Читать книгу The Fortunes of Hector O'Halloran, and His Man, Mark Antony O'Toole - W. H. Maxwell - Страница 29

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“What will not woman, when she loves?

“Yet lost, alas! who can restore her?

She lifts the latch—the wicket moves-

And now the world is all before her.”

Rogers.

I was born in a village on the coast of Sussex. My father, after five-and-twenty years’ service, had retired from the army on a pension, with a small sum of money he had saved while acting in the West Indies as a quarter-master; and settling in his native village, he married the orphan daughter of a clergyman. The union was happy; and the evening of an adventurous life promised to wear quietly way. But, like all mortal expectations, my father’s dream of happiness proved unreal, for my mother died in giving birth to me, leaving another child behind her, a boy, two years older than myself. My parents were warmly attached to each other, and the old soldier felt his bereavement acutely; but he bore up against his visitation like a man, and endeavoured by a devoted attachment to the living, to show how fondly he regarded the memory of the dead.

Indeed, it was little wonder that in my brother and myself, the widower should centre his affections. No relative of my mother was alive; and the only kinsman of my father was a half-brother, a dozen years older than himself; a man in every way unamiable.

Josiah Rawlings was the village lawyer; a being without a heart, or such a heart as is untouched by the widow’s agony, unmoved by the orphan’s tears. He was mean, sordid, and vindictive; had realized much wealth; but on that ill-acquired money, the bitter curses of many a ruined family were entailed.

Josiah’s appearance was very remarkable. As for as respected height, he was tall enough for a grenadier, and in his fleshy proportions, light enough for a jockey. His hollow cheek and small grey eyes were in good keeping with his gaunt and bony figure; and at a look the stranger would set him down a knave, a miser, or a union of both.

Never were two persons more opposite in disposition than the brothers. The lawyer listened without emotion to a tale of sorrow—human suffering was a matter of indifference to him; while the soldier’s heart was as open as his honest countenance, and his purse answered the appeal of poverty to the fullest extent of his means. Unrelieved, no beggar left his door; and when a comrade eame that way, then indeed the fatted calf was killed,—for with him my father would have shared his last flask, ay, and his last shilling.

Years passed away. My sixteenth summer came. My father still remained a widower: and no home from which its chief comfort had been taken, could be happier than our cottage was. Time had softened the sorrow which my mother’s death had caused; and while the old soldier often alluded to his loss, he blessed Heaven that my brother and myself had been spared to be the stay and comfort of life’s winter. Alas! he little dreamed that by both he would be deserted; and tinder circumstances whieh would render his bereavement additionally distressing.

It was late in October. The few visitors who, during the bathing season, made the village a temporary abode, had taken their departure. The hamlet was left to its retirement—and our quiet course of life was unvaried, except by incidents of the humblest character. The soldier’s kind and charitable disposition had long endeared him to the neighbourhood; and where he went, the prayer of the poor man followed. With the lawyer, avarice and years kept pace—“none cried, God bless him;” for on a simple community a more detested individual never was inflicted, than my evil relative, Josiah Rawlings.

I grew apace; men called me handsome—and young as I was, more than one suitor had told his tale of humble love. But my heart had never yet been touched; my breast was free from care; and with me, as yet, sorrow was only known by name.

My brother had just completed his eighteenth year; and a finer lad was never the pride and envy of a village. He was tall, handsome, and athletic. Among the prettiest girls, William was the object of rustic rivalry; and in every manly exercise, the men admitted him to be their superior. And then he was so good-natured and so fearless!—at one moment fondling some playful infant in his arms; at another, when the elements were in their wildest uproar, and the sea broke in thunder on the beach, he would be seen launching the life-boat through a boiling surf, to save some drowning mariner, although to all but the daring spirits who accompanied him, the effort seemed to be equally perilous and unavailing.

Few days passed over without some acquaintance calling at the cottage; and all were weleome but one—our uncle. The lawyer’s visits were unfrequent. He never eame excepting when he was the bearer of some evil news, or the retailer of some country scandal. If an honest villager was struck with poverty, Josiah Rawlings narrated the misfortune, and always imputed what had occurred to some misconduct of the sufferer. If calumny breathed upon a woman’s fame, the lawyer painted her offending in its blackest colours, and perverted facts to give the rumour confirmation. Whenever Josiah entered, the peace and quiet of our happy home were broken. On no one point could my father and my uncle agree. While they were together, the time was passed in captious argument; and their parting was frequently in anger.

One autumn evening the noise of a passing vehicle brought me to the window, and I saw a carriage pull up at the Rose and Crown. My unele had been about to inflict one of his unwelcome visits on his brother; but he stopped in the street, peering after the post-chaise, until he saw the passenger alight and enter the inn. The commonest occurrences never failed to excite his curiosity; and in a village where a stranger was rarely seen, the arrival of one who travelled post, was indeed an event that caused a general sensation.

“I wonder who that chap is who put up at Jobson’s. All I could make out was that he was wrapped up in a blue cloak, and wore a cap with a gold band and tassel. I wish I knew his name, and what his business is,” and the lawyer having settled himself upon a chair, took hold of the Geneva bottle, and proceeded to compound his punch. “You heard,” he continued, “that the Hotham bank failed yesterday? Smith, the grocer, round the corner, had a hundred in their notes. He’s ruined!—serve him right. What business had he to take them?”

“May Heaven comfort him, poor fellow!” ejaculated the quartermaster. “More is the pity that misfortune should light upon an honest and industrious man, with a young family to support, and his wife dying of consumption. From the bottom of my heart I pity him.”

“That’s a nice business of Patty Meadows’s, too. I always foretold what would happen.”

“It’s a villanous fabrication!” exclaimed my father, passionately; “I don’t believe a syllable of the story.”

“All true,” returned the lawyer, “all true. Last Saturday evening, George Gripe, my clerk, heard the squire’s voiee as he passed the garden; so he clapped his ear close to the fence, and—”

“I wish to Heaven it had been nailed against the paling,” said the soldier; “the sneaking eaves-dropping scoundrel! Were I to catch him skulking about my house, I would break every rib in his carcase.”

“Ay, and render yourself liable to an action. Gripp would get sweeping damages.”

“Curse your damages!” returned the quarter-master. “Every body wonders that you employ a ruffian who swears black or white as bidden, and swallows oaths as he would bolt poached eggs.”

“I keep him,” said the lawyer, coolly, “because he’s useful. What capital stuff that Hollands is? Does Bill run it?”

“Run it! What—smuggle?”

“Ay, to be sure,” returned my worthy uncle. “I hear he’s the boldest boatman on the coast; and they tell me that he saved the shipwrecked Dutchman, when all had given him up as lost.”

“It is one thing,” replied the soldier, proudly, “to rescue a drowning man;—to rob the revenue, another. My son is no smuggler, Josh; nor ever will be one.”

“More fool he, then; there’s money to be made that way, and nothing to be got by the other, but bruised bones and a drenched jacket.”

“Nothing gotten!” exclaimed the honest quarter-master. “Is the grateful outbreaking of the heart of her to whom my boy’s gallantry has restored a husband—or the prayer of lisping childhood for him who saved a father,—are these nothing? What is money acquired by dishonesty, to these?”

The lawyer grinned sarcastically. “Tears and gratitude!” he repeated. “Will tears and gratitude pay rent?—will tears and gratitude pay taxes? You’re a fool, Dick. I would rather have a five-pound note than the united prayers of the parish.”

“I believe you,” replied the soldier.

“And so you may,” returned the miser. “But for your own folly you might have made a fortune, and be now as wealthy as myself.”

“Heaven forbid I were, Josh! if by the same means.”

“And wherefore?” inquired the lawyer, with a bitter smile. “Why,” said the soldier, coolly, “just because when Death tapped at the door, I should feel rather uncomfortable at the visit.”

“Don’t talk of Death; I hate to hear him mentioned.”

“And I speak only of an old acquaintance. Like friends, we have often looked each other in the face. He passed me by; and when he calls in form—”

“Pshaw!” said the lawyer, “have done; I hate prosing over an unpleasant subject. What has your daring done for you? For one guinea you can show, I can count down a score.”

“Yes,” said the quarter-master, proudly, “mine are few in number, but they are worth yours, twice told.”

“I should like to hear the reason,” said my uncle.

“‘Tis simple,” returned my father. “On every coin I’m owner of, I can look full-front and say, ‘Have I not earned you honestly?’ But yours, Josh; if widows’ sighs and orphans’ tears alloyed the metal, d——n me,”—the quarter-master swore as they formerly swore in Flanders,—“nineteen out of every twenty you possess would be declared regular raps, and nailed to the counter.”

“Pish!” said the lawyer, testily. “You have lived a fool, and will die a fool.”

“I have lived,” said the quarter-master, calmly, “an honest man; and I’ll die a stout one, too. When the order comes, it shall be willingly obeyed. Mine, Josh, shall not be a felon’s hardihood, but the humble dependency of one who believes that mercy is great, and faults will be forgiven. Now, Josh, were old bare-bones at your elbow”—“Confound such nonsense!” cried the lawyer, pushing his unfinished glass away, and catching up his hat hastily. As he crossed the threshold, his murmurings were any thing but prayers; and when the door closed, peace seemed to return again, and all of us felt that “something wicked” had departed.

Next morning, my father went out according to his custom, and he was absent longer than usual. When he returned, it was announced that lie had formed an acquaintance with the stranger, whose advent had not only roused my uncle’s curiosity, but created a general sensation throughout the hamlet. My father informed us, that his young friend was a lieutenant in a light dragoon regiment; his name, Seymour; his connexions, noble; and, more important still, that he, the quarter-master, had asked him to dinner, and that the invitation was freely accepted.

At the appointed hour the stranger came. His appearance was very prepossessing,—his manners those of a man who had moved in good society;—and there was, besides, an easiness in his address that dispelled my timidity, and placed us on terms of intimacy at once. That evening, the foundation of an ill-omened attachment was laid. Seymour had established himself in the good opinions of my father and myself; and no one was better able to turn a favourable impression to advantage.

Breakfast had scarcely ended on the morrow, when my uncle dropped in. He was dying to be informed of every particular we had learned concerning the stranger; and, unluckily, our scanty stock of information was anything but satisfactory.

“Why, hang it!” said Josiah Rawlings, “have you given that chap dinner and drink, and made out nothing in return for the outlay, but that he calls himself Seymour, and says that he’s a dragoon? I don’t believe either story.”

“You don’t?”

“Not one syllable,” said the lawyer.

“And why?” returned my father.

“Because,” responded Josiah, “it’s very easy to tell a lie; and sometimes, also, very convenient.”

“Pshaw! nonsense,” said the quarter-master.

“And wherefore,” pursued the lawyer, “do you believe the fellow’s what he says he is?”

“First, because his language and manners are those of a gentleman; and secondly, because he has the air and carriage of a soldier.”

“I could come nearer to the mark,” returned Josiah, with a grin.

“Could you? Well, then, what do you suppose the stranger is?” The lawyer looked suspiciously around him; and then, in a lowered voice, slowly replied, “A highwayman.”

My father burst into a roar of laughter.

“Ay, you may laugh,” observed Josiah, “but I am not far astray, for all that. Bless you! trust nothing to appearances. I have known a footpad pass current for a lord; and, for two reasons, I know I’m right about that chap at the Rose and Crown.”

“And what may these reasons be?” asked the quarter-master.

“First,” replied the lawyer, “he has plenty of money; and second, he has no marks upon his linen. It’s stolen, you may depend upon it, and the initials carefully picked out.”

“And how the devil can you know any thing regarding either the contents of his purse or his baggage?”

“Ha, ha! leave me to scent out things. I made George Gripp bribe the chambermaid. It cost me two pints of ale and a shilling; but she let the eat out of the bag. They’ll try his portmanteau tomorrow morning, when he goes to the Cliffs. George thinks he has a key at home that will fit the lock exactly.”

My father sprang from his chair.

“Josh,” he exclaimed, “I have always despised, but never hated you till now. Is there no blush upon your cheek? Look, man, mine is burning! By Heaven! I’ll mar your villany. The stranger shall know all; and if that caitiff ventures—”

When the lawyer noticed the unusual warmth of my father, he grew pale. “Softly, softly,” he said, “you are so weak, Dick. You overdose one with that silliness which you call honesty. I was but half jesting. Why should I bother myself about the fellow? But—look to that young lady there!” and with a malignant side-glance at my father and myself, he shuffled through the door-way, muttering and cursing, as was his wont.

Whatever the stranger’s secret might have been, it remained at that time undiscovered. In person, he received his letters at the postoffice; and as the patent lock with which his portmanteau was secured resisted all attempts to open it, at the end of a fortnight, the chambermaid might have been a sadder but not a wiser woman.

Another year came round; I ripened into womanhood, and early promises of beauty were confirmed. The stranger appeared again, but his coming now was not so startling in effect as formerly. For six months after his departure, Josiah Rawlings had carefully perused the “Hue and Cry,” but found that no highwayman answered the description. Now, mercifully abandoning his charge of felony, the lawyer opined that the stranger had merely bolted from his creditors. He might have also passed the interval in jail; if so, a change of air would be both useful and agreeable. And thus, Josiah accounted as he thought satisfactorily for Seymour’s re-appearance.

Our intimacy was renewed. The flattering praises bestowed upon me as a girl, were changed into declarations of passionate attachment; and I returned his love.

It was the eventful period of my life—my brother was absent, and the quarter-master occupied generally with friends at home, or in the arrangement of some village differences. Hence the intimacy of Seymour and myself was unrestricted; and in a short time he obtained over my young affections a complete ascendancy. And yet our course of love, even from the beginning, did not run smooth. Our relative positions in society were far removed: I, the daughter of an humble soldier—he, the younger son of a family old* as the Conquest, and high and haughty even beyond what their ancient lineage would warrant. Could it be expected by me that they would approve of their kinsman’s choice, and receive a relative with neither birth nor fortune to recommend her, and whose sole possession was a blameless reputation and an honest name? Seymour himself, undesignedly, betrayed a similar uneasiness, hinting that it might be advisable to break the matter by degrees, and cautiously prepare his family for the disclosure. To effect this important object, a secret marriage would be necessary. His interests must be dear to me as to himself. It was a proof of my confidence in him that circumstances demanded,—and one, if given, that would bind him to me for ever.

“What will not woman when she loves?” Would not a village girl, influenced by a first passion, listen favourably to a suitor’s pleading, and consult the heart rather than the judgment? For me Seymour had forsaken rank and wealth, and perilled the displeasure of his family; and should I not, in return, sacrifice largely where his interests were involved? Love’s sophistry was unanswerable. I gave a timid consent,—we were united in another parish; and so well had arrangements been made to ensure concealment, that, with the exception of one chosen friend, to all besides our marriage remained a secret.

Of this occurrence my father had not the most remote suspicion; and William’s absence from home gave us facilities for frequent meetings that could not otherwise have happened. For a fortnight, Seymour continued a nominal lodger at the Rose and Crown,—but most of his time was passed in my society. At my father’s table he had a constant place, while the honest quarter-master little dreamed that in his high-born guest he might have claimed a son-in-law.

The hour of sorrow was at hand. Letters,—most unwelcome ones,—were received. My husband seemed heavily depressed; and when urged to tell the cause of his uneasiness, mentioned that he had been suddenly recalled to join his regiment, and apprised me that the term of his absence was dependent upon some military movements; and consequently, that his return must be uncertain. This unexpected separation caused me the first real sorrow I had yet endured; and, alas! harbingered too faithfully, the misery and misfortunes which followed in quick succession.

Upon the head of my ill-starred parent, it was fated that the phial of wrath should be poured; and, sadder still, the first blow that smote him, came from the hand of one who would have laid down life to avert an hour of suffering from a father he loved so tenderly.

My brother returned; the quarter-master had shaken him by the hand,—I, pressed him to my heart,—and our cottage once more looked what it had ever been—the abiding place of peace and joy. As evening closed, William strolled to his favourite haunt, the cliffs; my father pulled in his easy chair, lighted his pipe, and settled himself in humble luxury beside a well-trimmed fire.

I retired to my own room. Mine were indeed melancholy musing.

I recalled to memory how brief the period of my wedded happiness had been, and sighed to think that in the story of a human life, bliss and misery should be so intimately blended. But I was young, and “gay hope by fancy fed” whispered that there was happiness in store. I rallied my spirits,—wiped every trace of sorrow from my cheek,—and, in another hour, was seated opposite my dear father, and plying my needle as demurely as if I had never listened to a light dragoon, nor given my hand and heart irrevocably away, and sealed that imprudence by a secret ceremony.

A footstep approached the cottage,—the latch was lifted,—and the slender figure of the lawyer filled the door-way.

“You are not busy, Dick?” croaked my uncle Josiah.

“Only with my pipe,” replied my father.

“Then I’ll sit down a little, and take a drop of your Geneva.”

I rose,—handed my uncle a chair,—Josiah took off’ his hat, and seated himself The lawyer having mixed his grog, I resumed my needle-work. Since Seymour had left, never had my heart felt lighter than it did that evening; but from the moment my dreaded uncle announced himself, a weight seemed pressing on my bosom; for every time he spoke, like a serpent’s breath, Josiah’s words seemed to wither the happiness of all who heard them.

“I wonder,” said he, “where that fellow you were so fond of went to?”

“What fellow?” replied the quarter-master, drily.

“Why, Seymour, as he called himself.”

“I can make you happy on that head. Lieutenant Seymour has gone to ———. Give me another light, Julia. Pipes now-a-days, are not what they used to be.”

“But, where did Seymour go to?”

“Go to?” and the quarter-master gave a puff. “His regiment, I suppose.”

“Whatever news his last letters brought, egad!” said Josiah, “it regularly upset him. Mrs. Manby told me privately, that he turned pale when he read them; and he must have been confoundedly astonished, for he left the change out of half-a-crown upon the counter. I wonder what it will turn out to be? I think it will be debt; but George Gripp sticks to Ills first opinion, and says he’s sure it will prove felony.”

I could not calmly listen while such infamous imputations were thrown out against the man I loved, but rose and left the room, and, retiring to my own apartment, I communed with my own sad thoughts, and asked myself whether Seymour could be aught but what my fancy pictured him. One moment’s reflection established him firmly in my estimation; and every insinuation to his disadvantage faded from my memory.

I opened the easement, and looked pensively on the little flower garden beneath the window. How often had I watched impatiently where I stood now, until the trysting hour arrived, and my husband came stealing through the shrubbery to whisper in my delighted ear assurances of endless love! Suddenly a noise among the bushes startled me; a figure approached and stopped below the window; it was my brother. In a low voiee he told me to be silent, and next moment sprang into the apartment.

I remarked that his manner was hurried, and his faee flushed, as if from some violent exertion.

“What has happened, William? Speak; are you ill? Has there been an accident?”

“I fear, Julia,” he replied, “that I have committed myself by intermeddling in another’s quarrel. But who could look on while three men were assailing one?”

“You alarm me, William; go on.”

“I was rambling homewards from the cliffs; I heard three or four shots in the direction of the landing-place; and suspecting that smugglers were at work, I hastened off in another direction, lest any suspicion might attach itself to me. My anxiety to avoid it, however, brought on an unfortunate collision. I heard a noise approaching loud and angry voices, oaths, and blows, and the clashing of cutlasses succeeded—and hastening on, at a turning of the path I ascertained the cause. The fight was most unequal, for three persons were attacking a solitary man. I joined the weak side, stretched two of our opponents on the ground, the third ran off, and for the first time, I found that the man I rescued was Frank Brown. He wrung my hand; muttered his hurried thanks; and then bounded like a deer across the heath, and vanished in the Miller’s coppice.”

I kissed my brother ardently. “Well, William, English blood is warm—and who eould look on and not assist a brave man when assailed by numbers? Would, however, that it had been some other; Red Frank is such a desperado—a branded man—a felon.”

“Ay, girl, but was he not the first to jump into the life-boat after me, when we saved the drowning Dutchman? I owed him, devil as he is, a good turn for his gallantry. For rescuing him I care nothing; but I fear that blood was spilled already upon the beach. The pistol shots, and the desperate haste with which Red Frank escaped, lead me to dread that some previous violence had occurred. Who is below, Julia?”

“My father, and my unele.”

“Hark! I hear hasty footsteps; slip down, Julia, and probably you may hear if any accident has happened. I would not alarm my father unnecessarily until we know whether the affray was serious.”

I obeyed my brother’s wishes, and returned to the parlour. We heard men without; they seemed excited, spoke fast, and hurried rapidly along the street. Presently a knock was heard; I opened the door,—it was Gripp, my uncle’s clerk. He had come here to seek his master, and one glance at the evil agent of the lawyer, told that he was the bearer of heavy news.

“Well, George,” said Josiah, eagerly, “what’s wrong?” The lawyer never asked, “what’s right?”

“Nothing pertikler,” returned my uncle’s satellite; “only one man is murdered, and half a dozen nearly killed.”

“When—where—how?” asked my uncle.

“Why, down at the Tinker’s Cove; a row between smugglers and revenue men. Red Frank shot Nat Davis through the heart—and he was all but taken, when a comrade floored two officers, and Frank gave leg-bail to the other.”

“Ha! that makes the other fellow an accessory after the fact; he’ll hang, that’s certain. Is he known?”

George Gripp answered with a wink; the wink was an affirmative one. “What’s his name? Will he be able to fee counsel, and employ a solicitor?” inquired the lawyer.

Gripp winked affirmatively.

“His name?”

“One very like your own.” was the reply.

My father started—“Speak, fellow, who was the murderer’s comrade?”

“Your son,” returned the bailiff, coldly.

“My son? William Rawlings? ’tis false, by Heaven!”

“You may depend upon it, Dick,” observed my precious uncle, “that George Gripp is well-informed.”

My father drooped his head—I sprang from my chair and folded him in my arms.

“‘Tis false! my father—believe me, the charge is false.”

“I wish it were,” replied Josiah, in a tone that showed his incredulity.

“Gracious Heaven!” murmured the poor quarter-master; “and is the son I loved so dearly, branded as accomplice to a murderer? Did my William consort with desperate men, and engage in lawless enterprise? I won’t—I can’t believe it.”

“You may depend upon it,” returned the lawyer’s clerk; “I have it from the best authority.”

Mv father turned wildly to my uncle—“Josh! speak, man! have heart, for once, and say if what that scoundrel says may be credited. You shake your head; well, if the misfortune has occurred, what will be its worst consequences? Can you tell? even—”

“Tell?” returned the lawyer; “ay, and with as much certainty, as if the foreman of the jury had delivered a verdict ‘for self and fellows.’”

“Out with the worst, man,” gasped my father.

“They’ll be hanged, that’s safe,” responded the lawyer, with a decision that forbad all argument.

“Hanged! my William hanged! Hanged as a felon, and share an outlaw’s fate, with one familiarized to crime, and grown grey in iniquity—Impossible!”

“I did not say,” said Josiah coolly, “that their sentences would be the same. Ned Frank will probably be gibbeted for example—but Bill may—”

The quarter-master buried his head within his hands, and murmured, “My son! my son!”

“My father!” responded a voice, and my brother clasped the old man in his arms.

A moment passed in silence.

“Is this foul story true, William’ said the quarter-master, and in tones which seemed to dread an answer to the inquiry.

“False as hell!” was boldly responded, and again the son was locked more closely in his father’s arms.

“The tale is short. Accident brought me to the cliffs; I witnessed an unequal conflict—one man was assailed by three—and I joined him.”

“Right—by Heaven!” and for the first time my father lifted his head proudly.

“I took the weaker side, and as it would appear, I undesignedly have rescued a criminal.”

“If you can support that statement by evidence, I’ll undertake,” said the lawyer, “to get you off with transportation.”

“Off with the Devil!” roared my father.

My brother smiled. “Well, uncle, you hold out a pleasant prospect, and after I have travelled at the public expense, I shall feel myself bound in gratitude to come back, improved in morals and manners, and tell you what I have seen; but after all, there will be no necessity to undertake the voyage. When the true history of this unfortunate affray is known, it will not be difficult to prove that I am blameless, and that I was neither engaged in unlawful enterprises, nor knew aught of the fatal consequences that followed. For a time, however, I will leave home, not from any fears upon my own account, but to avoid the painful duty of being called upon to criminate the guilty.”

To all, my brother’s determination seemed right. My kind-hearted parent approved the motives, and gave a ready consent. The lawyer observed, that it would afford ample time, should it be found advisable, to buy off the evidence; while George Gripp proved the value of a friend in need, by volunteering to swear an alibi himself,—an offer which elicited a warm eulogium from his virtuous patron.

In half-an-hour William came to my room to say farewell, he had made up some necessaries in a bundle, which he threw from the window to a friend, who was waiting for him in the garden.

“Julia,” he said, taking me in his arms, and kissing me with ardent affection; “Julia, I must confide to you what would pain our dear father, were it told to him—mine will not be a temporary absence. No tears, Julia; be firm, and listen to a brother who loves you tenderly as I do. The hand of destiny beckons me on; for months I have been wretched; while every post bears tidings of some glorious deed, I, in the pride of youth, am dreaming life away; my days passed idling on the beach, or listening at some cottage fire-side to the gossip of the humble villagers. This evening as I stood upon the cliffs, I saw a noble frigate close in shore, with her head turned to the coast of France. The wind fell, not a breath ruffled her canvas, and as she lay motionless on the sea, I could almost look down upon her decks. Presently a boat was lowered, and it pulled directly for the cove a league eastward from our landing-place, to obtain fresh water at the spring. Before that boat returns, I shall have time to board the frigate. Hold, Julia; nothing can shake that resolution, and, therefore, listen to me attentively. When I am gone, you must be to our father all—for then you will be his only stay, his only comfort. You must watch his declining years, cheer him when he droops, smile with him when he’s happy in illness, your task will be to smooth his pillow; in death, your hand must close his eyes. Come, Julia, no weeping. If it be fated that I fall, except you and the old man, few will weep for me. If I return, it will be ‘with war’s red honours on my crest,’ to gladden my father’s age, and find some one to whom I can safely entrust thy happiness, dear Julia—one, who can estimate the value of a woman, whose thoughts are pure and cloudless as the light of yonder blessed moon.”

My conscience smote me bitterly as William again pressed me to his breast; I felt the burning blush of shame steal over my pale cheeks, as my heart whispered how much I had deceived that brother, who believed me incapable of artifice or concealment; and though the confession of my offence must be humiliating, I determined that it should be made. From him I might not only ask for pardon, but advice; and the words were almost upon my lips, when suddenly a voice from below was heard in under tones.

“William!” said the stranger, “the signal’s given. See, that rocket bursting in the air! the boat’s returning to the frigate.”

“Then, there’s not a moment to be lost.”

“Stop! my brother,” I exclaimed; “stop, for pity’s sake. Oh! I have much, very much to tell you.”

He caught me warmly to his bosom; kissed me again and again; whispered in my ear: “Look to our father, Julia—and wed not till I return, or till you hear I am no more.” lie said, sprang lightly from the window, bounded across the garden hedge, and in another minute, the sounds of receding footsteps died away, and all was night and silence.

From the hour when William departed, sorrow and misfortune seemed to choose our cottage for an abiding place. Letters through a private hand came from Seymour; but, alas! they brought no consolation with them. The affected indifference of the style, and the inconsistency of the statements, gave sad evidence that the writer was diseased in mind, or body, or in both. The fatal affray which had unluckily compromised my brother’s character for a time, and occasioned the necessity for his concealment, was supposed to be sufficient cause for my being desponding and depressed; and my poor father, ignorant of impending misery, and unconscious of the trials that awaited him, vainly endeavoured to dispel my melancholy, and remove all fears upon account of William. As he had foretold himself, his innocence was completely established; and those who were bitterly exasperated against the real offenders, bore honourable testimony to the motives that had induced my brother to commit himself; and while they regretted that through his intervention a criminal had escaped, they admitted that his conduct had been that of a man, who, under mistaken views, performs a brave and generous action. No offence was imputed to him now, and wherefore should he stay away longer? But, I knew too well that many a long month must elapse before the wanderer would return.

It was a part of my evening’s occupation to read the newspaper to my father; and a fortnight after William’s departure, I was engaged in my customary duty. An event had occurred in London to which public attention seemed to have been painfully directed, and the paper contained a long statement, headed, “Farther particulars of the forgeries and suicide committed by Captain Smith.” The details thus given, stated that the unfortunate individual was the illegitimate offspring of a noble lord, whose name was mentioned. That early in life he had obtained a commission in the army,—had moved in the best circles,—indulged in fashionable follies,—and dissipated large sums of money, with which, from time to time, his father had supplied him. The earl died suddenly, leaving his natural son totally unprovided for; and he was thus thrown upon the world, with incurable habits of expense, and not a guinea to support them. His fall was consequently rapid. He sold his commission, spent its small produce in a short time, dropped step by step from the high position he once held,—and in fast succession became a gambler, a cheat, a forger, and a suicide! His delinquencies were detected. The officers of justice were already at the door of a mean lodging in which he had concealed himself, when the criminal contrived to get out of a back window and effect a temporary escape. But it was only to add crime to crime. His clothes, next morning, were found upon the bank of the river near Wandsworth, and beside them lay an empty phial, which it was ascertained had contained a deadly poison; and it was conjectured that the unfortunate suicide had swallowed the contents before he took the fatal plunge. It was, indeed, a melancholy story of profligate life; for, it was added, that an imposing person and fascinating address had been turned to a bad account; and that many a family had reason to curse the day on which the accomplished roué, had been introduced to their acquaintance.

I could not tell wherefore, but as I read this miserable narrative, my blood chilled, my lips grew white, and I could scarcely reach its close. And yet, why should it affect me? Was it not an every-day event? the regular advance of crime—beginning with improvidence, and ending in ignominy and death. But still the story of the suicide seemed to haunt my memory; and sleeping or waking, the unknown criminal constantly was present.

It was the third evening after. My father had accepted a neighbour’s invitation; and I, preferring solitude to a scene of rustic festivity, for which a heavy heart was badly suited, was left alone at home. As usual, I was sitting in the window of my own chamber,—that window from which I had watched a lover’s coming, and witnessed a brother’s departure; and lost in painful reveries, allowed hours to slip unnoticed. The moon had gone down; the night was unusually dark; and the stillness was unbroken. I heard the dry leaves rustle; was it the wind that moved them? I looked suspiciously abroad; a human figure was standing underneath, and a voice so hoarse and hollow that I could not recognise its tones, softly pronounced my name. I flung the casement open, and demanded, “who was there?”

“I, Julia; your lover, your husband,” and Seymour in another minute held me nearly fainting in his arms.

“And was my voice forgotten, Julia?” he murmured, half reproachfully. “Well, I cannot wonder at it, for I have been ill, and am hoarse as a raven. How cold the night is!”

“Cold! Why, Edward, your hand is burning. Stay, I will bring lights, and get you some refreshment.”

“No, no,” he answered, hastily; “no lights, love; some curious eye might observe them. But I am thirsty; I could drink, drink deeply. Bring me some wine, Julia; no supper, love—I cannot eat, I am weary, very weary.”

And was this Seymour? that hollow voice the same, to whose soft pleadings I had yielded a young heart, and renounced the sacred allegiance which a father claims and merits? That fevered hand, too,—was it the ardent glow which warms the husband when he hastens to the home of her he loves? Why this strange fancy for darkness and concealment? The coming and the conduct of Seymour were equally mysterious, and I dreaded to ask my husband the cause of this ominous and unexpected return.

But I was not left long in suspense,—Seymour half drained the flask;—and habits so temperate before, appeared to have undergone a rapid change; for he drank like a man whose shattered nerves require some powerful stimulus.

“Julia,” he said, “you did not expect this visit?”

“Indeed, I did not.”

“Nor when I left you did I anticipate that my return would be so sudden. Circumstances, which for a time must remain unexplained, have rendered it imperative that I should claim you, and our marriage no longer shall be secret.”

“Heaven be praised!” I murmured.

“To-night, Julia, you shall go with me.”

“To-night! impossible! My father’s proud, he never would consent that his daughter should steal from her home.”

“Your father? He shall know nothing of it. No, Julia, we must leave the cottage privately; and, for a brief season, duty to the parent must give place to the stronger claims of wedded love.”

“Am I dreaming? Seymour,—what would you have me do? Desert my father heartlessly, and leave the good old man without humbling myself at his feet, and begging the pardon I require,—the forgiveness he would grant? Fly from this once happy home!—‘Twould break my father’s heart.—I’ll never do it.”

“Then, Julia, we part for ever.”

“Part for ever! Seymour. Do I hear aright? Is this, indeed, your voice? and do you tell her who proved her love at the expense of filial duty, that she must either fly from her home like a guilty woman, or be deserted by the man who led her into error?”

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.