There was nothing in this letter, one might have thought, to make the young man particularly sorrowful; and yet he was very pensive and melancholy, as he folded it again. He leaned over the mossgrown parapet, and looked sadly down upon the chafing stream, and then up again upon the broad sailing disc of the summer moon.
“And so, and so, all is ended,” he said, in regretful meditation; “all her innocent, pretty ways — her simple kindness — the chance meetings that gave such a charm to every day — all gone and over for me. Am I never to see her again — tier light step, her beautiful smile — shall I hear her voice no more, the sweetest, the softest?”
He paused abruptly, and a pang of grief and loneliness more bitter than he had felt for many a year, wrung his heart; and if the truth must e’en be told, it needed the whole force of all his stoicism to restrain the tears from starting. With a bitter effort, however, he mastered the weakness which threatened to unman him.
“I little dreamed,” he said, “the thought of leaving her would cost me grief like this. She little thinks it either — she, who never cast away a thought on me, save in simple kindness — she will forget me, as lightly as she would the chance traveller, whom her bounty had relieved; and I — I must forget her too — I will forget her — if I may — And yet,” he resumed bitterly, after a pause— “it is, perchance, better thus — better to part thus early, and while it is yet possible, than to wait on, and break my heart. Only to think on it — sure never did dream steal away the senses like this — never did dream work such sweet and sorrowful magic. From the moment when I saw her first, in that old orchard, which Hove, and always will for her sake — when I saw her standing there, in her simple, sad, exquisite beauty, a spell was on me, which I had — which I have — no power to break — a spell which will enchain me, heart and soul, for ever. And then to think — oh, God! is it not bitter — that I, loving her thus — ay, loving, loving her to madness — that I can never tell her this — that she can never know it. Pride, pride, pride — accursed pride,” he said, with the vehemence of anguish, as with a slight but expressive gesture, he struck the folded letter, which he still held in his hand, upon the battlement of the bridge— “pride, parental pride, commands me to be silent — forbids me to woo to an honourable alliance, this most noble and beautiful creature — this being whom I love so fondly, so unutterably, because, alas! she is humble in fortune and in birth. And therefore must I, with all my store of love and adoration untold, part from her silently — never, most like, in all the wayward paths of life to meet her more.
But then,” he resumed, “she cares not for me — that is, beyond mere simple kindness — she knows nought of the love I bear her. I, myself scarce knew it until now. To her this parting will be but so many last words, and one last look — to me, a struggle that wrings the very heart. But that avails not: were I to plead and pray, with all the fond love of my heart, ’tis more than likely she would refuse to hear me. I cannot now bethink me I ever marked that, in her words or looks, which could show me that she liked me; wherefore, then, say more? Better to part thus, and at once, than strive to involve her in the fate of one whom misfortune would thenceforward mark for its own — dependant upon the pleasure of an ambitious and imperious father. Ay, ay, ’tis better as it is: pride, you have triumphed,” and as he spoke, he crushed the letter in his clenched hand. “Yes,” he pursued; “it will need much stoicism — a sore effort; but I shall not be wanting to myself — I shall leave this place tomorrow — I shall leave it early, and without seeing her — I shall avoid the possibility of seeing her — I am resolved there shall be no leavetaking.”
He had hardly uttered this doughty resolution, when he heard a light footfall approaching the bridge. The little sound smote heavy on his heart — a thousand thousand remembrances and feelings rose at its tiny summons — and in an instant all his resolves were obliterated and gone. There she came, indeed, alone — descending the steep road at the far bridge foot, her light cloak drawn about her, and her little shoebuckles glittering at every step in the moonlight. So, after all, they were to meet before he left the old castle — and under the screen of the wild thorn, whose roots were knotted in the buttress of the bridge, and beneath the soft and melancholy radiance of the moon, Percy Neville and the simple country beauty stood together, in another minute, upon the lonely road.
“Whither are you going, my pretty Phebe?” asked Percy Neville, with a melancholy smile.
“I am going down to Nurse Eileen’s, sir,” she answered, gently.
“Nurse Eileen — the good old woman who nursed you, my pretty Phebe,” he continued in the same tone; “I feel fond of the old nurse, myself — though, in truth, I could scarce tell why, unless it be, mayhap, because she loves you so well.”
The girl looked with sweet embarrassment in his face — and then turned her glance downward upon the chafing river.
“And where does nurse Eileen live?” asked he, willing to prolong this chance interview.
“In the old Abbey Mill, sir,” answered she, again raising her soft, dark, melancholy eyes, “on the border of the wood, by the river bank; it was the knight — Sir Hugh — that made it up for her — God bless him — and put her there.”
“I know it — a pretty, small, thatched house, by the river side, among the oaks. She is very happy there, I dare say,” he pursued,’ with a sigh. “You and she are very happy together.”
She looked up into his face with one of her own sad, beautiful smiles, but marking the singularly melancholy expression which reigned there,’ the smile with all the eloquence of its modest dimples, gave place to a look of sorrow, and almost of pain — and turning her eyes pensively away, she plucked from among the moss which covered the old battlement, one of the little blue weeds that nodded there; it chanced to be that wild flower to which poets and lovers have given the name of “forget-me-not.”
“Give me that little flower,” he said, very sorrowfully and tenderly, after he had watched her small fingers playing with its slender stem, for some minutes. “They call it a ‘forget-me-not,’ and if you give it, ‘twill, indeed, prove one to me; give it to me — pretty Phebe — and it will remind me of this spot, and this hour — when I am far away — and, perchance, when years are past and gone.”
With a mournful smile of perfect innocence and modesty, she held the little flower toward him. He took it, and he took her hand.
“We have been very good friends — have we not? — since I came here, my pretty Phebe,” he continued in the same mournful tone— “we have been good friends all that time, and so you must not take away your hand from me, for a few short minutes now; for this is, perchance, the last time in my life I shall ever see and speak with you, my kind little friend — my pretty Phebe.”
In the moonlight, he thought, he saw her colour change as he said this. She did not speak, however, but lowered her head a little, as if to adjust her cloak, and he plainly felt the little hand he held tremble in his own.
“Does she love me — does she really love me?” thought he, as he gazed passionately upon the beautiful girl.
“Phebe,” he continued, after more than a minute had passed in silence, “my pretty Phebe, when I am gone away, as I shall be tomorrow — will you sometimes think of me — will you remember poor Percy Neville.”
She strove to smile, she tried to speak, but she could not; it was all in vain; the fountains of her full heart were unlocked — the unavailing struggle was over — and she wept in all the abandonment of desolate and bitter grief.
In an instant every colder thought and remembrance vanished from his mind. Warm, generous, fervent, as ever flowed from a lover’s -full heart, the words of passion, devotion, adoration, pledged him for ever to the weeping girl. What recked he of consequences; what cared he for the difficulties of the distant future. She loved him — loved him truly; he would not — he could not give her up.
What boots it to follow this scene of passionate romance through all its length. They part
ed, then, beneath that wild-thorn tree, pledged and promised one to the other, through every chance and change of life.
CHAPTER XXXVII,
THE PARCHMENT.
WEARY after a day of tedious travel, O’Gara entered the old castleyard, as we have described, and fully impressed with the importance of h s mission, hastened, spite of his fatigue, to acquit himself of his momentous undertaking. In compliance with Sir Hugh’s minute directions, he selected, as his bed chamber, the old knight’s apartment, which, as we have mentioned in an early chapter of this book, was situated in one of the projecting towers, overhanging the river; he at his leisure rummaged the dusty papers and parchments which filled the old press in the antechamber — and, at length, to his infinite satisfaction, discovered the identical deed of settlement — the precious document of which he was in search.
It is necessary to be somewhat particular in detailing his proceedings, inasmuch as he was that night destined to experience an adventure, whose consequences exerted an important influence upon the subsequent events of our history.
Having ascertained by an accurate scrutiny, the identity of the deed he had selected, as the actual document of which he was in search — he sate down before a roaring fire of turf and bogwood, in what we have called the antechamber or dressing room, through which his bedchamber was reached, and then enjoyed at his leisure, such substantial refection as his jaded condition demanded. His supper ended, fatigue began to weigh his eyelids down, and leaving the door of communication open, lie placed his loaded pistols upon the table where he had supped, and for greater security, brought the parchment itself with him into his bedchamber, and laid it safely under his pillow, upon which his own weary head was soon pressed in dreamless slumber.
He might have slept for some hours, when he became conscious, though without thoroughly awaking, that some one was cautiously moving about his bedroom, with a candle, and stealthily moving the furniture and searching among his clothes; but the sense of fatigue was so overpowering, that, although he actually opened his eyes, and saw the light shifting, and the distended shadow of a human form gliding upon the wall, he had no distinct consciousness of anything sufficiently extraordinary in the circumstance, to warrant his interfering — and wanted energy to arouse himself so far as to call out and speak to the intruder. Thus it was that once or twice he was thus partially awakened, and again relapsed into the overpowering forgetfulness of sleep; before, upon one of those occasions of temporary consciousness, he distinctly saw the face of an ugly, sinister-looking man, glide close by the curtains of his bed; the face seemed travelsoiled, anxious, and villainous, and was stooped down, under the light of the candle, as if peering in cautious search after something; there was that in the features, momentary as was the glimpse which he had obtained of them, which suggested to his mind some association of remembered outrage and danger, with such sudden and painful power, that in an instant he felt himself thoroughly aroused.
“Who’s there?” cried the young priest, in a tone of sudden alarm.
There was no reply whatever, but instantaneously the candle was extinguished. O’Gara, however, thought he could distinctly hear the sound of a cautious retreat in the outer room; and without an instant’s hesitation, except so much as was necessary to feel the parchment under the pillow, he sprang from his bed, and followed the sounds. As he entered at the door communicating with his bed room, he saw, indeed, clearly enough a retreating form skulking in a stooping posture from the outer room.
He stretched his hand instantly to the table for his pistols, but the fire light showed him that they were gone; his visiter had taken the precaution to remove them — a sufficiently unequivocal evidence of a sinister purpose. Glad that the intruder had, at all events, relieved the apartment of his presence, O’Gara followed to the outer door, looked forth upon the passage, and hearing nothing, contented himself with shutting the door, and turning the key in the lock upon the inside.
For some time after his return to bed, he was kept awake by uneasy conjectures and speculations as to the purpose of the visit which had thus disturbed him; and no less so by the fruitless endeavour to recall the time or the season or any of the attendant circumstances in which the countenance, somewhere and somehow unquestionably seen before, had first been presented to him. But gradually the soothing rush of the waters, seconded by the fatigues of his journey, prevailed over every more exciting influence, and he once again sank into profound repose.
Perhaps it was that the agitating occurrence which we have just described made O’Gara’s after-slumbers lighter and more easily disturbed; but certain it is that he was wakened on a sudden by a slight rustling at the side of the bed, and distinctly heard a soft step crossing the floor of his chamber, toward the outer room, and at the same moment a very low knocking, like a tapping with the nails, at the outside door. His first instinct, as before, was to thrust his hand beneath his pillow. Good God! the parchment was gone! In an instant he was upon the floor; and just as he entered the antechamber, he saw, in the imperfect fire light, the squat, sinister figure which had appeared by his bedside, and so unpleasantly occupied his drowsy fancy, reach the chamber door, and turning the key hurriedly in the lock, exclaim, in a harsh screech —
“Found, by — . I have it — I have it.”
Straight at this hideous thief the young priest darted, heedless of all consequences. The villain did not wait to open the door, and make his escape upon the passage; but leaving it vacant for the entrance of his accomplice, he ran round the room, screaming “help!” and pursued by O’Gara in his shirt. A tall, powerful form, however, now bolted into the room, and joining in the scramble, clutched the unarmed priest around the waist in his iron gripe, so tight that he scarce had room to breathe; and exclaimed in a piercing whisper —
“Now, now, Garvey — now, you idiot; now, into the fire with it. Well done; grind your heel on it; roll the red fire over it. Well done, boy. Never fear, I have him fast.”
As he thus reiterated his directions, the half suffocated and helpless priest, to his unutterable agony, beheld the ugly familiar execute his orders to the letter. The parchment shriveled, smoked, and smouldered; and at last he saw Garvey’s foot grind its very ashes into powder.
“There now,” growled Garrett, relieving the struggling priest with a rude shove, “our business here is done; so if you’ll take a fool’s counsel, you’ll just get back again into your bed, which, by the way you’d have done wisely not to have left at all.”
“You have done a foul wrong, Mr. Garrett,” said the priest, indignantly. “That caitiff there has stolen the paper from under my head, as I slept, and by your direction destroyed it. The mischief is, I fear, irreparable; but it must be answered for.”
“Get to your bed, I tell you,” retorted Garrett, menacingly: “you are too fond, by half, of meddling in other men’s intrigues; beware, or you’ll burn your fingers at last. You have come in my way once or twice already — be prudent, and seek not to thwart me again.”
“I seek to thwart no man in the pursuit of his lawful business or pleasure,” replied O’Gara; “but I will not submit to be robbed, and to see the property entrusted to my care, destroyed, without remonstrance and complaint, where both will be attended to.”
“What I have done, I have warrant for,” retorted Garrett, doggedly; “I am armed with authority to search here for papers — to seize such as I please, and deal with them at my discretion; and thus much I will tell you, my worthy sir, there is enough in my possession to mark you for suspicion; do you hear, to involve you in correspondence with convicted traitors — so if you be wise, you will stir as little as need be at present. Above all, forbear offending those, who, if provoked, may prove themselves possessed alike, of the will and the power to punish you.”
Having thus spoken, with a threatening shake of the head, Garrett strode from the room, without waiting for an answer, and pushing Garvey before bim, swung the door fast, and left O’Gara confounded and dismayed at the disas
trous issue of his mission.
“I have nothing for it,” said he, after some minute’s reflection, “but to return to Dublin, if I can obtain permission to do so; and, at least, to secure my own honour against the imputation of a share in this most infamous proceeding — as well as to clear my conscience by the fullest information I can give, of the reproach of having screened the villains by my silence. I greatly fear the loss is an irreparable — a ruinous one.”
Without attempting to return to his bed, he hurried through the offices of his simple toilet, with all convenient dispatch — and seating himself by the fire, awaited in solitary and anxious ruminations, the arrival of the morning.
How different were the feelings with which Miles Garrett paced the floor of his chamber. It was nigh twenty years since he had last passed a night in Glindarragh Castle. Sir Hugh was then a prosperous gentleman, and greeted him with all the hospitality of kindred and affection. A beautiful young bride was by his side, in all the pride of her early loveliness — glad and happy as the song of the merry lark in a summer’s morning — proud and generous as she was beautiful — but alas! too light, too vain, too fond of admiration — too open to flattery, for safety against the arts of villains; and now, how was all this wrecked and blasted — how hideous and desolate the contrast!
As Miles Garrett, in the irrepressible excitement of his recent triumph, strode slowly through the long wainscoated apartment, of which he was the solitary tenant, spite of all the exultation of his success, he Mt occasionally a sudden misgiving — a pang of something like fear, if not remorse — as the remembrance of all he had inflicted — the portentous desolation which he alone had wrought, came darkly to his mind. He started, with an effort, from this haunting thought, as a feverish sleeper would from a recurring nightmare — and busied his mind with projects of further aggrandisement, and schemes of future vengeance.
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 82