“Thus we trudge on,” he said, as if talking to himself, “as the world is doing everywhere. The old fool, at the end of his journey, thinking only of the pieces of gold for which he will have his throat cut in all likelihood before sunset. Heaven and Eternity are shut up in his box. The young fool, thinking only of the brown eyes and tender speeches of the wench, and willing to dare all things for her foolish sake, while the wench herself, woman that she is, baits her trap with honied words and draws the manhood out of him with the glance of her eye. And I--I must go where the Providence of God directs my steps, though avarice and vanity and the folly of youth be my companions and my guide. ´Tis a strange world and full of shadows, and these are of them.”
CHAPTER VII.
OF THE RESCUE FROM GREAT PERIL.
Colonel Carew was the third in descent from the original planter who by right of conquest and the grace of James the First, had settled upon the broad lands of Castleton, and having swept the ancient possessors from the soil, had planted there a hardy race of colonists, and built himself a great house, half mansion, half fortress. The first Jasper Carew had looked upon himself as the instrument in the hands of Providence to civilize the land and found a family. He had ruled with despotic severity, and when he was laid in the family vault in the new church that he had built, left a name of undying hatred to the native Irish. The second Jasper followed in the footsteps of his father; he built and planted, and like a strong man armed, ruled his own demesne and showed neither mercy nor tolerance toward the ancient race. They were a God-fearing stock and showed no compassion nor kindly pity. Virtues they had, but only toward their friends, and never forgot that they had won by the sword´s right and must continue to hold by its power. The present Colonel Carew had been wild in his youth, and had left the home of his fathers in disgrace. For a time he had entirely disappeared; there were vague rumours that he had prospered in the Virginias and had made a fortune there. However that might be, he had returned home on the death of his father, bringing with him an only son, and lived a moody, retired life in the great house, attended only by a servant who had shared his adventures abroad. His son had early obtained a commission, and served with distinction on the Continent. He had married against the wish of his father, a young lady of great beauty and slender fortune, the daughter of a Huguenot refugee, and when he fell at Senef some years afterwards, left an orphan son and daughter to the care of his father, who received the unwelcome legacy with little outward show of favour or affection. Colonel Carew had brought his grandson home, but permitted the girl to remain under the care of her relatives in London. Here Dorothy had remained until she was sixteen, when the death of her aunt compelled her to seek a home with her grandfather, who was unable to make any other provision for her, however anxiously he desired to do so. At Castleton, Dorothy Carew had spent two years of her life--not very happy or pleasant years, but her sweet and joyous spirit had broken down in some slight degree the barrier that her grandfather had raised between himself and all the world.
He was growing old and frail, and his mind seemed to have gone wholly back to the early years which he had spent in wild adventure and lawless wanderings. The care of his estate he had left to his grandson, who paid little heed to the old man, but went his way with the headstrong and reckless selfishness that was the characteristic of his race. The presence of his grand-daughter seemed to give him pleasure, but companionship between them there was none. He accepted her attentions, not, indeed, with an ill grace, but without any apparent sign of affection, though at times, as he sat watching her moving about his room, her figure appeared to arouse him from his fit of abstraction, and to awaken a chord of memory that was not wholly painful.
So she passed these two years at Castleton--dull enough for a girl of spirit and used to the excitement and life of a great city; and when the news of a great Catholic rising and massacre arrived, it found her alone and unprotected, with a number of panic-stricken domestics and a helpless old man looking to her for assistance and advice. Her brother had gone to Londonderry on business of his own, and there was no one near her on whom she could rely. The servants had remained at their posts for some time, but as the excitement deepened, and the tenantry fled to Enniskillen or to Londonderry for safety and shelter, they refused to remain longer, and while imploring her to join them in their flight, one morning they departed in a body. She herself would willingly have accompanied them, but her grandfather refused to move. It was, he said, mere moonshine. It was only when the Irish army had marched northward, and there came the frequent and alarming reports of robbery and murder, that he was seized with an uncontrollable dread, and insisted on fleeing to Londonderry forthwith. The girl had no one to assist her in their hasty flight but a brave and trusty servant who had served with her father abroad, and who had been since taken into her grandfather´s service. Together they had bundled the old man into the coach, and leaving the great house to its fate, had set out for the city of refuge. How they fared on their way thither we have already seen.
Gervase walked by Bayard´s bridle, unmindful of all weariness and regardless of all dangers, seeking, after the manner of young men, to make the most of the sweet society into which chance had so strangely thrown him. He was indignant with himself that he was ashamed of his rags, though by way of making up for these, he began to talk of his life in Dublin and the gay doings of the capital.
At this Dorothy´s sense of humour was touched, and much to his confusion she began to laugh aloud. “Your talk in such a figure, of the Castle and of Tyrconnell and of my Lady, is a most excellent remedy for lowness of spirits. I cannot set matters straight, and must become accustomed to your mode. And yet I think I could have told that you were a gentleman.”
“That is something,” said Gervase, a little mollified, “and how?”
“Because,” she answered, with a naïve glance that disarmed his resentment, “your present garments fit you so ill. But I am very wrong to jest at such a time, and your friend does not seem to admire laughter. I think that I could have told anywhere that he was a soldier. You could not mistake his carriage.”
“A better soldier and a truer friend there never was,” Gervase answered warmly; “and that you will have cause to admit before your journey ends.”