Meehaul now directed his steps homewards, literally stunned by the unexpected cowardice of his enemy. On approaching his father's door, he found Nell M'Collum seated on a stone bench, waiting his arrival. The moment she espied him she sprang to her feet, and with her usual eagerness of manner, caught the breast of his coat, and turning him round towards the moonlight, looked eagerly into his face.
“Well,” she inquired, “did he show his fire-arms? Well? What was done?”
“Somebody has been making a fool of you, Nell,” replied Meehaul; “he had neither fire-arms, nor staff, nor any thing else; an' for my part, I might as well have left mine at home.”
“Well, but, douol, man, what was done? Did you smash him? Did you break his bones?”
“None of that, Nell, but worse; he's disgraced for ever. I struck him, an' he refused to fight me; he hadn't a hand to raise.
“No! Dher Chiernah, he had not; an' he may thank Nell M'Collum for that. I put the weakness over him. But I've not done wid him yet. I'll make that family curse the day they crossed Nell M'Collum, if I should go down for it. Not that I have any ill will to the boy himself, but the father's heart's in him, an' that's the way, Meehaul, I'll punish the man that was the means of lavin' me as I am.”
“Nell, the devil's in your heart,” replied Meehaul, “if ever he was in mortal's. Lave me, woman: I can't bear your revengeful spirit, an' what is more, I don't want you to interfere in this business, good, bad, or indifferent. You bring about harm, Nell; but who has ever known you to do good?”
“Ay! ay!” said the hag, “that's the cuckoo song to Nell; she does harm, but never does good! Well, may my blackest curse wither the man that left Nell to hear that, as the kindest word that's spoke either to her or of her! I don't blame you. Meehaul—I blame nobody but him for it all. Now a word of advice before you go in; don't let on to Ellen that you know of her meetin' him this night;—an' reason good,—if she thinks you're watchin' her, she'll be on her guard—'ay, an' outdo you in spite of your teeth. She's a woman—she's a woman. Good night, an' mark him the next time betther.”
Meehaul himself—had come to the same determination and from the same motive.
The consciousness of Lamh Laudher's public disgrace, and of his incapability to repel it, sank deep into his heart. The blood in his veins became hot and feverish when he reflected upon the scornful and degrading insult he had just borne. Soon after his return home, his father and mother both noticed the singularly deep bursts of indignant feeling with which he appeared to be agitated. For some time they declined making any inquiry as to its cause, but when they saw at length the big scalding tears of shame and rage start from his flashing eyes, they could no longer restrain their concern and curiosity.
“In the name of heaven, John,” said they, “what has happened to put you in such a state as you're in?”
“I can't tell you,” he replied; “if you knew it, you'd blush with burnin' shame—you'd curse me in your heart. For my part, I'd rather be dead fifty times over than livin', after what has happened this night.”
“An' why not tell us, Lamh Laudher?”
“I can't father; I couldn't stand upright afore you and spake it. I'd sink like a guilty man in your presence; an' except you want to drive me distracted, or perjured, don't ask me another question about it. You'll hear it too soon.”
“Well, we must wait,” said the father; “but I'm sure, John, you'd not do anything unbecomin' a man. For my part, I'm not unasy on your account, for except to take an affront from a Neil, there's nothing you would do could shame me.”
This was a' fresh stab to the son's wounded pride, for which he was not prepared. With a stifled groan he leaped to his feet, and rushing from the kitchen, bolted himself up in his bed-room.
His parents, after he had withdrawn, exchanged glances.
“That went home to him,” said the father; “an' as sure as death, the Neils are in it, whatever it is. But by the crass that saved us, if he tuck an affront from any of them, without payin' them home double, he is no son of mine, an' this roof won't cover him another night. Howsomever we'll see in the morn-in', plase God!”
The mother, who was proud of his courage and prowess, scouted with great indignation the idea of her son's tamely putting up with an insult from any of the opposite faction.
“Is it he bear an affront from a Neil! arrah, don't make a fool of yourself, old man! He'd die sooner. I'd stake my life on him.”
The night advanced, and the family had retired to bed; but their son attempted in vain to sleep. A sense of shame overpowered him keenly. He tossed and turned, and groaned, at the contemplation of the disgrace which he knew would be heaped on him the following day. What was to be done? How was he to wipe it off? There was but one method, he believed, of getting his hands once more free; that was to seek Ellen, and gain her permission to retract his oath on that very night. With this purpose he instantly dressed, himself, and quietly unbolting his own door, and that of the kitchen, got another staff, and passed out to seek her father's inn.
The night had now become dark, but mild and agreeable; the repose of man and nature was deep, and save his own tumultuous thoughts every thing breathed an air of peace and rest. At a quick but cautious pace he soon reached the inn, and without much difficulty passed into the garden, from which he hoped to be able to make himself known to Ellen. In this, to his great mortification, he was disappointed; the room in which she slept, being on the third story, presented a window, it is true, to the garden; but how was he to reach it, or hold a dialogue with her, even should she recognize him, without being overheard by some of the family? All this might have occurred to him at home, had he been sufficiently cool for reflection. As it was, the only method of awakening her that he could think of was to throw up several handsful of small pebbles against the window. This he tried without any effect. Pebbles sufficiently large to reach the window would have broken the glass, so that he felt himself compelled to abandon every hope of speaking to her that night. With lingering and reluctant steps he left the garden, and stood for some time before the front of the house, leaning against an upright stone, called the market cross. Here he had not been more than two minutes, when he heard footsteps approaching, and on looking closely through the darkness, he recognized the figure of Nell M'Collum, as it passed directly to the kitchen window. Here the crone stopped, peered in, and with caution gave one of the panes a gentle tap. This was responded to by one much louder from within, and almost immediately the door was softly opened. From thence issued another female figure, evidently that of Nanse M'Collum, her niece. Both passed down the street in a northern direction, and Lamh Laudher, apprehensive that they were on no good errand, took off his shoes, lest his footsteps might be heard, and dogged them as they went along. They spoke little, and that in whispers, until they had got clear of the town, when, feeling less restraint, the following dialogue occurred to them:—
“Isn't it a quare thing, aunt, that she should come back to this place at all?”
“Quare enough, but the husband's comin' too—he's to folly her.”
“He ought to know that he needn't come here, I think.”
“Why, you fool, how do you know that? Sure the town must pay him fifty guineas, if he doesn't get a customer, and that's worth comin' for. She must be near us by this time. Husht! do you hear a car?”
They both paused to listen, but no car was audible.
“I do not,” replied the niece; “but isn't it odd that he lets her carry the money, an' him trates her so badly'?”
“Why would it be odd? Sure, she takes betther care of it, an' puts it farther than he does. His heart's in a farden, the nager.”
“Rody an' the other will soon spare her that trouble, any way,” replied the niece. “Is there no one with her but the carman?”
“Not one—hould you tongue—here's the gate where the same pair was to meet us. Who is this stranger that Rody has picked up? I hope he's the thing.”
“Some red-headed fellow. Rody says he is honest. I'm wondherin', aunt, what 'ud happen if she'd know the place.”
“She can't, girshah—an' what if she does? She may know the place, but will the place know her? Rody's friend says the best way is to do for her; an' I'm afeard of her, to tell you the truth—but we'll settle that when they come. There now is the gate where we'll sit down. Give a cough till we try if they're———whist! here they are!”
The voices of two men now joined the conversation, but in so low a tone, that Lamh Laudher could not distinctly hear its purport.
The road along which they traveled was craggy, and full of ruts, so that a car could be heard in the silence of night at a considerable distance. On each side the ditches were dry and shallow; and a small elder hedge, which extended its branches towards the road, afforded Lamh Laudher the obscurity which he wanted. With stealthy pace he crept over and sat beneath it, determined to witness whatever incident might occur, and to take a part in it, if necessary. He had scarcely seated himself when the car which they expected was heard jolting about half a mile off along the way, and the next moment a consultation took place in tones so low and guarded, that every attempt on his part to catch its purport was unsuccessful. This continued with much earnestness, if not warmth, until the car came within twenty perches of the gate, when Nell exclaimed—
“If you do, you may—but remimber I didn't egg you on, or put it into your hearts, at all evints. Maybe I have a child myself livin'—far from me—an' when I think of him, I feel one touch of nature at my heart in favor of her still. I'm black enough there, as it is.”
“Make your mind asy,” said one of them, “you won't have to answer for her.”
The reply which was given to this could not be heard.
“Well,” rejoined,Nell, “I know that. Her comin' here may not be for my good; but—well, take this shawl, an' let the work be quick. The carman must be sent back with sore bones to keep him quiet.”
The car immediately reached the spot where they sat, and as it passed, the two men rushed from the gate, stopped the horse, and struck the carman to the earth. One of them seized him while down, and pressed his throat, so as to prevent him from shouting. A single faint shriek escaped the female, who was instantly dragged off the car and gagged by the other fellow and Nanse M'Collum.
Lamh Laudher saw there was not a moment to be lost. With the speed of lightning he sprung forward, and with a single blow laid him who struggled with the carman prostrate. To pass then to the aid of the female was only the work of an instant. With equal success he struck down the villain with whom she was struggling. Such was the rapidity of his motions, that he had not yet had time even to speak; nor indeed did he wish at all to be recognized in the transaction. The carman, finding himself freed from his opponent, bounced to his legs, and came to the assistance of his charge, whilst Lamh Laudher, who had just flung Nanse M'Collum into the ditch, returned in time to defend both from a second attack. The contest, however, was a short one. The two ruffians, finding that there was no chance of succeeding, fled across the fields; and our humble hero, on looking for Nanse and her aunt, discovered that they also had disappeared. It is unnecessary to detail the strong terms in which the strangers expressed their gratitude to Lamh Laudher.
“God's grace be upon you, whoever you are, young man!” exclaimed the carman; “for wid His help an' your own good arm, it's my downright opinion that you saved us from bein' both robbed an' murthered.”
“I'm of that opinion myself,” replied Lamh Laudher.
“There is goodness, young man, in the tones of your voice,” observed the female; “we may at least ask the name of the person who has saved our lives?”
“I would rather not have my name mentioned in the business,” he replied; “a woman, or a devil, I think, that I don't wish to cross or provoke, has had a hand in it. I hope you haven't been robbed?” he added.
She assured him, with expressions of deep gratitude, that she had not.
“Well,” said he, “as you have neither of you come to much harm, I would take it as the greatest favor you could do me, if you'd never mention a word about it to any one.”
To this request they agreed with some hesitation. Lamh Laudher accompanied them into the town, and saw them safely in a decent second-rate inn, kept by a man named Luke Connor, after which he returned to his father's house, and without undressing, fell into a disturbed slumber until morning.
It is not to be supposed that the circumstances attending the quarrel between him and Meehaul Neil, on the preceding night, would pass off without a more than ordinary share of public notice. Their relative positions were too well known not to excite an interest corresponding with the characters they had borne, as the leaders of two bitter and powerful factions: but when it became certain that Meehaul Neil had struck Lamh Laudher Oge, and that the latter refused to fight him, it is impossible to describe the sensation which immediately spread through the town and parish. The intelligence was first received by O'Rorke's party with incredulity and scorn. It was impossible that he of the Strong Hand, who had been proverbial for courage, could all at once turn coward, and bear the blow from a Neil! But when it was proved beyond the possibility of doubt or misconception, that he received a blow tamely before many witnesses, under circumstances of the most degrading insult, the rage of his party became incredible. Before ten o'clock the next morning his father's house was crowded with friends and relations, anxious to hear the truth from his own lips, and all, after having heard it, eager to point out to him the only method that remained of wiping away his disgrace, namely, to challenge Meehaul Neil. His father's indignation knew no bounds; but his mother, on discovering the truth, was not without that pride and love which, are ever ready to form an apology for the feelings and errors of an only child.
“You may all talk,” she said; “but if Lamh Laudher Oge didn't strike him, he had good reasons for it. How do you know, an' bad cess to your tongues, all through other, how Ellen Neil would like him after weltin' her brother? Don't ye think she has the spirit of her faction in her as well as another?”
This, however, was not listened to. The father would hear of no apology for his son's cowardice but an instant challenge. Either that or to be driven from his father's roof the only alternatives left him.
“Come out here,” said the old man, for the son had not left his humble bed-room, “an' in presence of them that you have brought to shame and disgrace, take the only plan that s left to you, an' send him a challenge.”
“Father,” said the young man, “I have too much of your own blood in me to be afraid of any man—but for all that, I neither will nor can fight Meehaul Neil.”
“Very well,” said the father, bitterly, “that's enough. Dher Manim, Oonagh, you're a guilty woman; that boy's no son of mine. If he had my blood in him, he couldn't act as he did. Here, you intherloper, the door's open for you; go out of it, an' let me never see the branded face of you while you live.” The groans of the son were audible from his bed-room.
“I will go, father,” he replied, “an' I hope the day will come when you'll all change your opinion of me. I can't, however, stir out till I send a message a mile or so out of town.”
The old man in the mean time, wept as if his son had been dead; his tears, however, were not those of sorrow, but of shame and indignation.
“How can I help it,” he exclaimed, “when I think of the way that the Neils will clap their wings and crow over us! If it was from any other family he tuck it so inanely, I wouldn't care so much; but from them! Oh, Chiernah! it's too bad! Turn out, you villain!”
A charge of deeper disgrace, however, awaited the unhappy young man. The last harsh words of the father had scarcely been uttered, when three constables came in, and inquired if his son were at home.
“He is at home,” said the father, with tears in his eyes, “and I never thought he would bring the blush to my face as he did by his conduct last night.”
“I am sorry,” said the principal of them, “for what has happened, both on your account and his. Do you know this hat?”
“I do know it,” replied the old man; “it belongs to John. Come out here,” said he, “here's Tom Breen wid your hat.”
The son left his room, and it was evident from his appearance that he had not undressed at all during the night. The constables immediately observed these circumstances, which they did not fail to interpret to his disadvantage.
“Here is your hat,” said the man who bore it; “one would think you were travelin' all night, by your looks.”
The son thanked him for his civility, got clean stockings, and after arranging his dress, said to his father—
“I'm now ready to go, father, an' as I can't do what you want me to do, there's nothing for me but to leave the country for a while.”
“He acknowledged it himself,” said the father, turning to Breen; “an' in that case, how could I let the son that shamed me live undher my roof?”
“He's the last young man in the country I stand in,” said Breen, “that any one who knew him would suspect to be guilty of robbery. Upon my soul, Lamh Laudher More, I'm both grieved an' distressed at it. We're come to arrest him,” he added, “for the robbery he committed last night.”
“Robbery!” they exclaimed with one voice.
“Ay,” said the man, “robbery, no less—an' what is more, I'm afraid there's little doubt of his guilt. Why did he lave his hat at the place where the attempt was first made? He must come with us.”
The mother shrieked aloud, and clapped her hands like a distressed woman; the father's brow changed from the flushed hue of indignation, and became pale with apprehension.
“Oh! no, no,” he exclaimed, “John never did that. Some qualm might come over him in the other business, but—no, no—your father knows you're innocent of robbery. Yes, John, my blood is in you, and there you're wronged, my son. I know you too well, in spite of all I've said to you, to believe that, my true-hearted boy.”
He grasped his son's hand as he spoke.
And his mother at the same moment caught him in her arms, whilst both sobbed aloud. A strong sense of innate dignity expanded the brow of young Lamh Laudher. He smiled while his parents wept, although his sympathy in their sorrow brought a tear at the same time to his eye-lids. He declined, however, entering into any explanation, and the father proceeded—
“Yes! I know you are innocent, John; I can swear that you didn't leave this house from nine o'clock last night up to the present minute.”
“Father,” said Lamh Laudher, “don't swear that, for it would not be true, although you think it would. I was out the greater part of last night.”
His father's countenance fell again, as did those of his friends who were present, on hearing what appeared to be almost an admission of his guilt.
“Go,” said the old man, “go; naburs, take him with you. If he's guilty of this, I'll never more look upon his face. John, my heart was crushed before, but you're likely to break it out an' out.”
Lamh Laudher Oge's deportment, on hearing himself charged with robbery, became dogged and sullen. The conversation, together with the sympathy and the doubt it excited among his friends, he treated with silent indignation and scorn. He remembered that on the night before, the strange woman assured him she had not been robbed, and he felt that the charge was exceedingly strange and unaccountable.
“Come,” said he, “the sooner this business is cleared up the better. For my part, I don't know what to make of it, nor do I care much how it goes. I knew since yesterday evening, that bad luck was before me, at all events, an' I suppose it must take its course, an' that I must bear it.”
The father had sat down, and now declined uttering a single word in vindication of his' son. The latter looked towards him, when about to pass out, but the old man waved his hand with sorrowful impatience, and pointed to the door, as intimating a wish that he should forthwith depart from under his roof. Loaded with twofold disgrace, he left his family and his friends, accompanied by the constables, to the profound grief and astonishment of all who knew him.
They then conducted him before a Mr. Brooldeigh, an active magistrate of that day, and a gentleman of mild and humane character.
On reaching Brookleigh Hall, Lamh Laudher found the strange woman, Nell M'Collum, Connor's servant maid, and the carman awaiting his arrival. The magistrate looked keenly at the prisoner, and immediately glanced with an expression of strong disgust at Nell M'Collum. The other female surveyed Lamh Laudher with an interest evidently deep; after which she whispered something to Nell, who frowned and shook her head, as if dissenting from what she had heard. Lamh Laudher, on his part surveyed the features of the female with an earnestness that seemed to absorb all sense of his own disgrace and danger.
“O'Rorke,” said the magistrate, “this is a serious charge against you. I trust you may be able effectually to meet it.”
“I must wait, your worship, till I hear fully what it is first,” replied Lamh Laudher, “afther that I'm not afraid of clearin' myself from it.”
The woman then detailed the circumstances of the robbery, which it appeared took place at the moment her luggage was in the act of being removed to her room, after which she added, rather unexpectedly—“And now your worship, I have plainly stated the facts; but I must, in conscience, add, that although this woman,” turning to Nell M'Collum, “is of opinion that the young man before you has robbed me, yet I cannot think he did.”
“I'll swear, your worship,” said Nell, “that on passin' homewards last night, seein' a car wid people about it, at Luke Connor's door, I stood behind the porch, merely to thry if I knew who they wor. I seen this Lamh Laudher wid a small oak box in his hands, an' I'll give my oath that it was open, an' that he put his hands into it, and tuck something out.”
“Pray, Nell, how did it happen that you yourself were abroad at so unseasonable an hour?” said the magistrate.
“Every one knows that I'm out at quare hours,” replied Nell; “I'm not like others. I know where I ought to be, at all times; but last night, if your worship wishes to hear the truth, I was on my way to Andy Murray's wake, the poor lad that was shepherd to the Neils.”
“And pray, Nell,” said his worship, “how did you form so sudden an acquaintance with this respectable looking woman?”
“I knew her for years,” said Nell; “I've seen her in other parts of the country often.”
“You were more than an hour with her last night—were you not?” said his worship.
“She made me stay wid her,” said Nell, “bekase she was a stranger, an' of coorse was glad to see a face she know, afther the fright she got.”
“All very natural, Nell; but in the mean time, she might easily have chosen a more respectable associate. Have you actually lost the sum of six hundred pounds, my good madam?”
“I have positively lost so much,” replied the woman, “together with the certificate of my marriage.”
“And how did you become acquainted with Nell M'Collum?” he inquired.
The stranger was silent, and blushed deeply at this question; but Nell, with more presence of mind, went over to the magistrate, and whispered something which caused him to start, look keenly at her, and then at the plaintiff.
“I must have this confirmed by herself” he said in reply to Nell's disclosure, “otherwise I shall be much more inclined to consider you the thief than O'Rorke, whose character has been hitherto unimpeachable and above suspicion.”
He then beckoned the woman over to his desk, and after having first inquired if she could write, and being replied to in the affirmative, he placed a slip of paper before her, on which was written—“Is that unhappy woman called Nell M'Collum, your mother?”
“Alas! she is, sir,” replied the female, with a deep expression of sorrow. The magistrate then appeared satisfied. “Now,” said he, addressing O'Rorke, “state, fairly and honestly what you have to say in reply to the charge brought against you.”
“Please your worship,” said the young man, “you hear the woman say that she brings no charge against me; but I can prove on oath, that Nell M'Collum and her niece, Nanse M'Collum, along with two men that I don't know, except that one was called Rody, met at Franklin's gate, with an intention of robing, an' it's my firm belief, of murdering this woman.”
He then detailed with great earnestness the incidents and conversation of the preceding night.
“Sir,” replied Nell, with astonishing promptness, “I can prove by two witnesses, that, no longer ago than last night, he said he would take to the high-road, in ordher to get money to enable him to marry Ellen Neil. Yes, you villain, Nanse M'Collum heard every word that passed between you and her in the grassy quarry; an' Ellen, your worship, can prove it too, if she's sent for.”
This had little effect on the magistrate, who at no time placed any reliance on Nell's assertions; he immediately, however, dispatched a summons for Nanse M'Collum.
The carman then related all that he knew, every word of which strongly corroborated what Lamh Laudher had said. He concluded by declaring it to be his opinion, that the prisoner was innocent, and added, that, according to the best of his belief, the box was not open when he left it in the plaintiff's sleeping-room above stairs.
The magistrate again looked keenly and suspiciously towards Nell. At this stage of the proceedings, O'Rorke's father and mother, accompanied by some of their friends, made their appearance. The old man, however, declined to take any part in the vindication of his son. He stood sullenly silent, with his arms folded and his brows knit, as much in indignation as in sorrow. The grief of the mother was louder, for she wept audibly.
Ere the lapse of many minutes, the constable returned, and stated that Nanse was not be found.
“She has not been at her master's house since morning,” he observed, “and they don't know where she is, or what has become of her.”
The magistrate immediately despatched two of the constables, with strict injunctions! to secure her, if possible.
“In the mean time,” he added, “I will order you, Nell M'Collum, to be strictly confined, until I ascertain whether she can be produced or not. Your haunts may be searched with some hope of success, while you are in durance; but I rather think we might seek for her in vain, if you were at liberty to regulate her motions. I cannot expect,” he added, turning to the stranger, “that you should prosecute one so nearly related to you, even if you had proof, which you have not; but I am almost certain, that she has been someway or other concerned in the robbery. You are a modest, interesting woman, and I regret the loss you have sustained. At present there are no grounds for committing any of the parties charged with the robbery. This unhappy woman I commit only as a vagrant, until her niece is found, after that we shall probably be able to see somewhat farther into this strange affair.”
“Something tells' me, sir,” replied the stranger, “that this young man is as innocent of the robbery as the child unborn. It's not my intention ever to think of prosecuting him. What I have done in the matter was against my own wishes.”
“God in heaven bless you for the words!” exclaimed the parents of O'Rorke, each pressing her hand with delight and gratitude. The woman warmly returned their greetings, but instantly felt her bosom heave with a hysterical oppression under which she sank into a state of insensibility. Lamh Laudher More and his wife were proceeding to bring her towards the door for air, when Nell M'Collum insisted on a prior right to render her that service. “Begone, you servant of the devil,” exclaimed the old man, “your wicked breath is bad about any one else; you won!t lay a hand upon her.”
“Don't let her, for heaven's sake!” said his wife; “her eye will kill the woman!”
“You are not aware,” said the magistrate, “that this woman is her daughter?”
“Whose daughter, please your honor,” said the old man indignantly.
“Nell M'Collum's,” he returned.
“It's as false as hell!” rejoined O'Rorke, “beggin' your honor's pardon for sayin' so. I mean it's false for Nell, if she says it. Nell, sir, never had a daughter, an' she knows that; but she had a son, an' she knows best what became of him.”
Nell, however, resolved not to be deterred from getting-the stranger into her own hands. With astonishing strength and fury she attempted to drag the insensible creature from O'Rorke's grasp; but the magistrate, disgusted at her violence, ordered two of the persons present to hold her down.
At length the woman began to recover.
She sobbed aloud, and a copious flow of tears drenched her cheeks. Nell ordered her to tear herself from O'Rorke and his wife:— “Their hands are bad about you,” she exclaimed, “and their son has robbed you, Mary. Lave them, I say, or it will be worse for you.”
The woman paid her no attention; on the contrary, she laid her head on the bosom of O'Rorke's wife, and wept as if her heart would break.
“God help me!” she exclaimed with a bitter sense of her situation, “I am an unhappy, an' a heart-broken woman! For many a year I have not known what it is to have a friendly breast to weep on.”
She then caught O'Rorke's hand and kissed it affectionately, after which she wept afresh;
“Merciful heaven!” said she'—“oh, how will I ever be able to meet my husband! and such a husband! oh, heavens pity me!”
Both O'Rorke and his wife stood over her in tears. The latter bent her head, kissed the stranger, and pressed her to her bosom. “May God bless you!” said O'Rorke himself solemnly; “trust in Him, for he can see justice done to you when man fails.”
The eyes of Nell glared at the group like those of an enraged tigress: she stamped her feet upon the floor, and struck it repeatedly with her stick, as she was in the habit of doing, when moved by strong and deadly passions.
“You'll suffer for that, Mary,” she exclaimed; “and as for you, Lamh Laudher More, my debt's not paid to you yet. Your son's a robber, an I'll prove it before long; every one knows he's a coward too.”
Mr. Brookleigh felt that there appeared to be something connected with the transactions of the preceding night, as well as with some of the persons who had come before him, that perplexed him not a little. He thought that, considering the serious nature of the charge preferred against young O'Rorke, he exhibited an apathy under it, that did not altogether argue innocence. Some unsettled suspicions entered his mind, but not with sufficient force to fix with certainty upon any of those present, except Nell and Nanse M'Collum who had absconded. If Nell were the woman's mother, her anxiety to bring the criminal to justice appeared very natural. Then, again, young O'Rorke's father, who seemed to know the history of Nell M'Collum, denied that she ever had a daughter. How could he be certain that she had not, without knowing her private life thoroughly? These circumstances appeared rather strange, if not altogether incomprehensible; so much so, indeed, that he thought it necessary, before they separated, to speak with O'Rorke's family in private. Having expressed a wish to this effect, he dismissed the other parties, except Nell, whom he intended to keep confined until the discovery of her niece.
“Pray,” said he to the father of our humble hero, “how do you know, O'Rorke, that Nell M'Collum never had a daughter?”
“Right well, your honor. I knew her since she was a child; an' from that day to this she was never six months from this town at a time. No, no—a son she had, but a daughter she never had.”
“Let me ask you, young man, on what business were you abroad last night? I expect you will answer me candidly?”
“It's no matther,” replied young Lamh Laudher gloomily, “my character's gone. I cannot be worse, an' I will tell no man how I spent it, till I have an opportunity of clarin' myself.”
“If you spent it innocently,” returned the magistrate, “you can have no hesitation in making the disclosure we require.”
“I will not mention it,” said the other; “I was disgraced, an' that is enough. I think but little of the robbery.”
Brookleigh understood him; but the last assertion, though it exonerated him in the opinion of a man who knew something about character, went far in that of his friends who were present to establish his guilt.
They then withdrew; and it would have been much to young Lamh Laudher's advantage if this private interview had never taken place.
The next morning O'Rorke and his wife! waited upon Mr. Brookleigh to state, that in their opinion it would be more judicious to liberate Nell M'Collum, provided he kept a strict watch upon all her motions. The magistrate instantly admitted both the force and ingenuity of the thought; and after having appointed three persons to the task of keeping her under surveillance, he set her at large.
This was all judicious and prudent; but in the mean time, common rumor, having first published the fact of young Lamh Laudher's cowardice, found it an easy task to associate his name with the robbery. His very father, after their last conference with the magistrate, doubted him; his friends, in the most sympathetic terms, expressed their conviction of his guilt, and the natural consequence resulting from this was, that he found himself expelled from his paternal roof, and absolutely put out of caste. The tide of ill-fame, in fact, set in so strongly against him, that Ellen, startled as she had been by his threat of taking to the highway, doubted him. The poor young man, in truth, led a miserable life. Nanse M'Collum had not been found, and the unfavorable rumor was still at its height, when one morning the town arose and found the walls and streets placarded with what was in those days known as the fatal challenge of the DEAD BOXER!
This method of intimating his arrival had always been peculiar to that individual, who was a man of color. No person ever discovered the means by which he placarded his dreadful challenge. In an age of gross superstition, numerous were the rumors and opinions promulgated concerning this circumstance. The general impression was, that an evil spirit attended him, by whose agency his advertisements were put up at night; A law, it is said, then existed, that when a pugilist arrived in any town, He might claim the right to receive the sum of fifty guineas, provided no man in the town could be found to accept his challenge within a given period. A champion, if tradition be true, had the privilege of fixing only the place, not the mode and regulations of battle. Accordingly the scene of contest uniformly selected by the Dead Boxer was the church-yard of the town, beside a new made grave, dug at his expense. The epithet of the Dead Boxer had been given to him, in consequence of a certain fatal stroke by which he had been able to kill every antagonist who dared to meet him; precisely on the same principle that we call a fatal marksman a dead shot; and the church-yard was selected, and the grave prepared, in order to denote the fatality incurred by those who went into a contest with him. He was famous, too, at athletic sports, but was never known to communicate the secret of the fatal blow; he also taught the sword exercises, at which he was considered to be a proficient.
On the morning after his arrival, the town in which we have laid the scene of this legend felt the usual impulse of an intense curiosity to see so celebrated a character. The Dead Boxer, however, appeared to be exceedingly anxious to gratify this natural propensity. He walked out from the head inn, where he had stopped, attended by his servant, merely, it would appear, to satisfy them as to the very slight chance which the stoutest of them had in standing before a man whose blow was so fatal, and whose frame so prodigiously Herculean.
Twelve o'clock was the hour at which he deemed proper to make his appearance, and as it happened also to be the market-day of the town, the crowd which followed him was unprecedented. The old and young, the hale and feeble of both sexes, all rushed out to see, with feelings of fear and wonder, the terrible and far-famed Dead Boxer. The report of his arrival had already spread far and wide into the country, and persons belonging to every class and rank of life might be seen hastening on horseback, and more at full speed on foot, that they might, if possible, catch an early glimpse of him. The most sporting characters among the nobility and gentry of the country, fighting-peers, fire-eaters, snuff-candle squires, members of the hell-fire and jockey clubs, gaugers, gentlemen tinners, bluff yeomen, laborers, cudgel-players, parish pugilists, men of renown within a district of ten square miles, all jostled each other in hurrying to see, and if possible to have speech of, the Dead Boxer. Not a word was spoken that day, except with reference to him, nor a conversation introduced, the topic of which was not the Dead Boxer. In the town every window was filled with persons standing to get a view of him; so were the tops of the houses, the dead walls, and all the cars, gates, and available eminences within sight of the way along which he went. Having thus perambulated the town, he returned to the market-cross, which, as we have said, stood immediately in front of his inn. Here, attended by music, he personally published his challenge in a deep and sonorous voice, calling upon the corporation in right of his championship, to produce a man in ten clear days ready to undertake battle with him as a pugilist, or otherwise to pay him the sum of fifty guineas out of their own proper exchequer.
Having thus thrown down his gauntlet, the musicians played a dead march, and there was certainly something wild and fearful in the association produced by these strains of death and the fatality of encountering him. This challenge he repeated at the same place and hour during three successive days, after which he calmly awaited the result.
In the mean time, certain circumstances came to light, which not only developed many cruel and profligate traits in his disposition, but also enabled the worthy inhabitants of the town to ascertain several facts relating to his connections, which in no small degree astonished them. The candid and modest female whose murder and robbery had been planned by Nell M'Collum, resided with him as his wife; at least if he did not acknowledge her as such, no person who had an opportunity of witnessing her mild and gentle deportment, ever for a moment conceived her capable of living with him in any other character, his conduct to her, however, was brutal in the extreme, nor was his open and unmanly cruelty lessened by the misfortune of her having lost the money which he had accumulated. With Nell M'Collum he was also acquainted, for he had given orders that she should be admitted to him whenever she deemed it necessary. Nell, though now at large, found her motions watched with a vigilance which no ingenuity on her part, could baffle. She knew this, and was resolved by caution to overreach those who dogged her so closely. Her intimacy with the Dead Boxer threw a shade of still deeper mystery around her own character and his. Both were supposed to be capable of entering into evil communion with supernatural beings, and both, of course, were looked upon with fear and hatred, modified, to be sure, by the peculiarity of their respective situations.
Let not our readers, however, suppose that young Lamh Laudher's disgrace was altogether lost in the wide-spread fame of the Dead Boxer. His high reputation for generous and manly feeling had given him too strong a hold upon the hearts of all who know him, to be at once discarded by them from public conversation as an indifferent person. His conduct filled them with wonder, it is true; but although the general tone of feeling respecting the robbery was decidedly in his favor, yet there still existed among the public, particularly in the faction that was hostile to him, enough of doubt, openly expressed, to render it a duty to avoid him; particularly when this formidable suspicion was joined to the notorious fact of his cowardice in the rencounter with Meehaul Neil. Both subjects were therefore discussed with probably an equal interest; but it is quite certain that the rumor of Lamh Laudher's cowardice would alone have occasioned him, under the peculiar circumstances which drew it forth, to be avoided and branded with contumely. There was, in fact, then in existence among the rival factions in Ireland much of the military sense of honor which characterizes the British army at this day; nor is this spirit even yet wholly exploded, from our humble countrymen. Poor Lamh Laudher was, therefore, an exile from his father's house, repulsed and avoided by all who had formerly been intimate with him.
There was another individual, however, who deeply sympathized in all he felt, because she knew that for her sake it had been incurred; we allude to Ellen Neil. Since the night of their last interview, she, too, had been scrupulously watched by her relations. But what vigilance can surpass the ingenuity of love? Although her former treacherous confidant had absconded, yet the incident of the Dead Boxer's arrival had been the means of supplying her with a friend, into whose bosom she felt that she could pour out all the anxieties of her heart. This was no other than the Dead Boxer's wife; and there was this peculiarity in the interest which she took in Ellen's distress, that it was only a return of sympathy which Ellen felt in the unhappy woman's sufferings. The conduct of her husband was indefensible; for while he treated her with shameful barbarity, it was evident that his bad passions and his judgment were at variance, with respect to the estimate which he formed of her character. In her honesty he placed every confidence, and permitted her to manage his money and regulate his expenses; but this was merely because her frugality and economic habits gratified his parsimony, and fostered one of his strongest passions, which was avarice. There was something about this amiable creature that won powerfully upon the affections of Ellen Neil; and in entrusting her with the secret of her love, she she felt assured that she had not misplaced it. Their private conversations, therefore, were frequent, and their communications, unreserved on both sides, so far as woman can bestow confidence and friendship on the subject of her affections or her duty. This intimacy did not long escape the prying eyes of Nell M'Collum, who soon took means to avail herself of it for purposes which will shortly become evident.
It was about the sixth evening after the day on which the Dead Boxer had published his challenge, that, having noticed Nell from a window as she passed the inn, he dispatched a waiter with a message that she should be sent up to him. Previous to this the hag had been several times with his wife, on whom she laid serious injunctions never to disclose to her husband the relationship between them. The woman had never done so, for in fact the acknowledgement of Nell, as her mother, would have been to, any female whose feelings had not been made callous by the world, a painful and distressing task. Nell was the more anxious on this point, as she feared that such a disclosure would have frustrated her own designs.
“Well, granny,” said he, when Nell entered, “any word of the money?”
Nell cautiously shut the door, and stood immediately fronting him, her hand at some distance from her side, supported by her staff, and her gray glittering eyes fixed upon him with that malicious look which she never could banish from her countenance.
“The money will come,” she replied, “in good time. I've a charm near ready that'll get a clue to it. I'm watchin' him—and I'm watched myself—an' Ellen's watched. He has hardly a house to put his head in; but nabockish! I'll bring you an' him together—ay, dher manim, an' I'll make him give you the first blow; afther that, if you don't give him one, it's your own fau't.”
“Get the money first, granny. I won't give him the blow till it is safe.”
“Won't you?” replied the beldame; “ay, dher Creestha, will you, whin you know what. I have to tell you about him an'—an'——”
“And who, granny?”
“Diououl, man, but I'm afeard to tell you, for fraid you'd kill me.”
“Tut, Nelly; I'd not strike an Obeah-wo-man,” said he, laughing.
“I suspect foul play between him an'—her.”
“Eh? Fury of hell, no!”
“He's very handsome,” said the other, “an' young—far younger than you are, by thirteen—”
“Go on—go on,” said the Dead Boxer, interrupting her, and clenching his fist, whilst his eyes literally glowed like live coals, “go on—I'll murder him, but not till—yes, I'll murder him at a blow—I will; but no—not till you secure the money first. If I give him the blow—THE BOX—I might never get it, granny. A dead man gives back nothing.”
“I suspect,” replied Nell, “arraghid—that is the money—is in other hands. Lord presarve us! but it's a wicked world, blackey.”
“Where is it!” said the Boxer, with a vehemence of manner resembling that of a man who was ready to sink to perdition for his wealth. “Devil! and furies! where is it?”
“Where is it?” said the imperturbable Nell; “why, manim a yeah, man, sure you don't think that I know where it is? I suspect that your landlord's daughter, his real sweetheart, knows something about it; but thin, you see, I can prove nothing; I only suspect. We must watch an' wait. You know she wouldn't prosecute him.”
“We will watch an' wait—but I'll finish him. Tell me, Nell—fury of hell, woman—can it be possible—no—well—I'll murder him, though; but can it be possible that she's guilty? eh? She wouldn't prosecute him—No—no—she would not.”
“She is not worthy of you, blackey. Lord save us! Well, troth, I remimber whin you wor in Lord S—'s, you were a fine young man of your color. I did something for the young lord in my way then, an' I used to say, when I called to see her, that you wor a beauty, barrin' the face. Sure enough, there was no lie in that. Well, that was before you tuck to the fightin'; but I'm ravin'. Whisper, man. If you doubt what I'm sayin', watch the north corner of the orchard about nine to-night, an' you'll see a meetin' between her an' O'Rorke. God be wid you! I must go.”
“Stop!” said the Boxer; “don't—but do get a charm for the money.”
“Good-by,” said Nell; “you a heart wid your money! No; damnho sherry on the charm ever I'll get you till you show more spunk. You! My curse on the money, man, when your disgrace is consarned!”
Nell passed rapidly, and with evident indignation out of the room; nor could any entreaty on the part of the Dead Boxer induce her to return and prolong the dialogue.
She had said enough, however, to produce in his bosom torments almost equal to those of the damned. In several of their preceding dialogues, she had impressed him with a belief that young Lamh Laudher was the person who had robbed his wife; and now to the hatred that originated in a spirit of avarice, she added the deep and deadly one of jealousy. On the other hand, the Dead Boxer had, in fact, begun to feel the influence of Ellen Neil's beauty; and perhaps nothing would have given him greater satisfaction than the removal of a woman whom he no longer loved, except for those virtues which enabled him to accumulate money. And now, too, had he an equal interest in the removal of his double rival, whom, besides, he considered the spoliator of his hoarded property. The loss of this money certainly stung him to the soul, and caused his unfortunate wife to suffer a tenfold degree of persecution and misery. When to this we add his sudden passion for Ellen Neil, we may easily conceive what she must have endured. Nell, at all events, felt satisfied that she had shaped the strong passions of her savage dupe in the way best calculated to gratify that undying spirit of vengeance which she had so long nurtured against the family of Lamh Laudher. The Dead Boxer, too, was determined to prosecute his amour with Ellen Neil, not more to gratify his lawless affection for her than his twofold hatred of Lamh Laudher.
At length nine o'clock arrived, and the scene must change to the northern part of Sheemus Neil's orchard. The Dead Boxer threw a cloak around him, and issuing through the back door of the inn, entered the garden, which was separated from the orchard only by a low clipped hedge of young whitethorn, in the middle of which stood of a small gate. In a moment he was in the orchard, and from behind its low wall he perceived a female proceeding to the north side muffled like himself in a cloak, which he immediately recognized to be that of his wife. His teeth became locked together with the most deadly resentment; his features twitched with the convulsive spasms of rage, and his nostrils were distended as if his victims stood already within his grasp. He instantly threw himself over the wall, and nothing but the crashing weight of his tread could have saved the lives of the two unsuspecting persons before him. Startled, however, by the noise of his footsteps, Lamh Laudher turned round to observe who it was that followed them, and immediately the massy and colossal black now stripped of his cloak—for he had thrown it aside—stood in their presence. The female instinctively drew the cloak round her face, and Lamh Laudher was about to ask why he followed them, when the Boxer approached him in an attitude of assault.
With a calmness almost unparalleled under the circumstances, Lamh Laudher desired the female by no means to cling to him.
“If you do,” said he, “I am murdered where I stand.”
“No,” she shrieked, “you shall not. Stand back, man, stand back, if you murder him I will take care you shall suffer for it. Stand back. Lamh Laudher never injured you.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the Boxer, in reply; “why, what is this! Who have we here?”
Ellen, for it was she, had already thrown back the cloak from her features, and stepped forward between them.
“Well, I am glad it is you,” said the black, “and so may he. Come, I shall conduct you home.”
He caught her arm as he spoke, and drew her over to his side like an infant.
“Come, my pretty girl, come; I will treat you tenderly, and all I shall ask is a kiss in return. Here, young fellow,” said he to Lamh Laudher, with a sense of bitter triumph, “I will show you that one black kiss is worth two white ones.”
Heavy, hard, and energetic was the blow which the Dead Boxer received upon the temple, as the reply of Lamh Laudher, and dead was the crash of his tremendous body on the earth. Ellen looked around her with amazement.
“Come,” said she, seizing her lover's arm, and dragging him onward: “gracious heavens! I hope you haven't killed him. Come, John, the time is short, and we must make the most of it. That villain, as I tould you before, is a villain. Oh! if you knew it! John, I have been the manes of your disgrace and suffering, but I am willing to do what I can to remedy that. In your disgrace, Ellen will be ready, in four days from this, to become your wife. John, come to meet me no more. I will send that villain's innocent wife to your aunt Alley's, where you now live'. I didn't expect to see you myself; but I got an opportunity, and besides she was too unwell to bring my message, which was to let you know what I now tell you.”
John, ere he replied, looked behind him at the Dead Boxer, and appeared as if struck with some sudden thought.
“He is movin',” said he, “an' on this night I don't wish to meet him again; but—yes, Ellen, yes—God bless you for the words you've said; but how could you for one minute doubt me about the robbery?”
“I did not, John—I did not; and if I did, think of your own words at our meetin' in the Quarry; it was a small suspicion, though—no more. No, no; at heart I never doubted you.”
“Ellen,” said John, “hear me. You never will become my wife till my disgrace is wiped away. I love you too well ever to see you blush for your husband. My mind's made up—so say no more. Ay, an' I tell you that to live three months in this state would break my heart.”
“Poor John!” she exclaimed, as they separated, and the words were followed by a gush of tears, “I know that there is not one of them, in either of the factions, so noble in heart and thought as you are.”
“Ill prove that soon, Ellen; but never till my name is fair and clear, an' without spot, can you be my wife. Good night, dearest; in every thing but that I'll be guided by you.”
They then separated, and immediately the Dead Boxer, like a drunken man, went tottering, rather crest-fallen, towards the inn. On reaching his own room, his rage appeared quite ungovernable; he stormed, stamped, and raved on reflecting that any one was able to knock him down. He called for brandy and water, with a curse to the waiter, swore deeply between every sip, and, ultimately dispatched another messenger for Nell M'Collum.
“That Obeah woman's playing on me,” he exclaimed; “because my face is black, she thinks me a fool. Furies! I neither know what she is, nor who the other is. But I will know.”
“Don't be too sure of that,” replied Nell, gliding into the apartment—“You can say little, blackey, or think little, avourneen, that I'll not know. As to who she is, you needn't ax—she won't be long troublin' you; an' in regard to myself, I'm what you see me. Arra, dher ma chuirp, man alive, I could lave you in one night that a boy in his first breestha (small clothes) could bate the marrow out of you.”
“Where did you come from now, granny?”
“From her room; she's sick—that was what prevented her from meetin' Lamh Laudher.”
“Granny, do you know who she is? I'm tired of her—sick of her.”
“You know enough about her to satisfy you. Wasn't she a beautiful creature when Lady S——— tuck her into the family, an' reared her till she was fit to wait upon herself. Warn't you then sarvant to the ould lord, an' didn't I make her marry you, something against her will, too; but she did it to plase me. That was before 'buildin' churches' druv you out of the family, an' made you take to the fightin' trade.”
“Granny, you must bring this young fellow across me. Blood! woman, do you know what he did? He knocked me down, granny—struck me senseless! Fury of hell! Me! Only for attempting to kiss his sweetheart!”
“Ha!” said Nell, bitterly, “keep that to yourself, for heaven's sake! Dher ma chuirp, man, if it was known, his name would be higher up than ever. Be my sowl, any how, that was the Lamh Laudher blow, my boy, an' what that is, is well known. The devil curse him for it!”
“Granny, you must assist me in three things. Find a clue to the money—bring this fellow in my way, as you promised—and help me with the landlord's daughter.”
“Is there nothin' else?”
“What?”
“She's sick.”
“Well, let her die, then; I don't care.”
“In the other things I will help you,” said Nell; “but you must clear your own way there. I can do every thing but that. I have a son myself, an' my hands is tied against blood till I find him out. I could like to see some people withered, but I can't kill.”
“Well, except her case, we understand one another. Good night, then.”
“You must work that for yourself. Good night.”