The priest, who had witnessed the termination of this painful interview, led Mary Halligan from the room. Her brother’s body, with those of the other lawless men who had fallen or been wounded in the night affray, were already by my father’s orders removed to an adjacent village. Presently, the sky was overcast, the moon withdrew her light, and a heavy snow shower fell for miles around, covering the surface of the ground; and when morning dawned no traces of a recent affray were seen, and not a blood-stain was visible. One melancholy memorial of foul treachery alone remained:—hidden by a sward of snow, poor Caesar lay before his empty kennel; and, true to the last, even in the agonies of death he had howled a bold defiance at his enemies.
“Emily,” said my father, when breakfast was removed, “I need not tell you that a soldier’s wife must always hold herself in readiness to move. Until better times arrive, you and the boy must leave this unquiet mansion. Nay, start not, love! I shall be your companion. That fading cheek and heavy eye bear silent evidence that cannot be mistaken. There is not in this old tower a single stone that I do not regard with veneration; but were this gloomy pile a palace, and you unhappy, it should be abandoned. I have already sent a requisition for an escort, and do you get all you wish to be removed in marching order. To society,—to myself,—I owed a duty; that duty is discharged. A tenderer claim remains. Can I forget, dear Emily, that for me you gave up the convent’s quiet?—that for me title and wealth were thrown away?—that for me even the stronger ties of kindred were dissolved? Can I forget that though a gentle spirit like yours trembles at a life of danger, and recoils from scenes of bloodshed, still not a murmur passed your lips?—not a remonstrance urged upon me your apprehensions? Enough;—a soldier’s pride would prompt me to remain where we are,—while a husband’s affections demand that my wife and child should be placed in full security. The struggle is ended, and pride must yield to love.”
Before the last word was spoken, a happy wife was shedding tears of joy upon her husband’s bosom. Instant preparations were made; such valuables as were portable were packed up; Knockloftie for a time formally abandoned; and ere another week elapsed, my mother, my foster-brother and myself found ourselves in perfect safety—and for some months succeeding became residents of the metropolis.
My first anniversary formed a remarkable epoch in the story of our house; and as many subsequent adventures in my humble history were referable to that event, I shall briefly narrate the more immediate consequences that resulted. Mary Halligan quitted the country, as it was believed, to reside with some relatives in the west. Hackett received sentence of death, but the extreme penalty of the law was commuted into transportation. Sergeant Brady retired on a pension, and became henchman to my father. Mr. Hamilton, after Knockloftie was deserted, with a fatal imprudence still continued in the neighbourhood. A few weeks afterwards, the house where he resided was forced by a numerous banditti, the unfortunate clergyman dragged from his concealment, carried to the door, and slaughtered under circumstances of fearful barbarity. *
* Historically true.
Time passed,—months slipped away,—and my mother’s birth-day returned. That morning, a letter containing a bank-note for five hundred pounds was received. It was addressed to the lady—with a brief intimation in an unknown hand, that a similar gift should be annually presented. Another brief period passed, and another letter came. It brought but sorry news. Knockloftie was burned to the ground;—not a fragment that was combustible remained;—and what was once “a merrie hall” now frowned upon the ocean in black and ruined loneliness.
As my father read the letter, a change came over his face, and revealed to the inquiring eyes then bent upon it, that evil tidings had arrived.
“Denis,” said my mother, “what is wrong?”
“Nothing, love, but that Knockloftie—”
“What of it? Go on.”