At such an hour, and under such circumstances, of course he dared not ask to see her; and once more he was about to put his horse in motion, and pursue his melancholy night ride, when a light gleamed from an open lattice, and a small hand was extended to close it. When did a lover’s eye deceive him? At the first glimpse of the form thus casually revealed, his heart swelled in his bosom — and with graceful gallantry, he raised his plumed hat. The gesture caught her eye, for she looked down upon him — then hastily withdrew, and then as hastily returned. Pressing his hand to his heart, as he looked upward at the loved form but dimly visible, he said, in the low, thrilling tones of deepest passion, only the words— “till death — till death.” She waved her hand — lingered for one moment, and in the next was gone.
For a minute and more he continued to gaze, locked in fond fascination, upon the now darkened casement, where lie had seen, but for a moment, the loved form and face which haunted his imagination every hour, in day-thoughts and in dreams; then sighing, he drew his hat upon his brows with something of a scornful mien.
“Till death,” he said, “ay, till death; and unless this hand hath lost its cunning,” and he raised his gauntlet-gloved right hand, “and unless thou, my brave Roland, hast lost thy fire and mettle, death may still be many a year removed; and if it be — in spite of fate, she shall at last be mine — on — on — let us on — danger hath been our comrade through many a rough year — and if, through those that are to come, thou bearest thy master well and safely as before, then what power on earth can keep her from me — away, away, my brave Roland.”
As though he understood his master’s words, the noble steed pricked his ears, and snorting, broke into a plunging canter; nor was the reverie n which the young soldier was lost for one moment interrupted until it was dispelled by the challenge of the sentinel at St. James’s gate.
CHAPTER XLI.
THE FAREWELL.
A FEW nights later Sir Hugh Willoughby, now once more a free man, was pacing with agitated steps the floor of his apartment, adjoining the Carbrie. His cloak and hat lay ready, upon a chair, to be donned at a moment’s notice. His face was pale, and wore a character of mingled anxiety and grief, as in manifest impatience he glanced from time to time at his watch, and listened for the sound of footfalls or of voices at the door. He had communicated the nature of his engagement, whatever it might be, to no one; simply stating that business would call him forth upon that evening, and directing that so soon as a gentleman at the street door should inquire for him, he should be at once apprised of his arrival.
The night was unusually dark; and as it wore on, Sir Hugh’s uneasiness visibly increased. Dark as it was, he frequently looked from the windows, in the vain endeavour to penetrate its gloom, and would then in silence resume his restless walk, with, if possible, increased agitation and dejection. In all this there was a mystery, which, however much it might pique her curiosity, or however nearly it might interest even higher feelings, his fair daughter attempted not to penetrate. She saw that the old knight was resolved that the purpose of his melancholy and agitating expedition should remain unknown; and she sought not to trouble him with inquiries which might possibly offend.
At length a smart knocking at the chamber door announced that a gentleman awaited Sir High at the entrance. In silent haste the old knight did on his cloak and hat; took his daughter tenderly by the hand, and kissed her; then, having gazed in her face for some moments with a look of melancholy irresolution, as though he were uncertain whether or not to speak some matter that weighed heavily upon his mind, he turned abruptly from her with a sigh, and hurried from the chamber, leaving her, if possible, more than ever anxious and perplexed. We must follow the knight down the staircase of the old house, which he traversed with the heavy tread of age, and forth into the dark and now comparatively deserted streets. A single form, wrapped like his own in a mantle, awaited his approach, close to the entrance of the house.
“Sir Hugh Willoughby?” said the stranger, inquiringly.
“Ay, sir; the same,” answered the knight dejectedly. “I thank you for keeping tryste with me. Shall we now proceed?”
“If you desire it. We can easily have a coach,” said the stranger. “I fear you will find the way somewhat longer than you reckon upon.”
“No, no,” answered the old man, hastily. “I would be entirely private; none but thou and I shall know of this visit. God grant me courage for the mournful — the terrible interview. Let us on — let us on, my good friend; I pray, thee, let us on.”
“Then lean, at least, upon my arm,” responded his companion.
The old knight accepted the proffered courtesy, and thus in silence they began to thread the dark and sinuous ways, which, diverging from the high street, in a southerly direction, soon lost themselves in a confused labyrinth of narrow and complicated lanes, among which Sir Hugh followed the guidance of his companion.
Pursuing their way thus steadily and in silence, the two pedestrians at length arrived at a deserted and desolate-looking place, where the street which they followed became gradually thinly-built and broken, and at last terminated in a lonely area, in whose foreground were visible only some partially constructed or half-ruinous fragments of houses, while behind them loomed, in a heavy mass, against the gloomy, starless sky, the peaked gables and ponderous chimneys of a massive old mansion, with a few scattered and tufted trees dimly grouped around it.
We have already introduced the reader to this desolate-looking tenement — the same in which, we have seen, in an earlier chapter of this tale, Miles Garrett and O’Gara confronted, in resolute and fiery debate, about the poor heartbroken lady, who had found, in her misery, but one human friend.
“We must be near it now,” said Sir Hugh, in an agitated whisper; for the clang of arms, and the challenging of the guard at some little distance, borne to his ears upon the night breeze, assured him that they had well nigh reached the extreme verge of the city.
“Yonder is the house,” answered O’Gara, for he was the knight’s conductor; “yonder is the house; and I should have called earlier to guide you hither, had it not been that she — the poor lady — was asleep, and the honest woman who attends her prayed me to await her waking, which I did. Here, then, ends our walk.”
They now stood beneath the dark walls of the sombre mansion; and the priest, applying a latchkey, effected their entrance, without any other sound than that of gently opening and closing again the massive portal; and thus they found themselves cautiously mounting the broad staircase, in unbroken silence. A dim light, burning upon the lobby, showed them the door of a chamber, into which the priest, with a sorrowful countenance, slowly entered; and the old man, with head inclined and broken steps, followed like one in a dream.
From an inner door, at the farther end of the apartment, a decent looking female looked in upon them, and, beckoning her to him, O’Gara asked —
“Does she wake or sleep now?”
“She’s awake ever since you left,” answered the attendant, in a whisper; and, with a shake of the head, she added— “and her next sleep, I’m afeard, will be a long one. Poor thing! — it’s nearly over with her now!”
“Go down stairs, my good woman, and wait there until I call you,” said the priest, gently, “for she must now consult the peace of her troubled mind, and we need to be undisturbed.”
Without speaking, the woman promptly and reverently obeyed. The chamber door was closed, and O’Gara, returning from the sick-room, whither he had gone alone for a moment, said: —
“Come, Sir Hugh, she expects you.”
The old knight followed him almost mechanically into the chamber of death.
There lay, upon the bed which he approached, the wreck of that beauty of which he bad once been to proud — all that now remained of the young and happy bride he had loved so fondly. At sight of him — remembered, oh, how well, through all the blighting changes of griefs and years! — the wasted form started up in the bed, and, with one p
iercing scream, clasped her poor thin hands across her eyes.
“Oh, let me kneel — let me kneel — help me to kneel!” she cried, struggling ineffectually to rise from the bed, and, stretching her wasted arms imploringly towards him— “Oh, Hugh! Hugh!” she cried again, clasping her hands over her face, and sinking forward in the bed, with the weakness of coming death — she presented such a type of heartbroken agony and humility as must have touched a Stoic.
The old man wept bitterly; and for a long time, through his sobs, could only repeat —
“Poor Marian! poor Marian After a long silence, the poor creature struggled again to speak —
“Oh, Hugh, I dare not ask you to forgive me now; but after I am gone, Hugh, will you forgive me then? Will you wipe away the remembrance of all the misery and sorrows, and think of the times — the old times — when you saw me first, Hugh — the happy times, that you can remember without remorse?”
The old man wept so bitterly that he could not answer “All I dare to ask, Hugh, is that, when I am dead and gone, you will sometimes try and think of those days, and remember me as if I died then — died in those happy times!”
Crying as if his heart would break, the old man could not answer, but took the cold, emaciated hand of her whom he had once loved so well, and pressed it, and wrung it in his own, while he sobbed and wept on still in silence.
Oh! who could describe, what words can tell, the wild scream of fearful joy and wonder that broke from her at that touch?
“My hand! my hand! Oh, God Almighty! — he holds my hand again! I am forgiven! I am forgiven!”
And as she spoke, the fountain of her tears was opened, and with a long, deep shiver, she lay weeping and sobbing, as though her poor heart would burst.
“Poor, poor Marian,” said the old man, still crying and wringing her hand as he spoke, “you are forgiven — you are indeed forgiven. Oh, Marian, Marian, I never thought to have seen you thus.” And they both wept on for a time in silence.
“And the child, Hugh?” she said at last, in a tone which, though almost a whisper, yet cut him to the heart.
“Is well and very beautiful; like, very like what you were Marian,” he answered, while his tears flowed on; but perceiving that the grasp with which she had tremblingly clung to his was fast growing cold and feeble, he added, pressing her hand as he had once pressed that selfsame hand in scenes and times how different —
“Marian, Marian, my poor Marian, would it comfort you to see her?”
“Oh no,” she answered, desolately, but very gently, “no, no, I am unworthy; I could not — no, no. But,” she continued, after a while, with a most mournful humility, “I have one last request — my jewels — they are under the pillow — take them, Hugh, and give them to her, and when you see them on her you will may be — may be, sometimes think of me — and of my penitence, and the mercy you showed me; and then, too, may be you will look back, in memory, to the better times, when poor, lost Marian wore them herself — won’t you come again tomorrow, Hugh; for I am too weak to tell you all tonight — you’ll come again and see me in the morning, won’t you, and though my heart is broken — broken, Hugh, I’ll cry with very joy to see you when you come. You’re not going yet. Press my hand again — hold me, Hugh; oh, let me feel your hand. Forgiven, thank God — all forgiven, all forgiven.”
Murmuring these words, she sank gently, gently into sleep — it was the last long sleep; his hand still locked in hers, and the tears still wet upon her long, dark lashes. Yes, poor Marian! — the troubled spirit and weary head at last sleep sound and sweetly. There is no more sorrow and contempt for thee. Poor fallen lady! the pangs of grief, the dreams of old times, will flutter thy poor heart no more. No sting of contumely will ever tinge that pale cheek — no old remembrance, stealing like soft music o’er thee, will ever wet thy lids with tears again. The last thou wilt ever shed lie glittering there serenely. Yes, hold that thin hand still, Sir Hugh, and look in that pale face; though it knows thee not — though it will never smile even on thee again — what sight and touch will ever stir thy heart like these! Could tongues of angels plead with thy proud heart with half the eloquence of that cold, fixed face? — could a giant’s grasp shake thee like the chill touch of that little hand?
Hour after hour, in the silent chamber of death, by the side of that last sad relic of her whom he had once loved so proudly and so fondly, sat old Sir Hugh, heedless of all, save the yearnings and the grief that swelled at this roubled heart, and the remembrances that gathered round him like a dream, as he gazed on the still and mournful features of the dead.
The same morning sun that shone upon Sir Hugh, and marked with its rosy greeting the pale couch of death, streamed upon a very different scene by the old bridge of Glindarragh.
It was the first parting of a young and beautiful girl from her husband; and that husband — whom, gentle reader, will you guess him to have been? Who but Percy Neville. Yes, Percy Neville — at last constrained to bid, let us hope but a brief, farewell to his lovely young bride, sweet Phebe. How often has he stood, with his foot in the stirrup, and how often has he disappointed his impatient steed, to return, and snatch one last word, one last kiss more — to breathe another assurance, fervent and tender, of speedy return and unchanging love — while, one hand round her waist, the other locked in hers, he looks passionately into the dark, tearful eyes, and pale lovely face, of the simple rustic beauty he has wooed and won. How many a fond prayer and loving word her soft voice murmurs, as her little head lies so trustingly buried in his breast. At length, however, the last of all — his last words are spoken indeed. Away he clatters, still turning as he goes, and waving his hand, in token of adieu, to the weeping girl, whose fond looks follow, until at last the distance hides him; and he is gone — quite gone.
CHAPTER XLII.
LOVE AND GLORY.
FAST as old Time sweeps in his swarth, fresh weeds and flowers spring up beneath his scythe. — Old actors pass away and are forgotten, and new ones take their places. Thus, as the current of our tale flows on, we lose sight, and mayhap for ever, of many a familiar personage and place, while strange faces and new objects rise around us, as we drift onward toward the close. A year has passed — the sunshine, and the rains, and winds of a long year have fallen upon the grave of Lady Willoughby. Sir Hugh — landless now and homeless — still, with his fair child, dwells in the same lodging where we saw him last. To attempt to leave the city were, under existing circumstances, a dangerous, if not an impracticable enterprise. Stern proclamations, dictated by the dread urgency of the impending crisis, and enforced by the prompt and atrocious sanctions of military law, restricted all suspected persons to the immediate neighbourhood of their dwellings, and in the majority of cases had even placed them under the rigours of actual imprisonment.
It were difficult indeed, to convey an adequate idea of the intense and agitating excitement which pervaded those of every class, who, either from necessity or choice, were still resident in Ireland, during this season of doubt and danger, when the crisis of that awful martial struggle whose issue was to determine the hopes and fears of all, was obviously at hand. The imminent proximity of a catastrophe so momentous and uncertain stimulated and darkened every alternating passion — the hatred, the ambition, the suspicions, the hopes, and the alarms of all. As the struggle became more distinctly a military one, the savage spirit of martial despotism more and more unequivocally characterised and governed the whole policy of the Jacobite executive. The extremest severities were practised, as we have said, against the defenceless Protestants, whose creed was assumed to be a sufficient evidence of their Whig predilections; and these severities were aggravated a thousandfold by the licentious violence of the half-disciplined troops to whom their administration was committed.
It was the eve of the first of July, 1690, that memorable day on which was fought the battle of the Boyne. The old city of Dublin was now comparatively deserted. Scarce a red coat was to be seen in its gloomy and sh
attered streets; a handful of militia kept guard at the Castle, which had sent forth its king, with all his goodly company of generals and courtiers, either to take an active part in the long-deferred struggle, or to witness its issue as spectators. The stillness and languor of the town, contrasted with the recent hubbub and bustle attending the transit of thousands of stern and reckless soldiery, upon their march to the scene of danger, had in it something at once depressing and indefinably exciting. Upon the fortunes of the coming battle each party felt that their destinies were suspended. The hushed and agitating prevalence of a suspense, which came home not only to the soldier and the politician, but to every private man, in the shape of alarm for his property and his safety, pervaded every street and dwelling, and clouded every countenance in the city with awe. Business was entirely neglected; men kept restlessly to-ing and fro-ing, and grouping together in little knots, gossiping at the street comers, in low tones, and laughing strangely, in the almost hysterical excitement of the crisis — the long-looked-for crisis, that was now at last, in fearful earnest, indeed, present and upon them.
A tall and singularly handsome officer of dragoons, fully equipped in the splendid uniform of those days, and wearing in his face an expression at once lofty and melancholy, was, upon the night in question, ascending a dark and oldfashioned stair in the city cf Dublin. He paused at a door, which opened from the first landing-place. A feeling which he could not for a moment overcome, held him doubtfully at the threshold. He entered, however, and, raising his plumed hat, and shaking back from his noble features his long black hair, Torlogh O’Brien stood in the presence of Grace Willoughby and her father.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 85