“I am at a loss,” he said, “to fathom this singular affair. The woman could have no object in creating an unnecessary alarm, and yet her communication was so vague, that one cannot even guess what the danger is, or from what quarter it may be expected. Still her caution is not to be despised, and we must be upon our guard, until it pleases your swarthy friend to be more explicit than she has been. One course must be pursued. We must keep strangers at a distance, and look at all as enemies.” He took the note I had received from Mr. Clifford on the evening after our interview, and read it carefully.
“It is his signature indubitably,” he murmured. “These well-remembered characters are not to be mistaken. Had he received you kindly—had he evinced the slightest symptom of abated displeasure when you addressed him—and did a hope remain that time could mitigate his callous feelings towards an erring child—I would, in that case, have suspected that in the monk you had that secret enemy of whom you have been warned to beware. But no—the Jesuit is secure; the dupe is all his own. He will be contented with rendering all future attempts to gain the old man’s presence unavailing. That he can effect, and more would be unnecessary. To me, the occurrence is involved in mystery too deep to be even guessed at, and it seems one that time only can unravel.”
Although to the amatory effusions which reached me by every post I was cold as St. Senanus, when he was so barbarously virtuous as to warn a single lady off his premises at midnight, still to woman’s fascination I was not altogether insensible. By singular accident, I had encountered a girl of extraordinary beauty in my walks; and though her demeanour was modest and retiring, I still fancied that I did not pass her by unnoticed. She was apparently under eighteen; and to the sweetest face imaginable, united a faultless figure. Her mourning dress was simple and becoming; and her general appearance indicated an humble respectability. To have insinuated aught against the constancy of my passion for Isidora, should be, as Lord Ogleby says, “by all the laws of love, death to the offender,” but still, when we passed each other in the street, I found myself involuntarily look round. Once, I imagined that the pretty incognita directed a furtive glance at me; and then, blushing at detection, she bent her eyes upon the ground, and walked hastily on, as if prohibiting any attempt on my part to address her, had such been my intention. But by a strange accident, the introduction that propriety forbade, chance effected.
My birth-day came. I thought upon the sybil’s warning in the Park, and I confess that it was anything but an agreeable reminiscence. I was not afraid—for what had I to fear? It was “an air-drawn dagger” that impended; but still I was far from being quite at ease. The day was gloomy; a fog obscured the sun; the dull atmosphere would damp the lightest spirits; I felt its influence on mine; and when I reached St. Paul’s, the gipsy’s warning haunted my memory, and it seemed to announce emphatically a coming evil. Her words rang in my ear, and I thought I heard Her again repeat, “Hector O’Halloran, beware! or your twentieth birth-day will be as bloody as your first.” I mused upon the prophecy—“The ides of March were come.” Well, the sybil said that courage and caution would overcome the threatening danger. Both should be exercised; and a few brief hours would fulfil or falsify the augury.
These sombre thoughts were suddenly interrupted, for directly before me, and scarcely distant a dozen yards, I recognised the graceful figure of the fair incognita, whom fortune, good or evil, appeared determined to throw across my path continually.
Should I address her as I passed? I wished to do so, but hesitated. Suddenly a man hurried rudely along, and pushing with violence against the pretty unknown, she staggered a few paces and would have fallen on the flagway, had I not sprang forward and caught her in my arms. The scoundrel who had done the mischief, dreading the consequences of his brutality, hastened away, and was speedily lost in the fog.
Fortunately, a tavern was immediately at hand. I supported her in; obtained a private sitting-room, the assistance of the females of the house, and the incognita was speedily recovered. We were then left alone. I received her warmest acknowledgments for my kindness; and thus encouraged, I pressed my inquiries to learn who she was, and, with the timidity of a girl unaccustomed to hold converse with a stranger, by degrees I learned the fair one’s history.
She was the orphan of a soldier. Her father, a lieutenant in the line, had fallen at the assault of Badajos; her mother, years before was dead; and her only living relation, an aged aunt, who, from infirmities, was unable to leave the house. They enjoyed a trifling independence—one that required careful management to render it sufficient to meet moderate wants, and maintain a respectable position in society. Hence she accounted for the necessity imposed upon one so young of appearing frequently in public.
Over the simple story of a life, she threw a shadowing of romance that strongly interested me. In alluding to the narrowness of her means, my fair acquaintance mentioned circumstances which could not but engage my sympathy. Her aunt had fallen into the hands of a grinding solicitor, and been plundered accordingly; for how could an infirm old woman obtain redress, when opposed to a satellite of the law? Her father had demands upon the Government when he fell in his country’s cause; but with no interest to support it, the claim was made and rejected. No wonder, then, that Irish chivalry at once prompted me to offer myself her champion, and I expressed a strong desire to visit her aged relative. With some hesitation, she acceded to the request, and named, for a reason I have forgotten, a late hour that evening for an interview.
Were I asked what had excited this curiosity regarding the history of a stranger, and with what objects I sought a closer acquaintance with the incognita, I could not answer the question. To Isidora my allegiance remained unshaken; and yet some secret impulse urged me to cultivate an intimacy, which prudence should have interdicted, and every bond of love forbade.