When the newspapers announced the division on the adjourned debate, they also proclaimed the flight of the defaulter; and, wide as was the disparity between the two events in point of importance, it would be difficult to say which more engaged the attention of the Dublin public on that morning, the majority for the Minister, or the published perfidy of “Honest Tom Gleeson.”
Such is, however, the all-engrossing interest of a local topic, aided, as in the present case, by almost incredulous amazement, the agent's flight was talked of and discussed in circles where the great political event was heard as a matter of course. Where had he fled to? What sum had he carried away with him? Who would be the principal losers? were all the questions eagerly discussed, but none of which excited so much diversity of opinion as the single one: What was the cause of his defalcation? His agencies were numerous and profitable, his mode of life neither extravagant nor ostentatious; how could a man with so few habits of expense have contracted debts of any considerable amount, or what circumstances could induce him to relinquish a station of respectability and competence for a life-long of dishonorable exile?
Such has been our progress of late years in the art of revealing to the world at large the hidden springs of every action and event around us that a secret is in reality the only thing now impossible. Forty-five years ago, this wonderful exercise of knowledge was in a great measure unknown; the guessers were then a large and respectable class in society, and men were content with what mathematicians call approximation. In our own more accurate days, what between the newspaper, the club-room, and “'Change,” such mystery is no longer practicable. One day, or two at furthest, would now proclaim every item in a man's schedule, and afford that most sympathetic of all bodies, the world, the fruitful theme of expatiating on his folly or his criminality. In the times we refer to, however, it was only the “Con Heffermans” of society that ventured even to speculate on the secret causes of these events.
Although the debate had lasted from eight o'clock in the evening to past eleven on the following morning, before twelve Mr. Heffernan's carriage was at the door, and the owner, without any trace of fatigue, set off to ascertain so much as might be learned of this strange and unexpected catastrophe. It was no mere passion to know the current gossip of the day, no prying taste for the last piece of scandal in circulation,—Con Heffernan was above such weaknesses; but he had a habit—one which some men practise even yet with success—of whenever the game was safe, taking credit to himself for casualties in which he had no possible connection, and attributing events in which he had no share to his own direct influence. After all, he was in this only imitating the great navigators of the globe, who have established the rule that discovery gives a right only second to actual creation.
This was, however, a really provoking case; no one knew anything of Gleeson's embarrassments. Several of those for whom he acted as agent were in Dublin, but they were more amazed than all others at his flight; most of them had settled accounts with him very lately, some men owed him small sums. “Darcy perhaps knows something about him,” was a speech Heffernan heard more than once repeated; but Darcy's house was shut up, and the servant announced “he had left town that morning.” Hickman O'Reilly was the next chance; not that he had any direct intercourse with Gleeson, but his general acquaintanceship with moneyed men and matters made him a likely source of information; while a small sealed note addressed to Dr. Hickman was in possession of a banker with whom Gleeson had transacted business the day before his departure. But O'Reilly had left town with his son. “The doctor, sir, is here still; he does not go before to-morrow,” said the servant, who, knowing that Heffernan was a person of some consequence in the Dublin world, thought proper to give this piece of unasked news.
“Will you give Mr. Con Heffernan's compliments, and say he would be glad to have the opportunity of a few minutes' conversation?” The servant returned immediately, and showed him upstairs into a back drawing-room, where, before a table covered with law papers and parchments, sat the venerable doctor. He had not as yet performed the usual offices of a toilet, and, with unshaven chin and uncombed hair, looked the most melancholy contrast of age, neglect, and misery, with the gorgeous furniture of a most splendid apartment.
He lifted his head as the door opened, and stared fixedly at the new-comer, with an expression at once fierce and anxious, so that Heffernan, when speaking of him afterwards, said that, “Dressed as he was, in an old flannel morning-gown, dotted with black tufts, he looked for all the world like a sick tiger making his will.”
“Your humble servant, sir,” said he, coldly, as Heffernan advanced with an air of cordiality; nor were the words and the accents they were uttered in lost upon the man they were addressed to. He saw how the land lay, in a second, and said eagerly, “He has not left town, I trust, sir; I sincerely hope your son has not gone.”
“Yes, sir, he's off; I'm sure I don't know what he'd wait for.”
“Too precipitate,—too rash by far, Mr. Hickman,” said Heffernan, seating himself, and wiping his forehead with an air of well-assumed chagrin.
“Maybe so,” repeated the old man two or three times over, while he lowered his spectacles to his nose, and began hunting among his papers, as though he had other occupation in hand of more moment than the present topic.
“Are you aware, sir,” said Heffernan, drawing his chair close up, and speaking in a most confidential whisper,—“are you aware, sir, that your son mistook the signal,—that when Mr. Corry took out his handkerchief and opened it on his knee, that it was in token of Lord Castlereagh's acquiescence of Mr. O'Reilly's demand,—that, in short, the peerage was at that moment his own if he wished it?”
The look of dogged incredulity in the old man's face would have silenced a more sensitive advocate than Heffer-nan; but he went on: “If any one should feel angry at what has occurred, I am the person; I was the guarantee for your son's vote, and I have now to meet Lord Castle-reagh without one word of possible explanation.”
“Hickman told me,” said the old man, with a voice steady and composed, “that if Mr. Corry did not raise the handkerchief to his mouth, the terms were not agreed upon; that opening it before him only meant the bargain was not quite off: more delay, more talk, Mr. Heffernan; and I think there was enough of that already.”
“A complete mistake, sir,—a total misconception on his part.”
“Just like Beecham being blackballed at the club,” said the doctor, with a sarcastic bitterness all his own.
“With that, of course, we cannot be charged,” said Heffernan. “Why was he put up without our being apprised of it? The blackballing was Bagenal Daly's doing—”
“So I heard,” interrupted the other; “they told me that; and here, look here, here's Daly's bond for four thousand six hundred. Maybe he won't be so ready with his bank-notes as he was with his black ball—ay!”
“But, to go back to the affair of the House—”
“We won't go back to it, sir, if it's the same to you. I 'm glad, with all my heart, the folly is over,—sorra use I could see in it, except the expense, and there's plenty of that. The old families, as they call them, can't last forever, no more than old houses and old castles; there's an end of everything in time, and if Hickman waits, maybe his turn will come as others' did before him. Where 's the Darcys now, I 'd like to know?—” Here he paused and stammered, and at last stopped dead short, an expression of as much confusion as age and wrinkles would permit covering his hard, contracted features.
“You say truly,” said Heffernan, finishing what he guessed to be the sentiment,—“you say truly, the Darcys have run their race; when men's incumbrances have reached the point that his have, family influence soon decays. Now, this business of Gleeson's—” Had he fired a shot close to the old man's ear he could not have startled him more effectually than by the mention of this name.
“What of Gleeson?” said he, drawing in his breath, and holding on the chair with both hands.
“You know that he is gone,—fled away no one knows where?”
“Gleeson! Honest Tom Gleeson ran away!” exclaimed Hickman; “no, no, that's impossible,—I'd never believe that.”
“Strange enough, sir, that the paragraphs here have not convinced you,” said Heffernan, taking up the newspaper which lay on the table, and where the mark of snuffy fingers denoted the very passage in question.
“Ay! I did n't notice it before,” muttered the doctor, as he took up the paper, affecting to read, but in reality to conceal his own confusion.
“They say the news nearly killed Darcy; he only heard it when going into the House last night, and was seized with an apoplectic fit, and carried home insensible.” This latter was, it is perhaps needless to say, pure invention of Heffernan, who found it necessary to continue talking as a means of detecting old Hickman's game. “Total ruin to that family of course results. Gleeson had raised immense sums to pay off the debts, and carried all away with him.”
“Ay!” muttered the doctor, as he seemed greatly occupied in arranging his papers on the table.
“You 'll be a loser too, sir, by all accounts,” added Heffernan.
“Not much,—a mere trifle,” said the doctor, without looking up from the papers. “But maybe he's not gone, after all; I won't believe it yet.”
“There seems little doubt on that head,” said Heffernan; “he changed three thousand pounds in notes for gold at Ball's after the bank was closed on Tuesday, and then went over to Finlay's, where he said he had a lodgment to make. He left his great-coat behind him, and never came back for it. I found that paper—it was the only one—in the breast pocket.”
“What is it? what is it?” repeated the old man, clutching eagerly at it.
“Nothing of any consequence,” said Heffernan, smiling; and he handed him a printed notice, setting forth that the United States barque, the “Congress,” of five hundred tons burden, would sail for New York on Wednesday, the 16th instant, at an hour before high water. “That looked suspicious, didn't it?” said Heffernan; “and on inquiry I found he had drawn largely out of, not only the banks in town, but from the provincial ones also. Now, that note addressed to yourself, for instance—”
“What note?” said Hickman, starting round as his face became pale as ashes; “give it to me—give it at once!”
But Heffernan held it firmly between his fingers, and merely shook his head, while, with a gentle smile, he said, “The banker who intrusted this letter to my hands was well aware of what importance it might prove in a court of justice, should this disastrous event demand a legal investigation.”
The old doctor listened with breathless interest to every word of this speech, and merely muttered at the close the words, “The note, the note!”
“I have promised to restore the paper to the banker,” said Heffernan.
“So you shall,—let me read it,” cried Hickman, eagerly; and he clutched from Heffernan's fingers the document, before the other had seemingly determined whether he would yield to his demand.
“There it is for you, sir,” said the doctor; “make what you can of it;” and he threw the paper across the table.
The note contained merely the words, “Ten thousand pounds.” There was no signature or any date, but the handwriting was Gleeson's.
“Ten thousand pounds,” repeated Heffernan, slowly; “a large sum!”
“So it is,” chimed in Hickman, with a grin of self-satisfaction, while a consciousness that the mystery, whatever it might be, was beyond the reach of Heffernan's skill, gave him a look of excessive cunning, which sat strangely on features so old and time-worn.
“Well, Mr. Hickman,” said Heffernan, as he arose to take leave, “I have neither the right nor the inclination to pry into any man's secrets. This affair of Gleeson's will be sifted to the bottom one day or other, and that small transaction of the ten thousand pounds as well as the rest. It was not to discuss him or his fortunes I came here. I hoped to have seen Mr. O'Reilly, and explained away a very serious misconception. Lord Castlereagh regrets it, not for the sake of the loss of Mr. O'Reilly's support, valuable as that unquestionably is, but because a wrong interpretation would seem to infer that the conduct of the Treasury bench was disingenuous. You will, I trust, make this explanation for me, and in the name of his Lordship.”
“Faith, I won't promise it,” said old Hickman, looking up from a long column of figures which he was for some minutes poring over; “I don't understand them things at all; if Bob wanted to be a lord, 't is more than ever I did,—I don't see much pleasure there is in being a gentleman. I know, for my part, I 'd rather sit in the back parlor of my little shop in Loughrea, where I could have a chat over a tumbler of punch with a neighbor, than all the grandeur in life.”
“These simple, unostentatious tastes do you credit before the world, sir,” said Heffernan, with a well put-on look of admiration.
“I don't know whether they do or not,” said Hickman, “but I know they help to make a good credit with the bank, and that's better—ay!”
Heffernan affected to relish the joke, and descended the stairs, laughing as he went; but scarcely had he reached his carriage, however, than he muttered a heavy malediction on the sordid old miser whose iniquities were not less glaring because Con had utterly failed to unravel anything of his mystery.
“To Lord Castlereagh's,” said he to the footman, and then lay back to ponder over his late interview.
The noble Secretary was not up when Con arrived, but had left orders that Mr. Heffernan should be shown up to his room whenever he came. It was now about five o'clock in the afternoon, and Lord Castlereagh, wrapped up in a loose morning-gown, lay on the bed where he had thrown himself, without undressing, on reaching home. A debate of more than fifteen hours, with all its strong and exciting passages, had completely exhausted his strength, while the short and disturbed sleep had wearied rather than refreshed him. The bed and the table beside it were covered with the morning papers and open letters and despatches, for, tired as he was, he could not refrain from learning the news of the day.
“Well, my Lord,” said Heffernan, with his habitual smile, as he stepped noiselessly across the floor, “I believe I may wish you joy at last,—the battle is gained now.”
“Heigho!” was the reply of the Secretary, while he extended two fingers of his hand in salutation. “What hour is it, Heffernan?”
“It is near five; but really there 's not a creature to be seen in the streets, and, except old Killgobbin airing his pocket-handkerchief at the fire, not a soul at the Club. Last night's struggle has nearly killed every one.”
“Who is this Mr. Gleeson that has run off with so much money,—did you know him?”
“Oh, yes, we all knew 'honest Tom Gleeson.'”
“Ah! that was his sobriquet, was it?” said the Secretary, smiling.
“Yes, my Lord, such was he,—or such, at least, was he believed to be, till yesterday evening. You know it's the last glass of wine always makes a man tipsy.”
“And who is ruined, Heffernan,—any of our friends?”
“As yet there's no saying. Drogheda will lose something considerable, I believe; but at the banks the opinion is that Darcy will be the heaviest loser of any.”
“The Knight?”
“Yes, the Knight of Gwynne.”
“I am sincerely sorry to hear it,” said Lord Castlereagh, with an energy of tone he had not displayed before; “if I had met half-a-dozen such men as he is, I should have had some scruples—” He paused, and at the instant caught sight of a very peculiar smile on Heffernan's features; then, suddenly changing the topic, he said, “What of Nickolls,—is he shot?”
“No, my Lord, there was no meeting. Bagenal Daly, so goes the story, proposed going over to the Isle of Man in a row-boat.”
“What, last night!” said the Secretary, laughing.
“Yes, when it was blowing the roof off the Custom House; he offered him his choice of weapons, from a blunderbuss to a harpoon, and his own distance, over a handkerchief, or fifty yards with a rifle.”
“And was Nickolls deaf to all such seductions?”
“Quite so, my Lord; even when Daly said to him, 'I think it a public duty to shoot a fellow like you, for, if you are suffered to live, the Government will make a judge of you one of these days.'”
“What profound solicitude for the purity of the judgment seat!”
“Daly has reason to think of these things; he has been in the dock already, and perhaps suspects he may be again.”
“Poor Darcy!” said Lord Castlereagh to himself, in a half whisper, “I wish I knew you were not a sufferer by this fellow's flight. By the bye, Heffernan, sit down and write a few lines to Forester; say that Lord Cornwallis is greatly displeased at his protracted absence. I am tired of making excuses for him, and as I dine there to-day, I shall be tormented all the evening.”
“Darcy's daughter is very good-looking, I hear,” said Heffernan, smiling slyly, “and should have a large fortune if matters go right.”
“Very possibly; but old Lady Wallincourt is the proudest dowager in England, and looks to the blood-royal for alliances. Forester is entirely dependent on her; and that reminds me of a most solemn pledge I made her to look after her 'dear Dick,' and prevent any entanglement in this barbarous land,—as if I had nothing else to think of! Write at once, Heffernan, and order him up; say he 'll lose his appointment by any further delay, and that I am much annoyed at his absence.”
While Heffernan descended to the library to write, Lord Castlereagh turned once more to sleep until it was time to dress for the Viceroy's dinner.
If we wanted any evidence of how little avail all worldly wisdom is, we might take it from the fact that our severest calamities are often impending us at the moments we deem ourselves most secure from misfortune. Thus was it that while the events were happening whose influence was to shadow over all the sunshine of her life, Lady Eleanor Darcy never felt more at ease. That same morning the post had brought her a letter from the Knight,—only a few lines, hastily written, but enough to allay all her anxiety. He spoke of law arrangements, then almost completed, by which any immediate pressure regarding money might be at once obviated, and promised, for the very first time in his life, to submit to any plan of retrenchment she desired to adopt. Had it been in her power, she could not have dictated lines more full of pleasant anticipation. The only drawback on the happiness of her lot in life was the wasteful extravagance of a mode of living which savored far more of feudal barbarism than of modern luxury.
Partly from long habit and association, partly from indolence of character, but more than either from a compassionate consideration of those whose livelihood might be impaired by any change in his establishment, the Knight had resisted all suggestion of alteration. He viewed the very peculations around him as vested rights, and the most he could pledge himself to was, that when the present race died out he would not appoint any successors.
The same post that brought this pleasant letter, conveyed one of far less grateful import to Forester. It was a long epistle from his mother, carefully worded, and so characteristic withal, that if it were any part of our object to introduce that lady to our readers, we could not more easily do so than through her own letter. Such is not, however, our intention; enough if we say that it was a species of domestic homily, where moral principles and worldly wisdom found themselves so inextricably interwoven, no mean skill could have disentangled them. She had learned, as careful mothers somehow always contrive to learn, that her son was domesticated in the house with a very charming and beautiful girl, and the occasion seemed suitable to enforce some of those excellent precepts which hitherto had been deficient in force for want of a practical example.
Had Lady Wallincourt limited herself to cautious counsels about falling in love with some rustic beauty in a remote region, Forester might have treated the advice as one of those matter-of-course events which cause no more surprise than the receipt of a printed circular; but she went further. She deemed this a fitting occasion to instruct her son into the mystery of that craft, which, in her own experience of life, she had seen make more than one man's fortune, and by being adepts in which many of her own family had attained to high and lasting honors. This science was neither more nor less than success in female society. “I will not insult either your good taste or your understanding,” wrote she, “by any warning against falling in love in Ireland. Beauty is—France excepted—pretty equally distributed through the world; neither is there any nationality in good looks, for, nowadays, admixture of race has obliterated every peculiarity of origin. In all, then, that concerns manner, tone, and breeding, your own country possesses the true standard: every deviation from this is a fault. What is conventional must be right, because it is the exponent of general opinion on those topics for which each feels interested. Now, the Irish, my dear boy, the Irish are never conventional; they are clannish, provincial, peculiar, but never conventional. Their pride would seem to be rather to ruffle than fall in with the general sympathies of society. They forget that the social world is a great compact, and they are always striving for individual successes by personal distinction: this is the very acme of vulgarity.
“If they, however, are very indifferent models for imitation, they afford an excellent school for your own training; they are a shrewd, quick-sighted race, with a strong sense of the ludicrous, and are what the French call malin to a degree. To win favor among them without any subservient imitation of their own habits, which would be contemptible, is not over easy.
“If I am rightly informed, you are at present well circumstanced to profit by my counsels. I am told of a very agreeable and very pretty girl with whom you ride and walk out constantly, and, far from feeling any maternal uneasiness,—for I trust I know my son,—I am rejoiced at the circumstance. Make the most of such an advantage by exercising your own abilities and powers of pleasing, give yourself the habit of talking your very best on every topic, without pedantry or any sign of premeditation. Practise that blending of courteous deference to a woman's opinions with a subdued consciousness of your own powers, which I have spoken to you of in your dear father's character. Seldom venture on an axiom, never tell an anecdote; be most guarded in any indulgence of humor: a laugh is the most dangerous of all triumphs. It is the habit to reproach us with our frigidity,—I believe not without reason; cultivate, then, a certain amount of warmth which may suggest the idea of earnestness, apart from all suspicion of enthusiasm, which I have often told you is low-lived. Watch carefully by what qualities your success is more advanced; examine yourself as to what defects you experience in your own character; make yourself esteemed as a means of being estimable; win regard, and the habit of pleasing will give a charm to your manner, even when you are not desirous to secure affection. Your poor dear father often confessed the inestimable advantages of his first affairs of the heart, and used to say, whenever by any adroit exercise of his captivation he had gained over an adverse Maid of Honor, I owe that to Louisa, for such was the name of the young lady,—I forget now who she was. The mechanism of the heart is alike in all lands; the means of success in Ireland will win victory where the prize is higher. In all this, remember, I by no means advise you to sport with any young lady's feelings, nor to win more of her affection than may assure you that the entire could also become yours: a polite chess-player will rest satisfied to say, 'check,' without pushing the adversary to 'mate.'
“It will soon be time you should leave the army, and I hope to find you have acquired some other education by the pursuit than mere knowledge of dress.”
This is a short specimen of the maternal Machiavelism by which “the most fascinating woman of her set” hoped to instruct her son, and teach him the road to fortune.
Such is the fatal depravity of every human heart that any subtle appeal to selfishness, if it fail to flex the victim to the will, at least shakes the strong sense of conscious rectitude, and makes our very worthiness seem weakness.
Forester's first impression was almost anger as he read these lines, the second time he perused them he was far less shocked, and at last was puzzled whether more to wonder at the keen worldly knowledge they betrayed, or the solicitude of that affection which consented to unveil so much of life for his guidance. The result of all these conflicting emotions was depression of spirits, and a discontent with himself and all the world; nor could the fascinations of that little circle in which he lived so intimately, subdue the feeling.
Lady Eleanor saw this, and exerted herself with all her wonted powers to amuse and interest him; Helen, too, delighted at the favorable change in her mother's spirits, contributed to sustain the tone of light-hearted pleasantry, while she could not restrain a jest upon Forester's unusual gloominess.
The manner whose fascinations had hitherto so many charms, now almost irritated him; the poison of suspicion had been imbibed, and he continually asked himself, what if the very subtlety his mother's letter spoke of was now practised by her? If all the varied hues of captivation her changing humor wore were but the deep practised lures of coquetry? His self-love was piqued by the thought, as well as his perceptive shrewdness, and he set himself, as he believed, to decipher her real nature; but, such is the blindness of mere egotism, in reality to misunderstand and mistake her.
How often it happens in life that the moment a doubt prevails as to some trait or feature of our character, we should exactly seize upon that very instant to indulge in some weakness or passing levity that may strengthen a mere suspicion, or make it a certainty.
Helen never seemed gayer than on this evening, scarcely noticing Forester, save when to jest upon his morose and silent mood; she talked, and laughed, and sang in all the free joyousness of a happy heart, unconsciously displaying powers of mind and feeling which, in calmer moments, lay dormant and concealed.
The evening wore on, and Helen had just risen from her harp,—where she was playing one of those wild, half-sad, half-playful melodies of her country,—when a gentle tap came to the door, and, without waiting for leave to enter, old Tate appeared.
The old man was pale, and his features wore an expression of extreme terror; but he was doing his very utmost, as it seemed, to struggle against some inward fear, as, with a smile of far more melancholy than mirth, he said, “Did ye hear it, my Lady? I 'm sure ye heerd it.”
“Heard what, Tate?” said Lady Eleanor.
“The—but I see Miss Helen's laughing at me. Ah! don't then, Miss, darlin',—don't laugh.”
“What was it, Tate? Tell us what you heard.”
“The Banshee, my Lady! Ay, there 's the way,—I knew how 't would be; you 'd only laugh when I tould you.”
“Where was it you heard it?” said Lady Eleanor, affecting seriousness to gratify the old man's superstition.
“Under the east window, my Lady; then it moved across the flower-garden, and down to the shore beneath the big rocks.”
“What was it like, Tate?”
“'T was like a funeral 'coyne' first, Miss, when ye heerd it far away in the mountain; and then it rose, and swelled fuller and stronger, till it swam all round me, and at last died away to the light, soft cry of an infant.”
“Exactly, Tate; it was Captain Forester sighing. I never heard a better description in my life.”
“Ah! don't laugh, my Lady,—don't now, Miss Helen, dear. I never knew luck nor grace come of laughing when the warnin' was come. 'T is the Captain, there, looks sad and thoughtful,—the Heavens bless him for it! He knows 'tis no time for laughing.”
Forester might have accepted the eulogy in better part, perhaps, had he understood it; but as it was, he turned abruptly about, and asked Lady Eleanor for an explanation of the whole mystery.
“Tate thinks he has heard—”
“Thinks!” interrupted the old man, with a sorrowful gesture of both hands. “Musha! I'd take the Gospel on it; I heard it as plain as I hear your Ladyship now.”
Lady Eleanor smiled, and went on—“the cry of the Banshee, that dreadful warning which, in the superstition of the country, always betokens death, or at least some great calamity, to the house it is heard to wail over.”
“A polite attention, to say the least,” said Forester, smiling sarcastically, “of the witch or fairy or whatever it is, to announce to people an approaching misfortune. And has every cabin got its own Ban—what do you call it?”
“The cabins has none,” said Tate, with a loot of severe reproach, the most remote possible from his habitual air of deference; “'tis only the ouldest and most ancient families, like his honor the Knight's, has a Banshee. But it's no use talking; I see nobody believes me.”
“Yes, Tate, I do,” cried Helen, with an earnestness of manner, either really felt, or assumed to gratify the poor old man's superstitious veneration; “just tell me how you heard it first.”
“Like that!” whispered Tate, as he held up his hand to enforce silence; and at the same instant a low, plaintive cry was heard, as if beneath the very window. The accent was not of pain or suffering, but of melancholy so soft, so touching, and yet so intense, that it stilled every voice within the room, where now each long-drawn breath was audible.
There is a lurking trait of superstition in every human heart, which will resist, at some one moment or other, every effort of reason and every scoff of irony. An instant before, and Forester was ready to jest with the old man's terrors, and now his own spirit was not all devoid of them. The feeling was, however, but of a moment's duration; suspicion again assumed its sway, and, seizing his hat, he rushed from the room, to search the flower-garden and examine every spot where any one might lie concealed.
“There he goes now, as if he could see her; and maybe 't would be as well for him he did n't,” said Tate, as, in contempt of the English incredulity, he gazed after the eager youth. “Is his honor well, my Lady?—when did you hear from him?”
“We heard this very day, Tate; he is perfectly well.”
“And Master Lionel—the captain, I mane—but I only think he's a child still.”
“Quite well, too,” said Helen. “Don't alarm yourself, Tate; you know how sadly the wind can sigh through these old walls at times, and under the yew-trees, too, it sounds drearily; I 've shuddered to myself often, as I 've heard it.”
“God grant it!” said old Tate, piously; but the shake of his head and the muttering sounds between his teeth attested that he laid no such flattering unction to his heart as mere disbelief might offer. “'T is n't a death-cry, anyhow, Miss Helen,” whispered he to Miss Darcy, as he moved towards the door; “for I went down to the back of the abbey, where Sir Everard was buried, and all was still there.”
“Well, go to bed now, Tate, and don't think more about it; if the wind—”
“Ah! the wind! the wind!” said he, querulously; “that's the way it always is,—as if God Almighty had no other way of talking to our hearts than the cry of the night-wind.”
“Well, Captain Forester, what success? Have you confronted the spectre?” said Lady Eleanor, as he re-entered the apartment.
“Except having fallen into a holly-bush, where I rivalled the complaining accents of the old witch, I have no adventure to recount; all is perfectly still and tranquil without.”
“You have got your cheek scratched for following the siren,” said Lady Eleanor, laughing; “pray put another log on the fire, it is fearfully chilly here.”
Old Tate withdrew slowly and unwillingly; he saw that his intelligence had failed to produce a proper sense of terror on their minds; and his own load of anxiety was heavier, from want of participation.
The conversation, by that strange instinct which influences the least as well as the most credulous people, now turned on the superstitions of the peasantry, and many a legend and story were remembered by Lady Eleanor and her daughter, in which these popular beliefs formed a chief feature.
“It is unfair and unwise,” said Lady Eleanor, at the conclusion of one of these stories, “to undervalue such influences; the sailor, who passes his life in dangers, watches the elements with an eye and an air that training have rendered almost preternaturally observant, and he sees the sign of storm where others would but mark the glow of a red sunset; so among a primitive people communing much with their own hearts in solitary, unfrequented places, imagination becomes developed in undue proportion, and the mind seeks relief in creative efforts from the wearying sense of loneliness; but even these are less idle fancies than conclusions come to from long and deep thought. Some strange process of analogy would seem the parent of superstitions which we know to be common to all lands.”
“Which means, that you half believe in a Banshee!” said Forester, smiling.
“Not so; but that I cannot consent to despise the frame of mind which suggests these beliefs, although I have no faith in the apparitions. Poor Tate, there, had never dreamed of hearing the Banshee cry if some painful thought of impending misfortune had not suggested her presence; his fears may not be unfounded, although the form they take be preternatural.”
“I protest against all such plausibilities,” said Helen. “I 'm for the Banshee, as the Republicans say in France, 'one and indivisible.' I 'll not accept of natural explanations. Mr. Bagenal Daly says, we may well believe in spirits, when we put faith in the mere ghost of a Parliament.”
“Helen is throwing out a bait for a political discussion,” said Lady Eleanor, laughing, “and so I 'll even say good night, Captain Forester, and pleasant dreams of the Banshee.”
Forester rose and took his leave, which, somehow, was colder than usual. His mother's counsels had got possession of his mind, and distrust perverted every former source of pleasure.
“Her manner is all coquetry,” said he, angrily, to himself, as he walked towards his room.
Poor fellow! and what if it were? Coquetry is but a gilding, to be sure; but it can never be well laid on if the substance beneath is not a precious metal.
There was, at the place where the river opened into the sea, a small inlet of the bay guarded by two bold and rocky headlands, between which the tide swept with uncommon violence, accumulating in time a kind of bar, over which, even in calm weather, the waves were lashed into breakers, while the waters within were still as a mountain lake. The ancient ruin we have already alluded to passingly, stood on a little eminence fronting this small creek, and although unmarked by any architectural beauty, or any pretensions, save the humble possession of four rude walls pierced by narrow windows, and a low doorway formed of three large stones, was yet, in the eyes of the country people, endowed with some superior holiness,—so it is certain the little churchyard around bespoke. It was crowded with graves, whose humble monuments consisted in wooden crosses, decorated in recent cases with little garlands of paper or wild flowers, as piety or affection suggested. The fragments of ship-timber around showed that they who slept beneath had been mostly fishermen, for the chapel was peculiarly esteemed by them; and at the opening of the fishing season a mass was invariably offered here for the success of the herring-fishery, by a priest from a neighboring parish, whose expenses were willingly and liberally rewarded by the fishermen.
In exact proportion with the reverence in which this spot was regarded by day was the fear and dread entertained of it by night. Stories of ghosts and evil spirits were rife far and near of that lonely ruin, and the hardiest seamen, who would brave the wild waves of the Atlantic, would not venture alone within these deserted walls after dark. Helen remembered, as a child, having been once there after sunset, induced by an intense curiosity to hear or see something of those sounds and shapes her nurse had told of, and what alarm her absence created among the household increased when it was discovered where she had been.
The same strange desire to hear if it might be that sad and wailing voice which all had so distinctly heard in the drawing-room, led her, when she had wished her mother good-night, to leave her chamber, and, crossing the flower-garden, to descend to the beach by a small door which opened to a little pathway down to the sea. When the superstitions whose terrors have affrighted childhood are either conquered by reason or uprooted by worldly influence, they still leave behind them a strange passion for the marvellous, which in imaginative temperaments is frequently greatly developed, and becomes a great source of enjoyment or suffering to its possessor. Helen Darcy's nature was of this kind, and she would gladly have accepted all the tremors and terrors of her nursery days to feel once again that intense awe, that anxious heart-beating expectancy, a ghost story used to create within her.
The night was calm and starlit, the sea was tranquil and unruffled, except where the bar broke the flow of the tide, and marked by a long line of foam the struggling breakers, whose hoarse plash was heard above the rippling on the strand. Even in the rocky caves all was still, not an echo resounded within those dreary caverns where at times the thunder's self was not louder. Helen reached the little churchyard; she knew every path and foot-track through it, and at last, strolling leisurely onward, entered the ruin and sat down within the deep window that looked over the sea.
For some time her attention was directed seaward, watching the waves as they reflected back the spangled heaven, or sank again in dark shadow, when suddenly she perceived the figure of a man, who appeared slowly pacing the beach immediately beneath where she sat.
What could have brought any one there at such an hour she could not imagine; and however few her terrors of the world of spirits, she would gladly at this moment have been safe within the abbey. While she debated with herself how to act—whether to remain in her present concealment, or venture on a sudden flight—the figure halted exactly under the window. Her doubts and fears were now speedily resolved, for she perceived it was Forester, who, induced by the beauty of the night, had thus strolled out upon the shore. “What if I should put his courageous incredulity to the test?” thought Helen; “the moment is propitious now. I could easily imitate the cry of the Banshee!” The temptation was too strong to be resisted, and without further thought she uttered a low, thrilling wail, in an accent of most touching sorrow. Forester started and looked up, but the dark walls were in deep shadow; whatever his real feelings at the moment, he lost no time in clambering up the bank on which the ruin stood, and from which he rightly judged the sound proceeded. Helen was yet uncertain whether to attribute this step to terror or the opposite, when she heard his foot as he traversed the thickly-studded graveyard,—a moment more, and he would be in the church itself, where he could not fail to discover her by her white dress. But one chance offered of escape, which was to leap from the window down upon the strand: it was deeper than she fancied, nearly twice her own height; but then detection, for more than one good reason, was not to be thought of.
Helen was not one of those who long hesitate when their minds are to be made up; she slipped noiselessly between the stone mullion and the side of the window, and sprang out; unfortunately one foot turned on a small stone, and she fell on the sand, while a slight accent of pain unconsciously broke from her. Before she could rise, Forester was beside her; with one arm round her waist, he half pressed, as he assisted her to recover her feet.
“So, fair spirit,” said he, jocularly, “I have tracked you, it would seem;” then, for the first time discovering it was Helen, he muttered in a different tone, “I ask pardon, Miss Darcy; I really did not know—”
“I am sure of that, Captain Forester,” said she, disengaging herself from his aid. “I certainly deserve a lesson for my silly attempt to frighten you, and I believe I have sprained my ankle. Will you kindly send Florence to me?”
“I cannot leave you here alone, Miss Darcy; pray take my arm, and let me assist you back to the abbey.”
The tone of deference he now spoke in, and the increasing pain, concurred to persuade her, and she accepted the proffered assistance.
“The absurdity of this adventure is not repaid by the pleasure of having frightened you,” said she, laughing; “if I could only say how terrified you were—”
“You might indeed have said so,” interrupted Forester, “had I guessed the figure I saw leap out was yours.”
“It was even higher than I thought,” said she, avoiding to remark the fervent accents in which these words were spoken.
Forester was silent; his heart was full to bursting; the passion so lately dashed by doubts and suspicions returned with tenfold force now that he felt her arm within his own as step by step they moved along.
“You are in great pain, I fear,” said he, tremulously.
“No, not now. I am so much more ashamed of my folly than a sufferer from it that I could forgive the sprain if I could the silly notion that caused it. 'Twas an unlucky fancy, to say the least of it.”
Again there was a pause, and although they walked but slowly, they were fast approaching the little gate that opened into the flower-garden. Forester was silent. “Was it from this cause, or by some secret freemasonry of the female heart that she suspected what was passing in his mind, and exerted herself to move on more rapidly?
“Take time, Miss Darcy; not so fast; if not for your sake, for mine at least.”
The last few words were scarcely above a whisper, but every one of them reached her to whom they were addressed; whether affecting not to hear them, or preferring to mistake their meaning, Helen made no answer.
“I said for my sake,” resumed he, with a courage that demanded all his energy, “because on these few moments the whole fortune of my future life is placed. I love you.”
“Nay, Captain Forester,” said she, smiling, “this is not quite fair; I failed in my attempt to terrify you, and have paid the penalty: let there not be a further one of my listening to what I should not hear.”
“And why not hear it, Helen? Is the devotion of one even humble as I am, a thing to offend? Is it the less sincere that I feel how much you are above me in every way? Will not my very presumption prove how fervent is the passion that has made me forget all save itself,—all save you?”
Truth has its own accents, however weak the words it syllables. Helen laughed not now, but walked on with quicker steps; while the youth, the barrier once passed, poured forth with heartfelt eloquence his tale of love, recalling to her mind by many a slight, unnoticed trait, his long-pledged devotion; how he had watched and worshipped her, seeking to win favor in her eyes, and seem not all unworthy of her heart.
“It is true,” said he, “I cannot, dare not, ask in return for an affection which should repay my own; but let me hope that what I now speak, the devotion I pledge, is no rejected offering; that although you care not for me, you will not crush forever one who lives but in your smile, that you will give me time to show myself more worthy of the prize I strive for. There is no trial I would not dare—”
“I must interrupt you, Captain Forester,” said Helen, with a voice that all her efforts had not rendered quite steady; “it would be an ungenerous requital for the sentiments you say you feel—”
“Say!—nay, Helen, I swear it, by every hope that now thrills within me—”
“It would be,” resumed she, tremulously, “an ungenerous requital for this, were I to practise any deception on you. I am sincerely, deeply sorry to hear you speak as you have done. I had long since learned to regard you as the friend of Lionel, almost like a brother. The pleasure your society afforded one I am most attached to increased the feeling; and as intimacy increased between us, I thought how happy were it if the ambitions of life did not withdraw from home the sons whose kindness can be as thoughtful and as tender as that of the daughters of the house. Shall I confess it? I almost wished my brother like you; but yet all this was not love,—nay, for I will be frank, at whatever cost,—I had never felt this towards you, if I suspected your sentiments towards me—”
“But, dearest Helen—”
“Hear me out. There is but one way in which the impropriety of such a meeting as this can be obviated, chance though it be, and that is, by perfect candor. I have told you the simple truth, not with any undervaluing sense of the affection you proffer, still less with any coquetry of reserve. I should be unworthy of the heart you offer me, since I could not give my own in exchange.”
“Do you deny me all hope?” said he, in an accent almost bursting with grief.
“I am not arrogant enough to say I shall never change; but I am honest enough to tell you that I do not expect it.”
“Farewell, then, Helen! I do not love you less that you have taught me to think more humbly of myself. Good-by—forever!”
“It is better it should come to this,” said Helen, faintly; and she held out her hand towards him. “Good-by, Forester!”
He pressed one long and burning kiss upon her hand, and turned away, while she, pushing open the door, entered the little garden. Scarcely, however, was the door closed behind her, when the calm courage in which she spoke forsook her, and she burst into tears.
So is it, the heart can be moved, even its most tender chords, when the touch that stirs it is less of love than sorrow.