"Why, with very little hope of the property," she replied; "and then what tenacity of life she has! Why, there are very few girls who would not have been dead long ago, if they had gone through half what she has suffered. Well, you wish to ask me how I would advise you to act?"
"Of course I do."
"Well, then, you have heard the old proverb: It is good to have two strings to one"s bow. We shall set all consideration of her aside for a time, and turn our attention to another object."
"What or who is that, mother?"
"You remember I mentioned some time ago the names of a neighboring n.o.bleman and his niece, who lives with him. The man I allude to as Lord Bilberry, but is now Earl of c.o.c.kletown. He was raised to this rank for some services he rendered the government against the tories, who had been devastating the country, and also against some turbulent papists who were supposed to have privately encouraged them in their outrages against Protestant life and property. He was a daring and intrepid man when in his prime of life, and appeared to seek danger for its own sake.
He is now an old man, although a young peer, and was always considered eccentric, which he is to the present day. Some people look upon him as a fool, and others as a knave; but in balancing his claims to each, it has never yet been determined on which side the scale would sink. He is the proprietor of a little fishing village on the coast, and on this account he a.s.sumed the t.i.tle of c.o.c.kletown; and when he built himself a mansion, as they term it, he would have it called by no other name than that of c.o.c.kle Hall. It is true he laughs at the thing himself, and considers it a good joke."
"And so it is," replied her son; "but what about the lady, his niece?"
"Why, she is a rather interesting person."
"Ahem! person!"
"Yes, about thirty-four or so; but she will inherit his property."
"And have you any notion of what that may amount to?" asked her calculating son.
"I could not exactly say," she replied; "but I believe it is handsome.
A great deal of it is mountain, but they say there are large portions of it capable of being reclaimed."
"But how can the estate go to her?"
"Simply because there is no other heir," replied his mother; "they are the last of the family. It is not entailed."
"Thirty-four!" ruminated Woodward. "Well, I have seen very fine girls at thirty-four; but in personal appearance and manner what is she like?"
"Why, perhaps a critical eye might not call her handsome; but the general opinion on that point is in her favor. Her manners are agreeable, so are her features; but it is said that she is fastidious in her lovers, and has rejected many. It is true most of them were fortune-hunters, and deserved no better success."
"But what do you call me, mother?"
"Surely not a fortune-hunter, Harry. Is not there your granduncle"s large property who is a bachelor, and you are his favorite."
"But don"t you know, mother, that, as respects my granduncle, I have confided that secret to you already?"
"I know no such thing, you fool," she replied, looking at him with an expression in her odious eyes which could not be described; "I am altogether ignorant of that fact; but is there not the twelve hundred per annum which reverts to you on the demise of that dying girl?"
"True, my dear mother, true; you are right, I am a fool. Of course I never told you the secret of my disinheritance by the old scoundrel."
"Ah, Harry, I fear you played your cards badly there. You knew he was religious, and yet you should become a seducer; but why make free with his money?"
"Why? Why, because he kept me upon the tight curb; but, as these matters are known only to ourselves, I see you are right. I am still to be considered his favorite--his heir--and am here only on, a visit."
"Well, but, Harry, he must have dealt liberally with you on your departure from him?"
"He! Don"t you know I was obliged to fly?--to take French leave, I a.s.sure you. I reached Rathfillan House with not more than twenty pounds in my pocket."
"But how does it happen that you always appear to have plenty of money?"
"My dear mother, there is a secret there; but it is one which even you shall not know,--or come, you shall know it. Did you ever hear of a certain supernatural being which follows your family, which supernatural being is known by the name of the Black Spectre, or some such denomination which I cannot remember?"
"I don"t wish to hear it named," replied his mother, deeply agitated.
"It resembles the Banshee, and never appears to any one of our family except as a precursor of his death by violence."
Woodward started for a moment, and could not avoid being struck at the coincidence of the same mission having been a.s.signed to the two spirits, and he reflected, with an impression that was anything but agreeable, upon his d.a.m.nable suggestion of having had recourse to the vile agency of Caterine Collins in enacting the said Banshee, for the purpose of giving the last fatal blow to the almost dying Alice Goodwin. He felt, and he had reason to feel, that there was a mystery about the Black Spectre, which, for the life of him, he could not fathom. He was, however, a firm and resolute man, and after a moment or two"s thought he declined to make any further disclosure on the subject, but reverted to the general topic of their conversation.
"Well, mother," said he, "after all, your speculation may not be a bad one; but pray, what is the lady"s name?"
"Riddle--Miss Riddle. She is of the Clan-Riddle family, a close relation to the Nethersides of Middle town."
"And a devilish enigmatical name it is," replied her son, "as is that of all her connections."
"Yes, but they were always close and prudent people, who kept their opinions to themselves, and wrought their way in the world with great success, and without giving offence to any party. If you marry her, Harry, I would advise you to enter public life, recommend yourself to the powers that be, and, my word for it, you stand a great chance of having the t.i.tle of c.o.c.kletown revived in your person."
"Well, although the t.i.tle is a ridiculous one, I should have no objection to it, notwithstanding; but there will certainly arise some difficulty when we come to the marriage settlements. There will be sharp lawyers there, whom we cannot impose upon; and you know, mother, I am without any ostensible property."
"Yes, but we can calculate upon the death of cunning Alice, who, by her undue and flagitious influence over your uncle, left you so."
"Ay, but such a calculation would never do either with her uncle or the lawyers. I think we have nothing to fall back upon, mother, but your own property. If you settle that upon me everything will go right."
"And leave myself depending upon Lindsay? No, no," replied this selfish and penurious woman; "never, Harry--never, never; you must wait until I die for that. But I can tell you what we can do; let us enter upon the negotiation--let us say for the time being that you have twelve hundred a-year, and, while the business is proceeding, what is there to prevent you from going to recruit your health at Balleyspellan, and kill out Alice Goodwin there, as well as if she remained at home? By this plan, before the negotiations are closed, you will be able to meet Miss Riddle with twelve hundred a-year at your back. Alice Goodwin! O, how I hate and detest her--ay, as I do h.e.l.l!"
"The plan," replied her son, "is an excellent one. We will commence operations with Lord c.o.c.kletown and Miss Riddle, in the first place; and having opened negotiations, as you say, I shall become unwell, and go for a short time to try what efficacy the waters of Ballyspellan may have on my health--or rather on my fortunes."
"We shall visit them to-morrow," said the mother.
"So be it," replied the son; and to this resolution they came, which closed the above interesting dialogue between them. We say interesting, for if it has not been such to the reader, it was so at least to themselves.
CHAPTER XVI. A House of Sorrow.
--After which follows a Courting Scene.
The deep sorrow and desolation of spirit introduced by the profligate destroyer into the humble abode of peace and innocence is an awful thing to contemplate. In our chapter headed "The Wake of a Murderer" we have attempted to give a picture of it. The age, indeed, was one of licentiousness and profligacy. The reigning monarch, Charles the Second, of infamous memory, had set the iniquitous example to his subjects, and surrounded his court by an aristocratic crew, who had scarcely anything to recommend them but their imitation of his vices, and this was always a pa.s.sport to his favor, whilst virtue, morality, and honor were excluded with contempt and derision. In fact, the corrupt atmosphere of his court carried its contagion throughout the empire, until the seduction of female innocence became the fashion of the day, and no man could consider himself ent.i.tled to a becoming position in society who had not distinguished himself by half a dozen criminal intrigues either with the wives or daughters of his acquaintances. When we contemplate for a moment the contrast between the abandoned court of that royal profligate, and that under which we have the happiness to live--the one, a sty of infamy, licentiousness, and corruption; the other, a well, undented of purity, virtue, and honor, to whose clear mind unadulterated waters nothing equivocal, or even questionable, dares to approach, much less the base or the tainted--we say that, on inst.i.tuting this comparison and contrast, the secret of that love and affectionate veneration which we bear to our pure and highminded Queen, and the pride which we feel in the n.o.ble example which she and her Royal Consort have set us, requires no ill.u.s.tration whatsoever. The affection and grat.i.tude of her people are only the meed due to her virtues and to his. We need not apologize to our readers for this striking contrast. The period and the subject of our narrative, as well as the melancholy scene to which we are about to introduce the reader, rendered it an impossibility to avoid it.
We now proceed to the humble homestead of Torley Davoren; a homestead which we have already described as the humble abode of peace and happiness. Barney Casey, who felt anxious to know from the parents of Grace Davoren whether any trace or tidings of her had been heard of, went to pay the heart-broken family a visit for that purpose.
On entering, he found the father seated at his humble hearth, unshaven, and altogether a man careless and negligent of his appearance. He sat with his hands clasped before him, and his heavy eyes fixed on the embers of the peat fire which smouldered on the hearth. The mother was at her distaff, and so were the other two females--to wit, her grandmother and Grace"s sister. But the mother! gracious heaven, what a spirit of distress and misery breathed from those hopeless and agonizing features! There was not only natural sorrow there, occasioned by the disappearance of her daughter, but the shame which resulted from her fall and her infamy; and though last not least, the terrible apprehension that the hapless girl had rushed by suicidal means into the presence of an offended G.o.d, "unanointed, unaneled," with all her sins upon her head. Her clothes were hanging from the branches of a large burdock* against the wall, and from time to time the father cast his eyes upon them with a look in which might be read the hollow but terrible expression of despair.
* The branches of the burdock, when it is cut, trimmed, and seasoned, are used by the humble cla.s.ses to hang their clothes upon. They grow upwards towards the top of the stalk, and, in consequence of this, are capable of sustaining the heaviest garment.
Honest Barney felt his heart deeply moved by all this, and, sooth to say, his natural cheerfulness and lightness of spirit completely abandoned him at the contemplation of the awful anguish which pressed them down. There is nothing which makes such a coward of the heart as the influence of such a scene. He felt that he stood within a circle of misery, and that it was a solemn and serious task even to enter into conversation with them. But, as he had come to make friendly inquiries about the unfortunate girl, he forced himself to break this pitiable but terrible silence of despair.
"I know," said he, with a diffident and melancholy spirit, "that it is painful to you all to make the inquiries that I wish to make; but still let me ask you if you have got any account of her?"