Confessions Of Con Cregan Part 38

"Yes, Father; about two hours before we left the harbor."

"No luggage of any kind?"

"A bundle, Father; that under his head, and nothing more."

"Did he speak to you, or ask any questions?"

"Only at what time we should reach Houston, and if the 'White Hart' was near the Quay?"

"And then he lay down in the boat here?"

"Just so; I saw no more of him after."

"That will do," said the Padre, handing the lantern to the boy.

That will do! thought I also. Master Chico, if you know me, I know _you_ as well!

The game was now begun between us,--at least, so I felt it. I lay watching my adversary, who slowly paced backwards and forwards, stopping now and then to peep into the boat, and doubtless conning over in his own mind his plan of attack.

We were to land some pa.s.sengers and take in some wood at a little place called Fork Island; and here I was half determined within myself that my voyage should end. That "Chico" had discovered me, was clear, the Padre could be no other than him; and that he would inevitably hunt me down at Austin was no less evident. Now, discovery and "lynching" were but links of the same chain; and I had no fancy to figure as "No. 2" in Hall's Court!

The silence on the deck soon showed that most of the pa.s.sengers had gone below, and, so far as I could see in the uncertain light, "Chico" with them. I arose, therefore, from my hard couch to take a little exercise, which my cramped limbs stood in need of. A light drizzling rain had begun to fall, which made the deck slippery and uncomfortable, and so I took my stand at the door of the cook's galley, into which two or three of the crew had sought refuge.

As the rain fell the fog thickened, so that, standing close in to sh.o.r.e, the skipper slackened our speed, till at last we barely moved through the water. Not aware of the reason, I asked one of the sailors for an explanation.

"It's the dirty weather, I reckon," said he, sulky at being questioned.

"Impatient, I suppose, to get the journey over, my young friend?" said a low, silky voice, which at once reminded me of that I had already heard when I lay in the boat. I turned, and it was the Padre, who, with an umbrella over him, was standing beside me.

"I 'm not much of a sailor, Father," replied I, saluting him respectfully as I spoke.

"More accustomed to the saddle than the p.o.o.p-deck?" said he, smiling blandly.

I nodded a.s.sent, and he went on with some pa.s.sing generalities about sea and land life,--mere skirmis.h.i.+ng, as I saw, to invite conversation.

Partly weariness, partly a sense of discomfort at the persecution of this man's presence, made me sigh heavily. I had not perceived it myself, but he remarked it immediately, and said,--

"You are depressed in spirit, my son; something is weighing on your heart!"

I looked up at him, and, guided possibly by my suspicion of his real character, I saw, or thought I saw, a twinkling glitter of his dark eye, as though he was approaching the theme on which he was bent.

"Yes, Father," replied I, with a voice of well-feigned emotion, "my heart is indeed heavy; but"--here I a.s.sumed a more daring tone--"I must not despond, for all that!"

I walked away as I spoke, and, retiring, sat down near the wheel, as if to meditate. I judged that the Padre would soon follow me; nor was I wrong: I was not many minutes seated ere he stood at my side.

"I see," said he, in a mild voice,--"I see, from the respect of your manner, that you are one of our own people,--a good son of the Church.

What is your native country?"

"Ireland, Father," said I, with a sigh.

"A blessed land indeed!" said he, benignly; "happy in its peaceful inhabitants,--simple-minded and industrious!"

I a.s.sented, like a good patriot, but not without misgivings that he might have been just as happy in another selection of our good gifts.

"I have known many of your countrymen," resumed he, "and they all impressed me with the same esteem. All alike frugal, temperate, and tranquilly disposed."

"Just so, sir; and the cruelty is, n.o.body gives them credit for it!"

"Ah, my son, there you are in error. The Old World may be, and indeed I have heard that it is, ungenerous; but its prejudices cannot cross the ocean. Here we estimate men, not by _our_ prejudices, but by _their_ merits. Here we recognize the Irishman as Nature has made him,--docile, confiding, and single-hearted; slow to anger, and ever ready to control his pa.s.sions!"

"That's exactly his portrait, Father!" said I, enthusiastically.

"Without a double of any kind,--a creature that does not know a wile or a stratagem!"

The priest seemed so captivated by my patriotism and my generous warmth that he sat down beside me, and we continued to make Ireland still our theme, each vying with the other who could say most in praise of that country.

It was at the close of a somewhat long disquisition upon the comparative merits of Ireland and the Garden of Eden,--in which, I am bound to say, the balance inclined to the former,--that the Padre, as if struck by a sudden thought, remarked,--

"You are the very first of your nation I ever met in a frame of mind disposed to melancholy! I have just been running over, to myself, all the Irishmen I ever knew, and I cannot recall one that had a particle of gloom or sorrow about him."

"Nor had I, Father," said I, with emotion; "nor did I know what sorrow was, till three days back! I was light-hearted and happy; the world went well with me, and I was content with the world. I will not trouble you with my story; enough when I say that I came abroad to indulge a taste for adventure and enterprise, and that the New World has not disappointed my expectations. If I spent money a little too freely, an odd grumble or so from 'the governor' was the darkest cloud that shaded my horizon. An only son, perhaps I pushed that prerogative somewhat too far; but our estate is unenc.u.mbered, and my father's habits are the reverse of extravagant,--for a man of his cla.s.s, I might call them downright rustic in simplicity. Alas! why do I think of these things? I have done with them forever."

"Nay, nay, you must not give way thus. It is very unlikely that one young as you are can have any real guilt upon his conscience."

"Not yet, Father," said I, with a shudder,--"not yet; but who can tell how it may be with me to-morrow or next day? What a different answer should I have to give your question then!"

"This is some fancy,--some trick of a warm and ill-regulated imagination, my son."

"It is the language my heart pours from my lips," said I, grasping his hand as if with irrepressible emotion. "I have a heavy crime here--here!" and I struck my breast violently; "and if it be as yet unaccomplished, the shadow of the guilt is on me already."

"Sit still, my son, sit still, and listen to me," said he, restraining me, as I was about to rise. "To whom can you reveal these mysterious terrors more fittingly than to me? Be candid; tell me what weighs upon your heart. It may be that a mere word of mine can give you courage and calm."

"That cannot be," said I, firmly; "you speak in kindness, but you know not what you promise. I am under a vow, Father,--I am under a vow."

"Well, my son, there are many vows meritorious. There are vows of penitence, and of chast.i.ty, and of abstinence--"

"Mine is none of these," said I, with a low, guttural utterance, as if I was biting each word I spoke.

"Vows of chastis.e.m.e.nt--"

"Not that, not that either!" cried I; then, dropping my voice to a low whisper, I said, "I have sworn a solemn oath to commit a murder! I know the full guilt of what is before me, I see all the consequences, both here and hereafter: but my word is pledged,--I have taken the oath with every ceremony that can give it solemnity; and--I 'll go through with it!"

"There is a mystery in all this," said the Padre; "you must recount the circ.u.mstances of this singular pledge, ere I can give you either comfort or counsel."

"I look for neither,--I hope for neither!" said I, wringing my hands; "but you shall hear my story,--you are the last to whom I can ever reveal it! I arrived at New Orleans about a fortnight ago, on a yacht cruise with a friend of mine, of whose name, at least, you may have heard,--Sir Dudley Broughton."

"The owner of a handsome schooner, the 'Firefly,'" said the Padre, with an animation on the subject not quite in keeping with his costume.

"The same; you are, then, acquainted with him?"