shawn too well for that.”
“Well,” replied Barney, meditatively, “there's one thing I'm inclined to think: that whoever was the means of bringing shame and disgrace upon poor Granua will get a touch of his middogue that won't fail as the first did. Shawn now knows his man, and, with the help of God, I hope he won't miss his next blow. I must now go; and before I do, let me tell you that, as I said before, Masther Charles is as innocent of the shame brought upon poor Granua as the king of Jerusalem.”
There is a feeling of deep but silent sorrow which weighs down the spirit after the death of some beloved individual who is taken away from among the family circle. It broods upon, and casts a shadow of the most profound gloom over the bereaved heart; but let a person who knew the deceased, and is capable of feeling a sincere and friendly sympathy for the survivors, enter into this circle of sorrow; let him or her dwell upon the memory of the departed; then that silent and pent-up grief bursts out, and the clamor of lamentation is loud and vehement. It was so upon this occasion. When Barney rose to take his departure, a low murmur of grief assailed his ears; it gradually became more loud; it increased; it burst into irrepressible violence—they wept aloud; they flew to her clothes, which hung, as we said, motionless upon the stalk of burdock against the wall; they kissed them over and over again; and it was not until Barney, now deeply affected, succeeded in moderating their sorrow, that these strong and impassioned paroxysms were checked and subdued into something like reasonable grief. Having consoled and pacified them as far as it was in his power, he then took his departure under a feeling of deep regret that no account of the unfortunate girl had been obtained.
The next day Mrs. Lindsay and Harry prepared to pay the important visit. As before, the old family carriage was furbished up, and the lady once more enveloped in her brocades and satins. Harry, too, made it a point to appear in his best and most becoming habiliments; and, truth to tell, an exceedingly handsome and well-made young fellow he was. The dress of the day displayed his manly and well-proportioned limbs to the best advantage, whilst his silver-hilted sword, in addition to the general richness of his costume, gave him the manner and appearance of an accomplished cavalier. Barney's livery was also put a second time into requisition, and the coachman's cocked hat was freshly crimped for the occasion.
“Is it true, mother?” inquired Harry, as they went along, “that this old noodle has built his residence as much after the shape of a cockle-shell as was possible to be accomplished?”
“Perfectly true, as you will see,” she replied.
“But what could put such a ridiculous absurdity into his head?”
“Because he thought of the name before the house was built, and he got it built simply to suit the name. 'There is no use,' said he, 'in calling it Cockle Hall unless it resembles a cockle;' and, indeed, when you see it, you will admit the resemblance.”
“Egad,” said her son, “I never dreamed that fate was likely to cramp me in a cockleshell. I dare say there is a touch of sublimity about it. The associations are in favor of it.”
“No,” replied his mother, “but it has plenty of comfort and convenience about, it. The plan was his own, and he contrived to make it, notwithstanding its ludicrous shape, one of the most agreeable residences in the country. He is a blunt humorist, who drinks a good deal, and instead of feeling offence at his manner, which is rather rough, you will please him best by answering him exactly in his own spirit.”
“I am glad you gave me this hint,” said her son; “I like that sort of thing, and it will go hard if I don't give him as good as he brings.”
“In that case,” replied the mother, “the chances will be ten to one in your favor. Seem, above all things, to like his manner, because the old fool is vain of it, and nothing gratifies him so much.”
“But about the niece? What is the cue there, mother?”
“The cue of a gentleman, Harry—of a well-bred and respectful gentleman. You may humor the old fellow to the top of his bent; but when you become the gentleman with her, she will not misinterpret your manner with her uncle, but will look upon the transition as a mark of deference to herself. And now you have your instructions: be careful and act upon them. Miss Riddle is a girl of sense, and, they say, of feeling; and it is on this account, I believe, that she is so critical in scrutinizing the conduct and intellect of her lovers. So there is my last hint.”
“Many thanks, my dear mother; it will, I think, be my own fault if I fail with either uncle or niece, supported as I shall be by your eloquent advocacy.”
On arriving at Cockle Hall, Harry, on looking out of the carriage window, took it for granted that his mother had been absolutely bantering him. “Cockle Hall!” he exclaimed: “why, curse the hall I see here, good, bad, or indifferent. What did you mean, mother? Were you only jesting?”
“Keep quiet,” she replied, “and above all things don't seem surprised at the appearance of the place. Look precisely as if you had been in it ever since it was built.”
The appearance of Cockle Hall was, indeed, as his mother had very properly informed him, ludicrous in the extreme. It was built on a surface hollowed out of a high bank, or elevation, with which the roof of it was on a level. It was, of course, circular and flat, and the roof drooped, or slanted off towards the rear, precisely in imitation of a cockle-shell. There was, however, a complete deceptio visus in it. To the eye, in consequence of the peculiarity of its position, it appeared to be very low, which, in point of fact, was not exactly the case, for it consisted of two stories, and had comfortable and extensive apartments”. There was a paved space wide enough for two carriages to pass each other, which separated it from the embankment that surrounded it. Altogether, when taken in connection with the original idea of its construction, it was a difficult thing to look at it without mirth. On entering the drawing-room, which Harry did alone—for his mother, having seen Miss Riddle in the parlor, entered it in order to have a preliminary chat with her—her son found a person inside dressed in a pair of red plush breeches, white stockings a good deal soiled, a yellow long-flapped waistcoat, and a wig, with a cue to it which extended down the whole length of his back,—evidently a servant in dirty lively. There was something degagee and rather impudent in his manner and appearance, which Harry considered as in good keeping with all he had heard of this eccentric nobleman. Like master like man, thought he.
“Well,” said the servant, looking hardly at him, “what do you want?”
“You be cursed,” replied Harry; “don't be impertinent; do you think I'm about to disclose my business to you, you despicable menial? Why don't you get your stockings washed? But if you wish to know what I want, I want your master.”
The butler, footman, or whatever he might hive been, fixed a keen look upon him, accompanied by a grin of derision that made the visitor's gorge rise a good deal.
“My master,” said the other, “is not under this roof. What do you think of that?”
“You mean the old cockle is not in his shell, then,” replied Harry.
“Come,” said the other, with a chuckle of enjoyment, “curse me, but that's good. Who are you?—what are you? You are in good feathers—only give an account of yourself.”
Harry was a keen observer, but was considerably aided by what he had heard from his mother. The rich rings, however, which he saw sparkling on the fingers of what he had conceived to be the butler or footman, at once satisfied him that he was then addressing the worthy nobleman himself. In the meantime, having made this discovery, he resolved to act the farce out.
“Why should I give an account of myself to you, you cursed old sot?—you drink, sirrah: I can read it in your face.”
“I say, give an account of yourself; what's your business here?”
“Come, then,” replied Harry, “as you appear to be a comical old scoundrel, I don't care, for the joke's sake, if I do. I am coming to court Miss Riddle, ridiculous old Cockletown's niece.”
“Why are you coming to court her?”
“Because I understand she will have a good fortune after old Cockle takes his departure.”
“Eh, confound me, but that's odd; why, you are a devilish queer fellow. Did you ever see Lord Cockletown?”
“Not I,” replied Harry; “nor I don't care a curse whether I do or not, provided I had his niece secure.”
“Did you ever see the niece?”
“Don't annoy me, sirrah. No, I didn't; neither do I care if I never did, provided I secure old Cockle's money and property. If it could be so managed, I would prefer being married to her in the dark.”
The old peer walked two or three times through the room in a kind of good-humored perplexity, raising his wig and scratching his head under it, and surveying Woodward from time to time with a serio-comic expression.
“Of course you are a profligate, for that is the order of the day?”
“Why, of course I am,” replied Harry.
“Any intrigues—eh?”
“Indeed,” replied the other, pulling a long face, “I am ashamed to answer you on that subject. Intrigues! I regret to say only half a dozen yet, but my prospects in that direction are good.”
“Have you fought? Did you ever commit murder?”
“It can scarcely be called by that name. It was in tavern brawls; one was a rascally cockleman, and the other a rascally oyster-man.”
“How did you manage the oysterman with a knife, eh?”
“No, sirrah; with my sword I did him open.”
“Have you any expectation of being hanged?”
“Why, according to the life I have led, I think there is every probability that I may reach that honorable position.”
The old peer could bear this no longer. He burst out into a loud laugh, which lasted upwards of two minutes.
“Faith,” said Harry, “if you had such a prospect before you, I don't think you would consider it such a laughing matter.”
“Curse you, sir, do you know who I am?”
“Curse yourself, sir,” replied the other, “no, I don't; how should I, when I never saw you before?”
“Sir, I am Lord Cockletown.”
“And, sir, I am Harry Woodward, son—favorite son—to, Mrs. Lindsay of Rathfillan House.”
“What! are you a son of that old fagot?”
“Her favorite son, as I said; that old fagot, sir, is my mother.”
“Ay, but who was your father?” asked his lordship, with a grin, “for that's the rub.”
“That is the rub,” said Woodward, laughing; “how the devil can I tell?”
“Good again,” said his lordship; “confound me but you are a queer one. I tell you what, I like you.”
“I don't care a curse whether you do or not, provided your niece does.”
“Are you the fellow that has been abroad, and returned home lately?”
“I am the very fellow,” replied Woodward, with a ludicrous and good-humored emphasis upon the word fellow.
“There was a bonfire made for you on your return?”
“There was, my lord.”
“And there fell a shower of blood upon that occasion?”
“Not a doubt of it, my lord.”
“Well, you are a strange fellow altogether. I have not for a long time met a man so much after my own heart.”
“That is because our dispositions resemble each other. If I had the chance of a peerage, I would be as original as your lord-ship in the selection of my title; but I trust I shall be gratified in that, too; because, if I marry your niece, I will enter into public life, make myself not only a useful, but a famous man, and, of course, the title of Cockletown will be revived in my person, and will not perish with you. No, my lord, should I marry your niece, your title shall descend with your blood, and there is something to console you.”
“Come,” said the old peer, “shake hands. Have you a capacity for public business?”
“I was born for it, my lord. I feel that fact; besides, I have a generous ambition to distinguish myself.”
“Well,” said the peer, “we will talk all that over in a few days. But don't you admit that I am an eccentric old fellow?”
“And doesn't your lordship admit that I am an eccentric young fellow?”
“Ay, but, harkee, Mr. Woodward,” said the peer, “I always sleep with one eye open.”
“And I,” replied Harry, “sleep with both eyes open.”
“Come, confound me, that beats me, you must get on in life, and I will consider your pretensions to my niece.”
At this moment his mother and Miss Riddle entered the drawing-room, which, notwithstanding the comical shape of the mansion, was spacious, and admirably furnished. Miss Riddle's Christian name was Thomasina; but her eccentric uncle never called her by any other appellation than Tom, and occasionally Tommy.
“Mrs. Lindsay, uncle,” said the girl, introducing her.
“Eh? Mrs. Lindsay! O! how do you do, Mrs. Lindsay? How is that unfortunate devil, your husband?”
Now Mrs. Lindsay was one of those women who, whenever there was a selfish object in view, could not only suppress her feelings, but exhibit a class of them in direct opposition to those she actually felt.
“Why unfortunate, my lord?” she asked, smiling.
“Why, because I am told he plays second fiddle at home, and a devilish deal out of tune too, in general. You play first, ma'am; but they say, notwithstanding, that there's a plentiful lack of harmony in your concerts.”
“All,” she replied, “your lordship must still have your joke, I perceive; but, at all events, I am glad to see you in such spirits.”
“Well, you may thank your son for that. I say, Tom,” he added, addressing his niece, “he's a devilish good fellow; a queer chap, and I like him. Woodward, this is Tom Riddle, my niece. This scamp, Tom, is that woman's son, Mr. Woodward. He's an accomplished youth: I'll be hanged if he isn't. I asked him how many intrigues he has had, and he replied, with a dolorous face, only half a dozen yet. He only committed two murders, he says; and when I asked him if he thought there was any probability of his being hanged, he replied that, from a review of his past life, and what he contemplated in the future, he had little doubt of it.”
Harry Woodward was indeed, a most consummate tactician. From the moment Miss Riddle entered the room, his air and manner became that of a most polished gentleman; and after bowing to her when introduced, he cast, from time to time, a glance at her, which told her, by its significance, that he had only been gratifying her uncle by playing into his whims and eccentricities. In the meantime the heart of Mrs. Lindsay bounded with delight at the progress which she saw, by the complacent spirit of the old peer, honest and adroit Harry had made in his good opinion.
“Miss Riddle,” said he, “his lordship and I have been bantering each other; but although I considered myself what I may term, an able hand at it, yet I find I am no match for him.”
“Well, not exactly, I believe,” replied his lordship; “but, notwithstanding, you are one of the best I have met.”
“Why, my lord,” replied Woodward, “I like the thing; and, indeed, I never knew any one fond of it who did not possess a good heart and a candid disposition; so, you see, my lord, there is a compliment for each of us.”
“Yes, Woodward, and we both deserve it.”
“I trust Mr. Woodward,” observed his niece, “that you don't practise your abilities as a banterer upon our sex.”
“Never! Miss Riddle; that would be ungenerous and unmanly. There is nothing due to your sex but respect, and that, you know, is incompatible with banter.
“The wit that could wantonly sport with the modesty of woman degenerates into impudence and insult;” and he accompanied the words with a low and graceful bow.
This young fellow, thought Miss Riddle, is a gentleman.
“Yes, but, Mr. Woodward, we sometimes require a bantering; and, what is more, a remonstrance. We are not perfect, and surely it is not the part of a friend to overlook our foibles or our errors.”
“True, Miss Riddle, but it is not by bantering they will be reclaimed. A friendly remonstrance, delicately conveyed, is one thing, but the buffoonery of a banter is another.”
“What's that?” said the peer, “buffoonery! I deny it, sir, there is no buffoonery in banter.”
“Not, my lord, when it occurs between gentlemen,” replied Woodward, “but you know, with the ladies it is a different thing.”
“Ay, well, that's not bad; a proper distinction. I tell you what, Woodward, you are a clever fellow; and I'm not sure but I'll advocate your cause with Tom there. Tom, he tells me he is coming to court you, and he says he doesn't care a fig about either of us, provided he could secure your fortune. Ay, and, what's more, he says that if you and he are married, he hopes it will be in the dark. What do you think of that now?”
Miss Riddle did not blush, nor affect a burst of indignation, but she said what pleased both Woodward and his mother far better.
“Well, uncle,” she replied, calmly, “even if he did say so, I believe he only expressed in words what most, if not all, of my former lovers actually felt, but were too cautious to acknowledge.”
“I trust, Miss Eiddle,” said Harry, smiling graciously, “that I am neither so silly nor so stupid as to defend a jest by anything like a serious apology. You will also be pleased to recollect that, as an argument for my success, I admitted two murders, half a dozen intrigues, and the lively prospect of being hanged. The deuce is in it, if these are not strong qualifications in a lover, especially in a lover of yours, Miss Riddle.”
The reader sees that the peer was anything but a match for Woodward, who contrived, and with perfect success, to turn all his jocular attacks to his own account.
Miss Riddle smiled, for the truth was that Harry began to rise rapidly in her good opinion. His sprightliness was gentlemanly and agreeable, and he contrived, besides, to assume the look and air of a man who only indulged in it in compliment to her uncle, and, of course, indirectly to herself, with whom, it was but natural, he should hope to make him an advocate. Still the expression of his countenance, as he managed it, appeared to her to be that of a profound and serious thinker—one whose feelings, when engaged, were likely to retain a strong hold of his heart. That he should model his features into such an expression is by no means strange, when we reflect with what success hypocrisy can stamp upon them all those traits of character for which she wishes to get credit from the world.
“Come, Tom,” said his lordship, “it's time for luncheon; we can't allow our friends to go without refreshments. I say, Woodward, I'm a hospitable old fellow; did you ever know that before?”
“I have often heard it, my lord,” replied the other, “and I hope to have still better proof of it.” This was uttered with a significant, but respectful glance, at the niece, who was by no means displeased at it.
“Ay! ay!” said his lordship, laughing, “the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Well, you shall have an opportunity, and soon, too; you appear to be a blunt, honest fellow; and hang me but I like you.”
Miss Riddle now went out to order in the refreshments, but not without feeling it strange how her uncle and herself should each contemplate Woodward's character in so different a light—the uncle looking upon him as a blunt, honest fellow, whilst to her he appeared as a man of sense, and a perfect gentleman Such, however, was the depth of his hypocrisy, that he succeeded at once in pleasing both, and in deceiving both.
“Well, Woodward, what do you think of Tom?” asked his lordship.
“Why, my lord, that she is an admirable and lovely girl.”
“Well, you are right, sir; Tom is an admirable girl, and loves her old uncle as if he was her father, or maybe a great deal better; she will have all I am worth when I pop off, so there's something for you to think upon.”
“No man, my lord, capable of appreciate ing her could think of anything but herself.”
“What! not of her property?”
“Property, my-lord; is a very secondary subject when taken into consideration with the merits of the lady herself. I am no enemy to property, and I admit its importance as an element of happiness when reasonably applied, but I am neither sordid nor selfish; and I know how little, after all, it contributes to domestic enjoyment, unless accompanied by those virtues which constitute the charm of connubial life.”
“Confound me but you must have got that out of a book, Woodward.”
“Out of the best book, my lord—the book of life and observation.”
“Why, curse it, you are talking philosophy, though.”
“Only common sense, my lord.”
His lordship, who was walking to and fro in the room, turned abruptly round, looked keenly at him, and then, addressing Mrs. Lindsay, said,—
“Why, upon my soul, Mrs. Lindsay, we must try and do something with this fellow; he'll be lost to the world if we don't. Come, I say, we must make a public man of him.”
“To become a public man is his own ambition, my lord,” replied Mrs. Lindsay; “and although I am his mother, and may feel prejudiced in his favor, still I agree with your lordship that it is a pity to see such abilities as his unemployed.”
“Well, madam, we shall consider of it. What do you think, Woodward, if we made a bailiff of you?”
At this moment Miss Riddle entered the room just in time to hear the question.
“The very thing, my lord; and the first capture I should make would be Miss Riddle, your fair niece here.”
“Curse me, but the fellow's a cat,” said the peer, laughing. “Throw him as you will, he always falls upon his legs. What do you think, Tom? Curse me but your suitor here talked philosophy in your absence.”
“Only common sense, Miss Riddle,” said Harry. “Philosophy, it is said, excludes feeling; but that is not a charge which I ever heard brought against common sense.”
“I am an enemy neither to philosophy nor common sense,” replied his niece, “because I think neither of them incompatible with feeling; but I certainly prefer common sense.”
“There's luncheon announced,” said the peer, rubbing his hands, “and that's a devilish deal more comfortable than either of them. Come, Mrs. Lindsay; Woodward, take Tom with you.”
They then descended to the dining-room, where the conversation was lively and amusing, the humorous old peer furnishing the greater proportion of the mirth.
“Mrs. Lindsay,” said he, as they were preparing to go, “I hope, after all, that this clever son of yours is not a fortune-hunter.”
“He need not be so, my lord,” replied his mother, “and neither is he. He himself will have a handsome property.”
“Will have. I would rather you wouldn't speak in the future tense, though. Woodward,” he added, addressing that gentleman, “remember that I told you that I sleep with one eye open.”
“If you have any doubts, my lord, on this subject,” replied Woodward, “you may imitate me: sleep with both open.”