0465m
To this judicious remark the smaller of the two assented by a gracious inclination of the head—while the question, so homely put, appeared to have disconcerted their respectable patron, for he did not answer for a minute, and then the reply was evasive. After passing a flattering encomium on the character of the late Mr. Sloman—whose irreparable loss was deeply to be regretted—he hinted that, in his line of business, there was now a blank. His unhappy death, and the equally unhappy consequences which followed, had left a dreary void. It was impossible to find a professional gentleman equally talented and trustworthy. Undoubtedly, men of high honour and strong nerve could be found—and therefore, rather than run risks, he, Mr. Jones, as he was pleased to call himself, would prefer doing business with principals, and having no humbug among friends.
What a strange epitome of life the scenes enacted at an inn would furnish! How dissimilar in rank, in object, in vocation, are those whom every apartment of this human halting-place receives in turn! The care-worn and the careless—the miser and the spendthrift. Opulence, with unassuming carriage—penury, vainly attempting to brazen out its wretchedness. A noble, in title old as the conquest, rests in this chamber to-day—to-morrow it will be tenanted by a bagman, who never heard that such a being as his grandfather had existence. This evening a bridal party occupy the inn. They dream of naught but happiness—theirs is a fancy world—their road of life is carpeted with roses—they leave next morning. Who, next in succession, fill the same apartment on the morrow?—a coroner’s inquest, to ascertain what caused the suicide of a village beauty, “who loved not wisely, but too well.”
While Mr. Jones and his friends were thus engaged in the large, parlour upstairs, in a small back room behind the bar of “the George,” two other personages were comfortably located. One was the jolly hostess, whom nothing but “rum and true religion” could have upholden, seeing that, in the brief space of ten years, she had been thrice a mourner. Finding, however, that in marital luck there is no faith “in odd numbers,” she had judiciously concluded on risking the fortune of an even one; and, at the moment when Mr. Morley was bargaining with his amiable companions above stairs, the widow of “the George” was endeavouring to ascertain whether a matrimonial arrangement was likely to “come off” below.
“A mighty cold place these cross roads must be in the winter; and I don’t wonder, Mrs. Tomkins, that you’re uncommon lonely—and especially in the long nights. How short the days are gettin’!”
“Ah, Mister Magavarel—”
“Macgreal, if you please, Mrs. Tomkins.”
“I beg your pardon,” said the lady; “but, as I was saying, I’ll never get over Christmas as I am. Though I look stout and hearty, I am but a timidious sort of woman after all;—a fight in the kitchen knocks me of a heap, and noises after night put me totally from sleeping afterwards.”
“All! then I pity ye, Mrs. Tomkins,” returned the suitor; “after sodding three dacent husbands, no wonder that a fourth would be in ye’r way, now that the could weather’s comin’ on. It was only yesterday I was sayin’ to Mister Dominik, the black gentleman at the park, “Dominik,” says I. “What?” says he. “If ever,” says I, “I’d venture to go before the priest in company wid a woman, it’s Mistress Tomkins, of the George, would be my choice.”
“And isn’t it strange, Mister Macgreal, that you never took a wife?”
“‘I was over bashful when a boy, and feaks! my modesty never quitted me afterwards,” returned Shemas Rhua, looking as innocently in the smiling face of the landlady of the George, as if he had never crooked a knee before Father Peter Fogarty at the altar of hymen.
Shame on ye for a deceiver! If the honest woman who owns you in Connemara were but at your elbow, and overheard your insidious attempts upon the too-tender hearted Widow Tomkins, I would not be in your coat, Shemas Rhua, for all the rats and rabbits you’ll kill this side of Christmas!
To what lengths Captain Macgreal might have urged his treacherous suit, it would be difficult to fancy, but the sudden entrance of Mrs. Tomkins’s attendant, fortunately for her lady’s peace of mind, interrupted the further oratory of the false ratcatcher. She delivered some trifling message.
“If ever,” continued the maid of the inn, “murder was written in a mortal countenance, you may see it in the faces of two of the fellows above stairs. Lord! if they stop here to-night, I shall never close an eye!”
“Who are they?” inquired the ratcatcher.
“Heaven only knows,” was the reply. “They came into the house about an hour ago, and from the appearance of their shoes, I should say they had walked some distance. They inquired for a Mr. Jones; and on being told there was no person here of the name, they called for some ale, and said they would sit down and wait for their friend’s arrival. Presently the man they asked for arrived on horseback, dismounted, spoke to the others for some minutes, requested to have the use of a private room, and they retired together.”
“You may depend upon it, the errand that brought them here is not an honest one. Could you but see the suspicious looks they throw round them when I enter or lewe the room!”
“We’ll soon know more of both themselves and the business that brought them here,” returned the buxom widow. “You must know, Mister Macgreal, that a dark closet I keep for my private use, is divided from the large sitting room up stairs by a boarded partition, and there are cracks in the paper through which you can see what passes in the other room, and hear every word that’s said. Many a stolen kiss I’ve witnessed there—and many a tale of love I’ve listened to. Follow me softly. But, Lord! what was I going to do? Venture myself in the dark, and with an Irish gentleman! Oh! I won’t move a step, unless Susan comes along with us.”
“Honour bright!” exclaimed the ratcatcher.
“And you know there must be somebody left to mind the bar,” added the spider-brusher.
These observations were conclusive, and after an assurance of great discretion on the Captain’s part, the lady agreed to venture herself alone, and even in the dark, with the bashful Irishman.
Without occasioning the slightest alarm to the guests, who occupied the “great chamber” of the George, the ratcatcher and his fair companion ensconced themselves in the closet, and as it would appear, too, at a moment when the negotiation had assumed a business-looking character, and matters were drawing to a close.
“We understand one another perfectly,” said Mr. Jones.
“I must allow it,” replied the larger of the ruffians, “that you have come straight-for’ed to the scratch, Mr. Jones; and I hopes you vo’nt take it amiss, that we axed that part of the coal should be posted before we undertakes the job. Ye see, it’s what we calls heavy work,—nothing like greasing a man’s fist before he commences, it makes him go at the bisniss slap, because he knows that the rowdy will be stumped up when all’s right afterwards. It’s now late enough, so if you’ll show us the way into the park, and point the right-un out, we’ll make matters sure to-morrow night, and no mistake.”
“I am satisfied you will acquit yourselves like men of spirit,” was the reply. “Proceed down the lane that turns to the right, and when I discharge the reckoning, I’ll mount my horse and follow. At the second gate—you will find it open—wait for me.”
“The ruffians twain” rose and left the room, their employer called a bill, ordered his horse to the door, and quitted the hostlerie. The Captain prepared to follow him, and having kissed the landlady, a liberty for which he received a severe reproof, accompanied, however, by a general invitation to drop in as often as he could, “the George” in a few minutes was totally deserted, and Mrs. Tomkins issued orders that her premises should be closed for the night, with a passing remark to her attendant, of “what a nice man Mr. Hartley’s keeper was.”
Gloster.—“I was a pack-horse in his great affairs.”
King Richard III
“Thou art in London—in that pleasant place
Where ev’ry kind of mischief’s daily brewing.”
Don’ Juan.
Aquarter of an hour elapsed before the confusion my sudden entrance into the drawing-room of Bromley Park occasioned the inmates, had entirely subsided. I ran briefly over the narrative of my capture and escape—accounted for the non-appearance of the fosterer—was assured, notwithstanding wounds and “durance vile,” that I looked particularly healthy—and in due course returned, as in duty bound, a shower of compliment. The Colonel was particularly anxious to know why a lodgment was attempted on the breach, without battering down the defences; and in support of his opinion, made some extensive quotations from Vauban and Carnot. He also wished to inquire, why the false alarm upon the land-side, when the globe of compression was fired with such success, had not been turned, like the feint of the third division at Badajoz, into a real attack? Mr. Clifford asked the exact date to which my last advices from England had reached me, that he should take up his details therefrom. My mother was solicitous in ascertaining how often Mark Antony had attended mass; and was rather anxious to find out whether the fosterer had fasted upon Fridays, and figured frequently at confession. Poor Isadora’s were whispered queries, and more readily and willingly replied to:—“Had I really thought of her?” and “Were the ladies of the Peninsula so handsome as they had been represented?” The answer to the first was an ardent affirmation, and to the second I gave a faithful assent—for the finest features of Isadora’s beauty were decidedly Spanish.
The entrance of two former acquaintances, Dominique and my loving countryman, the ratcatcher, induced the ladies to withdraw, and retire to their respective apartments. From the faithful negro I received an ardent welcome; and the Captain was graciously pleased to express his satisfaction at my return. Indeed, the outer man of the latter was so changed for the better, that I might have passed him on the road and not recognised my former ally. The eccentric habiliments in which he had migrated from “the far-west,” had given place to the smart costume of an English game-keeper; and as the Captain was a stout, careless-looking fellow, no wonder he had found fwour in the widow’s sight, and had been pronounced by that experienced lady, “a nice man.”
After Dominique’s congratulations, and Shemas Rhua’s “ceade fealtagh” had been duly delivered, the latter, in sentences equally compounded of English and Irish, the ratcatcher announced himself to my uncle, as the bearer of important intelligence. He had been taking a turn round the park, he said, after night-fall, with the gun under his arm, on the look-out for poachers, and in the course of his rambles had dropped into “the George:” What occurred there he briefly detailed, with the omission of all love-passages between himself and the fair widow, and then he thus proceeded with his narrative:—
“I followed the sound of the horse’s feet. When the rider reached the second gate in the lane, he dismounted, joined the other villains, and all three walked forward towards the broken palings, while I slipped quietly through the wicket, and, knowing my path well, was at the opening in the fence before they reached it. Only two of them came in, for the little fellow remained outside with the horse. They went along, trampling on broken boughs as they groped their road, while I kept the grass under my foot, and dodged them without being overheard. They made directly for the house—and when they turned by the clump of ever-greens, I ran round by the other side and hid behind a holly. I saw them steal to the window of this room, and look in for at least five minutes. They then fell back close to the bush that sheltered me.
“‘You’re certain you know the man?’ says the dacent dressed fellow to the other thief.
“‘To be sure I do,’ was the answer—‘he has a pair of arms, and the other cove but one.’
“‘You see how easily it can be done. You can shoot him from the outside, and be safe on the high road before any body could give an alarm.’
“‘The job’s plain enough,’ said the other.
“‘And the moment it’s done, mind that you be off at once to London—and for your lives don’t stop to drink on the way. Attend to this—avoid public houses—and all trace of you is lost.’
“‘And you’ll be sure to meet us the day after?’
“‘Sure as the sun will rise.’
“‘And what time should we do the trick?’
“‘As soon after dusk as you can manage it. Earlier would not be safe. Can you conceal your arms?’
“‘Easily—I’ll borrow a poacher’s gun from an old pal of mine. It comes in pieces; the barrel unscrews in the middle, and you can carry it in the hare-pocket of a shooting jacket.’
“‘Come.—You know the man and the place. Let us be off. I’m too late from home.’
“They returned through the plantation. As they approached the paling—I still hanging on their heels—I was sorely tempted to give them a barrel a piece before we parted; but I thought, as I had found out all they were after, that it was better to let them pass this time—and inform your honour of what was in the wind.”
“You acted, gallant Captain,” replied Mr. Clifford, “with excellent tact and judgment. I see clearly through the business. My existence and return are discovered—and the wretch, who caused my exile, would now consummate his villany by murder. It will only expedite thedenouement—and with the failure of to-morrow night, Morley’s career will close. Come, Hector, we must not forget that you require refreshment—and while you sup, I will acquaint you with events which have occurred during your absence from the country.”
While my uncle was detailing the progress of his secret operations, I was giving him ocular proof that my appetite had not deteriorated by campaigning. But even supper and a long story has an end. The clock had struck the first hour of morning—we parted for the night—the Colonel, by no means satisfied that the assault on San Sebastian should have failed—Mr. Clifford, to mature his plans, and avail himself of the ratcatcher’s information—and I, to seek my pillow with that blessed and heart-cheering assurance, that all I loved dearest on earth were slumbering beneath the same roof-tree.
From Bromley Park we will carry the reader for a brief interval away, and follow the fosterer and his companion to the native village of the latter. It was sunset on the succeeding evening, before the stage coach on whose roof the pair were seated, stopped at the cross roads at a mile’s distance from Rawlings’s home, and there deposited the trwellers. Never did a couple of wayfarers cross a pathway more expeditiously. They had light kits and light purses—but they had what was better than any thing wealth could produce, lighter hearts—for from a fellow-passenger, William, to the inquiry, “Doth my father still live?” had received an assurance that the old man was well, and happy, and without a care, save what arose from anxiety regarding the safety of his absent son. Nor was the fosterer less gratified by the further tidings of the stranger. His mistress was looking better than she had ever done—at least, such was the village, report—and but a week ago, it was whispered that she had declined the hand of the wealthiest farmer in the neighbourhood. The colour mounted to the lover’s cheek. To hear that his mistress was fairer than before, was flattering to his pride—but to find her constancy unchangeable, was incense to the heart.
The lights were sparkling in the village casements before the trwellers reached the termination of the pathway—and Rawlings with his companion passed through the garden by a private wicket, and unobserved, reached the rear of his father’s cottage. The security and confidence ever felt in dwellings “far from town,” were here apparent—for the window of the little parlour was neither protected by shutter or curtain from theft or curiosity; and while the retired soldier luxuriated with his pipe, his pretty daughter was engaged in plying her needle busily, in perfect unconsciousness that the eyes of a lover were gazing fondly on her from without.
“Heaven bless ye both!” ejaculated the warm-hearted sailor, “We must not appear too suddenly; come, we’ll step over to the Lion, and send the landlady across to tell father and sister that the wanderers are returned.”
William Rawlings was the pride of the village; every rustic coquette was flattered by his preference; and it was said that it was rather out of pique than love, that the miller’s pretty daughter had listened to the suit of the jolly landlord of “the Lion.” Certain it is, that her reception of the handsome sailor was much more ardent, than wliat he of the spigot would have approved, had he been a witness to the unexpected meeting.
“Why, William, art thee alive, man?”
“Alive, girl; ay, and likely to live. I need not ask thee for Julia and the old man—I had a peep at both through the parlour window. Step over, dear Betsey, and let them quietly know that here I am, sound as British oak, and an old comrade along with me.”
“Lord! they will be so overjoyed,” exclaimed the hostess, as she skipped across the street, and knocked at the old quarter-master’s hall-door.
“Ah! Betsey, is it thou?” said the veteran, as he knocked the ashes from his pipe, and held his hand out to the visitor. “What news, my girl?—girl—no, no—I must call thee dame now.”
“Look in my face,” returned the pretty hostess, “const thou not read good tidings there?”
“What mean ye, Betsey?” inquired the old man’s daughter.
“Mean?—nothing but what I say; I am the bearer of the best news you have listened to for the last six months.”
“Is it aught concerning my boy?” exclaimed the excited quartermaster.
“Yes—William is alive and well; and of that an old friend of his, who stopped just now at the Lion, will give you presently, a full assurance.”
“Heaven, I thank thee!” said the old man, as he reverently raised his eyes, and poured the brief offering of gratitude warmly from a surcharged heart.
“Don’t be surprised at—”
“His return!” exclaimed the other female. “Is he come home? Betsey—dear Betsey—end this suspense, and make us too, too happy.”
“Certainly,” said the fair hostess, “the sailor aeross the street is very like your brother.”
“Oh! I will fly to him,” exclaimed the old man’s daughter, as she rushed towards the door—but in the passage her farther progress was arrested—a man clasped her in his lusty embrace, and covered her lips with kisses.
“William, dear William—”
“Julia—my darling sister.”
“Said I not truly,” observed the pretty hostess, “that I brought you joyous news?”
Next moment the wanderer was kneeling at his father’s feet; and that night, had Britain been searched through, a happier family could not have been discovered.
“And now that I have a chance of getting a civil answer, may I ask who that handsome young soldier is? I hope he is going to stop at the Lion for awhile. It would be a pleasure to serve a good-looking fellow like your friend, after being plagued waiting on frumpy farmer?, and answering beer-drinking boors.”
“Why, Mistress Betsey, that same well-featured youth is a trusty comrade of my own, and a sworn friend of a wild Irishman my sister is slightly acquainted with,—a gentleman called Mark Antony O’Toole.”
The name seemed to have a magical effect. Julia’s cheeks, in a moment, were dyed with blushes—a heavy sigh involuntarily escaped—a tear trembled in her eye—and a looker-on would have been dull indeed, who could not have read the secret of her love.
“All!” said the landlady archly, “no wonder Frank Robinson was rejected. So, Mistress Julia, and you would not confide in your old schoolfellow, and tell her you were over head and ears in love.”
“He is to be our guest for a few days—longer, probably, if you will make yourself agreeable. Julia, are you not obliged to me, my fair sister, not only for bringing myself safely back, but also for coming home provided with a brother-in-law, if you will only let me recommend a husband to you.—Hay, dear Julia, no tears—I but jest, you know, and would not wound thy feelings for the world. I will go over for my friend—” He said, and left the room, accompanied by the pretty hostess. The old man resumed his pipe; and poor Julia ascended to her own apartment, to bless Heaven for the restoration of a brother—and weep, were the truth known, for the absence of one even still dearer to her heart.
Five minutes passed—the hall door opened—she heard the well-known voice of the wanderer inquire for her, and presently footsteps were heard upon the stairs.
“Julia—what moping here, and not down to offer a welcome to my friend! Well, I must fetch thee, girl!” and William Rawlings unclosed the door. She started—the stranger was beside him—and she turned a look of displeasure and surprise on the thoughtless mariner.
“Hay, don’t look marlin-spikes at me, Julia. Here is the real offender.”
One glance, and the secret was disclosed. With a face beaming with delight, and eyes more brilliant now, “For having lost their light awhile,” she sprang into the fosterer’s arms. The vows of simple but ardent love were mutually interchanged anew—and that night the happiest family in Sussex would have been found circling the quartermaster’s parlour fire.
The clock was striking two, when the steward, after leaving his horse in the stables of Clifford Park, walked hastily to the hall, and admitted himself by means of a private key, to the wing of the building occupied by the confessor and himself. On looking towards the chamber of the priest, as Morley approached the mansion, a thin stream of light escaped from an opening in the shutters, and told that the holy occupant had not yet retired to his pillow. The steward tapped gently at the churchman’s door, which was opened by the occupant himself. ‘Within, the room was in manifest confusion—several trunks and boxes were being packed—the grate was filled with the remains of burnt papers—and it was quite evident that the confessor was making such preparations as foreboded an immediate departure.
“How now, Morley,—What news? Has aught occurred since noon?” inquired the churchman.
“I have determined to run the risk, and nothing now can change this resolution. The arrangements are completed. To-morrow night—”
“Nay,” said the confessor—“I neither wish, nor will know any thing of what is to happen to-morrow. It is enough for me to know what has occurred this afternoon.”
“Has any thing important taken place?” asked the steward.
“Yes—two persons arrived this evening. They sleep to-night in the house. One I know to be Mr. Clifford’s legal adviser. The other I fancy is to be the successor to yourself.”
“To me?” exclaimed Morley in astonishment. “No, no! holy father! That will not be so hastily decided as you imagine.”
“Well—a short time will settle the question. After the strangers had been closeted with the old man for an hour, I framed an excuse, and requested to speak to Mr. Clifford for a minute. An answer was returned that he was engaged particularly, and orders issued that none should intrude upon him. There is a change indeed.I, refused admittance, who for years was constant at his side even as a shadow.I, who hitherto dictated who should be received and who rejected! Saints and angels! I can scarcely believe the thing myself.”
The steward had listened with an expression of countenance, which evinced a sort of stupid incredulity. “Father, are we both awake?” he inquired with a sickly smile, that betrayed the inward workings of a bosom racked with disappointment and despair.
“Mine, Morley,” returned the confessor coldly, “are the acts of a man fully awake to coming events. No papers shall rise in judgment against me;” and he pointed to the fire-place—“and, as you may perceive, I am preparing for a long journey on sudden notice. Have you been in your room since your return? I fancy you will find there a document laid upon your table.”
The steward instantly retired—his absence was short, and he entered the priest’s apartment with an open letter in his hand.
“Even so”—and his white lips quivered as he spoke—“‘Tis from the old man—brief, but to the purpose—I am rudely discharged, and—”
“Directed to give an account of your stewardship,” continued the priest; “which may not exactly be convenient. What do you purpose doing?”
“Avenge myself, holy father—leave Clifford Hall ‘a house of mourning’ and, through the son, strike the cold dotard to the heart. Yes, if ruin impends on me, I shall involve others in the vortex. This time to-morrow, the stern old man who turns me as contemptuously away as I would spurn a beggar from the gate, shall be, what through life, and by my agency, he has been—childless.—Farewell!”
He said, and left the apartment.
It is asserted that excessive joy, like agonizing sorrow, equally drives sleep away. When I retired to my conch, happiness and hope reigned in my bosom—and yet my dreams were light, my slumbers sound. I was early astir—but others were earlier still—and when I entered the parlour, I found the family party already collected.
Like all other breakfasts, ours ended in due course; the ladies retired; and Mr. Clifford, the Colonel, and myself, adjourned to the lawn, and there held a walking consultation. In fact, with his customary decision, my uncle had already made his dispositions. The intended bravos were denounced to the police; and at the very moment we were talking matters over on the lawn, Mr. Morley’s agents were in close custody in London.
It was necessary that another day should pass, before Mr. Clifford deemed it expedient to throw off his incognito. It wore away. At Bromley Park the inmates were variously employed:—my uncle, in carrying out his successful arrangements; my father, in ascertaining whether a false attack on the sea-face of San Sebastian might not have operated as an effective diversion; my mother, I suspect, in offering additional prayers to Heaven for my safe return; and Isidora and myself—but, pshaw! the communings of young hearts were never intended for revealment.—
Again the scene must change. At Clifford Hall the presence of two strangers was unusual; and, in that dull and sleepy establishment, that trifling event had occasioned some sensation. When morning advanced, the surprise of the household was considerably increased. The confessor had disappeared, having removed all his baggage, none knew where or how. The steward was also missing, but his apartments were in their customary state; and as he frequently left the hall for days together in course of duty, his absence occasioned no particular surprise. The churchman had departed for the continent two hours before the steward quitted Clifford Park, and, as it was fated, neither re-entered the domain gates after they had passed them.
It would appear, that when he found his former friend and counsellor had left him to his resources, all Morley’s self-possession vanished, and his future actions seemed rather the results of sudden impulse than of deliberate forethought. Without any fixed object, he took the road to London; and that, too, by circuitous routes, which rendered the journey unnecessarily tedious. Although his general habits were temperate, he made frequent halts at road-side houses, and drank freely where he stopped. It was late when he reached the metropolis—and on his arrival in the Borough, he put up his horse at an obscure inn, took some refreshment, ordered a bed he never occupied; for, as it afterwards appeared, he spent the night rambling through the streets, or drinking in low houses only frequented by the vicious and the destitute. God knows what the wretched man’s feelings were! He then believed that a foul act was doing, or had been done; and it is hard to say, whether remorse for having caused the deed, or a savage exultation at its fancied accomplishment, had fevered his guilty soul, and, like another Cain, “murdered sleep,” and when innocence reposes, made him a wretched wanderer.
Morning came, and at the appointed hour named to meet his myrmidons, the steward repaired to the place of rendezvous. He hastened on, as he believed, to learn the death of his victim; but it was only to hurry his own guilty career to its close. The wretched man, in thieves’ parlance, was “regularly planted.” The moment they found themselves in custody, the ruffians (both returned convicts) admitted their intended crime, and gave ample information by which their employer should be detected. It was arranged by the officers that Morley should be received by one of the ruffians, at the public-house where the meeting had been appointed—and, apparently blind to danger, the steward entered the tap and passed through into a back room, which had been notified to him as the place where his sanguinary associates would be found in waiting.
The room was squalid in appearance, ill-lighted, and in every respect a fitting place for villains to frequent. At a dark corner he perceived the larger ruffian at a table—and, what rather startled him at first, a stranger seated at his side. A brief conversation, however, explained the matter. “The other cove had shyed when it came to the point, and he had to call on a trusty pal, the gentleman wot sate beside him.” Thoroughly deceived, Morley fell into the trap laid for him, without harbouring a suspicion—listened with manifest satisfaction to a fabricated detail of the imaginary assassination—handed to the murderer the price of blood—and was about to leave the room, when the confederate ruffian struck a hewy blow upon the table with a pewter measure—announced that he was a Bow-street runner, and Morley his prisoner. Then turning to the door, he repeated the signal a second time. It was answered—three officers came in.
Although astounded at the occurrence, the steward came to a sudden and desperate determination. The ruffian, hardened as he was, turned his eyes away in another direction from his victim—and, taking advantage of the momentary absence of the officer at the door, when summoning his fellows from below, Morley unperceived, took a small phial from his pocket, and swallowed the contents. He was instantly secured and searched—a large sum in money taken from his person—the handcuffs were being put on, which were to bind him for a time to the returned convict—the wretch who had betrayed him,—when suddenly, his look became fixed and glassy—his face livid—he reeled into the arms of an officer, and next moment, sank on the floor a corpse.
“All tragedies are finish’d by a death,
All comedies are ended by a marriage”
Don Juan.
The second week of October was beautiful. The woods were tinted with the varied hues which autumn interposes between “summer green,” and “snow clad winter.” The sun shone brightly—the birds sang—the bells rang out a merry peal—and a bridal, in long array, swept through the long avenue of Clifford Park, and approached the village church. The road was crowded with all the rustic population of the neighbourhood—and, while the men hurrahed, the girls spread flowers along the churchyard path, when the young and beautiful bride left the carriage at the gate, and advanced to the portal of the sacred edifice. She reached the altar leaning on her lover’s arm—and there, encouraged by the approving smiles of happy relatives and surrounded by a gaily dressedcortègeof bridal attendants, interchanged her vows of constancy, and bestowed her plighted hand upon the youth who knelt beside her. The surpliced priest pronounced his benison, and closed the book—the holy ceremony was over—but an interesting scene remained. An aged man, on whose head the snows of eighty winters rested, had sate beside the altar in a chair, while the sacred rite was celebrated. When the churchman’s blessing died away in the echo of the distant aisle, the old man signalled the young couple to approach him; they knelt at the feet of their venerable relation, who laid a hand upon either head, and with eyes devoutly up-turned, invoked Heaven’s protection upon his darling children. The blesser was Mr. Clifford—the blessed ones, Isidora and myself.
A second time the sun had circled the earth, and the same season had returned. Again the village bells were rung, and the park of Clifford Hall was crowded with tenants and villagers—that day it was the scene of rejoicing and festivity—an heir was born to the ancient name—and the baptismal ceremony was being performed within the hall, in presence of a goodly assemblage. From the font, the infant was carried in the arms of his young and happy mother to an easy chair, where a venerable man was seated. She knelt and invoked his blessing; and, upon the heads of two generations the old man’s hands were laid, while his lips poured forth an ardent benediction.
Again the year came round. It was later in the season, for withered leaves were spread thickly on the ground, a mute but striking type of life’s decay. Slow and hewily the village bell was tolling—death was in Clifford Hall, and its owner was about to be carried to the tomb, where his forefathers were sleeping. Ripe for the grave—surrounded by those he loved—cheered by the consolations of religion, Mr. Clifford had calmly slumbered life away—his head pillowed on a daughter’s bosom—his hand pressed gently within the grasp of a son, from whom for five-and-thirty years he had been alienated.
The stranger who passes through the domain of Clifford Hall, will occasionally encounter a hale, stout, white-headed-man, in leathers and gambroon, with a gun under his arm, and two Scotch terriers at his heels. That personage was once intituled Shemus Rhua—but years have spoiled thesobriquet. At the back gate there is a picturesque cottage, with a flower-garden attached, and filled with bee-hives. There a handsome old woman will present herself, attended by a village girl. She bears the appearance of a faithful servant, who has retired with every comfort. That old woman was once Ellen—or the gipsy, as you please.
In the immediate front of the Hall, two elderly personages may be daily noticed. One—stout, stooped, very gray, and very intelligent-looking—that is mine uncle. Another—spare, slight, and with a head erect as if he intended to throw Father Time off his shoulders, should he presume to invade them—his empty sleeve perfects the identity. Need I name my father?
One more group remains. A middle-aged gentleman, and a lady, rich in the beauty of middle life—a throng of children, that would throw Harriet Martineau into hysterics, gambol round them, while a handsome old gentlewoman, whom they term “grandmama,” superintends their movements. If you cannot guess who they are—why go up to the steward’s house upon the hill—and Mr. O’Toole, or his pretty wife, will inform you.