Luttrell Of Arran Part 96

"He left this the night before the trial came on, with that young gentleman that was here."

"Ah, he left him! Deserted him in his last need!" cried she, faintly, but with an intense agony in the tone.

"Had they been friends?" asked the doctor; but she never heard the question, and sat with her hands clasped before her, motionless and silent.

"Were you there throughout the whole trial?" asked she, at last.

"No, I was present only on the last day, and I heard his speech."

"Tell me how he looked; was he broken or depressed?"

"The very reverse. It would have been better for him if he had looked cast down or in grief. It was too bold and too defiant he was, and this grew on him as he spoke, till, towards the end of his speech, he all but said, 'I dare you to find me guilty!'"

"The brave old man!" muttered she below her breath.

"When the crowd in the court cheered him, I knew what would happen. No Judge in the land could have said a word for him after that."

"The brave old man!" mattered she again.

"It seemed at one time he was going to call witnesses to character, and he had a list of them in his hand, but he suddenly changed his mind, and said, 'No, my Lord, whatever you're going to do with me this day, I'll do my best to meet it, but I won't make any one stand up here, and have the shame to say he knows a man that the mere turn of a straw might send to the gallows!'"

"Did he say that?" cried she, wildly.

"He did; and he looked at the jury all the while, as though to say, 'Take care what you do; it's a man's life is on it!'"

"Did he ever mention my name? Did he ask for any one in particular, did you hear?" asked she, faintly.

"No; but before he began his speech he looked all over the court for full five minutes or more, as if in search of some one, and even motioned some people in the gallery to stand aside that he might see better, and then he drew a long breath--either disappointment or relief; it might be either."

"'How could they have the heart to say guilty?" said she.

"There was no other word to say. They were on their oaths, and so the Judge told them, and the whole country was looking at them."

"And where is he now?" asked she, eagerly.

"All the prisoners for transportation have been sent on to Dublin.

They'll not leave the country before spring."

She hid her head between her hands, and sat for a long time without speaking. At last she raised her face, and her eyes were red with weeping, and her cheeks furrowed.

"Doctor," said she, plaintively, "have I strength enough to go to him?"

He shook his head mournfully, in token of dissent.

"Am I too ill?"

"You are too weak, my poor child; you have not strength for such a journey."

"But I have great courage, doctor, and I can bear far more fatigue than you would think."

He shook his head again.

"You do not know," said she, in a low but earnest voice, "that I was reared in hards.h.i.+p, brought up in want, and cold, and misery. Ay, and I have never forgotten it!"

He smiled; it was half in compa.s.sion, half in disbelief.

"Do you know me?--do you know who I am?" asked she, eagerly.

"I know it all, my poor child--I know it all," said he, sadly.

"Know it all! What does your phrase mean? How all?"

He arose, but she grasped his hand with both hers', and held him fast.

"You shall not leave this till you have answered me!" cried she. "Is it not enough that I am sick and friendless? Why should you add the torture of doubt to such misery as mine? Tell me, I beseech you--I entreat of you, tell me what you have heard of me! I will deny nothing that is true!"

He pleaded warmly at first to be let off altogether, and then to be allowed further time--some period when she had grown to be stronger and better able to bear what he should have to tell her. Her entreaties only became more urgent, and she at last evinced such excitement, that, in terror lest a return of her brain fever might be feared, he yielded, promising that the confidence reposed in him was a trust nothing should induce him to break.

There is no need that the reader should pa.s.s through the sad ordeal of Kate's suffering, even as a witness. No need is there that her shame, her sorrow, her misery, and, last of all, her pa.s.sionate indignation, should be displayed before him; nor that he should see her as she sat there wrung with affliction, or half maddened with rage. Compressing the doctor's story into the fewest words, it was this:

"Kate had met young Ladarelle at Dalradern Castle, where a pa.s.sion had grown up between them. The young man, heir to a vast fortune, and sure of a high position, did not scruple to avail himself of what advantages his brilliant station conferred--won her affections, and seduced her with the promise of a speedy marriage. Wearied out at the unfulfillment of this pledge, she had fled from Dalradern, and sought refuge at Arran, intending to reveal all to her uncle, whose pride would inevitably have sought out her betrayer, and avenged her wrong, when she yielded to O'Rorke's persuasion to meet her lover at Westport, where, as he a.s.sured her, every preparation for their marriage had been arranged. Thus induced, she had quitted her uncle's house, and met Ladarelle. A mock marriage, performed by a degraded priest, had united them, and they were about to set out for the Continent, when she was struck down by brain fever. The fear of being recognised, as the town was then filling for the a.s.sizes, determined Ladarelle and his friend to take their departure. There was deposited with the doctor a sum sufficient to defray every charge of her illness, with strict injunctions to keep all secret, and induce her, if she recovered, to proceed to Paris, where, at a given address, she would be welcomed and well received."

This was the substance of a narrative that took long in the telling, not alone for the number of incidents it recorded, but that, as he proceeded, the unlucky doctor's difficulties increased as some point of unusual delicacy would intervene, or some revelation would be required, which, in the presence of the princ.i.p.al actor in it, became a matter of no small embarra.s.sment to relate.

"And how much of all this, Sir, do you believe?" said she, calmly, as he concluded.

He was silent, for the question impugned more than his credulity, and he hesitated what to answer.

"I ask you, Sir, how much of this story do you believe?"

"There is a colour to part of it," said he, diffidently.

"And what part?"

"The part which refers to the marriage here."

"What do you mean, Sir?"

"When you lay on that bed yonder, with fixed eyes, motionless, unconscious, and, as all believed, dying, a priest muttered some words over you, and placed your hand in that of this young man I spoke of. The woman of the house saw this through the keyhole of the door; she saw a ring produced, too, but it fell to the ground, and the priest laughingly said, 'It's just as good without the ring;' and, after they had gone, the woman picked it up beneath the bed, and has it now. She saw them, besides, when they came down stairs, sit down at a table and draw up a paper, to which the priest ordered her to be a witness by a mark, as she cannot write; and this paper she believes to have had some reference to the scene she saw above. All this I believe, for she who told it to me is truthful and honest."

Kate pa.s.sed her hand across her forehead like one trying to clear her faculties for better reflection, and then said: "But this is no marriage!"

"Certainly not; nor could it have been had recourse to to quiet scruples of yours, since you were unconscious of all that went on."

"And with what object, then, was it done?"

This was what he could not answer, and he sat silent and thoughtful; at last he said: "Were you not at this Castle in Wales I spoke of?"

"Yes."