It was a sweet September evening, and for the first mile or two the scenery harmonized well with that hour “which poets love.” But when the natural wood that encircled Mr. Hartley’s domain was left behind, I found before me a large expanse of dull brown moorland, which must be traversed before I could reach the solitary house where I purposed to take up my quarters for the night. The inn was ten miles distant, and the gentle reader will please to hold in recollection, that these miles were Irish miles; therefore, had I been inclined to sentimentalize, there was neither time nor place for musing. I gave Miss Malone accordingly permission to step out; and as the sun made his parting bow from behind a mountain ridge, I pulled up at the Yellow Lion and received an honourable welcome.
Standing at the door, Andy Beg appeared as if he had been for some time in waiting. He held a letter in his hand, and had a gun-case under his arm. Having grinned what he intended to be a civil recognition, he took my pistols and cloak bag, and led the way into this mountain caravansera. If for me the fatted calf had not been killed, still preparations had been made for supper—for a Nora Crina sort of cook, in short petticoats and a gown curiously tucked up, crossed me in the passage with a brace of moor-fowls ready for the brander. Miss Malone was stabled as became her worth—and I duly inducted into a cheerful chamber, the “great one” of the Yellow Lion, and evidently reserved for honourable guests. Having seated myself before the fire, I broke the seal of the packet which Andy Beg had delivered, and found it to be a valedictory epistle from that mysterious personage, Mr. Hartley. The letter ran thus:—
“Our acquaintance has commenced under such singular circumstances that I trace in it the hand of destiny—for chance could not have thus brought us together, when to meet was every thing but impossible. In me, know one who influences your fortunes—one, who by a breath can confer or withhold what men erroneously consider the passport to human happiness—wealth! For the future, I shall watch your career, and every action of your life shall be under a rigid surveillance. Be prudent, and I promise you a goodly independence. Disappoint my hopes, and you never see me more. To suppose that youth will not err occasionally, would be to plead ignorance of what mankind is. But remember, for folly there is pardon—for vice none. May you pass the ordeal unscathed!
“No one is secure against the frowns of fortune; and it may be decreed that you shall not escape. Mark me, boy! When friends fall off, the future is overcast, and all around seems desperate, write freely—let nothing be held back—and even in that heavy hour I may step between you and your fate. The address I enclose will always find me.
“Farewell; Isidora sends a kind remembrance.
“Yours, as you conduct yourself,
“John Hartley.”
“P.S.—You admired a gun of Manton’s; I beg you to accept it. You can safely forward it to Dublin by the stage coach which passes the inn to-morrow morning.”
Another postscript was annexed: it commanded me to keep profoundly secret my recent escapade among the smugglers, as well as my subsequent introduction to this my most mysterious correspondent. To this strange epistle, I returned a dutiful reply; and having despatched Andy Beg with my letter, I supped—went to sleep—and dreamed till cockcrow of the strange dramatis personae who had figured so prominently in my late adventures.
On the fourth evening I reached the metropolis in safety—reported myself next morning to the Colonel—obtained a barrack-room in George’s-street—was introduced to my brother officers, and committed duly to be drilled. I mounted the “red-rag”—and satisfied myself by a sly inspection as I passed every hatter’s shop, from the effigy of the great King William even unto Stephen’s Green, that the jacket was accurate in its proportions, and conferred immortal honour upon the builder of the same.