Rock run, or, The daughter of the island

Chapter I

Where the coast of Ireland is m dented by one of those lovely bays which creep inland, and are 60 sheltered by the hills that you can scarcely see where they find outlet to the ocean, stood a noble old abbey, partly in ru'us, but still vast and imposing. Its site overlooked the whole bay, and in Lir weather commanded silvery glimpses of the ocean. The monastic portions of this edifice had been allowed to fall into decay, but that, to a poetic fancy, was the great charm of the place. There was something sublime in the growth of tall elms and oaks from the very altar-stone of what had once been the chapel— something lovely in the sheeted ivy and clinging moss, which had been for years hiding all that had been art, and

fiving fresh touches of nature to the broken walls, n connection and in harmony with these ruins, many a modern wing and abutment had been built— one in this century, another in that — but so far apart that time had harmonized the soft gray tints, and one scarcely knew which was most imposing, the ruined chapel, with its great gothic window, filled with a lace-work of rich stone tracery, through which soft ivy crept in and out, or the picturesque variety of the inhabited building. Both commanded the outlet of the bay, and both gave you glimpses of the pale green waters beyond.

In a chamber of the most modern portion of the building an old man lay upon one of those reclining chairs which restless invalids prefer to the desolate certainty of a sick bed. He was propped up with well-worn and faded crimson cushions, from which a pillow of frost-white linen saved his

Sale cheek, receiving the scattered locks of his air, which was only of a more silvery tint than the fabric it floated over.

The invalid was very, very eld— some years above eighty— and so thin that you- wondered how the shrunken chest could bear the folds of that heavy dressing-gown, under which it labored for breath.

Another old man stood behind his chair, looking down upon the worn face with such wistful trouble in his eyes that you might have pitied him far more than the invalid himself.

"Do you breathe easier, my lord? The air comes in fresh from the water. It has a smell of violets."

" Yes— yes. I remember she loved violets better than anything. I found them pressed between the leaves of her prayer book long after she was dead. It broke her heart when he went away, you know, and she never cared for flowers after that — nothing but dead flowers. You will find them in her book after I am gone. Did I tell you that?"

" Yes, my lord ; I know."

"But did I tell you what to do with the book when I have done with it?" whispered the old man, gasping faintly for breath.

"I think not, my lord."

" How old are you, Robert ?"

"Sixty-nine this month, my lord."

" Ah, that is young— veryl young. You might travel over the world yet, and enjoy new sights."

The faithful servant wiped his eyes softly, and held his breath, fearful that the sick man might detect his grief.

"I shall never enjoy anything like being of use to my master," he said, quietly.

"I know, I know; but you can be of use, groat use to me, long and long after I am gone."

"If I could it would be a great comfort."

" Give me your hand, Robert— both your hands, my good, faithful friend."

The servant surrendered his two hands to the feeble clasp of those thin, white fingers.

" Robert !"

"Yes, my lord."

" Are we by ourselves — quite alone, Robert?"

" Quite alone, my lord."

"Lock the door.'"

Robert went to the door and locked it. Then he came back to the patient, looking greatly troubled.

"Robert, how long is it since that letter came with the news of Ms death ?"

" Six years ago, my lord."

"Six years I It seems only yesterday. I began to grow old after that — old and feeble. But they cannot say that I am in my second childhood even yet, Robert?"

"They cannot say that."

" Or that my judgment is not sound?"

" It is clearas ever."

" You can swear to that ?"

"I can."

"And will, if any one dares to question it? No one has been with me so much as you have, old friend. Your opinion will have weight. Every one knows that you have never been an ordinary servant, but have education, taste, and a fin© sense of honor."

'•Oh, my lord, it breaks my heart to hear you talk in this way."

" Hush, old friend ; I have a reason. Sit close to me while I talk. This air does me good. I can draw a deep breath ; my brain is clear as crystal. Now liiten. Just after that letter came, saying that my only sou had died in exile, childless and alone, my nephew suggested— I cannot tell you how it was done, but he led me— that is the word — led me into making a will, bequeathing everything to him."

"A will, my lord ? I do not understand. In de fault of direct issue, is not Hugh the heir-at-law, both to the title and estate ?"

" That is what troubles me Robert. That is what has kept me so restless. Why should he want this will ? Time, the entailed property is unimportant. The great bulk I can give away from the direct heirs, but without a will everything

'iiOCK num:r ya,' the daughter of the island goes to him. Tell me, Eobert, why was he so anxious ?"

" Perhaps he feared that your old servants might be too liberally remembered if he did not superintend the disposal of your estate."

" No, he knew well what I had resolved on then, and said nothing against it. Robert, a strange thought came into my head yesterday, as I was lying half asleep on the couch in yonder. Perliaps I was altogether asleep, for my wife was with me. There was a scent of violets such as comes through the sash now, and then the consciousness of her presence. It was a dream, no doubt, but very sweet and real. When remembrances of love come back to an old man of eightj they take him to heaven. Well, when I awoke— if I had really been asleep— a vague anxiety filled my mind. She had wanted me to write or say something, which haunted my mind without enlightening it. At last I thought of the will which ray nephew had almost forced from me in the depths of my grief. The events all come clearly before my mind— his unaccountable anxiety, his want of delicacy in urging a useless act upon me at a time like that. I asked myself these questions : ' Why should I leave that will ? Why did he ask it ? Why was the doubt haunting me so persistently ?' "

"No wonder you asked these questions," said Bobert, roused to animation.

" You think as I do, then — that the will was useless ?"

" Worse, nay lord. The very fact that it was useless makes it suspicious. What if my yoang master were yet alive?"

"Alive? You have thought of that, too I" cried the old man, starting up among his cushions and clutching at his servant's arm for support.

"Alive, and disinherited by that very will."

"Robert-Robert!"

" Be tranquil, my lord."

" That very thought has troubled mo all night. The possibility is horrible."

"Calm yourself. You have no strength to spare."

"I know it— I know it," gasped the old man. "But enough is left to tear that will into shreds. Bring it here."

"Where shall I search— in the oak cabinet?"

"Yes— yes; in his prayer book. I laid it between the loaves. Bring the book here— kindle a lamp that will burn the parchment to ashes — then scatter them to the wind ! I cannot breathe till then."

His state of excitement was painful. It terrified the old servant, and he went at once to bring the book from a heavily-carved cabinet of bay oak that stood in a corner of the room.

Robert unlocked the cabinet and drew forth a prayer book antiquely bound, and with heavy gold clasps. He took the volume to his master and gave it into his hands.

The frail wrists bent under the weight of the book, and it fell upon the sick man's lap so heavily that the jar made him tremble from head to foot. He looked up wistfully, and tried to smile away this proof of his helfjlessness.

" Hold it up while I undo the clasp," he said, panting under the sudden weight.

Robert lifted up the book, and the old man made a desperate attempt to unlock the clasp ; but the spring was stiff, and resisted his feeble effort ; so after a vain struggle his hands foil away, his eyes cioseid, and one tear after another crept through the still lashes and lost themselves amid the furrows on his cheek.

"I am very feeble, Robert," murmured the old man. " Open the book. No hands but mine have ever unlocked the clasp since she gave it to me on her death-bed, but I have no power left ; open it, Robert."

Robert dropped on his knees, and resting the volume reverently on the massive arm of his master's chair, opened the clasp and held up the imprisoned leaves.

The old man leaned forward and turned the leaves with his thin fingers. A scent of violets followed this feeble movement, and two or three dead flowers fluttered from the book and fell upon his dressing gown. He picked them up one by one and laid them softly back among the leaves, drew a long breath, and commenced again. From cover to cover he turned those illuminated and gilded pages— then he paused, holding fast to one leaf of the cover, and looking wildly into his servant's face.

" It is not here."

" I see it is not, my lord."

" Neither the will nor that letter."

"Nothing is here save the book and these poor dead flowers."

"I see— I see. Where have they gone? Who has dared to touch this book— his book ?"

" Is it certain the parchment was left here?" inquired Robert.

" I placed it there with' these hands. That and the letter," cried the old man, starting up in feverish excitement, which sent a glow of crimson through his wrinkles. "Both have been removed. When— by whom— for what reason?'-

" He may have feared that you would destroy the will, and so removed it."

" He— my nephew ! What ! open that cabinettouch her book ? Yes, it must be so. This is like fraud, Robert."

" I fear it is fraud, my lord."

The sick man fell back upon his pillows, faint and trembling. Thus for several minutes he lay, speechless, but troubled with thought. At last a strange illumination crossed his face, and he lifted himself on one elbow.

" Robert, this must be amended. If that parchment were burned, I should still dread to see its ashes afloat, lest iniquity might spring from them. There is some evil thing here, close by my death-bed. Some one is robbing me before I am gone. Who is it?"

" Do not be excited, my master. It is killing you. Only be calm, and all can be made right."

"How?"

" Another will made, as if your son were now alive."

" Yes— yes," gasped the old man.

" It will render the stolen parchment null and void."

"Yes— yes; there lies the remedy. Feel my pulse, Robert. Count it."

Robert touched the frail wrist reverently with his finger.

"Oh, my lord, be calm I This pulse is leaping at a fearful rate."

" I will be calm. There— there 1 give me drink. Lay your hand upon my forehead— force me iuto quiet. I will obey."

The old man closed his eyes beneath the soothing touch of his servant's' hand. The troubled

ROCK RUIN ; OU, THE liA UGUTEli OF THE ISLAND.

heave of his chest grew quieter, but hia temples worked with thought, and his brows were drawn downward, as if all his remnant of strength worked upon the brain. Whether some life force went forth from the younger and stronger man I do not know. But a clear, light intelligence seized upon the dying man, without impairing the little strength that was in him. He rested, and yet thought actively.

"Yes, that is the way, Robert. But how? My solicitor is in Dublin, forty miles off. I am nearer to the grave than that."

"It must be done— it must be done. He shall bo brought and the will cancelled."

"If I am here," »«,id the old lord, faintly.

" I will set forth in an hour."

"You? No, Robert. That would be to take awav my life at once. Send a groom."

Roberts' face clouded. He knew well that no servant in that dwelling would be considered as belonging to his master, who had been long ill, and ignorant that the old retainers of the house •had been, one after another, dismissed.

" Why do you start?" inquired the invalid, suddenly.

Robert sat directly before the window, which commanded a view of the bay and the inlet which connected it with the ocean. Ho was looking vaguely out, when a graceful little yacht came flitting' about the mouth of the inlet, like a great white bird in search of a shelter. It hovered on the outer waters just long enough to catch the wind, then gave a curving swoop and ran up the channel, displaying her colors clearly against the blue sky and bluer waters.

" Start ! Did I start, my lord ?"

" Your hand shakes now. What is it?"

"The yacht, my lord. Mr. Gerald has come home from his cruise."

" Gerald— my nephew ? I will not see him."

" Be cautious, my lord. Command yourself."

" You will not leave me, Robert ?"

"No, not if I can help it."

"And you will send for Hutton ?"

"Yes—yes."

" Put the book under my pillow. There, I feel quieter. Go, now, and send the man. Let no one suspect his errand. He will intercede with the saints, and I shall have time. Go, Robert."

The servant went out, and the old man fell into slumber, calmed by the scent of dead violets that floated over his pillow. So still he lay, that a person entering the room suddenly might have thought him dead.

A Jovial party coming up from the yacht met the Earl's body-servant going toward a little hamlet which formed a picturesque feature around a corner of the bay.

"Hallo, Robert! All right at the abbey? No change, I suppose ?"

Robert took off his hat and waited, with his gray hairs in the wind, till his master's nephew came up. Then he answered, gravely, that the Lord was about the same— perhaps a little stronger-he could not tell, and passed on.

Gerald MacCrea waited until the old man was out of hearing, and then turned to his friends, laughing.

" One would think, at eighty, a man would have more consideration. Did you ever hear anything so unreasonable ? Let my yacht atay out as long as she will— weeks or months— it makes no difference. This is always the reply, "About the same ;'

or, more impudent still, 'A little more comfortable.' It's too much."

"Yes," answered a young man who^had been a guest on board the yacht; "Parliament should pass a law forbidding any man, rich or poor, from living beyond seventy. The Bible ought to know when it's the proper season to shuffle off the coil. It's impertinent to keep on beyond the *ime it sets. If a fellow is rich, it's taking advantage of his heirs ; if he is not, it's an imposition on the poor sons."

"Any way, there's no excuse for a man's wading through eighty years," la^ hed another of the party, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice, "especially when the heirs have anticipated his income."

Another voice joined in :

" Now, I rather like the old gentleman's spirit. If I was an earl with twenty thousand a year, and no son to inherit, hang me if there wouldn't bo a tussle before I gave it up. Eighty I Why, I'd live to a hundred and fifty, sure."

"Don't hint at such a thing, or my friend up yonder might catch at the idea, and keep my creditors waiting a half century," said MacCrea.

" You are getting too near the abbey for speeches like that," said one of the party, who had not yet spoken, "if, indeed, there is any place where they would be excusable or safe."

" Listen — listen ! How the lawyer breaks out in Nelson I" cried three or four voices.

" Hush !" exclaimed the young man, in one of those deeply-smothered whispers that are so startling at times. He was looking upward, and his finger was half lifted.

The whole group followed his gesture with an eye-glance, when at the window stood Lord Ernruth, the palest and most shadowy being that mortal eyes ever looked upon. The sound of strango voices had aroused him from one of those swee; dreams that sometimes make the passing away from earth heavenly as heaven itself. With the wild strength that fright often gives, he had started from his chair, and staggering toward the window, looked forth on a scene he had never expected to see again. He heard, too, the mocking gaiety of his nephew's voice, and gathered something of the conversation, for just then his intellect was keenly acute, and a strong will was absolutely keeping him alive. He was a good man, this Lord Ernruth ; and now, just at his death, the clear judgment of his youth came back with almost miraculous clearness.

His eye fell upon the uplifted face of hia nephew. That face had been flushed a moment before, but now it had been fading off to a purplish white. The bold eyes fell, abashed, down, and retreated beneath the heavy lids. If an angel had looked down upon him, he could not have been more thunderstruck.

" Confusion ! He cannot have heard us, though, nor seen us either. He has managed to creep to the window for a breath of air— that is all. This way, gentlemen, round to the south wing. Thank heaven, the house is large enough to entertain a score of guests without disturbing the' old gentleman, though I should not wonder if he snatches a new lease of life and comes down among us. After seeing him up and at the window, nothing can astonish me."

MacCrea spoke in a low, hurried voice, and his face was a long time in getting back its color.

The guests followed his direction, and entering

BOCK BUIN; OB, THE BAUGHTEB OF THE ISLAND.

a portion of the building remote from Lord Ernruth's apartment, were soon comfortably at home.

MacCrea was right. The mansion was so spacious that a much larger party might have been entertained in it without disturbing the master.

Meantime, Roberts had pursued his course around the head of the bay. It was a lovely walk. The rich, heavy foliage of the shore was stirred by a light breeze, and so bathed in sunshine that it seemed as if light from the water had sparkled up through the trees, leaving flashes of silver on every leaf.

The old man paused on a corner of the road, and looked around with that yearning interest which a warm heart feels while gazing upon objects which he has loved a whole lifetime. So far as his' eye could reach along the green shore and out upon the water, every object belonged to his master ; and far beyond that, the broad lands of the estate stretched their luxuriant wreaths, blessing the owner and the working men whose labor had made nature so prolific and so beautiful.

"And all this must go to that bad young man !" thought Roberts, gazing upon the scene till his eves tilled with tears. " Oh, if the young master hiid but lived ! If "

The old man paused. Some strange feeling checked the words on his lips. He was a shrewd man, and for years every thought of his being had centered in his master's affairs. There was something strange about the letters that had come from America, where the only son of Lord Ernruth had gone into exile after the unhappy rebellion. Since the old Earl's eyesight had failed, these letters had always been* road to him by his nephew and next heir. Even that which brought the fatal news of the son's death had been read to the bereaved old man, who placed so much faith in his nephew that he never thought to question the faithfulness of his intelligence.

But there was something in this which troubled Roberts— a hesitation in the reading, and some haste in putting the letters away, which aroused his attention. With the deferential habits of an . old family servant strong upon him, he had not dared to mention these fears or take any steps toward confirming them ; but a suspicion possessed him with greater force everv day, and now it had, as if by inspiration, seized upon the Earl also. The will, so unnecessary if MacCrea was indeed the true heir, so iniquitous if he was not, would be annulled that night, if man and horse could be obtained to carry a message to Dublin.

This was Roberts' object in visiting the cluster of fishermen's cabins on the opposite shore. So completely had the servants of Lord Ernruth's household been brought under the nephew's control, that the faithful old man dared not trust his message with any of them. But there was a man upon the point lying so grimly in sight, whose faith was undoubted. This man Roberts sought.

Peter Byrne was sitting in front of his cabin, mending a net and singing at his work. He would pause now and then to look over his shoulder and bandy a word or two with some one inside ; then the loud, rollicking words of his song would break out again, while his fingers shot the wooden needle in and out of his net, knitting the rents together, and making the whole fabric tremble again under his energetic handling.

A buxom young woman, with a 'kerchief under her chin, came to the cabin door.

" Come along, Peter. Do yer hear, now ? The praties are knockin' agin the lid of the pot, and just bursting their jackets wid aigerness for the alter."

" Be aisy — be aisy, Mary, astore. I'm just tyin' up the last slit in me net, darlint. Tumble the praties out in the wooden bowl, and let the jackets burst if it plaises 'em. Faix, there's no harum in it— only save some of the mailiest for the pig. But never mind ; the childer'll do that same, any way."

The smiling little woman went back into the cabin, and directly a curl of steam came floating through the open door, so odorous that Peter dashed through the tangle of his net, looped the twine right and left, tying desperate knots, now here, now there, till at last, after a vigorous pull or two, he bit ofl' a double thread of the twine with his strong white teeth, and spurned the net to the ground with his foot.

" I've give it a dash an' a promise for the once, Marv," he said, casting up his arms and stretching himself full six feet high from the ground. "Now for the praties— the smell on 'em makes me hungry. Here, give me hold. I'll pale one wid me fingers, while I watch who that is ccmin' fornenst. Be jabers, but this is a maily one ye have given me. How ilegantly his brown coat has bust open in front, do ye see, Mary?"

" In coorse, afther the pig, ye'd be sartin of the best, Peter," answered the good wife. " Come in, ye spalpeens ! Who told ye to forget what yer father says? an' he atin' bis supper."

The children obeyed, making a dart for the bowl of potatoes, leaving their father on the doorstone, watching the approach of Roberts with some anxiety.

" Mary, astore, come this minute and tell me if that is not Misther Roberts. Mary, I'm afeard the ouid Earl is worse, or something. Look sharp, tell me if it's Roberts."

The little woman came close to her husband, shading her eyes with one hand aud searching the road.

"Yes, Peter; sure an' it's Roberts— walkin' quick, too, as if somethin' was the matter."

"Yer right. It's him, sure enough ; an' walkin' as brisk as he did twenty years agone. Something's amiss, Mary."

" Oh, Peter, me heart's in me mouth ! I'm all of a trimble. What it the ould Lord was dead an' gone!"

" Now, be aisy, an' go in to the childher. Don't ye see that he's coming because of the company that landed from the yacht? I see a whole boatload of 'em goin' up from the shore."

"I hope it's nothin' worse nor that," answered the wife, shaking her head doubtfully ; "but Misther Roberts doesn't often leave the masther. I have my misdoubts, Peter."

A cry from the children, who, in the struggle for a particular potato, were rolling o^r and over on the cabin floor, tugging at each other's hair,while the pig demurely swallowed the vegetable in dispute, soon took the little woman indoors. She was easily cuffing the little belligerents, right and left, when Roberts came up and accosted her husband. ^ , , ,

*' Peter Byrne, I am glad to find you at home. Step this way a moment."

"I'll do that same," said Peter, tossing away the potato skin, and emptying his mouth with a huge swallow. "Anything goin' wrong over

ROCK BTJIN; OR, THE DAUGHTER OF THE ISLAND.

there ? Ye look sort o' quare about the eyea, I'm thinkin'."

" Nothing, Peter ; only my Lord is not quite so well to-day, and he wants to have a friend brought down from Dublin."

"What! is it the docthor?"

" No, Peter ; it's a lawyer he wants."

"What! and young Misther MacGrea to the farm ? That has a bad look. What should he be puttin' up the ould Lord to send afther lawyers for?"

" It isn't for him, Peter. He knows nothing about it."

" Oh, ha ! that is a pig of t'other stripe."

"Lord Ernruth is very anxious that the man Bhould be brought here privately, and at the earliest moment. That is what sent me here, Byrne. I am afraid to trust any of the servants over yonder. They do not belong to the Earl."

Peter nodded his head.

" So I'm in search of a trusty messenger."

"An' Peter Byrne's the man for ye, out and out. Only tell him what to do and how to do it, and he'll bring the ould Scratch down here by the nape of his neck, if the masther wanted him."

" But you will want a horse, Peter."

" That's thrue for ye, but I'll just borry one of a a friend I have."

" But you must ride all night."

"In coorse."

"And come back to-morrow, after dark."

" Wid the spalpeen of a lawyer."

"And remember, not a word of this, Peter, even to your wife."

" Sorry a word will the darlint get out of me."

*' Here is a letter. You can read the address ?"

" Wid a thrifle o' hard spellin'. But I've plenty of time to make it out between this and Dublin."

" Well, the errand is simple. Deliver this letter, and then bring the gentleman down here at once. Come quietly to the abbey, but let it be after dark. I will be at the east portal to let you in ; or, if anything prevents, you will find the way open. Come without hesitation to my master's room. But be cautious about meeting the servants."

" I understand."

" Here is money, Peter— enough to purchase a horse, if that prove necessary. Now go in, and set forth at once."

Peter took the money, thrust it deep into his pocket, and, taking a ragged handkerchief from the crown of his hat, pushed that down over it, much as a soldier of the olden time used to force wadding upon the charge in his musket.

"Now I'm ready. Let me twist me pipe in the string round me hat, an' it's genteelly I'm fixed for thravelin' to the end of the wurld."

"Well, Byrne, see that there is no delay. Every moment is important."

" Never fear. Peter Byrne isn't the boy to let grass grow undher his feet, and the ould Earl wantin' him to be movin'."

With these words Peter entered his cabin, and the faithful old servant went back to his master.

Chapter II

There was riot and high wassail in one end of the stately abbey, while death came with still solemnity in the other wing. The company which we have seen coming in from the yacht, feeling secure in the thick walls and ponderous doors shut them out from the old Earl's apartments, which gave vent to their high spirits, and grew more convivial than they might have been oh sbipboard. The presence of sickness or death, if it does not sadden, often produces a reckless abandon of human feeling. This sometimes springs fi'om mere nervous excitement, which is, after all, deep feeling run wild ; or it may be it has its source m that reckless audacity which smothers all holy sympathies as they are trod under foot.