—Raymond, her Son—Short Dialogue on the Times—Polls Opinion on the Causes of Immorality—Solomon is Generous—A Squire of the Old School—And a Moral Dialogue.
The next morning was that on which the Quarter Sessions of Castle Cumber commenced; and of course it was necessary for Darby O'Drive, who was always full of business on such occasions, to see M'Clutchy, in order to receive instructions touching his duties on various proceedings connected with the estate. He had reached the crossroads that ran about half-way between Constitution Cottage and Castle Cumber, when! he met, just where the road turned to M'Clutchy's, a woman named Poll Doolin, accompanied, as she mostly was, by her son—a poor, harmless, idiot, named Raymond; both of whom were well known throughout the whole parish. Poll was a thin, sallow woman, with piercing dark eyes, and a very; gipsy-like countenance. Her dress was always black, and very much worn; in fact, everything about her was black—black stockings, black bonnet, black hair, and black kerchief. Poll's occupation was indeed a singular one, and not very creditable to the morals of the day. Her means of living were derived from the employment of child-cadger to the Foundling Hospital of Dublin. In other words, she lived by conveying illegitimate children from the places of their birth to the establishment just mentioned, which has been very properly termed a bounty for national immorality. Whenever a birth of this kind occurred, Poll was immediately sent for—received her little charge with a name—whether true or false mattered not—pinned to its dress—then her traveling expenses; after which she delivered it at the hospital, got a receipt for its delivery, and returned to claim her demand, which was paid only on her producing it. In the mean time, the unfortunate infant had to encounter all the comforts of the establishment, until it was drafted out to a charter school, in which hot-bed of pollution it received that exquisitely moral education that enabled it to be sent out into society admirably qualified to sustain the high character of Protestantism.
“Morrow, Poll,” said Darby; “what's the youngest news wid you? And Raymond, my boy, how goes it wid you?”
“I don't care for you,” replied the fool; “you drove away Widow Branagan's cow, an' left the childre to the black wather. Bad luck to you!”
Darby started; for there is a superstition among the Irish, that the curse of an “innocent” is one of the most unlucky that can be uttered.
“Don't curse me,” replied Darby; “sure, Raymond, I did only my duty.”
“Then who made you do your duty?” asked the other.
“Why, Val the Vul—hem—Mr. M'Clutchy, to be sure.”
“Bad luck to him then!”
His mother, who had been walking a little before him, turned, and, rushing towards him, put her hand hastily towards his mouth, with the obvious intention of suppressing the imprecation; but too late; it had escaped, and be the consequence what it might, Val had got the exciting cause of it.
“My poor unfortunate boy,” said she, “you oughtn't to curse anybody; stop this minute, and say God bless him.”
“God bless who?”
“Mr. McClutchy.”
“The devil bless him! ha, ha, ha! Doesn't he harry the poor, an' drive away their cows from them—doesn't he rack them an' rob them—harry them, rack them, rob them—
This he sung in an air somewhat like “Judy Callahan.”
“Ha, ha, ha! Oh the devil bless him! and they say a blessin' from the devil is very like a curse from God.”
The mother once more put up her hands to his face, but only with the intention of fondling and caressing him. She tenderly stroked down his head, and patted his cheek, and attempted to win him out of the evil humor into which the sight of Darby had thrown him. Darby could observe, however, that she appeared to be deeply troubled by the idiot's conduct, as was evident by the trembling of her hands, and a perturbation of manner which she could not conceal.
“Raymond,” she said, soothingly, “won't you be good for me, darlin'—for your own mother, my poor helpless boy? Won't you be good for me?”
“I will,” said he, in a more placid voice.
“And you will not curse anybody any more?”
“No, mother, no.”
“And won't you bless Mr. M'Clutchy, my dear child?”
“There's a fig for him,” he replied—there's a fig for him. Now!”
“But you didn't bless him, my darlin'—you didn't bless him yet.”
As she spoke the words, her eye caught! his, and she perceived that it began to gleam and kindle.
“Well no,” said she hastily; “no, I won't ask you; only hould your tongue—say no more.”
She again patted his cheek tenderly, and the fiery light which began to burn in his eye, died gradually away, and no other expression remained in it but the habitual one of innocence and good-nature.
“No, no,” said she, shaking her head, and speaking as much to herself as to Darby; “I know him too well; no earthly power will put him out of his own way, once he takes it into his head. This minute, if I had spoke another word about the blessin', Mr. M'Clutchy would a got another curse; yet, except in these fits, my poor child is kindness and tendheress itself.”
“Well now,” said Darby, “that that's over, can you tell me, Poll, what's the news? When were you in Dublin?”
“I've given that up,” replied Poll; “I'm too ould and stiff for it now. As for the news, you ought to know what's goin' as well as I do. You're nearly as much on the foot.”
“No; nor if every head in the parish was 'ithin side o'mine, I wouldn't know as much in the news line as you, Poll.”
“The news that's goin' of late, Darby, is not good, an' you know it. There's great grumlin' an' great complaints, ever since. Val, the lad, became undher agent; and you know that too.”
“But how can I prevent that?” said Darby; “sure I'd side wid the people if I could.”
“You'd side wid the people, an' you'd side wid the man that oppresses them, even in spite of Mr. Hickman.”
“God bless Mr. Hickman!” said Raymond, “and the divil curse him! and sure 'tis well known that the divil's curse is only another name for God's blessin'. God bless, Mr. Hickman!”
“Amen, my darlin' child, wid all my heart,” said Poll; “but, Darby,” she continued, “take my word for it, that these things won't end well. The estate and neighborhood was peaceable and quiet till the Vulture began his pranks, and now——”
“Very well,” said Darby, “the blame be his, an' if it comes to that, the punishment; so far as myself's consarned, I say, let every herrin' hang by its own tail—I must do my duty. But tell me, Poll—hut, woman, never mind the Vulture—let him go to the devil his own way—tell me do you ever hear from your son Frank, that Brian M'Loughlin sent acrass?”
“No,” said she, “not a word; but the curse o' heaven on Brian M'Loughlin! Was my fine young man worth no more than his garran of a horse, that he didn't steal either, till he was put to it by the Finigans.”
“Well, sure two o' them were sent over soon afther him, if that's any comfort.”
“It's no comfort,” replied Poll, “but I'll tell you what's a comfort, the thought that I'll never die till I have full revenge on Brian M'Loughlin—ay, either on him or his—or both. Come, Raymond, have you ne'er a spare curse now for Brian M'Loughlin?—you could give a fat one to M'Clutchy this minute and have you none for Brian M'Loughlin?”
“No,” replied, the son, “he doesn't be harryin' the poor.”
“Well, but he transported your brother.
“No matter; Frank used to beat me—he was bad, an Brian M'Loughlin was good to me, and does be good to me; he gives me my dinner or breakfast whenever I go there—an' a good bed in the barn. I won't curse him. Now!”
“It's no use,” continued Poll, whose thin features had not yet subsided from the inflammatory wildness of expression which had been awakened by the curse, “it's no use, he'll only do what he likes himself, an' the best way is to never heed him.”
“I believe so,” said Darby, “but where's your daughter Lucy now, Poll?”
“Why,” said Poll, “she has taken to my trade, an' thravels up to the Foundling; although, dear knows, it's hardly worth her while now—it won't give her salt to her kale, poor girl.”
“Why, are the times mendin'?” asked Darby, who spoke in a moral point of view.
“Mendin'!” exclaimed Poll, “oh, ay indeed—Troth they're not fit to be named in the one day with what they used to be. But indeed, of late I'm happy to say that they are improvin' a bit,” said she, speaking professionally. “M'Clutchy's givin' them a lift, for I've ever an' always remarked, that distress, and poverty, and neglect o' the poor, and hardship, and persecution, an' oppression, and anything that way, was sure to have my very heart broke wid business.”
“And tell me, Poll, did you ever happen to get a job from a sartin pious gentleman, o' the name of M'Slime?—now tell the truth.”
“It's a question,” replied Poll, “you have no right to axe—you must know, Darby O'Drive, that I've had my private business, as well as my public business, an' that I'd suffer that right hand to be cut off sooner than betray trust. Honor bright, or what's the world good for!”
They now reached a spot where the road branched into two, but Poll still kept to that which led to M'Clutchy's. “Are you for the Cottage too,” asked Darby.
“I am,” replied Poll, “I've been sent for; but what he wants wid me, I know no more than the man in the moon.”
Just then the tramp of a horse's feet was heard behind' them, and in a minute or two, Solomon M'Slime, who was also on his way to the Cottage, rode up to them.
“A kind good morning to you Darby, my friend! I trust you did not neglect to avail yourself of the—Ah!” said he complacently on catching a glimpse of Poll's face, “I think I ought to recollect your features, my good woman—but, no—I can't say I do—No, I must mistake them for those of another—but, indeed, the best of us is liable to mistake and error—all frail—flesh is grass.”
“You might often see my face,” returned Poll, “but I don't think ever we spoke before. I know you to look at you, sir, that's all—an' it's thrue what you say too, sir, there's nothing but frailty in the world—divil a much else—howsomever, be that as is may, honor bright's my motive.”
“And a good motto it is, my excellent woman—is that interesting young man your son?”
“He is, sir; but he's a poor innocent that, hasn't the full complement of wit, sir, God help him!”
“Well, my good woman,” continued Solomon, “as he appears to be without shoes to his feet, will you accept of five shillings, which is all the silver I have about me, to buy him a pair.”
“Many thanks, Mr. M'Sl—hem—many thanks, sir; honor bright's my motive.”
“And let it always be so, my excellent, woman; a good morning to you very kindly! Darby, I bid you also good morning, and peace be with you both.”
So saying, he rode on at a quiet, easy amble, apparently at peace with his heart, his conscience, his sleek cob, and all the world besides.
The sessions of Castle Cumber having concluded as sessions usually conclude, we beg our reader to accompany us to Deaker Hall the residence of M'Clutchy's father, the squire. This man was far advanced in years, but appeared to have been possessed of a constitution which sustains sensuality, or perhaps that retrospective spirit which gloats over its polluted recollections, on the very verge of the grave. In the case before us, old age sharpened the inclination to vice in proportion as it diminished the power of being vicious, and presented an instance of a man, at the close of a long life, watching over the grave of a corrupted heart, with a hope of meeting the wan spectres of his own departed passions, since he could not meet the passions themselves; and he met them, for they could not rest, but returned to their former habitation, like unclean spirits as they were, each bringing seven more along with it, but not to torment him. Such were the beings with which the soul of this aged materialist was crowded. During life his well known motto was, “let us eat, and drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die.” Upon this principle, expanded into still wider depravity, did he live and act during a protracted existence, and to those who knew him, and well known he was, there appeared something frightfully revolting in the shameless career of this impenitent old infidel.
Deaker was a large man, with a rainbow protuberance before, whose chin, at the time we speak of, rested upon his breast, giving to him the exact character which he bore—that of a man who to the last was studious of every sensual opportunity. His gray, goatish eye, was vigilant and. circumspect, and his under lip protruded in a manner, which, joined to the character of his age, left no one at a loss for the general subject matter of his thoughts. He always wore top boots, and generally went on horseback, having that part of his hat which rested on the collar of his coat, turned up and greasy.
Squire Deaker's language was not more moral than his life—for he not only enforced his principles by his example, but also by his precept. His conversation consequently resolved itself into a mingled stream of swearing and obscenity. Ridicule of religion, and a hardened triumph in his own iniquitous exploits, illustrated and confirmed by a prodigality of blasphemous asservations, constituted the staple of his thoughts and expressions. According to his own principles he could not look forward to another life, and consequently all that remained for him was to look back upon an unbroken line of seduction and profligacy—upon wealth and influence not merely abused, but prostituted to the lowest and grossest purposes of our worst passions—upon systematic crime—unmanly treachery—and that dishonest avarice which constituted the act of heartless desertion in himself the ultimate ruin and degradation of his victims. Such was this well known squire of the old school, whose portrait, taken from life, will be recognized by every one who ever knew him, should any such happen to peruse these pages.
At the period of which we write Squire Deaker was near eighty, and although feeble and broken down, he still exhibited the remains of a large, coarse, strong-boned animal, not without a vigorous twinkle of low cunning in his eye, and a duplicity of character and principle about his angular and ill-shaped eye-brows which could not be mistaken. He was confined to his bed, and for the first time during many years, was unable to attend the Castle Cumber quarter sessions.
It was the second or third day after their close that about the hour of ten o'clock, a.m., he awoke from a heavy and unhealthy doze, which could scarcely be termed sleep, but rather a kind of middle state between that and waking. At length he raised his head, gasped, and on finding no one in the room, he let fly a volley of execrations, and rang the bell.
“Is there any one there? Any one within hearing? I say Isabel, Isabel, jezabel, are you all dead and d——d?”
“No, your honor, not yet—some of us at least,” replied a shrewd-looking lad of about eighteen, nicking his appearance.
“Ha, Lanty—it's you, is it? What do you mean by that, you devil's pick-tooth? Where's Isabel? Where's Jezabel? Playing her pranks, I suppose—where is she, you devil's tooth-brush? eh?”
“Do you want your brandy and wather, sir?”
“Brandy and h—l, you scoundrel! Where's Miss Puzzle?”
“Why, she's just rinsing her mouth, sir, wid a drop of “—
“Of what, you devil's imp; but I know—she's drinking—she's drunk, you young candidate for perdition?”
“I'm not an ould one, sir, any how; as to Miss Fuzzle, sir, she bid me say, that she's doin' herself the pleasure of drinkin' your health”—
“Ha, ha, ha! Oh, if I were near her—that's all! drinking my health! She's tipsy, the she scoundrel, she never sends me that message unless when she's tipsy”—
“Not tipsy, your honor, only unwell—she's a little touched wid the falling sickness—she always takes it after rinsing her mouth, sir; for she's fond of a sweet breath, your honor.”
“Ah, she's a confounded blackguard—a living quicksand, and nothing else. Lanty, my lad, if the Mississippi was brandy grog, she'd dry the river—drinking at this hour!—well, never mind, I was drunk myself last night, and I'm half drunk yet. Here, you devil's tinder box, mix me a glass of brandy and water.”
“Wouldn't you do it better yourself, sir?”
“No, you whelp, don't you see how my hands, and be hanged to them, tremble and shake. Put in another glass, I say—carry it to my mouth now; hold, you croil—here's the glorious, pious, and immortal memory! Ho! Lanty, there's nothing like being a good Protestant after all—so I'll stand to glorious Bill, to the last; nine times nine, and one cheer more! hurra!”
He then laid himself back, and attempted to whistle the Boyne Water, but having only one tusk in front, the sound produced resembled the wild whistle of the wind through the chink of a door—shrill and monotonous; after which he burst out into a chuckling laugh, tickled, probably, at the notion of that celebrated melody proving disloyal in spite of him, as refusing, as it were, to be whistled.
At this moment Miss Isabel, or as he most frequently called her Miss Jezabel Puzzle, came in with a gleaming eye and an unsteady step—her hair partially dishevelled, and her dress most negligently put on. The moment Deaker saw her, his whole manner changed, notwithstanding his previous violence—the swagger departed from him, his countenance fell, and he lay mute and terror-stricken before her. It was indeed clear that her sway over him was boundless, and such was the fact. On this occasion she simply looked at him significantly, held up her hand in a menacing attitude, and having made a mock curtesy, immediately left the room.
“Lanty,” said he in an undertone, when she had gone, “Lanty, you clip, go and tell her to forgive me; I said too much, and I'm sorry for it, say—go you scoundrel.”
“Faix I'll do no such thing, sir,” replied Lanty, alarmed at the nature of the message; “I know better than to come across her now; she'd whale the life out o' me. Sure she's afther flailing the cook out o' the kitchen—and Tom Corbet the butler has one of his ears, he says, hangin' off him as long as a blood-hound's.”
“Speak easy,” said Doaker, in a voice of terror, “speak lower, or she may hear you—Isn't it strange,” he said to himself, “that I who never feared God or man, should quail before this Jezabel!”
“Begad, an' here's one, your honor, that'll make her quail, if he meets her.”
“Who is it,” asked the other eagerly, “who is it you imp?”
“Why, Mr. M'Clutchy, sir; he's ridin' up the avenue.”
“Ay, Val the Vulture—Val the Vulture—I like that fellow—like him for his confoundedly clever roguery; only he's a hypocrite, and doesn't set the world at defiance as I do;—no, he's a cowardly, skulking hypocrite, nearly as great a one as M'Slime, but doesn't talk so much about religion as that oily gentleman.”
In a few moments M'Clutchy entered. “Good morrow, Val. Well, Val—well, my Vulture, what's in the wind now? Who's to suffer? Are you ready for a pounce? Eh?”
“I was sorry to hear that your health's not so good, sir, as it was.”
“You lie, my dear Vulture, you lie in your throat, I tell you. You're watching for my carcase, snuffing the air at a distance under the hope of a gorge. No—you didn't care the devil had me, provided you could make a haul by it.”
“I hope sir, there's no——”
“Hope! You rascally hypocrite, what's hope good for? Hope to rot in the grave is it? To melt into corruption and feed the worms? What a precious putrid carcase I'll make, when I'm a month in the dirt. Maybe you wouldn't much relish the scent of me then, my worthy Vulture. Curse your beak, at all events! what do you want? what did you come for?”
Val, who knew his worthy sire well, knew also the most successful method of working out any purpose with him. He accordingly replied, conscious that hypocrisy was out of the question—
“The fact is, sir, I want you to aid me in a piece of knavery.”
“I'll do it—I'll do it. Hang me if I don't. Come—I like that—it shows that there's no mock modesty between us—that we know one another. What's the knavery?”
“Why, sir, I'm anxious, in the first place, to have Hickman, the head agent, out, and in the next, to get into his place, if possible. Now, I know that you can assist me in both, if you wish.”
“How?” asked Deaker, who was quite as able a tactician as his son; and who, in fact, had contrived to put himself so completely! in possession of the political influence of the county as to be able to return any one he wished. “How is it to be done? Tell me that?”
“I have understood from George Gamble, Lord Cumber's own man, that he wants money.”
“Tut,” replied Deaker, who now forgot a great deal of his swearing, and applied himself to the subject, with all the coolness and ability of a thorough man of business.
“Tut, Val, is that your news? When was he ever otherwise? Come to the point; the thing's desirable—but how can it be done?”
“I think it can; but it must be by very nice handling indeed.”
“Well—your nice handling then?”
“The truth is, that Hickman, I suspect, is almost sick of the agency—thanks to Lord Cumber's extravagance, and an occasional bit of blister which I, through the tenantry, lay on him at home. Cumber, you know, is an unsteady scoundrel, and in the ordinary I transactions of life, has no fixed principle, for he is possessed of little honor, and I am afraid not much honesty.”
“Oh murder! this from Val the Vulture! Let me look at you! Did M'Slime bite you? or have you turned Methodist? Holy Jupiter, what a sermon! Curse your beak, sir; go on, and no preaching.”
“Not much honesty as I said. Now, sir, if you, who have him doubly in your power—first, by the mortgage; and, secondly, as his political godfather, who can either put him in, or keep him out of the country—if you were to write him a friendly, confidential letter, in which, observe, you are about to finally arrange your affairs; and you are sorry—quite sorry—but the truth is, something must be done about the mortgage—you are very sorry—mark—but you are old, and cannot leave your property in an unsettled state. Just touch that part of it so—”
“Yes—touch and go.”
“Exactly—touch and go. Well, you pass then to the political portion of it. Hickman's political opinions are not well known, or at least doubtful. Indeed you have reason to believe that he will not support his lordship or his family—is not in the confidence of government—displeased at the Union—and grumbles about corruption. His lordship is abroad you know, and cannot think for himself. You speak as his friend—his tried friend—he ought to have a man on his property who is staunch, can be depended on, and who will see that full justice is done him in his absence. Hickman, too, is against Ascendancy principles. Do you see, sir?”
“Proceed—what next?”
“Why, we stop there for the present; nothing more can be done until we hear from the scoundrel himself.”
“And what do you imagine will be the upshot?”
“Why, I think it not at all unlikely that he will place himself and his interests, pecuniary and political, altogether in your hands, and consequently you will probably have the guiding of him.”
“Well, Val, you are an able knave to be sure; but never mind; I like you all the better. The true doctrine is always—eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow you die,—take as much out of life and your fellow-men as you can. There's no knavery in the grave, my Vulture. There the honest man and the knave are alike; and this being the case, what the devil is public opinion worth?”
“It's worth a great deal if we use it for our own purposes while we're here; otherwise I agree with you that it's valueless in itself.”
“You're a cursed clever fellow, Val, an able knave, as I said—but I don't like your son; he's a dishonest blockhead, and I needn't tell you that the man who has not brains enough to be dishonest is a most contemptible scoundrel.”
“Are you not able to get up?” asked Val, in a very dutiful and affectionate voice.
“Able enough now, but my head swam a while ago at a deuced rate. I was drunk, as usual, last night, and could do nothing, not even put a tumbler to my mouth, until I took a stiff glass of brandy and water, and that has set me up again. When shall I write to young Topertoe, the Cumber blade?”
“The sooner the better, now; but I think you ought to rise and take some exercise.”
“So I shall, immediately, and to-morrow I write then, according to your able instructions, most subtle and sagacious Val. Are you off?”
“Yes, good-bye, sir, and many thanks.”
“None of your stuff I say, but be off out of this—” and as he spoke Val disappeared.
So far the first steps for ousting Mr. Hickman were taken by this precious father and his equally valuable son. Val, however, entertained other speculations quite as ingenious, and far more malignant in their tendency. Hickman, of course, he might, by undercurrents and manoeuvering, succeed in ejecting from the agency; but he could not absolutely ruin him. Nothing short of this, however, did he propose to himself, so far as M'Loughlin, and, we may add, every one connected with him, was concerned; for M'Clutchy possessed that kind of economy in his moral feelings, that always prompted him to gratify his interest and his malice by the same act of virtue. How he succeeded in this benevolent resolution, time and the progress of this truthful history will show.
—Description of a Summer Evening—A Jealous Vision—Letter from Squire Beaker to Lord Cumber—Lord Cumber's Reply.
The season was now about the close of May, that delightful month which presents, the heart and all our purer sensations with a twofold enjoyment; for in that sweet period have we not all the tenderness and delicacy of spring, combined with the fuller and more expanded charms of the leafy summer—like that portion of female life, in which the eye feels it difficult to determine whether the delicate beauty of the blushing girl, or the riper loveliness of the full grown maid, predominates in the person. The time was evening, about half an hour before that soft repose of twilight, in which may be perceived the subsiding stir of busy life as it murmurs itself into slumber, after the active pursuits of day. On a green upland lawn, that was a sheep walk, some portions of which were studded over with the blooming and fragrant furze, stood an old ecclesiastical ruin, grey from time, and breathing with that spirit of vague but dreamy reverie, which it caught from the loveliness of the season, the calmness and the golden light of the hour, accessories, that, by their influence, gave a solemn beauty to its very desolation. It reminded one somewhat of the light which coming death throws upon the cheek of youth when he treacherously treads in the soft and noiseless steps of decline—or rather of that still purer light, which, when the aged Christian arrives at the close of a well spent life, accompanied by peace, and hope, and calmness, falls like a glory on his bed of death. The ruin was but small, a remnant of one of those humble, but rude temples, in which God was worshipped in simplicity and peace, far from the noisy tumults and sanguinary conflicts of ambitious man.
Through this sweet upland, and close to the ruin, ran a footpath that led to a mountain village of considerable extent. Immediately behind the ruin stood a few large hawthorn trees, now white with blossoms, whose fragrance made the very air a luxury, and from whose branches came forth those gushes of evening melody that shed tenderness and tranquility into the troubled heart. The country in the distance lay charmed, as it were, by the calm spirit of peace which seemed to have diffused itself over the whole landscape—western windows were turned into fire—the motionless lakes shone like mirrors wherever they caught the beams of the evening light, as did several bends of the broad river which barely moved within its winding banks through the meadows below. The sun at length became half concealed behind the summit of the western hills, so that his rich and gorgeous beams fell only upon the surrounding uplands, now lit into purple, leaving the valleys and lower parts of the country to repose in that beautiful shadow which can be looked upon from the higher parts, only through the crimson glory of the departing light. And now the sun has disappeared—is gone—but still how beautiful is the fading splendor that sleeps for a little on the mountain tops, then becomes dimmer and dimmer—then a faint streak which gradually melts away until it is finally lost in the soft shadows of that thoughtful hour. And even thus passeth away all human glory! The ruin which we have mentioned stood about half way between the residence of Brian M'Loughlin and the mountain village to which we have alluded. Proceeding homewards from the latter place, having performed an errand of mercy and charity, was a very beautiful girl, exquisitely formed, but somewhat below the middle size. She was Brian M'Loughlin's only daughter—a creature that breathed of goodness, grace, and all those delightful qualities that make woman a ministering angel amidst the cares, and miseries, and sorrows of life. Her figure, symmetry itself, was so light, and graceful, and elegant, that a new charm was displayed by every motion, as a new beauty was discovered by every change of her expressive countenance; her hair was like the raven's wing, and her black eye, instead of being sharp and piercing, was more in accordance with the benignity of her character, soft, sweet, and mellow. Her bust and arm were perfection, and the small white hand and taper fingers would have told a connoisseur or sculptor, that her foot, in lightness and elegance of formation, might have excited, the envy of Iris or Camilla.
Having reached the ruin, she was surprised to see the figure of a thin woman, dressed in black, issue out of it, and approach her with somewhat of caution in her manner. Mary M'Loughlin was a girl of strong mind and firm character, and not likely to feel alarmed by any groundless cause of apprehension. She immediately recognized the woman, who was no other than our old friend Poll Doolin, and in the phrases peculiar to the country, made the usual kind inquiry after her health and welfare.
“It's a very unusual thing, Poll,” she proceeded, “to see you in this part of the neighborhood!”
“It is,” returned Poll, “I wasn't so near the mountains this many a day; an' I wouldn't be here now, only on your account. Miss M'Loughlin.”
Now, Mary was by no means ignorant of the enmity which this woman entertained against her father and family, in consequence of having prosecuted and transported her profligate son. Without the slightest apprehension on that account, she felt, however, a good deal puzzled as to the meaning which could be attached to Poll's words. “How, on my account, Poll? I don't understand you.”
“Neither you nor yours desarve it at my hands; but for all that, I am here to do you a good tarn.”
“I hope I never deserved any evil at your! hands, Poll.”
“No, but you're your father's daughter for all that, an' it's not usual to hate the tree and spare the branches.”
“I suppose you allude to the transportation of your son; but remember, Poll, that I was only a child then; and don't forget that had your son been honest, he might I still be a comfort and a credit to you, instead of a shame and a sorrow. I don't I mean, nor do I wish to hurt your feelings, Poll; but I am anxious that you should not indulge in such bitterness of heart against my father, who only did what he could not avoid.”
“Well,” said Poll, “never mind that—although it isn't aisy for a mother to forget her child wid all his faults; I am here, as I said, on your 'account—I am here to tell you, that there is danger about you and before you, and to put you on your guard against it. I am here, Miss Mary M'Loughlin, and if I'm not your friend—I'm not sayin' that I am not—still I'm the friend of one that is your friend, and that will protect you if he can.”
“That is very strange, Poll, for I know not how I can have an enemy. What danger could a simple inoffensive girl like me feel? I who have never knowingly offended anybody.”
“I have said the truth,” replied Poll, “and did my duty—you're now warned, so be on your guard and take care of yourself.”
“But how, Poll? You mention danger, yet have not told me what it is, where it's to come from, nor how I am to guard myself against it.”
“I'm not at liberty,” said Poll, “but this I can tell you, it's threatening you, and it comes from a quarther where you'd never look for it.”
Mary, who was neither timid nor surprised, smiled with the confidence of innocence, and replied, after a short pause of thought—
“Well, Poll, I have been thinking over my friends, and cannot find one that is likely to be my enemy; at all events I am deeply obliged to you, still if you could mention what the danger is, I would certainly feel the obligation to be greater. As it is, I thank you again. Good evening!”
“Stay, Miss Mary,” replied Poll, walking eagerly a step or two after her, “stay a minute; I have run a risk in doin' this—only promise me, to keep what I said to you a saicret for a while—as well as that you ever had any private talk wid me. Promise this.”
“I shall certainly not promise any such thing, Poll; so far from that, I will mention every word of your conversation to my father and family, the moment I reach home. If, as you say, there is danger before or around me, there are none whose protection I should so naturally seek.”
“But this,” said Poll, with an appearance of deep anxiety, “this is a matther of mere indifference to you: it's to me the danger is, if you spake of it—to me, I say—not to you.”
“But I can have no secrets from my family.”
“Well, but is it ginerous in you to put me—ay', my very life in danger—when all you have to do is merely to say nothing? However, since I must speak out—you'll put more than me in danger—them that you love betther, an' that you'd never carry a light heart if anything happened them.”
Mary started—and a light seemed suddenly to break upon her.
“How,” said she, “my engagement to Francis Harman is no secret; our marriage at no distant day being sanctioned by both our families. Is he involved in danger connected with your hints?”
“Deep and deadly, both to him and me. You don't know it, Miss Mary. If you love him, as you do—as is well known you do—if you would keep him and my poor worthless self out of danger, may be out of bloodshed—don't mention a syllable of this meetin' to any one; but of all persons livin' to himself, until I give you lave, until I can tell you it will be safe to do so. See, I kneel down with hands clasped, I beg it of you for his sake and safety!”
It was pretty well known through the parish, especially by the initiated, that this same Poll Doolin, had in truth most of its secrets in keeping; and that she had frequently conducted with success those rustic intrigues which are to be found in humble, as well as in high life. The former part of Poll's character, however, was all that had ever reached the youthful ears of poor innocent Mary, whilst of her address as a diplomatist in the plots and pursuits of love, she was utterly ignorant. Naturally unsuspicious, as we have already said, she looked upon the woman's knowing character rather as a circumstance calculated to corroborate the truth of the mystery which she, must have discovered: and was so much moved by the unquestionable sincerity of her manner, and the safety of her own lover, that she assured her she would keep the secret, until permitted to divulge it; which she begged might be at as early a period as possible. Poll thanked her eagerly and gratefully, and in a few minutes, having made a circuit behind the ruin, sought the lower and richer country by a different path.
Mary unconsciously stood for some time after Poll had left her, meditating over the strange and almost unaccountable scene which had just taken place, when a rich voice, with which she was well acquainted, addressed her. She started, and on turning about, found Francis Harman before her. Twilight had now nearly passed away, and the dusk of evening was deepening into the darkness of a summer night.
“What on earth are you thinking of alone in this place, my dear Mary, and who was that woman who just left you?”
Mary, though firm of character, was also tender and warm of heart, and felt deeply for those she loved. The interview with Poll, therefore, had excited apprehensions concerning Harman's safety, which disturbed her far more than any she felt for herself. He gave her his right arm as he spoke, and they went on towards her father's house.
“Good God,” he exclaimed, before she had time to answer him, “what has disturbed or alarmed you, my sweet Mary? I feel your heart beating against my arm, in a most extraordinary manner. How is this?”
The consciousness of the injunction so solemnly and recently imposed, distressed her exceedingly. Her love of truth was like her love of life or of heaven, a sacred and instinctive principle which she must now not only violate, but be forced to run into the hateful practice of dissimulation. All this passed through her mind in a moment.
“My dear Francis, I will freely admit that the beatings of my heart are not altogether without cause; I have been somewhat disturbed, but it will not signify; I shall be quite well in a moment—but where did you come from?”
“They told me you had gone up to poor Widow Carrick's—and I took the short way, thinking to find you there. But what has disturbed you, my dear Mary? Something has, and greatly too.”
She looked up with an affectionate smile into his face, although there trembled a tear upon her eyelids, as she spoke—
“Do not ask me, my dear Frank; nor don't think the circumstance of much importance. It is a little secret of mine, which I cannot for the present disclose.”
“Well, my love, I only ask to know if the woman that left you was Poll Doolin.”
“I cannot answer even that, Frank; but such as the secret is, I trust you shall soon know it.”
“That is enough, my darling. I am satisfied that you would conceal nothing from either your family or me, which might be detrimental either to yourself or us—or which we ought to know.”
“That is true,” said she, “I feel that it is true.”
“But then on the other hand,” said he, playfully, “suppose our little darling were in possession of a secret which we ought not to know—what character should we bestow on the secret?”
This, though said in love and jest, distressed her so much that she was forced to tell him so—“my dear Francis,” she replied, with as much composure as she could assume, “do not press me on the subject;—I cannot speak upon it now, and I consequently must throw myself on your love and generosity only for a short time, I hope.”
“Not a syllable, my darling, on the subject until you resume it yourself—how are Widow Carrick's sick children?”
“Somewhat better,” she replied, “the two eldest are recovering, and want nourishment, which, with the exception of my poor contributions, they cannot get.”
“God love and guard your kind and charitable heart, my sweet Mary,” said he, looking down tenderly into her beautiful face, and pressing her arm lovingly against his side.
“What a hard-hearted man that under agent, M'Clutchy, is,” she exclaimed, her beautiful eye brightening with indignation—“do you know that while her children were ill, his bailiff, Darby O'Drive, by his orders or authority, or some claim or other, took away her goose and the only half-dozen of eggs she had for them—indeed, Frank, he's a sad curse to the property.”
“He is what an old Vandal was once called for his cruelty and oppression—the Scourge of God,” replied Harman, “such certainly the unhappy tenantry of the Topertoe family find him. Harsh and heartless as he is, however, what would he be were it not for the vigilance and humanity of Mr. Hickman? But are you aware, Mary, that his graceful son Phil was a suitor of yours?”
“Of mine—-ha, ha, ha!—oh, that's too comical, Frank—but I am not—Had I really ever that honor?”
“Most certainly; his amiable father had the modesty to propose a matrimonial union between your family and his!”
“I never heard of it,” replied Mary, “never;—but that is easily accounted for—my father, I know, would not insult me by the very mention of it.”
“It's a fact though, that the illegitimate son of the blasphemous old squire, and of the virtuous and celebrated Kate Clank, hoped to have united the M'Loughlin blood with his!”
“Hush!” exclaimed Mary, shuddering, “the very thought is sickening, revolting.”
“It's not a pleasant subject, certainly,” said Harman, “and the less that is said about it the more disgust we shall avoid, at any rate.”
Her lover having safely conducted Mary home, remained with her family only a few minutes, as the evening was advanced, and he had still to go as far as Castle Cumber, upon business connected with the manufactory, which M'Loughlin and his father had placed wholly under his superintendence.
Upon what slight circumstances does the happiness of individuals, nay, even of states and kingdoms, too frequently depend! Harman most assuredly was incapable of altogether dismissing the circumstance of the evening—involved in mystery as they unquestionably were—out of his mind; not that he entertained the slightest possible suspicion of Mary's prudence or affection; but he felt a kind of surprise at the novelty of the position in which he saw she was placed, and no little pain in consequence of the disagreeable necessity for silence which she admitted had been imposed on her. His confidence in her, however, was boundless; and from this perfect reliance on her discretion and truth, he derived an assurance that she was acting with strict propriety under the circumstances, whatever might be their character or tendency.
It may be necessary to mention here that a right of passage ran from Beleeven, the name of the village in which M'Loughlin resided, to the Castle Cumber high road, which it joined a little beyond Constitution Cottage, passing immediately through an angle of the clump of beeches already mentioned as growing behind the house. By this path, which shortened the way very much, Harman, and indeed every pedestrian acquainted with it, was in the habit of passing, and on the night in question he was proceeding along it at a pretty quick pace, when, having reached the beeches just alluded to, he perceived two figures, a male and female, apparently engaged in close and earnest conversation. The distance at first was too great to enable him to form any opinion as to who they were, nor would he have even asked himself the question, were it not that the way necessarily brought him pretty near them. The reader may form some conception then of his surprise, his perplexity, and, disguise it as he might, his pain, on ascertaining that the female was no other than Poll Doolin, and her companion, graceful Phil himself—the gallant and accomplished owner of Handsome Harry.
It appeared quite evident that the subject matter of their conversation was designed for no other ears than their own, or why speak as they did in low and guarded tones, that implied great secrecy and caution. Nay, what proved still a plainer corroboration of this—no sooner was the noise of his footsteps heard, than Poll squatted herself down behind the small hedge which separated the pathway from the space on which they stood, and this clearly with a hope of concealing her person from his observation. Phil also turned away his face with a purpose of concealment, but the impression left by his lank and scraggy outline, as it stood twisted before Harman, was such as could not be mistaken. Poll's identity not only on this occasion, but also during her hasty separation from Mary, was now established beyond the possibility of a doubt; a fact which lent to both her interviews a degree of mystery that confounded Harman. On thinking over the matter coolly, he could scarcely help believing that Her appearance here was in some way connected with the, circumstances which had occasioned Mary so much agitation and alarm. This suspicion, however, soon gave way to a more generous estimate of her character, and he could not permit himself for a moment to imagine the existence of anything that was prejudicial to her truth and affection. At the same time he felt it impossible to prevent himself from experiencing a strong sense of anxiety, or perhaps we should say, a feeling of involuntary pain, which lay like a dead weight upon his heart and spirits. In truth, do what he might and reason as he would, he could not expel from his mind the new and painful principle which disturbed it. And thus he went on, sometimes triumphantly defending Mary from all ungenerous suspicion, and again writhing under the vague and shapeless surmises which the singular events of the evening sent crowding to his imagination. His dreams on retiring to seek repose were frightful—several times in the night he saw graceful Phil squinting at him with a nondescript leer of vengeance and derision in his yellow goggle eyes, and bearing Mary off, like some misshapen ogre of old, mounted upon Handsome Harry, who appeared to be gifted with the speed of Hark-away or flying Childers, whilst he himself could do nothing but stand helplessly by, and contemplate the triumph of his hated rival.
In the mean time the respected father and grandfather of that worthy young gentleman were laboring as assiduously for his advancement in life as if he had been gifted with a catalogue of all human virtues. Old Deaker, true to his word, addressed the very next day the following characteristic epistle—
“To the Right Hon. Lord Cumber.
“My Lord—It is unnecessary to tell you that I was, during my life, a plain blunt fellow in all my transactions. When I was honest, I was honest like a man; and when I did the roguery, I did it like a open, fearless knave, that defied the world and scorned hypocrisy. I am, therefore, the same consistent old scoundrel as ever; or the same bluff, good-humored rascal which your old father—who sold his country—and yourself—who would sell it too, if you had one to sell—ever found me. To make short work, then, I want you to dismiss that poor, scurvy devil, Hickman, from your agency, and put that misbegotten spawn of mine in his place. I mean Val M'Clutchy, or Val the Vulture, as they have very properly christened him. Hickman's not the thing, in any sense. He can't manage the people, and they impose upon him—then you suffer, of course. Bedsides, he's an anti-ascendancy man, of late, and will go against you at the forthcoming Election. The fellow pretends to have a conscience, and be cursed to him—prates about the Union—preaches against corruption—and talks about the people, as if they were fit to be anything else than what they are. This is a pretty fellow for you to have as an agent to your property. Now, I'll tell you what, my Lord—you know old Deaker well. His motto is—'Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die—' I'll tell you what, I say; I have a mortgage on your property for fourteen thousand pounds. Now, put in Val or I'll be speaking to my lawyer about it. Put in Val, or you will never warm your posteriors in a seat for this county, so long as I carry the key of it. In doing so, make no wry faces about it—you will only serve yourself and your property, and serve Val into the bargain. Val, to be sure, is as confounded a scoundrel as any of us, but then he is a staunch Protestant; and you ought not to be told at this time of day, that the greater the scoundrel the better the agent. Would you have a fellow, for instance, whose conscience, indeed, must stand between you and your interest? Would you have some honest blockhead, who, when you are to be served by a piece of friendly rascality, will plead scruples. If so, you are a greater fool than I ever took you to be. Make Val your agent, and it is not you that will suffer by him, but the people—whom, of course, no one cares a curse about. I ought to have some claim on you, I think. Many a lift I have given your precious old father, Tom Topertoe, when I did not think of pleading scruples. To tell you the truth, many a dirty trick I played for him, and never brought my conscience to account for it. Make the most of this rascally world, and of the rascals that are in it, for we are all alike in the grave. Put in Val, then, and don't made an enemy of
“Your old friend,
“Randal Deaker.
“P.S.—As to Val, he knows nothing of this transaction—I told him I would say so, and I keep my word. I forgot to say that if you write this beggarly devil, Hickman, a sharp letter for money, he may probably save you the trouble of turning him out. I know him well—he is a thin skinned fool, and will be apt to bolt, if you follow my advice.
“Yours as you deserve it,
“R D.”
Now, it is necessary to say here, that amidst all this pretence of open villainy, there ran an undercurrent of cunning that might escape the observation of most men. In truth, old Deaker was not only a knave, but a most unscrupulous oppressor at heart, especially when he happened to get a man in his power from whom he wished to extort a favor, or on whom he wished to inflict an injury. In the present instance he felt perfectly conscious of his power over the heartless profligate, to whom he wrote such a characteristic letter, and the result shows that he neither miscalculated the feeble principles of his correspondent, nor the consequences of his own influence over him. By due return of post he received a reply, of which the following is a copy:—
“Old Deaker—You have me fast, and you know it—so I suppose must is the word; now I'll tell you what I want, you old villain; I want two thousand pounds, and if M'Clutchy is to get the agency, I must have the money—so there is my must as well as yours. In the meantime I have written to Hickman on the same subject, want of money, I mean—what the consequences may be, I know not, but I fancy I can guess them.
“Yours,
“Cumber.”