Seymour perceived the threat of parting had produced a different effect to what he had expected, and at once he changed his tone to that of entreaty and persuasion; and, with admirable tact, appealed to my feelings and my love. He pleaded that the separation from my father would be but brief. I should return united to one whose position in society was far above my own. My parent’s anger would be shortlived, and his sorrow would be turned into joy. Where a woman’s heart is advocate, her mind is easily convinced. I yielded a reluctant consent; and before we parted, it was arranged that in two hours I should be ready to accompany him, and quit a happy home to follow the fortunes of an unknown lover. I packed some clothes, and addressed an exculpatory letter to my father, breaking to him as gently as I could, the sad tidings that his daughter had deserted him. Many a tear blistered the paper while I wrote. He was in bed—possibly sleeping. I stole softly down to place the billet on his table—but he heard the door unclose, and inquired “if that were Julia!”
“Yes, my father; I come to say, Good night.”
The old man kissed me tenderly; and with unusual solemnity muttered as I left the room, “Child of my heart; may God for ever bless thee!” They were the last words I ever heard him speak.
What followed may be briefly told. At the appointed hour Seymour was waiting, and unperceived, we quitted the village in a vehicle he had procured. We travelled all night; and when morning was breaking, my husband discharged the cart, and we entered an obscure inn to obtain the rest and refreshment which to both were wanting. The morning light, feeble at first, grew stronger; and I nearly fainted, when for the first time I remarked the altered appearance of my husband. His light brown hair, once so sedulously attended to, was clipped short, and the very colour changed to raven blackness, and his skin was bronzed like that of a gipsy. Formerly, he dressed with simple elegance; but now his clothes were actually shabby, and put on with the marked indifference of a man who is reckless of appearances. He had no luggage with him—the few articles he possessed were tied up in a little bundle.
I felt assured that some terrible reverse had overtaken him; and in this sad hour recollected the evil auguries of my uncle Josiah. But my situation was hopeless. The last rash action was far beyond recall; and mustering a desperate resolution, I determined to bow to my destiny, and share the fate of my ill-starred husband. One thing I believed, that the worst was known, and we had descended fortune’s ladder to the lowest step. I was wrong: the extent of my debasement remained still to be disclosed.
We appeared to wander over the country without any settled object; and provided the route led from the metropolis, my husband seemed indifferent whither our footsteps turned.
A fortnight passed, and we still continued to pursue what appeared to me would prove a sad and endless pilgrimage. One evening, after a fatiguing walk, we found ourselves settled in a road-side ale-house. Both required some rest, and we looked forward to a comfortable night, for the house was clean, and our reception had been civil. Alas! we had already experienced how much an inn’s civility depends upon the appearance of those who claim admittance! Our resources were reduced to a few pounds; and my soiled dress and Seymour’s care-worn countenance proclaimed our poverty at once, and by more than one landlord we had been unceremoniously rejected.
While supper was being prepared, Seymour stretched himself upon a bench beneath a spreading elm which stood before the door, and I remained at a window of the room to which we had been introduced on our arrival. A newspaper was lying on the table. I took it up, and for a few minutes glanced carelessly across its columns. Suddenly, my attention was fearfully awakened, my eyes were fascinated to one spot,—a scorching lire shot through my brain,—I read the fatal paragraph a second time,—fainted,—and dropped upon the floor.
When I recovered I found myself in bed; Seymour was beside me; I looked wildly at him for a moment, and then, as if something horrible had blasted my sight, I buried my head beneath the coverings; Seymour knelt beside the bed, implored me to be calm, swore he would conceal nothing, owned he was a scoundrel, a betrayer—his life was at my disposal—and the sooner it was forfeited the better. After I had been carried to my room he had searched the paper, and read there that fatal paragraph which had disclosed to me the secret of his crime. Merciful Heaven! Smith, the supposed suicide, and my husband, were the same!
It might have been supposed, that now fully conscious of his infamy, I would have deserted him at once and left Seymour to his fate. In seducing me into a private marriage, he had practised a cruel imposition; and in persuading me, under false assurances, to quit my father’s house and share his felon fortunes, his conduct had been base and savage beyond all pardon. Yet, some secret yearning of my heart, whispered that he should not be abandoned; and though Smith, the branded criminal, was before me, I could not forget how ardently I had once loved the gay and fascinating Seymour. I had sacrificed myself to him at the altar; my vow of duty and obedience was recorded, and I desperately resolved to share his fate—wretched as that fate must be.
The remainder of my sad history is but a detail of sorrow and misfortune. I dare not dwell upon it—if I did, my brain would madden. Before six months elapsed after my evasion from the village, news reached England that the frigate into which William had entered a volunteer, in the ardour of pursuit, had become embayed upon the coast of France, and, attacked at fearful advantage, she had been fought with desperate valour to the last, and had gone down with England’s unconquered banner flying at her mast-head, and with the greater portion of her gallant crew. In the return of the killed, my brother’s name was found.
Need I tell you that his brave boy’s loss—his daughter’s base desertion—were more than the old man could bear? They broke my father’s heart; and a few months since—(she paused, gasped as if something choked her utterance, and then in a hollow whisper, added)—he died! Who was his murderess?
I must end these sickening disclosures. For a year, my outcast husband and myself wandered over the country, under the assumed name of Montague. We joined a company of strollers, and in our erratic course of life we crossed the sea. No criminal, I sincerely believe, felt deeper contrition for his manifold offendings than my felon husband. The sting of remorse struck him to the heart; he pined away; and cold, and wet, and hunger, completed what mental suffering had begun, he fell into a rapid consumption—and it was quite evident to me that he was hurrying to the only haven of repose reserved for him—the grave.
He died; but death to the outcast was a boon. Faithful to the last, I remained until his parting sigh escaped. These hands closed his eyes; and I saw him interred as a pauper in the most neglected corner of an obscure churchyard. Had he no mourner? Yes; he had one. I forgot his crimes, and all the misery he had wrought me; and the outcast’s deserted grave was sprinkled with the tears of the woman he had betrayed.
The fosterer was deeply affected. He pressed the poor mourner’s hand, and strove to cheer and comfort her.
“Julia!” he said, “What do you intend to do? Where do you purpose going? May I protect you?”
She raised her eyes, and gave him a look of gratitude, but shook her head.
“Are you returning home, Julia?”
“I am indeed about to seek a home,” she replied, with a long deep sigh. “It must be sought beside my father’s grave; and that once found, I’ll die there! Hush! footsteps are approaching; and now to resume a weary journey, and—a last one!”
She rose, went to the little basin, and dipping her hands in the cooling water, bathed her burning temples, and washed away the traces of her tears. Marc Antony in silence lifted the bundle, and the youthful travellers once more gained the high road, when two persons, wayfaring like themselves, approached them.
“I was ta’en for him, and he for me,
And thereupon these errors are arose.”
Shakspere.
While Mark Antony and his companion are on the road, we must leave the man to take care of himself, and returning to the master, inquire whether in the interim any particular “ups and downs” had occurred in the fortunes of myself, Mr. Hector O’Halloran. I was left in bed—and where could a safer place be found wherein to deposit a light-headed young gentleman? But every body knows that general rules are not without exceptions—and, the circumstances considered, by which I had obtained possession of the quaker’s dormitory, I feel assured that the gentle reader will wish me a safe deliverance from the same.
I will not enter into minute details of how the false positions of myself and Samuel Pryme were finally detected; but in the parlance of Tony Lumpkin’s respectable friend, who never danced a bear to unfashionable music, will sum them up in “a concatenation accordingly,” namely, the sleepy soliloquy of the chief butler of the worthy quaker.
Jack Costigan was one of those gifted individuals who sleep at pleasure. He had a light conscience and a heavy head; and it there was one mortal annoyance that he abominated above the rest, it was to have any portion of “nature’s sweet restorative” abridged. Twice had his slumbers been invaded. He had let in one master dead drunk, and admitted the other, who had been belated. These were grievous visitations; but, like other misfortunes, they were over; and determined to make up, if possible, for broken sleep, Mr. Costigan once more sought his pillow, and for a season had been buried in “dreamless slumberings.” Alas! this Elysian state of sweet forgetfulness was presently dispelled. In successive vollies, sand struck the casement sharply; and “every pause between,” a sotto voice appeal fell sluggishly upon the sleeper’s ear, requiring admission to the garrison.
Now this was more than flesh and blood could stand. To two masters, as we said before, the butler had given admission, and both were disposed of as Christian men should be; and, as the fact is clearly understood in Ireland, and upon parliamentary authority too, that nothing can be in two places at once—barring a bird—it was quite clear that neither of the Prymes could be at one and the same time in bed and in the street. Of course, the intruder must be a stranger: he was on the right side to run away, namely, the wrong side of the hall-door—and there let him remain. Having come to this discreet resolution, and consigned the unknown to the especial care of that personage more genteelly known as “the gentleman in black,” Mr. Costigan once more turned on his pillow, determined to all further appeals to play deaf adder, and sleep like a watchman during the little time now left him.
But the stranger would not be denied. A sharper volley rattled against the windows, and a voice came down the area, and softly but distinctly pronounced, “John Costigan, I pray thee to arise, and let me in—I am thy friend.”
“Arrah, then, feaks,” observed the butler with a desperate yawn, “that’s my own name, sure enough; but to the divil I pitch such friendship, whoever ye are. I see that I’ll never stand the place; for of all the dens I ever was in, for a racketty hole this quaker’s bates them hollow. Wasn’t I for three months second waiter at the ‘Free and asy’ in Roscrea; and when the Blazers would tatter the house once a fortnight, why a man could get a little sleep, while the damage was repairin’; but here, there’s nothing but batteration. In tumbles the young chap blind drunk, and nearly breaks my back carryin’ him up stairs. Then in rowls the ould sinner, just off the ran-tan, wid a cock-and-bull story in his mouth about a broken coach, to blind that stiff-backed gentlewoman that owns him. Death and ‘nages! what a chate he is!—if one didn’t know his trick, he might think butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth—he’s so fair spoken: the ould decaver!”
Here a shower of sand interrupted Mr. Costigan’s soliloquy.
“Asy, bad luck to ye! Do you mane to smash the glass, ye thief? Wait till I git the breeches on, and maybe ye won’t git a fla in ye’r ear for disturbin’ an honest tradesman like myself.”
Having slipped on his nether garment, the butler unlocked the area door, as from that position he could hold safer converse, having the palisades between him and the intruder.
Never did an unhappy quaker find greater difficulty to establish his identity; for Mr. Costigan was not an impartial judge, he having already fully determined to reject all evidence the claimant might adduce. But one doubt presented itself to the worthy butler—could the person he had carried up to bed have been a phantom? Oh, no; the burden was “too, too, solid flesh,”—a fact his aching back attested.
“Of a truth, friend Costigan,” said the youth, “I am thy master’s son.”
“Arrah, na boolish!” returned the incredulous pantler.
“Open the wicket,” pursued the suppliant; “thy look is good-natured; and wouldst thou expose me to my father’s anger?”
“Arrah, none of ye’r soft solder with me,” responded Mr. Costigan. “Divil a toe you’ll put into the house, good nor bad. Be off wid ye; give ye’r rags a gallop, or, be this book, I’ll charge ye on the watch.”
The loud tone in which the indignant butler repudiated the real Simon Pure had reached his father’s ears, and brought the tête-à-tête to a close. The window opened; and Mr. Pryme demanded, “What caused the noise beneath?”
“Nothing,” returned Mr. Costigan; “only here’s a rambler on the street, that, right or wrong, wants me to let him in, and swares he’s a son of yours into the bargain.”
“Who art thou, friend? demanded the elder quaker.”
“Thy erring son,” returned a voice, choked with shame, and almost inaudible.
“What do I hear?—Thou, my son?”
“Impossible!” exclaimed a female voice; and Mrs. Pryme’s nightcap came popping through another window. “Our son Samuel is long since a-bed.”
Alas! one glance confirmed the identity of the applicant; and to Mr. Pryme the discovery was most painful—while it passed the understanding of Mr. Costigan altogether. Doubtingly, at the bidding of his master, the butler unclosed the door, while the old man descended to the hall to receive his erring child, and learn the particulars of an occurrence with which so much mystery seemed to be involved.
To the heart of a fond father, how irresistibly come the pleadings of a first offence! The word of pardon passed the old man’s lips—the young offender was folded in his parent’s arms—and it would be doubtful to determine, whether the happier of the twain was he who received, or he who had extended forgiveness.
All this was as it should be; but what the devil was to become of me? Indeed, my hour of retribution was at hand—for the reconciliation was scarcely completed, before it was intimated to Mr. Pryme, that an unknown guest had honoured the mansion with his company,—that he was at present sound asleep—that his reception had been affectionate—but it was not considered necessary to add, that he had received more decided tokens of regard, and been kissed by half the female portion of the establishment.
To ascertain who this mysterious visitor might be, Mr. Pryme proceeded at once to my apartment, accompanied by his henchman, Jack Costigan, who, to guard against danger or surprise, had provided himself with the kitchen poker. No ally could have been better affected than the butler; for, by future good service, he was anxious to redeem the error he had committed in rejecting an heir-apparent from his father’s house, as unceremoniously as if he had been the tax-gatherer.
I laboured under the stupid inertion which succeeds a drunken debauch, and was buried in profound repose. Unheard and unchallenged, the quaker approached my bed, while the butler unclosed the window-shutters. The quaker touched my shoulder gently—and in a voice as calm as if he were addressing an honoured guest, inquired, “Friend, art thou sleeping?”
Fancying that I was ‘wakened by my servant to attend morning drill, I irreverently responded,—
“Curse all parades! Tell Sergeant Skelton to go to Bath, and let the Adjutant go after him!”
“Swear not,” returned Mr. Pryme; “but say, how wilt thou excuse thyself?”—
“Oh!” I replied, still dreaming of drill and duty, “I’ll leave that to you: say I have a head-ache—a tooth-ache—or any ache you please. In short, tell any lie that will answer best!”
“Friend, thou dost neither comprehend my meaning, nor I thine;” replied the old gentleman.
At the moment, Mr. Costigan managed to unclose the shutters;—a flood of sunshine streamed in, lightened the apartment suddenly, and at once dispelled my slumberings. I started, like a guilty thing, bolt upright in the bed, and encountered full front, the burly form of the honest quaker; while Mr. Costigan, poker in hand, remained some paces in the rear, ready to aid and support his master on the first indication of hostilities.
“My name is Obadiah Pryme—Friend, what is thine?”
The question was a regular choker. I was called on to become my own accuser, and stand before my father’s chosen representative, a self-convicted roué. Of the finale of my career, what goodly promise did its opening give! my first introduction to my guardian—a rascally invasion of his premises,—and, were I pressed to extenuate the offence, I could not, with Jack Falstaff, even plead that I had not “kissed the keeper’s daughter.”
Trifles hurry on great events,—and a recommendation from Mr. Costigan, that I should be sent direct to Newgate, roused my latent pride, and re-established courage, that was oozing fast from my finger-ends.
“Peace, John!” returned the quaker; “Thy name, friend?”
“Is one, Sir, not unknown to you!”
“Indeed!” said the old man, with some surprise.
“I am called Hector O’Halloran!”
“Protect us!” exclaimed Mr. Pryme, with hands and eyes upturned; “Wert thou then the companion of my erring boy, and partook in last night’s godless revelry?”
“He was not my companion,” I answered boldly; “but I his tempter. I led him to commit the folly that he did—and the blame of all should rest with me.”
The quaker gave me a benignant look, took my hand, and pressed it warmly—and next moment my pardon was pronounced.
“Hector O’Halloran,” he said, “thy candour redeems thy crime. He who so freely owns a fault will probably henceforward eschew the ways of foolishness. Sleep; the morning yet is young. I am thankful that the son of my ancient friend was fortunately brought to a home where he was placed in safety. Thou shalt be called ere breakfast-hour arrives.”
Once more the shutters were closed. The quaker departed, and I was left to marvel at the luck by which I had undeservedly escaped the pains and penalties of this my first delinquency.
I slumbered away two hours, dreaming of Charleys’ lanterns, poles, and stolen kisses, until my “man tapped at the door” with a carpetbag containing a full equipment. Indeed, it was fortunate for me that Mr. Pryme had sent for my servant and a refit; for the formal habiliments in which I had masqueraded on the preceding evening now cut a sorry figure, as John examined them one by one. The coat was changed into a spencer; for, in the melée, body and skirts had parted company,—while that garment, politely termed unmentionable, exhibited so many compound fractures, that the tailor would have been a daring artist who would have undertaken the repairs. Having completed my toilet, my valet took his departure, just as the quaker’s butler announced that the ladies were waiting for me in the parlour.
When the summons to the breakfast-table was delivered, I felt it a first draft upon the assurance of a bashful Irishman, and I would have freely sacrificed a month’s pay, to have been permitted to slip off without any flourish of trumpets. It was bad enough to face my worthy mentor,—him, to whom especially both my morality and expenditure had been consigned. But it was the quaker’s womankind whom I had most cause to dread—ladies swindled out of a kiss under false pretences,—how the deuce was I to encounter the chaste indignation, which the recollection of that felonious accolade would assuredly call forth? My foot stuck to the last step of the staircase, as if it had been glued there; and there I stood, in the comfortable position of a person who is ashamed to retreat, and afraid to go forward. The chief butler, however, brought matters to a crisis. Emerging from the lower regions by a back stair, he entered the breakfast-room, and I had the satisfaction to hear him announce, in a voice intended only to be audible to those within, that “the drunken gentleman was in the hall,” accompanied with a-running-commentary of, “What impudence some people have!”
The remark, under existing circumstances, was not an encouraging one; and it would have afforded me unspeakable delight to have seen Mr. Costigan under the bastinado. Yet nothing, indeed, but that quality which it was insinuated I possessed extensively, would bear me through; and, after invoking the powers of impudence, in I desperately ventured.
But to my offendings mercy had been extended. Had I been an expected visitor, Mr. Pryme’s reception could not have been kinder,—and his stiff helpmate inquired, “Had I rested well?” Rachael,—oh! how that plain peaked muslin, which vainly strove to hide a profusion of auburn hair, became her! She, sweet girl, bade me a timid good-morrow, and then, blushing to the very brows, dropped her dovelike eyes upon the table-cloth. All this was passing strange—strange that the felonious invasion of a quiet domicile at midnight should elicit no objection—and, stranger still—the kiss of peace appeared to have totally escaped the memories of all parties save myself, implicated in the transaction!
Breakfast ended—the old lady withdrew—and Mr. Pryme asked me to walk with him to his counting-house. Requesting leave of absence for ten minutes to arrange some domestic matters before he should leave home, the quaker retired from the parlour, and Rachael and I were left to entertain each other as we best could.
For a short time our mutual position was embarrassing. I did not know exactly what to say; and the fair puritan maintained a solemn silence, with her sparkling eyes fixed steadily upon the carpet. It was quite apparent that I was expected to lead off; and, after an awkward pause, the ice at last was broken.
“Miss Pryme”—I commenced.
“Friend,” returned the young lady, “I am not thus termed; I am simply called Rachael.”
“What a pretty name!” I replied, for want of something else to say.
“It was that of my grandmother,” returned the lady.
“Well—Rachael,” I continued, “I fear my late visit occasioned some confusion. Certainly the mistakes of last night were singular and ridiculous.”
“They were, indeed,” replied the pretty maiden, raising her eyes, which, for the first time, now encountered mine; and, by a mutual impulse, we both burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Egad, we were thinking of the same thing; and the remembrance of that confounded kiss of peace had thus demolished the gravity of both.
“Rachael,” I said, catching one of the prettiest hands imaginable in mine, “I must confess my offence, and throw myself for pardon on your clemency.”
“I have nothing to forgive,” replied the fair one, demurely.
“To its fullest extent I own my crime. The temptation, dear Rachael, was too great to be withstood—but, as a proof of returning probity, I will restore what was fraudulently obtained.”
“Hector,” returned the blushing girl, while an arch smile ‘play’d round her lip and brighten’d her soft eye,’—“I admire thy honesty; but I have heard my father say, that it is generally better to put up with a loss, than seek restitution by doubtful means. Therefore, my friend, we had better leave matters as they are.”
“Heaven forbid,” I replied, “that I should abuse such generosity.”
“Hector, I am ready for thee now,” exclaimed the deep voice of Mr. Pryme.
“Farewell, dear Rachael; I have always heard that honesty was politic—but faith, I never thought till now that it was half so pleasant.”
“Friend Hector,” said the fair girl, with a look of rich espièglerie, as she hurried from the room, towards which the creaking of her father’s shoes announced that he was approaching,—“probity may be strained too far. For the future, content thyself with returning what thou owest, but add not interest to the debt that even a usurer would scruple to receive. Farewell. May thy honesty continue; for sudden conversions are always suspicious.”
She ran, laughing, from the apartment; and, in a few moments, Mr. Pryme summoned me to accompany him.
At his counting-house I found a packet which had arrived from my father by the morning’s post; and with surprise I found that it contained an order for my starting for London without delay. He had been privately apprised by a friend in the War-office, that an exchange might be effected with a lieutenant who was about to quit the Peninsula, from ill health. This would give me the full step; and I was directed to obtain a leave between returns—repair to town at once—and deliver, personally, letters my father had enclosed to certain functionaries at the Horse Guards.
I promptly obeyed the order, the colonel granted my request, and Don Juan like, I parted with Mr. Pryme—
“Bade my valet pack some things
According to direction, then received
A lecture and some money.
A letter, too, he gave (I never read it)
Of good advice, and two or three of credit.”
Next morning I called at the quaker’s house to say adieu in form, and found the ladies at home. I sate for a long half-hour; but had I remained till doomsday, I fancy Mrs. Pryme would have knitted on. At last I took a ceremonious leave; and—confound all stiff-backed gentlewomen who won’t leave young people to themselves—Rachael and I parted without the kiss of peace.
“Oh, Heaven! that such companions thou’dst unfold,
And put in every honest hand a whip,
To lash the rascal naked through the world.”
Shakspere
Fate seemed determined that on the world’s stage mine should be a hurried entree; and, when I had only caught a glimpse of passing life, that my bark should be launched at once upon the current of existence, to float or flounder as it could. Short as my career had been, it had not passed unmarked by incident. To fortune I was already indebted for more than one deliverance; and believing them to be an earnest of future civilities on the lady’s part, I resolved to take the world as it came, put my trust in the blind goddess of the wheel, and prove the proverbial good luck which mostly follows in the footsteps ol an Irishman. Willingly, therefore, I obeyed my father’s orders, and on the following evening quitted the Emerald Isle, on the pleasant and profitable pursuit of “the bubble reputation.”
It had surprised me that, hitherto, no communication had reached me from Mark Antony O’Toole, touching the adventures which had befallen him since his disappearance from Kilcullen. There, his evasion, as my father mentioned in Iris letter, had occasioned a marvellous sensation. Miss Kitty O’Dwyer, as a mere matter of course, having been expected to commit suicide, or die broken-hearted within a fortnight. Neither event, however, as the fancy say, “came off.” Kitty continued in rude health, and the fosterer’s movements remained still wrapped in mystery. But, as it turned out, Mark Antony’s career was singularly connected with my own—the same star appeared to rule our destinies—both were simultaneously leaving the land of the west, apparently at the beck of fortune’s finger; and of the twain, which pursuit was the more crotchetty would have been a question; the fosterer, levanting for love, and I, for glory.
We left Mark Antony and his fair companion on the road, with the world before them, and some wayfarers, like themselves, in the rear. Whoever the travellers might prove to be who approached the dell where the fosterer and his friend had refreshed themselves, it was quite evident that the school where their philosophy had been acquired was of any order but the crying one. One manly voice trolled a jovial drinking song, to which two others occasionally bore a bui’den. As a sharp turning in the road, skirted with thick copsewood, masked the stranger’s advance, their merry laugh and reckless gaiety told that Father Care was not of “the companie and their calling and character might have been shrewdly guessed from passing conversation and snatches of song.
“I wonder, Pat,” said one of the wayfarers, “to see you in such spirits after parting with Nelly Blake as if your heart was breaking. Neither of ye cared a button at leaving me watching for a long hour at the other side of the hedge like a poacher, for fear the old priest would come out and catch you philandering with his housekeeper. Lord, how you swore, and she—poor girl!—believed it; but when you strove to cry and keep her company, oh!—that was all but the death of me.”
“Well, Tom,” returned the second, “if I broke down at the weeping, you will admit that I did not disgrace my calling, but swore like a trooper. You’ll hardly believe how much that girl has bothered me. Hand me the cruiskeen. Remember, Tom, for love there’s but one remedy,—and the beauty of it is, that for every symptom it proves a certain cure,—hear what the song says—
“If you ere love a maid who your passion derides,
Drink enough, you’ll find charms in a dozen besides,
Drink more, and your victory then is complete,
For you’ll fancy you love every girl that you meet.”
“Hallo!—who have we here? Talking of love, they seem to be a couple of Cupid’s own. Egad, a nice girl,—and if I could but list her companion! Lord, what shoulders he has for a pair of wings!”
In another minute the travellers were alongside the fosterer and his friend. A civil greeting passed; and with that easy confidence with which natives of the Emerald Isle hold communication with each other, it was speedily ascertained that the route of the united party was the same, until it reached a road-side inn, where the strangers announced it to be their intention of halting for the night.
The dress and personal appearance of the wayfarers was remarkable: one wore the uniform of a militia-man; another the dark clothing of a student; but from the costume of the third, it was impossible to form any opinion of what his calling might be.
He was a tall and stout-made personage, apparently of middle age, with sandy hair and whiskers, partially intersprinkled with grey. His countenance was particularly good-humoured—and in his light blue eyes there was an expression of drollery and acuteness. He wore a hare-skin cap, a dark-coloured shooting-jacket, short tights, and leather gaiters. He was provided with a goat-skin knapsack—two wiry terriors followed closely at his heels, and a dhudeene and oak-stick completed his appointments. The style also by which his comrades addressed him added to the mystery of his profession: the soldier addressing him as “ta Copteeine,” * and the student merely calling him Shemus Rhua. **
If in the captain’s sobriquets and outer man there was anything embarrassing, there was nothing about the soldier-like concealment. The chevrons on his arm told his rank, and the pack upon his shoulder his regiment. After announcing that he was on the route to embark with a draught of volunteers for the Peninsula, he thus noticed his companions.
“This,” he said, pointing to the student, “is the making of a priest; but if I can persuade him, he’ll not give them any trouble in Maynooth. What a sin it would be to spoil a fellow cut out for a flanker; and on a shoulder intended to carry a grenade, to hang a surplice. Leave your breviary to your old uncle, and take brown bess in place of it. Spain’s the place, Tom. Egad, how the old priest will stare when he finds out that I have whisked away his nephew.”
“Faith,” replied the student, “the only wonder is you did not whisk away his niece.”
“No, no—Ellen and I must leave matters as they are until we return. Then, I’ll marry your pretty cousin, Tom, and we’ll share Father Dominick’s purse honestly between us. What say ye, captain?”
“Why that you must put the old man under the turf first. He would not part with a dollar to make a colonel of ye.”
“Well, priests cannot live for ever. But whither are you bound, honest Shemus? Are you on a medical excursion at present?”
“Is this gentleman a doctor?” inquired Mark Antony.
“He’s a man of many trades,” returned the sergeant, with a laugh. “With Humbert he was a captain; a doctor afterwards; poaches a little now and then; bleeds old women; ties flies; breaks dogs; cures children; kills rats; and, in a word, is generally accomplished. His titles are numerous as his tastes; and he still holds the same rank he had when he was out with the French in ninety-eight.”
The captain smiled at the sergeant’s description; and the travellers jested, laughed, and sang until they reached the public-house, where they were to separate from the fosterer and his companion.
While the soldier, the student, and the rat-catcher settled themselves in the kitchen, Mark Antony and the wandering girl retired to a private room. Both were heavily cast down, for in a brief space they were to part, and probably for ever.
“And is your resolution unchangeable, Julia?” said Mark Antony, as he clasped her hand.
The girl burst into tears, and faintly answered in the affirmative.
“Hear me, Julia,” said the fosterer, “before you decide; and believe that every word that passes my lips comes directly from the heart. You say that you have no relations; no one to shelter and protect you; none to love you. Julia, why then reject me? Why should we not unite our fates and battle with the world as we can? Alas! I have nothing to offer you but a warm heart and a stout arm. I’ll work for you—toil for you—fight for you. Will you not then let me love you, Julia?”
God help the worthy fosterer! With all his soul he was ready to commit matrimony on the moment; and without the slightest knowledge of the means by which he might secure a living for himself, he would have freely undertaken the maintenance of another still more helpless.
“Mark,” said the wanderer, for the first time calling him by that name, “I value your kindness as I should; and think not, in declining to accept your generous offers, that I am cold to your deserving. Far from it. If any happiness were reserved for me, I feel that it would be in uniting my wrecked and wretched fortunes to yours. Nay more; had I enough for both, and that hereafter this blighted heart could ever love again, I would press you to accept my wealth and my affections; for I might safely conclude that with him who offered a husband’s protection to my wretchedness, under altered circumstances, I could not fail in being happy. But no; I will not swamp your young fortunes with mine. My resolution is already formed—and we must part.”
Again the ardent Irishman pressed his suit upon the wanderer; but, true to her determination, the fosterer’s overtures were gratefully but firmly rejected.
“We have yet,” she said with a sigh? “three long long miles to travel. Oh! how weary will they be!—for my heart grows heavier and heavier still!—Ha! what mischief is abroad? Look—yonder stands that ruffian Jew—and see, he points his finger to this window.”
“Who and what is the scoundrel?” inquired the fosterer.
“I cannot tell,” returned the girl, “he joined a strolling party, from which I separated ere I met you. They are sought by outcasts like him and me. Another vagabond who accompanied him, in a drunken quarrel, taxed the Jew with being familiarized to every crime, and added, that he was a returned convict. What his designs regarding me were I cannot tell. When I left the wandering company, he followed—but, thank Heaven! you came—and if he meant me harm, your protection saved me.”
In the mean time, the Jew had disappeared, and Mark Antony endeavoured to persuade his companion that this second meeting was accidental. The girl shook her head. Steps ascended the stairs, the door was unceremoniously opened, and Mr. Montague entered the room, attended by two men, who announced themselves to be officers of justice.
The girl turned pale as death; while the blood rushed to Mark Antony’s brows, as he stepped boldly between his companion and the strangers.
“Fear nothing, love!” exclaimed the fosterer. “By heaven! I’ll murder the scoundrel on the spot, if he attempts to touch you with a finger.”
“I told you,” remarked the Israelite, “what a desperate offender he was. That’s the man that robbed me of my purse, and that’ere woman, a pal of his, assisted.”
“Infamous liar!” exclaimed the accused female; while Mark Antony caught up the poker, and prepared for rebutting the accusation with other proofs than argument. The constables called for assistance; the Jew retreated through the door; and the sergeant, the student, and the rat-catcher rushed up-stairs, followed by the host of idlers who are ever found loitering about the precincts of an Irish inn.
A scene of indescribable confusion succeeded. All asked questions, to which none would vouchsafe a reply. The Jew solemnly protested he had been robbed; the accused indignantly repelled the charge of felony; while the constables insisted that all concerned should immediately repair to the residence of a neighbouring magistrate, there to be dealt with as appertained to justice. The whole party accordingly set forth to undergo-the ordeal of the law’s inquiry. Mark Antony and his fair friend, under the especial patronage of their quondam road-companions—the sergeant, the student, and the rat-catcher; and the Israelite aided, counselled, and consoled by the village Dogberries, to whom, in the event of a conviction, the Jew had been, as Jews generally are, most liberal—in promise.
On reaching the domicile of the Justice, the posse comitatus halted in front of the hall door; for, as Mr. Blundel had just fabricated a fourth tumbler, and the water was of consistent heat, some time must elapse before the mixture could be conveniently disposed of. At last, the prisoners were summoned to the presence; and the accused, being duly arraigned, the complainant was invited to detail the wrongs he had received.
At his first interview with the fosterer, the Jew had endeavoured to sink as much of his slang as he could effect; but now his own character was to be supported, and his address to the seat of justice was in the peculiar parlance of his people.
“Vy, ye see, yer vorchip, that my name is Reuben Levi. I’m a jeweller by trade, and an honest man along of it. I comes to Hierland with some goods; sells vot I had at a loss to get home agin; and with five pound in paper, and three guineas and a half in goold, I was returnin to Dublin. If the money’s mine, it’s in a green silk purse, and no mistake.”
The Jew paused; and a reference to Mark Antony’s pocket confirmed the statement of Mr. Montague.
“Vell, yer vorchip—ye sees I tells nothin but vots true—I was joggin on by a lonely road, and who overtakes me but this young voman, and that’ere chap in the welveteen fie-for-shames. I twigged them, yer vorchip, at once; for he’s von of the swell mob, and she no better than she ought to be. Vell, they fastens themselves upon me for a while, until I sits down upon a ditch to rest myself, and ged rid on’em. Vell, down she pops upon my knee and asks me for a trifle, while her pal comes behind, and draws me clean as a whistle. I tries to grip my purse, but—he’s a milling cove, yer vorchip—and in he pops his bunch of fives, darkens this here bye, and laves me flat upon my back. Off they goes like winky—and when I comes to myself, neither robber nor voman was to be seen.”
The easy audacity with which the Hebrew impostor detailed the particulars of the alleged robbery, actually paralyzed the accused. The sergeant looked confounded; the student shook his head; and the rat-catcher alone listened with incredulity, and preserved his faith unshaken. As to the worthy justice, no doubt of the fosterer’s guilt remained upon his mind; and all that puzzled him was, whether he could safely convict the girl as an accomplice. The fatal order to issue the mittimus was on his lips, when the Israelite addressed himself to “the king’s poor esquire,” and, as it appeared, it was mercifully in arrest of judgment.
“In speaking a few words to the worthy beak, I mean his vorchipful honour, I hopes the veakness of my caracter will be excused, vich vos in bein too tender-hearted from the werry eradel. I vould’nt jist wish to have the girl clapped under the screw, nor even that’ere chap should be lagged for life, though he’s fly to everything, from thimble-riggin to wilful murder. So, as the blunt’s got, if yer honour will let the voman off, and only shop the cove as stole the purse for the trifle of a fortnight, I’ll not insist on prosecution.”
While the unblushing Jew was delivering his humane appeal, the fosterer grew pale with rage, the girl red with indignation. There appeared nothing but “warder and fetters for the Graeme” as the justice was in the very act of affixing his sign-manual to the committal, when lo! a change came over the scene—the sound was heard of wheels stopped suddenly—and next moment, a young man, in a sailor’s dress, sprang into the room, and exclaiming, “Julia, my lost one, have I found thee!”—folded the wanderer in his arms, and pressed her ardently to his heart. On the girl, the appearance of the stranger seemed to have produced emotions of greater violence; she uttered a wild shriek, fainted on the sailor’s breast, and was borne by her new protector in a state of insensibility from the hall of justice.
At this unexpected dênoûment all present appeared to be astounded. The fosterer was lost in astonishment, and the magistrate equally surprised to see a person on whom he was about to deal according to law, summarily removed from his jurisdiction, and by a novel proceeding, by no means so formal and yet very like a habeas corpus.
While this grand scena was being enacted, a quieter, but not less interesting episode was in progress in the corner; but we must leave the reader in temporary suspense, as, with this occurrence, we intend to commence another chapter.