Читать книгу The Fortunes of Hector O'Halloran, and His Man, Mark Antony O'Toole - W. H. Maxwell - Страница 17

* Anglice, Little Andy.

As we issued from the wooded avenue, the moon had risen above the trees, and showed us a solitary building standing in the centre of an open glade, and surrounded by a rustic paling. A terrier promptly gave the alarm, and dogs of divers sizes and descriptions joined in the challenge. But Andy appeared to be an old acquaintance; they ceased barking when his voice was recognised, and permitted us to pass through a wicket in the enclosure, and enter a gravelled walk that approached the dreaded mansion.

“Now, sir, you require me no longer; and I have particular business to transact before morning. Knock and fear nothing. The dogs will not annoy you.” So saying, Andy passed through the wicket, and left me to myself.

I stood for a minute to gain time for recollection, and examine the appearance of the building. There was nothing remarkable in the exterior, and all within the house appeared dark and silent; at least, the latticed window? were so jealously blinded, that it was impossible to discover aught of the interior. I took courage—advanced to the door, and tapped modestly like one rather dubious of admission. Again, I repeated the knock, and a slight bustle within told that the summons was heard. Presently a chain was removed, bolts were withdrawn, and an old man dressed in plain blue livery stood in the doorway, and civilly inquired my business. My tale was briefly told. The servant bowed, and left me in the hall, while he went to apprize his master that a late visitor had arrived. Returning directly, he requested me to follow him—and leading the way down a long passage, conducted me to a well-lighted chamber, and announced that Mr. Hartley would wait upon me immediately.

Here I was, in military parlance, safe within the body of the place, and all the approaches carried without opposition. So far the work went bravely on; and, like a prudent soldier, I occupied the interval of expectation in examining the interior, to enable me if possible to form some idea of the quality of the inmates.

The room, though small, exhibited good taste and considerable elegance. The furniture and hangings were designed with great simplicity, but formed evidently of costly materials. A harp and guitar, numerous music-books, and several cases filled with well-bound volumes, bespoke the refinement of the owner. But the pictures were still more striking; they were generally oil paintings, and framed magnificently; and with these the walls were completely covered from the ceiling to the very base. The mantel-piece was still more remarkable. It was crowded with what are termed articles of vertu, being curious carvings in ivory and porcelain, of great value. There were also some oriental toys in silver filagree, shell snuff-boxes of unequalled beauty, and others of massive gold. But what fixed my attention at once, was a cabinet picture of small size, that rested on the centre of the slab—and which, even to an unpractised eye, appeared in its style and execution a chef-d’oeuvre.

The painting represented a young man, dressed in the fanciful costume of an Eastern rover, holding a midnight interview with a beautiful girl, who wore the habit of a religieuse. Moonlight, a seashore, a monastic building half-hidden by trees of tropic growth, with a vessel in the distance, formed the scene. One arm of the corsair clasped the nun; while the other pointed to the ship, whose canvas, hanging loosely, indicated a readiness for sailing—and the rover’s action seemed as if he was “whispering her fears away,” and urging the novice to accompany him. The character of both figures was admirably marked. In the rover’s handsome features there was much to admire, and more to fear. The expression was that of high courage, mingled with a haughty recklessness, that might either be caused by personal indifference to danger or a disregard of suffering in others. But in the beautiful religieuse there was a confiding love so gentle, so fixed, so unsuspecting, that one dwelt with pleasure on a face, where every best property of woman seemed combined.

The dresses of the twain were even more dissimilar than the character of the features. His costume was a tight jacket and expansive trowsers, belted with an Indian sash, which, while it displayed the symmetry of a faultless figure, permitted the wearer to put forth his strength with graceful freedom. Had his wild profession been doubtful, the Albanian cap, ornamented pistols, sabre and poniard, would have betrayed his calling. His beautiful companion wore the dress of the Ursulines; the back-turned hood displayed the sweetest face imaginable, while the hand that rested on the rover’s arm, as if to stay his departure, might have formed a study for Canova.

The picture fascinated me; all was forgotten while I gazed upon it. I looked again. Despite the darkening influence of sun and storm, a thick moustache, and foreign costume, the corsair’s aspect was decidedly British. It was a fair skin embrowned by climate, with which a wild and martial carriage and hair of raven blackness accorded well.

Wrapped in silent admiration—now gazing on “the bold brigand”—now enraptured with the sweet gentleness of the confiding girl, who seemed ready to abandon “home and heaven” for “her wild love,” I did not hear the door open until the host was almost standing at my side. Addressing me in a voice of peculiar sweetness, he bade me a warm welcome, apologized for not receiving me in the hall; and then telling me that supper was in readiness, he led me with excellent tact into a general conversation.

We talked on indifferent subjects for a few minutes, while gradually my self-possession returned. Although described by the unknown as stern and suspicious, and by Andy as misanthropic and unamiable, my host seemed kind and hospitable to a marvel. Just then the door opened again, a girl of remarkable beauty glided in, and Mr. Hartley led her forward. “This, sir,” said he, “is my daughter; and this gentleman, Isidora, is our guest.” We both cast down our eyes; she in maiden timidity colouring to the very brow, and I—I shame to own it—blushing like a country orator addressing “the unwashed” for the first time. I muttered a confused apology for an intrusion at that late hour, said something about bad roads, a lame horse, and Heaven knows what beside, to which she gave a gentle acceptation. I raised my eyes. By heaven! there stood the corsair’s mistress! ay, there in youthful loveliness—and the host,—all his bland expression gone, as, steadily regarding us, he looked with scornful indifference beneath his coal-black brows (but that his years doubled the corsair’s in the painting,)—his haughty curl of lip and eyebrow would have half persuaded me that he had himself been a rover of the sea.

At this moment, and luckily for me (for I was “regularly bothered,”) the blue-coated servitor announced supper. I presented my arm to Miss Hartley, and through a side door we entered the eating room. By a singular self-command, the host’s features had regained their previous expression of urbanity; his manner was courteous, his welcome encouraging, and he seemed the very opposite of Andy Beg’s description, when he called him repulsive and inhospitable.

Nothing could surpass the neatness of the apartment. In all its arrangements simplicity had been regarded; yet still there was an evidence of luxury and wealth in the quantity and massive fashion of the plate, which seemed better suited to the mansion of a noble than the retreat of a recluse.

Never did intruder time his visit more opportunely, if the excellence of a supper were the proof. The meal passed over agreeably, though in point of performance the actors differed. Miss Hartley ate little, her father turned out an indifferent trencher-man; but, faith, I made up for this double deficiency, as the skeleton that left the table of what came there, a goodly wild-duck, proved. No wonder; since I dined at the lonely inn, if varied exercise could produce a healthy appetite, mine should have been in top condition. But hunger has its limit,—mine was at last appeased; supper removed, wine and fruit were placed upon the table, and old blue-coat disappeared, leaving me perfectly satisfied with my quarters, and much more so with my company.

The host having filled his glass, pushed the decanters across the table.

“Come, sir, drink; you will own that Port wine sound, and this Madeira has circumnavigated the world; but I recommend the Burgundy. Probably, as it seems the custom of the country, you are not a wine-drinker after supper, should you therefore prefer them, you will find cognac and hollands on the buffet.”

Egad, the more I saw of it, the more I admired the establishment. Burgundy and Madeira that had circumnavigated the world—these formed very gentlemanly tipple to sport under a racketty old roof, to a self-invited visitor, who had dropped in, like a priest collecting corn, with a “God save all here.” Nor did I neglect the invitation. The bottle passed freely, previous restraint wore away, and some allusion of Mr. Hartley’s to a military life, led me by degrees into a private history of my own, until

“I ran it through, even from my boyish days

To the very moment when he bade me tell it.”

I afterwards recollected that some of Mr. Hartley’s questions could only have been asked by a person to whom the earlier history of my parents was intimately known, but I did not notice it at the moment.

Charmed at the urbanity of my host, and flattered that my young Desdemona expressed an interest in my fortunes, and

“Gave me for my pains a world of smiles,”

I became momentarily more intimate and at ease; deciding that the unknown and his boatman, Andy Beg, were little better than libellers, when they insinuated aught against the suavity of temper and sociability of my excellent host.

Isidora had risen to leave the room, and something in her look or attitude recalled the fascinating picture of the corsair’s mistress to my memory.

“How like!” I muttered, loud enough to awake the attention of her father. “I would be sworn that picture on the mantel-piece of the drawing-room was painted for this young lady,—ay, and bating some twenty years, the gallant rover looks your very image, sir.”

Never was a more unlucky guess hazarded by a blundering Irishman! Had lightning struck the building, or a grenade dropped hissing through the ceiling, the effect could not have caused so fierce an explosion as that which followed this infelicitous discovery. In a moment a lurid glare flashed underneath the host’s contracted brows; while Isidora, pale as marble, leaned against the buffet for support. Persuaded that I had committed some villanous impertinence, I sprang forward to assist her; but, with extraordinary strength, her father pushed me like a child aside, led his daughter from the room, closed the door, and left me in undisturbed possession, to commune with my own thoughts, and congratulate myself on the brilliant effect that my first essay as a connoisseur in painting had produced.

After a short, but to me most painful, interval of suspense, Mr. Hartley returned. His rage had subsided; every trace of its first violence had disappeared; but his features wore an expression of stern rebuke, that made me far more uncomfortable than if personal violence were threatened for my offending. He leaned his back against the sideboard, and after regarding me for a minute with a fixed look, thus commenced:—

“Young man, you have wantonly annoyed those who were anxious to show you kindness; and, by a most unhappy and impertinent allusion to what concerned you nothing, you have in me roused feelings, which I wish suppressed for ever, and recalled to my daughter’s memory an event that can only bring with it painful recollections.”

I listened patiently thus far; but, unable to restrain my feelings, interrupted the expostulation, while my look and manner evinced that my contrition was sincere.

“By Heaven, Mr. Hartley, my offence was wholly unintentional! While waiting for you in the drawing-room, by mere accident I noticed this unlucky picture. Had I fancied that a secret connexion existed between that painting and any event of your past life, I should have scorned to cast an eye upon it, as much as I would to pry into yonder open letter that lies upon the mantel-piece. I only saw in it, what I considered a beautiful creation of the fancy; some imaginary scene—”

Suddenly my host interrupted me.—“Creation of the fancy! No, no, boy; all sad—sad reality! Oh, Heaven, that the scene were indeed imaginary!”—and, apparently overcome with some fearful recollection, he turned his face towards the fire, and I could observe a convulsive shudder creep over him as he writhed in silent agony. I was dreadfully mortified at the misery which my folly had occasioned, and determined at once to quit a house in which my visit had proved so mischievous. I went forward, and took Mr. Hartley’s hand.

“Can you pardon a stupid impertinence of mine, which has unhappily recalled afflicting recollections? When I am gone, excuse my imprudence to your daughter, and assure her how sincerely I repent my folly. And now, farewell, sir,—I feel myself an unwelcome visitor, and will relieve you of my presence.”

I made a movement towards the door; but my host waved his hand as if to detain me—

“Stop,” said lie; “it is nearly midnight, and the first place where you could obtain a lodging is ten miles distant.”

“I have walked twenty before now,” I replied, “to shoot a dozen snipes.”

“The road is bad and difficult to find,” rejoined Mr. Hartley.

“I can rouse a peasant on the way side, and he will guide me.”

“It is dangerous, besides,” added he; “a murder was committed there but lately.”

“No matter,” I returned; “I have little indeed to lose.”

“You put your trust in honest Juvenal,” said he, with a faint smile. “‘Cantabit vacuus’—it is a good adage; no security better against robbery than an empty pocket. But they may knock you on the head, and discover when too late—that you are not a gauger;” and he gave me a side look, to see what effect the allusion had.

“Faith, sir,” I returned, “I trust that that mistake shall not occur a second time, although to it I owe the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

“Indeed?” said Mr. Hartley, with real or simulated surprise.

“It is true, sir,” I replied.

“Well, then, sit down and tell me the adventure. Come, my dear boy,” he added, in tones so soft, so kind, that I was amazed at the sudden transition from anger to urbanity; “all is over and forgotten. I will make your peace with Isidora in the morning, and your penalty shall be—a short lecture and another bottle. You are young—your foot has only touched the threshold of the stage of life—at your age one sees only the sun-streak in the sky, but never looks for the cloudbank that lies behind it. What you to-night intended in idle compliment, exploded a hidden mine that all but wrecked our friendship in its very opening. Be advised by one who knows the world, or ought to know it: restrain curiosity in all that concerns another; and know men well, before you pry into their secrets. At the conclusion of this lecture my host took a flask of Burgundy from the sideboard, extracted the cork, and down we sate tête-à-tête again; and, at his desire, I narrated my evening encounter with the smugglers.

“Upon my honour,” he observed, as I ended, “a perilous adventure; and, faith, the scoundrels gave you coarse usage. I know the scene of your flight; a rough road to gallop over, and the broken bridge, too—did your horse carry you across that ugly chasm?”

“Took it in stroke, and never touched it with a toe. But for the villains with the rope, I should have had the race hollow.”

“Ay—these, ‘misbegotten knaves,’ as Jack Falstaff would call them, they ended the affair effectually. Egad—the rope was an excellent contrivance to dismount a cavalier. But you must have had a severe fall? Are you bruised?—are you injured?”

“Not much, I fancy—although I do feel sore and stiff about the back and shoulders.”

“It must be examined. I shall be leech for the nonce; and I am not a bad surgeon. Come, let us finish the flask, and then I will show you to a chamber.”

The time-piece on the chimney-piece chimed three quarters, the wine disappeared, I rose to retire; when my host took up a chamber-lamp and led the way. Proceeding along a narrow gallery, we entered an apartment at its extremity. Mr. Hartley lighted the candles. “These are your quarters,” said he. “Here make yourself at home, and I will return in a few minutes and pronounce upon your bruises.”

Nothing could surpass the neatness of my dormitory. The curtains and bed furniture were chintz, with drawers, cabinets, and wardrobes, all of Indian workmanship. A glorious fire of bog-deal was blazing in the grate, and on the table I remarked a dressing-case, with every thing requisite even for the toilet of a man of fashion—while a morning gown, slippers, and change of linen, were in process of airing for my service. But other objects caught my eye. Over the chimney-piece hung a curious collection of fire-arms; and beside them, some splendid sabres were suspended. Some were of foreign shape, and richly ornamented with gold and silver mounting; others, made by English artists, were distinguished from the rest by their exquisite finish and simplicity, while not a few bore semblance of great antiquity, and seemed retained rather as objects of curiosity than use.

On his return, Mr. Hartley found me admiring his armoury; but I neither hazarded a remark nor dared to ask a question. The lesson I had recently received would last me for awhile; and had a ghost and goule been sitting in the corner, tête-à-tête, I should have scarcely ventured to inquire “What the devil brought them there?”

“There are some handsome weapons in that collection?” said the host.

“They appear most valuable,” I replied. “I am not a judge of foreign arms; but I see some English guns of beautiful workmanship.” Mr. Hartley passed these lightly by; but taking down a sabre and pistols, he examined them with marked attention. The latter he replaced, but retained the sabre in his hand.

“Is that sword a valuable one?” My host started. I felt my face flush. Had I again committed mischief? But Mr. Hartley, on this score, relieved me speedily.

“You ask me is this sabre valuable? It is invaluable. The blade is of the purest Damascene. Observe its beautiful tracery; and its temper is so exquisite, that, without indenting its own edge to the extent of a pin’s point, I could have once shorn that bar of iron in twain,”—and he pointed to the grate. A knock was heard at the door. “It is Dominique—Come in.”

As he spoke, a new and very remarkable personage presented himself. He was a negro of uncommon height; and if his shape could be relied on, of herculean strength. His limbs, though too heavy to be graceful, were finely moulded; his shoulders square, his breast ample. He wore a light jacket and loose trowsers, and was provided with a china basin, some phials, and a napkin.

“Now,” said Mr. Hartley, “for our operations. Dominique, assist this gentleman, remove his coat, and bare his shoulders.”

The negro obeyed, and I submitted to examination.

“Upon my word, you have made little ado about what might have been a serious injury. Your back and arms are extensively contused, the whole surface is bruised, and the skin discoloured. Come, we shall take a little blood, and then embrocate the parts affected.”

I felt inclined to demur against submitting to phlebotomy, but mine was no common doctor. The negro bound my arm, produced a lancet, opened a vein with great adroitness, while his master overlooked the operation, until he thought that I had lost a sufficiency of blood. After a copious depletion, Dominique lubricated my back with some oily substance; and, having ascertained that all was correctly done, he assisted me to bed; while his master bade me a friendly good night, quitted the room, and both left me “alone in my glory.”

What a “whirligig world” we live in! I was but one day fairly flown upon it, and what a medley of adventure had it not produced! In the morning, starting full of “gay hope,” and for the first time master of myself; in the evening, captive of a gang of ruffians, who, in drunken barbarity, would have consigned me to the bottom of the lake, with less compunction than that with which a school-boy drowns a kitten. At night, inmate of a strange mansion, doubtfully received, half rejected afterwards, and now domesticated, as if I had been undoubted heir to every barren hill in view. All this was passing strange; and, lost “in wild conjecture,” and unable to read riddles, I betook myself quietly to sleep.

If there be faith in strong exercise, a deep potation, and bruised bones, I ought to have slept soundly,—and so I did; dreaming nevertheless of nuns and corsairs, smugglers and sacks, wild ducks, burgundy, bloodletting, and Heaven knows what besides, until a gentle touch upon the shoulder dispelled these troublous visions, and showed, by the misty light of a dull October morning, the well-remembered features of my kind and mysterious host, standing at my bedside.

“Have you rested well?” said the deep voice of Mr. Hartley, in the gracious tones it could occasionally assume.

“I have slept most soundly; and find myself so far recovered from bruise and battery, that I could”—

“Run anew the gauntlet as a gauger, and take the broken bridge, in stroke,” added mine host, with a smile.

“Well, we shall not put you to the test to-day; you must keep quiet; at least, so says Dominique, your leech. Do you wish to read? you will find books. Would you write? there are materials in the drawing-room. Would you shoot—swim—sail? Here are all facilities. Your mare is in my stable, your cloak-case honestly restored; and, as the stranger avowed who brought them hither, the steed uninjured and your effects untouched. I have received important letters, which for a few hours oblige me to leave home. Before supper you may count upon my return.”

I thanked him warmly for the kind manner in which he pressed my further stay, but hinted that the time was limited within which I must report myself at head-quarters.

“Yes, yes,” said he, “I know you must be in Dublin on the 24th; but this is only the 20th. I will send you off to-morrow,—sounder in bones, and safer in property, than when you honoured me with a visit.‘Tis scarcely six o’clock. Sleep till Dominique appears. Addio! One word more,—‘tis cautionary,—we were introduced but yesterday; to-day makes or mars our friendship!”

Before I could reply, he glided from the chamber, closed the door softly, and left me to sleep or wake, just as I pleased.

I felt little inclination to court the “drowsy influence” of my pillow; for the stranger’s parting words, like every thing about him, were a mystery. Accordingly, I rose, threw aside the curtains, and let as much light in as an overcast morning would admit through a lattice dimmed with mist and rain.

It was yet but seven, and some time must elapse before the family would be afoot. Out of doors, all looked cold and comfortless, and I was obliged to betake myself to bed again, and there await patiently the advent of my sable physician.

Sleep I could not; my brain was in a whirl, as the events of yesterday crossed my mind in fast succession; all, or any, being sufficiently exciting to stamp the day adventurous to a novice like myself, just started on the world. But one engrossing recollection obliterated all the rest, and the picture and supper-scene occupied my thoughts exclusively.

As I pondered on the singular resemblance between the figures in the painting and those of Isidora and “mine host,” my eyes involuntarily rested on the arms which hung above the mantel-pieee. The sabre and pistols rivetted my attention. They were the very identical weapons with which the corsair in the picture was accoutred! Hartley’s eulogy upon the sword, and the boast of his former prowess, confirmed the belief, that though a “worthy Thane” at present, there was a period when his calling was but indifferent, and himself, “if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked.” Just then I heard a gentle tap, and Dominique made his appearance to ascertain how far I had benefited by his leech-craft, and if necessary, to assist me at my toilet.

“Your master, Dominique, went early abroad to-day.”

“Yes, sir. He had business at some short distance from the house, but he will not delay long. How much better your wounds look than could have been expected from their appearance last night!” and the negro embrocated my bruises again. “Pray, do you know, sir, any of the persons who assailed you on the road?”

“Not I, in faith. From what I can collect, I was mistaken for another.”

“It was a bad blunder for you; but, all considered, you have escaped wonderfully. It was very doubtful whether you could have left your room this morning; and Miss Isidora begs to know whether you will have breakfast in your chamber, or venture to the parlour.”

“To the parlour, certainly.” Up I sprang, dressed rapidly, and following the sable functionary to the end of the corridor; he pointed to the drawing-room door, bowed, left me, and I entered.

The room was still untenanted, and, to all appearance, precisely as I had left it the preceding night. Reckless of the confusion it had already caused, I determined to satisfy my curiosity again, and take a second peep at the mysterious picture. From the doorway the massive frame was visible, for my eyes had turned involuntarily to the place where my thoughts had already wandered. I walked on and stood before the painting.‘Twas passing strange; there was the frame, but both lady and corsair had vanished; and the parting scene of love had changed to one of vengeance. How opposite the subject, too—Blue Beard about to shorten Fatima by the head, for being over curious, like myself, in a strange house and on a first visit. Was this pointed as a hint to me? I’faith, it looked very like it, but, before I could determine whether the painting was designed to convey this silent lesson, a light step behind announced the presence of Isidora. She had entered from the adjoining room unperceived, and came to tell me that breakfast waited.

All things considered, the meal passed over with less embarrassment than might have been expected from a tête à tête between two novices like us, who had parted in the unpromising manner we had done the night before. Although timid as one unacquainted with the world will naturally be when she is first addressed by a stranger, Isidora’s was the diffidence of maiden modesty rather than mauvais honte; while I, appertaining to that numerous class intituled “bashful Irishmen,” mustered my small stock of assurance, as I whispered to myself old Chapman’s lines—

“Ah! crrared sheep’s-head, hast thou liv’d thus long,

And dar’st not look a woman in the face?”

Certain it is, that, after having duly ascertained that my mare and baggage had passed through the hands of the Philistines uninjured, I returned gallantly to the drawing-room. There I behaved as a soldier of promise should do; ending by proposing a walk to the fair hostess, which invitation on her part was gracefully accepted.

The day had improved considerably; and we strolled arm-in-arm to the brow of a small hill, which, rising boldly above the copse that encircled it, commanded a splendid view of a spacious lake, with woodlands in the foreground and mountains in the distance. This was a favourite spot, and frequently, as my companion told me, visited by herself and Mr. Hartley. We placed ourselves on a rustic bench under the shading of a fine old elm; and, while I could not but admire the romantic scenery that everywhere met the eye, I marvelled that one who had mingled in the world, and had ample means to do so—as all about his domicile inferred—should seclude the young beauty beside me in a wilderness, fitted for men only of lawless habits and broken fortunes.

“Do you not, at times, find this place solitary, Miss Hartley?” I asked, in a careless tone.

“It is retired, certainly; but I have been accustomed from my childhood to retirement,” she replied.

“Yes, but one who has been in the world—”

“Would, no doubt, find this mansion disagreeable. I have been secluded from infancy.”

“Indeed!”

“For fifteen years I never set my foot beyond the convent garden.”

“Were you intended for a religieuse?”

“I believe not.”

“Why, then, seclude you from the world?”

“The cloister is surely the best asylum for those who need protection.”

“You lost your mother when young?”

To judge by its effect on my fair companion, the allusion was particularly unfortunate. The cheek, “but feebly touched with red” just now, flushed, and told that I had committed a fresh indiscretion. By a sudden impulse I seized her hand:—

“Have I again offended? Alas, Miss Hartley, I am inexcusable! But, as it was perfectly unintentional, may I once more entreat forgiveness?”