“Oh, Holy Moses!” says he. “Save our lives! Murder! Murder!”
“What’s wrong with ye, honest man?” says I.
“Give us time for repentince!” says she, droppin’ on her knees. “We’re dalers in soft goods, and obliged to tell lies in the way of bisnis.”
“For shame,” says I, “for a dacent young woman to come before company in that way!—Arrah, put the petticoat on ye at least.” Troth, it was no wonder the cratures were scared.—Ye see, there was a closet off the ball-room, divided with a wooden partition; and as the house was full, and the travellers tired, they stuck them into it for the night. Divil a one of us, in the hurry, thought of lookin’ in; and when the man woke with the noise, and sate up to listen what the matter was, the fellow with the red nose cried “Fire!” and Callaghan’s ball pops through the partition, and whips the tassel off the daler’s night-cap.
Well, for fear of any fresh shindy, I got the luggage tied upon the shay, Dick shook hands with Callaghan, and sent his compliments to his sister Sophy,—and away we drove to Moate; and the next evening got safe to Dublin.
Of all the jobs ever a man undertook, the sorest was to look after Dick Macnamara. Ye might as well herd a basketful of black-beetles, as keep him in sight: and the two days we stopped in Dublin, though I watched him like a bailiff, he got into two fights—rid of thirty pounds—and snug into the watchouse afterwards. ‘Pon my soul, my heart was fairly broke with him. When we landed at Holyhead, and were fairly out of Irelan’, says I to myself, “Maybe we may come some speed now;” but Mona-sin-dhiaoul!—our troubles were only beginnin’.
Troth, at one time, I thought we would never have reached London at all: and as it was, we were three weeks upon the road. We never stopped for the night, but Dick discovered some divil to detain us. One while he would be in love with the mistress, and at another, dyin’ about the maid—and all of them he swore upon the book to marry on his return. We came to England to look for one woman—an’ if he had but kept his word, we would have gone back with one and twenty; but as matters turned out, the divil a wife we brought home at all at all.
While he would be philandrin’ at the inns, I was makin’ inquiries for a lady that would fit us; and though I heard tell of three as we came along, the divil an eye, let alone a finger, Dick Maenamara iver could get on ather of them—for we had always the worst of luck. The first we tried was the daughter of a squire, and as we were crossin’ the fence to get into the pleasure-ground, that I heard she generally walked in, we were spied by a keeper on the watch, and taken for poachers he had chased before, and, only that his gun missed fire, we would have been murdered on the spot. We made an offer at a widdo’, but Dick managed to slip into a steel trap, and nearly lost his leg. Another trial was at a ward of Chaneery, and we were hardly in the domain, till we were handed over by her guardian to the beadles. They swore we were rogues and vagabonds, and clapt us into the stocks for the evening, and give us a free lodgin’ the same night in a place they called the cage. At last we managed to get up to London, Dick with one skirt only to his coat, as he had lost the other in a skrimmage with a constable; and a rap more than three guineas and a half, we hadn’t between us to bless ourselves on! Nobody could tell how the rest of the ould ladies’ hundred went, but Dick Maenamara and the divil.
Well, the first thing we did was to look after our luggage, which we found; and the next to inquire if there was a letter from Connemara at the post-office, and sure enough there was, and every soul in Killcrogher seemed to have had a hand in it. Sir Thomas said that he was as well pleased that Callaghan wasn’t kilt; but the shot grieved him, it was so low; and he begged Dick in future, to take his man as near about the waistband of the breeches as he could. He said that the attorneys, bad luck to them! were tormentin’ him as usual; and as he never opened a letter now, except he knew what it was about, he tould Dick when he wrote home, to put a cross upon the corner. Lady Mae, as we used to call her for shortness, wished to know when she was to expect her daughter-in-law. Mary Regan was afeard she couldn’t stay much longer in her place—and the priest stuck to the ould tune of the Ara-gud-neeish. He tould Dick to be as quick as he could; and if there was like to be any delay, to send over a part of the fortune, as they were greatly shuck for money. Wer’n’t we in a nate pickle—not worth five pound in the world, and the people at home expecting thousands by return of post!
Well, we had takin a lodgin’ near the Seven Dials; it was chape, that was one reason; and one likes to get as near Christians as they can, and that was another. I walked out, not well knowin’ what to do; and before I crossed the second street, who should I drop upon, promiscuisly, but Biddy Hagan, with a basket on her arm. She had bin dairy-maid at Killcrogher, and ran off with a corplar that was recruitin’ there ten years ago.
“Arrah, Biddy,” says I, “is this you?”
“And who else should it be?” says she; “maybe ye would oblige us with your own name, young man?”
“Di ye remember Shemus McGreal?” says I.
“Is it Shemus, the whipper, at Killcrogher?” says she.
“The very same; and here he is.”
With that she blessed herself—“Holy Moses!” says she, “but ye’re grown! Arrah, step in, an’ for ould times we’ll have a flash of lightnin’.”
In we turns into the sign of St. Patrick, and calls for half-a-pint. I tould her all the news, and all about what had brought us from the ould country over here.
“Ah, Shemus,” says Biddy, “myself would travel ten mile to sarve a dog that was iver at Killcrogher—and ye have made no speed? Och, hone, an’ more’s the pity!”
So I ups and tells her the rason we were fairly batin’—all because we couldn’t find out an heiress, good nor bad.
“Oh, saver of the bog!” says she, “if ye’es only had the luck to have fallen into company with Miss Figgins!”
“And who’s Miss Figgins?” says I.
“She’s the only child of ould Figgins of Puddin’ Lane, the richest grocer in the city, an’ that’s a big word.”
“Arrah, Brideeine, avourneeine!—is there any way we could come across her?”
“Arrah, the divil a one of me can tell,” says she. “It’s me that carries home the markittin’, and the kitchen maid’s a Cork woman, born in Cloonakitty—and we’re as thick as mustard. Be the Lord!” says she, “but I’ll bring ye together in the twinklin’ of a bed-post, if ye’ll just sit where ye are. Have an eye to the basket, for the house isn’t ovir onist, if there ar’nt liars in the world;”—an’ away cut Biddy Hagan.
She wasn’t more than ten minutes, till back she comes with Oney Donovan. We called another half-pint, and drank to better acquaintance. “Oney,” says she, “astore! tell us all about ould Figgins’ daughter, if you please, for this gentleman’s master has come ovir for a wife. The Lord speed him to get the same!”
“Och, then I’m sorry to say,” says Oney, “they’ll be no dalin’ in our house, for Miss Sophiar’s to be married a Friday mornin’.”
“Oh, murder!” says I.
“A murder it is,” says she; “thirty thousan’ goin’ to a divil ye wouldn’t kick out of a petatay garden, because he’s rich as a Jew, and rides in a sheriff’s carrige.”
Wasn’t this too bad? The very woman that would have fitted us to a T!
Well, we were all sorely cast down at it; so we called another pint—and we couldn’t do less, as we were in trouble.
“Be gogstay!” says I, “couldn’t we run away with her? This is but Munday; and if the time’s short, we must only be the handier.”
Well, blood’s thicker than water! and Brideeine, Oney, and myself settled all before we parted. Ach of them was to be settled at Killcrogher for life—and, after a throw at the counter, we parted till next mornin’.
I lost half the evenin’ in makin’ out Dick Macnamara. He was the unluckiest member iver any body was consarned with. The time was short—every moment worth goold—and when he should have been in the way (I’ll not bid bad luck to him, as he’s dead), where the divil should I hoak him out, after tatterin’ over half the town, but in a back attic in a blind alley, where he was drinking taa wid a stay-maker?
Well, short as the time was, we got all ready for the marriage; and the devil a one of Miss Figgins’s dramed the trouble we were takin’ to get her settled. She was what they call a Methodist, and went regularly to chapel, and she thought she was to receive the blessin’ of the clargy on Friday morning at some church—and we thought it better to marry her on the Wednesday night before it, and save both ceremony and expense; and, only for himself, the stupid fool! Miss Figgins would have been Dick Macnamara’s wife, as sure as the hearth money.
We had no trouble in life to get plenty of help in St. Giles’—and Oney Donovan laid Dick Macnamara in a loft that looked into the grocer’s breakfast-parlour, from which he could see Miss Figgins, and make himself acquaint with her fatures and her clothes. All was fixed for watchin’ her from the chapel—and at the corner of a quiet street, through which she had to go to her own house, a chay, with a trusty driver, was to be ready to whip her off. Dick Macnamara was to be quietly sittin’ inside. When she was passin’, the boys were to lift her in, and away we were to drive like lightnin’ to a lonely house five mile out of town, where a couple-beggar was ready to tie the knot. Sorra nater planned thing could be—but the divil a plan was iver formed in this world, that Dick Macnamara wouldn’t make ducks and drakes of.
Well, now that every thing was fixed, we thought it would be better to write home, to keep all quiet in Killcrogher; and Dick took up the pen, though he would as soon have swallowed poison. In the letter, we tould Sir Thomas how we were gettin’ on since we came to London, and showed him that we were in a fair way, ather “to make a spoon or spoil a horn,” as they say in Connaught; and we begged him to keep his heart up, and the gates closed, till he heard from us again. We requested Father Pat to stick to the ould gentleman, and not let him think upon the law but as little as he could. Dick sent his love to Mary Regan, and I my humble duty to the ladies. Sorra word we mentioned, good or bad, of our puttin’ in an evenin’ in the stocks. We also tould them a big lie, the Lord pardon us! and that was, that we heard mass reglar, although the devil a ather of us had listened to a single we, since we blessed ourselves the Sunday before we left home, in the chapel of Killcrogher. No wonder, in troth, that such a pair of hathens should have the worst of luck, for sure we desarved it.
Wednesday came, and all was ready for the venture. The women stuck to us like brieks; and Oney brought the news, that for sartin Miss Figgins would attend the chapel that evening, for there was a grate pracher to hould forth. At proper time, the postehay was in the street, and Dick skrulged up in the corner of it. Three fine strappin’ boys from St. Giles’s (all first-cousins of Biddy Donovan’s) and myself, took our sate in the front windy of a porter-house, and Oney kept watch at the corner, to give us the word when her mistress would appear. Be gogstay! we had only called the seeond pint before Oney cuts by the windy, with the news that the flock were comin’ out, and the woman we wanted would be with us in less than a pig’s whisper; an’ away she pelted home, to be safe in the house,—an’ then ye know, of coorse, she would never be suspeeted.
Up jumps the boys: “Here’s luck!” says I, turning down a cropper, in which they joined me. We then claps on our caubeens, and slips out of the door,—an’ sure enough, at the bottom of the street we sees two ladies comin’ forid.
“Which is the woman?” says I to Dick, who was peepin’ from the wee windy in the baek of the shay. “Her in the blue bonnet,” says he.
Egad, I was rather surprised at the appearance of the woman that Dick Macnamara pointed out to us. To do her justice, she was good-lookin’ enough—but, faith, she was no chicken—and nather in dress nor action what ye would expect from a reglar heiress, and, as Oney said, the biggest grocer in the city. I remembered that they said she was a Methodist—and, thinks I, maybe that’s the rason she goes so plain.
Well, I gives the word to Biddy Donovan’s cousins, in a whisper, and in Irish. Divil a handier boys iver assisted in a job of the kind,—they lifts her off the pavement in a twinklin’; and, before ye could say Jack Robinson, she was fairly sated beside Dick Macnamara, with a handkerchief stuck into her mouth, to keep down the squallin’!
Hoogh! off we starts—and I threw my eye over my shoulder as I was sittin’ by the driver—Miss Figgins was kickin’ like the divil—-but as Dick had a fast hould of her, we didn’t mind that.
“Whoop!” says Tony Braddigin—that was the postboy’s name—“Isn’t it eligint, Shemus, jewel?” says he. In troth, there never was anything better managed; for we heard afterwards that not a mortal saw anything that passed, but an ould Charley,—an’ as the Carneys ran past him—they were, ye know, Biddy Donovan’s cousins, by the mother’s side—one of them gave him the fist; an’, for a fortnight afterwards, he couldn’t tell light from darkness.
“Well, by this time we were clear of the town, and it was nearly twilight. I turned round now that we were safe, to see how matters were gettin’ on within, and if Dick was makin’ love to her. Well, I put the question to him in Irish, and he answered in the same:
“De ye think,” says he, “I’m not workin’ for the best—but wheniver, to make lier asy, I tell her we’ll marry out of the face, by Jakers! she kicks the harder.”
“Sorra soul’s within bearin’,” says I—“so take the handkerchief out of her mouth and give her air—for maybe she’s chokin’—and that’s what makes her kick.”
He did what I bid him—and, Lord! what a tongue she had when she got the use of it!—and not a word for ather of us but thief and villain. I disremember how she swore; but if she had been born in Connaught, the oaths couldn’t have come asier.
“Ye etarnal robbers!” says she, “what do ye want? I have no money about me, and I suppose I’m to be murdered!”
“We want nothing in the world,” says Dick, “but to make ye an honest woman manin’, of course, to marry her lawfully.
“Make me an honest woman!—why, ye common thieves, what do ye mane?”
Dick made a kind of a confused story of it, but she didn’t wait to the end. “Oh, murder! murder!” she called out—“Marry me! and get me transported?”
“Transported?” says Dick.
“To be sure I would,” says she; “marryin’ you, and my own lawful husband alive! Arrah, Sam Singlestich, dear!—little did I think, when I made taa for ye this evenin’, that I would be bundled off by these villains!”
“And who’s Mister Singlestich?” says I.
“Who? ye thief of the world! but my lawful husband! Oh, bad luck attend ye, night and day!—ye have the gallows in ye’re face,” says she, lookin’ full at me, “and it’s one comfort, if I live to escape, I’ll hear the Judge tellin’ ye’r fortune at the Ould Baily. Troth, and I’ll go to see ye hanged, too, even if it cost me five shillins for an opposite windy.”
“Arrah,” says the postilion, turnin’ sharp round at the word ‘Ould Baily,’ and ‘being hanged,’—“what’s all this about?”
“Honest woman,” says I (for Dick seemed stupified) “who the divil are ye?—Ar’n’t ye Miss Figgins?”
“Miss?—yer mother!” says she;—“I’m the wife of a dacent tradesman, and the lawful mother of five children an’ I’ll show them again any within a mile of Huggin Lane.”
“Oh,” says the postboy, jumpin’ out of the saddle—“by the powers of pewter! we’re all dead men!” and, at one spring, he clears the fence, and cuts over hedge and ditch like a madman.
“And,” says I to myself, “maybe I’m goin’ to sit here and be hanged?”—and down I hops too. Dick Macnamara seemed to be of the same opinion, for he was on the road already. We takes the country out of the face, as if we were matched for a hundred—lavin’ the tailor’s wife and the two post-horses—the one to look after the other.
Every body that iver rode to a fox-hound, knows that it’s the pace that kills; and, for two miles, Dick and I crossed the country neck and neck, takin’ every thing in stroke as the Lord sent it. No wonder, when we came to a cross-road, that both were dead baten, and that Dick called out, for the love of God, to stop for a minute or two that we might get second wind for a fresh start. Down we sate upon the ditch; and when I got breath enough, I began to abuse Dick Macnamara like a pickpocket.
“Arrah,” says I, “what sins have I committed, that I’m to be ruinated through you? If iver the divil had a fast hould of a sinner, it’s yourself, Dick! Was there iver a man so asily put in the ready way to make a fortune? Wasn’t the lady med out—the rough work done—and sorra thing for you to do, but sit like a gintleman quietly in the chaise, pay year lady some tender attention, and keep her mouth stuffed with a pocket-handkerchif. And how beautiful ye put your fut in it! Oh, Holy Joseph!—to run away with a tradesman’s-wife, and the mother of five childer into the bargain!”
He began mutterin’ something about a mistake, and talked about blue bonnets and yalla ones.
“What are we to do?” says I, interruptin’ him. “Arrah, have done wid yer balderdash an’ yer bonnets;—havn’t ye made a pretty gommoque * of yerself? Where are we to head to? and how are we to chate the gallows? Blessed Bridget!—to be hanged in the flower of my youth, for runnin’ away with the mother of a family!”
Before I had done spakin’, we hears a carriage cornin’ up at splittin’ speed. We ducked into the ditch to let it pass—and at one look I knew it to be the very chay we had brought with us on our unfortunit expedition. The horses had run off; and as they passed us at a gallop, we heard the tailor’s wife shoutin’ a thousand murders.
“Arrah! what’s to be done at all at all,” says I, as the carriage cantered on. “I haven’t the ghost of a rap about me. What money have you, Dick?”
“Five or six shillins,” says he, “to pay the turnpikes, and a light guinea for the marriage money.”
“Ah, then, ye won’t require it, Dick, avourneeine,” says I. “Any little job in future ye want from the clargy, they’ll trate ye to it for nothin’. It’s a comfort when a man comes to the gallows, that he’s provided with a priest.”
But what need I bother ye with all the misfortune that kem over us? Half the time we lay out in barns, or under hay-stacks; for if we ventured into the parlour of a publie-house, the divil a thing ye would hear talked of but the attempt upon the tailor’s wife—with a reward of fifty pound for the intended murderers, and a description of their persons.
At last we were fairly worn out with hunger and fatigue, without a shoe to our feet, or a scurrick in our pockets, and nothing was left for us but to list. Accordingly, we joined the first party that we met, and the sergeant gave us plinty of entertainment, and two pound a man. We were to be attested the next mornin’; but as he didn’t like our looks, he put us in the room where the corplar slept, and took care to lock the door carefully behind him. I guessed as much, and, feaks, I determined the divil another yard we would keep company, if I could help it; and maybe I didn’t succeed? When we were locked in, I produces a bottle of rum, and the corplar—who was a drunken divil—and I finished it by moonlight, hand to fist. I lifts him into bed blind drunk; and when the house was quiet, I wakens Dick Mac-namara, and we opened the windy fair and asy, and lowered ourselves by the blankets to the ground. We travelled night an’ day—exchanged our clothes for stable-jackets—and at last, we had the luck to be taken into the yard of an inn, and there get employment as helpers—and when at Killcrogher they thought we were travellin’ homeward in our own coach, it’s most likely we were grazing the wheels of his chay for some travellin’ bagman.
Well, Dick was wispin’ a horse—and the only two things in this world he could do dacently was to warm one after a fox, and wisp him dry afterwards—when in comes one of a recruitin’ party to ask some question about his officer. When he went away I says to Dick in Irish:—
“The divil welcome the last visitor. Wheniver I see a bunch of ribbons in a sodger’s cap, I always get a start, and think that it’s one of the lads we listed with, that’s comin’ to look after his own.”
“Feaks! an’ I’m not overly asy in their company ather,” says Dick back to me—and him and I continues talkin’ and laughin’ at how stupid the corplar looked in the mornin’, when he found an open windy and an empty bed.
“And so,” says a voice at our elbow, “ye gave his majesty leg-bail, boys!”
We gave a start, and looked round, and who was standin’ close to us but a-little dark-visaged gentleman, with a twist in the eyes that didn’t improve him much—and by the whole look of him, the very last man you would meet in a day’s walk, that ye would borrow money to spend in company with.
You maybe sure that Dick and I were scared enough. “Egad,” thought I, “we are ketched at last, and this dark divil will split upon us—and then the first march will be to the black-hole for desarchin’; and the second, to the gallows, for the murder of a tailor’s wife, only that we didn’t kill her. Well, I struv to put it off as a joke, but the wee black fellow was too deep for it and he spoke the best of Irish too.
“Badershin!” says he, with a wink of one of his quare eyes, “Tig-gum tigue Tiggeeine! * It won’t do, boys, I’m not in the recruitin’ line, so ye needn’t be afeerd of me. But, as ye have been on the tramp, in the coorse of yer rambles did ye happen to hear anything about Sir Richard Macnamara?”
Be the powers of pewter! the question made its start.
“No, Sir,” says I; “but if you had inquired after ould Sir Thomas, I could have given ye a better answer.”
“What Sir Thomas?” says he.
“Why, what other, but Sir Thomas of Killcrogher?”
“Divil a such a man lives there,” says he.
“Nabochish!” says I; “maybe I wasn’t bred and born under him?”
“That may be true,” says he; “it’s Sir Riehard I want to see. I wouldn’t give a traneeine to be in company with Sir Thomas.”
“Ah! then,” says I, “what wouldn’t I give to be cheek-be-jowl with the ould gentleman.”
“Divil have the liars!” says the wee fellow in return; “for if ye had y’er wish, ye would have a ton weight of lime and mortar on the top of ye.”
“Christ stan’ between us and evil!” says I, crossin’ myself. “You don’t mane that he’s dead?”
“Faith an’ if he’s not,” says the wee black fellow, “they have takin’ a great liberty with him, for they buried him in Killeroglier on Tuesday week—and I have been tatterin’ over half England in search of his son. Be the Lord!” says he, “ye might as well grip hould of a Banshee. * For all the tidings I could get of him was, that a ruffin, called Shemus Rhua, ran off with a tailor’s wife; and he, the villin, persuaded the good-natured young gentleman to follow him.”
Well, who should the little man be but a lawyer sent in pursuit of Dick; and, without delay, we set off for home; and, when we got there, said as little about England as we could. It was supposed that Sir Richard might have cleared Killeroglier if he had taken the right way; but he set up a pack of fox-hounds, and married a dashin’ lady because that she could ride to them to fortune. A few years settled the busnis—and what Sir Thomas had begun Sir Riehard cliverly complated. The dogs were sent adrift, the horses canted by the sheriff, my lady boulted with a light dragoon, and, to finish all, one wet mornin’, poor Dick was brought home upon a door, dead as a herrin’. There’s not one stone standin’ on the other at Killerogher; and of one of the ouldest and the best estates within the province, there’s not a sod of it now in possession of a man of the name of Maenamara.
“ Cor. Sir, do you know me?
Still, still far wide!
Phy. He’s scarce awake—Let him alone awhile—
Lear. Where have I been?—where am I?—fair daylight
I am mightily abused—I should even die with pity,
To see another thus—I know not what to say.”
Shakespeare.
With pleasant and profitable reminiscences of burglary and abduction, Shemus Rhua entertained the fosterer on the road, until the worthy twain accomplished their journey in perfect safety, and ensconced themselves, as we mentioned before, in that safe and salubrious section of the Modern Babylon, supposed to be under the immediate protection of St. Patrick, and the especial surveillance of the police, vulgarly ycleped the Seven Dials. There we shall leave them to recover from the fatigues incident to a migration, au pied, from “the far west,” until, like giants refreshed, they should find themselves ready for a fresh start upon the world, to try, as the rat-catcher philosophically remarked, “their fortunes—any how.”
I need scarcely say that I availed myself of Mr. Hartley’s permission, and early in the forenoon presented myself at his hotel. As I had expected, he was from home; but Dominique conducted me to the presence of his young mistress; and, to judge from the kindness of my welcome, the visit was not disagreeable.
It was late when Mr. Hartley returned to dinner; and after the cloth had been removed, and Isidora had retired, he resumed a subject that he had casually mentioned to me before, namely, how far it would be prudent or possible to place myself in the presence of my grandfather, and try what impression my unexpected appearance might produce.
“I have made secret inquiries,” he said, “respecting Mr. Clifford’s habits, to find out how an interview could be achieved, but I have failed in obtaining any information but what is vague and unsatisfactory; but, as Clifford Hall is only twenty miles from town, you shall run down, Hector, and try whether fortune may not do more for you than I can. The domain adjoins the village of —————. There you will find a rustic inn; and there, also, you may probably glean some information that may direct your course of action afterwards. Thither, at present, it would be imprudent in me to venture; but you are unknown, and consequently you may venture safely. You will find your grand-sire under the double thrall of his steward and his Confessor. I shall sketch both for you.
“The former was born in the house, and reared and educated from charitable motives by the old gentleman, from his having become an orphan while an infant. Gradually, he rose from dependency to affluence; in time he managed the old man’s income; and report says, that he has secured a goodly fortune from the pilferings of the estate. It was whispered that he had secretly encouraged Mr. Clifford’s discarded boy in his wild and profligate career; and that, by the suppression of letters and numerous acts of villany beside, he contrived to snap the last link of natural affection between an angry father and a guilty son. Certainly, in the hour of young Clifford’s disgrace and destitution, he evinced the blackest ingratitude to one who, badly as he might have behaved to others, had showered favours on him when a boy, and trusted him afterwards with unlimited confidence. Such is Morley the steward; and now we will briefly sketch Daniels the confessor.
“He is a Jesuit; born, I believe, in England, but educated abroad; a deep designing zealot—bigoted to his own faith, and intolerant to all besides. The great object of his existence is to aggrandize the order he belongs to; and by the exercise of monastic influence on a mind always superstitious, and now imbecile from age, he trusts to alienate from natural heirs the noble estates of that weak old man, to whom he has become a ghostly counsellor. In short, Morley and Daniels act with a unity of purpose, but different end: the one, to build a fortune for himself; the other, to gratify a monk’s ambition, and raise himself to a commanding position in that order which he intends to aggrandize at the expense of your mother and yourself. You can easily understand that every obstacle will be placed in your way by individuals so deeply interested in preventing the old man from being reconciled to a child he once was so devotedly attached to; and whether you succeed or fail, matters cannot be more unpromising than they are. They say the fortunes of an Irishman carry him, at times, through difficulties which to other mortals would prove insuperable. Try yours, Hector—something may be gained—and, need I tell you?—nothing can be lost.”
I followed Mr. Hartley’s advice, and started next evening by a stage coach that passed the village he had named; and at dusk I alighted at a clean and comfortable public-house, intituled the Fox and Hounds.
The evening was sharp, and, as I had travelled outside, an introduction to a snug parlour and sparkling wood-fire was agreeable. I ordered supper and a bed; and, while the former was being prepared, considered in what manner, and by what means, I should endeavour to obtain an interview with Mr. Clifford. Mr. Hartley had recommended me to glean some intelligence from the landlord, should I find him inclined to be communicative; and, when the cloth had been removed and a correct assortment of fluids was placed upon the table, I desired “mine host” to be summoned to the presence.
When he appeared, I had no difficulty to ascertain at a glance that he had pursued in earlier life the honourable trade of arms, and, like myself, had been intended to supply “food for powder.” He was a tall, hale, hearty-looking veteran, and stout for his years, albeit Father Time had silvered his head and stooped his shoulders. Still maintaining that feeling of deference when in the presence of a superior, which military usage renders habitual, he drew himself up at the foot of the table, and respectfully inquired “what my honour wanted?”
“Nothing, my worthy host, but your company for half an hour. The evenings grow long, and I hate ‘to drink one hand against the other,’ as we say in Ireland. If I guess right, you have retired from a profession on which I have but entered recently.”
“Yes, sir,” returned he of the Fox and Hounds;—“I wore the king’s livery for fifteen years; and, God bless him, now that I have done my work, he allows me two-and-eightpence a-day to enable me to drink his health in comfort.”
“You seem, when you bade Brown-Bess good-bye, to have taken up comfortable quarters here, my friend.”
“I am, thank God, not only comfortable, but in garrison I hope for life. When I returned home, I married the sergeant-major’s widow. Well, we each had laid by a bit of money—put it together—took this house—and after being five years keeping the business going on, things have gone straight enough with us, and we are better by the half than when we entered it. I wish every worn-out soldier had as snug cantonments for old age.”
“Have you served abroad?”
“I began in Holland with the Duke of York, and I finished in Spain with poor Sir John.”
“What regiments did you serve in?”
“Never but in one, the old steady fifty —th. Under its honoured colours I stood my last field, at Corunna, and fought my first one at Malines.”
“You were in the grenadiers; do you remember who commanded?”
“As stout a soldier as ever took a company into fire—Colonel O’Halloran.”
“Then you fought under my father.”
The retired soldier put down the glass he was lifting to his lips, and for a moment scanned my features eagerly.
“By Heaven!—the living image of the kindest and bravest officer under whom a soldier ever served! I am prouder, sir, in having you this night beneath my humble roof, than if you called a prince your father.” And stretching forward his hand, the veteran grasped mine in his with an honest ardour that proved how deeply military attachment takes root, and how dearly the remembrance of “auld lang syne” is cherished in the soldier’s memory. “And now,” he said, “what is there in the Fox and Hounds which I can offer to my old colonel’s son?”
“Nothing but what is already on the table; but possibly you could, in another matter, render me some assistance?”
“Name but the way in which John Williams can be serviceable.”
“You know my relationship to Mr. Clifford?”
“Perfectly. I was with my gallant captain the night we stole his beautiful lady from the convent garden. Alas! many a time it has grieved me to the heart, to think that the old gentleman should remain so cold and unforgiving as he is; but he is poisoned against his child by the priests and villains who surround him. How can I be useful? What do you intend to do?—Do you intend to call on the old man? If you do, I fear there are those about him who will prevent it. No one is allowed to see him but in the presence of that dark monk they call Father Daniels. The house is guarded like a gaol, and the gates are locked against the world.”
“I despair of obtaining an interview by open means,” I replied—“How shall I manage it by secret ones?”
“It will be all but impossible,” said the sergeant. “I will think over it to-night; and if a chance exist we’ll try it, hit or miss. But soft!—surely that voice which I hear in the kitchen is old George Smith the keeper’s? He is the only one of the old servants now remaining at the Hall; and, only that his master has a strong regard for him, and won’t listen to any stories to his disadvantage, he would have shared the fate of others, and been sent adrift as they were. Father Daniels hates him; and, faith, its cordially returned! The old keeper remembers your honour’s mother well, and many a time he speaks of her—and I’ll stake my pension, that he will befriend the son of her whom he still reverences in his heart.”
As he spoke, the sergeant rose and left the room.—Irishmen are all more or less superstitious; and I hailed it as a happy omen, that, in the very opening of my attempt, fate should have thrown across me an old comrade of my father. To succeed, I had scarce a hope; but, for every reason, I was ambitious to fail respectably. I was experimentalizing under the direction of one whose good opinion I was anxious to secure; and I determined that when I returned to town, I would at least satisfy Mr. Hartley that I had struck boldly, although the blow had failed.
In ten minutes the host returned, followed by an elderly man. The latter made me a dutiful obeisance; but when approaching the table, and the light fell strongly on my face, under a sudden impulse he caught my hand, pressed it to his lips, and seemed to be powerfully affected. The likeness to my mother at once established my identity; and in a few minutes, if by the agency of George Smith I could have been placed in that house to which I wus natural heir, it would have been instantly effected. A half-hour’s conversation determined our course of operations, and I learned enough regarding my grandfather’s habits to convince me, that, with good luck, the interview I desired might be obtained.
It appeared that in good weather, there was a favourite seat in a sheltered corner of the park, to which Mr. Clifford generally repaired. There he would sometimes remain an hour, while the Confessor walked backwards and forwards reading the daily office which the rules of his order imposed. Occasionally, Mr. Clifford employed himself with some devotional book; and all intrusions on the part of servants were rigidly prohibited. From strangers none could be apprehended, as none were allowed to pass the gates.
In a thick clump immediately adjacent to the bench where Mr. Clifford rested, it was arranged that I should lie perdu, and if fortune offered the opportunity, I was to sally from my ambuscade, and seize it. The keeper was to assist me to scale the wall, and point out the place where I could best conceal myself—and, to the blind goddess of the wheel, the rest was properly committed.
I know not wherefore, but that night I went to sleep with all the buoyancy of hope, although I had no reason to think that chances wild as mine could prove successful. In my dreams, however, results were fortunate—every obstacle was overcome—I was reconciled to Mr. Clifford; and, better still, united to Isidora.
After breakfast old George announced himself, and the weather was propitious. It was one of those fine autumnal mornings which promise a hot noon and a frosty evening. From an angle of the park wall, the lower bough of a large beech tree extended itself. It was not ten feet above the ground, and, by throwing a rope across, it required but small exertion to gain it; and that done, the entrance to the park was easy. Inside, the gamekeeper was to await my advent. The host furnished me with what is not generally an acceptable present; but the halter—for it was one—well nigh proved the ladder to my fortunes.
At the appointed time I made the attempt, and succeeded; and, stealing along the shrubbery, gained the clump, and took a safe position behind a thick holly, not six yards distant from the seat which the keeper pointed out as the one generally occupied by Mr. Clifford.
All proceeded as I expected and had hoped—and the mildness of the day induced the old gentleman to take his customary walk. He was attended by the Jesuit, on whose arm he leaned; and on reaching his resting-place, he received a book from the Confessor, and commenced reading a passage which the monk had pointed out. In a few minutes the churchman strolled some distance from the bench, and while I was considering the way in which I should present myself to the old man without occasioning alarm, to my unspeakable satisfaction, I observed a servant approach the Confessor hastily, and after a brief communication, they both walked away in the direction of the house.
I seized the golden opportunity, stole from my retreat, and placed myself in front of the old gentleman, and, so silently, that he remained with his eyes fixed upon the book for more than a minute afterwards. Presently he looked up—he stared at me with evident surprise—for it was a rare occurrence to find himself alone with a stranger—and in a low tone he asked me “if I wished to speak with him?”
I advanced another step, knelt at the old man’s feet, and gently took his hand.
“What means this?—Who are you?” he muttered.
“A son, come hither to solicit pardon for a parent—your grandchild begs your blessing!”
“Ha! these are Ellen’s features! Merciful God!—Do I rave, or dream? Speak, boy—your name?”
“O’Halloran.”
“Your business?—Quick!—quick!”
“Pardon for my mother.”
“Ellen, Ellen, Ellen!” he feebly muttered; and next moment be fainted in my arms.
I was dreadfully alarmed. I thought my sudden appearance had operated fatally, called loudly for assistance, and on looking around to see whether my summons had been heard, observed that the Jesuit, followed by several men, was running towards me rapidly. In another minute he was at our side; and never, in a human countenance, were anger and astonishment so mingled as in his.
“Remove your master!” he exclaimed to the servants. “Who are you, sir?” he continued, bending his shaggy brows over eyes of sinister expression, and directing their deadly glare at me. “How dare you intrude where strangers are excluded?”
“By right of kindred!” I thundered in return.
The monk’s face blanched. “Remove your master instantly,” he continued, “and eject this man—by force, if necessary!”
“Beware!” I said; “the man who tries it may count on broken bones!”
“Who are you?” the monk inquired, haughtily “Your name?—Your business?”
The men who accompanied him hesitated to obey his orders; and still the old man reclined with his head upon my breast, while my arm supported him. Certainly, of the priest’s body-guard none were gentlemen who would volunteer a forlorn hope; and, astounded at the bold tone I used to one, who at Clifford Hall had exercised a despotic authority, they seemed any thing but anxious to bring matters to hostile conclusions. But when I announced my name and relationship to their master, they all receded, leaving the matter to be settled by the Jesuit and myself.
The Confessor, with admirable skill, at once changed his tactics, and adopted another course.
“Mr. O’Halloran, to use the mildest term it admits, your visit has been imprudent. Mark in the old man’s illness the consequences of your rashness! Why did you not notice your intention? Could I have induced your grandsire to receive you, I would have done so willingly, and thus have prevented a shock that may prove—and I fear it will—fatal! For God’s sake, be advised by me. Leave the park, and let your relative receive immediate attention. You see the first effect—would you, should he recover the first shock, expose him to a second? When he is well enough to write, I pledge my word, you shall receive an instant communication. If you persevere, death will inevitably ensue; and how, may I ask, will you, forewarned as you are, excuse the rashness, the madness, that occasioned it?”
The specious arguments of the Jesuit prevailed, and I acceded to his proposition. I could not tell the cause that overpowered my grandfather’s feeble strength; nor could I even guess whether it were anger, or an outbreaking of revived affection. In my doubts, I agreed to the monk’s proposal—saw the old man carried in a chair to the house—and quitted the domain, perfectly unconscious whether my visit had mitigated or confirmed his animosity.
In one brief hour that question was put to rest, and a letter, addressed to me at the Fox and Hounds, apprised me that my grandfather considered my mother an enfant perdu, and that his displeasure was unmitigable!
In a remote apartment of Mr. Clifford’s mansion, that evening, two men might have been discovered in earnest conversation; one had a countenance sallow, cunning, and repulsive; and a figure remarkable for its height and irregular proportions; the other was a middle-sized elderly man, with a certain air and intelligence that might stamp him a pawnbroker, money-dealer, thieves’ attorney, or any other profession appertaining to the “wide-awake” school. Heed I say the twain were the Confessor and house-steward of my grandfather? Both exhibited unequivocal appearances of anxiety and annoyance; and though there were wines upon the table, neither seemed inclined to use them.
“Was there ever any thing more unfortunate than this evening’s occurrence?” exclaimed the Jesuit. “For months the old man has never been left a moment to himself; and one unguarded interval, what mischief has it not produced! Another interview—and all that you and I for years have laboured to effect is totally, hopelessly—-undone!”
“It is too true,” replied the steward.
“He’ll never make a will now!”
“Have we not already made one for him?” said the steward.
The priest shook his head—“That deed, my friend, will never bear the light. We stand in a dangerous position; and had not the old man fainted, we were ruined. Even now the mischief is not abated—he talks of nothing but his daughter, and raves about the duty of forgiveness which a father should extend to an erring child. What is to be done?”
The steward mused for a minute—his brows contracted, and a dark expression passed across his face. “Father,” he said, “the intruder must be removed.”
The Jesuit looked at his companion, but spoke not. The look, however, said—“Would that it were done!”
“Money will effect it,” said the steward.
The Jesuit continued silent, and then carelessly observed, “I would give a thousand pounds this cursed interview had not occurred!”
“Would you, holy father, give as much to prevent a seeond?” asked the steward.
The Jesuit nodded.
“Enough; I shall act promptly now. Hark! A knock at the door! Come in!”
It was a message from Mr. Clifford requiring that the Confessor should attend him instantly. Father Daniels rose.
“Stop,” he said, “till I hear what the old man wants.” And, so saying, he left the apartment.
He was not absent long; and when he entered the chamber, he held an open letter in his hand. Carefully closing the door, he thus addressed his confederate:
“Said I not right—Our position is all but desperate? What think ye was the old man’s business?—To desire the son of his repudiated daughter to return to-morrow; and to give directions, that I should write and order it to be so. Were that to happen, need I name the result?—all—all lost! Well, I obeyed, and wrote this letter”———
“As he dictated?—are you mad, holy father?” inquired the steward. “Not exactly.‘Tis thus worded:—
“‘Rash Boy!
“‘Your mother’s misconduct wrung my heart, and your unwarrantable intrusion has nearly brought me to the grave. As you dread the malediction of an old man—desist!—and for ever avoid the presence of one who can never look but with abhorrence on the offspring of a guilty daughter.’
“‘Tis signed—ay, and in his own handwriting too—
“‘John Clifford.’”
“Excellent! This will prevent another visit,” said the steward.
“You are too sanguine, my friend. The young man is daring;—he may make a second effort. If he succeed—if he gain a second time the sight of his grandfather, the tale is told. This fabricated letter may prevent the meeting for a while—but more effectual measures to secure mutual safety are indispensable.”
“I understand you, holy father,” returned the steward;—“money will be necessary.”
“Money shall not be wanting,” said the Confessor. “This note procrastinates, but does not avert the crisis.”
The steward nodded his head. “‘Tis a breathing-time, that shall not be thrown away;—I’m off to London immediately.”
“Heaven speed thee!” said the monk; and the hand of God’s minister, imprecating a blessing, was laid upon a wretch’s head whose avowed embassy was—murder!
To my humble counsellors, the keeper and the sergeant, I communicated what we all considered the decided failure of my experiment. I resolved to return direct to town—and a place was booked accordingly in the stage. Another passenger accompanied me—and how different are the ends which influence men’s actions! I hurried back to town to bask in the smiles of my young and artless Isidora. The object of my compagnon du voyage was very opposite,—the gentleman was Mr. Morley; and his embassy—nothing but to accomplish my assassination.