Valentine M'Clutchy, The Irish Agent Part 8

So far the first steps for ousting Mr. Hickman were taken by this precious father and his equally valuable son. Val, however, entertained other speculations quite as ingenious, and far more malignant in their tendency. Hickman, of course, he might, by undercurrents and manoeuvering, succeed in ejecting from the agency; but he could not absolutely ruin him. Nothing short of this, however, did he propose to himself, so far as M'Loughlin, and, we may add, every one connected with him, was concerned; for M'Clutchy possessed that kind of economy in his moral feelings, that always prompted him to gratify his interest and his malice by the same act of virtue. How he succeeded in this benevolent resolution, time and the progress of this truthful history will show.

CHAPTER V.--A Mysterious Meeting

--Description of a Summer Evening--A Jealous Vision--Letter from Squire Beaker to Lord c.u.mber--Lord c.u.mber's Reply.

The season was now about the close of May, that delightful month which presents, the heart and all our purer sensations with a twofold enjoyment; for in that sweet period have we not all the tenderness and delicacy of spring, combined with the fuller and more expanded charms of the leafy summer--like that portion of female life, in which the eye feels it difficult to determine whether the delicate beauty of the blus.h.i.+ng girl, or the riper loveliness of the full grown maid, predominates in the person. The time was evening, about half an hour before that soft repose of twilight, in which may be perceived the subsiding stir of busy life as it murmurs itself into slumber, after the active pursuits of day. On a green upland lawn, that was a sheep walk, some portions of which were studded over with the blooming and fragrant furze, stood an old ecclesiastical ruin, grey from time, and breathing with that spirit of vague but dreamy reverie, which it caught from the loveliness of the season, the calmness and the golden light of the hour, accessories, that, by their influence, gave a solemn beauty to its very desolation. It reminded one somewhat of the light which coming death throws upon the cheek of youth when he treacherously treads in the soft and noiseless steps of decline--or rather of that still purer light, which, when the aged Christian arrives at the close of a well spent life, accompanied by peace, and hope, and calmness, falls like a glory on his bed of death. The ruin was but small, a remnant of one of those humble, but rude temples, in which G.o.d was wors.h.i.+pped in simplicity and peace, far from the noisy tumults and sanguinary conflicts of ambitious man.

Through this sweet upland, and close to the ruin, ran a footpath that led to a mountain village of considerable extent. Immediately behind the ruin stood a few large hawthorn trees, now white with blossoms, whose fragrance made the very air a luxury, and from whose branches came forth those gushes of evening melody that shed tenderness and tranquility into the troubled heart. The country in the distance lay charmed, as it were, by the calm spirit of peace which seemed to have diffused itself over the whole landscape--western windows were turned into fire--the motionless lakes shone like mirrors wherever they caught the beams of the evening light, as did several bends of the broad river which barely moved within its winding banks through the meadows below. The sun at length became half concealed behind the summit of the western hills, so that his rich and gorgeous beams fell only upon the surrounding uplands, now lit into purple, leaving the valleys and lower parts of the country to repose in that beautiful shadow which can be looked upon from the higher parts, only through the crimson glory of the departing light.

And now the sun has disappeared--is gone--but still how beautiful is the fading splendor that sleeps for a little on the mountain tops, then becomes dimmer and dimmer--then a faint streak which gradually melts away until it is finally lost in the soft shadows of that thoughtful hour. And even thus pa.s.seth away all human glory! The ruin which we have mentioned stood about half way between the residence of Brian M'Loughlin and the mountain village to which we have alluded. Proceeding homewards from the latter place, having performed an errand of mercy and charity, was a very beautiful girl, exquisitely formed, but somewhat below the middle size. She was Brian M'Loughlin's only daughter--a creature that breathed of goodness, grace, and all those delightful qualities that make woman a ministering angel amidst the cares, and miseries, and sorrows of life. Her figure, symmetry itself, was so light, and graceful, and elegant, that a new charm was displayed by every motion, as a new beauty was discovered by every change of her expressive countenance; her hair was like the raven's wing, and her black eye, instead of being sharp and piercing, was more in accordance with the benignity of her character, soft, sweet, and mellow. Her bust and arm were perfection, and the small white hand and taper fingers would have told a connoisseur or sculptor, that her foot, in lightness and elegance of formation, might have excited, the envy of Iris or Camilla.

Having reached the ruin, she was surprised to see the figure of a thin woman, dressed in black, issue out of it, and approach her with somewhat of caution in her manner. Mary M'Loughlin was a girl of strong mind and firm character, and not likely to feel alarmed by any groundless cause of apprehension. She immediately recognized the woman, who was no other than our old friend Poll Doolin, and in the phrases peculiar to the country, made the usual kind inquiry after her health and welfare.

"It's a very unusual thing, Poll," she proceeded, "to see you in this part of the neighborhood!"

"It is," returned Poll, "I wasn't so near the mountains this many a day; an' I wouldn't be here now, only on your account. Miss M'Loughlin."

Now, Mary was by no means ignorant of the enmity which this woman entertained against her father and family, in consequence of having prosecuted and transported her profligate son. Without the slightest apprehension on that account, she felt, however, a good deal puzzled as to the meaning which could be attached to Poll's words. "How, on my account, Poll? I don't understand you."

"Neither you nor yours desarve it at my hands; but for all that, I am here to do you a good tarn."

"I hope I never deserved any evil at your! hands, Poll."

"No, but you're your father's daughter for all that, an' it's not usual to hate the tree and spare the branches."

"I suppose you allude to the transportation of your son; but remember, Poll, that I was only a child then; and don't forget that had your son been honest, he might I still be a comfort and a credit to you, instead of a shame and a sorrow. I don't I mean, nor do I wish to hurt your feelings, Poll; but I am anxious that you should not indulge in such bitterness of heart against my father, who only did what he could not avoid."

"Well," said Poll, "never mind that--although it isn't aisy for a mother to forget her child wid all his faults; I am here, as I said, on your 'account--I am here to tell you, that there is danger about you and before you, and to put you on your guard against it. I am here, Miss Mary M'Loughlin, and if I'm not your friend--I'm not sayin' that I am not--still I'm the friend of one that is your friend, and that will protect you if he can."

"That is very strange, Poll, for I know not how I can have an enemy.

What danger could a simple inoffensive girl like me feel? I who have never knowingly offended anybody."

"I have said the truth," replied Poll, "and did my duty--you're now warned, so be on your guard and take care of yourself."

"But how, Poll? You mention danger, yet have not told me what it is, where it's to come from, nor how I am to guard myself against it."

"I'm not at liberty," said Poll, "but this I can tell you, it's threatening you, and it comes from a quarther where you'd never look for it."

Mary, who was neither timid nor surprised, smiled with the confidence of innocence, and replied, after a short pause of thought--

"Well, Poll, I have been thinking over my friends, and cannot find one that is likely to be my enemy; at all events I am deeply obliged to you, still if you could mention what the danger is, I would certainly feel the obligation to be greater. As it is, I thank you again. Good evening!"

"Stay, Miss Mary," replied Poll, walking eagerly a step or two after her, "stay a minute; I have run a risk in doin' this--only promise me, to keep what I said to you a saicret for a while--as well as that you ever had any private talk wid me. Promise this."

"I shall certainly not promise any such thing, Poll; so far from that, I will mention every word of your conversation to my father and family, the moment I reach home. If, as you say, there is danger before or around me, there are none whose protection I should so naturally seek."

"But this," said Poll, with an appearance of deep anxiety, "this is a matther of mere indifference to you: it's to me the danger is, if you spake of it--to me, I say--not to you."

"But I can have no secrets from my family."

"Well, but is it ginerous in you to put me--ay', my very life in danger--when all you have to do is merely to say nothing? However, since I must speak out--you'll put more than me in danger--them that you love betther, an' that you'd never carry a light heart if anything happened them."

Mary started--and a light seemed suddenly to break upon her.

"How," said she, "my engagement to Francis Harman is no secret; our marriage at no distant day being sanctioned by both our families. Is he involved in danger connected with your hints?"

"Deep and deadly, both to him and me. You don't know it, Miss Mary. If you love him, as you do--as is well known you do--if you would keep him and my poor worthless self out of danger, may be out of bloodshed--don't mention a syllable of this meetin' to any one; but of all persons livin'

to himself, until I give you lave, until I can tell you it will be safe to do so. See, I kneel down with hands clasped, I beg it of you for his sake and safety!"

It was pretty well known through the parish, especially by the initiated, that this same Poll Doolin, had in truth most of its secrets in keeping; and that she had frequently conducted with success those rustic intrigues which are to be found in humble, as well as in high life. The former part of Poll's character, however, was all that had ever reached the youthful ears of poor innocent Mary, whilst of her address as a diplomatist in the plots and pursuits of love, she was utterly ignorant. Naturally unsuspicious, as we have already said, she looked upon the woman's knowing character rather as a circ.u.mstance calculated to corroborate the truth of the mystery which she, must have discovered: and was so much moved by the unquestionable sincerity of her manner, and the safety of her own lover, that she a.s.sured her she would keep the secret, until permitted to divulge it; which she begged might be at as early a period as possible. Poll thanked her eagerly and gratefully, and in a few minutes, having made a circuit behind the ruin, sought the lower and richer country by a different path.

Mary unconsciously stood for some time after Poll had left her, meditating over the strange and almost unaccountable scene which had just taken place, when a rich voice, with which she was well acquainted, addressed her. She started, and on turning about, found Francis Harman before her. Twilight had now nearly pa.s.sed away, and the dusk of evening was deepening into the darkness of a summer night.

"What on earth are you thinking of alone in this place, my dear Mary, and who was that woman who just left you?"

Mary, though firm of character, was also tender and warm of heart, and felt deeply for those she loved. The interview with Poll, therefore, had excited apprehensions concerning Harman's safety, which disturbed her far more than any she felt for herself. He gave her his right arm as he spoke, and they went on towards her father's house.

"Good G.o.d," he exclaimed, before she had time to answer him, "what has disturbed or alarmed you, my sweet Mary? I feel your heart beating against my arm, in a most extraordinary manner. How is this?"

The consciousness of the injunction so solemnly and recently imposed, distressed her exceedingly. Her love of truth was like her love of life or of heaven, a sacred and instinctive principle which she must now not only violate, but be forced to run into the hateful practice of dissimulation. All this pa.s.sed through her mind in a moment.

"My dear Francis, I will freely admit that the beatings of my heart are not altogether without cause; I have been somewhat disturbed, but it will not signify; I shall be quite well in a moment--but where did you come from?"

"They told me you had gone up to poor Widow Carrick's--and I took the short way, thinking to find you there. But what has disturbed you, my dear Mary? Something has, and greatly too."

She looked up with an affectionate smile into his face, although there trembled a tear upon her eyelids, as she spoke--

"Do not ask me, my dear Frank; nor don't think the circ.u.mstance of much importance. It is a little secret of mine, which I cannot for the present disclose."

"Well, my love, I only ask to know if the woman that left you was Poll Doolin."

"I cannot answer even that, Frank; but such as the secret is, I trust you shall soon know it."

"That is enough, my darling. I am satisfied that you would conceal nothing from either your family or me, which might be detrimental either to yourself or us--or which we ought to know."

"That is true," said she, "I feel that it is true."

"But then on the other hand," said he, playfully, "suppose our little darling were in possession of a secret which we ought not to know--what character should we bestow on the secret?"

This, though said in love and jest, distressed her so much that she was forced to tell him so--"my dear Francis," she replied, with as much composure as she could a.s.sume, "do not press me on the subject;--I cannot speak upon it now, and I consequently must throw myself on your love and generosity only for a short time, I hope."

"Not a syllable, my darling, on the subject until you resume it yourself--how are Widow Carrick's sick children?"

"Somewhat better," she replied, "the two eldest are recovering, and want nourishment, which, with the exception of my poor contributions, they cannot get."