Murderer. Safe in a ditch he bides,
With twenty trenched pashes on his head;
The least a death to nature.”
“Yolk-fellows in arms,
Let us to France!”
Shakspeare.
Y ou are late, my friend,” I said, as the gipsy stopped beside me and Mr. Hartley.
“I am too late to warn you against the attempt, but in good time to apprise you of the extent of the danger you have eseaped, and implore you, as you value life, to profit by it,” was the reply.
“You are then aware that I have been assailed, and providentially rescued?”
“I am.”
“Did you witness the attempt upon my young friend’s life?” asked Mr. Hartley.
“No; had I been near enough, the attempt would never have been made.”
“Then you must have obtained a knowledge of it in a marvellously short time after the occurrence.”
“I have,” replied the gipsy; “and, as time is precious, I shall at once tell the means by which I gained that information. I had received an intimation that certain agents would be employed, and, anxious to learn the plans that would be adopted, I repaired to a place where I was well aware the ruffians could be met with. Earlier it would have been useless to have sought them—crime and darkness are companions—and the boldest ruffian of the party dared not venture from his skulking-place in the broad light of day. I went and found them, not preparing for their murderous essay, but foiled in the attempt, and venting, in impotent execrations, their rage at disappointment. From one maimed wretch I heard the particulars of their night adventure, after his companions, leaving him to my charge, had gone to report their failure to the scoundrels who had employed them.”
“And after the danger’s past, you come to congratulate my young friend on his deliverance! Methinks, it would have been doing better service to have apprised him of his peril, and not entrusted his escape from the murderer’s knife to the accidental assistance rendered by some passing strangers.”
“Had I not already cautioned him sufficiently?” returned the gipsy. “If he allowed himself to be made the dupe of an artful woman—one with the semblance of purity and innocence veiling a heart that from infancy has been familiarized with crime—and whose beauty seems to be given so lavishly, only to render her a greater curse to the community—was I to blame? All that a woman’s art could do was done. Were he the offspring of first love, his safety eould not be dearer to a mother. Once more, Hector O’Halloran, I come to warn you. Danger is averted, but not passed; and I repeat my former admonition: regard every stranger who approaches you as an enemy!”
“But, woman, with the knowledge you possess, why not end this state of insecurity? Tell us whence danger is to come—denounce his assassins—and the laws of England are quite sufficient to protect my young friend from those who seek his life.”
“To save is one thing, to betray another; and I would preserve his life, if possible, without compromising that of one whom I know to be his deadliest enemy. But of one thing rest assured—should no other means succeed—the guilty shall be sacrificed and the innocent preserved. Farewell. Trust implicitly in me. Early to-morrow expect to hear from me; and stir not from home until my letter shall be delivered.”
She turned away; we heard her steps receding in the darkness. Presently the sounds became fainter until they died away, and we returned to our own hotel, very little wiser than when we left it.
“I cannot even fancy who our foemen are,” said Mr. Hartley, as he leaned thoughtfully against the mantel-pieee. “At times a vague suspicion crosses my mind. That monk, and his associate, who have enthralled your grandfather, and estranged the dotard from the child who should have been the solace of his age, they look no doubt upon you as a dangerous rival. But were their fears greater, and did they wish, even by violence, to rid themselves of one who might mar their schemes, still the villany would require some time ere it could be sufficiently matured for execution. The secret motives which actuate that mysterious woman are also impenetrable, but her fidelity is beyond a doubt. Well, Hector, we must needs be ever on the alert until time developes more than we know at present. And now, to bed.”
We separated for the night; and never did the slumbers of a private gentleman prove less refreshing than mine. I dreamed eternally of every thing abominable. One time, the gipsy was sounding into my attentive ear her mystic warnings; the next, with smiles, sweet enough to bother any saint in the whole calendar, that demon-girl was beckoning me along dark and dreary passages,—and I mechanically following, although perfectly conscious that she lured me to the grave. No wonder that next morning I rose with an aching head; and then, for the first time, ascertained the extent of the injury I had sustained. It is true the hurts were superficial; but from the number of bruises my arms and back exhibited, many blows had fallen on both, although at the time they were unfelt by me.
I was the last personage to present myself at the breakfast table. I found Isidora there, pale and agitated; for Mr. Hartley had just acquainted her with my narrow escape from assassination. To do him justice, he omitted every particular of my having undertaken to arrange Miss Julia Travers’ claims upon the government; and, as “good men blush at the record of a virtuous act,” I was delighted to find that my beneficent intentions regarding the soldier’s orphan were silently passed over. When I took her hand in mine, I felt it tremble; and, from the manner of both, had Mr. Hartley been ignorant of our attachment before, that morning’s meeting would have betrayed the secret to one far less discerning than he was.
As breakfast ended, the postman’s knock was heard; and presently Dominique presented several letters to Mr. Hartley and myself. His appeared to be full of interest, from the attention with which he perused their contents; and mine, to me, were equally important. One was from my father, and it apprised me that he expected to get me placed on the staff of one of his old friends, a general officer, commanding a brigade of the army now advancing towards the Pyrenees; and the other, a formal notification of my appointment, with an order for my departure forthwith for the Peninsula, by a sloop-of-war, which was to sail on the third day from Portsmouth for Passages, laden with money and military stores.
While I was reading my despatches, Mr. Hartley rose suddenly and left the room, to reply to one of his that required an immediate answer. More unwelcome intelligence never met the eye of a soldier of fortune, than the unexpected order to leave England now appeared to me. How differently the route for the Peninsula would have been regarded a fortnight since! Involuntarily I raised my eyes—and they encountered those of my gentle mistress. She had perceived that the letters I had just received contained news of no ordinary interest. I rose, and seated myself beside her, and gradually announced that the hour of parting was at hand.
I need not describe the scene that followed. Those who have loved as we did, can guess it well; and fancy what the “cold in blood” could never know nor feel. Isidora’s hand was locked in mine; and my flushed cheeks, and her tearful eyes, told too well, how agonizing the first severance of love is. Suddenly the door opened—Mr. Hartley entered—he paused a moment in surprise; and, while she was covered with blushes, and I astonished beyond the power of free agency, he advanced and stood before us.
“Soh!—what means this folly, may I ask?”
The tears flowed faster down his daughter’s cheeks, while I, unconsciously, still held her hand in mine, and merely pointed to the letters that were lying on the table.
Mr. Hartley read them hastily, and, without evincing any mark of displeasure at the discovery he had made, he beckoned gently to his daughter, and next moment she was seated on her father’s knee, her arms clasped fondly round his neck, and her head rested on his bosom.
“Isidora,” he said, in that soft tone of voice with which he always addressed his favourite, “I have been already prepared for this discovery; and had I been unfriendly to the growth of an attachment which I have witnessed with satisfaction, I would have discouraged the unrestricted intimacy which has existed between you and my young friend, and which in youth is ever too dangerous to be permitted. I think I have known the world too long, to have any doubt upon my mind respecting this gentleman’s feelings towards you, my child; but, nevertheless, I will inquire of him whether I have correctly formed this opinion.”
My reply was a florid declaration of youthful passion, whose ardour elicited from my gentle mistress a look which told me that my love was faithfully reciprocated.
“‘Well, I believe you, Hector. Circumstances have hurried matters on more rapidly than I had expected. I have watched you suspiciously; for he who would trust his earthly treasure to the keeping of another, will be guarded ere he parts with it. I am satisfied that all which I value will be safe. Continue to deserve it; and when events, now in slow progress, shall have come round, and prudence justifies the step, this hand, Hector,”—and he placed Isidora’s in mine—“the dearest gift a father can bestow, is yours.”
Young love is eloquent, and I warmly expressed my gratitude.
“An hour ago I considered that the time had not yet arrived, when you were entitled to demand my confidence,” continued Mr. Hartley; “I have now given you the strongest pledge of my personal regard; and you have a claim upon my unlimited confidence, which shall be freely admitted. We dine at six; and afterwards you shall know some particulars of the story of a man, whose very existence none, save yourself and this loved child, suspect. Little did you imagine that, in the stern monitor who blamed your follies, a kinsman was cautioning an unschooled novice against those seductions of vicious society which so often wreck the happiness of youth. None could have taught the lesson better than himself. He had erred and paid the penalty—and a life of peril, suffering, and disappointment, has scarcely redeemed the obloquy and disgrace which his earlier indiscretions had brought upon a name, which, but for his offendings, should have been second to none in Britain. Hector O’Halloran, you stand in the presence of one, who, tempted, ruined, and rejected by all, became a castaway and an exile—I am Edward Clifford.”
Was I dreaming—or was it a reality, that the man who had exercised such mysterious influence over my thoughts and actions, was closely united to me by the bond of blood—my mother’s brother—my grandsire’s heir—but, dearer tie than all—the father of Isidora! My brain was in a whirl, when Dominique unclosed the door to announce that two persons were below, and anxious to see me. I informed my uncle—for that relationship with him I shall claim for the future—that the strangers were my deliverers; and in a few minutes after Isidora had retired, my foster-brother and the honest ratcatcher were formally introduced.
Of the Irish relationship that existed between me and Mark Antony O’Toole my uncle was already apprised, and he received the fosterer accordingly as if he had been an old acquaintance; but, touching the private history of Shemus Rhua, we were both as yet in blissful ignorance. All we knew was, that in the hour of danger, he had proved himself a jewel above price; but that he had arrayed himself in arms against the house of Hanover, eased Tim Maley of his purse, bled an old woman, or ferretted a rat, were interesting passages in the captain’s life which we had yet to learn. Neither of my friends looked to the best advantage. The ratcatcher, in the rookawn of the preceding evening, had been favoured with a black eye—and the fosterer came out of action minus a skirt, with the addition of an awkward fracture in his unmentionables. Both had the appearance of gentlemen who had been recently in trouble, and from their “shuck * look,” had they presented themselves as bail, it is doubtful whether a fastidious justice of the peace would have accepted either, without instituting a slight inquiry into their “whereabouts” and general effects. I believe the meeting of last night was, on both sides, a fortunate occurrence. Never did man receive succour when he needed it more opportunely than I; while the fosterer and his friend had already experienced some difficulty in struggling against an exhausted treasury and wardrobe. A liberal present from Mr. Hartley (for that name must be for the present retained) placed the finances of the twain once more in a flourishing condition. I supplied the fosterer with an outfit for his outer man; the captain made a judicious selection from a fashionable emporium in the vicinity of Monmouth Street; and in a couple of hours, a happy change in both had been effected, and their persons were gay as their hearts.
The morning wore away. No tidings from the gipsy had arrived; and Mr. Hartley and myself had just come to a conclusion that something had changed her intention of sending me a dispatch, and that it was unnecessary to wait longer at home in expectation of the promised billet. The fosterer and captain had returned from their morning’s excursion; and Mr. Hartley, having heard their adventure at Mr. Spicer’s on the preceding evening, was considering the best method in which that information could be employed to discover who might be the conspirators against my life. He was listening a second time to a narrative of their imprisonment in the lumber-room, where Mark Antony had ensconced himself to avoid the ire of an elderly gentleman, who, like Mr. Spicer, had “not loved wisely, but too well,” when the negro entered the drawing-room, and handed me a sealed letter, whose folding and address bore evident appearance of carelessness. I unclosed it hastily—the private mark annexed announcing that the gipsy was the writer. The contents were these:
“Well may it be said that the ways of Providence are inscrutable; for vengeance so sudden as to pass belief, has fallen on those who last night endeavoured to effect your destruction. Come to the Green Man immediately.’ There you will see those who employed, and those who undertook to murder you. Notice nothing which may occur; and appear to take no more interest in passing events, than any stranger in the room. Follow me when I leave the house, and let your friend accompany you. Fail not!”
“We shall punctually attend the lady’s invitation,” said Mr. Hartley, as he perused the scroll for the second time, “and we will also take that henchman of yours and his companion with us.”
Accordingly, these useful allies were dispatched, with proper directions to find the place appointed; and in half an hour, Mr. Hartley and I started in the same direction.
On arriving at our destination, we found the street was crowded, and intense anxiety was visible in the countenances of a very numerous collection of idle people, to whom every act of atrocity gives interest. Indeed, it had been found necessary to close the tavern doors against all, excepting those who might professionally or profitably claim a right of entrance. The appearance of my uncle and myself, however, secured admission, and we were conducted into a spacious club-room, which had been selected wherein to hold the necessary inquest on a murdered man. A crown, judiciously applied, obtained convenient seats immediately beside the defunct lawyer and the persons suspected of his murder; and the fosterer and his companion had standing room assigned them, behind the chairs with which we had been graciously accommodated.
That spacious room had witnessed many an hour of revelry. With the dance, the song, the laugh, and every outbreak of “tipsy jollity,” its walls for years had been familiarized. The present was a different scene. It was an inquisition for “blood spilt” by man; and the victim and his slaughterers were placed in the immediate presence of each other.
The deceased remained in the same state as when he had been discovered in the morning, and even the position in which the body had been found was scrupulously preserved. No doubt existed as to the cause of death, for the skull was extensively fractured, and post mortem appearances evinced that unnecessary violence had been employed; for any of half-a-dozen injuries inflicted on their victim by the murderers would have proved mortal. The features were painfully distorted; and the passing agonies of the departed man had been severe. Not an article of value was found upon the corpse; the pockets were turned out, and showed that robbery had succeeded murder.
From the dead my eyes turned to the living. Five men were seated on a form, and behind each individual a man of peculiar appearance stood, whom Mr. Hartley told me in a whisper, belonged to a celebrated community long since extinct—Bow Street runners. On the persons who occupied the bench the gaze of all within the room was concentrated, and I examined them, from right to left, attentively.
The first was genteelly dressed, and his general appearance was superior to that of his companions. His exterior exhibited tokens of vulgar opulence; and watch, and brooch, and ring, all valuable, told that had he been criminal, the plea of poverty could not be used in extenuation.
Beside him a man was seated, whose dress was shabby and general appearance disgusting. His head was swathed in a bloody handkerchief; and it was announced that, in a murderous affray on the preceding night, his jaw-bone had been severely fractured.
The third was a blackguard of ordinary stamp; but the fourth and fifth, Mark Antony and his companion at once recognised as old acquaintances.
“By the hole in my coat!” said the ratcatcher, in a whisper, “I would swear to that dacent couple in a thousand. That critch * without any carcase, good nor bad, and the dark-muzzled scoundrel beside him—more betoken, I think it was himself, the murderin’ thief, that giv me the black eye.”
I looked at the scoundrels, with whose appearances the reader is already familiar. Gracious God! was I so nearly hurried from existence by the bludgeon of that truculent-looking Jew, or the knife of that contemptible hunchback? But my thoughts were speedily turned into another channel. The coroner took his place; the jury were empannelled; and the inquest formally commenced.
It would be unnecessary to trespass upon the reader’s patience, and narrate in detail every particular attendant on a mercenary murder. The money intended to procure my death, by a singular accident, caused the assassination of the guilty wretch who had been the hired agent to effect it. In the remote place, and at the untimely hour when Sloman met a doom he merited too well, it was supposed that the foul deed would have been effected in full security. Guilt plots cunningly, but a higher influence mars the best-laid schemes. An outcast, without a roof to cover her, had crept for shelter into a dilapidated building, and, unseen and undiscovered, overheard the murderers arrange their plans. She saw them waylay the devoted wretch, knock him on the head, and afterwards, by the light of a dark-lantern, plunder the dead body. When they retired, she followed unperceived, and traced them into the dwelling of their employer. She acquainted the Bow Street myrmidons of the transaction; led them first, to the place where the murdered man was found, and afterwards, to the house where she knew the ruffians had been harboured.
It is a singular fact, that the most cautious villains rarely escape surprise. The hunchback, excited by the adventures of that busy night, had drunk more deeply than was his custom. His weakly constitution soon owned the effect of liquor; and, in his confusion, he left the street-door open, although, in drunken wisdom, he fancied that he had effectually secured it. By that neglect, the officers obtained an easy entrance—and the murderers were seized “red-handed,” and in the very act of dividing the plunder of their late employer. The facts were already strong against the whole of the accused; but the hunchback’s confession rendered the guilt of his confederates past a doubt. He became king’s evidence; and the wounded bravo, whose fractured jaw had prevented him from sharing in the murder, corroborated the testimony of the thing of legs and arms. Mr. Brown, and “the ruffians twain,” whom he had employed to cause a vacancy in the twenty ———th, by ridding the world of me, were fully committed—as I heard afterwards on the Peninsula, in course of law, were tried, found guilty, and suffered a felon death.
We watched the proceedings at the inquest, which occupied several hours, with an interest that can be readily imagined.
Although the perpetration of a greater crime had thrown the attempt upon my life into the background, and steps were no longer required, either to secure my safety or bring to punishment those who had endangered it, still the cause of the assault upon me was so incomprehensible, that both my uncle and myself were anxious to trace the conspiracy to its source. Nothing during the inquiry transpired that in any way appeared to be connected with me; and, faithless to her promise, the gipsy had not attended. Although the room was crowded by a mob of the curious of either sex, had she been in the throng, from the singularity of her costume I should have easily recognised my mysterious acquaintance. The proceedings having ended, the jury were discharged, the prisoners removed, and the crowd dispersed rapidly.
“Come, Hector,” said Mr. Hartley, “the lady of the bridge, like others of her sex, is not always to be depended on. Where can that mysterious gentlewoman be?”
“At your elbow,” responded a voice.
We started, and looked round. A woman, respectably attired, but whose features were partially hidden by a close bonnet that seemed formed to conceal the face, was standing immediately beside us. Could this be that wild wanderer who had accosted me in the park, and met me on the bridge when all but the outcasts of society were at home? I had no time left for closer examination—she tapped me gently on the shoulder—and, in a low voice, desiring me to follow, she mingled in the crowd. Mr. Hartley and I quietly obeyed the signal; while Mark Antony and the ratcatcher joined the rabble in the street, who were waiting to offer some unenviable tokens of the estimation in which Mr. Brown and his associates were holden, before they took a final departure for durance vile.
We kept the gipsy well in sight, and observed her turning into another public-house at no great distance from the Green Man. We entered it, and were conducted by the barmaid to a back apartment, here we found the fair one seated.
The latter term is not used unadvisedly; for a finer woman, of a certain age, could not have been found in the metropolis. Nothing of her former wild and sybil-looking air remained—the eye had lost its keen and searching glance—the voice was softened—the very manner seemed altered with the dress; and when she laid aside her bonnet, Mr. Hartley and I freely admitted that the face disclosed to us had once been positively beautiful. When the door was shut, she turned her dark intelligent eyes on mine, and regarded me in silence for a minute.
“Yes!” she said; “how striking is the likeness between the son and sire! and what painful recollections does that singular resemblance bring back! ay, though twenty long years of exile have passed away! But no more of this. Mr. O’Halloran, you see before you one who can hardly say whether she should love or hate the name. Time chills the deadliest enmities; and even jealousy and blighted hopes will own its soothing influence; and I, who should look upon you as an enemy, felt in your recent hour of trial all the agonizing uncertainty a mother only knows, when the child of her first affections is exposed to peril. With my early story, and wayward fate, it would be idle to detain you. None have passed through greater vicissitudes of fortune; none have sinned or suffered more than Mary Halligan!”
I started. “That name’s familiar!—Were you the peasant girl—”
“Through whose mistake Knockloftie, and all within its walls, were saved from violence and murder; I am that person. Ay, fallen, as I may now appear, I was innocent, admired, wooed, won, and deserted! Pshaw!—‘tis but a common tale in woman’s history! No matter—‘tis past—it seems a dream; but, O God, it is a fearful one! I have not, however, come here to speak about myself. I come to tender my poor services to the child—for, from the bottom of the heart of her he wronged, the father is forgiven! Wild as my career has been, used as I have been to startling occurrences, still, the events of the last few days appear to me rather the coinage of a distempered brain than actual realities. Never did Heaven’s anger fall so suddenly and severely on the guilty; and never was the innocent so miraculously preserved. Strange, that the same day on which a life commenced, should have been twice chosen to end it by secret violence!—and stranger yet, that the same hand, which in infancy designed to crush you in the cradle, in the very hour of manhood, but for Heaven’s mercy, would have consigned you to a bloody grave!”
“Who was the intended murderer?” we both eagerly demanded.
“He was one whose name is perfectly familiar to you. Did you ever hear the colonel speak of a person named Hacket?”
“A hundred times. He was the villain that would have betrayed the old castle and its inmates to a band of murderers. They assailed it on the first anniversary of my birth-night, and were bloodily repulsed. I often have heard my father execrate that scoundrel’s treachery. Another perished by his hand—”
“Stop! name him not. There were in the world two beings whom I regarded with divided love. One perished. Would that it had been by any other hand. I have forgotten—no, that were impossible—but I strive to banish from memory all that occurred upon that fatal night.”
“Then Haeket was the person who devised and attempted my murder?” I exclaimed.
“No—another sought your life. He was but the agent of that person.”
“By whom, then, was the wretch employed?”
“Of that I am utterly uninformed; and, strange as it may appear, Hacket was left in equal ignorance. If any knew the secret, it was the murdered man—and with him it rests. Have you no suspicions? Have you crossed the path of love, or barred the road to wealth? Are there any whose interests you have thwarted? Are you an object of hatred or of fear?”
I shook my head; but Mr. Hartley replied to the inquiry.
“There are, Alary—and more than one, the dearest objects of whose hearts this youth will one day overturn, as the child throws down the card edifice in a moment, which has cost him a world of pains to build.”
“Look there, Hector O’Halloran! There will your secret enemy be found.”
“Right, by heaven! You are on the sure track, my friend,” returned my uncle. “Where will deadlier feeling harbour than in the bosom of a monk, thwart but his ambition? or in that of a sordid scoundrel, who trembles for wealth acquired by knavery? Were you acquainted with recent occurrences in which our young friend has been connected, my life upon it, your conviction would be confirmed as to the quarter from which the danger came.”
“And am I not worthy of that confidence?” inquired the gipsy, in a tone that showed herself offended.
“Undoubtedly,” returned Mr. Hartley. “One day more, and I will give you ample proof of the dependence I place in your fidelity and discretion. That day I would devote to my young friend. It is the last he will pass in England for a time.”
“What! is he then leaving England?”
“He is ordered to the Peninsula, and sails on Thursday evening.”
“Heaven send him better luck than his father! God knows whether you and I shall ever meet again!” she said, addressing me. “May the best fortunes of a soldier be yours! Farewell! I saw your first and your twentieth, and may your next be a happier anniversary than either!”
She wrung my hand. I left the room, but Mr. Hartley remained, and a quarter of an hour passed before he joined me in the street. We walked to the hotel, and there the fosterer and his companion were in waiting.
“Mark, I am ordered off. What can I do for you before I leave England?” I said, addressing the former.
Mr. O’Toole merely answered with a sigh “hot as a furnace.”
“Where shall I find you on my return? and how will you dispose of yourself in the mean time?”
“Dispose of myself?” returned the fosterer, like an echo. “Why, am I not also, ready for the Peninsula: Arrah! what would they say at Killucan, if you went to the wars, Master Hector, and I remained at home? Mona-sin-dioul, if I went back, the very dogs would not acknowledge me. But, love apart, where can I put in a happier twelvemonth? Have I not listened, till my heart beat again, to the old colonel’s talking to the priest about the time when he stormed that village in the Low Countries where he lost his arm. Often have I fancied that I saw him bursting through the streets at the head of his noble grenadiers, scattering the French column like a flock of sheep, while the shout of ‘Liberty’ was answered by a thundering ‘Faugh a ballagh!’ It would be cruel, Hector, to leave me behind you—I will be no burden to you.”
He placed a little packet in my hand; and turning to the window, the poor fosterer sentimentalized in secret, while I perused a letter he had received after we had separated at the inquest. With the course of Mark Antony’s love adventures, that gentle affair with Miss Biddy O’Dwyer excepted, I was altogether ignorant—and I felt interest in the fosterer’s epistle. I read it accordingly; and, could woman rise in the estimation of one who loved as I did, that artless letter would have raised her.
“You have followed me to England. In that you have violated our agreement; but my heart offers a ready apology for the offence. I told you that twelve months must pass before we met again; and in that resolution I am confirmed. My brother has wildly ventured to the coast of Spain, on secret service connected with some of the guerilla chiefs in Arragon; and, in the mean time, I am resident in the family of the village clergyman. Mark, I am happy, because I am once more respectable. Let me remain until the year elapses under this good man’s dwelling—and then that wanderer whom you protected in her hour of destitution, will prove to you that she has not forgotten her deliverer.
“Do you remember, dear Mark, that when you rescued me from that villain Jew, you flung your purse into my lap, and pressed me to accept it? If that circumstance has eseaped your memory, it lives, and will ever live, in mine. Use prudently the small sum enclosed; and when another supply is needed, remember that the desolate female whom you generously saved from more than death, has now the means, and wish to prove her gratitude.”
The epistle contained sincere expressions of affection, and was subscribed “Julia.”
“Why, Mark, what the deuce is all this about? and who is this lady, who forks out her fifty pounds, and subscribes herself “most affectionately yours?”
“I’ll tell you again, Master Hector. But won’t you let me go with you?”
“Faith, my dear Mark, I never intended that you should remain behind. Have we not been to each other as flint to steel from child-hood? Where should I now be but for your rescue? When boys, our joys and sorrows were the same; and now, as men, Mark, upwards or downwards, our fortunes shall run together.”
“I thought you wouldn’t leave me,” said the fosterer.
“And pray,” inquired the ratcatcher, “what the divil is to become of me? You can volunteer, Mark, but I am too old; and were I younger, I wouldn’t much like to ‘list; for I fancy that the guerilla line would be more in my way of business. But let us all go together. Blessings on that outspoken elderly gentleman they call Mr. Hartley! He’s short in the grain as eat’s hair, but the heart and purse are open. Here I am, new rigged from head to foot—ay, and rich as a Jew—bad luck to the whole community of them, root and branch!” and the captain put his finger to the eye which had been damaged in the last night’s contest. “It was that long-whiskered ruffin that giv me this token of regard. Will, all’s settled, and we go together, any how.”
It would have been useless to offer any objection to the determination of the gallant captain; and, after a consultation with my unele, it was soon agreed that my fosterer should join one of the regiments of the brigade I was attached to, as a volunteer, and the ratcatcher enact valet de chambre during my absence.
Time pressed. Mr. O’Toole gratefully acknowledged, but returned the fifty pounds sent him by his mistress; swore fidelity and everlasting love anew; and by the munificence of Mr. Hartley, we all—to wit, the ratcatcher, the fosterer, and myself—were amply provided with that indispensable requisite for opening a campaign, properly designated “the sinews of war.” My future companions took their departure for the Seven Dials, to bid their loving countrymen, there dwelling, an affectionate farewell. An Irish parting is always accompanied by a heavy drink, as sorrow is proverbially dry. No doubt the symposium, like every other pleasant carouse, ended in a general engagement; for when the twain honoured me with a visit next morning, I remarked that the gallant captain had been accommodated with a second black eye, probably conferred upon him as a keepsake by one his agreeable companions.
Blanch. Now shall I see thy love; what motive may
Be stronger with thee than the name of wife?
Const. That which upholdeth him that thee upholds,
His honour!”
———“I know thee well;
But in thy fortunes am unlearn’d and strange.”
Shakspeare.
I never sate out a more melancholy dinner than that with Mr. Hartley and his daughter on the last evening of my sojourn in the metropolis. Mine honoured uncle was gloomy and abstracted. Isidora looked the very image of despair; and I felt any thing but martial satisfaction at the immediate certainty of having an early opportunity afforded of “fleshing my maiden sword.” Like the courage of Bob Acres, my military ardour was hourly evaporating from my finger-ends. A month since, the prospect of being shot at was a matter of indifference; but in that brief space my feelings had undergone a marvellous change. From childhood, I had listened to my father’s stories as he “told how fields were won,” and caught the enthusiasm of a man, every inch a soldier. But then I knew not what it was to love—I had not felt the witchery that attends a first attachment—the confession of mutual passion as yet had not fallen my ear, soft as angels’ whispers to sleeping infancy. I had loved, and sued, and was accepted; and now this sweetest dream of life was to be broken; and from one dearer than all that earth contained, I was to be separated for a long period—perhaps for ever! I came rapidly to the conclusion, that glory was well enough in its way; but still it was an awkward business to have to seek it at the other side of the Pyrenees; and, had it pleased Heaven to bring about a general pacification, I think that 1 would have borne the disappointment like a philosopher.
I took no formal leave of my gentle mistress, for that unnecessary infliction of pain Mr. Hartley very properly inhibited. Our parting, as she left the drawing-room for the night, was probably warmer than was customary. She little imagined that I was to start at cock-crow for embarkation; and, in the expectation of meeting me at breakfast, she sought her apartment to court the soft influence of the drowsy god in vain.
“Hector,” said Mr. Hartley, as he addressed me, “I regret that you are at this moment obliged to leave me; for something tells me that a crisis in our mutual fortunes is approaching. Were it any thing but the call of honour that takes you from England, I would at once ask you to forego it.”
“Believe me, my dear sir, never did a more unwelcome order come than that which Ï am about to obey! Could I but honourably decline it,”—-
“Oh, no—that were impossible! Wellington has assumed the offensive, and every eye in Britain will watch the progress of his arms. A country’s call is sacred, and it must be obeyed. God knows, in periling your safety, and exposing you to the common chances of war, I make a sacrifice that few could estimate. There is one tie that binds me alone to life; and, save for that alone, the sooner a spirit, soured by misfortunes, and wearied of a world it despises and detests, were freed from this ‘mortal coil,’ the better. But were I in the grave, who would watch over the happiness of that being whom I idolize?—To one only would I entrust that holy charge. Need I name him?—Yourself!”
I gratefully thanked my uncle for the~proof of confidence he had given, and he thus proceeded:
“As my life and actions must appear to you involved in mystery and concealment, it will not surprise you much when I tell you, that for years I have been intimately informed of every occurrence that happened in your father’s house. A stern necessity of secrecy obliged me to remain unknown and unsuspected. Had I been where I was supposed to be for twenty years—in the grave—I could not have been more removed from the knowledge of the world than I have been; and the reason I selected that wild and retired abode where you first found us, was to insure the incognito, which your interests and Isidora’s demanded; for, strange as it may appear, from earliest infancy, you were destined for each other.”
“You really astonish me, sir!”
“When you hear my story that surprise will cease. With my past life none were even partially acquainted but a beloved child and faithful servant. You shall know more of that dark and painful history than they ever did; and when you have heard all that I have suffered and endured, then say whether, but for one endearing tie, a life, wretched and valueless as mine, would have been worth retaining for an hour. Fill, Hector—fill freely—many a day may pass before you and I shall meet again!”
I obeyed him. Rising from the table, he took a few turns across the apartment; it seemed an exertion to regain composure; it was successful. He resumed his seat, emptied his glass to the bottom, and thus commenced, what was to me a narrative of perilous adventure, but all-engrossing interest.
The career of vice is generally a simple history; a progressive advance from bad to worse, as the feelings deaden and the conscience, becomes seared and callous, by degrees. My earlier follies might have been easily arrested by parental intervention, but Mr. Clifford was reserved and proud; his displeasure was evinced by frigid mannerism, and his reproofs conveyed in the cold terms of general disapprobation. He never reasoned to the understanding—never appealed to the heart. I listened to him as I would to a lecture; and I came away without the slightest impression having been made upon an ardent disposition, which under better management might have been awakened and reclaimed.
My ruin at last was consummated. I was discarded by my father; avoided by the good—deserted by the bad—and, finally, driven from the land, dishonoured and disgraced, where, by inheritance and birth, I should have held a proud position.
Months had passed since I had been alienated from an angry father. The means by which I had managed, for a time, to obtain the sums of money my extravagance demanded, had been overtaxed, and consequently, my resources were completely exhausted. The woman who lured me on to crime and ruin had heartlessly abandoned me, and those who had plundered me of hundreds refused me a shilling to buy bread! For a whole day I had not tasted food, and for two nights no roof had sheltered me—and without any definite object in my wanderings, I had turned my steps to the home from which I had been long since rejected. I was ashamed to let any who had known me in the palmy days of youth witness the degradation that crime had caused; and, after night-fall, avoiding the village, I stole unperceived through a broken paling, and, like a thief and not the heir, entered the grounds of Clifford Hall.
William Morley had been in boyhood my favourite companion. Although his birth was menial, I treated him, from regard, rather like an equal than an inferior. My purse was ever open to his wants; and my attachment gradually obtained for him the notice of my father. Step by step, he rose in Mr. Clifford’s confidence, until he gained an influence over his easy master that none besides possessed. I fancied him a friend; and I had every reason to suppose him one, for his professions of regard were warm, and his assurances of gratitude unbounded. When the kindly relations between my parent and myself were first disturbed, I trusted to Morley’s good offices to extenuate my offendings, and soften down the displeasure of an angry father. He promised to exert his influence to the uttermost. I believed him; followed his advice; and acted as he counselled. Alas! I little dreamed that Morley was all the while a deadly enemy, and that he was sapping to the foundation any slight remains of parental affection, and alienating the father from the child. Why should he thus play me false? and wherefore wear the mask of friendship, and hate me in his heart? Unconsciously, I had provoked his deadliest animosity by crossing his path in love.
Morley was in heart a libertine; but he had sufficient cunning to conceal it from the world. A village beauty had been the object of his pursuit for months; and fascinated by her superior attractions, his secret attentions were incessant, and there was no reason to doubt but they would ultimately be rewarded by success. I returned, after a long absence, to the Hall. I heard of Mary Davis. A glowing description of her charms was given me. I saw her—report had only done common justice to her beauty—and I became her slave. My attentions flattered her pride—and the heir of Clifford Hall supplanted the son of a deceased menial. In a word, the weak girl eloped with me—deserted her peaceful home for a brief career of splendid profligacy; broke her poor mother’s heart; drew down on me the lasting displeasure of my father; and rendered Morley my enemy for life. But of the consequence of my misconduct, 1 remained as yet in ignorance.
To obtain his revenge, Morley worked secretly and steadily. Every act of imprudence was artfully communicated to my father; while the treacherous scoundrel led his confiding master to believe that he was kindly, but unsuccessfully, endeavouring to hide from him the criminal proceedings of his child. My slightest failings, blazoned by false colouring, appeared enormities. My letters in explanation were suppressed; the breach between us became wider every day; Morley’s demoniac ingenuity at last was crowned with full success; I was discarded—looked upon as one dead—consigned to poverty and degradation—and became a beggar and an outcast.
What was the villain’s triumph, when, stealing through the shrubberies, I sought the well-remembered window of his apartment! Lights were burning, and there sat Morley. He had numerous papers and accounts before him; bank-notes and gold were spread over the table carelessly; and a bottle of wine was opened, from which, as I peeped in, he liberally helped himself. Heavens! how low had I fallen!—how abject did I feel myself! With me, indeed, the cup of misery was at the overflow. I dreaded to knock! I—the born-heir of all around, fearful to disturb the son of my father’s menial! At last I mustered sufficient resolution to tap gently on the casement. The steward expected a different visitor. He seized his hat, hurried from the room, locked the door carefully, let himself out by a private entrance, of which he kept a key, and in another minute approached the evergreens to which I had retreated, and softly pronounced a woman’s name.
“Morley!” I timidly replied.
“Ha!—a man’s voice!—Who’s there?” he demanded.
“An unfortunate—your old playfellow—he who once was your master’s son!” I answered.
“Heavens!” he exclaimed. “Is it possible! And have you dared to venture hither?”
“I once thought,” I replied dejectedly, “that none would question my right of entrance to this domain, which by birth and descent is, or should be, mine. I am indeed fallen!”
“What do ye want?” he demanded, as I fancied, in a haughty tone. “Why have you disturbed me at this unseasonable hour?”
“Dire necessity obliged me to come here. I am perishing; food has not crossed my lips since yesterday. I am without a home,—the humblest shelter would be acceptable.”
“I cannot offer you one. Were it known that I spoke to you, or gave you the slightest assistance, your father would discharge me.”
“Is his anger, then, so unmitigable?” I asked in a desponding voice. “It is beyond the power of being appeased. Advisedly, he would not breathe the same atmosphere that you did; and the most welcome tidings he could receive, would be those that assured him that you were no more return ed the steward.
“I am starving!—pennyless! By Heaven, I will crawl into these evergreens, and die in sight of that mansion which once was destined to be mine.”
Morley started at the declaration. “Pshaw!” said he, with an appearance of more feeling than before; “this is mere folly! Let me see—I dare not afford aught but temporary relief; and in doing so I risk the loss of Mr. Clifford’s favour, were the thing discovered. Stay; I will bring you some refreshment, and see whether I cannot do something to save you from actual starvation afterwards he then returned to the house, and in a few minutes reappeared with the remnant of the supper he had eaten, and a portion of the wine I noticed on the table. I ate ravenously—drank to the bottom of the flask—and then listened to the false scoundrel as he thus continued:—
“I have a relation in London, who perhaps might enable you to leave the country for a season. It is possible that time might soften your father’s animosity, were you removed beyond his notice; and the violence of his resentment might happily cool down. Here. It is a guinea, and some silver; ’twill carry you to London; and when you get to town, inquire at the Post Office, and you will find an anonymous letter to give you future directions how to act. To save myself from ruin, requires the greatest caution on my part. Push forward to the next village on the London road; and when you have reached the metropolis to-morrow, you will be fully instructed what to do. For Heaven’s sake, stay not another moment!—Steal secretly from the park, as you entered it; and all I can do for you shall be done.” He hastily left me, as if in fear; I heard him bar the private entrance, and observed him close the shutters of his chamber, while I, in a state of humiliation bordering on insensibility, obeyed the order, and, like a felon, stole out of that domain where, two years previously, my will was absolute.
I slept at a mean public-house; but what a luxury was a bed to me! and yet the lowliest servant on my father’s establishment would have rejected what his fallen child gratefully received!
Next morning I put myself on the roof of a coach which in other days I had frequently driven. Neither guard nor coachman remembered me. Of course, the vulgar scoundrels had heard of my downfall. Well, they only imitated men of better birth! They forgot me when it was convenient.
I entered London. It was the anniversary of a victory^ and I remembered it well. Two years before, by a singular coincidence, I had driven in with my own four-in-hand—and as the slang went then, it was “the best appointed drag in England.” Mary Davis was on the box. Ah, two years had made a difference! I was a pauper on a stagecoach—Mary Davis, a wanderer on the streets! A ice, with her, poor girl, commenced in luxury, but to both it brought what it generally does—ruin and disgrace!
The paltry supply that Morley had given was half consumed by my journey; and I sought one of the humblest hostleries which London, in its infinity of accommodation, presents. The extent of my degradation had nearly stupified me; but next morning I went to the Postoffice to inquire for the promised communication, scarcely caring whether it arrived or not. The steward, however, had been punctual; and the expected letter was delivered. It was brief—written in a disguised hand—and merely desired me to call at some rascally place in one of the worst localities of the oldest portion of the city.
I proceeded to find out the street, and with some difficulty succeeded. The person I inquired for was from home, but I was directed to a low public-house in the neighbourhood, and there I found him in company with several blackguard-looking personages. The room reeked with tobacco smoke; the table was splashed over with spilt liquors; the ceiling in many places had fallen in; and the contrivances to stop the broken casement, and exclude the air, were extraordinary. The man I sought took me to an inner closet, called for a stoup of gin, shut the door carefully, and then proceeded to business.
“You are the gentleman Mr. M. has recommended to me?’’ said the stranger.
“I am that unfortunate person.”
“And you want to leave the country for a while? Well, there’s no great difficulty in doing that, if a person was not very particular about the way he travelled. It’s only getting lagged, you know.’
“Lagged! I don’t understand you.”
“Don’t ye?” replied my new acquaintance. “Why I’m certain I speak plain English. I mean, if you did not mind transportation, why you could travel at the king’s expense. But I see you’re raw. Well, I’ll try how far I can oblige the gentleman who takes an interest about ye. Let me see—I have some appointments to keep which will detain me all morning; but meet me at eight this evening in the Borough,” and on the back of an old tavern bill he scrawled, in villanous characters, the place and hour of meeting; told me to be punctual; drank the gin; desired me to pay for it; and conducting me to the door, left me to wear the wretched day through in any way I pleased.
If I might form any opinion from personal appearance, Morley’s friend was every thing but respectable. ‘Well, he was the fitter acquaintance for an outcast like me. I had none better left; and at the appointed time I crossed over London Bridge, to seek the place where the interview with the stranger was to take place.
The house was found. I asked for Mr. Pilch, and was conducted into a private room. He was seated in the corner, with several companions round the table. They were gambling when I entered; but they put away the greasy cards, and then one by one dropped out, leaving Morley’s friend and me together.
“I think I have arranged this matter to your satisfaction,” said he, “and secured a comfortable passage for you to the States. The vessel will sail the beginning of next week, and you will have no time to lose in getting your outfit ready. I have been commissioned by a friend, who shall be nameless, but who you may possibly make a shrewd guess at, to give you what money you may require and, taking out a pocket-book, he handed me several bank notes. You will excuse the liberty I take, in hinting that this money is intended to cover the necessary expenses attendant on a long voyage, and not to be idly wasted; and therefore I recommend you to secure it well, and use it prudently. What!” he exclaimed, as he perceived me about to put the notes into an outer pocket of my coat; “do you carry money so loosely on your person?—in London too, where you cannot enter a tavern or cross a street without encountering a plunderer? Come, my young friend, take a lesson from an old and leary cove like me. Keep but one flimsey out for present purposes, and secure the rest, as I do, in the neckcloth.”
He put his hand across the table and undid my handkerchief, folded the bank notes carefully within it, and then returned it to me. One five-pound note he desired me to put into my purse. My purse!—many a day had passed since I had needed such a conveniency.
I pocketed the money, and the stranger took his leave, appointing, however, another meeting at the same hour and place tomorrow.
I remained after he was gone musing before the fire. I was astonished at Morley’s unexpected generosity, and I secretly censured myself for having doubted the attachment of my old playfellow and friend. His bearing towards me on the night of my stolen visit to Clifford Hall was now perfectly accounted for. I thought it, at the moment, cold and heartless. I now perceived that it arose from a caution imposed by stern necessity; and the secrecy observed in the manner in which he had conveyed the liberal supply, now confirmed it. Even to the agent he employed I had been guilty of injustice. It is true, the man was neither prepossessing in appearance, nor polished in address; but the candid manner in which he exhorted me to be prudent, and the care with which he secured my money against accident, all proved a friendly interest in my welfare; and when I left the public-house, I admitted that I had slandered mankind, in imagining that pity for misfortune was banished from human hearts.
As I quitted the Coach and Horses, I remarked a man drawn up in a corner of the gateway, and standing in a position that intimated he wished to escape my notice. He wore a white hat, and, from rather a remarkable coat, I easily recognised him to be one of the men I had disturbed at play, when I entered the back room in search of Mr. Pilch. Well, he might have some private reasons for concealment; and it was no atfair in which I had any interest. I strolled onwards towards London Bridge, and happening to pass the shop of an out-litter, I stepped in to make some purchases for my voyage. The selection of different articles delayed me half an hour. Once I observed the man with the white hat pass the door; and again, I detected him peeping through the window. He was probably an idler; and I continued to purchase what I wanted in the shop. The articles were tied up; the account written and presented; I handed the shopman a five-pound note; he desired me to endorse it. I took the pen, and wrote a fictitious name, as I had determined to drop that on which I had brought so much obloquy and disgrace already. The man handed some change in silver, and I took up the parcel, and left the shop.
I had nearly reached the extremity of the bridge when I heard footsteps behind, and perceived several men running in the direction in which I was walking. They came up rapidly; and, in another minute, I was seized, pushed into a shop, and charged with felony. My identity was certain—the parcel confirmed it; and, to my horror, I heard the captors accuse me of passing a forged note. The charge astounded me; I could not speak, and my silence was mistaken for a tacit acknowledgment of guilt.
I turned my eyes in mute despair at the men who surrounded me. By Heaven! one of them was the white-hatted stranger, who had been playing at cards with Mr. Pilch! It was providential, he could corroborate the statement I commenced. He had seen me—was a friend of Mr. Pilch—his evidence would be invaluable. I told the manner in which the money was obtained. My statement elicited a laugh of derision from the hearers. I appealed to the gentleman in the white hat, but the gentleman in the white hat disclaimed all knowledge of me, and goodnaturedly added, that he fancied he had seen me once before, at a fair he mentioned, in company with a party of the swell mob. My pockets were searched. Nothing to criminate me further was found. I casually looked round, and saw “White-hat” wink at-an officer, and point significantly to my handkerchief. It was instantly loosed and opened. My name was worked upon it in the dark hair of my faithless mistress; and five other notes were found; they were examined—and all of them pronounced forgeries!
For a minute, I felt as if my heart had ceased its pulsations, but, gradually, I became conscious of the position in which I was placed. None could doubt my guilt. Could any deny that I was a felon? I, with forced notes concealed upon my person, of which I had uttered one already under a fictitious name. The observations of the crowd occasionally reached me. There was no difference of opinion as to my destiny—my career would close upon the scaffold!
Oh Heaven! if thoughtless youth could only fancy the agony of soul I felt, how many would be deterred from crime, and saved from ruin! To die!—to perish in the very opening of my manhood! And how die? Like a dog—stared at by a gaping crowd—pitied by some—laughed at by others—choked—hanged!
“Never, by Heavens!” I muttered to myself,—“Never shall a Clifford, no matter how fallen, die such a felon-death! The grave is open for me; what matters it whether it hide me now, or in a brief space after? Come, man thyself, Edward Clifford, for a last effort—and die!”
Nothing remained but to convey me before a magistrate for committal.
The crowd retired; the officers took me away in custody. My passive conduct throughout, led them to set me down a heartless wretch, with whom hope was at an end; and mine seemed
“The composure of settled despair,”
which enables the criminal to meet his doom in sullen apathy. How little they suspected the dark thoughts which then occupied my mind, or the deadly purpose which I meditated!
An old watchman held my collar in his feeble grasp, and two or three others surrounded me. The mob kept generally in advance of us, to enable them to frequently indulge their curiosity with a view of the criminal. Before we had moved a dozen paces, I made a sudden spring, shook off the man who held me, overturned another in my rear, and started off, at headlong speed, to gain the bridge which was immediately contiguous.
A wild outcry announced my escape; an instant pursuit succeeded. The mob were the only persons I had to fear; for the old men who watched the city then, wrapped in their great coats, and encumbered with poles and lanterns, were incapable of rapid movements. Several persons, however, kept me well in sight; they little knew that death, and not deliverance, was what I aimed at; and they raised a cry to warn the passengers who were approaching in the opposite direction. I saw several men draw themselves across the bridge to bar my farther progress. I stopped, leaped upon the balustrade—“Seize him!” cried a dozen voices—they were the last words I heard—I muttered one brief adjuration to Heaven to pardon the act I was about to commit, closed my eyes, sprang from the battlement, and the waters closed over me!
Mr. Clifford paused. His usual stern composure was unequal to conquer the agitation which the terrible recollections of early imprudence had brought back. A short silence was unbroken, when suddenly the door unclosed, and the dark functionary presented himself, and handed me a letter of most unprepossessing appearance. He announced that the messenger would not leave without an answer—and ill-timed as the interruption was, my uncle signalled me to break the wafer. I obeyed, and communicated to him the contents of the following singular epistle:—
“For Captain Hectur O’Haleran, esquare, or Mister Hartlay, if he’s out.
“Honered Sir,—
“i am sorray too inform ye we are in Trubbel and at Present undir the Skrew in the Watehouse they call Watlin Street, and all Contrarey to sense and Justis. We went into a dacint-lookin’ house, with a Woman without a head for the sign of it, and cald for half a pint, and sat down fair and asey at the fire, when in coms three Blakgards. Immadately they begins to rig us. ‘Morra, Pat,’ says one of them. ‘Devil a worse guess ye iver med, young man,’ says I. ‘Arrah!’ says he, ‘Does ye’r mother know your out?’ ‘What the blazes have ye to say to my mother?’ says I. ‘What a hole you could make in a saucepan of patatays the night she was married!’ says he; and then he goes on aggravatin’ us, and abusin’ the old country, swarin’ Saint Patrick wasn’t a reglar saint at all, and not fit to powder Saint Gorge’s wig, af he wore one. ‘Oh! by the groves of Blarney,’ says Mr. O’Toole, ‘the divil wouldn’t stand this i’ so he offs wid the coat, and offered to box the biggest of the lot for thirty shilhns. “Well, they agrees to it at wonse, and Mark and the big’un set-to. Sorra handier boy iver it was my luck to meet with! he made nothin’ of the chap—a couple of rounds settled his hash, and he gives in. “Well, what does they do? insted of comin’ down with the battel money, they charges us on the watch, and we were bunddled off here, as if we were a pair of Pickpockets. We sends off to the Dials to say we were in trubbel, and before half an hour, there was the full of the street of dacent acquaintances. Some wanted to give bail, others offered to pull down the watchouse; and an honest man, whose father came from Ballyhawnis, went off to knock up the Priest, and get him to write us a Carakter. The divil a one of the bailsmen the constable would touch with the tongs; and so here we remain, snug and warm in the Black hole, unless your honir will bee plased to get us off.
“I Remain, till Death, your Obediant Servint,
“James McGrale.”
“Poscrip.—There’s a Poor woman here, the lord Pity her, callid Finigen. I forget her own name, but she has a Brother that lives under magor Blake, and her unkel was parish priest of Carintubber, a Man grately respected. I often heerd my father spake about him—as he cured the Failin’ siknis with a charm, and plaid butifully on the Fiddel. Well, she’s in quod, the crater, for just Nothing at all. She had words with a vagabone that lives in the back Attick, and he insinevated, in the Presens of the hole lodgers, that she wasn’t aney better than she ought to be. ‘Misses Finigen,’ says he, ‘might I fatague ye for a sqint at ye’r Marrige lines, if ye happen to have sich an article in ye’r pocket,’ which ye know was as much as sayin’, the Divil a certifikit she had at all. The crature couldn’t but resint it, and she took the fire out of the vagabone’s left eye wid a brass Candelstik she had in her fist—and that’s all she’s loked up for. Maybe your honir would Include her in the Bail—the lord sees it would be Charatey.”
“N. B.—I forgot to Say the Blakgards offered to make it up for ten shillins, half in drink, and half in money—but it’s such an Impisi-shin, that nather mark or Me would listin to it.”
“P. S.—For the sake of the blessed Mother cum soon, or they’ll have the Roof off the Watchouse, and then We’ll be Trunsportid for life. The more I see of this Unsivilized Country, the Better plased I am that we’re lavin it.
“No more at Presint from
“Yours to Command,
J. McGrale.”
“Plase answir by Return of post—I mane by the boy wid the red hair that carries this. Remembir Mr. O’Toole and me to Mister hartlay and his Daughtir, onley we don’t know her name. Also to mister domnik, the Black gentleman, whose as Civil and well manerd as a Christian, for all that he’s so dusky in the skin.