The Reigning Beauty

Chapter I. The Effects Of Anger

" Once upon a time," said a dear quaint old governess who told the tale, and her stories used to make me so happy at the time, and left such pleasant impressions on my mind, that I am going to write one, as nearly as I can remember, in her own words. Once upon a time, there was an ancient country house that stood on the highest part of a large deer park, and from the south VOL. I. B gallery windows you could look over a vast extent of wooded country. On very fine clear days you could see the blue sea beyond, and sometimes even a few white ships glis tening like pearls in the sunshine, or pencil led along the horizon against the glowing sky of evening. Just below the windows of this long gallery, there was a broad gravel walk, bordered with flowers, and then a terraced garden that sloped down as far as the river.

And at the western corner of the lowest terrace, there was an old fashioned summer-house with a pinnacled roof, like a miniature of the beauti ful clock-tower that surmounted the centre of the old house. I used to delight in watching the sunsets from the western oriel of that gallery, and in tracing afterwards the course of the little river towards the piece of water, or rather lake, that ornamented the lower parts of the park, and then seek for it again emerging from the thick woods beyond, like a golden thread glistening here and there, till it was lost in the distance. That hour was generally my only leisure time, before the candles were lighted ; so I often lingered, enjoying the changing colours and reflections in the lake, till I fancied that the dark yew trees, and gigantic oaks which skirted its banks bent over it lovingly, and tossed their branches with exulting mirth in the evening breeze.

Then I would turn round and look along the dimly-lighted gallery, and start with a sort of half pleased and half frightened shud der at the figures in armour, that were ranged in carved oak niches at the further end. For the evening sky would tinge their helmets and the points of their lances with a blood red gleam, while the figures in the faded tapestry assumed a spectral appearance, and seemed to move with slow and stealthy steps in their shadowy recesses, and the old family B portraits looked down and smiled or frowned upon me in grim majesty. I am not, however, going to tell my own impressions, but to relate what occurred at that old Manor Hall long before I saw the place. It was a fine summer evening in the year 18 — , when the lady of the Hall was sit ting in the old summer-house. Her majestic figure, high forehead, and handsome, yet somewhat too strongly marked features, might have furnished a good model for Sir Joshua Reynolds.

Another lady, who from the resemblance, appeared to be a younger sister, was sitting near, and a beautiful baby was sleeping in a cradle at their feet. An other child of about two years old was playing or rather running to and fro. He had a mimic sword in his hand, and occa sionally brandished it with noisy vehemence and a menacing air, in the nurse's face, who sat on the ground rocking the baby's cradle. It was one of those calm evenings when in such a beautiful scene, it would seem almost impossible to be either unhappy or wicked, for discontent and anger are so out of harmony with the beauty of nature and the repose of the hour. The deer were lying in picturesque groups under the trees, or moved lazily writh majestic and graceful steps among the tall fern. The stream bubbled playfully over the white pebbles in harmonious accompaninent to the buzzing of insects and song of birds, and all nature seemed to breathe pleasant notes of thanksgiving and praise — to vibrate in the common chord of joy.

Yet none of the human beings assembled in that summer-house appeared to enjoy the hour. Even the sleeping baby had that ex pression of tired wilfulness on his face, sometimes seen in over-fed, or over-indulged infants, as if he had cried himself to sleep in anger. At last he was suddenly awakened by a violent blow of the mimic sword against his cradle, and he began to scream and stretch out his arms with wrathful ve hemence. " Put that sword down instantly ! don't you see it frightens baby ? Put it down, you naughty boy ; don't you hear me ?" exclaimed the lady of the Hall, as she raised her voice to a pitch that was certainly not in harmony with the scene around, while her strongly-marked eyebrows were knit together, and her large eyes flashed with a fiery gleam that seemed to terrify the object of her anger.

He winced in a sort of shrinking manner, as if accustomed to sharp words, or perhaps, even blows ; and walked with an air of resignation and dignity towards the little stream. Then he lay down on the ground, and plucked the wild flowers which grew on the bank, and threw them with a languid yet graceful movement into the water, and THE KEIGNING BEAUTY. watched them as they floated gently down towards the lake. " How sullen that boy is ; and how dreadful to think that he must inherit all this splendid property," said the younger lady. " I often think what a pity it is your darling baby is not the heir : indeed, I wonder that papa allowed you to marry when all was entailed upon the eldest son." " Don't talk of it," exclaimed the elder lady with a pettish expression. " You know I am very fond of little Henry when he is good, and I am sure I was miserable when his elder brother died in that dreadful way."

" What's the matter, nurse ? you startle me when you let things fall in that awkward manner," continued the lady, as she bent her searching glance hastily upon the woman who had dropped the baby's bells and coral. " Arrah ! then, my lady ! how can I help it when you talk of the blessed child (bad luck to it), and when the master said it was all along of me giving him the wrong me dicine ; and sure didn't I do it to the best of my judgment ? and how was I to know that it would put the poor innocent to sleep, and that he'd never wake again in this world ? By the powers ! I was struck all of a heap when I shook him and shook him, and he never moved or said a word good or bad." " Rest be to his soul !" she added after a pause, as she devoutly crossed herself, and then folded her hands over her knees with that indolent gesture which characterises the lower orders of Irish, particularly those of the south-west.

She had the air of a favourite dependant. Her dress was showy and of costly material, but tawdry and ill-fitting, yet she was not deficient in a sort of wild grace fulness often seen in the peasantry of Ireland, particularly those of the western coast, and whose large piercing black eyes and passion ate lips seem to tell of a southern and per haps Spanish origin. " Come here, Henry," said the handsome lady of the Hall in a kinder tone, " come, and we will all walk down and see papa fish in the lake. No, I will carry baby," she added, as the nurse was preparing to take the child out of its cradle. " Well, I shall go home," said the younger sister, " for I must finish my letter for the post." " Ah, I know whom you are writing to," said the other. " Go down to the lake, nurse, and wait for us near Toads' hole," she added, as she saw the woman was listening to what was spoken.

" Yes, I know to whom you are writing, but I am not sure that I quite approve," she added, as soon as the nurse was out of sight, while an arch smile lighted up her countenance, which was more strikingly handsome than lovely. She had that dazzling red-white com plexion, the well formed but somewhat too prominent nose, and eyes rather too near together, which characterise some of the ancient races of well-born Irish. There was a decision in her movements, and at times a harshness in her air, that justified what the common people sometimes said, that she was an " awesome lady." " You do not approve of him ?" inquired the younger lady. " No," said the elder after a few moments' consideration ; " the more I think of that projected match the less I approve, for I become ever day more convinced that one should never marry a widower.

I can never help thinking that my husband loved his fair Helena better than me." " Yet nothing can equal his admiration for yourself; he cannot bear you to be one moment out of his sight." " Yet I found him only yesterday gazing on his first wife's portrait with sorrowful eyes ; and then I know he is fonder of her child Henry, that sullen, sulky little monkey," she said, pointing to the boy, " than he is of mine; and the child hates me, I know he does," added the lady, as she turned her frowning face towards the boy. " That's only because you frighten him with those terrific eyes of yours ; you don't know how very angry you sometimes look. " Well, I must run home, or I shall be late for the post, so adieu," continued the young girl with an air of determination, which warned her elder sister that she would follow her own wishes without regarding the sage advice she had been giving.

Then the lady of the Hall looked at the boy who remained still in the same listless attitude, twisting the long blades of grass in his little fingers with a languid air, that perhaps awakened his step-mother's attention or pity. " Come here, Henry ; come here, dear ; don't be afraid of me, child, I am not angry with you now. Indeed I am not," she added, as she approached him with her own baby in her arms, and took his hand. " Come with me and don't be frightened ; there, kiss baby, and make it up." The boy could scarcely speak yet, but he made a gesture of dislike and turned away. " Kiss baby directly then," she continued, as she held it down near him with a gesture of determination. But the boy seemed still less inclined than before, and shrank away with a half annoyed and half frightened look.

" You shall kiss baby, though, naughty child," she again repeated with flashing eyes and dilated nostrils, as she followed him quickly. " Here Mary — nurse — take Henry home ; I'll have nothing more to say to that wicked child." " Mary," she reiterated in a louder tone, when she perceived that the nurse had quite disappeared. " Henry, come back then," she added in a sharp voice, which had the effect of making him run still more quickly down towards the lake. " How tiresome the child is, and how stupid of me not to have made nurse remain !" she exclaimed, as she followed in breathless haste down the hill, and succeeded in catching the boy just before he reached the water. " I have told you never to go near the lake," she added in a still more menacing tone, while her face was flushed with anger and the exertion of running, and she looked very fierce.

" Don't go near it, I say, you naughty child ; I know you understand me, though you won't speak or learn to say mamma. Say it now directly — mamma," she added, as she shook the boy's arm. " Papa ! " exclaimed the child with a triumphant distinctness. " Papa," he repeated several times with an air of increasing de fiance. "Say, mamma, directly, or I'll box your ears !" she exclaimed, lifting up her hand with a menacing look. "No, no; papa, pa'," replied the boy, while the tears started to his eyes, and he continued to repeat his father's name in piteous and beseeching accents, as if appeal ing to him for assistance or consolation. They had now reached the edge of a steep rocky bank, that bounded the lake on that side, and they stood some twenty feet above a deep pool or bay called Toads' Hole.

But the lady was so blinded by anger that she seemed to forget the danger of the spot. Exasperated past all endur ance by the child's continuing to call upon his father's name, she struck him a violent blow on the ear. " Papa," repeated the child in a tone of despair, and avoided the second blow she was about to inflict by springing over the edge of the bank. He struck against a rock near the water's edge, and his little arm was entangled in the roots of a shrub. He might be saved if any one could reach the spot, or if he could hold the roots firmly with his little hand. But either stunned by the fall, or insensible of the danger, his wounded arm slipped gradually from the roots, and with a sobbing moan he sank into the pool. The lady had watched in breathless horror from above. And now she heard the splash and saw the dark water close over his form ; then his little bleeding arm was raised for a moment, as if to make another touching appeal for help.

Again it disappeared, and only a small round eddy, and then a wide spreading circle showed the spot where he had sunk. For an instant her eyes followed the eddying circles as if spell bound or stupified. Then suddenly starting, she called in frantic tones : " Mary, Mary, help ! the boy is drowned !" and rushed madly up the sloping park towards the house.

Chapter II. The Accident

"Will your honour be plazed to tell me the way to the doctor's? me child is sick of the fayver, and we're got wet through and through this blessed night, bad luck to it," said a tired and agitated looking woman, who had been toiling up the steep High Street of Dodcaster. She seemed quite out of breath, and was carrying a heavy child who appeared to be fast asleep, and the repose of its beautiful and innocent countenance, formed a strange contrast to i the frightened and perhaps somewhat guilty look that gleamed in the woman's large dark eyes. Yet her features had not a bad expression, and the gentleman to whom she spoke, said in a kind and compassionate tone: " Dr. Jeffrey lives close by in the next street. Here, I will show you the house; but why did you bring your sick child out such a rainy night as this ?"

" I couldn't help it, your honour. The Mistress was afeerd of the infection, and I was obliged to go off in a jiffy. The Lord grant the poor child may not catch his death ; God bless the darlin'," she added, as she wrapped her cloak round him, and brought the hood more over her bonnet, so as fully to conceal her own face. " This is Dr. Jeffrey's house," said the gentleman as they arrived near a large red brick building, with an old fashioned porch before the door. "Do not disturb your vol. I. c child," he added, when they entered the porch. He raised the ponderous knocker, and gave only a gentle tap, but the sound echoed through the narrow street, and woke the baby, who began to cry violently. The door was soon opened by a servant, who bowed respectfully to the gentleman, and said that his master was not at home.

" He was sent for half an hour ago," added the servant ; " there came an express from Squire Fitzpatrick at Heronscliffe Park." " Mr. Fitzpatrick ! what can have hap pened to him ?" inquired the gentleman. " When I parted from him two hours ago, he was in perfect health." " He was thrown from his horse on the Devil's Dyke, and his valet, as rode off here like lightening, says they was afeared it was 'cussion on the brain." "Is Mr. Smith at home?" "No, Sir; he's gone off too, 'cause they feared a hopperation would have to be performed, as both his legs was broken they found." During this conversation, the child con tinued to cry violently, and the servant, whose thoughts were apparently less en grossed by the misfortune which happened to Squire Fitzpatrick than the gentleman's, looked with enquiring and experienced eyes on it and the woman.

And now as the lamps which burnt in the hall shone upon the group, the servant ex claimed : " Bless my soul, what's the matter with that there child, Sir ? it's a crying as if its limbs was broke too ; and it's got a wound on its shoulder and arm," he added, as he lifted the shawl that covered the child's figure, and discovered a deep cut from which the blood was flowing. " Its poor little arm must be broken, I am afraid," continued the servant, as he gently touched the swollen limb ; " what has happened to your child?" c " Why did you tell me it was ill of a fever ?" enquired the gentleman, whose at tention was now again drawn towards the pair; and he eyed the woman with a sus picious glance. " If I were sure there was no fear of infection, I would take you to Dr. Jeffrey, as I must drive off to Heronscliffe instantly ; and either he or Mr. Smith could see to the poor child.

But I could not venture if it had any fever, on account of the children there." " Oh, there's no fear, in life, yer honour ; only I thought yer honour would think I had been drinking if I telled the truth, and that I let the poor innocent fall and broke its arm. Besides, I thought people would tell me quicker, too, what I wanted to know, if they was afreed of the fever," added the woman with a look of confusion, that showed both to the gentleman and servant there was some mystery she wished to conceal. However, as the child was evidently suffering extremely, they would not waste any time in making more inquiries. "Let the woman sit here till I return," said the gentleman, whose name was Roland. " I'll bring the gig here in less than five minutes and take them to Heronscliffe." The servant then made the woman sit down in the hall, and brought her some refreshment, and a bandage to tie round the child's arm ; for his master had taught him to treat with kindness all the poor people who came to consult him.

" Thank yer honour, kindly," said the woman, " and may ye never live to want the bit or the sup ; and may the blessing of the Holy Virgin keep ye from all harm for yer kindness to the poor widdy and fatherless orphans." And she continued to talk on, and moan in the strain of a poor beggar, and either could not, or pretended not to hear the questions asked by the servant, who was a good deal puzzled at her being in the state of starvation and poverty she described, when her dress was evidently made of some costly material, although drenched and spat tered over with mud. However, she ate and drank voraciously, and did not seem much disturbed at the poor child's piteous moans, or its refusal to take any food. In less than five minutes, Mr. Roland drove up to the door, and the woman and child were placed by his side in the gig, and then he started off at a quick pace along the narrow and dimly-lighted streets.

" What part of Ireland do you come from ?" he enquired, as soon as they reached a country road where the noise was less deafening than in the old paved streets of Dodcaster. " Where do you come from ? what was the name of the place in Ireland where you lived ?" he added, as she seemed not to hear his first inquiry. " Where did I come from, yer honour ? Oh ! then, sure 'twas Clonakilty when I left it a blessed month agone." " And is that your own child ?" " Arrah ! then, whose else would it be, may I make bould to ax yer honour ? and I toiling and striving to keep it and meself, a hard matter I had too. Is it for the likes o' me that must work my fingers to the bone to keep body and soul togither? Is it for the likes o' me to toil and strive to feed other people's childer, and sure isn't the blessed infant called by my name ?

By the same token that he was christened Paddy O'Shaugh nessy, and his godmother was no less than Miss Ellen Macnamara her own self; she as giv'd me christian taaching in the school, like an angel, as she is now in the blessed heavens : and that learned me all manner o' hard things, as used to split me brain in two to think on ; and by the powers didn't she ax me one day when we was a readin' o' the Holy Gospel, just as if it was nothing at all ; says she what's the maning o' the word ' abased ;' and says I, sure then, Miss Ellen, isn't a cow a baste ? And wid' that, she and the other quality and ladies as were foment her began laughin' ready to split their waists in two." " I wonder you left your own country, what was your motive in coming to Eng land?" " What was me motive, yer honour, sure what's that ?

I never heard tell of that )> same. " I mean why did you come ? I wonder why you left Ireland." " Sure you would not then, if yer honour seed the state we was in wi' the pestilence and the famine, and not a skreed o' clothes to our backs, and the bitter six weeks when there was not a tater to be had, and me childer were all dying round me, and me not able to give them christian burial. Ah ! may you have a happy death and a favourable judgment, and long life after it's all over for yer kindness to the fatherless or phans." And she continued to talk on in a strain which gave him the impression that she rather exaggerated her Irish accent, and in spite of her vehement assertions that the child was her own, he felt there was some mystery about it which she wished to con ceal. But Mr. Roland was too anxious about the fate of his old friend Squire Fitzpatrick to investigate the matter at present, so they remained silent during the rest of the drive.

It was getting very dark too, and as they drove through a long avenue which led to Heronscliffe Hall, Mr. Roland had some difficulty in keeping on the road, and he was obliged to proceed very slowly. At last some lights were seen gleaming through the trees, and soon afterwards a long white colonnade became dimly visible, and the carriage drove up to the front entrance of a magnificent mansion. The door was open, and disclosed a bril liantly lighted hall, and a venerable servant hobbled down the broad flight of steps, and laid hold of the horse's reins. " I made sure you would have come, Sir," said the old servant. " I know'd you'd come as soon as you'd heard of the mis fortune ; so when Suky said she heard the wheels at t'other end of the avenue, says I, ' that's Mr. Roland.' " " Here, John, take the gig round to the stable," he said to one of the livery servants, who had come to the door on hearing the approach of a vehicle.

" And it's not afore you're wanted, Mr. Roland ; indeed I'm afraid it's pretty near all over with the poor master ; but, bless me, who have you here ?" " A poor woman whose child is much hurt, and I hope that the Doctor or Mr. Smith will be able to see at once what's the matter with it," said Mr. Roland. " The Doctor has enough to do with the master, and so has Mr. Smith, too. Here, Richard, d'ye take that female into Mrs. Croft's room," added the old butler, with a somewhat contemptuous glance at the drip ping woman and her child.

Chapter III. The Search

" How does Mrs. Norman bear this sad blow ?" inquired Mr. Roland, as he and the old butler traversed the hall, and ascended a broad staircase. " The poor angel ! she was struck all of a heap for some moments, but she never give in or fainted like those foolish maids, that always loses their senses just when they're the most wanted." After traversing a long gallery in silence and with cautious tread, they came to Mr. Fitzpatrick's room and softly opened the door. The Squire was a handsome man, and though above sixty years old, had that very morning followed the hounds with all the enjoyment and vigour of youth — the mer riest, heartiest of the large party assembled at Foxley Hunt, and the richest and most deservedly popular man in the whole county. And now he lay almost insensible. His pale face looking more ghastly from the con trast of the red velvet curtains and black oak carvings of the magnificent bed.

Dr. Jeffrey was holding one of his hands, and with a sorrowful and anxious countenance, feeling the scarcely perceptible beating of the pulse. A lady was kneeling at the further side of the bed with the Squire's other hand clasped in both her own ; and her head, with its profusion of golden hair, was bent over it as she occasionally pressed it to her lips. Now and then the Squire's features moved convulsively, and his fingers twitched as if in search of something. " He cannot speak," whispered the Doctor to Mr. Roland, as soon as he became aware of his presence, " yet I see that he is not insensible, and is anxious to say something." " Here is Mr. Roland come to see you," continued the Doctor in a louder tone. The Squire opened his eyes at the name, and looked anxiously towards his friend, and seemed to make eager yet vain endeavours to speak.

Then he looked towards the farther end of the long room, and pointed with his finger. " His eyes have been fixed on that secretaire in yonder corner, several times since he was brought into the room," said the Doctor. " Perhaps that is where his will is kept," said Mr. Roland, and continued in a low whisper, " I believe that if he were to die without one, all his property would go to a very distant relation ; and then his adopted daughter and her children would be penniless." " I verily believe he hears what you say," said Dr. Jeffrey ; " perhaps it is the key of the secretaire he wants." A gleam of satisfaction seemed for a moment to light up the dying man's eyes. " Does no one know where the key can be found ?" inquired Mr. Roland, as he touched the shoulders of the lady who knelt at the bed-side.

She started up, and throwing back the long fair curls which had almost concealed her face, exclaimed with a quivering lip, " How selfish of me not to have thought, not to have endeavoured to help," and hastily traversing the room, she took out a large bunch of keys from a table-drawer. Several were tried in the secretaire, and the Squire watched their fruitless attempts with visible anxiety. At last they found the right key, and a smile hovered for an instant on his pale lips. They opened the drawers and took out several bundles of papers. " It is not among these ; if it exists at all ; see, he is not satisfied," exclaimed Mr. Roland. " Can it be that he wishes to draw up a will ?" " Perhaps so," said the Doctor, who at that moment observed a change in the invalid, and ran quickly to the bed.

" Then send for Mr. Garrard, send at once," said Mr. Roland to the old butler who had remained in the room. " Too late, I fear," whispered the Doctor with a solemn look and sorrowful tone, as he watched the painful breathing of the dying man. The Squire's eyes were closed, but sud denly they opened wide, and he started forward, then sank back, drew one long struggling breath, and was at rest. "It is all over," said Dr. Jeffrey, as he laid his hand on the Squire's heart, and then gently closed his eyes. The lady sank down on the body, and imprinted a kiss on his forehead. She did not weep then, but stood up and gazed with solemn and wondering awe, at the now peaceful countenance of her departed friend and uncle. A fair-haired child of little more than a year old, had toddled unperceived into the room, and startled at the sorrowful coun tenances that surrounded the bed, without comprehending the cause of their grief, set up a loud cry.